She was to him the dearest treasure in the world, and he was
thrusting her away. In that one weak moment he had destroyed all
chance of happiness--hers and his. Too late! Too late! In six
months’ time he found that he had spent nearly five hundred pounds!
At this rate in another eighteen months it would all be gone, and
then--what? His moral character destroyed, his wife broken in health,
the child without protection or prospects.
One morning he observed his wife glancing in the mirror as she did
her hair. It came home to him abruptly that she had aged, aged
many years in the last six months. Soon she would be turning gray,
middle-aged, old-aged. And he? His hair was thin on top, his face
flabby, his organisms becoming inefficient and weak, his nerves
eternally on edge. Sometimes he was rude and snappy to her. And he
buried his face in the pillow and thought:
“Oh, my darling, what have I done? What have I done?”
That day he concentrated on a great resolve. This thing would
have to stop. He would rather be a starving clerk again, rather a
bricklayer’s navvy, a crossing-sweeper, anything. He wandered the
streets, hugging his determination. He avoided his old haunts. There
must be no compromise. The thing should be cut clean out. He would
confess. They would send back the remainder of the money anonymously,
and start all over again. It was hard, but anything was better than
this torture.
He returned home early in the afternoon, his face pale and tense. His
wife was on the landing. She said:
“Oh, I was just going to send a telegram on to you. It’s from your
uncle. He says come at once.”
A queer little stab of the old instinct of conspiracy went through
him. If she had sent the telegram on, it would have come back: “No
such firm known at this address.”
What did his uncle want? Come at once? Should he go, or should he
make his confession first?
“I think you ought to go, darling. It sounds important.”
Very well, then. The confession should be postponed till his return.
He caught a train at a quarter to four, and arrived at his uncle’s
house in daylight. An old housekeeper let him in and said:
“Ah! Your uncle’s been asking for you. The doctor’s here.”
“Is he ill?”
“They say he hasn’t long to live. The poor man is in great agony.”
He was kept waiting ten minutes. A doctor came out to him, looking
very solemn.
“I’ve just given him an injection of strychnine. He wishes to see you
alone.”
His uncle was propped up against the pillows. His face unrecognizable
except for the eyes, which were unnaturally bright. Giles went close
up to him, and took his hand. The old man’s voice was only just
audible. He whispered:
“Quickly! quickly! I shall be going----”
“What is it, uncle?”
“It mustn’t come out, see? mustn’t get into the newspapers, nothing,
the disgrace, see? That’s why ... no cheques must pass; all cash
transaction, see?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“On that bureau ... a brown paper parcel ... it’s yours, all in bonds
and cash, see? Twenty-eight thousand pounds ... it really belongs to
your father ... I can’t explain ... I’m going. He--I swindled him ...
he thought he was ... it’s all through me he ... bankrupt, death, see?”
“Do you mean my father ... killed himself?”
“Not exactly, see? Hastened his end ... thought he would get into
trouble. Take it, Giles, for God’s sake! Let me die in peace.”
“Why did you? Why did you?”
“I loved your mother.... Take it, Giles, for God’s sake. Oh, this
pain! ... it’s coming ... God help me!”
It was very late when Giles arrived home. His wife was asleep in bed.
All the way home he had been repeating to himself in a dazed way:
“Twenty-eight thousand pounds. No, twenty-six thousand. Two thousand
to be sent back anonymously to the bank. No need for confession.
Twenty-six thousand pounds. Eleanor, Anna. Oh, my dears!”
On the table in the sitting-room was a letter from a firm of
publishers, addressed to Mr. John Parsons. It stated that the
firm considered the short novel submitted to be a work of striking
promise, and the manager would be glad if Mr. Parsons would call on
them.
“Perhaps I’ve found out what I can do,” Giles meditated.
Eleanor came into the room in her dressing-gown and embraced him.
“All right, darling?”
“Very much. Uncle has given me twenty-eight--I mean twenty-six
thousand pounds. He said he cheated my father out of it.”
“Darling! Cheated! How awful.”
No, there was no need for confession. The sudden wild change in their
fortunes got into his blood. He gripped her round the waist and
lifted her up.
“Think of it, old girl, money to live on for ever. A place in the
country, eh? You know, your dream: a bit of land and an old house,
flowers, chickens, dogs, books, a pony perhaps. What about it?”
“Oh, Giles, I can’t realize it. But how splendid, too, about the
publishers’ letter. Why didn’t you tell me you were writing? Why do
you call yourself John Parsons?”
No need for confession, no, no, let’s go to bed. But oh! to get back
to the old intimacy....
And so in the silent night he told her everything.
And the tears she shed upon his burning cheeks gave him the only balm
of peace he had enjoyed since the hour he had destroyed the wallet.
It was Eleanor’s hand which printed in Roman lettering on the outside
of a parcel the address of Sir James Cusping, K.B.E. Inside were two
thousand pounds in treasury notes, and on a slip of paper in the same
handwriting: “_Conscience money._ Found in a taxi.”
THE END
Transcriber’s Note:
Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent
hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged, as were
jargon, dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings. Dialect
sometimes omits apostrophes in contractions. Thirteen misspelled words
were corrected.
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Those in bold are surrounded by equal signs, =like this=.
Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, or partially
printed letters and punctuation, were corrected. Final stops were
substituted for commas at the end of sentences. Duplicate words at
line endings were removed.
The word ‘and’ was removed from ‘This seemed to satisfy the big man,
[and] except that he growled:’