Lady Crowborough, as has been incidentally mentioned, was in the habit
of hermetically sealing herself up in a small dark house in Half
Moon Street for the winter months. This year as recounted, she had
substituted a process of whole-hearted unsealedness in Egypt for a
couple of months, but on her return had been more rigorously immured
than ever, to counteract, it must be supposed, the possibly deleterious
effects of so persistent an exposure to the air, and to fortify her
for her coming visits to Charles' studio. In the evening, it is true,
she often went out to dine, in a small brougham with the windows up,
but except for her call yesterday on Charles' mother, the daylight of
Piccadilly had scarcely beheld her since her return. Windows in the
house were always kept tightly shut, except owing to the carelessness
or approaching asphyxia of servants, rooms were ventilated by having
their doors set ajar, so that the air of the passage came into them,
and dry stalks of lavender were continually burned all over the
house, so that it was impregnated with their fresh fragrance. She was
a standing protest against those modern fads, so she labelled them,
of sitting in a draught, and calling it hygiene, and certainly her
procedure led to excellent results in her own case, for her health,
always good, became exuberant when she had spent a week or two indoors,
her natural vitality seemed accentuated, and she ate largely and
injudiciously without the smallest ill-effects. Between meals, she
worked at fine embroidery without spectacles, sitting very upright in a
small straight-backed cane chair.
* * * * *
The house was tiny, and crammed from top to bottom with what she called
"my rubbish," for, without collecting, she had an amazing knack of
amassing things. Oil paintings, water-colour sketches, daguerrotypes,
photographs, finely-shaded pencil drawings, samplers, trophies of arms,
hung on the walls, and on chimney-pieces and tables and in cupboards
and cabinets were legions of little interesting objects, Dresden
figures, carved ivory chessmen, shells, silver boxes, commemorative
mugs, pincushions, Indian filigree-work, bits of enamel, coins, coral,
ebony elephants, all those innumerable trifles that in most houses get
inexplicably lost. She had just cleared a shelf in a glass case by
the fireplace in her minute drawing room, and was busy arranging the
beads and doubtful scarabs of "me Egyptian campaign" in it when Charles
entered. Upon which she dismissed from her shrewd and kindly old mind
all concerns but his.
"Sit down, my dear," she said. "And light your cigarette. I saw your
mother yesterday, as she may have told you. I'm coming to sit for you
next week, and so please have the room well warmed, and not at all what
these doctors call aired. Lord bless me, I had enough air in Egypt to
last me for twenty years to come."
She indulged in these cheerful generalities until she saw that Charles
was established. Then she broke them off completely.
"Now I sent for you because I wished to see you most particularly, Mr.
Lathom," she said. "No, there's nobody here but me: I sent Joyce back
to her father this morning, so if you think you're going to see her,
you'll be disappointed. Now it's no use beating about the bush: there's
something I've got to tell you, and here it comes. That Craddock--I
call him that Craddock--told my son Philip that you were a disreputable
young fellow, that's about what it comes to. I had it from Craddock's
own lips that he did. Joyce knew from her father that somebody had done
so, and guessed it was that Craddock. So I was as cool as a cucumber,
and just said 'I'm sorry you had so bad a report to give my son of Mr.
Lathom.' I said it so naturally that he never guessed I didn't know it
was he. And there he was caught like a wasp in the marmalade. I wish he
had been one. I'd have had the spoon over him in no time."
Charles sat quite still for a moment, and in that moment every feeling
but one was expunged from his mind. There was left nothing but a still
white anger that spread evenly and smoothly over his heart and his
brain. He had no longer any regret that Craddock had done this, the
consciousness that he had sufficed to choke all other emotions. More
superficially the ordinary mechanism of thought went on.
"I never believed a word of it, my dear," went on Lady Crowborough,
"nor did Joyce. But it was my duty, for reasons which you can guess,
to find out if it was true or not. Well, I got your mother's account
of you yesterday, as she may have told you, and your friend Mr.
Armstrong's account, as he also may have told you, and there were
several others. So either all these people are liars or else that
Craddock is. And there ain't a sane person in the land who could doubt
which it was. And Joyce has gone back home to tell her father."
Charles got up, still very quietly.
"I want to know one thing," he said. "Why did Craddock do it?"
"Good Lord, my dear," said Lady Crowborough, "as if that wasn't plain.
Why the man wanted to marry Joyce himself, and proposed to her, too. He
guessed, and I don't suppose he guessed very wrong either, that there
was somebody in his way. At least," she added with a sudden fit of
caution, "it might have been that in his mind. For my part the less I
know about Craddock's mind the better I shall sleep at night."
"And that was why Mr. Wroughton didn't want me down there last autumn?"
he asked.
"Why, of course. He wanted Joyce to marry the man. But Joyce will have
told him all about it by now, and spoiled his lunch, too, I hope. But
if he don't ask you down for next Sunday, when I'm going there, too,
I'll be dratted if I don't take you down in my own dress basket, and
open it in the middle of the drawing room. That's what I'll do. But
he'll ask you, don't fear. I sent him a bit of my mind this morning
about believing what the rats in the main drain tell him. Yes, a bit of
my mind. And if he ain't satisfied with that there's more to come."
