Jim had been engaged to spend this week-end with a party, of which it is
sufficient to say that though it would probably be amusing, it would not
appear in the columns of the _Morning Post_. But on the Saturday
afternoon he sent an excuse and remained in town instead. Much as he
hated solitude, he had got something to do which made solitude a
necessary evil. He had got to sit down and think, and continue thinking
till he had made up his mind. He had to adopt a certain course of
action, or by not acting at all commit himself to another course.
Claude had not come back into the room after sending that message by the
telephone, and calling to him the farewell he had been unable to answer.
A few seconds before only, when he himself had come into the room and
found Claude examining the counterfoils of his cheque-book, he had
thought that all was over, and had Claude said nothing to him, just
looked at him, and pointed with a finger to the blank counterfoil close
to the end of the book, Jim would have confessed. But Claude had spoken
at once those incredible words, and the moment after had confirmed the
reality of them by the message to his bank. The immensity of that relief
had taken away Jim’s power of speech; had he tried to use his voice he
must have screamed. Then he heard the door of the flat shut, and the
next moment he was rolling on the sofa, his face buried in its
cushions, to stifle his hysterical laughter.
The incredible had happened; the impossible was now part of the sober
history of the month. The bank had called in question the cheque;
evidently Claude had come down here to see whether he had drawn a cheque
of corresponding date, had found a blank counterfoil (not the first in
the book), and had accepted that as evidence that the cheque was of his
own drawing. The possibility of a forgery never apparently occurred to
him. His vaunted carelessness about money matters was strikingly
exemplified; he had not exaggerated it in the least. What a blessed
decree of Providence that one’s brother-in-law shall be so rich and such
an idiot! Jim felt almost satisfied with the world.
But next moment with the same suddenness as this spasm of relief had
come, it ceased. Swift and huge as the genie of some Arabian tale, a
doubt arose. And before it fully developed itself, it was a doubt no
longer, but a certainty. For one moment his relief had tricked him into
believing that Claude thought the cheque to be of his own drawing; the
next, Jim could no more delude himself with that. Rich as Claude was,
fool as he was, it was not possible that he should believe himself to
have drawn five hundred pounds in cash but a week ago, and to-day find
no trace of it, nor any possible memory of how he had spent it. No, the
cheque had been called in question; Claude therefore must know that
forgery had been committed. That was certain.
But he had told his bankers that the cheque was genuine.
Jim got up from the sofa, put the cushion in its place, and smoothed it
with mechanical precision. What did this mean? Did he guess by whom the
forgery was committed? In a moment Jim felt injured and indignant at the
idea of such a possibility crossing Claude’s mind. He had never given
him the shadow of ground for thinking that such a thing as forgery was
possible to him. It was an insult of the grossest kind, if such a notion
had ever presented itself to him. But Claude was of a suspicious nature;
once before, Jim remembered, Dora had talked some nonsense about Jim’s
having cheated at croquet, and Claude had said that he was satisfied
that this was not the case, when Jim told him it was not. He won a
sovereign over that silly game of croquet.
But it was monstrous--if true--that Claude should suspect him of this.
It was impossible for any self-respecting person, however unworthy of
self-respect, to stop in his rooms, accept his hospitality, until he had
made sure that such an idea had never crossed Claude’s mind. His sense
of injury bordered upon the virtuous. And then, with disconcerting
rapidity, sense of injury and virtue all vanished. He could not keep it
up. He saw through himself.
Once more his mind went back to the rapturous possibility that had
caused him to bury his face in the sofacushion. Was there any chance of
Claude’s believing that the cheque was genuine? But already the question
did not need an answer. That possibility was out of sight, below the
horizon, and he was here alone, swimming, drowning.
That Claude knew forgery had been committed was certain then, and for
some reason he shielded the forger. Either he suspected Jim (the sense
of injury and virtue did not make themselves felt now), or he did not.
If he did not, good. If he did, well, good also, since he shielded him.
Quick-witted and mentally nimble as he was, Jim took a little while to
realize that situation. In the normal course of life he would
necessarily meet Claude often, and he could not see himself doing so. He
could not see how social intercourse was any more possible. Or would
Claude avoid such intercourse, manage somehow that they should not meet?
That might be managed for a time, but not permanently. Dora would ask
him to dine, or Lady Osborne would ask him to stay, and either he or
Claude would always have to frame excuses. Yet Claude’s words of
farewell to him had been quite normal and cordial. There was nothing
there that anticipated unpleasantness or estrangement in the future.
Perhaps Claude harboured no suspicion against him. Then whom did he
shield? There was only one person, himself, who could have done this,
whom there could be sufficient motive for shielding.
And then suddenly his own dislike of his brother-in-law flared up into
hatred, the hatred of the injurer for the injured, which is one of the
few things in this world that are pure black, and have no ray of
reflection of anything good, however inverted and distorted, in them.
