Part 34 (1/2)
”By the way”--Anstice was not listening very closely--”you have not yet told me the nature of the accusation. I presume it was the same in both cases?”
”Practically, yes. It was a statement, made very plainly and directly, that you--you----”
He broke off, his thin cheeks flus.h.i.+ng; and Anstice smiled rather dryly.
”Don't let it distress you,” he said, with an attempt at jocularity.
”Suppose I save you the trouble of repeating the contents of the letters. I daresay the writer stated that I once, in order to get myself out of a tight place in India, wantonly sacrificed the woman who was my companion?”
”Yes,” said Carey slowly, ”that was the substance of both communications. The idea was, I gather, to prevent the recipients having confidence in you by pointing to you as one who would save himself at the expense of a woman. Of course”--he spoke more fluently now--”no one who knew you would dream of attaching any weight whatever to that sort of cruel and senseless lie; and as I told Mrs. Willows, such a baseless slander is better left to die for want of notice. She quite agreed with me,” he added hastily, and Anstice's face cleared.
”Thanks, Carey.” He held out his hand, and Carey's transparent, fingers clasped it with a strength which would have been surprising to one who did not know the indomitable spirit which dwelt in the wasted frame.
”You are a true friend, and your friends.h.i.+p deserves some return.
Unfortunately the only return I can make is to tell you the miserable story which is perverted by the anonymous writer into something less creditable than--I hope--you will judge it to be.”
He sprang up suddenly and leaned against the mantelpiece, hands in pockets as usual; and in that position, looking down on his friend as he sat in his capacious chair, he outlined once again the happenings of that bygone Indian dawn.
He related the affair shortly--it was not a subject on which he cared to dwell; and the clergyman listened thoughtfully, his sunken eyes fixed on the pale face beneath the cl.u.s.tering black hair with an intentness of regard which would have disturbed anyone less engrossed than the narrator of the sad little story.
When he had finished Anstice moved abruptly.
”Well, that's the truth--and now you see that those statements made about me are the most insidious form of lying--with a good foundation of half-truths. That's what makes it so infernally hard to refute them.”
”I see.” Carey loaned forward thoughtfully, s.h.i.+elding his face from the flames with his thin hands. ”It is a pitiful story, Anstice; and if you will allow me to say so I admire and respect a man who can live down the memory of a tragedy as you have done.”
”I have lived it down--yes,” said Anstice, rather grimly. ”But it's been jolly hard at times not to throw up the sponge. Several people have suggested--discreetly--that suicide is quite justifiable in cases of this sort, but----”
”Suicide is _never_ justifiable.” The clergyman's delicate features stiffened. ”From the days of Judas Iscariot--the most notorious suicide in the history of the world, I suppose--it has been the refuge of the coward, the ingrate, the weak-minded. People talk of the pluck required to enable a man to take his own life. What pluck is there in deliberately turning one's back on the problems one hasn't the courage, or the patience, to solve? Believe me, suicide--self-murder--is an unthinkable resource to a really brave man.”
He stopped; but Anstice made no reply, though a rather cynical smile played about his lips; and presently Carey went on speaking.
”It always seems to me such sheer folly, such egregious lunacy, to precipitate one's self into the unknown, seeing that one can hardly expect the Giver of Life to welcome the soul He has not called. And I have often wondered what depths of misery, of shame, must overwhelm the uninvited soul in what someone has called 'the first five minutes after Death.'”
His voice sank to a whisper on the last words; and for a moment the room was very still. Then Carey leaned forward and laid one hand on the other's arm with a rather deprecating smile.
”Forgive me, Anstice! The subject we were discussing is one on which I find it difficult to hold my peace. But knowing you, I know that suicide is not, would never be, the way out to one of your disposition.”
Anstice moved restlessly.
”Odd you should use that expression,” he said quickly. ”Others have employed it in connection with this miserable story of mine. No, suicide is not the way out--nor is another expedient to which I have had recourse. But”--suddenly his face lost its quietness and grew keen, alert--”this slander has got to be stopped. You see this is not the first time the neighborhood has been infested with this plague.”
”You refer to the unhappy circ.u.mstances connected with my predecessor's wife?”
”Yes. You know the story, of course?”
”Yes. I am also acquainted--but very slightly--with Mrs. Carstairs.”
”Then you know a much-maligned woman,” said Anstice. ”And it is in order to save her from further unhappiness that I intend to sift this matter to the bottom.”
”I am delighted to hear you say so,” said Carey earnestly. ”And if I can help you in any way my services are yours. First of all, how do you propose starting on the sifting process?”
”I have already made a start,” rejoined Anstice. ”Through the good offices of Sir Richard Wayne, who has also been pestered with a letter, I have discovered that the writing of those communications and of those earlier ones you mentioned just now is in many respects identical.”