Suddenly over the sea of white anger that filled Charles there hovered
a rainbow....
"Lady Crowborough," he said flushing a little. "You told me that it was
your duty to find out whether these lies were true or not, for reasons
that I could guess. Did you--did you mean I could really guess them?"
"Yes, my dear, unless you're a blockhead. But it ain't for me to talk
about that, and I ain't going to. Now what about this Craddock? He's
got to eat those lies up without any more waste of time, and he's got
to tell Philip they were lies. How can we make him do that?"
Charles looked at her a minute, considering.
"I can make him do that," he said.
"By punching of his head?" asked Lady Crowborough.
"No, by a very simple threat. You told me once you had seen the cheque
that Mr. Ward paid for Mr. Wroughton's Reynolds, and that it was five
thousand pounds. That is so, is it not?"
"Yes, my dear."
"Mr. Ward paid him ten thousand pounds for it," said Charles.
"Good Lord, my dear, do you mean that?" she asked.
"Mr. Ward told me this morning that he paid Craddock ten thousand for
it," said Charles.
"And certainly he gave Philip Mr. Ward's cheque for five thousand,"
said Lady Crowborough, "for I saw it myself and thought 'What a sum
for a picture of a young woman!' Well, he's brought a pretty peck of
trouble on himself, and I ain't a bit sorry for him. But even that's
not so bad as what he did to you, with those nasty mean lies, as he
thought could never be caught hold of. And so you'll go to him now,
will you, and tell him what you know, and threaten that we'll have the
law on him as a common swindler? Is that it?"
"Something like that," said Charles, getting up. "I think I shall see
Frank Armstrong first."
"Aye do, and take him with you. He looks a hard one," said Lady
Crowborough vindictively. "I wish I could come, too, and tell him what
I thought about it all. And he wouldn't forget that in a hurry my dear
if there's a rough side to my tongue! And you'll let me know, won't
you?"
"Of course."
Charles paused a moment. Then he bent down and kissed her hand.
"I can't thank you," he said. "You don't know what you've done for me.
It's--it's beyond thanks, altogether beyond it."
She drew his brown head down to hers and kissed him soundly.
"Get along, my dear," she said, "or you'll be calling me an idiot next
minute, and then I shall have to quarrel with you. Get along and have
a talk with that Craddock, and mind you shut the door tight when you go
out."
Charles came out into Half Moon Street and the pale sunshine of the
spring afternoon, in a sort of black exaltation of the spirit. For the
time all thought of Joyce, of the magical, the golden possibilities
that this detected slander opened in front of him, was utterly obscured
by his immediate errand, that hung between him and it like some
impenetrable cloud which must first find its due discharge in outpoured
storm before the "clear shining" could dawn on him. He felt void of
all pity, void even of regret that the man whom he had so completely
trusted, for whom he had cherished so abounding a sense of gratitude,
should have proved so sinister a rogue. What he should say, and on
what lines this scorching interview would develop and fulfil itself,
he had no sort of idea, nor to that did he give one moment's thought;
he only looked forward with a savage glee to the fact that within a
few minutes, if he was lucky enough to find Craddock in, he would be
face to face with him. All his shrinking from the suspicions which
he had so sincerely tried to keep at arm's length was gone, now that
the suspicions had turned out to be true, and he only longed to fling
the truth of them in the teeth of the man whose integrity, so short a
while ago, he had rejoiced to champion. That integrity was blown into
blackened fragments, and his belief in it seemed now as incredible to
him as the happenings of some diseased dream, which to his awakened
senses were a tissue of the wildest rubbish, a mere babble of
unfounded incoherence. There could be no regret for the cessation of
impressions so false and unreal....
He walked quickly along Piccadilly, with colour a little heightened,
and a smile, vivid and genial, on his mouth. Every now and then his
lips pursed themselves up for a bar or two of aimless whistling, and
he swung a light-hearted stick as he went. The pavement was full of
cheerful passengers, the roadway of briskly-moving vehicles, and
all the stir of life seemed full of the promise of this exquisite
springtime. Then in a flash all recognition of the lively world passed
from his consciousness, and he saw only that black cloud of his own
exalted indignation and blind anger, which so soon, so soon now was
going to discharge itself in God knew what torrent and tempest. Or
would it quietly dissolve and drain itself away? Would there be no
explosion, no torrent of storm, only just little trickling sentences
and denials no doubt, then more little trickling sentences until there
was just silence and no denials at all? He did not know and certainly
he did not care. The manner of the affair in no way occupied or
interested him. And over his boiling indignation that he knew raged
below, there stretched a crust, that just shook and trembled with the
tumult within, but showed no sign of giving way. Every now and then he
said softly to himself, "Something's got to happen: something's got to
happen," as he whistled his tuneless phrase and swung his stick.
Frank, who occupied a flat immediately below Craddock's, was in, and
Charles, brisk and gay of face, marched in upon him.
