The Second E. F. Benson Megapack

by E. F. Benson

  But Morris’s pause, after he pushed his chair back and stood up, was only momentary.

  “Good God, yes; I’m in love,” he said. “And she probably thinks me a stupid barbarian, who likes only to drive golfballs and motorcars. She—oh, it’s hopeless. She would have let me come over to see them tomorrow otherwise.”

  He paused again.

  “And now I’ve given the whole show away,” he said.

  Mr. Taynton made a comfortable sort of noise. It was compounded of laughter, sympathy, and comprehension.

  “You gave it away long ago, my dear Morris,” he said.

  “You had guessed?” asked Morris, sitting down again with the same quickness and violence of movement, and putting both his elbows on the table.

  “No, my dear boy, you had told me, as you have told everybody, without mentioning it. And I most heartily congratulate you. I never saw a more delightful girl. Professionally also, I feel bound to add that it seems to me a most proper alliance—heirs should always marry heiresses. It”—Mr. Taynton drank off the rest of his port—“it keeps properties together.”

  Hot blood again dictated to Morris: it seemed dreadful to him that any thought of money or of property could be mentioned in the same breath as that which he longed for. He rose again as abruptly and violently as he had sat down.

  “Well, let’s play billiards,” he said. “I—I don’t think you understand a bit. You can’t, in fact.”

  Mr. Taynton stroked the tablecloth for a moment with a plump white forefinger.

  “Crabbed age and youth,” he remarked. “But crabbed age makes an appeal to youth, if youth will kindly call to mind what crabbed age referred to some five minutes ago. In other words, will you, or will you not, Morris, spend a very dry three hours at my office, looking into the account of my stewardship? There was thirty thousand pounds, and there now is—or should we say ‘are’—forty. It will take you not less than two hours, and not more than three. But since my stewardship may come to an end, as I said, any day, I should, not for my own sake, but for yours, wish you to see what we have done for you, and—I own this would be a certain private gratification to me—to learn that you thought that the trust your dear father reposed in us was not misplaced.”

  There was something about these simple words which touched Morris. For the moment he became almost businesslike. Mr. Taynton had been, as he knew, a friend of his father’s, and, as he had said, he had been steward of his own affairs for twenty years. But that reflection banished the businesslike view.

  “Oh, but two hours is a fearful time,” he said. “You have told me the facts, and they entirely satisfy me. And I want to be out all day tomorrow, as I am only here till the day after. But I shall be down again next week. Let us go into it all then. Not that there is the slightest use in going into anything. And when, Mr. Taynton, I become steward of my own affairs, you may be quite certain that I shall beg you to continue looking after them. Why you gained me ten thousand pounds in these twenty years—I wonder what there would have been to my credit now if I had looked after things myself. But since we are on the subject I should like just this once to assure you of my great gratitude to you, for all you have done. And I ask you, if you will, to look after my affairs in the future with the same completeness as you have always done. My father’s will does not prevent that, does it?”

  Mr. Taynton looked at the young fellow with affection.

  “Dear Morris,” he said gaily, “we lawyers and solicitors are always supposed to be sharks, but personally I am not such a shark as that. Are you aware that I am paid £200 a year for my stewardship, which you are entitled to assume for yourself on your marriage, though of course its continuance in my hands is not forbidden in your father’s will? You are quite competent to look after your affairs yourself; it is ridiculous for you to continue to pay me this sum. But I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your confidence in me.”

  A very close observer might have seen that behind Mr. Taynton’s kind gay eyes there was sitting a personality, so to speak, that, as his mouth framed these words, was watching Morris rather narrowly and anxiously. But the moment Morris spoke this silent secret watcher popped back again out of sight.

  “Well then I ask you as a personal favour,” said he, “to continue being my steward. Why, it’s good business for me, isn’t it? In twenty years you make me ten thousand pounds, and I only pay you £200 a year for it. Please be kind, Mr. Taynton, and continue making me rich. Oh, I’m a jolly hard-headed chap really; I know that it is to my advantage.”

