Snow, C.P. - George Passant (aka Strangers and Brothers).txt

by Unknown

  "It's not useful now," I said.

  "It might be extremely useful," said Jack. Then he took back the words, and said: "Of course you're right. I can't use money until they give up these inquiries." He broke off: "You know"--he showed, instead of the fear and resentment I had seen so often in his face that night, a frank, surprised and completely candid look--"these inquiries seem fantastic. They ask me about something I've said years ago--what I told people about the profits of the agency and so on. I just can't believe that what I said then might ruin everything now. Even if I'd done the dishonest things they believe I've done -which I've not--I'm certain that I still couldn't believe it. All those actions of mine they ask about--they're so remote."

  In that cry, I felt he was speaking from his heart.

  When I left him, I walked straight to Morcom's. It was after one o'clock, but I had to speak to him that night. As it happened, he was still up. From the first word, his manner was constrained. He asked me to have a drink without any welcome or smile. I said straight away: "I've just come from Jack's. He tells me that you offered him money this afternoon."

  "Yes."

  "Don't you see it may be dangerous?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "If Jack quits now, they'll take George for certain. For him, it's inevitable disaster. If you make it possible for Jack to go--and, well, it's crossed his mind. He's no hero."

  "That is true," said Morcom, still in a cold, disinterested tone.

  "I had to warn you tonight," I said.

  "Yes."

  After a silence, I said: "I'm not too happy about them."

  "I'm not surprised," said Morcom. "I told you this was likely to happen. I thought you wouldn't be able to stop it. I might as well say, though, that I rather resent you considered it necessary to tell people that I was paralysed with worry. I dislike being made to look like a nervous busybody. Even when it turns out to be justified."

  "I said nothing."

  "Jack said that he heard I was very worried. I mentioned it to no one but you."

  Casting back in my mind, I was beginning to reassure myself: then, suddenly, I remembered asking Roy to send word at any sign of trouble--because of Morcom's anxiety.

  Morcom said: "You know?"

  "I'm sorry," I said, "I mentioned it to Roy Calvert. It was my last chance of getting the whole truth. I made it clear----"

  "I told you in confidence," said Morcom.

  I took refuge in being angry with Roy. He knew that he was subtle and astute in human feelings--yet he had been so clumsily indiscreet. But I ought to have know that he, like many others, was in fact, subtle, astute--and indiscreet. The same sensitiveness which made him subtle, which gave him antennae to reach another's feelings, also caused this outburst of indiscretion. For it was from the desire to please in another's company, Jack's or George's, that he produced the news of Morcom's concern--from the same desire to share an emotion with another which is the root of all the deepest subtlety, the subtlety, which, whatever it is used for ultimately, arises from a spontaneous realization and knowledge of the heart.

  Just as, ironically, Morcom himself had once broken into a graver indiscretion in Eden's drawing-room.

  It is one of the myths of character that subtlety and astuteness and discretion go hand in hand by nature--without bleak experience and the caution of age, which takes the edge both from one's sensitiveness and the blunders one used to make. The truth is, if one is impelled to share people's hearts, the person to whom one is speaking, must seem, must be, more vivid for the moment than anyone in the world. And so, even if he is irrelevant to one's serious purpose, if indeed he is the enemy against whom one is working, one still has the temptation to be in a moment's conspiracy with him, for his happiness and one's own against the rest. It is a temptation which would have seemed, even if he troubled to understand it, a frivolous instability to George Passant. But, for many, it is a cause of the petty treasons to which they cannot look back without shame.

  Morcom was speaking with a restrained distress. Some of it I should have expected, whatever the circumstances, if he heard that he was being discussed in a way he felt "undignified." But tonight that was only the excuse for his anger. He was suffering as obviously as George. His cold manner was held by an effort of self-control; he was trying to shelve the anxiety in a justified outburst. Yet his anxiety was physically patent. With a mannerism that I had never seen him use before, he kept stroking his forehead as though the skin were tight.

  We talked over the inquiries. Information must have been laid, I said, a week or two ago. I went on: "Jack told me that he could easily have raised money just before that time. If there had been any call. He said you made your first offer then--is that true, by the way?"

  "I ought to have done it in the summer," said Morcom. "I suppose it came too late. But I couldn't resist doing it at last. I've always had a soft spot for Cotery, you know."

  That was true: it had been true in the days of his bitterest jealousy. It was true now. He was filled with remorse for not having tried to help them until too late.

  In a moment he asked me: "What are the chances in this case?"

  "It's impossible to say. We don't even know they've got enough to prosecute on."

  "What's your opinion?"

  I paused: "I think they'll prosecute."

  "And then?"

  "Again I don't know."

  "I'd like to have your view."

  "Well," I said, "if you remember it's worth very little at this stage--I think the chances are against us."

  "Look," he said, "I can't do anything in the open. I've got to tell you that again. I insist that nothing I've said shall be repeated to anyone else. For any reason whatever. That's got to be respected."

  "Yes."

  "But if I can help in private----" he said. "You've got to ask. Whatever it is. Remember, whatever it is. You aren't to be prevented by any sort of delicacy about dragging up my past."

