Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  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 axe 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 chequebook 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, m
y 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 wander 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 Ο. Κ., 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 n
ot 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.