And he was living in the rooms, eating the food, drinking the wine of
the man whom he hated. That Claude had loaded him with benefits made, as
once before, his offence the greater. And he was in Claude’s power; at
any moment, even if he did not suspect Jim now of having done this, he
had but to send a further message to the bank, saying that their
suspicion was correct, and he had not drawn the cheque, and he would
suspect no further, for he would know.
The hot hours of the sunny afternoon went by, not slowly at all, but
with unusual speed, though he passed them doing nothing, but
occasionally walking up and down the room. He had told Parker when he
sent his telegram of excuse about the river party that he would dine at
home and alone, and it was a matter for surprise when he was told that
dinner was ready. And after dinner he sat again in the room where this
morning he had found Claude with his cheque-book, as far from his
decision as ever. But about one thing he had made up his mind; he
believed Claude knew, or at any rate, suspected who had done this. There
was no other explanation that could account at all reasonably for his
shielding the culprit. It was no time to invent Utopian explanations
(and even they would be elusive to the seeker); Jim wanted to see the
things that were actually the case on this evening.
What was to be done? What was to be done? He could not tell Claude that
his suspicions were grossly and gratuitously insulting, for Claude had
expressed none; he had said there was nothing to suspect, no ground for
suspicion. Nor did Jim see that it was possible to continue seeing
Claude, feeling that he was in his hands, that at any moment he might
disown the cheque, and let the bank pursue the usual course. Claude had
been generous, quixotically generous that morning; but who knew whether
that might not only be a momentary impulse, or even a move merely to
gain time, to consider? It was a serious step to let one’s wife’s
brother be prosecuted. But very likely he had only done it to stay
immediate proceedings: very likely he wanted to talk it over with Dora
first.... And at that thought the breaking point came. Through these
solitary hours Jim had faced a good deal, and the fibres of endurance
were weakened. And he could not face that. Anything was more tolerable
than the picture of Dora being told.
Generous! That word had occurred in his thoughts, and it had been
applied by him to Claude. It was no less than his due; he had always
been generous. His generosity had not cost him much, had not entailed
self-denial, but it had been there, it had been given. First in very
little ways, as when he gave Jim free living at the flat; then in larger
ways, when for the sake of Dora he imputed mere carelessness to himself
instead of letting crime be brought home to another. The price of his
generosity concerned nobody. And Jim was beaten. The worst of him
surrendered to something a little better than the worst. The surrender
was not nobly made; it was made from necessity, because every other
course was a little more impossible than that. Claude had to be told. He
knew that he was in Claude’s hands already; the most he could do and the
least was to seem to put himself there. And then suddenly he felt so
tired that thought was no longer possible, and he fell asleep where he
sat.
* * * * *
It was deep in the night when he woke, for the noise of traffic had
almost sunk to silence, but from the dreamlessness of exhausted sleep
he passed straight into full consciousness again, and took up the tragic
train of thought where he had left it. He did not reconsider his
decision--it was cut in steel--nor did he desire to, for to wish for the
impossible requires the strong spring of hope, and of hope he had none.
He was beaten; he resigned. And then on the outer darkness there shone a
little ray. Claude, whom a few hours ago he had hated with the rancour
of the injurer, had been generous, appallingly generous. Was there
nothing he could do for Claude?
Yes; one thing, the hardest of all, the utmost. For weeks he knew things
had not gone well with him and Dora. He got on her nerves, his
vulgarities (as was most natural) irritated her, and she could no longer
see in him anything but them. But there was more in Claude than that.
She did not know it, but he might tell her. Perhaps if she knew, she
would see, would understand.... Or had Claude already told her? That had
seemed possible before, a thing easily pictured. But he did not think it
likely now. It was not consistent with what Claude had already done. For
it must have been for his wife’s sake that he had acted thus.
A little while before it had seemed to Jim the worst possible thing, the
one unbearable thing, that Dora should know. But looked at from this new
standpoint it was different. If Claude told her, it was one thing; it
was another if he did. If he did, if he could, it might help Dora to see
that there was something in Claude beyond his commonness. And--Jim was a
long time coming to it--it might in some degree atone, not in Claude’s
eyes, for he would not tell Claude what he meant to do, but in--in those
eyes which look on all evil things and all good things, and see the
difference between them.
There were a few arrangements to be made on Sunday, but he made them
without flinching. Claude and Dora were at Grote, and a line to Claude
there, asking to see him as soon as possible on Monday, and a line to
Dora at Park Lane, saying that he wanted to see her alone in the
afternoon, was all that was necessary. It was better to take those
interviews in that order--he could not help being clever over it--for it
was easier to face Dora, when able to tell her that he had already
confessed to Claude. What he had to say would come with more force thus.
She would see that for the sake of helping Claude and her, he had done
something that could not have been easy.
* * * * *
All that day down at Grote they waited for news from Sir Henry, but none
came. Lord Osborne, always optimistic, saw the most hopeful significance
in his silence.
