XVIII
THE OTHER LEFT
Farquhar went home in a mood of black, resentful anger, which he aimed, since his creed disallowed a personal deity, at the callous rocks and the soulless forces of nature. He forgot grief as he had forgotten pain. He walked on, swinging his injured arm and cursing as he went; and in this temper he came to the hotel, and received the sympathy of a number of uninteresting people without betraying a vestige of his actual sentiments. They thought him magnanimous, heroic, oppressed with bitter grief; and with the good taste of their nation they left him alone with his sorrow.
In the salon place was laid for one, and the sight sickened Farquhar; it was like the turning of a screw in his breast. He paced the room for five minutes before he could bring himself even to sit down. There were two letters for him on his plate, blue on the thick white china. Bills they seemed, enclosed in thin blue envelopes of the ordinary oblong business shape; he took them up idly and glanced at the address. One was for him and one for Lucian: both in Dolly Fane’s handwriting.
Farquhar tore the envelope open and read:
“Dear Mr. Farquhar,—I have now made up my mind upon the question which you asked me. If you are still interested, and care to come and see me next time you are in England, I will tell you my decision.
“Sincerely yours,
“Mirabelle Fane.”
The ink was bluish instead of black; the postmark Dove Green instead of Monkswell; the paper unlike Dolly’s stationery; but the handwriting was unmistakable. Farquhar crushed up the note in his strong fingers, as though to weld it into a solid mass. That she meant to reject him he could not doubt. He took up Lucian’s letter; he saw with fierce joy that she had omitted to seal it. Now at last, then, had come the chance which he had coveted, the chance of reading one of her letters; and of them all he would most dearly have desired to read this, wherein without doubt she opened her heart to her lover. To intrude into that sanctuary was the prime wish of his heart.
He called to Laurette for a basin of hot water. If this last love-letter of his dead friend were found torn open, he thought it might seem strange; and he wished to keep up to the end the fiction of his frank and honourable nature. Laurette had been surprised by his request for hot water; the smile with which he thanked her sent her away wondering whether he had gone mad. Farquhar took care to lock her out before beginning his delightful task. The water was steaming hot. He held the flap of the envelope low down in the vapour, intending to loosen the gum; the thought that Lucian was dead and buried beyond interference under several tons of granite was sweeter than honey, though he would have liked to bestow immortality upon Lucian’s spirit, that he might see this desecration and be powerless to protest. The paper turned grey and began to curl up from the edges; it detached itself from the underleaf with a small distinct sound. Farquhar drew out the enclosure and opened it with insolent triumph.
Long he sat there, motionless, the letter in his hand; but he did not read one word of it. After ten minutes he refolded it and replaced it and resealed the envelope and laid it down. He unlocked the door and called to Laurette: “I’m going back to the quarry.”