  Mr. Taynton considered this a moment, playing with his wine glass. Then he looked up quickly.

  “Yes, Morris, I will with pleasure do as you ask me,” he said.

  “Right oh. Thanks awfully. Do come and play billiards.”

  Morris was in amazing luck that night, and if, as he said, he had been playing a lot lately, the advantage of his practice was seen chiefly in the hideous certainty of his flukes, and the game (though he received twenty-five) left Mr. Taynton half a crown the poorer. Then the winner whirled his guest upstairs again to talk to his mother while he himself went round to the stables to assure himself of the well-being of the beloved motor. Martin had already valeted it, after its run, and was just locking up when Morris arrived.

  Morris gave his orders for next day after a quite unnecessary examination into the internal economy of the beloved, and was just going back to the house, when he paused, remembering something.

  “Oh Martin,” he said, “while I am here, I want you to help in the house, you know at dinner and so on, just as you did tonight. And when there are guests of mine here I want you to look after them. For instance, when Mr. Taynton goes tonight you will be there to give him his hat and coat. You’ll have rather a lot to do, I’m afraid.”

  Morris finished his cigarette and went back to the drawing-room where Mr. Taynton was already engaged in the staid excitements of backgammon with his mother. That game over, Morris took his place, and before long the lawyer rose to go.

  “Now I absolutely refuse to let you interrupt your game,” he said. “I have found my way out of this house often enough, I should think. Good night, Mrs. Assheton. Good night Morris; don’t break your neck my dear boy, in trying to break records.”

  Morris hardly attended to this, for the game was critical. He just rang the bell, said good night, and had thrown again before the door had closed behind Mr. Taynton. Below, in answer to the bell, was standing his servant.

  Mr. Taynton looked at him again with some attention, and then glanced round to see if the discreet parlour-maids were about.

  “So you are called Martin now,” he observed gently.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I recognised you at once.”

  There was a short pause.

  “Are you going to tell Mr. Morris, sir?” he asked.

  “That I had to dismiss you two years ago for theft?” said Mr. Taynton quietly. “No, not if you behave yourself.”

  Mr. Taynton looked at him again kindly and sighed.

  “No, let bygones be bygones,” he said. “You will find your secret is safe enough. And, Martin, I hope you have really turned over a new leaf, and are living honestly now. That is so, my lad? Thank God; thank God. My umbrella? Thanks. Good night. No cab: I will walk.”

  CHAPTER II

  Mr. Taynton lived in a square, comfortable house in Montpellier Road, and thus, when he left Mrs. Assheton’s there was some two miles of pavement and sea front between him and home. But the night was of wonderful beauty, a night of mid June, warm enough to make the most cautious secure of chill, and at the same time just made crisp with a little breeze that blew or rather whispered landward from over the full-tide of the sleeping sea. High up in the heavens swung a glorious moon, which cast its path of white enchanted light over the ripples, and seemed to draw the heart even as it drew the eyes heavenward. Mr. Taynton certainly, as he stepped out beneath the stars, with the sea lying below him, felt, in his delicate and
sensitive nature, the charm of the hour, and being a good if not a brisk walker, he determined to go home on foot. And he stepped westward very contentedly.

  The evening, it would appear, had much pleased him—for it was long before his smile of retrospective pleasure faded from his pleasant mobile face. Morris’s trust and confidence in him had been extraordinarily pleasant to him: and modest and unassuming as he was, he could not help a secret gratification at the thought. What a handsome fellow Morris was too, how gay, how attractive! He had his father’s dark colouring, and tall figure, but much of his mother’s grace and charm had gone to the modelling of that thin sensitive mouth and the long oval of his face. Yet there was more of the father there, the father’s intense, almost violent, vitality was somehow more characteristic of the essential Morris than face or feature.