“Depend upon it, my dear,” he said to Dora as she went to bed that
night, “depend upon it Sir Henry has seen my lady again, and has quite
forgotten that we might be in some anxiety, because, as he knows now,
forgetting he ain’t told us, there’s nought to be anxious about. That’s
like those busy men--Lord, my dear! fancy passing your life in other
people’s insides, so to speak--why it would make you forget your own
name. But if there had been any cause for us to worry, depend upon it
he’d have let us know. I bet I shall be making a joke of my lady’s
ailments before I’m twenty-four hours older. I’ll be getting a few ready
for her as I do my undressing to-night. And it’s me as is cheering you
up, my dear, this moment. You go to sleep quiet, or else I’ll tell Mrs.
O. that you’ve given me such an uncomfortable Sunday as I’ve not had
since first we was married.”
* * * * *
Then came Monday morning. Dora had her early post brought up to her
bedroom, but since she had received Saturday posts forwarded from town
yesterday, there was nothing sent on. In fact, there was only one letter
for her directed to her here. And she opened it and read it.
Claude had already left by an early train when she got down. She did not
expect this, since, as far as she knew, he had no engagements that
morning and had intended not to leave till a later train, but he had
gone. Lord Osborne and she were going to lunch in the country and drive
back afterward, but after breakfast, when the last guests had gone, she
went to him. He was in the room he called the “lib’ry” and was reading
the _Morning Post_.
“See here, my dear,” he said, “and think how we’re all at the mercy of
the press. There’s my lady giving a little party this evening, and I’m
blest if they don’t know all about it already. Listen here: ‘Lady
Osborne has a small party to-night to meet----’”
“Ah, don’t,” said Dora, not meaning to speak, but knowing she had to.
Instantly the paper fell to the ground.
“What is it, my dear?” he said.
“I have heard from Sir Henry,” she said.
She gave him a moment for that; then she went on----
“Dad, dear,” she said, “there is trouble. He saw her again yesterday,
and has written to me about it. There is something wrong. He does not
know for certain what it is, but they will have to find out. Oh, it is
no use my hinting at it. You’ve got to know.”
“Yes, my dear, yes,” said he.
“They have got to operate. It may be very bad indeed. They can’t tell
yet. They don’t know till they see.”
Dora drew a long breath.
“It may be cancer,” she said, and by instinct she put her hand over her
eyes, so that she should not see him.
“Mrs. O.?” he said very quietly.
Dora heard the buzzing of honey-questing bees in the flower-border
outside the window, the clicking of a mowing machine on the lawn, and
from close beside her the slow breathing of Lord Osborne. Without
looking at him, she knew that he had pursed up his lips, almost as if
whistling, a habit of his in perplexed moments. He had been smoking a
cigar when she came in, and she heard him lay this down on a tray by his
elbow. And then he spoke.
“Well, my dear,” he said, “we’ve all got to help her bear it, whatever
it is.”
Dora found it impossible to speak for a moment. She could have given him
sympathy had there been anything in his words that suggested it was
wanted. She could have told him that they must hope for the best, that
the worst was by no means certain yet; there were a hundred quite
suitable things to say, if only he had appeared to need them in the
least. But quite clearly, he did not; he did not happen to be thinking
about himself at all or to want any consolation. And in face of this
simplicity, she was dumb. It was perfect: there was nothing to be said
except give the sign of assent.
“And, my dear, if you’ll order the motor round at once, I’ll put a few
papers together, as I must take up with me, and then I think I’ll be
off. And what’ll you do, my dear? Hadn’t you better stop as planned and
have your morning in the country? Not but what I should dearly like to
have you by my side.”
“Ah, Dad!” said she, and kissed him.
He smiled at her, holding her hand tight a moment.
“We’ve got to keep our pecker up, my dear,” he said, “so as to help her
keep hers. She’ll be brave enough when she sees we’re brave, God bless
her! And brave we are and will be, my dearie. We’d scorn to be cowards.
And I’m glad we didn’t know this till this morning, for she’ll be
pleased to hear as we had such a pleasant Sunday.”
“Yes, she could think of nothing else when she talked to me on
Saturday,” said Dora.
What little more there was to be told she told him on their way up, but
otherwise their drive was rather silent. Once or twice he leaned out of
the window and spoke to the chauffeur.
“You can get along a bit quicker here,” he said. “There’s an empty
road.”
Then he turned to Dora.
“If you don’t mind going a bit above the average, my dear?” he asked.
“’Twould be a good thing, too, if we got home before Claude, and it’s
but a slow train he’ll have caught.”
And once again as they crossed the great heathery upland of Ashdown
Forest, redolent with gorse and basking in the sun: “Seems strange on a
beautiful day like this!” he said. “But there! who knows but that we
shan’t have some pleasant weather yet?”