"I've seen Lady Crowborough," he said, "and now we will go to see
Craddock. He's ... he's amazing. The worst that I suspected, which I
didn't tell you, is all soberly true. He has lied about me, he told the
Wroughtons that I was a disreputable sort of affair. He has lied, lied,
to get me out of the way. Now he has got to eat his lies. Come on, come
on, what are you waiting for?"
Frank sprang up.
"Tell me about it first," he said.
"Oh, not now. I'll tell you about it upstairs. By the way, you had some
little scheme to get yourself and me out of his hands. We'll take that
first: we'll lead up to the grand crash. More artistic, eh? Or shall
we begin with the grand crash? I don't know. I don't care. Let's go
upstairs anyhow and see what happens. Let Nature take her course. Let's
have a touch of Nature. What is it I have got to do according to your
plan? Oh, yes, just say I'll draw a portrait of the Middleman. Frank,
why the devil am I not blazing with indignation, and chucking things
about. You're a psychologist, aren't you? Tell me that. You study
people and make them have adventures. I'm all for adventures. Come on,
and let's see what happens. We've such a fine day, too."
Frank licked his lips.
"Gosh, I'm on in this piece," he said. "Now wait a minute. We'll take
my little farce first, just a curtain-raiser. He's got an agreement of
yours, I suppose, just as he's got one of mine, that gives him his
options. We must get those out of him first of all. Then ... then we
can proceed with unbiassed minds. Ha!"
Frank gave one mirthless crack of laughter.
"We'll get those first," he said, "and then start fair. Up we go."
Craddock was in, and the two were admitted. It appeared that he had
been having a little nap, for even as they entered he struggled to a
sitting position on his sofa.
"Sorry to disturb you," said Frank, "but I wanted to see you rather
particularly. Charles also. So we came up together."
Frank took up his stand on the hearth rug, while Charles gracefully
subsided into a long low arm-chair. Craddock looked from one to the
other, not nervously, but with an air of slightly puzzled expectancy.
There was something vaguely unusual about it all.
"I wanted to speak to you about a play," said Frank, "which, under
certain circumstances, I shall assuredly write. Tranby would be sure to
take it. I naturally want to know if it appeals to you."
Craddock stroked the right side of his face. It was smooth and plump.
"My dear fellow," he said, "I should be charmed to hear it, but as a
matter of fact I have not very much time this afternoon. Perhaps if you
left the scenario with me----"
"It's not written out," said Frank.
Craddock glanced at the clock.
"Ah, I see I have half an hour," he said.
"That ought to be sufficient. If not, perhaps you can postpone your
next engagement. However, you will see, if you think it worth while. I
propose to call my play 'The Middleman.'"
Craddock's hand, that was still up to his face, paused a moment. Then
it began stroking again.
"Quite a good title," he said, with an absolutely impassive tone.
"I thought you would approve. Of course he is the hero--shall we
say?--of the play. He's large and stout, I want you to picture him to
yourself--and wealthy and cultivated, a great judge of pictures and the
arts generally. He purchases options on the work of young and unknown
men, that's how he gets his money, and makes devilish good bargains."
Craddock raised his eyebrows slightly, and turned to Charles.
"And what is your part in this conspiracy?" he said quietly. "It is a
conspiracy, I suppose."
Charles crossed one leg over the other, and put his finger-tips
together.
"Oh, yes, you may call it a conspiracy," he said. "We thought you
would. You see, I'm going to paint a portrait of Frank's middleman. I
know just what he looks like. I could draw him for you on a half-sheet,
if you think it necessary. Then I shall send it to some gallery or
other,--it will be very like--just about the time that Frank's play
comes out. You might like to exercise your option over it. So I shall
paint another one."
"Not in your present studio," said Craddock suddenly.
"Certainly not in my present studio. I shall never paint anything more
in my present studio."
Craddock grasped the whole situation: indeed it did not require any
very great acuteness to enable him to see exactly how he stood, and on
the whole he felt up to dealing with it. For a moment there was dead
silence, and Charles whistled a futile tuneless phrase.
"There are such things as libel actions," he said to Frank.
"For those who feel up to bringing them," said he.
Once again Craddock paused. He got up from his sofa, went to the window
and came back again. He rather expected to surprise a consultation of
eyes going on between the two young men. But there was nothing of the
kind. Frank was regarding his own boots, Charles was staring vacantly
and stupidly, smiling a little, straight in front of him. Craddock
was by no means a coward, and he felt not the smallest fright or
nervousness.
"If you think I should hesitate to bring a libel action against you,"
he said to Frank, "if you ever put on anything that could be construed
as defamatory to my character, you are stupendously mistaken. I know
quite well that you have always disliked me, me, who took you out of
the gutter, and gave you a chance of making your talents known. But
that is always the way. To befriend a certain type of man means to
make an enemy. By all means proceed to write your play, and make it as
scandalous and defamatory as you please. I shall make not the smallest
protest against it, you can produce it as soon as you like. But mind
you it will run for one night only, and you will then find yourself
involved in a libel action that will beggar you. Incidentally, though
I imagine that this will seem to you a comparatively light matter, you
will find you have caused to be recorded against you the verdict not of
a jury only but of every decent-minded man and woman in England."
