by E. F. Benson
“Good night, dear,” she said very softly; “I hope nothing has disagreed with you.”
Jim laughed a little to himself as he ascended the thickly carpeted stairs to the flat on the first floor, but the laugh was not of long duration or of very genuine quality. He felt at enmity with all the world in spite of the excellent dinner he had eaten. He felt that Dora was a fool to let little things like — well, like that recitation — come between her and the immense enjoyment that could be got out of life if only you had, as was the case with her, a limitless power of commanding its pleasures. And yet, if those pleasures were to be indissolubly wrapped up with an Osborne environment he felt he almost understood her absence of content. To put a case — if he was given the choice of going to Newmarket to-morrow with Lady Osborne in her two-thousand-pound seventy-horse-power Napier, or of travelling there third class at his own expense, what would he do? Certainly, if the choice was for one day only, he would go in the car, but if the choice concerned going there every day for the rest of his life, or hers, the question hardly needed an answer. The thing would become unbearable. And Dora had to go, not to Newmarket only, but everywhere, everywhere with Claude. And for himself, he would sooner have gone anywhere with Mrs. Osborne than with him.
It is more blessed to give than to receive; in many cases it is certainly easier to give with a good grace than to receive in the same spirit. And if the gift is made without sacrifice it is, unless the recipient is genuinely attached to the giver, most difficult to receive it charitably. It may be received with gratitude if it is much wanted, but the gratitude here is felt not toward the giver, but toward the gift. Toward the giver there is liable to spring up, especially if he is not liked before, a feeling compared with which mere dislike is mild. It was so with Jim now.
He squirted some whisky into a glass, put a lump of clinking ice into it, and added some Perrier water. All these things were Claude’s, so was the chair in which he sat, so was the cigar, the end of which he had just bitten off. This latter operation he had not performed with his usual neatness; there was a piece of loose leaf detached, which might spoil the even smoking of it, and he threw it away and took another. They were all Claude’s, and if his drinks and his cigars had been made of molten gold, Jim felt he would sit up till morning, even at the cost of personal inconvenience, in order to consume as much as possible of them. The evening too, “the charming, pleasant party,” of which his mother had spoken so foolishly, had enraged him. There had been all there that money, the one thing in the world he desired so much, could possibly buy, and they had found nothing better to do than listen to ridiculous songs, hear an unspeakable recitation, and play an absurd round game. He hated them all, not only because they were rich, but because they were ill-bred and contented. Jovial happiness (the more to be resented because of its joviality), a happiness, he knew well, that was really independent of money, trickled and oozed from them like resin from a healthy fir tree; happiness was their sap, their life; they were sticky with it. And he was afraid he knew where that came from; it came not only from their good digestion, but from their kindness, their simplicity, their nice natures. But if he at this moment had the opportunity of changing his own nature with that of any of these Osbornes, to take their kindness, their joviality, their simple contentment with and pleasure in life, with all their wealth thrown in, he would have preferred himself with all his disabilities and poverty. There was something about them all, some inherent commonness, that he would not have made part of himself at any price. Only a day or two ago he had been telling Dora to put the purseholders in a good temper at whatever cost, not to mind about their being not quite — and now he saw her difficulty. It was not possible even to think of them in a humorous light; they were awful grotesques, nightmares, for all their happiness and wealth, if you were obliged to have much to do with them.
Jim finished his whisky and took more. Of all those tragic and irritating figures, the one who appeared to him most deplorable and exasperating was Claude, on whom he was living at this moment, and on whom he proposed to live till the end of the month. After that he would no doubt search out some means of living on him further. Rich people were the cows provided for the poorer. It was quite unnecessary, because you fattened on their milk, to like them. You liked their milk, not them. And it was this very thing, this fact of his own indebtedness to his brother-in law, that made Claude the more insupportable. That Claude was kind and generous, that Dora had married him, aggravated his offence, and the unspeakable meanness of his own relationship to him, in being thus dependent on him, aggravated it further. Yet his own meanness was part of Claude’s offence; he would not have felt like this toward a gentleman. But Claude, as he had said long ago to his mother, was a subtle cad, the worst variety of that distressing species. So he lit another of his cigars.
