Читать книгу The Black Cabinet - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 11

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Chloe stood on the terrace at Danesborough, and watched the sun go down into a bank of mist. Rose was married and gone, and Maxton seemed very far away. She had been at Danesborough for nearly a week. After a short interview with Mr. Dane, Ally had fairly pressed a holiday upon her, and she had gone off with the Gressons in a mood between shrinking and excitement.

Chloe saw the sun grow redder and rounder in the fog. The air was very still; the sky a faint, dusky blue, fast changing into grey; mist rising everywhere. From where she stood, the ground fell away in five terraces. The mist was rising against them like a tide. Away to the right, the great mass of leafless woods curtained by the dusk. To the left, a hazy gleam from the lake in the hollow.

Chloe remembered it all so green and smiling in the sunshine. With that child’s memory which crowds all its happy recollections upon a single canvas she had pictured Danesborough as the old folk-tales picture Avalon, a place always green and always sunny, where roses, lilies, daffodils, and irises bloomed for ever, and the rosy apple-blossom broke from boughs weighed down with ruddy apples—a Danesborough that never was; a child’s imagining; a child’s dream. But Chloe missed her dream and was sad for it. The real Danesborough gave her nothing to take its place. The woods were leafless, and the gardens slept.

She turned and went into the lighted house, and in the house met again that something that had driven her out upon the terrace. Chloe did not know what this something was; but it met her at every turn.

Mrs. Wroughton, the secretary’s wife, crossed the hall as Chloe came in—a little faded woman with hair like straw, and a mouth that was always slightly open. Chloe never saw her without wondering how the red-faced, jovial Mr. Wroughton had ever come to marry such a frightened wisp of a creature.

“Oh, Miss Dane, you’ve been out.”

“Yes,” said Chloe.

“It’s—it’s getting quite dark.”

“Yes.”

Emily Wroughton’s trick of making banal and self-evident remarks had become almost as irritating to Chloe as it obviously was to Emily’s husband.

“But milder—I really think it is milder—only foggy—there seems to be quite a fog—so autumnal! I believe Mr. Dane was asking for you just now. Have you seen him?”

Mr. Dane himself opened the drawing-room door as she spoke. He stood back when he saw Chloe, with a gesture that invited her to join him. When she had come into the drawing-room, he shut the door.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked. “You should have had a coat.”

“I’m never cold. Rose used to get quite angry about it. She said it was dreadfully aggravating.”

“Yes, I can understand that. I am a cold person myself.” He paused, and then said with some abruptness, “Do you remember this room at all? I’ve changed it as little as possible.”

“I don’t know,” said Chloe. “It’s funny, but I remember all the outside things so much better than I do the house.”

“If you come to live here, you can do anything you like with it.” There was no expression in Mitchell Dane’s voice.

Chloe was looking about her. She had hardly been into the drawing-room at all—they had used the library and the morning-room. This room, with its fine proportions and long windows opening upon the terrace, had the bleak, formal effect of a place unlived in; its atmosphere was rather that of a museum or public institution; everything about it was formal. The pale Aubusson carpet had a chilly look which the delicate brocade curtains repeated. The whole room was colourless without any stronger tint than the faint pastel hues afford. Old gilding; old damask; the faded water-colours of some half forgotten grandmother—everything, as it were, keyed to the lowest possible tone—, everything except the black cabinet.

“Oh!” said Chloe. “I remember that.” She pointed at it and ran forward.

It stood out in the room, as it stood out in Chloe’s recollection—a Chinese cabinet of black lacquer decorated in gold. She had not seen it at once because it was set in the recess beside the fireplace, and she had turned towards the windows.

Mitchell Dane smiled.

“Ah! You remember that.”

Chloe was all glow and sparkle.

“Yes, I remember it frightfully well. But isn’t it odd? I didn’t remember that I remembered it until this minute; and now—it’s just like a curtain going up. I—I can see myself standing on a chair, and trying to find out where the river came from.”

She had come close to the cabinet as she spoke. It was very large. It towered over Chloe’s head even now; to the child it had seemed unbelievably tall. The river began in the left-hand top corner. It was a golden river, winding its way amongst mountains and trees. Sometimes there was a boat upon it; sometimes tiny golden men stood amongst the rushes on its banks. Chloe gazed at it, fascinated.