  What a happy thing it was too—here the smile of pleasure illuminated Mr. Taynton’s face again—that the boy whom he had dismissed two years before for some petty pilfering in his own house, should have turned out such a promising lad and should have found his way to so pleasant a berth as that of factotum to Morris. Kindly and charitable all through and ever eager to draw out the good in everybody and forgive the bad, Mr. Taynton had often occasion to deplore the hardness and uncharity of a world which remembers youthful errors and hangs them, like a mill-stone, round the neck of the offender, and it warmed his heart and kindled his smile to think of one case at any rate where a youthful misdemeanour was lived down and forgotten. At the time he remembered being in doubt whether he should not give the offender up to justice, for the pilfering, petty though it had been, had been somewhat persistent, but he had taken the more merciful course, and merely dismissed the boy. He had been in two minds about it before, wondering whether it would not be better to let Martin have a sharp lesson, but tonight he was thankful that he had not done so. The mercy he had shown had come back to bless him also; he felt a glow of thankfulness that the subject of his clemency had turned out so well. Punishment often hardens the criminal, was one of his settled convictions. But Morris—again his thoughts went back to Morris, who was already standing on the verge of manhood, on the verge, too, he made no doubt of married life and its joys and responsibilities. Mr. Taynton was himself a bachelor, and the thought gave him not a moment of jealousy, but a moment of void that ached a little at the thought of the common human bliss which he had himself missed. How charming, too, was the girl Madge Templeton, whom he had met, not for the first time, that evening. He himself had guessed how things stood between the two before Morris had confided in him, and it pleased him that his intuition was confirmed. What a pity, however, that the two were not going to meet next day, that she was out with her mother and would not get back till late. It would have been a cooling thought in the hot office hours of tomorrow to picture them sitting together in the garden at Falmer, or under one of the cool deep-foliaged oaks in the park.

  Then suddenly his face changed, the smile faded, but came back next instant and broadened with a laugh. And the man who laughs when he is by himself may certainly be supposed to have strong cause for amusement.

  Mr. Taynton had come by this time to the West Pier, and a hundred yards farther would bring him to Montpellier Road. But it was yet early, as he saw (so bright was the moonlight) when he consulted his watch, and he retraced his steps some fifty yards, and eventually rang at the door of a big house of flats facing the sea, where his partner, who for the most part, looked after the London branch of their business, had his pied-à-terre. For the firm of Taynton and Mills was one of those respectable and solid businesses that, beginning in the country, had eventually been extended to town, and so far from its having its headquarters in town and its branch in Brighton, had its headquarters here and its branch in the metropolis. Mr. Godfrey Mills, so he learned at the door had dined alone, and was in, and without further delay Mr. Taynton was carried aloft in the gaudy bird-cage of the lift, feeling sure that his partner would see him.

  The flat into which he was ushered with a smile of welcome from the man who opened the door was furnished with a sort of gross opulence that never failed to jar on Mr. Taynton’s exquisite taste and cultivated mind. Pictures, chairs, sofas, the patterns of the carpet, and the heavy gilding of the cornices were all sensuous, a sort of frangipanni to the eye. The apparent contrast, however, between these things and their owner, was as great as that between Mr. Taynton and his partner, for Mr. Godfrey Mills was a thin, spare, dark little man, brisk in movement, with a look in his eye that betokened a watchfulness and vigilance of the most alert order. But useful as such a gift undoubtedly is, it was given to Mr. Godfrey Mills perhaps a shade too obviously. It would be unlikely that the stupidest or shallowest person would give himself away when talking to him, for it was so clear that he was always on the watch for admission or information that might be useful to him. He had, however, the charm that a very active and vivid mind always possesses, and though small and slight, he was a figure that would be noticed anywhere, so keen and wide-awake was his face. Beside him Mr. Taynton looked like a benevolent country clergyman, more distinguished for amiable qualities of the heart, than intellectual qualities of the head. Yet those—there were not many of them—who in dealings with the latter had tried to conduct their business on these assumptions, had invariably found it necessary to reconsider their first impression of him. His partner, however, was always conscious of a little impatience in talking to him; Taynton, he would have allowed, did not lack fine business qualities, but he was a little wanting in quickness.