Frank looked at him, and suppressed an obviously artificial yawn.
"Hear, hear!" he said.
"And about my portrait?" said Charles from the depth of his chair.
Craddock turned to him.
"All I have said to your friend regarding my line of conduct applies
to you also," he said. "You may do any caricature of me you please,
and the more you hold me up to ridicule, the sounder will my grounds
for action be. But what applies to you only is this. I consider that
your conduct is infinitely more treacherous than his. He at least has
from the first almost been avowedly hostile to me. You have pretended
that you were conscious of the gratitude you certainly owe me. You
have made me think that I was befriending a young man who was fond of
me, and appreciated my kindness to him. Armstrong at any rate has made
no such nauseous pretence. How deeply I am hurt and wounded I do not
care to tell you. But if it is, as I suppose it must be, a source of
gratification to you to know that you have wounded me, you may rest
thoroughly well satisfied with what you have done. I congratulate you
on the result. I warned you months ago, about your choice of friends.
The only possible excuse for you is that you have fallen under the
influence of the man I cautioned you against."
Frank looked up from his boots to Charles.
"Did he caution you against me?" he asked. "You never told me that."
"No, Frank. I didn't want then to give you another cause for grievance.
But he did warn me against you."
"You would have been wise to take my advice," said Craddock. "As it is,
perhaps you will see the propriety of your vacating my studio as soon
as is convenient to you. I should think that by to-morrow evening I
might hope to find it at my disposal."
"Certainly," said Charles. "I daresay you will soon find some other
promising student."
Craddock turned his back on Frank for a moment.
"I never should have thought this of you, Charles," he said. There
was real sincerity in his reproach. Bitter as was the injury he had
inflicted on the boy, he was very fond of him, and valued the return of
his affection. It might be objected that a man does not wilfully and
cruelly injure one whom he is fond of. Such an objection is mistaken
and ignorant. For herein lie three quarters of the tragic dealings
of the world, namely, that day by day and all day long men strike and
betray their friends. They do not wrong those who are indifferent to
them: for where should be the motive of that?
"I should never have thought it of myself," said Charles, and his voice
faltered on the words.
Craddock turned to Frank again.
"You have told me about your proposed play," he said, "which I imagine
was the object of your coming here, and Charles has come about his
portrait. I do not know that anything further detains either of you."
Frank could have applauded the quiet dramatic development of the scene.
If he had come across it in a play, he would have watched it with
the tensest diligence. And here it was all unplanned: the situation
seemed to develop itself without any exterior assistance. Craddock, for
instance, was taking exactly the line that the drama demanded, and it
was quite certain that he had not rehearsed his part. He felt certain
also that Charles would prove equally discerning.
"There is just one more thing," he said. "I require you to destroy, in
my presence, the contract I signed giving you an option to purchase
three more plays of mine. You have a similar one with regard to
pictures by Charles. That must be destroyed also."
Craddock stared at him in amazement.
"And is there anything else you would like me to do for you?" he asked.
"No, that is all."
Craddock gave his usual sign of merriment, the laugh that chuckled
in his throat, but did not reach outwards as far as his lips, which
remained without a smile. It was something of a relief to find that
this was the object of their outrageous threats, for he again felt
himself quite competent to deal with it. It was not that he had
actually feared anything else, but in spite of that he was glad to have
the object of their threats avowed.
"You are most original conspirators," he said. "You threaten me first,
and when you see that your threats do not disturb me in the slightest
degree, you produce, somewhat as an anti-climax surely, the object
which you hope to gain by your futile menaces. Go away and practise:
that is what I recommend you to do. Get some small handbook about
conspiracy and black-mail. You are ignorant of the very rudiments of
it. As you have seen I snap my fingers at your threats, indeed, I am
not sure whether it would not amuse me if you put them into execution.
But to make your demands upon the top of so pathetic a failure is
surely what you, Armstrong, would call a 'weak curtain.'"
"Certainly that would be a very weak curtain," said Frank, looking at
his boots again.
There was no need for him to look at Charles: it was as certain as if
they had gone over the scene till they knew it by heart that Charles
would pick up his cue. But when Charles spoke Frank looked up at
Craddock again. He wanted to see how he would take it.
Charles neither shifted his position nor cleared his throat.
"How much did Ward give you for Philip Wroughton's Reynolds?" he asked.
Frank watching Craddock's face saw only the very slightest change pass
over it. But for the moment his eyes looked inwards, squinting a little.
"That I suppose is your business?" he observed.
"Yes, in a moment I will tell you how it is," said Charles. "But first
I may say what I am going to tell you."
Still Craddock's face did not change.
"Do you mean by that what you have just asked me?"
"It is the same thing. It was not in order to get free of your options
that I tell you this. That is a very minor concern. What matters is
that you have swindled Mr. Wroughton. And it is my business, because
the cheque that was paid you for the Reynolds included a certain sum
for my copy of the picture. Of that you only gave me fifty pounds."
