The Black Cabinet (19 page)

Chapter XXV

Chloe sat to Mr. Monody next morning in Mrs. Moffat's sitting-room. Mrs. Moffat herself did not use it for sitting in, but it contained all the things she valued most on earth. It had, therefore, the atmosphere peculiar to such shrines, and the first thing that Mr. Monody did was to fling the windows wide and let in the north-east wind.

Chloe perched on the arm of a large chair upholstered in crimson plush, and swung her feet.

“Are you one of the people who put an eye in one corner of the picture and another somewhere in the middle of next week?” she asked anxiously. “I saw a painting like that once, and it gave me the cold grues.”

“I'm neither a cubist, nor a vorticist, nor a vertiginist. Tilt your chin and think about running away. Think about running for your life from all the conventions that ever were. And just run your hand through your hair, will you—it's much too tidy. Don't look at me—I want your profile. Look at the wall above the fireplace.”

Chloe looked, and found her attention riveted by a print which hung there, an obvious heirloom. Beneath it in flourishing letters its title, “The Broad and Narrow Ways.”

Chloe forgot Mr. Monody and everything modern, and stared, fascinated, at the picture. Right at the top was a single, enormous eye, coloured blue. Beneath it The Broad Way ran steeply downhill. The Broad Way was exactly like Maxton High Street; there were shops on either side of it, and swarms of little black people laughing, talking, and shopping; at intervals there were roundabouts, and people dancing; at the bottom of the street, instead of the bridge, there was an awful chasm which revealed a most authentic Hell, with lots of smoke, and flames and devils. The Narrow Way, which occupied the left-hand side of the picture, was like the course of an obstacle race, a terribly difficult obstacle race. First there was a stream with little jags of rock in it and holes to fall into; a pilgrim could be seen in one up to his neck and looking most uncomfortable. Next came a ladder fixed to the face of what Chloe called a more than perpendicular cliff; a pilgrim, who had almost reached the top appeared to be hanging by a single finger. At the top of the cliff there was a chasm with the flames of Hell coming out of it, very pointed and terrifying. After that there were piles of black stones. And right at the top of the picture there were three fat angels with Georgian smiles and stout calico nightgowns.

Mr. Monody did not talk whilst he was working, and he worked at lightning speed. By the time Chloe had assimilated Eliza Moffat's great great grandfather's print he was saying, “Thanks,” and shutting up his sketch-book. Chloe uttered an incredulous “Oh!” and jumped down.

“How quick you've been—how frightfully quick! But I must see it!”

“I never—” began Mr. Monody, and at that point found that he was no longer holding his sketch-book.

Chloe ran to the window with it, turned the leaves, and exclaimed. She saw herself running down a steep hill with a tearing wind behind her; her hands were stretched out; her hair was blown about her face; the one brief garment with which Mr. Monody's pencil had endowed her also blew in the wind. It was a very clever piece of work. She looked at it and said:

“How do you draw the wind? I can see it blowing.”

He came and looked over her shoulder.

“Most people can't see it. If they could see it, they'd be able to draw it.” He spoke in the abstracted tones of one who informs an infant that C.A.T. spells “Cat.” Then he took his sketch-book out of Chloe's hands, twisted a piece of worn-out elastic round it twice, and began to drift away. At the door he seemed to wake up; he actually looked at Chloe as if he could see her, and not some fantasy in his own mind.

“You did say you were Michael's girl, didn't you?”

Chloe's colour brightened; her eyes danced.

“No, I didn't say anything of the sort.”

Mr. Monody rumpled his hair.

“Ah!” he said. “Some one said it—but perhaps it was Michael. I think you'd better shut those windows, because she likes this room kept nice and stuffy. Michael's a very good chap.”

He was half way out of the room, when Chloe's voice arrested him; it sounded severe, but her eyes still danced.

“Mr. Monody.” She emphasized the name with a tap of the foot.

“Yes?” said Mr. Monody vaguely.

“Where were you brought up?”

He brightened.

