Delphi collected works o.., p.572
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 572
He continued: “It is quite obvious to me that you are in need of that love, that ardour, that extreme affection which is every woman’s birthright. Your preoccupation and uneasiness experienced this afternoon after a more than searching glance in the direction of Lambert Whelks, the butcher’s lad, is indicative of the fact that the figure of this young man, occupied as he was in the mundane business of handling legs of mutton, became momentarily transformed by your subconscious mind into something not a butcher’s lad but of infinitely more importance.
“Remove the leg of mutton from the virile hands of Lambert. Take away his blue and white butcher’s apron, clothe him in fine raiment, and says your inner soul, there we have as fine a figure of a man as ever attempted to catch a ripe plum ready to fall into his mouth. Am I wrong?”
“No... indeed...” said Honoria faintly. “No... I do not think you are at all wrong.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Krasinsky. “Therefore we have only to concern ourselves with the attainment of your heart’s desire. We have only to concern ourselves with the future of two mentalities — those of your sweet self and Mr. Whelks — both of whom are yearning towards something which seems to be quite unattainable, something so sweet... so delicious that it makes one tremble at the thought of it. Do I err?”
“No,” said Honoria, who was herself trembling at the thought of something which had just entered her exquisitely coiffured head, “No... indeed you do not, dear Mr. Krasinsky.”
“Very well,” said he blithely. “Let us consider love which, for all purposes of consideration, may be divided into two parts. First of all the purely practical part of the emotion which is something which I think you would not wish to discuss at the moment, and secondly — and this is important so far as you are concerned — the theoretical part.
“Of what does this theoretical part consist? It must be agreed by one and all that the theory of love consists of all that part of the business of love which falls short of a passionate and entirely practical onslaught against the beloved one. It consists of the uttering of endearing phrases, the writing of superb love notes, letters and billets doux, and it is through this theoretical process that a lady such as yourself... a lady of the extremest delicacy... may attain a certain mental satisfaction well worth the little trouble experienced in obtaining it.
“You will agree, I am sure,” said Krasinsky, in the most honeyed tones, “that if on each and every morning or evening you were to receive a letter couched in the most delightful language, breathing in every word a passion so ardent, a love so superb, that it took your very breath away, you would be delighted and enthralled. The day, now so often boring and filled with routine, would take on a new shape. Your very household tasks and duties would each reflect a particular joy. In other words you would be transformed by the mere act of receiving such a letter, and of knowing that its glowing language referred to you, of knowing that you were lovely and adorable... that you were superb in every feminine way...that you were the difference between life and death to some young and ardent man. Am I not right, Miss Honoria?”
“Oh yes,” gasped Honoria very faintly. “Yes... you are quite right.”
“Excellent,” purred Krasinsky. “Then all we have to do to ensure this happiness for you is to arrange that you receive such a letter each morning or each evening, whichever you prefer, and to place in your mind a definite picture of the writer of it.”
He paused for a moment and then went on: “I think I am right in saying,” said he, “that there is no person who knows better than yourself the particular terms in which you would like to be addressed by a lover. No one can know more than you those nuances of expression, those delicate shades of ardent description which could and should be applied to you, than you do yourself. In fact, I would go so far as to say,” said Krasinsky with a charming smile, “that the best and most proper person to write such letters would be yourself because you know more about yourself — have thought more about yourself in this connection — than anyone else. Is that logical, dear Miss Honoria...?”
“Oh yes,” said Honoria. “I must admit it is very logical.”
“However, there are two other points which we must consider,” continued Krasinsky glibly. “First of all who is to be the signatory of the letters, and secondly the handwriting in which they are to be written. I will deal with the second point first.
“Obviously the handwriting must not be your own. The fact that you are to be the composer of the love letters to yourself means little, as in the writing thereof you will obviously superimpose upon your own thoughts of yourself the mental picture of the lover who you would wish to write you such letters. But quite as obviously the handwriting must not be your own. To open a love letter, delivered through the penny post and to find the contents couched in one’s own handwriting would be a mistake.
