his experiences during the next years up to the time when we find
him in the train on the way back from Epsom. It is a dreary story,
the record of a series of dull underpaid jobs, a few bright gleams
of hope, even days and nights of complete happiness, then dull
reactions, strain, worry, hunger, nervous fears, blunted ambitions,
and thwarted desires. Through it all the only thing that remained
unalterably bright and inspiring, was his wife’s face. Not once did
she flinch, not once did she lose hope. Her constant slogan: “Never
mind, old darling, we’ll soon be on our feet again,” was ever in his
ears, buoying him up through the darkest hours.
And again he was out of work, again Eleanor was not well, and again
he had been to the “original source.”
The “original source” was his uncle, his father’s brother. He
was a thin, acid old gentleman, known in commercial circles as a
money-maniac. Living alone in a large house at Epsom, with all kinds
of telephonic connections with the city, he thought and dreamed of
nothing at all but his mistress--money. Between him and Giles’ father
had always existed a venomous hatred, far more pronounced on the side
of his uncle than of his father. It had dated back many years. When
his father died and Giles appealed to his uncle, the old gentleman
appeared thoroughly to enjoy giving him five pounds as an excuse for
a lecture and a subtly conveyed sneer at his father’s character.
He was a very wealthy man, and he could easily have launched Giles
into the world by putting him through the training for one of the
professions, but he preferred to dole out niggardy little bits of
charity and advice, and to boast that he himself was a self-made man,
who had had no special training.
“No,” thought Giles, “but you have an instinct for making money. I
haven’t. You don’t have to train a duck to swim.”
Naturally, they very quickly quarrelled, and his uncle seemed to
rejoice in his failures. It was only in his most desperate positions
that he appealed to him again.
Lying back in the dimly lighted railway carriage he kept on
visualizing his uncle’s keen malevolent eyes, the thrust of the
pointed chin. The acid tones of his voice echoed through his brain:
“It’s quite time, my lad, you pulled yourself together. You ought to
have made your fortune by now. Don’t imagine I’m always going to help
you.”
Giles had humbled his pride for his wife and child’s sake. He had
spent the night at his uncle’s, and by exercising his utmost powers
of cajolery, had managed to extort three pounds. Three pounds! and
the rent overdue, bills pressing, his wife unwell and he--out of
work. What was he going to do?
The train rumbled into Waterloo Station without any satisfactory
answer being arrived at. He pulled his bag out from under the seat,
and stepped slowly out of the carriage.
Walking along the platform it suddenly occurred to him that he was
feeling weak and exhausted. “I hope to God I’m not going to be ill,”
he thought.
The bag, which only contained his night things and a change of
clothes, seemed unbearably heavy. A slight feeling of faintness came
over him as he passed the ticket-collector.
“I believe I shall have to have a cab,” flashed through him.
Two important-looking men got out of a taxi which had just driven
up. Giles engaged it, and having given his address he stepped in and
sank back exhausted on to the seat. It was very dark in the cab,
and he lay huddled in the corner--a beaten man. Everything appeared
distant and dim, and unimportant. He had hardly eaten any lunch, and
his uncle seemed to have arranged that he should leave his house just
before dinner. It was late, and he was hungry and over-wrought.
The cab turned a corner sharply, and Giles lurched and thrust his
hand on to the other end of the seat to prevent himself falling. As
he did so his knuckles brushed against an object. Quite apathetically
he felt to see what it was. He picked it up and held it near the
window. It was a brown leather wallet, with a circular brass lock. He
regarded it dubiously, and for an instant hesitated whether he should
tell the driver to go back to the station, the wallet presumably
belonging to one of those two important-looking men who had got
out. But would it be possible to find them? By that time they would
probably have gone off by train. No, the right thing to do was to
give it up to the police, of course.
It was a fat wallet, and he sat there with it in his hand ruminating.
He wondered what it contained. Quite easy just to have a squint
anyway. He tried to slip the catch but it wouldn’t open. It was
locked. It is difficult to determine the extent to which this
knowledge affected him. If it had not been locked Giles Meiklejohn’s
immediate actions, and indeed his future career might have been
entirely different. It irritated him that the wallet was locked
... tantalized him. If it was locked it meant that it contained
something ... pretty useful. All round the park he lay back in the
cab hugging the wallet like one in a trance.
