The Penance (Snaith)

by J. C. Snaith

 

THE PENANCE

 

By J. C. SNAITH

 

Illustrated by Stanley Davis

"WHY, of course, she married him for his money."

George Lawrence, passing from the club smoking-room to get his hat and stick from the lobby, felt the words strike him at the back of the brain.

"Why, of course, she married him for his money."

He did not know the voice, he did not know in whose ear it was half whispered, he did not catch the words that went before or those which followed after. It was just one of those little scraps of talk, one of those conversational banalities a man is always overhearing and always forgetting, almost without realising that they have ever been heard at all.

As the evening was fine, George Lawrence walked down Piccadilly, the longest way home, for the good of his health. It was May, and spring was on the trees of the Green Park at the other side of the railings; it was in the voices of the birds; it was in the very air of London. Moreover, it was displayed conspicuously in the persons of his fellow-citizens, whom he did not see, upon whom he did not bestow a thought. The soul of George Lawrence had suffered an eclipse which ten minutes ago seemed very unlikely to overtake a man so sane, so secure as himself.

"Why, of course, she married him for his money."

At Hyde Park Corner, at all times a terrible trap for the unwary, and particularly at this season of the year, only a series of miracles saved George Lawrence from a death by violence.

"Well, and if she has——" he muttered, as he emerged upon the threshold of St. George's Hospital, almost from under the wheels of a motor-bus.

George was fifty-three, and two years ago he had married a wife rather less than half his age. Of course, he had been guilty of a very rash act. It was a tempting of Providence, especially on the part of a crusted bachelor.

Some subtle instinct told him that the little world of his friends and hers had shaken its head a good deal over the affair. The knowing ones, no doubt, were watching with interest this union of the dull fogey, with more money to spend than was good for him, and the highly-strung creature, all fire and charm, who had never had a shilling to call her own.

They had a large and comfortable house in South Audley Street, and this evening the husband, with a sense of bitter disillusion, was going the longest way to it across the Park. It was an abode for the rich, very gay to the view, and wonderful just now, with its window-boxes of spring flowers. It was enough to bring a thrill of real pleasure to the heart of any man; but this evening George Lawrence was in no frame of mind to harbour any such emotion.

His latchkey was about to turn in the smartly-painted door, when lo! it opened from within, very gently, very quietly, at the instance of a servant who was bowing a visitor from its portals.

"Why, Jim!"

"My dear old boy!"

Jim Halkin, a queer fish if ever there was one in the sight of his present beholder, was stealing out of the house, if not exactly like a thief in the night, yet with a look of guilt upon a singularly handsome countenance.

"Why, it's years——"

"One at least."

They actually shook hands to prove they had not met for that period.

"You must come back and explain yourself."

"No, I've hardly a minute to live, my dear old chap," said Jim Halkin breathlessly.

"You never had."

"I know. There's so much to do in the world and so little time in which to do it."

"Then why waste it by coming here at all?"

"Important business. Unfortunately, I can't stop now to explain it, but your wife has kindly asked me to dine here next week. You shall then hear all about it. Good-bye, old man! Haven't a moment now! See you next week!"

Jim Halkin was gone. There he was, running as if his life depended on it along the chaste length of South Audley Street, a most unseemly spectacle for gods and men—no gloves, no umbrella, frayed trouser ends, wretched hat, collar undoubtedly clean, but neck-tie hitched up to left ear, a not-a-minute-to-live sort of manner, and a pronounced Cockney accent. George Lawrence was just enough of a prig—it is very difficult for the George Lawrences of the world entirely to escape that malady—to be hurt by these things. Poor old Jim, a few degrees madder than ever! And this was the hero of his youth at school and at Oxford. In those far-off days he had been a wonderful natural phenomenon, an athlete of undoubted prowess, and a man of real originality and charm. The honour of Jim Halkin's friendship was in those days a passport to fame. That speech at the Union in his last term! That hit at Lord's, when he sent a ball from Giffen over the tavern! The man upon whom all the graces had been lavished, the man who might have done anything, to be running along South Audley Street with frayed ends to his trousers and his neck-tie hitched over his left ear, for all the world as if seven devils pursued him!

George entered his wife's drawing-room a sad and perplexed man. Somehow the sight of Jim Halkin had upset him. That a man so lavishly endowed, who had been given the key to all that the world had to offer, should account it so little! And, above all, the accent! A Halkin, second son of a peer, with an accent unmistakably Cockney! The soul of George Lawrence was sickened, as the souls of the George Lawrences of the earth are sickened by such things.