  He had spoken very fast. I answered: "I shall ask. If there's any possible thing you can do."

  "Good."

  "There may be--practical things. We shall probably want money."

  "I should like to give it."

  TWENTY-SIX

  A GUILTY STORY

  When I arrived at George's lodgings the next afternoon, I found his father just on the point of leaving. Mr. Passant said, with the old mixture of warmth and hesitation: "It's not--Lewis?" He had aged more than anyone I knew. His breathing was very heavy.

  "I'm glad you're helping us, Lewis," he said. He began to talk hurriedly, about the inquiries. His eyes were full of puzzled indignation against the people who had instigated them. "You'll help us deal with them," he said. "They've got to learn that they suffer if they let their spite run away with them." It was not that he did not know of the danger of a prosecution. George had been utterly frank. But injured as he was, Mr. Passant was driven to attack.

  "At the end, when it's the proper time, you'll be able to go for compensation against them," he said. "The law must provide for that."

  During these outbursts, George was quiet, once augmenting his father with an indignation of his own. For a moment they looked at each other, on the same side, the outer anxiety pressing them close. But when Mr. Passant said, tired with his anger: "It's a great pity they were ever given the excuse, Lewis----"

  George said: "We've had all this out before."

  "After it's over," said Mr. Passant, "I still want to think of you yourself."

  George replied: "I can't alter anything I've already said."

  Both their faces were strained as they parted. Without a word upon his father's visit, George came to the table and brought out his papers. He sat by me through the afternoon and evening, helping me arrange the facts.

  The extraordinary precision of his memory might have been laughable in another context. But now I heard his voice on the edge of shouting, when from time to time he burst out: "It's ludicrous for them to try to manufacture a case like thi
s. We've got an answer for every single point the swine bring up. Do they think I decided to take over Martineau's paraphernalia simply for the pleasure of cooking the figures? When it was perfectly easy for him to check them? A man who'd been used to figures all his life. The suggestion's simply monstrous. If I'd wished to swindle in that particularly fatuous way, I should have chosen someone else----"

  "He'd gone away, though, before you took over----"

  "Nonsense. That is simply untrue. We bought Exell out in November '28"--he gave the exact date--" Martineau had been in the town all July. He came back for a couple of weeks continuously the next January. Settling up his house and his other affairs. He could have investigated at any time. Do they think that a man in his senses--whatever else I may be, I suppose they'd give me credit for that--would take a risk of that kind?

  Yet several times I returned to Martineau's statement, in particular the figures of the Arrow.

  "It seems such a tremendous lot," I said.

  "I thought it was rather large," George said.

  There was a silence.

  "I'd have thought if they could reach as wide a public as that," I went on, "they'd have made more of a show of it themselves."

  "Jack's magnificent at making things go," said George. "He's full of ideas. I left that side to him. It's probably the explanation." He stared at the paper. "In any case, I don't think we shall get very far by speculating on Exell's and Martineau's incompetence."

  We continued through the accounts, on to the other business, the Farm and its companions. There was, in fact, little written down. Most of the data were supplied by George, without delay or doubts, almost as though he was reading them from some mental sheet. When at last I had completed my notes, George said: "You may as well look at these. They're not strictly relevant, but I suppose you'd better see them. I'm sorry I haven't my proper diary here." He gave me a two-penny notebook; it contained, in his neat hand, an account of his income and expenses, recorded in detail for several years. It struck me as strange he should keep this record of his money, over which he was so prodigal (I later found out that it was not complete or accurate, in contrast to the minute thoroughness of his diary). And I was mystified at his giving me the book. For a time, the statements told me nothing--a slight increase in expenditure for the last eighteen months, several entries--"by cheque from J.C. £10." Then my eyes caught an entry: "D at Farm £1"; often, most week-ends for some time back, the same words recurred.

  "Do you pay for yourself at the Farm?" I asked. "I thought----"

  "No." He turned round from the bookshelves. "I pay for those I take with me."

  "Of course," I said. "I ought to have----"

  "Go back a few months." His voice was unfriendly. At the beginning of the year, I found, as well as the entries about D. (whom I knew to be Daphne), another series with a different letter, occupying other dates, thus: D at Farm £1 Jan .17.

  F at Farm £1 Jan .24.

  D Farm £1 Jan .31.

  The two sets D. and F. ran on together over several months. I looked up. His expression was angry, pained, and yet, in some way, relieved.

  "I don't expect you to understand," he said. "I'm not excusing myself, either. I didn't break the rules I'd constructed for myself until I'd fallen abjectly in love: but I repeat, I'm not making that an excuse. I should have come to it in the end. I should have found my own happiness in my own way. I refuse to be ashamed of it; but there is one impression I shouldn't like you to get. Particularly you, because you saw me at the start. Now things may conceivably crash round me, I don't want to let you think that I retract one single word of what the group has meant to me. I don't want you to think I spoilt it all--because, when the rest of them were enjoying their pleasures, I saw no reason for not taking mine."

  "I shouldn't think so," I said.

