Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  The lawyer did not speak for a moment, and when he did his voice was trembling.

  “God bless you, my dear boy,” he said gently.

  Morris devoted himself for some little time to the guiding of the car.

  “And I want you also to leave it all alone,” he said after a while. “I don’t want you to dissolve your partnership with him, or whatever you call it. I suppose he will guess that you know all about it, so perhaps it would be best if you told him straight out that you do. And then you can, well, make a few well-chosen remarks you know, and drop the whole damned subject forever.”

  Mr. Taynton seemed much moved.

  “I will try,” he said, “since you ask it. But Morris, you are more generous than I am.”

  Morris laughed, his usual boyish high spirits and simplicity were reasserting themselves again.

  “Oh, that’s all rot,” he said. “It’s only because it’s so fearfully tiring to go on being angry. But I can’t help wondering what has happened to the fellow. They told me at his flat in town that he went off with his luggage yesterday afternoon, and gave orders that all letters were to be sent to his Brighton address. You don’t think there’s anything wrong, do you?”

  “My dear fellow, what could be wrong?” asked Mr. Taynton. “He had some business to do at Lewes on his way down, and I make no doubt he slept there, probably forgetting all about his appointment with me. I would wager you that we shall find he is in Brighton when we get in.”

  “I’ll take that,” said Morris. “Half a crown.”

  “No, no, my usual shilling, my usual shilling,” laughed the other.

  * * * * *

  Morris set Mr. Taynton down at his office, and by way of settling their wager at once, waited at the door, while the other went upstairs to see if his partner was there. He had not, however, appeared there that day, and Mr. Taynton sent a clerk down to Morris, to ask him to come up, and they would ring up Mr. Mills’s flat on the telephone.

  This was done, and before many seconds had elapsed they were in communication. His valet was there, still waiting for his master’s return, for he had not yet come back. It appeared that he was getting rather anxious, for Mr. Taynton reassured him.

  “There is not the slightest cause for any anxiety,” were his concluding words. “I feel convinced he has merely been detained. Thanks, that’s all. Please let me know as soon as he returns.”

  He drew a shilling from his pocket, and handed it to Morris. But his face, in spite of his reassuring words, was a little troubled. You would have said that though he might not yet be anxious, he saw that there was some possibility of his being so, before very long. Yet he spoke gaily enough.

  “And I made so sure I should win,” he said. “I shall put it down to unexpected losses, not connected with business; eh, Mr. Timmins? Or shall it be charity? It would never do to put down ‘Betting losses.’”

  But this was plainly a little forced, and Morris waited till Mr. Timmins had gone out.

  “And you really meant that?” he asked. “You are really not anxious?”

  “No, I am not anxious,” he said, “but — but I shall be glad when he comes back. Is that inconsistent? I think perhaps it is. Well, let us say then that I am just a shade anxious. But I may add that I feel sure my anxiety is quite unnecessary. That defines it for you.”

  Morris went straight home from here, and found that his mother had just returned from her afternoon drive. She had found the blotting book waiting for her when she came back that morning, and was delighted with the gift and the loving remembering thought that inspired it.

  “But you shouldn’t spend your money on me, my darling,” she said to Morris, “though I just love the impulse that made you.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Morris, kissing her, “let’s have the initials changed about then, and let it be M.A. from H.A.”

  Then his voice grew grave.

  “Mother dear, I’ve got another birthday present for you. I think — I think you will like it.”

  She saw at once that he was speaking of no tangible material gift.

  “Yes, dear?” she said.

  “Madge and me,” said Morris. “Just that.”

  And Mrs. Assheton did like this second present, and though it made her cry a little, her tears were the sweetest that can be shed.

  * * * * *

  Mother and son dined alone together, and since Morris had determined to forget, to put out of his mind the hideous injury that Mills had attempted to do him, he judged it to be more consistent with this resolve to tell his mother nothing about it, since to mention it to another, even to her, implied that he was not doing his best to bury what he determined should be dead to him. As usual, they played backgammon together, and it was not till Mrs. Assheton rose to go to bed that she remembered Mr. Taynton’s note, asking her and Morris to dine with him on their earliest unoccupied day. This, as is the way in the country, happened to be the next evening, and since the last post had already gone out, she asked Morris if Martin might take the note round for her tonight, since it ought to have been answered before.

  That, of course, was easily done, and Morris told his servant to call also at the house where Mr. Mills’s flat was situated, and ask the porter if he had come home. The note dispatched his mother went to bed, and Morris went down to the billiard room to practise spot-strokes, a form of hazard at which he was singularly inefficient, and wait for news. Little as he knew Mills, and little cause as he had for liking him, he too, like Mr. Taynton, felt vaguely anxious and perturbed, since “disappearances” are necessarily hedged about with mystery and wondering. His own anger and hatred, too, like mists drawn up and dispersed by the sun of love that had dawned on him, had altogether vanished; the attempt against him had, as it turned out, been so futile, and he genuinely wished to have some assurance of the safety of the man, the thought of whom had so blackened his soul only twenty-four hours ago.