“I remember it more and more. I always loved it.”

The river wound upon its golden way. The rushes reared themselves upon the bank. Chloe put out her finger and touched the little shining waves that lapped against the rushes. She was little Chloe Dane again, escaped from the nursery and looking into a Chinese fairy-land. Three little men in the rushes. One had a hat; and one had a basket; and one had speared a fish. Their names came back with a rush, the ridiculous, make-believe names which she had given them. Timmy Jimmy, that was the one with the hat; and the fisherman was Henry Planty; and the man with the basket was Mr. Dark. The child Chloe had loved Timmy Jimmy and Henry Planty, but she had always been a little bit afraid of Mr. Dark.

Mitchell Dane saw her touch two of the little men and draw her finger back from the third. He saw the colour come with a rush to her cheek, and watched her with interest. He was always interested in people; but it was years since that interest had come so near a normal human feeling as it had during the past week. He wondered what Chloe was thinking of.

Chloe was not in the drawing-room at Danesborough at all. There was a black, muddy marsh under her feet, and tall rushes that rose between her and a night-black sky. All the light came from the golden river. Chloe stood amongst the rushes, and heard people moving. She knew who the people were. They were Timmy Jimmy, and Henry Planty, and Mr. Dark. The child Chloe had made rhymes about them. Each little man had his own rhyme, and the ridiculous jingling words said themselves over to Chloe across the forgetful years:

“Timmy Jimmy has a hat,

Very wide and very flat.

Oh, how I wish I had a hat

Just like Timmy Jimmy’s hat!”

That was the first rhyme. And then there was one about Henry Planty:

“Henry Planty caught a fish,

And put it on a golden dish.

Henry Planty’s golden fish

Gives a golden wish.”

That was a perfectly thrilling rhyme. Chloe could see the golden wishes there in the dark. They were little bright things like fire-flies, and if you caught one, you could have your wish. Only they were just terribly difficult to catch.

The third rhyme rose up in her mind:

“The dogs all bark

At Mr. Dark.

I would not like to have to touch

The basket he has got.

I’d say loud out, ‘I’d rather not,’

Because I do not like you very much,

And if I was a dog, I’d bark,

Mr. Dark.’ ”

Chloe came back to the drawing-room at Danesborough with a start. Why, that was really just what she felt about Mitchell Dane. It came straight out of the silly rhyme—“I’d rather not, because I do not like you very much.”

Mitchell Dane’s voice sounded suddenly in her ears:

“I’ll give you more than a penny for your thoughts, Chloe. What are they?”

Chloe looked over her shoulder; she had a listening, remembering look.

“I gave them names,” she said very low. “I gave them names. But I never told anyone; it was a tremendous secret.”

Mitchell Dane smiled.

“A secret—and you kept it?”

“Oh, yes, I kept it always. I never told anyone. I—I had forgotten; but it’s all come back.”

“Secrets are safest when they are forgotten. Unfortunately they have a way of coming back,” said Mitchell Dane, his voice very cool and matter of fact. Then, after a little pause, “Do you suppose you could keep a secret?”

She turned towards him with a confident nod. The abstracted fit was passing.

“Of course I can.”

“You’re very sure. Why that ‘of course’?”

Just for a moment Chloe looked rather like an impudent boy.

“Why, because I’m a woman, and women are very good at keeping secrets—didn’t you know that?”

“That’s not the general opinion, but——”

The atmosphere changed suddenly. Chloe was aware of being searched through and through, dissected. She felt extraordinarily small and extraordinarily helpless, like a fly on a pin. The impudence went out of her, and she heard herself say with a gasp, “Don’t! Don’t!” The sensation passed as suddenly as it had come.

“So you can keep a secret?”

This time Chloe did not laugh. She met his eyes steadily, and said,

“Yes, I can.”

Mitchell Dane turned round towards the fire, and began to warm first one foot and then the other.

