Jaffery Part 49
"Certainly not. Every sheet would have been returned with the proofs.
Typed copy may or may not be returned."
"But autograph copy is valuable?"
"Naturally."
"The ma.n.u.scripts of Adrian's novels might be worth a lot of money?"
"Quite a lot of money."
"So you don't think Mr. Chayne destroyed them?"
"It's an act of folly of which a literary man like Mr. Chayne would be incapable."
"And you've never seen any of it?"
"I've given you my word of honour."
"Then it's very extraordinary," said Doria.
"It is," said Wittekind, stiffly.
She thrust out her hand and flashed a generous glance.
"Forgive me for being bewildered. But it's so upsetting. You have nothing whatever to do with it. It's all Jaffery Chayne." She looked up at the loosely built, kindly man. "It's for him to give explanations. In the meanwhile, I leave my dear, dear husband's memory in your hands--to keep green, as you say"--tears came into her eyes--"and you will, won't you?"
The pathos of her att.i.tude dissolved all resentment. He bent over her, still holding her hand.
"You may be quite sure of that," said he. "Even we publishers have our ideals--and our purest is to distribute through the world the works of a man of genius."
So Doria having telephoned for permission to come and see us on urgent business, arrived at Northlands late in the afternoon, full of the virtues of Wittekind and the vices of Jaffery. She gave us a full account of her interview and appealed to me for explanations of Jaffery's extraordinary conduct. I upbraided myself bitterly for having counselled her to bite Wittekind. I ought, instead, to have thrown every possible obstacle in the way of her meeting him. I ought to have foreseen this question of the ma.n.u.scripts, the one weak spot in our web of deception. Now I may be a liar when driven by necessity from the paths of truth, but I am not an accomplished liar. It is not my fault.
Mere providence has guided my life through such gentle pastures that I have had no practice worth speaking of. Barbara, too, is an amateur in mendacity. Both of us were sorely put to it under Doria's indignant and suspicious cross-examination.
"You saw the original ma.n.u.script of 'The Greater Glory'?"
"Yes," I lied.
"Did you see the original ma.n.u.script of 'The Diamond Gate'?"
"No," I lied again.
"Was it among Adrian's papers?"
"Not to my knowledge. Probably if Adrian didn't send it to the printers, he destroyed it."
"I don't believe he destroyed it. Jaffery has got it, and he has also got the ma.n.u.script of 'The Greater Glory.' What does he want them for?"
"That's a leading question, my dear, which I can't answer, because I don't know whether he has them or not. In fact, I know nothing whatever about them."
"It sounds horrid and ungracious, Hilary, after all you've done for me,"
said Doria, "but I really think you ought to know something."
From her point of view, and from any outside person's point of view, she was perfectly right. My bland ignorance was disgraceful. If she had brought an action against us for recovery of these wretched ma.n.u.scripts and we managed to keep the essential secret, both counsel and judge would have flayed me alive... . Put yourself in her place for a minute--G.o.d knows I tried to do so hard enough--and you will see the logic of her position, all through. She was not a woman of broad human sympathies and generous outlook; she was intense and narrow. Her whole being had been concentrated on Adrian during their brief married life; it was concentrated now on his memory. To her, as to all the world, he flamed a dazzling meteor. Her faults, which were many and hard to bear with, all sprang from the bigotry of love. Nothing had happened to cloud her faith. She had come up against many incomprehensible things: the delay in publication of Adrian's book; the change of t.i.tle; the burning of Adrian's last written words on the blotting pad; the vivid pictures that were obviously not Adrian's; the consignment to a printer's Limbo of the original ma.n.u.scripts; my own placid disa.s.sociation from the literary side of the executorship. She had accepted them--not without protest; but she had in fact accepted them. Now she struck a reef of things more incomprehensible still. Jaffery had lied to her outrageously. I, for one, hold her justified in her indignation.
But what on earth could I do? What on earth could my poor Barbara do? We sat, both of us, racking our brains for some fantastic invention, while Doria, like a diminutive tragedy queen, walked about my library, inveighing against Jaffery and crying for her ma.n.u.scripts. And I dared not know anything at all about them. She had every reason to reproach me.