The butt of the one he had just thrown away had fallen inside the brass fender, and the Persian rug in front of the fender had been pulled a little too far inward, so that its fringe projected inside. The smouldering end fell on to this fringe, and Jim watched it singe the edge of the rug without getting up to take it off, justifying himself the while. The interior of a fender was a proper receptacle for cigar ends, and if the edge of a rug happened to be there too it was not his fault. And the fact that he sat and watched it being singed was wholly and completely symptomatic of his state of mind. He liked seeing even an infinitesimal deterioration of Claude’s property. What business had Claude with prints and Persian rugs and half-filled-in cheque-books? He was generous because the generosity cost him absolutely nothing.
Had Jim been able to hear the conversation that took place in the drawing-room of No. 92 after he and his mother had gone his evil humour would probably have been further accentuated. Lord Osborne started it.
“Well, give me a family party every night,” he said, “and I ask for nothing more, my lady, though, to be sure, I like your grand parties second to none. Dora, my dear, that brother of yours is a sharp fellow. He beat us all at our round game. I hope he’s comfortable in your flat, eh, Claude? You’ve left some cigars and suchlike, I hope, so that he won’t wish to turn out, saying there’s more of comfort to be had at his club.”
Claude reassured his father on this point, and Mrs. Per glided up to Dora. She usually glided.
“What a dear Lord Austell is, Dora,” she said. “And so aristocratic looking. I wish I had a brother like that. Do you think that he liked my little songs? Per and I wondered if he would come down to Sheffield in the autumn. Per has some good shooting, I believe, though I can’t bear the thought of it. Poor little birds! to be shot like that when they’re so happy. I always stop my ears if they are shooting near the house.”
“Lizzie, my dear, you’re too kind-hearted,” said Lady Osborne. “What would our dinners be like if it wasn’t for the shooting? Perpetual beef and mutton, nothing tasty.”
Mrs. Per wheeled around with a twist of her serpentine neck.
“Ah, but you can never have read that dear little story by Gautier — or is it Daudet? — about the quails,” she said. “I have never touched a quail since I read it. But Lord Austell, dear Dora. We were going to have a little party, very select, about the middle of September, and Per and I wondered if Lord Austell would come. There are the races, you know, for two days, and with two days’ shooting, and perhaps an expedition to Fountains, I think he might like it. He told me he was so interested in antiquities. And if you and Claude would come too—”
Mrs. Per broke off in some confusion. She had forgotten for the moment. And she drew Dora a little aside.
“Dear Dora,” she said, “I quite forgot. Quite, quite, quite! So stupid! But Claude, perhaps, if all is well? They are great friends, are they not? Claude told me that Lord Austell was keeping his flat warm for him. So kind and so nice of Claude to lend it, too, of course.” Then Lord Osborne’s voice broke in again.
“Yes, the family party is the party to my mind,” he said. “No pomp; just a plain dinner, and a son
g, and a conjuring trick, and no fatigue for my lady, with standing up and saying ‘Glad to see you’ a thousand times —— not but what she isn’t glad, as we all are to see our friends; but Lord, Mrs. O. — I beg your pardon, my lady — how nice to have a quiet evening such as tonight, with my Lady Austell and her son just dropping in neighbour-like, and no bother to anybody. Per, my boy, you’ve made a conquest of Lord Austell; he was wrapped up in your tricks, and each puzzled him more than the last. As he said to me, ‘You don’t know what to expect: it may be an egg, or a watch, or the ten of spades.’”
“Well, I expect it would take a professional to see through my tricks,” said Per; “and even then I’d warrant I’d puzzle him as often as not. There’s a lot of practice goes to each, and there’s many evenings, when Lizzie and I have been alone, when we’ve gone through them, and she pulled me up short if ever she saw, so I might say, the wink of a shirt cuff. But they went off pretty well to-night, though I say that who shouldn’t.”