* * * * *
Claude, meantime, getting Jim’s letter by the same post that had brought
his news to Dora, had left by an earlier train, in order to see Jim as
soon as possible. He had gone before Dora came down, and thus heard
nothing of Sir Henry’s letter, and though he was anxious to know, as
soon as he got to town, how his mother was, he determined to go to the
flat on his way to Park Lane. That would not take long, whatever it
might be that Jim wished to tell him; a few minutes, he imagined, would
suffice.
All the way up he pondered over it, but think as he might, he could find
only one explanation of Jim’s request, and that was that he was going to
confess. That was the best thing that could happen, and as far as he
could see it was the only thing. But the thought of his own part
embarrassed him horribly: he had no liking for his brother-in-law, and
guessed that on Jim’s side there was a similar barrenness of affection.
All this would make the interview difficult and painful: he could
forgive him easily and willingly, but instinctively he felt how chilly a
thing forgiveness is, if there is no warmth of feeling behind to
vitalize it. But when first he suspected that Jim had done this, he felt
sorry for him; if it turned out that he was going to confess, his pity
was certainly not diminished.
* * * * *
On the threshold he paused: his repugnance for what lay before him was
almost invincible, and all his pondering had led to nothing practical:
he was still absolutely without idea as to what he should say himself.
But the thing had to be done; waiting made it no easier, and he went in.
He would have to trust to the promptings of the moment: all he was sure
of was that he did not feel unkind, but only sorry. So--had he known
it--he need not have been so very uncomfortable.
Jim was standing in the window, looking out on to the street. He turned
as Claude came in, but said nothing. Something had to be done, and
Claude spoke.
“You asked me to come and see you,” he said. “So I came up as early as I
could. Oh, good morning, Jim!”
He looked up, and saw that Jim did not speak because he could not. His
face was horribly white, and his lips were twitching. And at the sight
of him, helpless, and, whatever he had done, suffering horribly, a far
greater warmth of pity came over Claude than he had felt hitherto. All
his kindness was challenged. And the prompting of the moment was not a
mistaken one.
“Oh, I say, old chap,” he said, and stopped short.
For Jim broke. During all those two hideous days he had nerved himself
up to encounter abuse, disgust, any form of righteous wrath and
contempt. He knew well that Claude had spared him not for his own sake,
but for Dora’s, and in this confession he was going to make, he was
prepared to be treated as he deserved, though Claude had spared him
public disgrace. But what he had not nerved himself up to encounter was
kindness, such as that which rang in those few words. And once more, but
now not with hysterical laughter, but with the weeping of exhaustion and
shame and misery, he buried his head in that same sofa cushion.
Claude felt helpless, awkward, brutal. But it was no use doing anything
yet: there was no reaching Jim till that violence had abated, and he sat
there waiting, just crossing over once to the door, and bolting it for
fear Parker should come in. And at length he laid his hand on Jim’s
shoulder.
“It’s knocked you about awfully,” he said. “I can see that, I’m awfully
sorry. You must have had a hellish two days. You needn’t tell me, you
know.”
Jim pulled himself together, and raised his head.
“That’s just what I must do,” he said. “I forged your cheque.”
“Well, well,” said Claude.
But Jim had got the thing said, and now he went on with suppressed and
bitter vehemence.
“I’ve always been a swindler, I think,” he said. “I’m rotten: that’s
what the matter with me. I’ve cheated all my life. I can’t even play
games without cheating. I cheated you at croquet once, and won a
sovereign. Dora saw.”
Again Claude’s instinct, not his reason, prompted him and not amiss. It
only told him he was sorry for Jim, and could a little reassure him over
this.
“But she didn’t know we were playing for money,” said he quickly. “In
fact, I told her we were not.”
“So it’s twice that you have spared me. Her, rather,” said Jim.
Claude accepted the correction. It was an obvious one to him no less
than to Jim.
“Yes: she’d have been awfully cut up if she had known,” he said simply.
Jim got up.
“I wonder if you can believe I am sorry?” he said. “I am. My God, I’ve
touched bottom now.”
“Why, yes, of course I believe it,” said Claude. “It’s broken you up, I
can see that. Fellows don’t break unless they are sorry. But as for the
thing itself, if you don’t mind my saying it, I think all cheating is
touching bottom. It’s a rotten game. You know that now, though. And if
you can believe me, I’m awfully sorry too. It’s a wretched thing to
happen. But I’m so glad you told me: it makes an awful difference,
that.”
Jim was silent a moment.
“I want to ask you something,” he said at length. “When did you first
suspect me? Was it when I came in and found you here on Saturday?”
Claude bit his lip: he did not at all like answering this.
“No, before that,” he said. “At least I was afraid it was you as
soon--as soon as I found I had left a cheque-book here. I’m sorry, but
as you ask me, there it is.”
“From your previous knowledge of me?” asked Jim quietly.
“Well, yes, I suppose so, though you make me feel a brute. I say, I
don’t think it’s any good going back on that, either for your sake or
mine.”
“Yes it is: it hurts, that’s why it’s good.”
Claude shifted his place on the sofa a shade nearer Jim, and again laid
his hand on his shoulder.