“Everybody asks me that sooner or later. In future I've decided to say that seven maiden aunts took me in infancy to a South Pacific island. Don't you think that covers the whole ground?”

That afternoon Chloe had an adventure. She hunted jobs from half-past two till past-half five, when she had promised to meet Michael and have tea with him. Once or twice during the afternoon an extraordinary feeling of discomfort came over her. It was rather difficult to describe and very disturbing. When it came upon her she found herself turning round to see if she was being followed; she had to struggle against a desire to run as fast as she had been running in Mr. Monody's sketch. It was in a fit of extravagance induced by this curious, recurrent sense of dread that she expended twopence on a tube fare.

It was too early for the evening rush, but the train was full enough, and the lift in which she found herself at her journey's end was closely packed. Some one had an elbow in the middle of her back, whilst a massive lady with a feathered hat made it impossible for her to move even half an inch forward. “Pass along, please,” said the lift man. “Pass along there, pass along.” The elbow became a gimlet. Chloe surged forward into the ostrich feathers, which smelt horribly of dye; and at the same moment she felt a hand in the pocket of her coat. Two thoughts bobbed up in her mind simultaneously—“A pickpocket,” and, “My purse isn't there, thank goodness.” That was what she thought. What she did bore no relation to it, and must have been quite instinctive. With a lightning dive her hand went into the pocket and found, not another hand, but another purse. Like a flash she had it out and was holding it up high above all those crowding heads.

“Whose purse is this?” she called at the top of her clear young voice; and every soul in the lift heard her, stopped talking, and twisted their necks to look. The lift stopped with a jerk. “Somebody put this into my pocket. Whose is it?” said Chloe to the silence. What she had done had been without thought; but just at this moment thought came into play again. The gate of the lift opened, and the lift man came across to her.

“What's all this, miss? Had your pocket picked?”

She had begun to shake and feel cold.

“Some one put this into my pocket. It's not mine.”

Nobody claimed the purse, which proved to contain nearly a pound in silver. Chloe had to accompany the lift man to an inspector to whom she repeated her story, and with whom she left the purse.

“Some one sneaked it of course, got a fright, and tried to get rid of it. But if you ask me why nobody claimed it, well you ask me something that I haven't got an answer to. Just give me your name and address, miss, will you.”

Chloe met Michael and had tea with him. When they were walking back together she told him what had happened. Half way through the story she took his arm because she felt that it would be nice to have something to hold on to. The hand shook, and Michael felt it shaking. Chloe's voice shook too.

“If I hadn't pulled it out and held it up like lightning, I should probably be in prison at this very minute,” she said. “Michael, it's the second time in a week—and next time perhaps it'll come off.”

“What do you mean?” said Michael blankly.

“Some one in that lift was all ready to say I had stolen that purse. If I hadn't felt their wicked, prowling hand, and got in in front of them, that's what they'd have done; and I should have been in prison instead of having tea with you, because there was that wretched purse actually in my pocket—nobody could say it wasn't.”

“But who on earth—”

“The same people,” said Chloe with a gasp. “The woman on my right—I didn't see her face properly until just as she went out of the lift—she'd white hair and sort of old lady clothes, but I'm sure it was that sham secretary dressed up.”

Michael didn't say anything; he did not, in fact, speak at all until they were standing in Mrs. Moffat's hall, which seemed to be quite full of the smell of cabbage. Then he opened the sitting-room door and said rather shortly:

“Will you come in here? I want to speak to you.”

He lit the gas, and a mantle with a large hole in one side shed a fluttering light upon the red plush suite, the crimson Axminster, and the striped green wall-paper up which there climbed endless rows of pale magenta sweet peas. Over the mantelpiece the great blue eye in the ancestral print gazed severely upon Chloe's shivering attempt at composure and Michael's set pallor.

Michael shut the door and turned.

“Look here, all this has got to stop,” he said.

Chloe nodded.

“I wish it would.”

“It's got to! Something's got to be done. Will you let me go to the police about these people?”

“No!” said Chloe. “No—no—
no!
”

“Why not?”

