John Curran - Trent’s Last Case

‘Why?’ the other interjected.

‘Most people found a difficulty in explaining why. In trying to account to myself for my own sensations, I could only put it that one felt in the man a complete absence of the sympathetic faculty. There was nothing outwardly repellent about him. He was not ill-mannered, or vicious, or dull—indeed, he could be remarkably interesting. But I received the impression that there could be no human creature whom he would not sacrifice in the pursuit of his schemes, in his task of imposing himself and his will upon the world. Perhaps that was fanciful, but I think not altogether so. However, the point is that Mabel, I am sorry to say, was very unhappy. I am nearly twice your age, my dear boy, though you always so kindly try to make me feel as if we were contemporaries—I am getting to be an old man, and a great many people have been good enough to confide their matrimonial troubles to me; but I never knew another case like my niece’s and her husband’s. I have known her since she was a baby, Trent, and I know—you understand, I think, that I do not employ that word lightly—I know that she is as amiable and honourable a woman, to say nothing of her other good gifts, as any man could wish. But Manderson, for some time past, had made her miserable.’

‘What did he do?’ asked Trent, as Mr Cupples paused.

‘When I put that question to Mabel, her words were that he seemed to nurse a perpetual grievance. He maintained a distance between them, and he would say nothing. I don’t know how it began or what was behind it; and all she would tell me on that point was that he had no cause in the world for his attitude. I think she knew what was in his mind, whatever it was; but she is full of pride. This seems to have gone on for months. At last, a week ago, she wrote to me. I am the only near relative she has. Her mother died when she was a child; and after John Peter died I was something like a father to her until she married—that was five years ago. She asked me to come and help her, and I came at once. That is why I am here now.’

Mr Cupples paused and drank some tea. Trent smoked and stared out at the hot June landscape.

‘I would not go to White Gables,’ Mr Cupples resumed. ‘You know my views, I think, upon the economic constitution of society, and the proper relationship of the capitalist to the employee, and you know, no doubt, what use that person made of his vast industrial power upon several very notorious occasions. I refer especially to the trouble in the Pennsylvania coal-fields, three years ago. I regarded him, apart from all personal dislike, in the light of a criminal and a disgrace to society. I came to this hotel, and I saw my niece here. She told me what I have more briefly told you. She said that the worry and the humiliation of it, and the strain of trying to keep up appearances before the world, were telling upon her, and she asked for my advice. I said I thought she should face him and demand an explanation of his way of treating her. But she would not do that. She had always taken the line of affecting not to notice the change in his demeanour, and nothing, I knew, would persuade her to admit to him that she was injured, once pride had led her into that course. Life is quite full, my dear Trent,’ said Mr Cupples with a sigh, ‘of these obstinate silences and cultivated misunderstandings.’

‘Did she love him?’ Trent enquired abruptly. Mr Cupples did not reply at once. ‘Had she any love left for him?’ Trent amended.

Mr Cupples played with his teaspoon. ‘I am bound to say,’ he answered slowly, ‘that I think not. But you must not misunderstand the woman, Trent. No power on earth would have persuaded her to admit that to anyone—even to herself, perhaps—so long as she considered herself bound to him. And I gather that, apart from this mysterious sulking of late, he had always been considerate and generous.’

‘You were saying that she refused to have it out with him.’

‘She did,’ replied Mr Cupples. ‘And I knew by experience that it was quite useless to attempt to move a Domecq where the sense of dignity was involved. So I thought it over carefully, and next day I watched my opportunity and met Manderson as he passed by this hotel. I asked him to favour me with a few minutes’ conversation, and he stepped inside the gate down there. We had held no communication of any kind since my niece’s marriage, but he remembered me, of course. I put the matter to him at once and quite definitely. I told him what Mabel had confided to me. I said that I would neither approve nor condemn her action in bringing me into the business, but that she was suffering, and I considered it my right to ask how he could justify himself in placing her in such a position.’

‘And how did he take that?’ said Trent, smiling secretly at the landscape. The picture of this mildest of men calling the formidable Manderson to account pleased him.

‘Not very well,’ Mr Cupples replied sadly. ‘In fact, far from well. I can tell you almost exactly what he said—it wasn’t much. He said, “See here, Cupples, you don’t want to butt in. My wife can look after herself. I’ve found that out, along with other things.” He was perfectly quiet—you know he was said never to lose control of himself—though there was a light in his eyes that would have frightened a man who was in the wrong, I dare say. But I had been thoroughly roused by his last remark, and the tone of it, which I cannot reproduce. You see,’ said Mr Cupples simply, ‘I love my niece. She is the only child that there has been in our—in my house. Moreover, my wife brought her up as a girl, and any reflection on Mabel I could not help feeling, in the heat of the moment, as an indirect reflection upon one who is gone.’

‘You turned upon him,’ suggested Trent in a low tone. ‘You asked him to explain his words.’

‘That is precisely what I did,’ said Mr Cupples. ‘For a moment he only stared at me, and I could see a vein on his forehead swelling—an unpleasant sight. Then he said quite quietly, “This thing has gone far enough, I guess,” and turned to go.’

‘Did he mean your interview?’ Trent asked thoughtfully.

‘From the words alone you would think so,’ Mr Cupples answered. ‘But the way in which he uttered them gave me a strange and very apprehensive feeling. I received the impression that the man had formed some sinister resolve. But I regret to say I had lost the power of dispassionate thought. I fell into a great rage’—Mr Cupples’s tone was mildly apologetic—‘and said a number of foolish things. I reminded him that the law allowed a measure of freedom to wives who received intolerable treatment. I made some utterly irrelevant references to his public record, and expressed the view that such men as he were unfit to live. I said these things, and others as ill-considered, under the eyes, and very possibly within earshot, of half a dozen persons sitting on this veranda. I noticed them, in spite of my agitation, looking at me as I walked up to the hotel again after relieving my mind for it undoubtedly did relieve it,’ sighed Mr Cupples, lying back in his chair.

‘And Manderson? Did he say no more?’

‘Not a word. He listened to me with his eyes on my face, as quiet as before. When I stopped he smiled very slightly, and at once turned away and strolled through the gate, making for White Gables.’

‘And this happened—?’

‘On the Sunday morning.’

‘Then I suppose you never saw him alive again?’

‘No,’ said Mr Cupples. ‘Or rather yes—once. It was later in the day, on the golf-course. But I did not speak to him. And next morning he was found dead.’

The two regarded each other in silence for a few moments. A party of guests who had been bathing came up the steps and seated themselves, with much chattering, at a table near them. The waiter approached. Mr Cupples rose, and, taking Trent’s arm, led him to a long tennis-lawn at the side of the hotel.