I Shall Not Want

by Norman Collins

  “To no one at all.”

  “Then we will burn it,” said Mr. Tuke decisively. “We will destroy it utterly.”

  A man of quick action he went down on his knees as he spoke and held the corner of the letter to the open grate. But Mr. Petter snatched it back from him.

  “No,” he said. “I may need it. I may want to go to the police with it.”

  Mr. Tuke eyed him fiercely. This was the last thing in the world that he wanted; at all costs he must prevent another scandal, must prevent one of the brethren from dragging a sister-in-God through the courts. And the whole thing was already dreadfully plain to him. The disguised, printed capitals, the makeshift note-paper, the absence of any signature or any address—these were nothing. But there was something else. He recognised in this letter, as plainly as if the writer had put her name to it, the last pathetic remedy of a desperate and jealous woman.

  “It can’t do any good,” he said, keeping it. “Anything as horrible as that can only go on doing harm.”

  But Mr. Petter was obstinate.

  “I want to keep it,” he replied. “I may be able to find out who wrote it.”

  Mr. Tuke paused.

  “Suppose I tell you,” he said softly, “that I think I know.”

  There was silence for a moment as though Mr. Petter could not believe what Mr. Tuke had just told him.

  “You know?” he repeated. “You think you know?”

  “I believe so,” Mr. Tuke replied. “That is why I want you to burn it.”

  “But tell me who it is,” said Mr. Petter eagerly. “Tell me and I’ll go and accuse him of it.”

  Mr. Tuke shook his head.

  “It is someone whom you do not know,” he answered. “Someone who is very unhappy. Very unhappy and very much misguided. It is someone who needs our prayers, not our accusations.”

  “But I’m not going to stand for it.” Mr. Petter declared. He was so angry that he was trembling; Mr. Tuke was quite startled to see him displaying so much emotion. “I insist on knowing.”

  “And I refuse to tell you,” Mr. Tuke replied. “The person who wrote it is a woman. She has gone through such suffering that her mind is deranged.”

  “You mean . . . you mean she’s mad?” Mr. Petter asked.

  Mr. Tuke bowed his head.

  “She’s not responsible,” he replied.

  At that answer Mr. Petter temporarily broke down. There were tears in his eyes and his voice, always high, suddenly became childish.

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” he said. “I can’t tell you. There’s nothing more to worry about.”

  “Not from that quarter,” Mr. Tuke answered. “I’ll make it my business to attend to that.”

  Mr. Petter got to his feet and steadied himself.

  “I’m so thankful I came to see you,” he said. “I nearly went round to John Marco himself to see if he knew who it was.”

  “You were guided here,” Mr. Tuke corrected him.

  “I must have been,” Mr. Petter agreed meekly. “And now no one need ever know. Oh, it’s such a weight off my mind.”

  But Mr. Tuke was paying no attention to him. To avoid scandal was only half the battle: he would be failing in his duties as a Minister if he allowed Mr. Petter to go home like that. The other half of the battle was the difficult part—it was Satan himself, and not a group of idle gossips, that he would be fighting this time.

  “There is one thing perhaps that I ought to say,” he began with deliberate deceptive mildness.

  “Yes?” asked Mr. Petter: he felt strong enough to face anything now.

  “In view of this letter I wonder if it would be fair to Mary to allow Mr. Marco’s visits to the house any longer,” he said slowly. “There’s obviously been some talk about it to set this woman thinking.”

  “But . . . but John Marco’s my great friend,” Mr. Petter began.

  “I know,” Mr. Tuke replied. “And you may have to deny yourself. It is only Mary’s good name that I am thinking of.”

  “But won’t she wonder why?” Mr. Petter asked.

  “It’s better that she should wonder than that she should know,” Mr. Tuke replied cryptically.

  “Know what?” Mr. Petter enquired: he had a resentful, injured tone as though he felt that Mr. Tuke was being unreasonable.

  “That people are talking.”

  “Only one person—the mad woman,” Mr. Petter corrected him.

  But Mr. Tuke shook his head.

