Читать книгу The Wings of Victory - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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As Mary Dorn spoke, a scrap of paper fluttered from her fingers. It was apparently part of a charred letter or envelope, and had no doubt been there, protected from the rain by a fragment of charred wood, all these years. Dorn glanced at it carelessly enough, much as one regards some gaudy flowering weed which a child has gathered from a neighbouring hedgeside under the impression that she has found a treasure. It was only a tiny scrap of paper with the ink faded, a scrap of paper that had been evidently torn from an envelope. There were only two words "street" and "London, E.C."

"Ah, you are in luck this morning, my dear," Dorn said. "And now having done so much, don't you think it about time that you went in and looked after the lunch? Sylvia, I want you for a moment or two."

"What is it?" Sylvia asked defiantly.

She would have turned and followed her mother slowly into the house if her father had not detained her. She had only been back home a day or two, but she guessed what he wanted.

"I'd like you to help me," he said. "There is an important letter that ought to be written."

"What, already?" Sylvia demanded. "I can't do it, I won't. I told you before I went away that I would have nothing more to do with that sort of thing. Of course, you know where it will end eventually."

Once more Dorn's eyes narrowed, and once more his thin lips were pressed together.

"My dear child," he said, smoothly enough, "you must allow me to be the better judge of that. Besides, unnecessary as it may seem, we have to live. And when I tell you that I am down to my last five shillings you will see how pressing the situation is. As a certain philosopher once observed, 'there are people who have plenty of money and no brains, and other people who have plenty of brains and no money.' Therefore, by a natural evolution, the brains attract the money. You wouldn't have your mother starving, I suppose?"

"Oh, I quite understand your natural solicitude for my mother," Sylvia said bitterly. "You are——"

"There, that will do," Dorn said ominously. "You forget who you are talking to."

"As, I wish to Heaven I could."

Dorn's manner changed suddenly. He approached Sylvia and grasped her roughly by the arm.

"Enough of that," he said. "Now go and do as I tell you. I can't compel you, of course. . . ."

"No, but you can hit my mother through me," Sylvia retorted. "It would not be the first time. Oh, you make me tingle from head to foot with shame. And you have brought it all on yourself. You were not so badly off when you came into the property. And my mother had money too—more than enough for all of us. Why, her diamonds——"

"Are all a myth, my child, all a myth. I don't believe there were any diamonds. And if they did exist they were probably stage paste. At any rate, I have never seen them, though your mother did say something about them one time when we were on our honeymoon."

"I believe in them, all the same," Sylvia said. "My mother was incapable of telling a lie. I believe she is hunting for them now."

"Oh, pooh! That's a girl's romantic fancy. Let's be practical. I must have fifty pounds this week, and I can see a way of getting it. Don't be a fool. It's only a few lines I want you to write to a man who has more money than he knows what to do with. And you've done it before."

"Ah, yes, when I didn't understand," Sylvia said. "I blush for shame when I think of the scores of begging letters I have written on your behalf. Oh, it is bad enough to borrow money in any case, horrible to write to strangers and ask them for assistance. I understand now. Those letters I wrote were deliberate frauds, lies written to kind-hearted people. Oh, can't you see how criminal it is?"

"Ah, that's a nasty word," Dorn said soothingly. "A very nasty word, Sylvia. And perhaps, occasionally, I have overstepped the—er—bound of truth. But what can I do? We are practically penniless, and your mother——"

"Oh, I implore you not to bring my mother into it. If she were in a mental condition to know what is going on, she would shrink from it in horror."

"But, confound it, we can't starve."

"Why should we starve? I am capable of getting my own living, and therefore——"

"Oh, are you?" Dorn sneered. "Then what are you doing at home again? You started out bravely enough. You shook the ashes of the old home from your feet in the traditional theatrical way, but you came back, my dear child, you came back, as I, a man of the world, knew you would, and here we are, to come down to a practical basis, down to our last shilling. Why, by the end of the week, we shall actually be short of bread. And you know we couldn't get credit here for a pair of shoe-laces. How am I going to tell your mother that? Come, don't be silly, Sylvia. I won't ask you again."