Then the change came. Craddock's face grew a shade whiter and his upper
lip and forehead glistened. But in a moment he pulled himself together.
"Ah, so this is the real threat," he said. "We are going to have a
weaker curtain than ever. I entirely decline to discuss my private
affairs with you. Go and tell whom you please that I have swindled, to
use your own word, my very good friend Philip Wroughton. Go down to
Thorley and see how he will receive you and your news. Do you suppose
he would listen to you? And do you suppose that I will do so any
longer? Tell this story and any other you may have been concocting
to the whole world, and at the proper time I will very effectually
stop you. You and your friend seem to have so much money that libel
actions are the only way in which you can get rid of it. But first tell
Wroughton, whom I have swindled. The--the monstrous suggestion!"
For one moment his indignation flared up. The next he had mastered it
again. But inflamed by this, or by some underlying emotion, he made
an error, and allowed himself to say more, when he had (so rightly)
intimated that enough had been said.
"It is lucky for me," he said, "with such fellows round me, that I
was business-like in the matter. The cheque Ward drew me for five
thousand pounds I passed straight on to my friend when the purchase
was concluded, and have his receipt for it. And as for your miserable
fifty pounds, you agreed, as you very well know, to make the copy for
that sum. You were glad enough to get it, and your gratitude was quite
pretty. And that is all I think. I have no more to say to either of
you."
He got up and indicated the door. Neither Charles nor Frank moved. And
then a second sign escaped him. His indicating hand dropped, and the
one word he uttered to Charles stuck in his throat.
"Well?" he said.
"You have forgotten," said Charles, "that Ward gave you a cheque for
five thousand pounds in payment for some Dutch pictures. There was a
Van der Weyde among them. It was from Thistleton's Gallery, I may
remind you."
"You are very copiously informed."
"Yes. You see my brother was your clerk there. He well remembers the
purchase and the drawing of the cheque. That was in June. The cheque
was post-dated by a few days."
Without doubt Craddock was listening now, though he had said he would
listen no more. Frank watched him with the same hard devouring interest
with which he would have watched a man pinioned and led out to the
execution shed. Charles went on in a voice that sounded a little bored.
It was as if he repeated some well known tiresome task he had learned.
"It was in October," he said, "that another cheque was drawn to you by
Mr. Ward, under the same circumstances. He wrote it, that is to say,
at Thistleton's Gallery, at my brother's desk. This time the cheque
was larger, for it was of ten thousand and one hundred pounds. Reggie
told me of it at the time. I did not connect it then with the Reynolds
picture."
"Lies, a pack of lies," said Craddock under his breath, but still
listening.
"No, not a pack of lies," said Charles. "You should not say that sort
of thing. This morning I asked Mr. Ward how much he paid for the
Reynolds. He told me not to tell anyone, but it is no news to you,
and so I repeat it. He paid you ten thousand pounds. Also he said to
me--you heard that--that he didn't suppose I would do many more copies
for one hundred pounds each. I drew an inference. And the whole cheque
is accounted for."
Suddenly Frank looked away from Craddock, and glanced at Charles,
nodding.
"He's done," he said, as if some contest of boxing was in progress.
Frank was right. During the fall of these quiet words, Craddock had
collapsed; there was no more fight left in him. He sat hunched up in
his chair, a mere inert mass, with his eyes glazed and meaningless
fixed on Charles, his mouth a little open and drooping. The shame of
what he had done had, all these months, left no trace on him, but the
shame of his detection was a vastly different matter. But he made one
more protest, as forceless and unavailing as the last roll of a fish
being pulled to land, dead-beat.
"Lies," he said just once, and was silent.
Charles got quickly out of his chair and stood up pointing at him. As
yet he felt no spark of pity for him, for there was nothing to pity
in a man who with his last effort reiterates the denial of his shame.
And the tale of his indictment was not done yet. He spoke with raised
voice, and vivid scorn.
"You should know a lie when you hear it better than that," he said.
"Do I sound as if I was lying? Did you lie like that when you lied
about me to Philip Wroughton last autumn? Not you: you let your damned
poison just dribble from you. You just hinted that I was a disreputable
fellow, not fit to associate with him and his. You said it with
regret--oh, I can hear you do it--you felt you ought to tell him.
Wasn't it like that? Go on, tell me whether what I am saying now is
lies, too! You can't! You're done, as Frank said. There's a limit even
to your power of falsehood. Now sit there and just think over what's
best to be done. That's all; you know it all now."
No word came from Craddock. He had sunk a little more into himself,
and his plump white hands hung ludicrously in front of him like the
paws of a begging dog. A wisp of his long black hair that crossed the
crown of his head had fallen forward and lay stuck to the moisture on
his forehead. The two young men stood together away from him on the
hearth-rug, looking at him, and a couple of minutes passed in absolute
silence.
Then an impulse, not yet compassionate for this collapsed rogue,
compassionate only for the collapse, came to Charles.
"You had better have a drink," he said, "it will do you good. Shall I
get it for you?"