A desperate, beaten man, holding a fat wallet in his hand. Contrary
forces were struggling within his tired mind. Going up Park Lane one
of these forces seemed to succumb to the other. Almost in a dream he
leant out of the cab, and said quietly to the driver:
“Drive to the Trocadero. I think I’ll get a bit of supper first.”
Arriving there, he paid the cabman, concealed the wallet in his
overcoat and went in. He entered a lavatory and locked himself in.
With unruffled deliberation he took out a penknife and began to saw
away at the leather around the lock.
“I just want to have a squint,” he kept on mentally repeating.
It took him nearly a quarter of an hour to get the wallet open, and
when he did his heart was beating like a sledge hammer.
The wallet contained eight thick packets of one pound treasury notes!
He feverishly computed the number which each packet contained, and
decided that it must be two hundred and fifty. In other words, he had
two thousand pounds’ worth of ready cash in his possession!
A desperate, beaten man, with a wife and child, hungry ... out of
work ... two thousand pounds!...
There seemed no question about it all then. One side of the scale was
too heavily weighted. He took seventeen of the one pound notes and
put them in his pocket book, the rest he divided into the pockets of
his overcoat, where he also concealed the wallet. He went up into the
bar and ordered a double brandy and soda. He drank it in two gulps
and went out and hailed another taxi. On the way home he stopped at
a caterer’s, and bought a cold fowl, some pressed beef, new rolls,
cheese, a box of chocolates, and a bottle of wine. Then he drove
homeward.
Up to this point his actions seemed to have been controlled by
some sub-conscious force. So far as his normal self was concerned,
he had hardly thought at all. But as he began to approach his
own neighbourhood--his own wife--the realization of what he had
done--what he was doing--came home to him....
“It was practically stealing. It is stealing, you know.”
Yes, but what would any one else have done in that position? He
couldn’t let his wife and child starve. There was only one thing he
was afraid of ... his wife’s eyes. She must never know. He would
have to be cunning, circumspect. He must get rid of the wallet,
conceal the notes from his wife--eke them out in driblets, pretend
he was making money somehow. But the wallet? He couldn’t leave it
in the cab. It would be found and the cabman would give evidence.
He mustn’t drive home at all. He must get out again, think again.
Between Paddington and Maida Vale runs a canal. Happy thought! a
canal! he stopped at the bridge and dismissed the man again, tipping
him lavishly. The banks of the canal were railed off. It was only
possible to get near enough to throw anything in from the bridge.
Thither he walked at a rapid stride. The feeling of exhaustion had
passed. He was tingling with excitement. He looked eagerly about for
a stone, and cursed these modern arrangements of wooden pavements.
There were no stones near the canal. Never mind, the thing would
probably sink. If it didn’t, who could trace its discovery to his
action? The point was to get rid of it unseen.
He reached the bridge. A few stray people were passing backward and
forward--must wait till everyone was out of sight. He hung about,
gripping his portmanteau in one hand, and the wallet in his right
hand overcoat pocket. He crossed the bridge once, but still seeing
dark figures about he had to return. Why not throw it now? No, there
was someone watching in the road opposite--might be a policeman! The
police! never had cause to feel frightened at the police before.
There would be a splash. Someone might come out of the darkness, a
deep voice:
“What was that you threw in the canal?”
No, no, couldn’t do it. The bridge was too exposed, too much of a
fairway. He hurried off walking rapidly down side streets in the
direction of his home. At last an opportunity presented itself.
Shabby, deserted little street, a low stone wall enclosing a meagre
garden. Not a soul in sight. Like a flash he slipped the wallet over
the wall and dropped it. Instantaneously he looked up at the house
connected with the garden. A man was looking out of the first floor
window, watching him!
He turned and walked quickly back. He thought he heard a call. At the
first turning he ran, the portmanteau banging against his leg and
impeding his progress. He only ceased running because people stopped
and looked at him suspiciously.
“It’s all right! It’s all right!” he kept saying to himself. “I’ve
got rid of it.”
Yes, he was rid of that danger, but there loomed before him the more
insidious difficulty of concealing the notes. His pockets bulged with
them. When he arrived home, Eleanor would run out into the landing
and throw her arms round him. He could almost hear the tones of her
gentle voice saying:
“Whatever have you got in your pockets, darling?”