Chloe saw herself climbing over the garden wall in the dark and running away with Martin Fossetter. She saw Emily Wroughton sniffing and dabbing her pink eyelids. She saw headlines in evening papers: “Heiress Elopes.” She stamped her foot and said through chattering teeth:

“No, no, you're not to!”

“Will you let me consult a solicitor then?”

“No, no, I won't—not till I'm of age—not till I can sign something and get rid of Mr. Dane's horrible money. I won't do anything except hide till I'm of age. A solicitor would say I oughtn't to have taken the letters; and he'd try and make me take the money, and ask all sorts of questions. No, I won't go near one till I can say what I mean to do, and
do
it.”

“Who gets it if you don't?”

“Mr. Hudson told me I ought to make a will as soon as I was of age, because otherwise the money all went to the Crown.”

“It seems a pity,” said Michael slowly.

Chloe flared.

“It doesn't—it isn't—you say that because you don't know—no decent person could touch a penny of it—I'd rather go to prison for the rest of my life!”

Michael looked at her, frowning.

“You want some one to look after you.”

“N' no—I don't.”

“You do. My people have gone to Madeira for two months, or I'd have got my mother to take a hand—she'd have done it like a shot. I can't think what people want to go to Madeira for. But they've gone, so that only leaves me.” Chloe darted a look at him. He was very pale.

“Chloe,” he said, “I'd look after you if you'd let me.” And in her own mind Chloe heard Eliza Moffat say, “He loves you true”; and then again, “He loves you true.” She said,

“Would you?”

“Yes, I would,” said Michael. “I've wanted to ever since the second time I saw you; and you don't know how frightfully I've wanted to since you came here. When I see you going about looking for some beastly job, it makes me feel like running amok and smashing things. And when it comes to these damn blackguards,—” he took a big stride forward and caught Chloe's hands in his—“I can't stick it. You've got to let me take care of you.”

“Oh,” said Chloe; it wasn't a very audible sound. She pulled her hands away and tried again: “M'Michael, d'don't glare at me like that.”

Michael put his arms around her.

“I love you frightfully,” he said. “I love you
frightfully
.”

“Why?” said Chloe with a little sob.

“Because I do. It's—it's just me. I mean there isn't any me that doesn't love you—I'm all in. I—Chloe, can't you—won't you—couldn't you like me a little?—enough to let me look after you?”

His arms were very strong. Chloe had stopped shaking, and she had stopped feeling cold. She looked straight up into Michael's face, and the tears began to run down her cheeks. Michael kissed her.

“M'Michael,” said Chloe.

Michael hugged her.

“M'Michael, will you always be frightfully nice to me?”

“What'll you do if I'm not?”

“Run away of course.”

Michael laughed rather unsteadily and laid his cheek against hers.

“I've got a beast of a temper,” he said.

“Have you? What do you do when you lose it?”

“I don't do anything—I just want to smash things up.”

“I stamp my foot,” said Chloe.

“Yes, I've seen you. Chloe, let's get married at once.”

“What do you call at once?”

“Well I asked a parson, and he said it took three days.”

Chloe put both hands in the middle of his chest and pushed him away.

“Don't talk nonsense! D'you know, pushing you is exactly like pushing a stone wall.” Michael looked pleased.

“I am pretty hard. Look here, it isn't nonsense; it's the only thing to be done.”

Chloe whirled to the other side of the room, blew him a kiss, and said, “Pouf!”

“No—really. You see, I can't look after you properly until we're married. And—and I do so hate these beastly jobs you keep looking for.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Chloe brightly. “Perhaps there's a most fearfully nice and lucrative job waiting for me round the next corner—and perhaps I should like it ever so much better than being married to you.”

“Perhaps you would. On the other hand—” his tone was rather grim—“you might walk into another of those infernal traps.”

The sparkle died out of Chloe's look. She put out her hands with an involuntary gesture, and found them taken and held very tightly indeed.

“Chloe! Sweetheart! Darling! Don't look like that. What a brute I was to say it!”