_The Office of Voysey and Son is in the best part of Lincoln's Inn. Its
panelled rooms give out a sense of grand-motherly comfort and security,
very grateful at first to the hesitating investor, the dubious litigant.
Mr. Voysey's own room into which he walks about twenty past ten of a
morning radiates enterprise besides. There is polish on everything; on
the windows, on the mahogany of the tidily packed writing table that
stands between them, on the brasswork of the fireplace in the other
wall, on the glass of the fire-screen which preserves only the
pleasantness of a sparkling fire, even on Mr. Voysey's hat as he takes
it off to place it on the little red curtained shelf behind the door.
Mr. Voysey is sixty or more and masterful; would obviously be master
anywhere from his own home outwards, or wreck the situation in his
attempt. Indeed there is a buccaneering air sometimes in the twist of
his glance, not altogether suitable to a family solicitor. On this
bright October morning, Peacey, the head clerk, follows just too late to
help him off with his coat, but in time to take it and hang it up with a
quite unnecessary subservience. Mr. Voysey is evidently not capable
enough to like capable men about him. Peacey, not quite removed from
Nature, has made some attempts to acquire protective colouring. A very
drunken client might mistake him for his master. His voice very easily
became a toneless echo of Mr. Voysey's; later his features caught a line
or two from that mirror of all the necessary virtues into which he was
so constantly gazing; but how his clothes even when new contrive to look
like old ones of Mr. Voysey's is a mystery, and to his tailor a most
annoying one. And Peacey is just a respectful number of years his
master's junior. Relieved of his coat, Mr. Voysey carries to his table
the bunch of beautiful roses he is accustomed to bring to the office
three times a week and places them for a moment only near the bowl of
water there ready to receive them while he takes up his letters. These
lie ready too, opened mostly, one or two private ones left closed and
discreetly separate. By this time the usual salutations have passed,
Peacey's "Good morning, sir;" Mr. Voysey's "Morning, Peacey." Then as he
gets to his letters Mr. Voysey starts his day's work._
MR. VOYSEY. Any news for me?
PEACEY. I hear bad accounts of Alguazils preferred, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. Oh . . from whom?
PEACEY. Merrit and James's head clerk in the train this morning.
MR. VOYSEY. They looked all right on . . Give me the Times. [PEACEY
_goes to the fireplace for the Times; it is warming there_. MR. VOYSEY
_waves a letter, then places it on the table_.] Here, that's for you . .
Gerrard Cross business. Anything else?
PEACEY. [_as he turns the Times to its Finance page._] I've made the
usual notes.
MR. VOYSEY. Thank'ee.
PEACEY. Young Benham isn't back yet.
MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward must do as he thinks fit about that. Alguazils,
Alg--oh, yes.
_He is running his eye down the columns._ PEACEY _leans over the
letters_.
PEACEY. This is from Jackson, sir. Shall I take it?
MR. VOYSEY. From Jackson. . Yes. Alguazils. Mr. Edward's here, I
suppose.
PEACEY. No, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. [_his eye twisting with some sharpness._] What!
PEACEY. [_almost alarmed._] I beg pardon, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. Mr. Edward.
PEACEY. Oh, yes, sir, been in his room some time. I thought you said
Headley; he's not due back till Thursday.
MR. VOYSEY _discards the Times and sits to his desk and his letters_.
MR. VOYSEY. Tell Mr. Edward I've come.
PEACEY. Yes, sir. Anything else?
MR. VOYSEY. Not for the moment. Cold morning, isn't it?
PEACEY. Quite surprising, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. We had a touch of frost down at Chislehurst.
PEACEY. So early!
MR. VOYSEY. I want it for the celery. All right, I'll call through about
the rest of the letters.
PEACEY _goes, having secured a letter or two, and_ MR. VOYSEY _having
sorted the rest (a proportion into the waste paper basket) takes up the
forgotten roses and starts setting them into a bowl with an artistic
hand. Then his son_ EDWARD _comes in_. MR. VOYSEY _gives him one glance
and goes on arranging the roses but says cheerily_. .
MR. VOYSEY. Good morning, my dear boy.
EDWARD _has little of his father in him and that little is undermost. It
is a refined face but self-consciousness takes the place in it of
imagination and in suppressing traits of brutality in his character it
looks as if the young man had suppressed his sense of humour too. But
whether or no, that would not be much in evidence now, for_ EDWARD _is
obviously going through some experience which is scaring him (there is
no better word). He looks not to have slept for a night or two, and his
standing there, clutching and unclutching the bundle of papers he
carries, his eyes on his father, half appealingly but half accusingly
too, his whole being altogether so unstrung and desperate, makes_ MR.
VOYSEY'S _uninterrupted arranging of the flowers seem very calculated
indeed. At last the little tension of silence is broken._
EDWARD. Father . .
MR. VOYSEY. Well?
EDWARD. I'm glad to see you.