“When I retired from business two years ago,”—his quiet, level voice seemed to continue rather than begin a statement—“when I retired from business two years ago, I had a good deal of my stock-in-trade left on my hands. It was, and is, very valuable. It needs extremely expert handling. I should never advise you to attempt to handle it. I do not suppose for a moment that you would desire to do so; but, in any case, it is a matter for the expert, and I couldn’t advise you to touch it. On the other hand——”

“Mr. Dane, stop!” said Chloe. She had stood still until this moment, but now she made a quick step forward. “Mr. Dane, don’t! Don’t tell me anything!”

“And why not?”

Chloe was rather pale.

“Because, Mr. Dane, at Maxton you asked me—I mean, you told me——”

“I told you that I wished to adopt you. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes,” said Chloe, her eyes wide and imploring.

“And to make you my heiress.”

She nodded, biting her lip.

“Well,” said Mitchell Dane, “what about it? Why did you stop me?”

“Because—because I can’t,” said Chloe from her heart.

“You don’t want to be adopted?” Mr. Dane’s voice was as expressionless as his face.

“No, I can’t!”

“Or to be my heiress?” A spice of malice crept in.

“No, I can’t—really.” She put out her hand with a troubled gesture, her eyes searched his face.

“It sounds dreadfully ungrateful, but I can’t.”

“Why?” His voice was rather amused. “I’m not the least bit offended. But it would really interest me to know why you can’t take Danesborough and half a million—I think I told you it was half a million.”

Chloe had an impulse of anger, an impulse of pity.

“I don’t know you,” she said. “I shouldn’t ever know you. I should feel—yes, always—that I was taking things from a stranger. You can’t be a daughter to someone whom you don’t know.” In the end pity came uppermost with a rush. “I’m—I’m so dreadfully sorry, Mr. Dane,” she said.

There was a pause. Mitchell Dane shifted from his right foot to his left, held the right foot to the fire, and said nothing. If he felt any disappointment or hurt feeling, no sign of it appeared. He seemed to be lost in thought and unaware of Chloe. She had time to find the silence oppressive before he said,

“When you interrupted me just now I was about to tell you that there are various people who would be quite pleased to have the handling of my stock-in-trade. Some of these have been associated with me in business, and I dare say they think themselves quite competent to carry it on without me. Now, Chloe, this is what I want to impress upon you——”

“Why are you telling me this?” said Chloe.

“Because I choose,” said Mitchell Dane. “I ask nothing of you except that you should listen and remember what I am saying. I do not wish any of these persons to have the handling of my stock-in-trade. I trust you to see that they do not have the opportunity of doing so.”

“What have I got to do with it? I can’t, indeed I can’t!”

“You’re too fond of that word, I think. I’m really only asking you to remember what I’m saying. I won’t keep you much longer. But I wish to tell you something—something rather important. When I came here two years ago, I had a safe built into the wall behind that cabinet. It’s a very special safe. I had the cabinet adapted in order to accommodate and conceal it. As the cabinet has stood in this place for at least a hundred years, it would not, I think, occur to anyone that there was a safe behind it.”

“But the men, the men who did the work—they would talk,” said Chloe.

“Wroughton and I did the work,” said Mitchell Dane. “And the cabinet is clamped to the wall and to the floor—for greater security.”

“Then Mr. Wroughton knows?”

“Yes.”

With the one short word Mitchell Dane left the hearth, went to the cabinet, and unlocked the doors.

The cabinet was in two parts. It was the upper doors that he flung open, disclosing a number of small drawers ornamented with fishes, dragon-flies, and birds. The gold on the drawers was much fresher and brighter than the gold on the outside of the cabinet.

Chloe remembered these drawers very well. One of the uncles had collected butterflies when he was a boy, and his collection had occupied the whole top of the cabinet.

“Are the butterflies still there?” she asked. He pulled out a drawer and showed her a slightly damaged peacock butterfly, rather jostled by a large stag-beetle.

“Yes, they’re here—a little the worse for wear. That’s time, not me; I haven’t disturbed them.” He looked at the draggled peacock wings with something that just fell short of being a smile. “Broken butterflies, eh?” he said. “I’ve seen a good many in my time. The collection struck me as being appropriate—quite appropriate. Now, Chloe, look! This is new since your time.”

He opened two drawers, one on the right and the other on the left, pulling them right out. Then with either hand he reached into the space left by each drawer, and Chloe heard a click. He stepped back, and said,

“It’s quite simple—just a little spring catch on either side. Put in your hand and feel for yourself.”

