“You’re wasting your time, Mr. Tuke,” he said. “I’m not interested.”
And having said it, he turned deliberately away as though the whole distasteful interview were over.
But Mr. Tuke was not to be put off so easily: he had the consciousness of right on his side. Instead of being abashed, he came forward.
“John Marco,” he said, still in the same grave voice, taking hold of the lapels of his coat as though they were the two runners of a stole, “I am come to-night as the bringer of very solemn news.”
John Marco turned slowly towards him.
“Very well then,” he said. “Tell me.”
Mr. Tuke, however, would not allow himself to be hurried.
“I am not satisfied that you are in a state of grace to hear it,” he replied.
John Marco drew himself up for a moment as though to say something, but suppressed whatever it was on his lips. Then he came forward, his thumbs under the arm-holes of his waistcoat. His head was a little to one side and he regarded Mr. Tuke through eyes that were more than half closed.
“You’re being impertinent, Mr. Tuke,” he said. “You’re forgetting that I’m no longer of your dispensation.”
At the word “impertinent” Mr. Tuke pursed his lips. He could remember clearly the day when John Marco as a young man with too much wrist showing below the cuffs of his jacket had come to him, and asked to be allowed to expound in Sunday School.
“If you choose to show no respect to me,” he replied hotly, “at least you owe some to my cloth.”
John Marco paused.
“I don’t recognise your cloth,” he said.
Mr. Tuke still controlled himself.
“Then perhaps you will recognise my years,” he answered.
His face was flushed and his breathing came heavily as he said it. He was obviously right on the edge of one of his really spectacular angers.
But John Marco continued to stare at him without moving.
“You came to tell me something, Mr. Tuke,” he said.
“I came to give you this,” Mr. Tuke replied. “You should purify your soul before you read it.” He paused. “It will show how Thomas Petter was prepared to trust you,” he added.
As he spoke he handed John Marco the piece of paper that was in his hand.
John Marco hesitated for a moment.
“Did Thomas Petter ask you to come here?” he demanded.
Mr. Tuke shook his head.
“I came,” he said, “because it was my duty.”
John Marco took the paper and began to read.
“I, Thomas Petter, chemist, of 28 Harrow Street, Paddington” the message ran, “being of sound mind and under no duress do hereby bequeath to my wife, Mary Ann Petter, all of which I die possessed. As my executors I appoint Mr. Eliud Tuke, of 7 Chapel Walk, Minister of God, and John Marco, of Tredegar Terrace, merchant, and, in the event of the death of the said Mary Ann Petter, to administer my estate for the advantage of my daughter, Mary Elizabeth Petter, infant, until she shall have attained the age of twenty-one years.
Signed Thomas Petter, May 11th, 1903.
As John Marco held this piece of script in his hand he saw again, clearly, the man who had written those words. There he was, pink and prim and innocent, sitting up at the little fumed-oak desk in the tiny sitting-room, diligently penning this, his own last will and testament. For a moment John Marco felt sorry for him; felt again that queer sensation of pity that Mr. Petter had always provoked. There was something so oddly defenceless, so vulnerable, about him. With all the millions of London to choose from he had deliberately selected for one of his executors the only man who had shown himself to be a peril to him. And having inscribed this foolish document, he had omitted even to have it witnessed; in law the thing might never have existed.
“When did you come by this?” he asked.
“To-day.”
“It was written five years ago,” John Marco said coldly.
“He was still your friend then, remember,” Mr. Tuke replied.
And as he said it, John Marco understood the reason for his visit: Mr. Tuke had seen at last the harm that he had done to Mr. Petter by his foolish warning and was seeking now to make amends for it. He was at one single clumsy stroke trying to repair a breach in a friendship within the Tabernacle and win back the most conspicuous of all his erring Amosites. Between them they had unearthed this old draft of a testimony, and Mr. Tuke had brought it round here in an effort to break John Marco’s heart by reminding him of the happy past.
John Marco looked up and saw Mr. Tuke’s eyes fixed on him, they were gleaming and moist-looking.
“He shan’t have me,” John Marco thought bitterly. “I’m free of him.”
And folding the paper contemptuously across, he handed it back to Mr. Tuke.
“Take it away,” he said. “I’ve no use for it.”
Mr. Tuke almost snatched it from him.
“You’re not worthy to touch it,” he said. “I debated whether I should even show it to you.”
“Then you decided wrong,” John Marco answered. He was angry now and his voice was raised to match Mr. Tuke’s. “Go back and tell him the truth about me. Tell him that I hated him. Tell him that I tried to seduce his wife. Tell him anything that you like.”
Mr. Tuke swallowed hard for a moment and his face took on a deeper colour. Then he turned his back on John Marco and went over to the door. In the doorway he paused for a moment and faced John Marco again.
“I thank God,” he said, collecting his dignity about him like a cloak, “that I shall never be able to deliver that message. Our brother is dead.”
