The Second E. F. Benson Megapack

by E. F. Benson

  “Now what has been my part in this affair? I have observed you lost money in speculations of which I disapproved, but you always knew best. I have advanced money to you before now to tide over embarrassments that would otherwise have been disastrous. By the exercise of diplomacy—or lying—yesterday, I averted a very grave danger. I point out to you also that there is nothing to implicate me in these—these fraudulent employments of a client’s money. So I ask, where I come in? What do I get by it?”

  Mr. Taynton’s hands were trembling as he fumbled at some papers on his desk.

  “You know quite well that we are to share all profits?” he said.

  “Yes, but at present there have not been any. I have been, to put it plainly, pulling you out of holes. And I think—I think my trouble ought to be remunerated. I sincerely hope you will take that view also. Or shall I remind you again that there is nothing in the world to connect me with these, well, frauds?”

  Mr. Taynton got up from his chair, strolled across to the window where he drew down the blind a little, so as to shut out the splash of sunlight that fell on his table.

  “You have been betting again, I suppose,” he asked quietly.

  “Yes, and have been unfortunate. Pray do not trouble to tell me again how foolish it is to gamble like that. You may be right. I have no doubt you are right. But I think one has as much right to gamble with one’s own money as to do so with the money of other people.”

  This apparently seemed unanswerable; anyhow Mr. Taynton made no reply. Then, having excluded the splash of sunlight he sat down again.

  “You have not threatened, you tell me,” he said, “but you have pointed out to me that there is no evidence that you have had a hand in certain transactions. You say that I know you have helped me in these transactions; you say you require remuneration for your services. Does not that, I ask, imply a threat? Does it not mean that you are blackmailing me? Else why should you bring these facts—I do not dispute them—to my notice? Supposing I refuse you remuneration?”

  Mills had noted the signs of agitation and anxiety. He felt that he was on safe ground. The blackmailer lives entirely on the want of courage in his victims.

  “You will not, I hope, refuse me remuneration,” he said. “I have not threatened you yet, because I feel sure you will be wise. I might, of course, subsequently threaten you.”

  Again there was silence. Mr. Taynton had picked up a quill pen, the same with which he had been writing before, for the nib was not yet dry.

  “The law is rather severe on blackmailers,” he remarked.

  “It is. Are you going to bring an action against me for blackmail? Will not that imply the re-opening of—of certain ledgers, which we agreed last night had better remain shut?”

  Again there was silence. There was a completeness in this reasoning which rendered comment superfluous.

  “How much do you want?” asked Mr. Taynton.

  Mills was not so foolish as to “breathe a sigh of relief.” But he noted with satisfaction that there was no sign of fight in his adversary and partner.

  “I want two thousand pounds,” he said, “at once.”

  “That is a large sum.”

  “It is. If it were a small sum I should not trouble you.”

  Mr. Taynton again got up and strayed aimlessly about the room.

  “I can’t give it you today,” he said. “I shall have to sell out some stock.”

  “I am not unreasonable about a reasonable delay,” said Mills.

  “You are going to town this afternoon?”

  “Yes, I must. There is a good deal of work to be done. It will take me all tomorrow.”

  “And you will be back the day after tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I shall be back here that night, that is to say, I shall not get away from town till the afternoon. I should like your definite answer then, if it is not inconvenient. I could come and see you that night, the day after tomorrow—if you wished.”

  Mr. Taynton thought over this with his habitual deliberation.

  “You will readily understand that all friendly relations between us are quite over,” he said. “You have done a cruel and wicked thing, but I don’t see how I can resist it. I should like, however, to have a little further talk about it, for which I have not time now.”

  Mills rose.

  “By all means,” he said. “I do not suppose I shall be back here till nine in the evening. I have had no exercise lately, and I think very likely I shall get out of the train at Falmer, and walk over the downs.”

  Mr. Taynton’s habitual courtesy came to his aid. He would have been polite to a thief or a murderer, if he met him socially.

  “Those cool airs of the downs are very invigorating.” he said. “I will not expect you therefore till half past nine that night. I shall dine at home, and be alone.”

  “Thanks. I must be going. I shall only just catch my train to town.”

  Mills nodded a curt gesture of farewell, and left the room, and when he had gone Mr. Taynton sat down again in the chair by the table, and remained there some half hour. He knew well the soundness of his partner’s reasoning; all he had said was fatally and abominably true. There was no way out of it. Yet to pay money to a blackmailer was, to the legal mind, a confession of guilt. Innocent people, unless they were abject fools, did not pay blackmail. They prosecuted the blackmailer. Yet here, too, Mills’s simple reasoning held good. He could not prosecute the blackmailer, since he was not in the fortunate position of being innocent. But if you paid a blackmailer once, you were for ever in his power. Having once yielded, it was necessary to yield again. He must get some assurance that no further levy would take place. He must satisfy himself that he would be quit of all future danger from this quarter. Yet from whence was such assurance to come? He might have it a hundred times over in Godfrey Mills’s handwriting, but he could never produce that as evidence, since again the charge of fraudulent employment of clients’ money would be in the air. No doubt, of course, the blackmailer would be sentenced, but the cause of blackmail would necessarily be public. No, there was no way out.