“Therefore it will be necessary that you secure a typewriter — an instrument but lately invented, which is, I believe, most efficacious — and typewrite the letters to yourself. In this connection I would point out that Bendix the Stationer, of Gower Street, has such an instrument, second-hand, costing seven pounds, which you may care to inspect in the morning. It has a violet ribbon and beyond one or two minor defects is, I believe, in excellent condition. Do you hear...?”
“Oh yes,” she murmured, leaning back against the side of the summer-house in a half-fainting condition. “Oh yes, I do hear... indeed I do...”
The voice of Mr. Krasinsky took on a beautiful and bell-like quality. It flowed straight into the mind of Honoria and implanted the words upon her receptive brain.
“Now,” said he, “there remains only one thing to be decided and that is the figure of the man who is to be in your mind as the writer of these quite adorable letters which you will shortly be receiving. I suggest that there is one person quite suitable to our purpose. I refer to this Lambert Whelks who has, for some reason — although only a young man engaged in a possibly menial occupation — already implanted himself upon your perception and imagination merely because of the indefinable quality which comes to some men irrespective of birth, breeding or monetary status.
“So,” said Krasinsky, and his words seemed to her to become fainter and fainter, to possess a strange and evanescent quality as charming as it was amazing, “dear Miss Honoria, it remains only for you to purchase the second-hand typewriter from Bendix, to spend an hour in the afternoon typewriting the most charming and delightful letters to yourself, posting them in the morning so that they arrive by the nine o’clock post in the evening, and opening and reading them after you have retired for the night. When perusing them you will of course conjure up a mental picture of Mr. Whelks — not in his butcher’s apron of course, but dressed in such a manner as you consider suitable.
“And now,” concluded Krasinsky, “I have said enough. Possibly it is time that you were returning to the house. You will find Bendix, the stationer, open at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.
“Good evening, Ma’am,” said he, with a very subtle smile. “I hope you will eventually agree that I have been of some slight service. Perhaps you may decide to act upon my poor suggestions.”
“Oh yes,” said Honoria. “Thank you, Mr. Krasinsky.... I shall most certainly do what you say. Good evening, Sir.”
But when she rose from the seat and tottered a little unsteadily from the summer-house — for she felt a slight agitation — she saw that Mr. Krasinsky had disappeared, that the evening was come and that the shadows in Woburn Gardens bore delightful and fascinating shapes.
IT was in the early part of November that Snells Dove-Mellifleur became aware of the extraordinary change which had taken place in his daughter.
Honoria was a different woman. She radiated a peculiar and amazing charm; a new virility, an almost unbelievable radiancy had come upon her that amazed and vaguely shocked him.
It has already been explained that Snells was a crusty and selfish old gentleman, and it must now be stated that so far as Honoria was concerned he was definitely suspicious. He watched her with the eye of an eagle. He observed every movement, every gesture. He scrutinised her goings and comings with a jealous and rheumy optic, and it was not long before he became aware of the fact that each nine o’clock evening post brought for Honoria an envelope, blue in colour, upon which her name and address were typed in violet coloured ink.
Secure in his library on the ground floor Snells wrestled with himself. His curiosity was fast overcoming that pride for which the Dove-Mellifleurs were famous. His mind, leaping off at the most impossible tangents, visualised circumstances attendant upon this business of a letter each evening which could only be ominous.
So it is not to be wondered at that one evening, furious, jealous and restless, he sneaked out into the hall, and before the tiny feet of Honoria had time to descend from her room to even the first floor, Snells, impatiently attending upon the postman’s knock, had snatched the letter from the man’s hand and retreated into the library where he had already prepared a steaming kettle which stood ready upon the gas ring used for making the hot toddy in which Snells and his friend Doctor Horatio Fiddlebee indulged at night.
With fingers that trembled with fear and age he held the back of the envelope towards the kettle. In two minutes the steam had done its work and Snells, his breath coming quickly, was reading the typewritten missive within.