Chapter XXXIII
It seemed strange to be standing there again in the little doorway in Harrow Street; and as he raised his hand to the bell, John Marco half expected it to be Thomas Petter himself who would come down the stairs in answer to it.
The ride from the shop had been a violent, impetuous one; it seemed that even after all those years every minute was precious. He had hailed a hansom, and by the time he reached Harrow Street he had raised the flap that separated him from the driver half-a-dozen times and had shouted up to him to hurry.
But, now that he had reached the house, there seemed no one to admit him. He had just rung again—it was the third or fourth time that he had rung—when he heard the sound of footsteps descending. They were light footsteps; the footsteps of a woman. But they came down the stairs slowly and wearily. Then the door opened and Mary stood there in front of him.
They stood for a moment looking at each other without speaking.
Then John Marco held out his hand.
“Mary,” he said. “I’ve come to you.”
She ignored the hand that was held out to her: her whole attitude was one of dumb, infinite fatigue.
“There’s nothing that you can do,” she answered. “It’s too late.”
“I . . .I thought I might be able to help you,” he said.
“I don’t need anything,” she answered.
She was very calm, he noticed; surprisingly calm. Or was it that she was still dazed by it all and could not yet realise what had happened to her? It would not be until next morning, the first morning in which she woke to a world that did not contain a husband, that she would really understand what it meant.
“Let me come in,” John Marco said to her. “I want to talk to you.”
She stood back and held the door open for him.
“You can come in,” she said.
He followed her up the stairs and into the tiny sitting-room that was full of memories of those evenings when all three of them had been there together. It was not until then that he saw her face. She had recently been crying and her eyes were still wet. Her hair, too, was not brushed smoothly back like pale satin as it usually was: it now fell all about her face, covering up the line of the clear forehead. But the effect of it was somehow to make her look younger. She seemed no different now from the girl who had taught next to h
im in Mr. Tuke’s Sunday School.
“Are you alone here?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“His mother’s upstairs,” she said. “With him.”
“And the child?”
“I sent her back home,” she answered. “She doesn’t know what’s happened yet.”
There was something distant and unmoved in the manner in which she answered these questions; it might have been somebody else’s tragedy in the midst of which she had found herself.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I haven’t had time to think.”
“Do you know how he left you?” he asked.
Her hand went helplessly to her forehead.
“He never told me,” she said. She hesitated for a moment as though other thoughts were filling her mind. “There was always enough for the three of us while he was here,” she added.
“Then you don’t know whether you’re provided for?”
She hesitated again.
“He told me that we might have to go back home again to my people,” she answered, and then paused.
“All last night he kept on saying it.”
She turned away and went over to the window and he saw she was crying. At first she cried softly, almost silently, as though she were trying to conceal it. Then she gave over the pretence and cried openly. Resting her arm up against the sash she laid her forehead upon it and stood there weeping.
John Marco went towards her and raised his hand to place it on her shoulder. But at the last moment he drew back. Somehow, her grief separated them. They were near to each other, standing side by side, but it was as though her misery had built a wall around her, leaving him on the outer side of it. He felt as he looked at her that, no matter how he tried, he could not reach her. To do something for her, however; to make her feel that at this moment she had never been less alone—that was why he had come.
“You can stay here if you’d rather,” he said. “You need never want for money. I’ll take care of that.”
She did not answer immediately. Instead she kept her face turned away from him. And when she replied her voice was quiet again.
“It’s good of you, John,” she said. “I always believed in you. But I couldn’t take it.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Not after what happened.”
He raised his hand again as if to touch her, but he let it fall to his side once more.
“But isn’t that over now?” he asked. “Isn’t that the past?”
It was here that Mary turned to him. Her face was set hard as she spoke.
“Do you know what my husband said before he died? What his last words were?” she asked.
John Marco dropped his eyes for a moment.
“Tell me,” he said.
“That he forgave you,” she answered.
He paused.
“There was nothing to forgive,” he replied at last.
“You didn’t let him think that,” she said.
“That was only because I wanted you so much,” he answered. “I was desperate that night. Can’t you understand?”
“But he wanted me, too. And he wasn’t as strong as you are.”
John Marco drew in his breath sharply.
“Which of us did you want?” he asked. “Only tell me that.”
“I loved you first,” she said quietly. “You know that.”
“And afterwards?”
“I suppose a woman can’t ever give up loving altogether,” she replied. “I often used to think about you.”
“And did you want me?”
She bowed her head.
“God forgive me, I did.”
“Would you have come if I’d asked you?”
“No.”
She drew herself up as she said it and the colour came back to her face.
“He was always so good to me,” she added. “And he relied on me for everything.”
John Marco was no longer standing still beside her. He had begun to pace up and down the room in quick, nervous steps. His eyes were shining and excited.