  Two thousand pounds, though! Frugally and simply as he lived, that was to him a dreadful sum, and represented the savings of at least eighteen months. This meant that there was for him another eighteen months of work, just when he hoped to see his retirement coming close to him. Mills demanded that he should work an extra year and a half, and out of those few years that in all human probability still remained to him in this pleasant world. Yet there was no way out!

  Half an hour’s meditation convinced him of this, and, as was his sensible plan, when a thing was inevitable, he never either fought against it nor wasted energy in regretting it. And he went slowly out of the office into which he had come so briskly an hour or two before. But his face expressed no sign of disquieting emotion; he nodded kindly to Timmins, and endorsed his desire to be allowed to come and see the grandson. If anything was on his mind, or if he was revolving some policy for the future, it did not seem to touch or sour that kindly, pleasant face.

  CHAPTER IV

  Mr. Taynton did not let these very unpleasant occurrences interfere with the usual and beneficent course of his life, but faced the crisis with that true bravery that not only meets a thing without flinching, but meets it with the higher courage of cheerfulness, serenity and ordinary behaviour. He spent the rest of the day in fact in his usual manner, enjoying his bathe before lunch, his hour of the paper and the quiet cigar afterward, his stroll over the springy turf of the downs, and he enjoyed also the couple of hours of work that brought him to dinner time. Then afterward he spent his evening, as was his weekly custom, at the club for young men which he had founded, where instead of being exposed to the evening lures of the sea-front and the public house, they could spend (on payment of a really nominal subscription) a quieter and more innocent hour over chess, bagatelle and the illustrated papers, or if more energetically disposed, in the airy gymnasium adjoining the reading-room, where they could ind
ulge in friendly rivalry with boxing gloves or single-stick, or feed the appetites of their growing muscles with dumb-bells and elastic contrivances. Mr. Taynton had spent a couple of hours there, losing a game of chess to one youthful adversary, but getting back his laurels over bagatelle, and before he left, had arranged for a geological expedition to visit, on the Whitsuntide bank holiday next week, the curious raised beach which protruded so remarkably from the range of chalk downs some ten miles away.

  On returning home, it is true he had deviated a little from his usual habits, for instead of devoting the half-hour before bed-time to the leisurely perusal of the evening paper, he had merely given it one glance, observing that copper was strong and that Boston Copper in particular had risen half a point, and had then sat till bed-time doing nothing whatever, a habit to which he was not generally addicted.

  He was seated in his office next morning and was in fact on the point of leaving for his bathe, for this hot genial June was marching on its sunny way uninterrupted by winds or rain, when Mr. Timmins, after discreetly tapping, entered, and closed the door behind him.

  “Mr. Morris Assheton, sir, to see you,” he said. “I said I would find out if you were disengaged, and could hardly restrain him from coming in with me. The young gentleman seems very excited and agitated. Hardly himself, sir.”

  “Indeed, show him in,” said Mr. Taynton.

  A moment afterward the door burst open and banged to again behind Morris. High colour flamed in his face, his black eyes sparkled with vivid dangerous light, and he had no salutation for his old friend.

  “I’ve come on a very unpleasant business,” he said, his voice not in control.

  Mr. Taynton got up. He had only had one moment of preparation and he thought, at any rate, that he knew for certain what this unpleasant business must be. Evidently Mills had given him away. For what reason he had done so he could not guess; after his experience of yesterday it might have been from pure devilry, or again he might have feared that in desperation, Taynton would take that extreme step of prosecuting him for blackmail. But, for that moment Taynton believed that Morris’s agitation must be caused by this, and it says much for the iron of his nerve that he did not betray himself by a tremor.

  “My dear Morris,” he said, “I must ask you to pull yourself together. You are out of your own control. Sit down, please, and be silent for a minute. Then tell me calmly what is the matter.”

  Morris sat down as he was told, but the calmness was not conspicuous.

  “Calm?” he said. “Would you be calm in my circumstances, do you think?”

  “You have not yet told me what they are,” said Mr. Taynton.

  “I’ve just seen Madge Templeton,” he said. “I met her privately by appointment. And she told me—she told me—”

  Master of himself though he was, Mr. Taynton had one moment of physical giddiness, so complete and sudden was the revulsion and reaction that took place in his brain. A moment before he had known, he thought, for certain that his own utter ruin was imminent. Now he knew that it was not that, and though he had made one wrong conjecture as to what the unpleasant business was, he did not think that his second guess was far astray.

  “Take your time, Morris,” he said. “And, my dear boy, try to calm yourself. You say I should not be calm in your circumstances. Perhaps I should not, but I should make an effort. Tell me everything slowly, omitting nothing.”

  This speech, combined with the authoritative personality of Mr. Taynton, had an extraordinary effect on Morris. He sat quiet a moment or two, then spoke.

  “Yes, you are quite right,” he said, “and after all I have only conjecture to go on yet, and I have been behaving as if it was proved truth. God! If it is proved to be true, though, I’ll expose him, I’ll—I’ll horsewhip him, I’ll murder him!”