“Well, I think you’ve been hurt enough for the present,” he said. “I
don’t like seeing it. You’ve had as much as you can stand just now.”
Jim shook his head.
“There’s another thing, too,” he said. “I’m absolutely cleaned out, and
I can’t repay you till next quarter.”
Claude considered this. It was perfectly cheap and easy to say that he
need not think of paying at all, but his judgment gave him something
better to say than that.
“Well, we’ll wait till then,” he said. “I don’t want to be
unreasonable.”
Again Jim’s lip quivered, and Claude seeing that rose to go.
“Well, I must get back,” he said. “I want to hear how the mater is. She
hasn’t been well, and Sir Henry Franks saw her on Saturday, and again
yesterday. Look round after lunch, will you? I don’t think Dora and the
governor get back till then. And you’ll come on to the musical show this
evening? There’ll be some good singing. Right, oh!”
But still Jim could not speak, and there was silence again. Then Claude
spoke quickly, finally.
“Buck up, old chap,” he said, and went straight to the door without
looking back.
He let himself out, and went for a turn up and down the street before
going to Park Lane. He had been a good deal moved, for, kind-hearted to
the core, it was dreadful to him to see, as he expressed it, “a fellow
so awfully down in his luck.” And he was conscious of another thing that
struck him as curious. He had liked Jim during those few minutes he had
seen him to-day, a thing he had never done before, and he wished he
could have made things easier for him, which again was a new sensation,
for all that he had ever done for his brother-in-law he had done,
frankly, for Dora’s sake. But he could not see how to make this easier:
it was no use telling him that cheating was a thing of no importance; it
was no use telling him he need not pay back what he owed. That was not
the way to make the best of this very bad job. Of course, Jim must feel
miserable; it would be a thing to sicken at if he did not. Luckily,
however, there was no doubting the sincerity of his wretchedness. And
yet the boyish sort of advice implied by the “buck up” was in place,
too. But he felt vaguely that he could have done much better than he had
done: in that, had he known it, he would have found that Jim disagreed
with him.
* * * * *
He was told to his surprise, by the servant who let him in, that Dora
and his father had arrived a few minutes ago, and that Dora wished to
see him as soon as he came in. Accordingly he went straight to her room.
“Oh, Claude!” she said, “you have come. We didn’t know where you were. I
had no idea you had left Grote till I came down to breakfast.”
There was trouble in her voice, and he noticed it, wondering if by any
chance it had something to do with the trouble he had seen already that
day. But clearly it could not.
“What is it?” he said quickly.
“Your mother,” she said, for it was no use attempting to break things.
“Sir Henry saw her again yesterday. There has to be an operation. There
is some growth. They can’t tell what it is for certain until they
operate. Dad is going to see her now. They have settled it is best for
him to tell her. Of course he won’t tell her what the fear is. Oh
Claude! I am so sorry; it is so dreadful.”
“How does the governor take it?” asked Claude.
“Exactly as you would expect.”
“But it will be awful for him telling her,” said he. “I had much better.
Per or I, anyhow. It’ll tear his heart out.”
“He won’t let you. When Sir Henry spoke of telling her, he said at once.
‘That’s for me to do.’ And then he went away to have a few minutes alone
before going to her.”
A tap came at the door: Lord Osborne always tapped before he entered
Dora’s room. It was her bit of a flat, he called it, and his tap was
ringing the bell, and asking if she was in.
“Well, Claude, my lad,” he said, “Dora will have told you. We’ve all got
to keep up a brave heart, for your mother’s sake.”
Claude kissed his father, and somehow that went to Dora’s heart. He had
once said to her that kissing seemed “pretty meaningless” when she was
not concerned.
“Yes, Dad,” said he. “That we will.”
“That’s right, my boy. And that blessed girl of yours has been so good
to me, such as never was, and if she’ll give her Dad a kiss, too, why
there we are, and thank you, my dear. Now I’m going to see mother and
tell her, and I daresay she’ll like to see you both some time to-day,
though if she doesn’t, why you’ll both understand, won’t you? They’ve
fixed it for to-morrow, if she’s agreeable.”
“Dad, do let me do that for you?” said Claude. “It’s better for me to
tell her.”
“No, my lad, that’s for your father and no other,” said he, “though it’s
like you to suggest it, and thank you, my boy. I’ll come straight back
to you, my dears, and tell you how all goes, and how she takes it, and
pray try to quiet Mrs. Per. She’s carrying on so silly, wringing her
hands and asking, ‘Is she better? Is she better?’ And telling me to bear
up and all, as if I didn’t know that, small thanks to her! Per takes her
back to Sheffield this afternoon, thank the Lord, and may I be pardoned
for that speech, but it’s how I feel with her ridiculous ways.”
He went straight to his wife’s room, and was admitted by the nurse. Lady
Osborne was in bed, of course, but smiled to him with neither more nor
less than her usual cheerfulness.
