CHAPTER XIII
WRITING A LETTER
"If you insist," Trent said, "I suppose you will have your way. But Ihad much rather write it when I am not with you. However, if I must,bring me a tablet whiter than a star, or hand of hymning angel. Don'tunderestimate the sacrifice I am making. I never felt less likecorrespondence in my life."
She rewarded him.
"What shall I say?" he inquired, his pen hovering over the paper. "ShallI compare him to a summer's day? What _shall_ I say?"
"Say what you want to say," she suggested helpfully.
He shook his head. "What I want to say--what I have been wanting for thepast twenty-four hours to say to every man, woman, and child I met--is'Mabel and I are betrothed, and joy is borne on burning wheels.' Butthat wouldn't be a very good opening for a letter of strictly formal,not to say sinister character. I have got as far as 'Dear Mr. Marlowe.'What comes next?"
"I am sending you a manuscript which I thought you might like to see,"she prompted as she came to his chair before the escritoire. "Somethingof that kind. Please try. I want to see what you write, and I want it togo to him at once. You see, I would be contented enough to leave thingsas they are; but you say you must get at the truth, and if you must, Iwant it to be as soon as possible. Do it now--you know you can if youwill--and I'll send it off the moment it is ready. Don't you ever feelthat?--the longing to get the worrying letter into the post and off yourhands, so that you can't recall it if you would, and it's no use fussingany more about it."
"I will do as you wish," he said, and turned to the paper, which hedated as from his hotel. Mrs. Manderson looked down at his bent headwith a gentle light in her eyes, and made as if to place a smoothinghand upon his rather untidy crop of hair. But she did not touch it.Going in silence to the piano, she began to play very softly. It was tenminutes before Trent spoke.
"At last I am his faithfully. Do you want to see it?"
She ran across the twilight room, and turned on a reading lamp besidethe escritoire. Then, leaning on his shoulder, she read what follows:
Dear Mr. Marlowe:
You will perhaps remember that we met, under unhappy circumstances, in June of last year at Marlstone.
On that occasion it was my duty, as representing a newspaper, to make an independent investigation of the circumstances of the death of the late Sigsbee Manderson. I did so, and I arrived at certain conclusions. You may learn from the enclosed manuscript, which was originally written as a despatch for my newspaper, what those conclusions were. For reasons which it is not necessary to state I decided at the last moment not to make them public, or to communicate them to you, and they are known to only two persons beside myself.
At this point Mrs. Manderson raised her eyes quickly from the letter.Her dark brows were drawn together. "Two persons?" she said with a noteof inquiry.
"Your uncle is the other. I sought him out last night and told him thewhole story. Have you anything against it? I always felt uneasy atkeeping it from him as I did, because I had led him to expect I shouldtell him all I discovered, and my silence looked like mystery-making.Now that it is to be cleared up finally, and there is no question ofshielding you, I wanted him to know everything. He is a very shrewdadviser, too, in a way of his own; and I should like to have him with mewhen I see Marlowe. I have a feeling that two heads will be better thanone on my side of the interview."
She sighed. "Yes, of course, uncle ought to know the truth. I hope thereis nobody else at all." She pressed his hand. "I so much want all thathorror buried--buried deep. I am very happy now, dear, but I shall behappier still when you have satisfied that curious mind of yours andfound out everything, and stamped down the earth upon it all." Shecontinued her reading.
Quite recently, however, (the letter went on) facts have come to my knowledge which have led me to change my decision. I do not mean that I shall publish what I discovered, but that I have determined to approach you and ask you for a private statement. If you have anything to say which would place the matter in another light, I can imagine no reason why you should withhold it.
I expect, then, to hear from you when and where I may call upon you; unless you would prefer the interview to take place at my hotel. In either case I desire that Mr. Cupples, whom you will remember, and who has read the enclosed document, should be present also.
Faithfully yours,
PHILIP TRENT.
"What a very stiff letter!" she said. "Now I am sure you couldn't havemade it any stiffer in your own rooms."
Trent slipped the letter and enclosure into a long envelop. "This thingmustn't run any risk of going wrong. It would be best to send a specialmessenger with orders to deliver it into his own hands. If he's away itoughtn't to be left."
She nodded. "I can arrange that. Wait here for a little."
When Mrs. Manderson returned, he was hunting through the music-cabinet.She sank on the carpet beside him in a wave of dark brown skirts. "Tellme something, Philip," she said.
"If it is among the few things that I know."
"When you saw uncle last night, did you tell him about--about us?"
"I did not," he answered. "I remembered you had said nothing abouttelling any one. It is for you--isn't it?--to decide whether we take theworld into our confidence at once or later on."
"Then will you tell him?" She looked down at her clasped hands. "I wish_you_ to tell him. Perhaps if you think you will guess why. There! thatis settled." She lifted her eyes again to his, and for a time there wassilence between them.
He leaned back at length in the deep chair. "What a world!" he said."Mabel, will you play something on the piano that expresses mere joy,the genuine article, nothing feverish or like thorns under a pot, butjoy that has decided in favor of the universe. It's a mood that can'tlast altogether, so we had better get all we can out of it."
She went to the instrument and struck a few chords while she thought.Then she began to work with all her soul at the theme in the lastmovement of the Ninth Symphony which is like the sound of the opening ofthe gates of Paradise.
The Woman in Black Page 14