If he put them in the portmanteau she would be almost certain to
open it, or she would be in the room when he went to unpack. Very
difficult to conceal anything from Eleanor; she knew all about
him; every little thing about him interested her. Nothing in their
rooms was locked up. Moreover, she was very observant, methodical
and practical. Someone had called her psychic, but this was only
because she thought more quickly than most people, and had unerring
intuitions.
Giles would have to be very cunning. His mental energies were so
concerned with the necessity for deceiving Eleanor that the moral
aspect of his position was temporarily blurred. He plunged on through
the darkness, his mind working rapidly. At the corner of their meagre
street he was tempted to stuff the notes in a pillar box and hurry
home.
“Don’t be a fool,” said the other voice. “Here is comfort and luxury
interminably--not only for yourself, for the others.”
He went boldly up to the house and let himself in. He heard other
lodgers talking in the front ground floor room. He hurried by and
reached his own landing. To his relief Eleanor’s voice came from the
room above:
“Is that you, darling?”
He dumped the bag down and in a flash had removed his overcoat and
hung it on a peg in a dark corner. Then he called out:
“Hullo, old girl. Everything all right?”
Within a minute his wife’s arms were around him, and he exclaimed
with forced triumph:
“I touched the old boy for twenty pounds! I’ve brought home a chicken
and things.”
“Oh! how splendid! A chicken! Rather extrav. isn’t it, darling?”
“One must live, dear angel.”
Her confidence and trust in him, her almost childish glee over the
gay feast, her solicitude in his welfare, her anxiety that little
Anna should have some chicken, but keep the sweets till the morrow,
her voice later crooning over the child--all these things mocked his
conscience. But he couldn’t afford to have a conscience. He couldn’t
afford to say:
“I stole all this and more.”
He was eager for the attainment of that last instance--crooning over
the child. Whilst she was putting the little girl to bed, he crept out
into the passage and extracted the packets of notes from his overcoat
pocket. He took them into the sitting room and wrapped them up in
brown paper. He wrote on the outside, “stationery.” Then he stuffed
the parcel at the back of a cupboard where they kept all kinds of
odds and ends.
“That’ll have to do for to-night,” he thought. “I’m too tired to
think of anything better.”
When she came down he enlarged the claims of his exhaustion. He had
a bit of a head he explained, just as well to turn in early. In
the darkness he clung to her fearfully, like a child in terror of
separation.
It was not till she was sleeping peacefully that the enormity of his
offence came home to him.
If he were found out! It would kill her.
He remembered her expression:
“If our troubles are never anything worse than financial ones,
darling, I shan’t mind.”
Good God! What had he done? He could call it what he liked,
but crudely speaking it was just stealing. He had stolen. He
was a criminal, a felon. If found out, it meant arrest, trial,
imprisonment--all these horrors he had only vaguely envisaged as
concerning a different type of person to himself. In the rough and
tumble of his life he had never before done anything criminal, never
anything even remotely dishonest. And she, Eleanor, what would she
think of him? It would destroy her love, destroy her life, ruin the
child.
He must get up, go into the other room and--what? What could he do
with the notes? Burn them? Eleanor had that mother’s curious faculty
for profound, but at the same time, watchful sleep. If he got out of
bed she would be aware of it. If he went into the next room and began
burning things, she would be instantly alert.
“What’s that burning, darling?”
An ever-loving wife may be an embarrassment when one is not quite
playing the game. By destroying the wallet he had burnt his boats. If
he returned the money he would have to explain what the wallet was
doing in a neighbour’s garden with the brass lock cut away.
“Besides, you’ve already spent some,” interjected that other voice.
“You’re horribly in debt. Here’s succour. The money probably belongs
to some rich corporation. It’s not like taking it from the poor.
Don’t be a fool. Go to sleep.”
For hours he tossed feverishly, the pendulum of his resolutions
swinging backward and forward. If he was to keep the money, he would
have to invent some imaginary source of income, a fictitious job,
perhaps, and that would be very difficult because Eleanor was so
solicitous, such a glutton for details concerning himself. He might
have made out that his uncle had given him a much larger sum of
money, but in that case there was the danger that in her impetuous
manner Eleanor might have written to the old man, and the old man
would smell a rat. Doubtless the affair of the lost wallet would be
in the papers the next day, and wouldn’t the old man be delighted to
bring it home to Giles!