He received no answer, and went into the dining room next door. The
table was already laid for dinner, and on the side-board stood syphon
and spirit decanter. He poured out a stiff mixture and brought it back
to him. And then as he held it out to him, and saw him take it in both
his hands, that even together were scarcely steady enough to carry it
to his mouth, pity awoke.
"I'm awfully sorry, you know, Mr. Craddock," he said. "I hate it all.
It's a miserable business."
Craddock made no answer, but sip by sip he emptied the glass Charles
had brought him. For a few minutes after that he sat with eyes shut,
but he smoothed his fallen lock of hair into its place again.
"What do you mean to do, either of you?" he asked.
Charles nodded to Frank to speak.
"I don't know what Charles means to do," he said, "because we haven't
talked it over. For myself, I mean to have back my contract with you,
or to see it destroyed. When that is done, I shall have nothing more to
ask from you."
He thought a moment.
"You mustn't do unfriendly things, you know," he said. "You mustn't
systematically run down my work in your papers. That wouldn't be fair.
I intend, I may tell you, to hold my tongue about you for the future.
I shan't--I shan't even want to abuse you any more. As for what I have
heard about you in this last hour, it is quite safe with me, unless you
somehow or other provoke me to mention it. I just want my contract, and
then I shall have done with you."
Craddock got up, and unlocked a pigeon-holed desk in the corner of the
room. There were a quantity of papers in it. Of these he took out one
from the pigeon-hole A, another from that of L. He glanced at these and
handed one to each of the young men. Frank read carefully over what was
written on his, and then folded it up, and put it in his pocket.
"Thank you, that is all," he said.
Charles stood with his contract in his hand, not glancing at it.
Instead he looked at the large white-faced man in front of him.
"We have more to talk about," he said. "Shall we--wouldn't it be better
if we got it over at once? If you wish I will come in later."
The uncontrolled irritability of nerves jangled and overstrung seized
Craddock.
"For God's sake let us have finished with it now," he said, "unless
you've got some fresh excitement to spring on me. What do you want me
to do? And why does he wait there?" he said pointing to Frank.
Charles nodded to Frank.
"I'll go then," he said.
* * * * *
Charles' anger and hot indignation had burned itself out. Of it there
was nothing left but ashes, grey feathery ashes, not smouldering even
any longer. It was impossible to be angry with anything so abject as
the man who sat inertly there. It was impossible to feel anything but
regret that he sat convicted of such pitiful fraud and falsity. He saw
only the wreck of a year's friendship, the stricken corpse of his own
gratitude and loyalty. Here was the man who had first believed in and
befriended him, and it was not in his nature to forget that. It had so
long been to him an ever-present consciousness that it had become a
permanent inmate of his mind, present to him in idle hours, but present
most of all when he was at work, and thus wrought into the web of his
life and his passion. In the extinction of his anger, this reasserted
itself again, tarnished it might be, and stained, but existent. And
with that awoke pity, sheer pity for the man who had made and marred it.
He waited till Frank had closed the door.
"It's wretched," he said, "absolutely wretched."
Even to Craddock in the shame of his detection, and in his miserable
apprehension of what must yet follow, the ring of sincerity was
apparent; it reached down to him in the inferno he had made for
himself. And the pity was without patronage; it did not hurt.
"Thank you for that," he said. "Now tell me what you want done. Or
perhaps you have done what you wanted already ..."
He broke off short and Charles waited. He guessed how terribly
difficult any kind of speech must be.
"There is just one thing I should like to tell you," said Craddock at
length. "I--I lied about you to Philip Wroughton, but my object was not
to injure you. I didn't want to injure you. But I guessed that you were
in love with Joyce. I guessed also that she--that she liked you. You
stood in my way perhaps. My object was to reach her. That is all."
There was no justification attempted: it was a mere statement of fact.
He paused a moment.
"But I was not sorry," he said, "even when I found that I had not
advanced my own suit."
"I didn't seem to matter, I suppose," said Charles in a sudden flash.
"Exactly that," said Craddock. "But I ask your forgiveness. I always
liked you."
Charles did not answer at once, because he did not know whether he
forgave Craddock or not. Certainly he did not want to injure him, he
felt he could go no further than that
"I intend to forgive you," he said. "That will have to do ..."
Even as he spoke all the innate generosity of the boy surged up in
rebellion at this shabby speech, and the shabbier hesitation of thought
that had prompted it.
"No, that won't have to do," he said quickly. "I should be ashamed to
let that do. Forgive you? Why yes, of course. And now for the rest. You
owe Mr. Wroughton five thousand pounds. There is no reason, I suppose,
why you should see him and explain? I take it that you will send him
his money. Is that so?"
"That shall be done."
"Right. About me, what you said about me, I mean. You must write to
him, I think. You must withdraw what you said. Perhaps you had better
do that at once."
"Yes."
Charles got up.
"I will go then," he said. "My properties shall have left your studio
by to-morrow evening. There is nothing more to settle, I think."
He held out his hand.