_This is a statement of fact. He doesn't know that the commonplace
phrase sounds ridiculous at such a moment._
MR. VOYSEY. I see you've the papers there.
EDWARD. Yes.
MR. VOYSEY. You've been through them?
EDWARD. As you wished me . .
MR. VOYSEY. Well? [EDWARD _doesn't answer. Reference to the papers seems
to overwhelm him with shame._ MR. VOYSEY _goes on with cheerful
impatience_.] Come, come, my dear boy, you mustn't take it like this.
You're puzzled and worried, of course. But why didn't you come down to
me on Saturday night? I expected you . . I told you to come. Then your
mother was wondering, of course, why you weren't with us for dinner
yesterday.
EDWARD. I went through all the papers twice. I wanted to make quite
sure.
MR. VOYSEY. Sure of what? I told you to come to me.
EDWARD. [_he is very near crying._] Oh, father.
MR. VOYSEY. Now look here, Edward, I'm going to ring and dispose of
these letters. Please pull yourself together. [_He pushes the little
button on his table._]
EDWARD. I didn't leave my rooms all day yesterday.
MR. VOYSEY. A pleasant Sunday! You must learn whatever the business may
be to leave it behind you at the Office. Why, life's not worth living
else.
PEACEY _comes in to find_ MR. VOYSEY _before the fire ostentatiously
warming and rubbing his hands_.
Oh, there isn't much else, Peacey. Tell Simmons that if he satisfies you
about the details of this lease it'll be all right. Make a note for me
of Mr. Grainger's address at Mentone. I shall have several letters to
dictate to Atkinson. I'll whistle for him.
PEACEY. Mr. Burnett . . Burnett v Marks had just come in, Mr. Edward.
EDWARD. [_without turning._] It's only fresh instructions. Will you take
them?
PEACEY. All right.
PEACEY _goes, lifting his eyebrow at the queerness of_ EDWARD'S _manner.
This_ MR. VOYSEY _sees, returning to his table with a little scowl_.
MR. VOYSEY. Now sit down. I've given you a bad forty-eight hours, it
seems. Well, I've been anxious about you. Never mind, we'll thresh the
thing out now. Go through the two accounts. Mrs. Murberry's first . .
how do you find it stands?
EDWARD. [_his feelings choking him._] I hoped you were playing some
trick on me.
MR. VOYSEY. Come now.
EDWARD _separates the papers precisely and starts to detail them; his
voice quite toneless. Now and then his father's sharp comments ring out
in contrast._
EDWARD. We've got the lease of her present house, several agreements . .
and here's her will. Here's also a sometime expired power of attorney
over her securities and her property generally . . it was for six
months.
MR. VOYSEY. She was in South Africa.
EDWARD. Here's the Sheffield mortgage and the Henry Smith mortgage with
Banker's receipts . . hers to us for the interest up to date . . four
and a half and five per cent. Then . . Fretworthy Bonds. There's a
memorandum in your writing that they are at the Bank; but you didn't say
what Bank.
MR. VOYSEY. My own . . Stukeley's.
EDWARD. [_just dwelling on the words._] Your own. I marked that with a
query. There's eight thousand five hundred in three and a half India
stock. And there are her Banker's receipts for cheques on account of
those dividends. I presume for those dividends.
MR. VOYSEY. Why not?
EDWARD. [_gravely._] Because then, Father, there are Banker's half
yearly receipts for sums amounting to an average of four hundred and
twenty pounds a year. But I find no record of any capital to produce
this.
MR. VOYSEY. Go on. What =do= you find?
EDWARD. Till about three years back there seems to have been eleven
thousand in Queenslands which would produce--did produce exactly the
same sum. But after January of that year I find no record of this.
MR. VOYSEY. In fact the Queenslands are missing?
EDWARD. [_hardly uttering the word._] Yes.
MR. VOYSEY. From which you conclude?
EDWARD. I concluded at first that you had not handed me all the papers
connected with----
MR. VOYSEY. Since Mrs. Murberry evidently gets another four twenty a
year somehow; lucky woman.
EDWARD. [_in agony._] Oh!
MR. VOYSEY. Well, we'll return to the good lady later. Now let's take
the other.
EDWARD. The Hatherley Trust.
MR. VOYSEY. Quite so.
EDWARD. [_with one accusing glance._] Trust.
MR. VOYSEY. Go on.
EDWARD. Oh, father . .
_His grief comes uppermost again and_ MR. VOYSEY _meets it kindly_.
MR. VOYSEY. I know, my dear boy. I shall have lots to say to you. But
let's get quietly through with these details first.
EDWARD. [_bitterly now._] Oh, this is simple enough. We're young
Hatherley's only trustees till his coming of age in about five years'
time. The property was eighteen thousand invested in Consols. Certain
sums were to be allowed for his education; these have been and are still
being paid. There is no record as to the rest of the capital.
MR. VOYSEY. None?