  His errands took Martin the best part of an hour, and he returned with two notes, one for Mrs. Assheton, the other for Morris. He had been also to the flat and inquired, but there was no news of the missing man.

  Morris opened his note, which was from Mr. Taynton.

  “Dear Morris,

  “I am delighted that your mother and you can dine to-morrow, and I am telegraphing first thing in the morning to see if Miss Madge will make our fourth. I feel sure that when she knows what my little party is, she will come.

  “I have been twice round to see if my partner has returned, and find no news of him. It is idle to deny that I am getting anxious, as I cannot conceive what has happened. Should he not be back by tomorrow morning, I shall put the matter into the hands of the police. I trust that my anxieties are unfounded, but the matter is beginning to look strange.

  “Affectionately yours,

  “Edward Taynton.”

  There is nothing so infectious as anxiety, and it can be conveyed by look or word or letter, and requires no period of incubation. And Morris began to be really anxious also, with a vague disquietude at the sense of there being something wrong.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Mr. Taynton, according to the intention he had expressed, sent round early next morning (the day of the week being Saturday) to his partner’s flat, and finding that he was not there, and that no word of any kind had been received from him, went, as he felt himself now bound to do, to the police office, stated what had brought him there, and gave them all information which it was in his power to give.

  It was brief enough; his partner had gone up to town on Tuesday last, and, had he followed his plans should have returned to Brighton by Thursday evening, since he had made an appointment to come to Mr. Taynton’s house at nine thirty that night. It had been ascertained too, by — Mr. Taynton hesitated a moment — by Mr. Morris Assheton in London, that he had left his flat in St. James’s Court on Thursday afternoon, to go, presumably, to catch the train back to Brighton. He had also left orders that all letters should be forwarded to him at hi
s Brighton address.

  Superintendent Figgis, to whom Mr. Taynton made his statement, was in manner slow, stout, and bored, and looked in every way utterly unfitted to find clues to the least mysterious occurrences, unearth crime or run down the criminal. He seemed quite incapable of running down anything, and Mr. Taynton had to repeat everything he said in order to be sure that Mr. Figgis got his notes, which he made in a large round hand, with laborious distinctness, correctly written. Having finished them the Superintendent stared at them mournfully for a little while, and asked Mr. Taynton if he had anything more to add.

  “I think that is all,” said the lawyer. “Ah, one moment. Mr. Mills expressed to me the intention of perhaps getting out at Falmer and walking over the downs to Brighton. But Thursday was the evening on which we had that terrible thunderstorm. I should think it very unlikely that he would have left the train.”

  Superintendent Figgis appeared to be trying to recollect something.

  “Was there a thunderstorm on Thursday?” he asked.

  “The most severe I ever remember,” said Mr. Taynton.

  “It had slipped my memory,” said this incompetent agent of justice.

  But a little thought enabled him to ask a question that bore on the case.

  “He travelled then by Lewes and not by the direct route?”

  “Presumably. He had a season ticket via Lewes, since our business often took him there. Had he intended to travel by Hayward’s Heath,” said Mr. Taynton rather laboriously, as if explaining something to a child, “he could not have intended to get out at Falmer.”

  Mr. Figgis had to think over this, which he did with his mouth open.

  “Seeing that the Hayward’s Heath line does not pass Falmer,” he suggested.

  Mr. Taynton drew a sheet of paper toward him and kindly made a rough sketch-map of railway lines.

  “And his season ticket went by the Lewes line,” he explained.

  Superintendent Figgis appeared to understand this after a while. Then he sighed heavily, and changed the subject with rather disconcerting abruptness.

  “From my notes I understand that Mr. Morris Assheton ascertained that the missing individual had left his flat in London on Thursday afternoon,” he said.

  “Yes, Mr. Assheton is a client of ours, and he wished to see my partner on a business matter. In fact, when Mr. Mills was found not to have returned on Thursday evening, he went up to London next day to see him, since we both supposed he had been detained there.”

  Mr. Figgis looked once more mournfully at his notes, altered a palpably mistaken “Wednesday” into Thursday, and got up.

  “The matter shall be gone into,” he said.

  * * * * *

  Mr. Taynton went straight from here to his office, and for a couple of hours devoted himself to the business of his firm, giving it his whole attention and working perhaps with more speed than it was usually his to command. Saturday of course was a half-holiday, and it was naturally his desire to get cleared off everything that would otherwise interrupt the well-earned repose and security from business affairs which was to him the proper atmosphere of the seventh, or as he called it, the first day. This interview with the accredited representative of the law also had removed a certain weight from his mind. He had placed the matter of his partner’s disappearance in official hands, he had done all he could do to clear up his absence, and, in case — but here he pulled himself up; it was at present most premature even to look at the possibility of crime having been committed.

  Mr. Taynton was in no way a vain man, nor was it his habit ever to review his own conduct, with the object of contrasting it favourably with what others might have done under the circumstances. Yet he could not help being aware that others less kindly than he would have shrugged sarcastic shoulders and said, “probably another blackmailing errand has detained him.” For, indeed, Mills had painted himself in very ugly colours in his last interview with him; that horrid hint of blackmail, which still, so to speak, held good, had cast a new light on him. But now Taynton was conscious of no grudge against him; he did not say, “he can look after himself.” He was anxious about his continued absence, and had taken the extreme step of calling in the aid of the police, the national guardian of personal safety.