  “Others as well,” he said. “I have noticed it myself.” Mr. Petter clasped his hands helplessly together.

  “Mr. Marco will think it so strange if we suddenly stop seeing him,” he said miserably.

  “It would be far stranger after this if you did see him,” Mr. Tuke retorted.

  “But what can be the harm in it?” Mr. Petter asked. “It isn’t as if the letter was true.”

  “I am not saying whether the letter is true or is not true,” said Mr. Tuke. “I am saying that I should not have John Marco to the house again.”

  “You mean never?”

  Mr. Tuke nodded.

  “Never,” he said firmly.

  “But why?”

  Mr. Tuke drew himself to his full height and took hold of the lapels of his coat like a judge.

  “I reserve my reasons,” he replied.

  Mr. Petter was suddenly sitting forward in his chair, his lips trembling and his heart jumping about inside him.

  “You . . . you don’t mean that you think there is anything in the letter? You don’t mean ...”

  “That is a question which I decline to be drawn into,” Mr. Tuke answered. “I have already told you that I should keep Mary and John Marco separate. Remember that her honour is in your keeping.”

  “Then you do ... do believe it!” Mr. Petter said jerkily, “you do. ...”

  But Mr. Tuke was already holding out his hand.

  “Good-night, brother,” he said. “You can only pray—and watch.”

  iii

  Mr. Petter descended the stone steps of the Presbytery with limbs that were numb and almost useless. He gripped the iron balustrade as he moved and came down slowly, like a child, putting both feet onto one step before he trusted himself to the next. In those last few minutes in Mr. Tuke’s study the whole snug world of Mary and Harrow Street and pharmaceutics had gone toppling over into destruction and had left him alone and frightened, groping blindly in the darkness.

  For a second or two he stood, undecided, on the pavement and then mechanically began to walk forward. He had no purpose, no direction. The one thing that he wanted was to walk. If only Mr. Tuke had been more definite; if only he had said something. . . . But could he have borne to hear it? Could he have endured it while Mr. Tuke, his own friend and minister, had told him that his wife had been unfaithful? But it was impossible! He didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t let himself believe it. It couldn’t be his wife whom he had kissed so fondly half-an-hour before, whom Mr. Tuke had doubted so appallingly. He reviled himself for his momentary weakness in even beginning to believe it, and resolutely held his head up higher. The evening air, it seemed, was reviving him.

  By the time he had reached the Edgware Road he was a man again, and a bold plan had come into his head. John Marco, despite everything that Mr. Tuke had said and hinted, was still his friend. He was his best friend; the first person whom Mr. Petter would naturally turn to in time of trouble. And because he was in trouble now, he would go to him and put him to the test. He would show him the letter and tell him the things that people were saying: he would lay this ghost by a single visit. And when he was there he would be able to watch John Marco while he was reading the letter; he could study his face and see if he blenched under it—but no: that wasn’t necessary; that was just another scene in the same silly nightmare from which he had now awakened.

  When he rang the bell of John Marco’s flat he was surprised to find how late it was: it was nearly eleven and Mary would be worrying. But the fact that John Marco was
still up, was something: he had seen the light burning in his room as he crossed the street. And already he could hear the sound of footsteps coming down the last flight of stairs. They were slow footsteps, heavy and dragging, as if the man on the stairs were sleepy and tired-out; Mr. Petter felt like apologising for getting him down at all at this time. Then the door opened and John Marco stood there.

  He was wearing a dressing-gown and his shirt and trousers were on beneath it. Even his bow-tie was still knotted at his throat, though the collar itself had sprung the stud and was gaping. But it was his hair that Mr. Petter first noticed: it was all ruffled and untidy. Clearly, he must have dropped asleep in front of his fire and then come straight down to open the door.

  “What do you want?” John Marco began roughly, and then, seeing who it was standing there, he came forward and put his arm round Mr. Petter’s shoulders.

  “Come on in,” he said. “Come in and keep me company.”

