He was amazed at this proof of feminine perspicacity, and still more amazed at her remembering it against him now. Surely, after this lapse of time, it might have been forgiven him.
"Yes, I did," he acknowledged humbly. "I wanted an excuse to speak to you. Are you very angry?"
He waited meekly for her words of condemnation.
"I think it was sweet of you!" cried the little lady with vehemence. "Just sweet of you!" Her voice ended uncertainly.
Frank Oliver went on in his gruff tone:
"Tell me, child, is it impossible? I know I'm an ugly, rough old fellow -"
The Lonely Lady interrupted him.
"No, you're not! I wouldn't have you different, not in any way. I love you just as you are, do you understand? Not because I'm sorry for you, not because I'm alone in the world and want someone to be fond of me and take care of me - but because you're just - you. Now do you understand?"
"Is it true?" he asked half in a whisper.
And she answered steadily: "Yes, it's true -"
The wonder of it overpowered them.
At last he said whimsically: "So we've fallen upon heaven, dearest!"
"In an ABC shop," she answered in a voice that held tears and laughter.
But terrestrial heavens are short-lived. The little lady started up with an exclamation.
"I'd no idea how late it was! I must go at once."
"I'll see you home."
"No, no, no!"
He was forced to yield to her insistence, and merely accompanied her as far as the Tube station.
"Good-bye, dearest." She clung to his hand with an intensity that he remembered afterwards.
"Only good-bye till tomorrow," he answered cheerfully. "Ten o'clock as usual, and we'll tell each other our names and our histories, and be frightfully practical and prosaic."
"Good-bye to - heaven, though," she whispered.
"It will be with us always, sweetheart!"
She smiled back at him, but with that same sad appeal that disquieted him and which he could not fathom. Then the relentless lift dragged her down out of sight.
He was strangely disturbed by those last words of hers, but he put them resolutely out of his mind and substituted radiant anticipations of tomorrow in their stead.
At ten o'clock he was there, in the accustomed place. For the first time he noticed how malevolently the other idols looked down upon him. It almost seemed as if they were possessed of some secret evil knowledge affecting him, over which they were gloating. He was uneasily aware of their dislike.
The little lady was late. Why didn't she come? The atmosphere of this place was getting on his nerves. Never had his own little friend (their god) seemed so hopelessly impotent as today. A helpless lump of stone, hugging his own despair!
His cogitations were interrupted by a small, sharp-faced boy who had stepped up to him, and was earnestly scrutinizing him from head to foot. Apparently satisfied with the result of his observations, he held out a letter.
"For me?"
It had no superscription. He took it, and the sharp boy decamped with extraordinary rapidity.
Frank Oliver read the letter slowly and unbelievingly. It was quite short.
Dearest,
I can never marry you. Please forget that I ever came into your Life at all, and try to forgive me if I have hurt you. Don't try to find me, because it will be no good. It is really 'goodbye."
The Lonely Lady
There was a postscript which had evidently been scribbled at the last moment:
I do love you. I do indeed.
And that little impulsive postscript was all the comfort he had in the weeks that followed. Needless to say, he disobeyed her injunction "not to try to find her," but all in vain. She had vanished completely, and he had no clue to trace her by. He advertised despairingly, imploring her in veiled terms at least to explain the mystery, but blank silence rewarded his efforts. She was gone, never to return.
And then it was that for the first time in his life he really began to paint. His technique had always been good. Now craftsmanship and inspiration went hand in hand.
The picture that made his name and brought him renown was accepted and hung in the Academy, and was accounted to be the picture of the year, no less for the exquisite treatment of the subject than for the masterly workmanship and technique. A certain amount of mystery, too, rendered it more interesting to the general outside public.
His inspiration had come quite by chance. A fairy story in a magazine had taken a hold on his imagination. It was the story of a fortunate Princess who had always had everything she wanted. Did she express a wish? It was instantly gratified. A desire? It was granted. She had a devoted father and mother, great riches, beautiful clothes and jewels, slaves to wait upon her and fulfil her lightest whim, laughing maidens to bear her company, all that the heart of a Princess could desire. The handsomest and richest Princes paid her court and sued in vain for her hand, and were willing to kill any number of dragons to prove their devotion. And yet, the loneliness of the Princess was greater than that of the poorest beggar in the land.
He read no more. The ultimate fate of the Princess interested him not at all. A picture had risen up before him of the pleasure-laden Princess with the sad, solitary soul, surfeited with happiness, suffocated with luxury, starving in the Palace of Plenty.
He began painting with furious energy. The fierce joy of creation possessed him.
He represented the Princess surrounded by her court, reclining on a divan. A riot of Eastern color pervaded the picture. The Princess wore a marvelous gown of strange-colored embroideries; her golden hair fell round her, and on her head was a heavy jeweled circlet. Her maidens surrounded her, and Princes knelt at her feet bearing rich gifts. The whole scene was one of luxury and richness.
But the face of the Princess was turned away; she was oblivious of the laughter and mirth around her. Her gaze was fixed on a dark and shadowy corner where stood a seemingly incongruous object: a little grey stone idol with its head buried in its hand in a quaint abandonment of despair.
