‘By the by,’ he called back, ‘I almost forgot. This was sent to me at the Club. It’s for you.’ Reaching into the inside pocket of his greatcoat, he handed me a small wrapped package, obviously containing a book.
‘You’ll never guess who it’s from.’ I looked at him blankly.
‘That fearful tug* Daunt. You’ll remember him, of course. Pretty thick at school, weren’t you, for a time? Scribbles poetry for a living now. Sends his compliments to me with a request to pass this on to you. Haven’t written back yet, of course. Thought I’d speak to you first.’
He instantly saw that his words, and the package, had produced an effect, and he reddened.
‘I say, G, is anything the matter? You look a little upset.’
I delayed my reply as I turned the package over in my hands.
‘Has he written to you before?’
‘First time, old boy. Not quite my sort. Never expected to hear from him again after going down from the Varsity. Damned unpleasant blighter, always putting on airs. Little sign, by all accounts, that he’s changed for the better.’
When I did not reply, Le Grice took a step closer and looked me straight in the eye.
‘Look here,’ he said, ‘there’s something going on, I can see. Wouldn’t dream of pressing you, of course, but glad to help, if I can.’
‘You can tell him I’m travelling abroad,’ I replied. ‘Present whereabouts, unknown. Date of return, uncertain.’
‘Right-oh. Nothing easier. Consider it done.’ He coughed nervously and made to go; but he had only taken a few steps when he suddenly stopped and swung round to face me again.
‘There’s another thing. You can tell me to go and boil my head, but answer me this, if you can. Why was that fellow following us on the river yesterday? It’s no use saying he wasn’t, so why not come out with it straight?’
I could have hugged the dear old bear. For weeks I had been living on my nerves, desperately engaged night and day in mental combat with my enemy, my spirit broken by betrayal, racked by rage and despair, but unable to confide in any living soul. I had believed that I had no ally, no strength other than my own with which to contest the great battle of my life; but here was dear old Le Grice, bull-headed in friendship, obstinately loyal, offering me his hand. And if I took it? There was no one more trustworthy than him, no one more willing to fight by your side to the last breath, no one more forgiving of a friend’s sins. Yes, but if I took it? He would need to be told the secrets that I had been living with for so long. Would he then keep faith with me, stand by me in the final contention, and forgive me? Then he spoke again.
‘You and me, G – chalk and cheese. But you’re the best friend I have. Do anything for you, don’t you know, anything at all. Not good at this sort of thing, so you’ll just have to take it as it comes. You’re in trouble – no point trying to deny it. It’s been written on your face for weeks past. Whether it’s to do with Daunt, or with this fellow on the river, I can’t say. But something’s wrong, even though you’ve tried to pretend all’s well. But it isn’t, so why not spill it, and let’s see what can be done about it?’
There are times in a man’s life when he must put his immediate fate into the hands of another, regardless of the risk. In a moment, though doubts remained, I had decided. I would spill it.
‘Dinner at Mivart’s,* tomorrow night,’ I said.
And then we shook hands.
I returned home in meditative mood, questioning the wisdom of confiding in Le Grice, but still determined to go through with it. I shrank, though, from the prospect of confessing what had been done to Lucas Trendle in Cain-court, and what I was planning to do, now that I had proved myself capable of murder. I was sure, when I had revealed my true history to Le Grice, and set before him the calculated viciousness of our mutual acquaintance, Phoebus Daunt, that I would secure his full-hearted sympathy and support. But would even his staunch soul be put to the test by the knowledge of what I had been driven to do? And could I, even in the name of friendship, ask him to share this burden? Musing thus, I arrived in Temple-street and mounted the stairs.
Once in my rooms, I unwrapped the package Le Grice had given to me. As I had guessed, it contained a book – a small octavo in dark-green cloth, untrimmed, bearing the title Rosa Mundi. Taking up my paper-knife, I slowly began to cut away the edges, and opened out the title-page.*
The fly-leaf had been inscribed by the author: ‘To my friend, E.G., with fondest memories of old times, and hope of early reunion.’ Beneath the inscription was a couplet, ‘When all is known, and naught remains, / But Truth released from falsehood’s chains,’ which I later discovered was a quotation from one of the poems printed in the volume. If there was meaning in it, I could see none.
I threw the book down in disgust, but could not help staring at the open fly-leaf. To see that hand again, after so many years! It had not changed a great deal; I recognized the idiosyncratic flourish of the initial ‘T’ of ‘Truth’, the intricate descenders (the bane of his teachers at school), the fussiness of it. But what memory had been aroused by it? Of Latin Alcaics and hexameters, exchanged and criticized? Or of something else?
The next evening, as arranged, I met Le Grice at Mivart’s.
He was awkward and ill at ease, coughing nervously, and constantly running his finger around the inside of his shirt collar, as if it were too tight. As we lit our cigars, I asked him whether he was still willing to hear what I had come to tell him.
‘Absolutely, old boy. Ready and waiting. Fire away.’
‘Of course I may count on your complete – your complete, mind – discretion?’
He laid down his cigar, positively bristling with indignation.
‘When I give my word to some fellow at the Club,’ he said, with impressive seriousness, ‘then he may expect me to keep it, no questions asked. When I give my word to you, therefore, there can be not the slightest doubt – not the slightest – that I shall be inclined, under any provocation, to betray whatever confidence you may honour me with. Hope I’ve made myself clear.’ Having delivered himself of this short, but emphatic, speech, he picked up his cigar again and sent me a look that plainly said, ‘There, I’ve said what needed to be said; now contradict me, if you dare.’
No, he would never betray me, as others had done; he would be true to his word. But I had resolved that there would be a limit to what I would tell him – not because I distrusted him, or even that I feared he might repudiate our friendship when he learned what I had done, and what was now in my mind to do; but because there was mortal danger in knowing all, to which I would not expose him for all the world.
Calling for another bottle, I began to tell him, in outline, what I now propose to tell you, my unknown reader, in full and complete form – the extraordinary circumstances of my birth; the character and designs of my enemy; and the futile passion that has made it impossible that I can ever love again.
If it is true, as the ancient sage averred, that confession of our faults is the next thing to innocency,* then I hope this narrative will weigh something in my favour with those who may read it.
I began with my name. When ‘Veritas’ warned Bella that Edward Glapthorn was not what he seems, he lived up to his pseudonym. To Bella, to my employer, to my neighbours in Temple-street, and to others with whom you will soon become acquainted, I was Edward Glapthorn. But I was born Edward Charles Glyver – the name by which I had been known at Eton, when I first met Willoughby Le Grice, and by which, shortened to ‘G’, he has known me ever since. Yet even this was not my true name, and Captain and Mrs Edward Glyver of Sandchurch, Dorset, were not my parents. It all began, you see, in deceit; and only when the truth is told at last will expiation be made and the poor unquiet soul, from whom all these troubles have flowed, find peace at last.