Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  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 sofa-cushion. 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 t
o 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 — h
ad 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.