  His voice, Mr. Petter noticed, sounded muffled and indistinct, and he uttered words as though he were stumbling over them. Mr. Petter felt all the more sorry for having disturbed him, and it was not until he was actually at the foot of the stairs that he realised that John Marco smelt of liquor.

  Mr. Petter’s first thought was to turn and run: he had the true Amosite’s horror of alcohol. But John Marco was beside him and his arm was now through his.

  “Come upstairs and talk to me,” he was saying. “Proudest day of my life.”

  And Mr. Petter was helpless. He mounted the stairs hesitatingly, followed by this man who was not quite himself.

  Once they had actually reached the flat, it was worse than Mr. Petter ever could have imagined. There was liquor openly displayed there. A decanter nearly full stood on the table beside John Marco’s chair; and an empty bottle—the one from which John Marco had just filled the decanter—was standing over on the sideboard. To Mr. Petter’s scandalised eyes it seemed, however, that John Marco, having gulped down one bottleful of the fiery spirit was now preparing to do the same with the other.

  John Marco brought a second glass and poured out a stiff measure. Then he paused.

  “I forget,” he said. “You don’t drink, do you?”

  Mr. Petter drew in his breath.

  “No, I don’t,” he answered. “And I wish you didn’t either.”

  But John Marco only laughed at him. He was in a mood of dangerously good humour.

  “Just as you please,” he said pleasantly. “Just as you please.”

  Mr. Petter cleared his throat.

  “I wanted to see you,” he said. “It’s something important.”

  “Well,” John Marco asked him, “and what’s it all about?”

  “It’s about Mary,” Mr. Petter replied.

  At the mention of her name, John Marco put down the glass that was in his hand and came over towards Mr. Petter. He was frowning.

  “Why do you want to see me about her?” he asked.

  John Marco was not very steady on his feet when he moved, and Mr. Petter became alarmed for himself once more. This wasn’t the John Marco he knew; this man who could scarcely stand upright couldn’t help him with any good advice.

  “It’s . . . it’s nothing,” he said. “I’d rather talk to you some other time.”

  “No, you won’t,” John Marco answered, his good humour slipping suddenly from him. “You’ll tell me now before you go.”

  “It’s very late,” Mr. Petter replied evasively.

  But John Marco had grown impatient: he was snapping his fingers at him.

  “Tell me now,” he said.

  Mr. Petter regarded him steadily for a moment, rearguing his decision with himself. Then he thrust his hand into his pocket.

  “Very well,” he said. “Read that.”

  John Marco stood for a moment looking at the letter without moving, and then almost snatched it out of Mr. Petter’s hands. His back was towards Mr. Petter as he read it; all that Mr. Petter could see was his shoulders. They were square and steady enough until suddenly he crumpled the letter up into a tight ball and shot it onto the floor. He turned towards Mr. Petter, turned angrily this time, his face flushed and his eyebrows drawn into a hard line across his forehead.

  “Why did you have to show me this?” he demanded.

  “I showed it to you because it concerned you,” Mr. Petter answered with a calm that astonished him.

  “And what do you want me to do?” John Marco asked. “Tell you that it isn’t true?”

  “I . . .I never doubted you,” Mr. Petter replied.

  “Then forget you ever read it,” John Marco told him.

  “But . . . but I’ve got to decide what to do,” Mr. Petter replied.

  “Do nothing,” said John Marco savagely.

  “But that’s impossible,” Mr. Petter persisted. “I’m afraid that people may begin talking.”

  “People? What people?”

  “I know the person who wrote it is just a poor mad woman,” Mr. Petter began, “but ...”

  He was not allowed, however, to get any further. John Marco suddenly turned on him again.

  “So you’ve found out who wrote it, have you?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Petter unguardedly. “Mr. Tuke knows her.”

  He was, as he spoke, quite unprepared for the effect on John Marco. He knew, of course, that his friend was strange, very strange to-night: he was pursued by the demons of liquor. But for the moment he seemed to go entirely out of his senses. He drew back his lips until the whole extent of his teeth was showing.

  “How the devil does Mr. Tuke come to know about this?” he shouted.

