The Relentless City

by E. F. Benson

The postmark on the envelope was London, W., and the envelope was type-written in purple ink.

Bertie's mouth, when he read this, got suddenly dry, and with a hand that he observed was quite steady, he poured himself out a cup of tea and sipped it, reading the letter through again. Also he had a horrible feeling of emptiness inside him, resembling great hunger, but of some sickly kind, for, so far from being hungry, he could not touch the eggs and bacon to which he had just helped himself. He could not yet even begin to think; but again he filled his cup with tea, again drank it, and again read the letter. Then he suddenly felt hot, stifled, and though the morning was of a brisk chilliness, he went to the window and leaned out. He was aware that a cold sweat had gathered on his forehead, and he wiped it away. Then all at once his feeling of physical faintness and thirst left him altogether, and he was back in his room, lighted a cigarette, and sat down squarely on his sofa to think the matter out.

His first impulse—namely, to go straight to Mr. Palmer with the letter—did not last long. He had told him, after Amelie had accepted him, in answer to questions which were very delicately put, that there were no pages in his past life which he feared. Mr. Palmer, with the tact and finesse which is inseparable from great ability, had indicated his meaning with absolute precision and clearness. He had not hinted that he wished Bertie to confess any liaisons he might ever have had, he only asked him with considerable solemnity to assure him that he had done nothing which, coming to light at a future time, could, humanly speaking, bring unhappiness to, and possibly rupture between, him and Amelie. He had not pressed him for an answer immediately.

'Think it all over,' he had said, 'and tell me to-morrow. Young men will be young men as long as women are women. I don't mean that. What I do mean is whether anyone can rake things up afterwards. If anyone can, I should like to know about it. I needn't ask you to be straight with me. I guess you are straight without being asked.'

Now, it had not occurred to Bertie to tell him about Mrs. Emsworth, for the very simple reason that he was quite innocent. That he had been foolish—mad, if you will—was perfectly true, but morally he was clean. And now, at this moment, she was on tour in America—where, he had no notion. Bilton, no doubt, knew, but Bilton had been instructed to admit no discussion of any kind. And to-morrow would be January 7.

His second impulse was also short-lived—namely, to go straight with the letter to Scotland Yard. But what did that mean? An action for blackmail against Mrs. Emsworth, a dragging into the public view all that had happened, a feast for the carrion-crows of London, and for him—well, celibacy. For Mrs. Emsworth, clever woman as she was, knew well what justice is done by the world to those who invoke the justice of the law. The verdict of the world is always the same: 'There must have been something in it;' and though every judge and jury in the land might testify to his innocence, the world would simply shrug its shoulders: 'There must have been something in it.' For it is not in the least necessary to touch pitch to be defiled; it is quite sufficient if somebody points a casual finger at you and merely says 'Pitch.'

Yes, it was on this that she, the blackmailer, counted; here lay her security—namely, that his bringing her to justice meant that he must lay himself open to the justice of the world. And what justice in that case would Mr. Palmer give him? If he was to know at all, it must be Bertie who told him. And Bertie knew he could not, after the assurance he had given him.

For a moment his brain deserted the question of what to do, and put in as a parenthesis that the blackmail scheme had been brilliantly planned. It was excellently timed; it gave him quite long enough to think the matter over, and not rush, as he might possibly have done, in desperation to Mr. Palmer or Scotland Yard, if he had only been given an hour or so to decide, and, at the same time, it did not give him an opportunity of communicating with Mrs. Emsworth. The extracts, too, were cleverly chosen, their genuineness he could not doubt, and they gave him a very fair idea of the impression that the whole letter would make on an unbiassed mind. Then suddenly he sprang to his feet.

'But I am not guilty!' he cried. 'My God, I am not guilty!'

His fit of passion subsided as suddenly as it had sprung up, and his thoughts turned to Dorothy. He remembered with great distinctness his interview with her on the morning after her debut in New York, and the uneasiness with which what his sober self thought was mere chaff had inspired him. But afterwards, at their various meetings in New York and down at Long Island, he had been quite at his ease again, and ashamed of his momentary suspicions. She was a better actress than he knew, it appeared, for never did anything seem to him more genuine than her kindliness towards him. She had made friends with Amelie, too; for Amelie had told him of their meeting in the dewy gardens, of her entrancing way with children, which had quite won her heart. Then—this.