“Well, and there’s my Eddie,” she said. “And I hope you’ve had a
pleasant Sunday, my dear, as I’m sure you must have, with such pleasant
company as came down to see you. I tell you I’m feeling a regular fraud
this morning, for what with lying in bed and the medicine Sir Henry gave
me, which took the pain away beautiful, I feel ever so much better. Now
sit you down, Mr. O., and have a chat. Are you comfortable in that
chair, my dear?”
“That I am, specially since I know you’re feeling easier and more like
yourself, mother,” he said. “And before long, please God, we’ll have you
looking after us all again.”
His wife was silent a moment. Then she spoke.
“Eddie, my dear,” she said, “Sir Henry said as how you would come and
have a talk with me, for he’s told me nought himself, but just said,
‘You lie still and don’t worry, Mrs. Osborne,’ for he forgets as how
you’ve been honoured. And I’ve guessed, my dear, that he means you’ve to
tell me what’s the matter with me, and what they’re going to do to me.
My dear, I’ll lie here a year, and take all the medicine they choose, if
only----”
He moved his chair a little nearer the bed: the tears stood in his eyes,
but his mouth was firm.
“I’ve come to tell you, my dear,” he said, “and we can’t always be
choosers to have things the way we wish. We’ve got to submit to the will
of God, and when them as are wise doctors, like Sir Henry, tells us it’s
got to be this, or it’s got to be that, it’s His will, my dear, no less
than the doctor’s word. He’s sent us a sight of joy and happiness and
to-day, Maria, he’s sending us a bit of trouble, for a change, I may
say. But we’ll take it thankful, old lady, same as we’ve taken all them
beautiful years that we’ve had together. My dear, if I could get into
bed there instead of you, and go through it for you! But that’s not to
be. I’ll tell you as quick as I can, my dear, for there’s no use in
being silly and delaying, but----”
He blew his nose violently, then left his chair, and knelt down by the
bed, taking her hand in his. And he kissed it.
“They don’t quite know what’s wrong with you, dearie,” he said, “and
they’ve got to see. You won’t feel nothing; they’ll give you a whiff of
chloroform, and you’ll go off as easy as getting to sleep of a night.
And when you wake, they hope that there’ll be good news for you, my
dear, and that, as I say, you’ll soon be about again, scolding and
vexing us and making our lives a burden, as you’ve always done, God
bless you. There, Maria, I can manage my joke still, and I’m mistaken if
I don’t see you smiling at me, same as ever.”
She had smiled, but she grew grave again.
“I want to know it all, Eddie, my dear,” she said. “There’s nothing you
can tell me as I shall fear more than what I guess. Do they think it’s
the cancer?”
“No, they don’t say that,” he said. “But they’ve got to see what it is.
They’re not going to think anything yet, until they see.”
“Thank you, dearie, for telling me so gentle,” she said. “I declare it’s
a relief to me to have it spoken. And when is it to be?”
“They said something about to-morrow. But that’s as you please, Maria.
But, my dear, there’s no use in putting it off; better have done with
it.”
“No; I wish as it could have been to-day. But what a lot of trouble the
inside is, as I said to Dora on Saturday. Eddie, my dear, I’m such a
coward. You’ve all got to be brave for me; it’s a lot of worry I’m
giving. But it’s not my fault as far as I know; I’ve lived clean and
wholesome. It’s a thing as is sent to one. Lor’, my dear, you’re
crying. Now let’s have no sadness in this house; it would be shame on us
if we couldn’t take our bit of trouble like men and women, instead of
like a pig as squeals before you touch it. But what an upset! There’s
you, my dear, wishing it was you, and there’s me, being so glad it’s not
you. We shan’t agree about that, Mr. O. And now, my dear, if you’ll say
a bit of a prayer, same as we’ve always said together every morning, you
and I, before going down to our breakfast, and then let’s have Dora and
Claude in, and have a bit of a chat. ‘Our Father,’ my dear. We don’t
want more than that; it’s what we’ve always said together of a morning,
and it hasn’t taken us far wrong yet.”
There was silence a little after that was said, and then Lord Osborne
got up.
“And if I haven’t forgot to kiss you ‘Good morning,’ my dear,” he said.
“Well, that’s that. And shall I fetch Dora and Claude? And what about
Mrs. Per? Per’s out, I know. He left early this morning from Grote and
had business in the City, which he said would keep him to lunch. Maria,
my dear, my vote’s against Mrs. Per.”
“Wouldn’t she feel left out?” asked his wife.
“Well, she’d feel no more than is the case,” said he. “Give me Mrs. Per,
my dear, when there’s Shakespeare or Chopin ahead, but not now. Such
grimaces as she’s been making in the Italian room! You’d have thought
her face was a bit of string, and she trying to tie knots in it! No,
Mrs. O.; I’ll fetch Dora and Claude, and that’s all you get me to do.
You may ring the bell for Mrs. Per, but not me.”