It is not proposed that the gentle reader shall be made aware of the contents of the letter. Flesh and blood will not agree that the tender and delicious thoughts, the solicitous expressions, the ardent wishes and hopes expressed in the letter which was signed with the typewritten signature “Lambert,” and which were intended only for Honoria, should be made public.
I will only say that Snells Dove-Mellifleur, his face the colour of putty, staggered to the sideboard and poured himself out five fingers of Runciman’s Fine Old Liqueur Brandy, swallowed it, and then, sticking down the envelope with a fearful oath, sneaked out into the hall and placed the letter in the receptacle used for the incoming post.
Within ten minutes the small page-boy used for cleaning knives and other menial businesses about the house, had been sent post-haste for Doctor Fiddlebee; and within half an hour that worthy gentleman, breathing wisdom, professional etiquette, a soupçon of old Jamaica rum not entirely obscured by the application of a Brompton Hospital Cough Lozenge, was closeted with Snells in the library, hearing, with ears that almost flapped with intensity, of the fearful and amazing happening which had come upon the family of Dove-Mellifleur.
“Damme, Sir,” said Snells... “damme, I say. And how is a gentleman to deal with this! My own daughter... a Dove-Mellifleur at that... receiving letters of that sort — typewritten too — and her own father knowing nothing. And if I tax her with it what will she do? She might walk out of the house. There’s been something odd about her for the last week or two that’s been beyond me.”
“Hum...” said Doctor Fiddlebee. “Hum...” He cleared his throat noisily. “This is a bad business, Snells,” he said. “A very bad business... hum.... I remember a case very like it in the early days of my professional career. The lady concerned was a certain Lady Polkfus. She...”
“Damn Lady Polkfus!” exclaimed Snells with great feeling. “What do I care about Lady Polkfus. Damme, Sir, this is my daughter... Honoria... forty-three years of age come next quarter day, an’ damme you begin to talk about Lady Polkfus.”
He got up and began to walk up and down the library.
“You must advise me, Horatio,” he said at last. “Damme, Sir, you’re a doctor, you know all about women... you’ve had a great experience of women. You’ve brought ’em into the world... you’ve sent ’em out of the world, you’ve had to do with all their flims an’ flams and whatnots. I need advice, not reminiscences. I tell you, Horatio, I don’t like it. Honoria is at a damn dangerous age... an’ she’s got her own money too... I can’t touch it... an’ if she gets ideas into her head about this damned Lambert... Who,” asked Snells, holding his hands up to Heaven, “is this interloper... this... this...?”
“Precisely,” said Fiddlebee, helping himself to port. “Precisely... who is he?”
He changed his tone and took a soothing note into his voice.
“Listen to me, Snells,” he said. “Before I advise you on this portentous matter I must have time to think. I must go back into my vast experience and cull such wisdom as I may from it. But let me give you this advice now. Say nothing to Honoria of having opened and read her letter. That would be fatal to your hopes. Remember she may have realised ere now that sundry young men whom she might have considered eligible for her hand have been... Dr... sent packing, in the past, by you. She might, shocked at what she would consider a turpitude on your part, do anything. She might even kill herself.”
Snells nodded miserably.
“Tomorrow night,” said Fiddlebee, who, knowing nothing at all about women, hoped, in the interim, to get advice from someone else... “tomorrow night I will come after dinner and advise you on this matter. Until then let discretion be your master.”
He helped himself to another glass of the Dove-Mellifleur port, and took his hat and departure. Snells, returning morbidly to the library, heard from the music room above the soft yet vibrant voice of Honoria singing “My Lover Is Over The Water.”
I will not insult the delicacies of my readers by informing them just what Snells said at that moment. I will only say that his expression was coarse and unworthy of a gentleman of breeding.
When Doctor Horatio Fiddlebee left the Dove-Mellifleur abode he began to walk slowly in the direction of Gower Street where he lived. He was deep in thought and concerned greatly with the present problem of Honoria.