Sylvia stood there, hesitating. It was all hopelessly wicked, indeed criminal, and her whole soul revolted against it. But she knew only too well, if she refused, that her mother would be made to suffer. Not openly or brutally, of course, but with those refined and polished little cruelties of which her father was a past master. She followed him meekly enough into the house presently, and sat down in the library to write the letter. It was the one room in the house where all the comforts and luxuries were gathered together, a room where Dorn spent most of his time working out his schemes.

He stood up now, a fine figure of an English gentleman, smiling and debonnaire, with a choice cigar in his mouth, whilst he dictated the letter that might have brought a blush of shame to the cheek of a harder rascal than himself. The address was a fictitious one, an address somewhere in London that Sylvia had used on many a revolting occasion before.

"Dear Sir (it ran)—

"May I venture, a mere stranger to you, in deep distress, to approach you on a matter that is exceedingly dear to an anxious mother's heart.

"I am the wife, or I should say the widow, of a man who once was a distinguished soldier. My name will convey nothing to you, and I will say nothing of my dear husband's services to his country; indeed, rather than drag his honoured name into it and have his record shown, even to a kind-hearted gentleman like yourself, I would rather that you ignored my plea altogether.

"But I must approach you, not on behalf of myself, but in the interests of my only daughter. For years now I have lived at a little quiet cottage in the country, where I have managed to keep body and soul together with the aid of my needle. My own friends I cannot approach; there are reasons why I shrink from doing so.

"I have managed to bring up my daughter and educate her in the station to which she was born. It has been a hard and weary struggle, but, thank Heaven, I have managed it. And now the dear child is twenty-one. She has been on the stage for the last year or more, and competent judges tell me that she is likely to go very far in her profession. She has just a magnificent offer from America, which will also enable her to help me considerably. But she has to get to America and purchase a wardrobe. This we find cannot be done for less than——"

Dorn paused, and seemed to be turning over something in his mind. Then he went on dictating.

"Um! yes—a hundred pounds. Cannot be done for less than a hundred pounds."

"Now you, sir, are a rich man, and, moreover, have a reputation for a kind heart and overflowing sympathy. And to you I appeal. This sum, which is a fortune to us, is nothing to you. But to myself and my daughter it means everything. She is a most charming and delightful girl, exceedingly popular with everybody, and is wrapped up heart and soul in her profession. She has to refuse this offer for the need of the money I mention, then indeed she will he heartbroken. And that is why I have adopted the desperate step of writing to you and imploring your assistance. Nobody but a mother could have done it. I have dragged myself to my desk like a body in pain. I have forced myself to write these words to you, and I cannot say any more. Out of your plenty, will you help us?

"Yours most gratefully,

"HENRIETTA MARVIN."

"Yes, I think that will do," Dorn said. "It is not too gushing, but just gushing enough. I can quite imagine a fool of a woman writing a letter like that."

"What's the address?" Sylvia asked coldly, as she took an envelope from the case.

"John Bevill, Esq., Baron's Court, near Tavistock," Dorn said. "I think that will do very well. Oh, one moment. A postscript to that letter. Quite an inspiration. Now, write as follows:—

P.S. "Since writing the above, I have thought it as well to enclose a photograph of my daughter. I have enough confidence in you to do this, and besides, I want you to see what the dear girl is like. You will return it, I know."

There, that's a touch of real genius."

Dorn stopped and smiled as he took the letter from Sylvia's hand. He glanced it over carefully, then proceeded to place it in the envelope.

"And whose photograph are you going to send?" Sylvia asked. "Where are you going to get it from? If——"

She started suddenly to her feet as a dreadful thought crossed her mind. Then she hastened up the stairs to her bedroom and flew to the mantelpiece, where an hour ago a photograph of herself in theatrical costume had been standing.

The photograph was no longer there.