“Well, perhaps it would be more comfortable,” said she, “without Lizzie,
if you’re sure as she won’t feel she should have been sent for. I don’t
feel to want any antics to-day.”
He stood by the bed a moment before going.
“I’ve never loved you like to-day,” he said.
“Well, that’s good hearing,” she said; “but you repeat yourself, Eddie.
I’ve heard you say that before, my dear.”
“And it was always true,” said he.
* * * * *
The moment he had left the room she called to the nurse.
“Now make me tidy, nurse,” she said, “and if you’d smooth the
bedclothes, and a pillow more, my dear, would make me look a little more
brisk-like and fit for company. There’s Lady Dora coming, so pretty and
so sweet to me, and my son Claude, her husband. My hair’s all anyhow, so
if you’d just put a brush to it, and there’s a couple of rings on the
dressing table, which I’ll put on; handsome, aren’t they, diamonds and
rubies. Thank you, nurse, and we’re only just in time. Come in, my
dears; come in and welcome.
“Such a way to receive you,” she said. “But there, why apologize, for if
I didn’t always say my bedroom was the pleasantest room in the house.
Dora, my dearie, you’ve taken good care of Mr. O., and thank you, and
he’s so pleased with you that I’m on the way to be jealous. You wait
till I’m about again, and see if I don’t cut you out. Mr. O., do you
hear that? Dora’s got no chance against me, when I’m not a guy like
this, lying in my bed. And you sit there, Dora, and Claude by you, as
should be, and Mr. O. on the other side. There’s a nice comfortable
party, what I like.”
“What’s this talk of a guy?” said Claude. “You look famous, mother.”
“Well, then, my looks don’t belie me. Who shouldn’t look famous with her
friends and family coming to see her like this? Dora, my dear, you’ve
got to take my place to-day, if you’d be so kind, for there’s the
concert this evening, and I won’t have it put off. Lor’, I shall be
here, as comfortable as ever I was, with my door open, and listening,
and feel that I was with you all, wearing my new tiara and shaking
hands. No, my dear, there’s no sense in putting it off. Such nonsense!
I’ve asked our friends to come and see us this evening, and them as feel
inclined shall come, if my word is anything. But we’ll be a woman short
at dinner, thanks to my silliness. I wonder if Lady Austell would be
able to come, for there’s the savoury of prawns as she took twice of
last time she dined with us. I bid her to the party, I know, but not to
dinner, I think. Claude, do you go and telephone to her now for me, and
you, Mr. O., go down and help him; and I’ll chat to Dora the while.”
There was no mistaking the intention of this diplomacy, and the two men
left the room. Then Lady Osborne turned to Dora.
“My dear,” she said, “you’ll have heard all there is to know. And I just
want to tell you that I’m facing it O. K., as Claude says. There’ll be
nothing on my part to make anybody else shake and tremble. But you’ll
have an eye to your dad, dear. He feels it more than me, though God
knows, I’m coward enough really. It’s got to be, and though I hate the
thought of the knife--well, my dear, those as are born into the world
and have the pleasure of it have to take the troubles as well as the
joys. And if they find the worst, I’m prepared for that, as long as I
know you’ll stick to Mr. O., and help him. And there’s Claude, too.
Sometimes I’ve thought you’ve not been so happy together as I could have
wished. I don’t know what is wrong, but I’ve thought sometimes as all
isn’t quite right. I wanted to say just that to you; that was why I sent
them down together, so crafty. But he loves you, my dear, and you can’t
do more than love. And you’re going to bear him a child, please God. My
dear, that’s the best thing God ever thought of, if I may say so, for us
women. I’ve had two, bless them, and I should have liked to have had a
hundred. I’d have borne each one with thanksgiving.”
She was silent a moment.
“Claude’s a kind lad,” she said. “He takes after father. And he loves
you, too. I’m not presuming, I hope, my dear. That’s all that’s been on
my mind, and I wanted to get it said. You’ll forgive an old woman as is
your boy’s mother. Thank you, my dear, for giving me that kiss. I’ll
treasure that. I’ll think of that when they send me off to sleep
to-morrow.”
The others came back at this moment with the news that Lady Austell
would come to dinner.
“Now that’s nice for your brother,” said Lady Osborne. “He’ll like to
find his mamma here.”
* * * * *
Dora had telephoned to Jim to say she would come and see him after
lunch. Since receiving his note that morning, she had given but little
thought to what he might have to say to her, for these other events
banished all else from her mind. In spite of that which lay before them
all, she could hardly feel sad, she could hardly feel anxious, for the
noble simplicity and serenity of the other three infected her, to the
exclusion of all else, with its own peace. She had not got to comfort
anybody, to make any effort herself; she was lifted off her feet and
borne along in these beautiful shining waters of courage and quietness.