  Mr. Taynton slapped the table with his open hand.

  “Now, Morris, none of these wild words,” he said. “I will not listen to you for a moment, if you do not control yourself.”

  Once again, and this time more permanently the man’s authority asserted itself. Morris again sat silent for a time, then spoke evenly and quietly.

  “Two nights ago you were dining with us,” he said, “and Madge was there. Do you remember my asking her if I might come to see them, and she said she and her mother would be out all day?”

  “Yes; I remember perfectly,” said Mr. Taynton.

  “Well, yesterday afternoon I was motoring by the park, and I saw Madge sitting on the lawn. I stopped the motor and watched. She sat there for nearly an hour, and then Sir Richard came out of the house and they walked up and down the lawn together.”

  “Ah, you must have been mistaken,” said Mr. Taynton. “I know the spot you mean on the road, where you can see the lawn, but it’s half a mile off. It must have been some friend of hers perhaps staying in the house.”

  Morris shook his head.

  “I was not mistaken,” he said. “For yesterday evening I got a note from her, saying she had posted it secretly, but that she must see me, though she was forbidden to do so, or to hold any communication with me.”

  “Forbidden?” ejaculated Mr. Taynton.

  “Yes, forbidden. Well, this morning I went to the place she named, outside on the downs beyond the park gate and saw her. Somebody has been telling vile lies about me to her father. I think I know who it is.”

  Mr. Taynton held up his hand.

  “Stop,” he said, “let us have your conjecture afterward. Tell me first not what you guess, but what happened. Arrange it all in your mind, tell it me as connectedly as you can.”

  Morris paused a moment.

  “Well, I met Madge as I told you, and this was her story. Three days ago she and her father and mother were at lunch, and they had been talking in the most friendly way about me, and it was arranged to ask me to spend all yesterday with them. Madge, as you know, the next night was dining with us, and it was agreed that she should ask me verbally. After lunch she and her father went out riding, and when they returned they found that your partner Mills, had come to call. He stayed for tea, and after tea had a talk alone with Sir Richard, while she and her mother sat out on the lawn. Soon after he had gone, Sir Richard sent for Lady Templeton, and it was nearly dressing-time when she left him again. She noticed at dinner that both her father and mother seemed very grave, and when Madge went up to bed, her mother said that perhaps they had better not ask me over, as there was some thought of their being away all day. Also if I suggested coming over, when Madge dined with us, she was to give that excuse. That was all she was told for the time being.”

  Morris paused again.

  “You are telling this very clearly and well, my dear boy,” said the lawyer, very gravely and kindly.

  “It is so simple,” said he with a biting emphasis. “Then next morning after breakfast her father sent for her. He told her that they had learned certain things about me which made them think it better not to see any more of me. What they were, she was not told, but, I was not, it appeared, the sort of person with whom they chose to associate. Now, before God, those things that they were told, whatever they were, were lies. I lead a straight and sober life.”

  Mr. Taynton was attending very closely.

  “Thank God, Madge did not believe a word of it,” said Morris, his face suddenly flushing, “and like a brick, and a true friend she wrote at once to me, as I said, in order to tell me all this. We talked over, too, who it could have been who had said these vile things to her father. There was only one person who could. She had ridden with her father till tea-time. Then came your partner. Sir Richard saw nobody else; nobody else called that afternoon; no post came in.”

  Mr. Taynton had sprung up and was walking up and down the room in great agitation.

  “I can’t believe that,” he said. “There must be some other explanation. Godfrey Mills say those things about you! It is incredible. My dear boy, until it is proved, you really must not let yourself believe that to be possible. Yo
u can’t believe such wickedness against a man, one, too, whom I have known and trusted for years, on no evidence. There is no direct evidence yet. Let us leave that alone for the moment. What are you going to do now?”

  “I came here to see him,” said Morris. “But I am told he is away. So I thought it better to tell you.”

  “Yes, quite right. And what else?”

  “I have written to Sir Richard, demanding, in common justice, that he should see me, should tell me what he has heard against me, and who told him. I don’t think he will refuse. I don’t see how he can refuse. I have asked him to see me tomorrow afternoon.”

  Mr. Taynton mentally examined this in all its bearings. Apparently it satisfied him.

  “You have acted wisely and providently,” he said. “But I want to beg you, until you have definite information, to forbear from thinking that my dear Mills could conceivably have been the originator of these scandalous tales, tales which I know from my knowledge of you are impossible to be true. From what I know of him, however, it is impossible he could have said such things. I cannot believe him capable of a mean or deceitful action, and that he should be guilty of such unfathomable iniquity is simply out of the question. You must assume him innocent till his guilt is proved.”

  “But who else could it have been?” cried Morris, his voice rising again.

  “It could not have been he,” said Taynton firmly.

  There was a long silence; then Morris rose.

  “There is one thing more,” he said, “which is the most important of all. This foul scandal about me, of course, I know will be cleared up, and I shall be competent to deal with the offender. But—but Madge and I said other things to each other. I told her what I told you, that I loved her. And she loves me.”

  The sternness, the trouble, the anxiety all melted from Mr. Taynton’s face.