“Would you come now?” he asked. “Now . . . now that you can’t hurt him.”
There was a sound from the room above them, the sound of a chair being dragged across the floor. Mary started and looked away from him. It was from her bedroom that the sound had come, from her bedroom that had always looked so pink and white and warm. And now Thomas Petter’s mother dressed already in full black, was sitting up there alone.
“You’d better go,” she said, passing her hand across her face. “I’d rather be alone to-night.”
But John Marco did not move.
“I love you, Mary,” he said. “I want you to let me help you.”
She shook her head again.
“He wouldn’t have wanted it,” she told him. “He would have thought it unfaithful of me.”
“It’s yourself you’ve got to think of now,” he reminded her. “Yourself and the child.”
“I can’t,” she answered simply. “I must do what he would have wanted, always.”
She got up and went over to the door.
“I can’t bear any more to-night,” she said. “Please leave me. Mr. Tuke’s coming back later to try and help me to pray.”
John Marco was silent for a moment. Then he came over to her. He put his arms round her for a moment.
“You can come to me whenever you want to,” he said. “I shall be waiting.”
She remained in his arms without moving. And when he pulled her to him she closed her eyes.
“Kiss me,” he said.
She kissed him, still without re-opening her eyes. And then suddenly, as though for the first time realising what she had done, she thrust him away.
“You belong to Hesther,” she said. “Not to me. I mustn’t see you.”
“Never?” he asked.
She bowed her head again.
“Never.”
There was a movement in the room above and then footsteps on the stairs outside the door. John Marco walked slowly over to the couch and took up his hat and gloves: he stood there for a moment looking round this room that he knew so well. Then the door of the sitting-room was opened and a small, white-haired woman stood there. It was clear that she had been crying.
“I’ve just left him,” she said. “He looks so peaceful and lovely. He might be asleep.”
She spoke in the gentle voice of a mother still able to find something to cherish in her own flesh and handiwork.
Then she saw John Marco.
“Does this gentleman want to see him too?” she asked. “He can go up if he likes. Was he my son’s friend?”
Book V
Green Pastures
Chapter XXXIV
It was the day of the Annual General Meeting; the Marble Salon had been cleared for the shareholders; and John Marco was in the middle of his speech.
The shareholders seated in front of him on the rows of little gilt chairs were following every movement he made as if he were a conjurer; and like a conjurer he was playing with them. They had all read about their dividend in the printed report which had been sent to them, and the atmosphere when he started was one of relief even of optimism. But he very soon, and very deliberately destroyed all that. Speaking in a low, emotional voice that touched them, he described the pit-falls and difficulties that every new firm has to contend with; he addressed them as fellow men. And instead of seeing their chairman as a prosperous-looking business man with a flower in his buttonhole, they began to see him as a kind of pilgrim who for their sakes had wandered through the Slough of Despond and the Valley of the Shadow, and had returned with the miraculous flower of five-per-cent attached to his staff. There he was, safe and sound enough for this one afternoon; but to-morrow morning when they were cheerfully spending the interest, he would be setting out again on another twelve months’ pilgrimage for their sakes.
When John Marco paused for a moment and allowed himself a sip of water, the whole audience responded; it was as though they had actually seen him just getting to the river before he collapsed. And when he resumed, his tone was lighter: he was dealing now with the dividend that the firm was paying. He attributed none of his success to himself. It was the staff, he said, that they must thank for this; the most loyal, hard-working and conscientious staff in London. A general rustle of applause ran right through the room: it was felt now that as well as being a pilgrim he was also a gentleman. Then, while the feeling of brotherhood was very strong among them all, he came to the real point of the address and told them that the capital was not enough.
The effect of this announcement was immediate and sensational. The timid ones took fright and began scribbling down hasty little notes, and the old hands sat back and pursed up their lips.
“The question we must now ask ourselves,” he was saying, “is whether we should be content to remain in the second rank of retail drapery with all the risks of possible extinction from bigger competitors or whether we should ourselves step into the front rank and so be able to snap our fingers at competition. You may ask yourselves why I should even bother to put the alternatives before you as the advantages of the one against the other are so obvious. But the answer to that must be simply that to step into the front rank requires money, a lot of money.”
He paused here and the audience became excited again; they felt that in some mysterious way they were being allowed to dabble in high finance. Even the timid ones became infected. And when he resumed, his voice had lost that note of appeal it had taken on before: it became hard and decisive, like that of a Chancellor announcing a stiff Budget.
“It is because of the fact that competition has now become so desperate and cut-throat in retail commerce,” he went on, “that your directors have decided—and I cannot pretend that I disagree with them—that somehow or other we should find the extra money. The sum that we need is another hundred thousand—not a small sum you’ll say. But I propose to show our gratitude to those who helped us to find the money in the first place by giving them the opportunity of subscribing the whole of it if they wish, before we let any outsiders into the company.”
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