Was it so incongruous? The eyes of the young Princess rested on it with a strange sympathy, as though a dawning sense of her own isolation drew her glance irresistibly. They were akin, these two. The world was at her feet - yet she was alone: a Lonely Princess looking at a lonely little god.
All London talked of this picture, and Greta wrote a few hurried words of congratulation from Yorkshire, and Tom Hurley's wife besought Frank Oliver to "come for a weekend and meet a really delightful girl, a great admirer of your work." Frank Oliver laughed once sardonically, and threw the letter into the fire. Success had come - but what was the use of it? He only wanted one thing - that little lonely lady who had gone out of his life forever.
It was Ascot Cup Day, and the policeman on duty in a certain section of the British Museum rubbed his eyes and wondered if he were dreaming, for one does not expect to see there an Ascot vision, in a lace frock and a marvelous hat, a veritable nymph as imagined by a Parisian genius. The policeman stared in rapturous admiration.
The lonely god was not perhaps so surprised. He may have been in his way a powerful little god; at any rate, here was one worshipper brought back to the fold.
The Little Lonely Lady was staring up at him, and her lips moved in a rapid whisper.
"Dear little god, oh! dear little god, please help me! Oh, please do help me!"
Perhaps the little god was flattered. Perhaps, if he was indeed the ferocious, unappeasable deity Frank Oliver had imagined him, the long weary years and the march of civilization had softened his cold, stone heart. Perhaps the Lonely Lady had been right all along and he was really a kind little god. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence. However that may be, it was at that very moment that Frank Oliver walked slowly and sadly through the door of the Assyrian room.
He raised his head and saw the Parisian nymph.
In another moment his arm was round her, and she was stammering out rapid, br
oken words.
"I was so lonely - you know, you must have read that story I wrote; you couldn't have painted that picture unless you had, and unless you had understood. The Princess was I; I had everything, and yet I was lonely beyond words. One day I was going to a fortuneteller's, and I borrowed my maid's clothes. I came in here on the way and saw you looking at the little god. That's how it all began. I pretended - oh! it was hateful of me, and I went on pretending, and afterwards I didn't dare confess that I had told you such dreadful lies. I thought you would be disgusted at the way I had deceived you. I couldn't bear for you to find out, so I went away. Then I wrote that story, and yesterday I saw your picture. It was your picture, wasn't it?"
Only the gods really know the word "ingratitude."
It is to be presumed that the lonely little god knew the black ingratitude of human nature. As a divinity he had unique opportunities of observing it, yet in the hour of trial, he who had had sacrifices innumerable offered to him, made sacrifice in his turn. He sacrificed his only two worshippers in a strange land, and it showed him to be a great little god in his way, since he sacrificed all that he had.
Through the chinks in his fingers he watched them go, hand in hand, without a backward glance, two happy people who had found heaven and had no need of him any longer.
What was he, after all, but a very lonely little god in a strange land?
MANX GOLD
"Manx Gold" is no ordinary detective story; indeed, it is probably unique. The detectives are conventional enough, but although they are confronted with a particularly brutal murder, the murderer's identity is not their main concern. They are more interested in unraveling a series of clues to the whereabouts of hidden treasure, a treasure whose existence is not confined to the printed page. Clearly, some explanation is required...
In the winter of 1929, Alderman Arthur B. Crookall had an idea. Crookall was the chairman of the "June Effort," a committee responsible for boosting tourism to the Isle of Man, a small island off the northwest coast of England. His idea was that there should be a treasure hunt, inspired by the many legends of Manx smugglers and their long-forgotten hoards of booty.
There would be "real" treasure, hidden about the island, and clues to its location concealed in the framework of a detective story. Some reservations were expressed by members of the committee, but eventually planning began for the "Isle of Man Treasure Hunt Scheme," to take place at the start of the holiday season and run at the same time as a number of other annual events, such as the "Crowning of the Rose Queen" and the midnight yacht race.
But Crookall had to find someone to write the story on which the hunt would be based. Who better than Agatha Christie? Perhaps surprisingly, and for a fee of only sixty pounds, Christie accepted this, her most unusual commission. She visited the Isle of Man at the end of April 1930, staying as the guest of the lieutenant governor, before returning to Devon, where her daughter was ill. During her visit, Christie and Crookall spent several days discussing the treasure hunt, and visited various sites in order to decide where the treasure should be hidden and how the clues should be composed.
The resulting story, "Manx Gold," was published in five installments towards the end of May in the Daily Dispatch, a Manchester newspaper. A quarter of a million copies of the story also were distributed in booklet form to guesthouses and hotels across the island. The five clues were published separately, and as the date on which the first was due to appear in the Dispatch drew nearer, the June Effort Committee appealed to everyone to "cooperate in order to obtain as much publicity as possible" for the hunt. More tourists meant more tourist revenue, and the hunt was also drawn to the attention of several hundred "Homecomers" who had emigrated from the island to the United States and were due to return as honored guests in June. In the words of the publicity at the time, it was "an opportunity for all Amateur Detectives to test their skill!"
