The Goddess: a Demon
Copyright© 2024 by Richard Marsh
Chapter 16: My Persuasive Manner
I went at once to the house in Arlington Street. The door was opened by Mr. Morley.
“Have you heard anything of Mr. Philip? Is he at home?”
Mr. Morley had opened the door about six inches, peeping through the crevice as if he expected to see some dreadful object on the doorstep. The sight of me seemed to reassure him. He addressed me in a sepulchral whisper.
“Would you mind stepping inside for a moment, sir?”
I went into a front room on the ground floor. Mr. Morley came in after me, and, behind him, Mrs. Morley. I was conscious that the room was filled with old oak furniture. It is, perhaps, because I am not a man of taste that I would not have an apartment in which I proposed to live filled with that funereal wood. Old black oak furniture reminds me of an African swamp. It is dark and sombre—heavy, stiff, ungainly.
Without, the shadows had deepened; in the house it was darker still. The room was still unlighted. The figures of the old man and woman, revealed in the half light, harmonised with the ancient blackness of the furniture. As they stood side by side, as close together as they could get, with, on them both, an air of timidity which the darkness could not hide, I felt that there was a blight upon them, and on the room, and on the house; that it was a place of doom.
“I take it that Mr. Philip has not returned.”
They looked at one another; as if each was unwilling to incur the responsibility of a reply. At last the husband took it on himself.
“No, sir; he’s not returned, but——”
“Well, but what?”
For the old gentleman had paused. He spoke to his wife, in a whisper which was perfectly audible—
“Shall I tell him, Emma?”
“It’s not for me to speak. That, Joe, is for you to say.”
“This is Mr. Ferguson; he’s Mr. Philip’s friend.”
“If he’s Mr. Philip’s friend——”
“Come,” I said, “I see you’ve heard from him.”
“Yes, sir, we’ve heard from him. That—that’s the trouble.”
“What is it you’ve heard?”
Again the reference to his wife.
“Shall I—shall I tell him, Emma?”
“I’ve already told you, Joe, that that’s for you to say. It’s not for me to speak.”
Plainly Joe hesitated, then arrived at a sudden decision.
“Well, sir, this is what we’ve heard.”
He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket, which he gave to me.
“I can’t see what’s on this, man, without a light! Mine are not cat’s eyes; it’s dark as pitch in here.”
“Before I light up, sir, I’ll lower the blind. There’s no need for folks to see what’s going on in here.”
He not only lowered the blind, he drew the curtains, too, leaving a darkness which might have been felt; then started groping for a match upon the mantelshelf. When he had found one he lit the gas—a single burner. By its radiance I examined the paper he had given me. In shape, size, appearance, it was own brother to the sheet which had come to me. On it was a typewritten letter; which, however, in this case, was not anonymous.
“To Joseph Morley,
“Dear Morley,
“I’m in a bad scrape. I can’t come home. And I’ve no clothes, and no money. I send you my keys. Look, you know where, and send me all the money you can find; and my cheque-book, and my dressing-case, and two or three trunks full of clothes. As you know, I took nothing away with me except what I stood up in. I don’t know when I shall be able to send, but it will be as soon as I possibly can. Have everything ready, for when I do send I shan’t want my messenger to be kept waiting. And keep a sharp look-out; it may be in the middle of the night.
“Philip Lawrence.
“Tell any one who asks that I shall be home in about a week; and that you’ve instructions to send all letters on. I don’t want people to think that you’re not in communication with me, or that everything’s not all right. And you’re not to listen to any tales which you may hear; and you’re not to worry, or people will notice it. You understand?”
The eyes of the two old people did not leave my face while I was reading. So soon as I lowered the paper Mr. Morley faltered out his question.
“Well, sir, what—what do you think of it?”
“That it’s a curious epistle. Who brought it?”
“That’s more than I can say. There was a knock at the door, and I saw that in the letterbox. I looked out into the street, but there was no one in sight who seemed a likely person to have dropped it in.”
“No messenger-boy?”
“No, sir, no one of the kind.”
“And the keys came with it?”
“Yes, sir, in a small brown-paper parcel.”
“Addressed to you?”
“No, the parcel was addressed to no one. There was nothing on it at all.”
“You are sure they are Mr. Philip’s keys?”
“Of course they are. Whose should they be? Why—why do you say that?”
“Has Mr. Philip been in the habit of sending you typewritten letters?”
“He has never done such a thing in his life before.”
“In this even the signature is typed—as if he had made up his mind that you should not have a scrap of handwriting which you could recognise. I don’t see why he need to have had such a letter typed at all. Is he himself a typist?”
“Not that I know of; I never heard him speak of it.”
“Then to have had such a letter typed by some one else was to add to his risk. Why couldn’t he have trusted you with a letter written by his own hand?”
“I can’t say.”
“Are you yourself sure that this letter is from Mr. Philip?”
“Not a doubt of it. I wish there were. Because it shows that he’s in hiding; and what should he be in hiding for, except one thing? What—what are we to do? If—if he has his brother’s blood upon his hands.”
“Joe!”
“Well, Emma, if he has, he has! And where’ll he find a place big enough, and out-of-the-way enough, for him to hide in? All the world will soon know what he’s done, and all the world will be in search of him. He won’t dare to come here—he daren’t already; soon he won’t dare to write to me; the police will be watching me like cats a mouse. He’ll be an outcast, shunning the places which he knew and the friends who loved him—and he the most sociable gentleman who ever lived, who never could bear to be alone; with a host of friends, and not a single enemy. And—and what are we to do—the wife and I, here, in his house alone? To whom are we to look for help—for guidance—for orders? We—we’re almost afraid to stop in the place as it is; it—it’s as if it were haunted. We seem to see him wherever we turn; we hear his footstep on the stairs—his voice—his laughter.”
“Joe!”
“Well, Emma, so we do. Our nerves won’t stand it. We—we’re getting all broken up; we’re not so young as we were, and used to regular ways, and—and this sort of thing’s beyond us. Every knock at the door starts us trembling. Who—who’s that?”
As Mr. Morley was speaking, there came an assault on the front-door knocker which seemed to shake the house. I do not think I ever heard quite such a clatter made by a similar instrument before. That the nerves of the old folks were in a curious condition was immediately made plain; the attack might have been made on them, instead of on the knocker. They drew closer together, clinging to each other for support; consternation was written large all over them. Their behaviour was not that of persons on whom I should have cared to lay the burden of a great responsibility; especially one in which coolness and presence of mind were necessary factors.
The visitor was in a hurry. There had hardly been time to reach the front door when the knocking began again—crash, smash, crash, crash, crash, crash! I really thought the door would have been broken down. The faces of the proper guardians of the house grew whiter, their limbs more tremulous.
“Hadn’t you better go and see who’s there? Or shall I?”
They let me go. On the doorstep I found an individual who had his own notions of propriety. With scant ceremony he endeavoured, without a word of explanation, to force his way into the house. I am not a man with whom every one finds it easy to play that kind of game. When I am pushed, I push. Placing my hand against his chest, he went backwards across the pavement at a run.
“Manners, sir! Manners!” I observed.
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