  He got away from his office about half-past twelve and in preparation for the little dinner festival of this evening, for Miss Templeton had sent her joyful telegraphic acceptance, went to several shops to order some few little delicacies to grace his plain bachelor table. An ice-pudding, for instance, was outside the orbit, so he feared of his plain though excellent cook, and two little dishes of chocolates and sweets, since he was at the confectioner’s, would be appropriate to the taste of his lady guests. Again a floral decoration of the table was indicated, and since the storm of Thursday, there was nothing in his garden worthy of the occasion; thus a visit to the florist’s resulted in an order for smilax and roses.

  * * * * *

  He got home, however, at his usual luncheon hour to find a telegram waiting for him on the Heppelwhite table in the hall. There had been a continued buying of copper shares, and the feature was a sensational rise in Bostons, which during the morning had gone up a clear point.

  Mr. Taynton had no need to make calculations; he knew, as a man knows the multiplication table of two, what every fraction of a rise in Bostons meant to him, and this, provided only he had time to sell at once, meant the complete recovery of the losses he had suffered. With those active markets it was still easily possible though it was Saturday, to effect his sale, since there was sure to be long continued business in the Street and he had but to be able to exercise his option at that price, to be quit of that dreadful incubus of anxiety which for the last two years had been a millstone round his neck that had grown mushroom like. The telephone to town, of course, was far the quickest mode of communication, and having given his order he waited ten minutes till the tube babbled and croaked to him again.

  There is a saying that things are “too good to be true,” but when Mr. Taynton sat down to his lunch that day, he felt that the converse of the proverb was the correcter epigram. Things could be so good that they must be true, and here, still ringing in his ears was one of them — Morris — it was thus he phrased it to himself — was “paid off,” or, in more business-like language, the fortune of which Mr. Taynton was trustee was intact again, and, like a tit-bit for a good child, there was an additional five or six hundred pounds for him who had managed the trust so well. Mr. Taynton could not help feeling somehow that he deserved it; he had increased Morris’s fortune since he had charge of it by £10,000. And what a lesson, too, he had had, so gently and painlessly taught him! No one knew better than he how grievously wrong he had got, in gambling with trust money. Yet now it had come right: he had repaired the original wrong; on Monday he would reinvest this capital in those holdings which he had sold, and Morris’s £40,000 (so largely the result of careful and judicious investment) would certainly stand the scrutiny of any who could possibly have any cause to examine his ledgers. Indeed there would be nothing to see. Two years ago Mr. Morris Assheton’s fortune was invested in certain railway debentures and Government stock. It would in a few days’ time be invested there again, precisely as it had been. Mr. Taynton had not been dealing in gilt-edged securities lately, and could not absolutely trust his memory, but he rather thought that the repurchase could be made at a somewhat smaller sum than had been realised by their various sales dating from two years ago. In that case there was a little more sub rosa reward for this well-inspired justice, weighed but featherwise against the overwhelming relief of the knowledge he could make wrong things right again, repair his, yes, his scoundrelism.

  How futile, too, now, was Mills’s threatened blackmail! Mills might, if he chose, proclaim on any convenient housetop, that his partner had gambled with Morris’s £40,000 that according to the ledgers was invested in certain railway debentures and other gilt-edged securities. In a few days, any scrutiny might be ma
de of the securities lodged at the County Bank, and assuredly among them would be found those debentures, those gilt-edged securities exactly as they appeared in the ledgers. Yet Mr. Taynton, so kindly is the nature of happiness, contemplated no revengeful step on his partner; he searched his heart and found that no trace of rancour against poor Mills was hoarded there.

  Whether happiness makes us good, is a question not yet decided, but it is quite certain that happiness makes us forget that we have been bad, and it seemed to Mr. Taynton, as he sat in his cool dining-room, and ate his lunch with a more vivid appetite than had been his for many months, it seemed that the man who had gambled with his client’s money was no longer himself; it was a perfectly different person who had done that. It was a different man, too, who, so few days ago had connived at and applauded the sorry trick which Mills had tried to play on Morris, when (so futilely, it is true) he had slandered him to Sir Richard. Now he felt that he — this man that to-day sat here — was incapable of such meannesses. And, thank God, it was never too late; from to-day he would lead the honourable, upright existence which the world (apart from his partner) had always credited him with leading.

  He basked in the full sunshine of these happy and comfortable thoughts, and even as the sun of midsummer lingered long on the sea and hills, so for hours this inward sunshine warmed and cheered him. Nor was it till he saw by his watch that he must return from the long pleasant ramble on which he had started as soon as lunch was over, that a cloud filmy and thin at first began to come across the face of the sun. Once and again those genial beams dispersed it, but soon it seemed as if the vapours were getting the upper hand. A thought, in fact, had crossed Mr. Taynton’s mind that quite distinctly dimmed his happiness. But a little reflection told him that a very simple step on his part would put that right again, and he walked home rather more quickly than he had set out, since he had this little bit of business to do before dinner.