  Mr. Petter felt frightened by now, and he wanted to get away. He didn’t ever want to see again this John Marco who drank and swore. But he stood his ground a moment longer and answered him.

  “I only showed him the letter,” he replied. “I wanted his advice.”

  “And what was his advice?” John Marco demanded.

  Mr. Petter paused: this needed courage to say to John Marco’s face.

  “He said I shouldn’t have you in the house,” he replied quietly.

  “He said that, did he?” John Marco answered. “And what do you propose to do about it?”

  Mr. Petter squared his shoulders and drew in a deep, unnatural breath.

  “I propose to take it,” he replied.

  His voice, as he said it, rose to a shrill, uncertain squeak; it trembled.

  John Marco put down his glass and faced him: he was shaking with anger now.

  “You and I have got to understand each other,” he said.

  “There’s nothing else to understand,” Mr. Petter replied.

  “Oh yes there is,” John Marco answered. “When you get away from here you’ll understand a lot of things.”

  He came towards him as he said it; and Mr. Petter instinctively took a step away.

  “So Mr. Tuke thinks your wife’s in love with me, does he?” he asked.

  “He didn’t say any such thing,” Mr. Petter replied indignantly.

  “Well it’s true. True, do you hear me? She was in love with me before she ever set eyes on you. And she still is.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Mr. Petter managed to reply.

  His lips were quivering so uncontrollably that he could scarcely speak the words.

  “If you don’t believe me, why don’t you ask her?” John Marco went on. “Ask her family. Ask Mr. Tuke. Ask anyone. You’re the only one who’s been blind.”

  “It’s a lie,” Mr. Petter jerked out.

  “Then why did my wife write that letter?” John Marco demanded. “Why was she jealous?”

  “So it was your wife who wrote it?”

  Mr. Petter’s voice was almost inaudible and his hand was raised to his face in a vain gesture of protection.

  John Marco nodded.

  “You thought that you could keep Mary to yourself simply by turning the key on her,” he said. “You thought that she belonged to you. Wait till you fin
d out the truth. Wait till your eyes have been opened. Wait till you’ve seen something.”

  The last relics of Mr. Petter’s self-control had at last gone from him: he was crying.

  “I’m not going to listen to you,” he said. “I’m going home.”

  But John Marco stood in his path, blocking it: his face was thrust forward.

  “Why don’t you give her up to me now?” he asked. “Why don’t you give her up before she’s taken from you? If she wants to go, you can’t stop her. She’ll slip past you. You’ll lose her just the same.”

  “She . . . she loves me, I tell you,” Mr. Petter cried out. And pushing his way past John Marco he stumbled blindly out of the room.

  John Marco stood where he was staring after him. He did not attempt to follow. His head was aching and his legs were unsteady. He heard Mr. Petter’s feet descending into the darkness below, and the flat seemed suddenly to be very quiet. He stood there, swaying.

  “It’s I who’ve lost you, Mary,” he said aloud. “I’m the one who’s lost.”

  iv

  The light in the little pink and white bedroom in Harrow Street was not extinguished until nearly two o’clock that morning; the child—she had been moved into the next room by now—slept on, however, without stirring.

  Mary had been asleep when Mr. Petter had got back—she had dropped off for a moment—and started up as she heard his key touch the lock. Putting on a dressing-gown (it was a pretty new one that Mr. Petter in a moment of indulgence had just given her) and with her hair loose about her shoulders she went down to meet him. When she saw him she was startled by his appearance, and a little frightened. Mr. Petter first pushed her violently away, then he kissed her frantically, and finally broke down in her arms. During the next half-hour, still clasped up against her, he had told her everything. . . .

  “How could I ever have doubted you?” he said at last. “How could I have been so vile?”

  “Don’t think about it,” Mary told him. “Don’t think about it. It was horrible.”

  She was stroking his head, soothing him, comforting.

  “But you do love me, don’t you?” he demanded. “You do?”

  “What makes you think that I don’t?” she asked. “Why do you keep on asking me?”