"Goodbye," he said. "I--I can't forget we have been friends and I don't
want to. You have been awfully good to me in many ways. I always told
Frank so. Goodbye."
Craddock was perfectly capable, indeed he had proved himself so, of the
depths of meanness and falsity. But he was not in natural construction,
like the villain of melodrama, who pursues his primrose path of
nefarious dealing, calm and well-balanced, without one single decent
impulse to clog his tripping feet. And when this boy, for whose gifts
he had so profound an admiration, who knew the worst of him, could
not forget as he said that they had been friends, he felt a pang of
self-abasement that shot out beyond the mire and clay in which his feet
were set.
"I wonder if you can possibly believe I am sorry," he said. "I know it
is a good deal to expect.... If that is so, may I ask you, as a favour
which I should so much appreciate, that you do not take your things
away from my studio just yet anyhow? Won't you do that as a sign of
your forgiveness? I won't come there, I won't bother you, or embarrass
you with the sight of me. It isn't so very much to ask of you, Charles."
Charles had an instinctive repulsion from doing anything of the sort.
He wanted to wash his hands clean of the man and of all that belonged
to him, or could awaken remembrance of him. But, on the other hand,
Craddock was so "down"; it was hardly possible to refuse so humble a
petition. Besides he had said that he forgave him, and if that was not
fully and unreservedly done, he might at least prop and solidify what
he desired should be true in material and compassable ways. His mind
needed but a moment to make itself up.
"But by all means, if you wish," he said. "I should be very glad
to.... And perhaps soon, not just yet, but soon, you will come and see
my work, if I ring you up? Do! Or when you feel you would like to see
me again, you will tell me.... Goodbye."
Craddock heard him go downstairs, from Frank's door, and continue his
journey. Not till then did he see that Charles had left on the edge of
the chimneypiece the contract concerning options which he had given him
back. For half-a-second the attitude of mind built and confirmed in him
by the habit of years asserted itself, and he would have put it back
into the dark from which he had taken it half an hour ago. But close on
the heels of that came a more dominant impulse, and he tore it to bits,
and threw the fragments into the fender.
Then he sat down at his table, drew out his cheque-book and wrote a
cheque payable to Philip Wroughton for five thousand pounds. There was
no difficulty about that; Mr. Ward's amazing friend who had carried off
the complete nightmare decoration of post-Impressionists from the walls
of Thistleton's Gallery had enabled his banking-balance to withstand
an even larger call on its substantiality than that. But there was a
letter to be written with it....
An hour later his servant came in to remind him that in half an hour
he expected two friends to dinner. Already the waste-paper basket
was choked with ineffectual beginnings, implying palliations, where
no palliation was possible, telling half the truth and hinting at
the rest, and still Craddock sat pen in hand, as far as ever from
accomplishing this epistolary effort. And then an illuminating idea
occurred to him: he would state just what had happened, neither more
nor less, saying it in the simplest possible manner.... It took him a
full half-hour always to dress for dinner, but he was ready to receive
guests who were almost meticulously punctual, so short a time had his
note taken him.
Philip Wroughton had become, so he often said to himself and Joyce, a
perfectly different man, owing to his salutary wintering in Egypt, and
in consequence (thinking himself, perhaps a differenter man than he
really was) had just been knocked flat by an attack of lumbago, owing
to a course of conduct that a few months ago he would have considered
sheer insanity for one so physically handicapped as himself.
In consequence it was Joyce's mission to take his letters and
morning-paper up to him, after breakfast, hear his account of himself,
and any fresh comments on the origin of this painful attack which had
occurred to him during the night, open his letters for him--there was
seldom more than one--and entertain him with such news out of the paper
as she thought would interest him. To-day the pain was a good deal
better, and he had remembered a new and daring action of his own which
quite accounted for his trouble.
"No doubt it was what I did on Thursday evening," he said, "for if
you remember you called me to the window after dinner, saying what a
beautiful night it was, and that the moon was full. I am not blaming
you, my dear, I only blame myself for my imprudence, because if you
remember I went out on the gravel path, in thin evening shoes, and
dress-clothes, and stood there I daresay a couple of minutes. I
remember I felt a little chilly, and I took a glass of hot whiskey
and water before I went to bed. I had already had a glass of port at
dinner, which in the old days was sufficient to give me a couple of
days of rheumatism, and the whiskey on the top was indeed enough to
finish me off. Do you not think that it was that, Joyce? Sometimes I
feel that you are not really interested in this sort of thing, which
means just heaven or hell to me; I am sure if a mere look at the moon
and a glass of whiskey and water, without sugar, put you on your back
for three days in agony and sleeplessness, I should show a little more
curiosity about it. But I suppose you are accustomed to my being ill;
it seems the natural state of things to you, and I'm sure I don't
wonder considering that for years that has been my normal condition.
Well, well, open the paper and let us try to find there something which
appeals to you more than your father's health; aviation in France,
perhaps, or the floods in the Netherlands."
Poor Joyce had not at present had a chance of speaking.