There was nothing to be done but to trust to fate. The milk carts
were clattering in the road before he slept.
It was hours later that he heard Anna’s merry little laugh, and his
wife’s voice saying:
“Hush, darling, daddy’s asleep. He’s very tired.”
He got up and faced the ordeals of the day. The place at the back of
the lumber cupboard seemed the most exposed in the world. He racked
his brains for a more suitable spot. But whichever place he thought
of danger seemed to lurk. One never quite knew what Eleanor might do.
She was so keen on tidying up and clearing things out. He decided
that a crisp walk might clear his mind. He made up the excuse that he
was going to the public library to look through the advertisements
and went out. He meant to smuggle the parcel of notes out with him.
but Eleanor was too much on the spot. She helped him on with his
overcoat and said:
“It’ll soon be all right again, darling.”
Poor Eleanor! What a capacity she had for living! She ought to
have married a rich, successful, and clever man. She ought to have
everything a beautiful woman desires. Well?... He walked quickly to
the nearest news-agent and bought a paper. There was nothing in the
morning paper about the loss of the wallet. He felt annoyed about
this, until he realized that of course there wouldn’t have been time.
It would come out later. And indeed whilst standing on the curb
anxiously scrutinizing his morning paper, boys came along the street
selling the _Star_ and the _Evening News_.
A paragraph in the _Star_, headed “£2,000 left in a taxi,” supplied
him with the information he needed. It announced that Sir James
Cusping, K.B.E., a director of a well-known bank and a chief cashier,
left a wallet containing two thousand pounds in treasury notes in
a taxi at Waterloo Station. The money was the result of a cash
transaction concerning certain bank investments. Any one giving
information likely to lead to recovery would be suitably rewarded. It
also announced that Scotland Yard had the matter in hand.
So far the information was satisfactory. Sir James Cusping was a
notoriously wealthy man, and the chief cashier was hardly likely to
be held seriously responsible for a loss for which such an important
person was jointly responsible. The bank mentioned was a bank that
advertised that its available assets exceeded four hundred million
pounds. Two thousand pounds meant less to it than two pence would
mean to Giles. No one was hurt by the transfer of this useful sum to
his own pocket. The sun was shining. Why be down in the mouth about
it? What he had done he had done, and he must see it through.
How could anybody trace the theft to him? The two cabmen? They would
be hardly likely to remember his face, and neither of them had driven
him home. There was no danger from any one except Eleanor. A sudden
fever of dread came over him. She would assuredly turn out that
cupboard to-day, find the packet of “stationery.” Then--what?
He hurried back home. Approaching the house other fears assailed him.
He had visions of policemen waiting for him on the other side of the
hall door.
Damn it! His nerves were going to pot. He opened the door with
exaggerated nonchalance. There was no one there. No one up in his
rooms except his wife and child. Eleanor was singing. The kettle was
on the gas ring, ready for tea.
“What a cad I am to her,” he thought.
The condition of frenzied agitation continued till the following
afternoon when it reached a crisis. He was feeling all unstrung.
Seated alone in their little sitting room he was struggling with the
resolution to confess everything to Eleanor, when she entered the
room. He glanced at her and nearly screamed. _She was holding up the
parcel in her hand!_
In her cheerful voice she said:
“What is this parcel marked stationery, darling? I was turning out
the cupboard.”
Like an animal driven to bay he jumped up and almost snatched it from
her. The inspiration of despair prompted him to exclaim:
“Oh!... that! Yes, yes, I wanted that. It’s something a chap wanted
me to get for him.... It doesn’t belong to me.”
A chap! What chap? Giles didn’t usually refer to chaps. They had no
secrets apart. She looked surprised.
“I was just going to open it. As a matter of fact we have run out of
stationery.”
“Eh? No, no, not that. I must send that back. I’ll get some more
stationery.”
He tucked the packet under his arm and went out into the hall.
“You’re not going out at once?” said Eleanor, following.
“Yes, yes, I must post it at once. I’d quite forgotten.”
He slipped on his coat and went out without his customary embrace.
Beads of perspiration were on his brow.
“That’s done it!” he muttered in the street, “I must never take it
back.”