“Why? What is it?” said Chloe. She felt along the side until her fingers touched the catch. It lay about a foot in. When she pressed it, it ran smoothly down and fastened with a click.

Mitchell Dane nodded.

“The one on the other side is just the same. Now open it again.”

Chloe did so.

“But what does it do?” she asked a little breathlessly.

“This,” said Mitchell Dane. He took hold of the middle partition and pulled. Quite smoothly, and without making any sound at all, half of the upper part of the cabinet slid forward. It was like pulling out a drawer, only the drawer was three feet high, being in fact a whole section of the cabinet with its block of shallow drawers intact.

He lifted the section out and laid it on the floor. The middle of the cabinet was now only a hollow shell. He took a small torch from his pocket and threw its beam into the dark interior. Chloe saw the black lacquer on the inner side of the back. He shifted the light to the left and then to the right, and she caught the gleam of metal.

“Two more catches there; then that section at the back opens towards you like folding doors.”

Chloe came closer, looking hard into the darkness, not looking at Mitchell Dane.

“But why?” she said, speaking under her breath. “Why?”

“I’m going to tell you why. Behind the door there’s a safe built into the wall. The cabinet is clamped to the floor so that it can’t be moved—I think I mentioned that. Now, please remember this. Wroughton knows that the safe is here; but he doesn’t know how to open it. It’s a combination lock; and he don’t know the combination, and never will. No one else knows anything—at least I shouldn’t think they did. Wroughton wouldn’t talk for his own sake. And Stran—no Stran don’t know anything.”

“Who is Stran?” said Chloe, still in that whispering voice.

Mitchell Dane gave a short laugh.

“A young devil—and don’t you trust him a yard. I’ve got him in a cleft stick because I always made him give me receipts—they’re in there by the bye.” He flashed the torchlight into the darkness like a pointing finger. “And if he ever gives you any trouble, there’s your remedy.”

Chloe drew back with a shiver.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean? I don’t understand a bit. Why do you tell me all this?”

Mitchell Dane dropped the torch into his pocket, and fitted the missing section back into the body of the cabinet.

“You’re not wanted to understand. But I’m telling you what’ll be useful to you some day. I want you to listen, and not bother about whether you understand or not. The lock behind there is a combination. We’ll go into my study after this, and I’ll show you the sort of thing, and how it works. You can’t open it unless you’ve got the right word. If I ever want you to open it, I’ll send you the word. But you’re not to pass it on to any living soul. Do you hear? Don’t trust anyone!”

“Oh!” said Chloe. “That’s horrible!” Mitchell Dane was Mr. Dark—the someone whom you didn’t like and couldn’t bear to touch. There was all the child’s instinctive repulsion in Chloe’s voice.

He replaced the drawers which hid the side catches, and closed the cabinet, locking it with a key which had a twisted handle and hung from a fine steel chain. When he had put the key in his pocket, he turned and looked at Chloe with a little glint in his cold eyes.

“Horrible, is it?” he said. “Yes, I suppose you would think that. Let me give you a very serious piece of advice—if everybody acted on it, there wouldn’t be nearly so much trouble in the world. It’s just this. Don’t love anyone, because if you do, sooner or later you’ll get hurt. Don’t trust anyone—most people’ll let you down, if they get the chance. And never put anything on paper that you don’t want the whole world to know.”

Chloe’s chin went up.

“I never take advice!” she said vehemently. “And I’d rather be hurt a hundred times, and let down a thousand times, than not be able to love people and trust them. If you can’t love people you’re dead—just dead!”

Mitchell Dane looked at her with a good deal of admiration and just a very faint stirring of something else—pride, affection, a sense of kinship. He found Chloe very much alive, very young and certain of herself.

“So I’m dead, am I?” he said, smiling a little.

“I think you are,” said Chloe with the scarlet in her cheeks and the ring of defiance in her voice. She felt as if she was up against something that she hated but was not in the least afraid of. She was exultant and angry.

“And that’s why you won’t come and live with me?”

“Yes, I think it is.”

Mitchell Dane nodded.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he began. “Perhaps——”

The door opened and Mr. Wroughton came into the room.