“And I’m sure I don’t know what pleased me best to-night,” said Lady Osborne, “whether it was the conjuring tricks, or Lizzie’s singing, or the ‘Sands of Dee,’ or the round game. Bless me! and it’s nearly one o’clock. It’s time we were all in bed, for there’s no rest for any: body to-morrow, I’m sure, not after the clock’s gone ten in the morning till two the next morning and later.” Lord Osborne gave a gigantic yawn.
“I’m sure I apologize to the company for gaping,” he said, “but it comes upon one sometimes without knowing. And what has my lady planned for to-morrow?”
“As if it was me as had planned it,” said his wife, “when you would have half the Cabinet take their lunch with you, and a Mercy League of some kind in the ballroom in the afternoon! Three hundred teas ordered, and by your orders, Mr. O., which will but give you time to dress, if you’re thinking to make a speech to them. But do be up to the time for dinner, for we sit down thirty at table at a quarter past eight, and out of the ballroom you must go, for if the servants clear it and air it for my dance by eleven o’clock, it’s as much as you can expect of flesh and blood!”
“And she carries it all in her head,” said her husband, “as if it was twice five’s ten! Maria, my dear, you’re right, and it’s time to go to the land of Nod. Not that there’ll be much nodding for me; I shall sleep without them sort of preliminaries.”
“Well, and I’m sure you ought to after all the snoring exercise you went through last night,” said Lady Osborne genially. “I couldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard it. There, there, my dear, it’s only my joke. And they tell me it shows a healthy pair of lungs to make all that night music, as I may say. And, Dora, be sure as your brother knows he’s welcome to dinner as well as the dance afterward, in case I didn’t say it to him. I can always find an extra place at my table for them as are always welcome.”
Lord Osborne got up.
“Not but what you didn’t fair stick him over your conjuring tricks, Per,” he said. “And did you cast your eye over the coronet I’ve had put up above the front door? It’s a fine bit of carving. Well, good night to all and sundry. Claude, my boy, you take good care of Per, and mind to put out the lights when you come to bed. One o’clock! I should never have guessed it was past twelve.”
The Newmarket meeting began next day, and Jim was not put to the odious degradation of paying for his own ticket, as he motored down with a friend. No more delightful way of spending the morning could be desired than this swift progress through the summer air over these smooth roads; and that, with a confident belief in the soundness of his betting book and the anticipation of a pleasant and lucrative afternoon, entirely dissipated the evil humour of the evening before. After all, in this imperfect world, it was wiser to take the bad with the good, and if the manners and customs of the Osborne family got on his nerves, it must be put down to their credit, not to the aggravation of their offences, as he had been disposed to think last night, that they treated him in so open-handed a way. Certainly they would appear in a far more disagreeable light if they were close-handed with their money. It was, of course, a sin and an iniquity that other people should have money and not he; but since Providence (and that deplorable Derby week) had chosen to make this disposition of affairs, it was as well that certain mines of bullion should be accessible to him. And here already was the Heath, and the crowds, and the roar of the ring.
Like most gamblers, Jim, though practical enough in the ordinary affairs of life, had a vein of fantastic superstition about him, and it occurred to him after the first race, in which he had the good fortune to back the winner, that his luck had turned, and he cast about to think of the cause that had turned it. At once he hit on it: he had paid Claude back the sovereign which he had found on his dressing table and had given to the cook. That had been a happy inspiration of his: the action itself had been of the nature of casting bread on the waters, for Claude probably was unconscious of having left a sovereign there, and in any case would not ask for it; and here, not after many days, but the very next day, he had picked up fifty of them before lunch. Apparently some sort of broad-minded guardian angel looked after his bets and his morals, and, if he was good; turned the luck for him (for this broadminded angel clearly did not object to a little horse racing) and enabled him to back winners. And after this initial success Jim went back to his friend’s motor and ate an extremely good lunch.
Whether the broad-minded angel looked back over Jim’s past record and found something that he could not quite stand, Jim never reasoned out with any certainty; all that was certain was that after that first race the carefully made up, almost gilt-edged book went to pieces. Once in a sudden access of caution he hedged over a horse he had backed; that was the only winner he was concerned with for the rest of the day.