Indeed, it seemed to her that no one was making any effort at all; she
did not find her father-in-law sitting with his head in his hands, and
rousing himself, when she came in, to a semblance of cheerfulness; she
did not see Claude trying to suppress signs of emotion. They all behaved
quite naturally. At first it amazed her, for she knew, at any rate, that
there was no lack of love and tenderness in either of them; it seemed
that they must be exerting some stupendous control over themselves. Then
she saw, slowly but surely, how wide of the mark such an explanation
was. They were exerting no control at all, they behaved like that
because they felt like that, because their attitude toward life and
death and love was serene and large and quiet. All these months it had
been there for her to see, but, inexplicably blind as she now felt she
had been, she had needed this demonstration of it before she began, even
faintly, to understand.
It was no wonder, then, that Jim’s affairs had been obliterated from her
mind, but now as she entered that flat, she wondered what he wanted that
should make him wish to see her in this appointed way. For a moment,
with a sickening qualm, she went back to that quarter of an hour’s
suspense on Saturday morning, when she had allowed herself to fear that
he was connected in some hideous fashion with the cheque Claude could
not recollect about. That had haunted her afterward, too, when she lay
long awake at Grote on Saturday night; but Claude had said so
emphatically that the cheque was all right, that she felt her fear to be
fanciful. Meantime Jim did not yet know about Lady Osborne, and as soon
as she entered she told him.
“Oh, Jim!” she said, “we are in trouble. Lady Osborne has got to have an
operation. There is something wrong, and they want to see what it is.
There is a growth of some sort. And, oh, I have been so blind, so blind!
They are all behaving so splendidly, and yet behaviour is the wrong
word; they behave splendidly just because they are splendid. I never
guessed they were like that. I’ll tell you all about it. But first, what
did you want to see me about? You don’t look well, dear. What is it?”
“I’m all right,” said he.
“But what is it?” asked Dora again, vaguely frightened.
Jim leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees, propping his head on
his hands. This was worse than the telling of Claude had been, but it
had to be done. He had promised some humble, sorry little denizen within
him that he would do it.
“Did Claude speak to you about a cheque,” he asked, “which he could not
remember drawing?”
“Yes, and then afterward he said it was all right,” said she.
“Then I’ve got to tell you,” he said.
Then her fear seized her again in full force.
“Don’t, Jim,” she cried, “don’t tell me there’s anything wrong.”
“It’s no use beating about,” he said. “I forged that cheque and cashed
it. Claude knows; I told him.”
Dora sat still a moment. Then she put her hands up to her head.
“Open the window,” she said, “I am stifling.”
He got up and threw open the window away from the street. Then he walked
over to the chimney piece and leaned his elbows on it, with his back to
her.
At first Dora felt nothing but hard anger and indignation, and she knew
that if she spoke at all it would be to say something which could do no
good, and perhaps only make a breach between them that could never be
healed.
And it was long that she waited, it was long before any spark of pity
for him was lit. Then she spoke.
“Oh, Jim, what a miserable business!” she said. “But why did you tell
me? Couldn’t you have spared me knowing? Or perhaps you were afraid
Claude would tell me.”
“No; I don’t tell you for that reason,” he said. “After I saw Claude
this morning, I knew he would never tell you.”
“Why, then?”
“Because I want to tell you about Claude. It may do some good. Well,
Claude’s treated me in a way that’s beyond my understanding. He is
beyond your understanding, too, at present, and that’s why I am telling
you. I wish you could have been here when I told him. He was only sorry
for me. If he was God, he couldn’t have been more merciful. And it
wasn’t put on. He felt it; and I wanted, for once, to see if I couldn’t
be of some use.”
He turned round and faced her.
“I want you to know what sort of a fellow Claude really is,” he said. “I
know you don’t get on well, and that’s because you don’t know him. You
judged him first by his face--that, and perhaps a little bit by his
wealth. And then you judged him by what you and I call vulgarity and
want of breeding. That’s not Claude either. Claude’s the fellow who
treated a swindler and a forger in the way I’ve told you. He’s got a
soul that’s more beautiful than his face, you know, and he’s the
handsomest fellow I ever saw. I wanted you to get a glimpse of it. It
might help things. That’s all I’ve got to say. I’m sorry for giving you
the pain of knowing what I’ve done, but I thought it might do good. He’s
just broken me up with his goodness. That’s Claude.”
The anger was quite gone now, and it was a tremulous hand that Dora laid
on his shoulder.
“Oh, Jim,” she said, “thank you! I am so sorry for you, you know, and
I’m grateful. I shall go back and tell Claude I know, and--and thank
him, and be sorry.”
“Yes, that is the best thing you can do,” said Jim.
* * * * *
Claude was alone in their sitting room when she got back, and, as he
always did, he rose from his chair as she entered. For a moment she
stood looking at him, mute, beseeching. Then she came to him.
“Thank you about Jim, dear,” she said. “He has just told me about it, to
make me--make me see what you were. Oh, Claude, I didn’t know.”
And then the tears came. But his arm was around her, and her head lay on
his shoulder.