First of all his reputation as a doctor was at stake. He knew perfectly well that Snells, in asking his advice, had done so with the idea of placing the responsibility of decision upon the Doctor. Then, whatever happened, it would be Fiddlebee’s fault.
Horatio began to regret that he had been, on many previous occasions, so very fulsome regarding his knowledge of the mental workings of femininity. He wished that he had not enlarged to such an extent upon his amazing experiences — both as a doctor and a man — with the weaker sex. He realised of course that in doing so he had been concerned mainly with the hospitality and friendship of Snells, both of which had been obtained by the recounting of sundry tales and experiences which had not only flattered Snells’ memory of his own treatment of his late wife Geralda, but which had also served to sharpen the delight of the many glasses of port which the Doctor and Snells were wont to drink in the comfort and seclusion of the library.
Now, Horatio saw clearly, he must advise Snells and the results of his advice must be good, otherwise....
Just at this moment the Doctor, who was so engrossed with his own thoughts that he was not looking where he was going, bumped into an individual who was walking towards him. By the light of an adjacent street lamp whose flickering gas jet cast fitful shadows about the end of the Gardens, the doctor saw that his vis-à-vis was a plump and good-natured individual dressed in a suit of shepherd’s plaid. An individual who addressed him cheerfully.
“I must apologise for my carelessness,” said Mr. Krasinsky, for of course it was he, “but I was so entertained, my dear Sir, by the colour of my own thoughts that I failed to see your distinguished presence.”
Horatio accepted the apology gracefully. For some reason which he did not quite understand the appearance of Mr. Krasinsky brought him a certain comfort. He stood there and listened agreeably as Krasinsky continued:
“I did not see you approaching, Sir,” said that worthy, “because I was so busily engaged in thinking about a strange event which has just happened to a friend of mine by the name of Wilbrox. Mr. Wilbrox is, I think I may say, one of the distinguished members of the Most Worshipful Company of Fish Filleters, and he has been greatly concerned with certain correspondence that his daughter Joanna has been receiving — correspondence, I may say, that reeked more of ardour than of discretion.”
Horatio pricked up his ears. What a coincidence. What an amazing coincidence!
“I think you are very kind, Sir,” he said pleasantly. “I find myself very interested.”
So interested was he that he hardly noticed that Krasinsky had taken him by the arm and that they were walking towards Gower Street together, like old friends.
“My friend,” continued Krasinsky, “was greatly concerned with the tone of this clandestine correspondence, but luckily, before doing anything about it — for his daughter was of a certain age and inclined to be headstrong — he spoke to me and I was able to solve the situation almost immediately.
“You see,” said Krasinsky, smiling into the darkness, “my friend Wilbrox had never conceived even an inkling of the truth of the matter which was, of course, that his daughter was writing the letters to herself, and was quite delighted when I pointed this out to him. I was able to tell him that by writing these ardent missives, receiving and opening them with joy, the lady was successfully experiencing the true delights of the theoretical love without any of the chances, the dangers, nay the perils of the real and actual state.
“So, being wise, he said nothing of the matter to dear Joanna, and all is peace and happiness in their pleasant home.”
Inside him the heart of Horatio Fiddlebee missed two beats. Here was the explanation of Honoria’s mysterious correspondence. What luck that by this extraordinary coincidence this pleasant and suddenly found acquaintance had been able to make all things clear to him.
Of course, Honoria was writing the letters to herself. His advice — like Krasinsky’s — must be that she must not be interfered with, that she must continue to correspond with herself because while she was content to do that she was as safe as any lady could be.
The good Doctor chuckled to himself. There was not the slightest reason, he thought, why Snells and he should not open Honoria’s correspondence from time to time just to see how her theoretical love affair was progressing! Such a process, thought Horatio, would add a pleasant tang to the winter evenings in the library over a glass of brandy. Snells would like that too... it would take years off his age.