  Mills’s welcome of him was abrupt.

  “Pleased to see you,” he said. “Cigar, drink? Sit down, won’t you? What is it?”

  “I dropped in for a chat on my way home,” said Mr. Taynton. “I have been dining with Mrs. Assheton. A most pleasant evening. What a fine delicate face she has.”

  Mills bit off the end of a cigar.

  “I take it that you did not come in merely to discuss the delicacy of Mrs. Assheton’s face,” he said.

  “No, no, dear fellow; you are right to recall me. I too take it—I take it that you have found time to go over to Falmer yesterday. How did you find Sir Richard?”

  “I found him well. I had a long talk with him.”

  “And you managed to convey something of those very painful facts which you felt it was your duty to bring to his notice?” asked Mr. Taynton.

  Godfrey Mills laughed.

  “I say, Taynton, is it really worth while keeping it up like this?” he asked. “It really saves so much trouble to talk straight, as I propose to do. I saw him, as I said, and I really managed remarkably well. I had these admissions wrung from me, I assure you it is no less than that, under promise of the most absolute secrecy. I told him young Assheton was leading an idle, extravagant, and dissipated life. I said I had seen him three nights ago in Piccadilly, not quite sober, in company with the class of person to whom one does not refer in polite society. Will that do?”

  “Ah, I can easily imagine how painful you must have found—” began Taynton.

  But his partner interrupted.

  “It was rather painful; you have spoken a true word in jest. I felt a brute, I tell you. But, as I pointed out to you, something of the sort was necessary.”

  Mr. Taynton suddenly dropped his slightly clerical manner.

  “You have done excellently, my dear friend,” he said. “And as you pointed out to me, it was indeed necessary to do something of the sort. I think by now, your revelations have already begun to take effect. Yes, I think I will take a little brandy and soda. Thank you very much.”

  He got up with greater briskness than he had hitherto shown.

  “And you are none too soon,” he said. “Morris, poor Morris, such a handsome fellow, confided to me this evening that he was in love with Miss Templeton. He is very much in earnest.”

  “And why do you think my interview has met with some success?” asked Mills.

  “Well, it is only a conjecture, but when Morris
asked if he might call any time tomorrow, Miss Templeton (who was also dining with Mrs. Assheton) said that she and her mother would be out all day and not get home till late. It does not strike me as being too fanciful to see in that some little trace perhaps of your handiwork.”

  “Yes, that looks like me,” said Mills shortly.

  Mr. Taynton took a meditative sip at his brandy and soda.

  “My evening also has not been altogether wasted,” he said. “I played what for me was a bold stroke, for as you know, my dear fellow, I prefer to leave to your nimble and penetrating mind things that want dash and boldness. But tonight, yes, I was warmed with that wonderful port and was bold.”

  “What did you do?” asked Mills.

  “Well, I asked, I almost implored dear Morris to give me two or three hours tomorrow and go through all the books, and satisfy himself everything is in order, and his investments well looked after. I told him also that the original £30,000 of his had, owing to judicious management, become £40,000. You see, that is unfortunately a thing past praying for. It is so indubitably clear from the earlier ledgers—”

  “But the port must indeed have warmed you,” said Mills quickly. “Why, it was madness! What if he had consented?”

  Mr. Taynton smiled.

  “Ah, well, I in my slow synthetic manner had made up my mind that it was really quite impossible that he should consent to go into the books and vouchers. To begin with, he has a new motor car, and every hour spent away from that car just now is to his mind an hour wasted. Also, I know him well. I knew that he would never consent to spend several hours over ledgers. Finally, even if he had, though I knew from what I know of him not that he would not but that he could not, I could have—I could have managed something. You see, he knows nothing whatever about business or investments.”

  Mills shook his head.

  “But it was dangerous, anyhow,” he said, “and I don’t understand what object could be served by it. It was running a risk with no profit in view.”