An extravagant plan formed in his mind. He went to the library and
looked at the advertisements in a local paper. He took down some
addresses in St. John’s Wood. In half an hour’s time he was calling
on a landlady in a mean street.
“You have a furnished room to let?” he said when she appeared.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it’s like this. I am an author. I want a quiet room to work in
during the day time.”
“I’ve got a nice room as would suit you.”
“Come on, then, let me see it, please.”
He booked the room, a shabby little over-crowded apartment.
“I’ll be coming in to-day,” he said.
“Very good, sir. What name might it be?”
“Er--name? Oh, yes, name--er--John Parsons.”
He fled down the street and sought a furnishing establishment.
“I want an oak desk which I can lock up--a good strong lock.”
He paid seven pounds ten for the desk, and got it taken round at once
on a barrow. He then bought scribbling papers, paper, and ink. He
established himself in his room, stuffed the packet of notes in the
desk and locked it. Then he went out into the street again. The fresh
air fanned his temples. He almost chuckled.
“By God! Why didn’t I think of this at first?” he reflected. “After
the life I’ve led one forgets the power of money.”
He felt singularly calm and confident. It was dark when he got home.
He kissed Eleanor and made up an elaborate story about a fellow clerk
named Lyel Bristowe, who used to work in the same office, and whom
he had met in the street recently. He had wanted this particular
stationery most particularly. He had been to see him, and Bristowe
was giving him an introduction to a man who might be able to offer
him a good situation. The story went down reasonably well, but he
thought he detected a pucker of suspicion about his wife’s brow.
He was too involved now to turn back. The following day he visited
his furnished room. He anxiously unlocked the desk, took out the
notes, examined them, put them back, took them out again, stuffed
them in his pocket.... Very dangerous after all leaving them there, a
flimsy lock ... there might be a burglary. He had told the landlady
that he was an author, and it is true that he spent a great portion
of the day inventing fiction ... lies to tell Eleanor. He eventually
locked the notes up again and went home.
He assumed a somewhat forced air of triumph. He had been successful.
Through the influence of Bristowe, he had secured a position as chief
cashier to a firm of surgical instrument makers in Camden Town. His
salary was to be five pounds a week to commence. Eleanor clapped her
hands.
“Oh, but how lovely, darling! I suppose you can do it? You’re such an
old silly at figures!”
He explained that the work was quite simple, and added ironically
that the great thing Messrs. Binns and Binns wanted was a man they
could trust.
Then the narrow life of lies proceeded apace. Every day he went
to his room, fingered the notes, took some when he needed them,
deliberately invented the names and characters of his fellow
workers at Messrs. Binns and Binns, even made up little incidents
and stories concerning his daily experiences. The whole affair was
so inordinately successful. No further reference was made in the
newspapers to the missing wallet, and though Scotland Yard were
supposed to have the matter in hand, what could they do? Even if by
chance suspicion fell on him, there was nothing incriminating to
be found in his lodgings, and not a soul knew the whereabouts of
“John Parsons.” His wife and child were living comfortably. He was
gradually paying off his debts.
But if the purely material side of his adventure was successful,
the same cannot be said of the spiritual. He was tortured beyond
endurance. Lies bred lies. The moral lapse bred other moral lapses.
He was conscious of his own moral degeneration. He was ashamed to
look his wife in the face. In the evening when he intended to be
gay and cheerful he sat morosely in the corner, wishing that the
night would come--and go. In the day time he would sit in his room,
fretful and desolate. In a mood of despair he began to set down
his experiences in terms of fiction, ascribing his feelings to an
imaginary person. Sometimes when the position became unbearable he
would go out and drink. Often he would go up to the West End and
lunch extravagantly at some obscure restaurant. He came into touch
with unsavoury people of the underworld.
The marks of his deterioration quickly became apparent to his wife.
One morning she said:
“Darling, you’re working too hard at that place. You look rotten.
Last night when you came home you smelt of brandy.”
Then she wept a little, a thing she had never done in their days of
adversity. He promised not to do such a thing again. He swore that
the work was not hard; the firm were very pleased with him and were
going to give him a raise.
The weeks and months went by and he struggled to keep straight. But
little by little he felt himself slipping back. He managed to write
a few things which he sent off to publishers, but for the most part
he avoided his room for any length of time, and sat about in obscure
cafés in Soho, drinking and playing cards.