"But I am interested, father," she said, "and it was rather rash of you
to take port, and then a stroll at night and the whiskey. I don't know
what Dr. Symonds will say to you if you tell him that particularly when
you told him yesterday that it was the draught in church on Sunday."
"It all helps, Joyce," said her father, now contentedly embarked on the
only interesting topic. "As Dr. Symonds himself said, these attacks are
cumulative, all the little pieces of unwisdom of which one is guilty
add to the pile, and at last Nature revenges herself. I wonder if
coffee should go too: I should miss my cup of coffee after dinner. But
I used to take it in Egypt without the slightest hint of ill-effects.
Perhaps if I had saccharine instead of sugar.... I will ask Dr.
Symonds. What letters are there for me?"
"Only one. I think it's from Mr. Craddock."
Philip Wroughton frowned.
"Really what you told me when you came down from town yesterday
about his slandering that young Lathom," he said, "seems to be quite
upsetting, if true, if true. Certainly it took away my appetite
for lunch; at least if I had eaten my lunch I feel sure it would
have disagreed and so, briefly, I left it. But on thinking it over,
Joyce,--I thought a great deal about it last night, for I slept most
indifferently--I do not see why we should let it influence our bearing
to Craddock. After all, what has happened? He said that young Lathom
was not a very nice young fellow, and my mother has heard from his
mother and his great friend that he _is_ a very nice young fellow. What
would you expect his mother and his friend to say? It is Craddock's
word against theirs. As for flying out, as you did, into a state of
wild indignation against Craddock (it was that which upset me for
my lunch, I feel convinced) that is quite ludicrous.... And your
grandmother's letter to me, giving me what she called a piece of her
mind, I can only--now I am better--regard as the ravings of a very old
and lunatic person. And on the top of that tirade, saying that she
wishes to come down here next week, and bring her precious young Lathom
with her! Luckily this attack gives me ample excuse for putting off a
proposed visit from anybody."
"You need only see them as much as you feel inclined," said Joyce.
"On the contrary," said Philip with some excitement, "when one is ill,
and there are visitors in the house, one is always meeting them when
one does not want to. As you know, I do not take my hot bath till the
middle of the morning; I am sure to meet one or other of them in the
passage. And my mother invariably uses up all the hot water in the
boiler.... It would all be very inconvenient. Besides, as I say, it was
all hearsay about young Lathom being not quite steady; it is equally
hearsay that he is. He may be as steady as a rock or as unsteady as--as
that steamer from Marseilles to Port Said for all I care."
"But you acted on the report of his unsteadiness," said Joyce, "in not
letting him come down to see his copy of your Reynolds."
Philip put a fretful hand to his face and closed his eyes.
"You are very persistent and argumentative, Joyce," he said, "and
you know I am not up to these discussions. And this morning only I
was planning that as soon as I could move, we would go and spend a
fortnight at Torquay: I see they have been having a great deal of
sunlight there. Pray let us not continue. I think you said there was a
letter from Craddock, to whom you never did justice. You disappointed
me very much, and him too of course. Please take his letter and see
what he has to say."
Joyce tore open the envelope and took out the contents.
"There seems to be a cheque enclosed," she said.
Philip raised himself in bed, and put out his hand. An unexpected
cheque by post is a pleasant excitement to all but the most apathetic
Croesus.
"Give it me," he said. "I wonder what that can be for." He glanced at
it.
"Good God, how slow you are, Joyce," he exclaimed, "read his letter. I
don't know what it means."
Joyce read.
"I enclose my cheque for five thousand pounds, which is
the balance of what I actually received from Mr. Ward, for
your Reynolds. With regard to your subsequent proceedings
I throw myself unreservedly on your mercy. I have also
to tell you that the statements I made to you about the
character of Charles Lathom are entirely unfounded. I
unreservedly withdraw them."
Philip made a quicker movement than he had done since 9.30 a.m. three
mornings before, the same being the moment when the lumbago stabbed him.
"Five thousand pounds!" he exclaimed. "Why, the man's a thief! Joyce,
five thousand pounds. A liar too! He acknowledges he told lies about
that young Lathom. I've never had such a shock in my life. And the
interest on all this money. Doesn't he owe me that as well? Is it that
he means by throwing himself on my mercy? I am not sure that I am
inclined to be merciful about that...."
Then he made an enormous concession.
"Joyce, we must certainly show young Lathom that--why, I am sitting
quite upright in bed, and felt nothing when I moved--as I say young
Lathom must certainly be told that he may come down to see his copy.
It would not do to be less generous than Craddock about that. But I
am very much shocked: I hardly know what to say. Anyhow I will have
my bath at once. And you might look up the trains to Torquay, my
dear. Your grandmother and young Lathom must come down after we get
back. Really, even when I move, I feel no pain at all, only a little
stiffness. They say a great shock sometimes produces miraculous
results...."
Joyce never quite determined the nature of this shock: sometimes it
seemed only reasonable to suppose it was the shock of joy at this
unexpected and considerable sum of money, sometimes she construed it
into a shock of horror at this self-revelation of their travelling
companion. But certainly the lumbago ceased from troubling, and two
days afterwards they started for Torquay.