In the story, Juan Faraker and Fenella Mylecharane set out to find four chests of treasure, which have been hidden on the island by their eccentric Uncle Myles. To compete with Juan and Fenella, the reader was advised - like them - to equip himself with "several excellent maps, various guidebooks descriptive of the island, a book on folklore and a book on the history of the island."
The solutions to the clues are given at the end of the story.
* * *
"Old Mylecharane liv'd up on the broo,
Where Jurby slopes down to the wood,
His croft was all golden with cushag and furze,
His daughter was fair to behold.
"O father, they say you've plenty of store,
But hidden all out of the way.
No gold can I see, but its glint on the gorse;
Then what have you done with it, pray?"
"My gold is locked up in a coffer of oak,
Which I dropped in the tide and it sank,
And there it lies fixed like an anchor of hope,
All right and as safe as the hank."
"I like that song," I said appreciatively as Fenella finished.
"You should do," said Fenella. "It's about our ancestor, yours and mine. Uncle Myles's grandfather. He made a fortune out of smuggling and hid it somewhere, and no one ever knew where."
Ancestry is Fenella's strong point. She takes an interest in all her forbears. My tendencies are strictly modern. The difficult present and the uncertain future absorb all my energy. But I like hearing Fenella singing old Manx ballads.
Fenella is very charming. She is my first cousin and also, from time to time, my fiancée. In moods of financial optimism we are engaged. When a corresponding wave of pessimism sweeps over us and we realize that we shall not be able to marry for at least ten years, we break it off.
"Didn't anyone ever try to find the treasure?" I inquired.
"Of course. But they never did."
"Perhaps they didn't look scientifically."
"Uncle Myles had a jolly good try," said Fenella. "He said anyone with intelligence ought to be able to solve a little problem like that."
That sounded to me very like our Uncle Myles, a cranky and eccentric old gentleman, who lived in the Isle of Man and who was much given to didactic pronouncements.
It was at that moment that the post came - and the letter!
"Good Heavens," cried Fenella. "Talk of the devil - I mean angels - Uncle Myles is dead!"
Both she and I had seen our eccentric relative on only two occasions, so we could neither of us pretend to a very deep grief. The letter was from a firm of lawyers in Douglas, and it informed us that under the will of Mr. Myles Mylecharane, deceased, Fenella and I were joint inheritors of his estate, which consisted of a house near Douglas and an infinitesimal income. Enclosed was a sealed envelope, which Mr. Mylecharane had directed should be forwarded to Fenella at his death. This letter we opened and read its surprising contents. I reproduce it in full, since it was a truly characteristic document.
My dear Fenella and Juan,
for I take it that where one of you is the other will not be far away. Or so gossip has whispered.
You may remember having heard me say that anyone displaying a little intelligence could easily find the treasure concealed by my amiable scoundrel of a grandfather. I displayed that intelligence and my reward was four chests of solid gold - quite like a fairy story, is it not?
Of living relations I have only four: you two, my nephew Ewan Corjeag, whom I have always heard is a thoroughly bad lot, and a cousin, a Doctor Fayll, of whom I have heard very little, and that little not always good. My estate proper I am leaving to you and Fenella, but I feel a certain obligation laid upon me with regard to this "treasure" which has fallen to my lot solely through my own ingenuity. My amiable ancestor would not, I feel, be satisfied for me to pass it on tamely by inheritance. So I, in my turn, have devised a little problem.
There are still four "chests" of treasure (though in a more modern form than gold ingots or coins) and there are to he four competitors - my four living relation
s. It would be fairest to assign one "chest" to each - but the world, my children, is not fair. The race is to the swiftest - and often to the most unscrupulous.
Who am I to go against Nature? You must pit your wits against the other two. There will be, I fear, very little chance for you. Goodness and innocence are seldom rewarded in this world. So strongly do I feel this that I have deliberately cheated (unfairness again, you notice;). This letter goes to you twenty-four hours in advance of the letters to the other two. Thus you will have a very good chance of securing the first "treasure" - twenty-four hours' start, if you have any brains at all, ought to be sufficient.
The clues for finding this treasure are to be found at my house in Douglas. The clues for the second "treasure" will not be released till the first treasure is found. In the second and succeeding cases, therefore, you will all start even. You have my good wishes for success, and nothing would please me better than for you to acquire all four "chests," but for the reasons which I have already stated I think that most unlikely. Remember that no scruples will stand in dear Ewan's way. Do not make the mistake of trusting him in any respect. As to Dr. Richard Fayll, I know little about him, but he is, I fancy, a dark horse.
Good luck to you both, but with little hopes of your success,
Your affectionate uncle,
Myles Mylecharane
As we reached the signature, Fenella made a leap from my side.
"What is it?" I cried.
Fenella was rapidly turning the pages of an ABC.
"We must get to the Isle of Man as soon as possible," she cried. "How dare he say we were good and innocent and stupid? I'll show him! Juan, we're going to find all four of these 'chests' and get married and live happily ever afterwards, with Rolls-Royces and foot-men and marble baths. But we must get to the Isle of Man at once."
The Harlequin Tea Set and Other Stories Page 7