Barbara, feeling very uncomfortable, said: "You mustn't blame Hilary.
When Adrian died each of the executors took charge of a special department. Jaffery Chayne did not interfere with Hilary's management of financial affairs, and Hilary left Jaffery free with the literary side of things. It has worked very well. This silly muddle about the ma.n.u.scripts doesn't matter a little bit."
"But it does matter," cried Doria.
And it did. Now that she knew that those sacred ma.n.u.scripts written by the dear, dead hand had not been destroyed by printers, every fibre of her pa.s.sionate self craved their possession. We argued futilely, as people must, who haven't the ghost of a case.
"But why has Jaffery lied?"
"The ma.n.u.script of 'The Diamond Gate,'" I declared, again perjuring myself, "has nothing whatever to do with Jaffery and me. As I've told you it was not among Adrian's papers which we went through together.
We're narrowed down to 'The Greater Glory.' Possibly," said I, with a despairing flash, "Jaffery had to pull it about so much and deface it with his own great scrawl, that he thought it might pain you to see it, and so he told you that it had disappeared at the printer's. Now that I remember, he did say something of the kind."
"Yes, he did," said Barbara.
Doria brushed away the hypothesis. "You poor things! You're merely saying that to shield him. A blind imbecile could see through you"--I have already apologised to you for our being the unconvincing liars that we were--"you know nothing more about it than I do. You ought to, as I've already said. But you don't. In fact, you know considerably less.
Shall I tell you where the ma.n.u.scripts are at the present moment?"
"No, my dear," said Barbara, in the plaintive voice of one who has come to the end of a profitless talk; for you cannot imagine how utterly wearied we were with the whole of the miserable business. "Let us wait till Jaffery comes home. It won't be so very long."
"Yes, Doria," said I, soothingly. "Barbara's right. You can't condemn a man without a hearing?"
Doria laughed scornfully. "Can't I? I'm a woman, my dear friend. And when a woman condemns a man unheard she's much more merciful than when she condemns him after listening to his pleadings. Then she gets really angry, and perhaps does the man injustice."
I gasped at the monstrous proposition; but Barbara did not seem to detect anything particularly wrong about it.
"At any rate," said I, "whether you condemn him or not, we can't do anything until he comes home. So we had better leave it at that."
"Very well," said Doria. "Let us leave it for the present. I don't want to be more of a worry to you dear people than I can help. But that's where Adrian's ma.n.u.scripts are, both of them"--and she pointed to the key of Jaffery's flat hanging with its staring label against my library wall.
Of course it was rather mean to throw the entire onus on to Jaffery. But again, what could we do? Doria put her pistol at our heads and demanded Adrian's original ma.n.u.scripts. She had every reason to believe in their existence. Wittekind had never seen them. Vandal and Goth and every kind of Barbarian that she considered Jaffery to be, it was inconceivable that he had deliberately destroyed them. It was equally inconceivable that he had sold the precious things for vulgar money. They remained therefore in his possession. Why did he lie? We could supply no satisfactory answer; and the more solutions we offered the more did we confirm in her mind the suspicion of dark and nefarious dealings. If it were only to gain time in order to think and consult, we had to refer her to the absent Jaffery.
"My dear," said I to Barbara, when we were alone, "we're in a deuce of a mess."
"I'm afraid we are."
"Henceforward," said I, "we're going to live like selfish pigs, with no thought about anybody but ourselves and our own little pig and about anything outside our nice comfortable sty."
"We'll do nothing of the kind," said Barbara.
"You'll see," said I. "I'm a lion of egotism when I'm roused."
We dined and had a pleasant evening. Doria did not raise the disastrous topic, but talked of Marienbad and her visits, and discussed the modern tendencies of the drama. She prided herself on being in the forefront of progress, and found no dramatic salvation outside the most advanced productions of the Incorporated Stage Society. I pleaded for beauty, which she called wedding-cake. She pleaded for courage and truth in the presentation of actual life, which I called dull and stupid photography which any dismal fool could do. We had quite an exciting and entirely profitless argument.