Part 10 (1/2)
You know the rest. You know that I tried to speak; that my utterance failed me; and that, finding myself unable at the time to control my emotions, I turned and rushed madly from the office, leaving the mystery unexplained. You know that you wrote demanding a satisfactory explanation of the situation or my resignation from your staff.
This, Currier, is my explanation. It is all I have. It is absolute truth. I beg you to believe it, for if you do not, then is my condition a hopeless one. You will ask me perhaps for a _resume_ of the story which I thought I had sent you.
It is my crowning misfortune that upon that point my mind is an absolute blank. I cannot remember it in form or in substance. I have racked my brains for some recollection of some small portion of it to help to make my explanation more credible, but, alas! it will not come back to me. If I were dishonest I might fake up a story to suit the purpose, but I am not dishonest. I came near to doing an unworthy act; I did do an unworthy thing, but by some mysterious provision of fate my conscience is cleared of that.
Be sympathetic Currier, or, if you cannot, be lenient with me this time. _Believe, believe, believe_, I implore you. Pray let me hear from you at once.
(Signed) HENRY THURLOW.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'LOOK AT YOUR SO CALLED STORY AND SEE'”]
II
(_Being a Note from George Currier, Editor of the ”Idler” to Henry Thurlow, Author_.)
Your explanation has come to hand. As an explanation it isn't worth the paper it is written on, but we are all agreed here that it is probably the best bit of fiction you ever wrote. It is accepted for the Christmas issue. Enclosed please find check for one hundred dollars.
Dawson suggests that you take another month up in the Adirondacks.
You might put in your time writing up some account of that dream -life you are leading while you are there. It seems to me there are possibilities in the idea. The concern will pay all expenses. What do you say?
(Signed) Yours ever, G. C. THE DAMPMERE MYSTERY
Dawson wished to be alone; he had a tremendous bit of writing to do, which could not be done in New York, where his friends were constantly interrupting him, and that is why he had taken the little cottage at Dampmere for the early spring months. The cottage just suited him. It was remote from the village of Dampmere, and the rental was suspiciously reasonable; he could have had a ninety-nine years' lease of it for nothing, had he chosen to ask for it, and would promise to keep the premises in repair; but he was not aware of that fact when he made his arrangements with the agent. Indeed, there was a great deal that Dawson was not aware of when he took the place. If there hadn't been he never would have thought of going there, and this story would not have been written.
It was late in March when, with his Chinese servant and his mastiff, he entered into possession and began the writing of the story he had in mind. It was to be the effort of his life. People reading it would forget Thackeray and everybody else, and would, furthermore, never wish to see another book. It was to be the literature of all time--past and present and future; in it all previous work was to be forgotten, all future work was to be rendered unnecessary.
For three weeks everything went smoothly enough, and the work upon the great story progressed to the author's satisfaction; but as Easter approached something queer seemed to develop in the Dampmere cottage. It was undefinable, intangible, invisible, but it was there. Dawson's hair would not stay down. When he rose up in the morning he would find every single hair on his head standing erect, and plaster it as he would with his brushes dipped in water, it could not be induced to lie down again. More inconvenient than this, his silken mustache was affected in the same way, so that instead of drooping in a soft fascinating curl over his lip, it also rose up like a row of bayonets and lay flat against either side of his nose; and with this singular hirsute affliction there came into Dawson's heart a feeling of apprehension over something, he knew not what, that speedily developed into an uncontrollable terror that pervaded his whole being, and more thoroughly destroyed his ability to work upon his immortal story than ten inconsiderate New York friends dropping in on him in his busy hours could possibly have done.
”What the d.i.c.kens is the matter with me?” he said to himself, as for the sixteenth time he brushed his rebellious locks. ”What has come over my hair? And what under the sun am I afraid of? The idea of a man of my size looking under the bed every night for--for something-- burglar, spook, or what I don't know. Waking at midnight s.h.i.+vering with fear, walking in the broad light of day filled with terror; by Jove! I almost wish I was Chung Lee down in the kitchen, who goes about his business undisturbed.”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”IT WAS TO BE THE EFFORT OF HIS LIFE”]
Having said this, Dawson looked about him nervously. If he had expected a dagger to be plunged into his back by an unseen foe he could not have looked around more anxiously; and then he fled, actually fled in terror into the kitchen, where Chung Lee was preparing his dinner. Chung was only a Chinaman, but he was a living creature, and Dawson was afraid to be alone.
”Well, Chung,” he said, as affably as he could, ”this is a pleasant change from New York, eh?”
”Plutty good,” replied Chung, with a vacant stare at the pantry door. ”Me likes Noo Lork allee same. Dampeemere kind of flunny, Mister Dawson.”
”Funny, Chung?” queried Dawson, observing for the first time that the Chinaman's queue stood up as straight as a garden stake, and almost sc.r.a.ped the ceiling as its owner moved about. ”Funny?”
”Yeppee, flunny,” returned Chung, with a s.h.i.+ver. ”Me no likee. Me flightened.”
”Oh, come!” said Dawson, with an affected lightness. ”What are you afraid of?”
”Slumting,” said Chung. ”Do' know what. Go to bled; no sleepee; pigtail no stay down; heart go thump allee night.”
”By Jove !” thought Dawson; ”he's got it too!”