EDWARD. Yes . . I beg your pardon, sir. There's a memorandum to refer to
the Bletchley Land Scheme.
MR. VOYSEY. That must be ten years ago. But he's credited with the
interest on his capital?
EDWARD. On paper, sir. The balance was to be reinvested. There's a
partial account in your hand writing. He's credited with the Consol
interest.
MR. VOYSEY. Quite so.
EDWARD. I think I've heard you say that the Bletchley scheme paid seven
and a half.
MR. VOYSEY. At one time. Have you taken the trouble to calculate what
will be due from us to the lad?
EDWARD. Capital and compound interest . . . about twenty six thousand
pounds.
MR. VOYSEY. Yes, it's a large sum. In five years' time?
EDWARD. When he comes of age.
MR. VOYSEY. Well, that gives us, say four years and six months in which
to think about it.
EDWARD _waits, hopelessly, for his father to speak again; then says_ . .
EDWARD. Thank you for showing me these, sir. Shall I put them back in
your safe now?
MR. VOYSEY. Yes, you'd better. There's the key. [EDWARD _reaches for the
bunch, his face hidden_.] Put them down. Your hand shakes . . why, you
might have been drinking . . I'll put them away later. It's no use
having hysterics, Edward. Look the trouble in the face.
EDWARD'S _only answer is to go to the fire, as far from his father as
the room allows. And there he leans on the mantelpiece, his shoulders
heaving._
MR. VOYSEY. I'm sorry, my dear boy. I wouldn't tell you if I could help
it.
EDWARD. I can't believe it. And that you should be telling it me.
MR. VOYSEY. Let your feelings go and get that part of the business over.
It isn't pleasant, I know. It isn't pleasant to inflict it on you.
EDWARD. How I got through that outer office this morning, I don't know.
I came early but some of them were here. Peacey came into my room, he
must have seen there was something up.
MR. VOYSEY. That's no matter.
EDWARD. [_able to turn to his father again; won round by the kind
voice._] How long has it been going on? Why didn't you tell me before?
Oh, I know you thought you'd pull through; but I'm your partner . . I'm
responsible too. Oh, I don't want to shirk that . . don't think I mean
to shirk that, father. Perhaps I ought to have discovered, but those
affairs were always in your hands. I trusted . . I beg your pardon. Oh,
it's us . . not you. Everyone has trusted us.
MR. VOYSEY. [_calmly and kindly still._] You don't seem to notice that
I'm not breaking my heart like this.
EDWARD. What's the extent of the mischief? When did it begin? Father,
what made you begin it?
MR. VOYSEY. I didn't begin it.
EDWARD. You didn't. Who then?
MR. VOYSEY. My father before me. [EDWARD _stares_.] That calms you a
little.
EDWARD. I'm glad . . my dear father! [_and he puts out his hand. Then
just a doubt enters his mind._] But I . . it's amazing.
MR. VOYSEY. [_shaking his head._] My inheritance, Edward.
EDWARD. My dear father!
MR. VOYSEY. I had hoped it wasn't to be yours.
EDWARD. D'you mean to tell me that this sort of thing has been going on
for years? For more than thirty years!
MR. VOYSEY. Yes.
EDWARD. That's a little difficult to understand just at first, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. [_sententiously._] We do what we must in this world, Edward;
I have done what I had to do.
EDWARD. [_his emotion well cooled by now._] Perhaps I'd better just
listen quietly while you explain.
MR. VOYSEY. [_concentrating._] You know that I'm heavily into Northern
Electrics.
EDWARD. Yes.
MR. VOYSEY. But you don't know how heavily. When I discovered the
Municipalities were organising the purchase, I thought of course the
stock'd be up a hundred and forty--a hundred and fifty in no time. Now
Leeds won't make up her quarrel with the other place . . there'll be no
bill brought in for ten years. I bought at ninety five. What are they
now?
EDWARD. Eighty eight.
MR. VOYSEY. Eighty seven and a half. In ten years I may be . . ! That's
why you've had to be told.
EDWARD. With whose money are you so heavily into Northern Electrics?
MR. VOYSEY. The firm's money.
EDWARD. Clients' money?
MR. VOYSEY. Yes.
EDWARD. [_coldly._] Well . . I'm waiting for your explanation, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. You seem to have recovered yourself pretty much.
EDWARD. No, sir, I'm trying to understand, that's all.
MR. VOYSEY. [_with a shrug._] Children always think the worst of their
parents. I did of mine. It's a pity.
EDWARD. Go on, sir, go on. Let me know the worst.
MR. VOYSEY. There's no immediate danger. I should think anyone could see
that from the state of these accounts. There's no actual danger at all.
EDWARD. Is that the worst?
MR. VOYSEY. [_his anger rising._] Have you studied these two accounts or
have you not?
EDWARD. Yes, sir.
MR. VOYSEY. Well, where's the deficiency in Mrs. Murberry's income . .
has she ever gone without a shilling? What has young Hatherley lost?