Jim returned to town that evening in a frame of mind that was not yet desperate, but sufficiently serious to make him uncomfortable. Outwardly, he took his losses admirably, was cheerfully cynical about them, and behaved in nowise other than he would have behaved if he had been winning all afternoon. He had promised to dine at the Savoy, but on arrival at the flat he found a telephone message written out which had come from Dora after his departure that morning, asking him to dine at No. 92. At that his mood of last evening flashed up again.
“I’ll be damned if I ever set foot in that house again!” he said to himself. And regretted into the telephone.
There was a telegram for him as well. It was from a very well-informed quarter, giving him the tip to back Callisto, an outsider, for the big race to-morrow.
He crumpled it up impatiently; how many well-informed tips, he wondered, had he acted on, and what percentage of them had come off? Scarcely one in a hundred. No; backing outsiders was a good enough game if you were on your luck, and also happened to be solvent.
He did not go to Newmarket next day, but sat all afternoon in his club, making frequent journeys to the tape, that ticked out inexorably and without emotion things so momentous to him. It was a little out of order, and now and then, after the announcement “Newmarket,” it would reel off a rapid gabble of meaningless letters like a voluble drunkard, or give some extraneous information about what was happening at Lord’s. Then it pulled itself together again, and he saw that Callisto had won. Harry Franklin was looking over his shoulder as this information came out, and gave a cackle of laughter.
“Hurrah! fur coat for May and new gun for me,” he said.
“Lucky dog!” said Jim. “I thought you never betted.”
“Oh, once in a blue moon! Moon was blue yesterday. Somebody gave me this tip last night, and I had a shy.”
“I didn’t shy,” said Jim. “Rather a pity. Twenty-five to one, wasn’t it?”
“Yes; that fiver of mine will go a long way,” said Harry. “Come and dine to-night. Dora and Claude Osborne are coming.”
“Thanks awfully, but I’m engaged,” said Jim.
He went back to his flat when the last race was recorded to see just where he stood
. He had nothing more on for the last day of the meeting, and thus his accounts were ready to be made up. A rather lengthy addition, with a very short subtraction of winnings, showed him just what he had lost. And he owed nearly five hundred pounds more than he could possibly pay. The exact sum was £476. It would have to be paid by Monday next.
It was true in a sense, that, as he told Harry Franklin, he was engaged that night, though the engagement was to himself only. It was necessary to sit and think. The money was necessary to him, and necessity is a lawless force. The money had to be obtained; so much might be taken for granted. It was no use considering what would happen if it was not obtained; therefore, all that might be dismissed, for it had to be obtained. That was the terminus from which he started.
He had telephoned from the club that he would be in for dinner, and would dine alone, and Claude’s admirable cook, it appeared, understood the science of providing single dinners as well as she understood more festive provisions. Dinner was light and short, and Parker, without prompting, gave him a half-bottle of Veuve Clicquot, iced to the right point and no further, and a glass of port that seemed to restore him to his normal level. What he had to face was no longer unfaceable; he felt he could go out and meet necessity.
Other possibilities detained him but little; it was no use applying to his mother for money, for he might as well apply to the workhouse; and he could not apply to the Osbornes. He tried to think of himself asking Claude to lend him this sum; he tried to picture himself going to Lord Osborne with his story. But the picture was unpaintable: it had no possible existence.
And the other way — the way which already had taken form and feature in his mind — was not so difficult, far less impossible of contemplation, simply because his nature was not straight, and the moral difficulty of stealing appeared to him to be within his power to deal with. He had never been straight; but even now he made excuses for himself, said that it was a necessity that forced him into a path that was abhorrent to him. Perhaps he did dislike it a little; certainly he did not take it for amusement. Simply there was no other way open to him. There remained only to consider the chances of detection. They did not seem to him great. The cheque-book with which he would shortly be concerned had clearly been left in its drawer as finished with, for the last cheque was used, though not the one immediately preceding it. Claude, too, had almost bragged about his carelessness with regard to money, and the truth of his boast had been endorsed by his mother only two nights ago, when she told him how he had never noticed that his quarter’s allowance had not been paid in, That was a matter of nearly four thousand pounds; this of hardly more than the same number of hundreds.