  As I spoke, his face lightened and looked grateful. Every word in his self-justification carried its weight of angry shame.

  "Do you remember how we compared notes on being in love--after a celebration in Nottingham?" said George. "I hadn't fallen in love then, and I envied you the experience. Do you know, I still didn't fall in love until I was twentyeight? That must be late for a man who has never been able to put women out of his mind for long. And I suffered for it. She was a girl called Katherine--you never met her--and she was absolutely unsuitable for a man like me. It was trying to find compensation elsewhere that I started with----" he pointed to the F. on the accounts. Both she and Daphne were members of the School and of George's group. "But I insist, I don't give that as an excuse. I should simply have taken a little longer, but I should have come to the same point in the end. And I don't expect you to understand, but I'm capable of being fond of two women at once. So I kept on with her after I became attached to Daphne. I expect you to think it sordid--but we're not made in the same way.

  "As a matter of fact," he added, his truculence replaced by an almost timid simplicity, "I discovered that I was hurting someone by the arrangement, so I had to give it up."

  So Daphne was too strong-willed for him; I could imagine her pleading in her child's voice, her upper lip puckered, pleading jealousy, caring nothing for her pride if she could get her own way, older in a fashion at twenty than George would ever be.

  Going back through the figures, I found another set which occurred some time after the other began. "Not. £1 11is .6d." The amount was constant, and as I went further back, the entry came frequently, never less often than once a fortnight. The sum baffled me, although I guessed the general meaning. I asked him.

  "A return to Nottingham, drinks and a woman," George said. "I kept to Connie's crowd for a long time, and it always used to cost the same."

  I laughed.

  "I remember you used to spend twice as much on drinks round the club."

  "I suppose I did," said George. "I forgot to put those down."

  Then he said: "It was years before I could imagine that I might find something better."

  "And now?"

  "It may surprise you to know that I've been happier with Daphne than I've ever been in my life. I am more in love with her than I was with Katherine: I'm not a man who can worship the unattainable for long. This happens to be love for both of us, and it's the first time I've known it. When I realized it properly, I thought it was worth waiting thirty-three years for this."

  His voice became once more angry and defensive. "After all that I've thought it necessary to show you," he said pointing to the pocket-book, "I expect you to laugh at what I say--but I can't believe that I shall know it again. And I'm compelled to think of the position I shall be in when these inquiries are over. I may not be able to inflict myself on her----"

  "I don't think she'd leave you," I said.

  "Perhaps not," said George, and fell into silence. At last he said: "Just before you arrived, I told my father exactly what I've told you."

  "Why in God's name?"

  "It might have come out in public. I considered that it was better I should tell him myself."

  "When I used the same argument about letting Eden know yesterday----"

  "I don't recognize a connection with Eden," said George. "This was utterly different. I felt obliged to tell my father two things. He had a right to know that I might be providing malevolent people with a handle against him. I said I found that was the thing I could tolerate least of all."

  "What else did you say?"

  "I had to say that, apart from the intolerable effect on him, I wasn't ashamed of anything I'd done. He naturally didn't believe that I had swindled: but he was hurt about my life with women. I had to tell him that I saw no reason to repent for any of my actions."

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  CONFLICT ON TACTICS

  A case, down for the next Tuesday, sent me back to London on Sunday night. For some days I heard nothing from the town; I rang up each night, but there was no news; and then, one morning in chambers, a telegram arrived from Hotchkinson, the solicitor who was managing the case for Eden: "
Three clients arrested applying for bail this morning." It was now the middle of the month. I was not appearing in a London court until January; I decided to stay at Eden's until the first hearing was over.

  When I arrived in the town, I was told they had been arrested late the night before. The warrant was issued on information sworn by someone called Iris Ward. The name meant nothing to me; but it added to Rachel's misery as soon as she heard it. "It will seem to George----" she said. "You see, she was once a member of the group."

  They had spent the night in prison. This morning they had come before a magistrate: the charges were conspiracy to defraud against the three of them on two counts, the agency and the hostels; and also individual charges of obtaining money by false pretences against each on the two counts again. Nothing had been done except hear evidence of arrest and grant bail. The amount was fixed at £250 for each, and independent sureties of £250. This we had provided for in advance. Eden had arranged for two of his friends to transmit money raised by Morcom, Rachel, Roy Calvert and myself. For George and Jack, we had also been compelled to provide their private amount; for Olive, a friend of her uncle's had been willing to stand. The next hearing was fixed for December 29th.

  I knew it would be good professional judgment to hold our hand in the police court on the 29th and let the case go for trial. I wanted to persuade them of this course at once; so I arranged to meet them at George's that same night.

  When I got there, George was alone. I was shocked by his manner. He was apathetic and numbed; he stared at the fire with his unseeing, inturned gaze. I could not stir him into interest over the tactics.

  He was in a state that I could not reach. As he stared at the fire I waited for the others to come. I had scarcely noticed anything in the room but his accounts, the last evening I spent there; now I saw that, while everyone else was living more luxuriously, this sitting-room had scarcely altered since I first set foot in it.