Hip wife was immersed, as she so often was, in some new volume from the circulating library, and, as usual, it had a rather portentous "high-brow" look. He kissed her dutifully—nay, more than dutifully. In his sight, for all that they had been married two years, she was the only woman possible for him. But at the moment his lips touched her cheek, that strange, that terrible phrase he had heard half an hour ago went like a sword through his brain.

"Jim Halkin's been here," he said abruptly.

"Yes." As she looked up, he saw there was sudden light in her eyes.

"He seems madder than ever."

She did not say anything, but returned quietly to her book. And then all at once her air of indifference wounded him. There had been a flicker of animation when he mentioned Jim Halkin, but it was gone as soon as he showed a disinclination to carry that topic further. He returned to it in order to watch her light up again.

"What brought him here?"

"He is full of a new scheme." There her eyes went again. "He wants money and support."

"Everybody wants that," he said sourly—her eyes were so bright. The next moment he would have liked to kick himself for his disloyality to one who, with all his foibles, was the finest chap in the world.

"He is coming to dinner next week, so that he can talk about it."

How her eyes shone! And, with the underside of his mind, George Lawrence remembered that Jim Halkin, in spite of his recent fall from grace, had always had more of the dynamic power that appeals irresistibly to women than any man he had ever known.

"He's really doing something, you know." George could not remember ever to have seen quite that look before in his wife's face. And a deadly poison was already at work in his veins. Suddenly he dismissed the subject of Jim Halkin.

"We are dining early, aren't we?"

"Yes." There was no mistaking the look and the tone of her indifference.

"Oh, well," he said resentfully, "don't come unless you like. I thought it might amuse you—that's all."

"There are only two plays in London at present that are in the least amusing, and we've seen those already."

"But they say this is not bad."

"I dare say."

And with a yawn, not very well concealed, she turned again to her book.

George suddenly flamed up.

"Oh, don't come!" he said. "By all means, don't come. I'll go alone."

"Very well."

It was not kind, but he had not been kind either. With a sudden irrational gust of anger, for which he was wholly at a loss to account, the jealous, disillusioned, tormented husband walked out of the room.

II.

His stall at the play gave him opportunity for further reflection. But before he could gain that rather undesirable bourn came the ordeal of entrance into the theatre itself. George Lawrence, the least self-conscious of men, seemed somehow to feel that the attention of the whole house was mysteriously concentrated upon him. "Why, of course, she married him for his money." He could hear the whisper upon a hundred lips as he sat down with rather less of elegance and deliberation than was his wont. He felt himself to be the cynosure of every eye.

Yes, the piece was undeniably stupid. And unless it was a play of the first class—and some subtle force was always at work in the "healthy" mind of George Lawrence to keep him clear of things so dangerous—a play had to be very stupid indeed not to give him pleasure. His wife had been wise not to come. Undoubtedly she would have been bored to tears.

But, after all, had she been wise not to come? At the end of the first act, that was a question George Lawrence was asking of Heaven. Was it playing quite fair to let him down in this way? Even if she had married him for his money, oughtn't she to—wasn't it her duty—to put the best sort of face on things she could? He was dull, of course, her inferior in mind, and all that, but he had honestly tried to keep his side of the contract. All that he had to give was hers. Had he not kept her supplied with every luxury? And he was quite willing, since she liked it so well, to buy the lease of that shooting-lodge in Scotland.

The poison in his heart began to work sad havoc in the course of the evening. Several times, as the chance phrase recurred to him, he could hardly sit still. Between the acts he paced the corridors like a maimed and angry lion. Finally an acquaintance said to him: "This is the best play I've seen for years. And splendidly acted, don't you think?"

That was too much for poor George. He left the theatre at once, vainly regretting that he could not throw a bomb upon th§ stage, and took to the pavement to ease the pressure of his thoughts.

The evening was wonderfully fine, and the walk home in the cool air was not at all unpleasant. He covered the ground at a great pace, but, do as he would, he was quite unable to check the tumult that was now raging in his mind. "Why, of course"—the phrase was ever recurring—"she married him for his money."

It was somewhere between Bond Street and Berkeley Square that he made his resolve. Whatever happened, he must set his doubts at rest. The very uncertainty seemed to add to their power. And then, almost in the moment that his resolution was finally taken, some perverse demon showed him how to put it into immediate execution.

The next morning, at the breakfast table, was the time and the place he chose. The plan was simple to the verge of the ingenuous. A night of aching doubt had wrought a new George Lawrence. The old one, the straightforward, easy-going man of the world, whose code of honour was rather above that affected by the average of his type, had, at the first assault of the passion that so easily undermines certain natures, suddenly given place to something else.

Yes, it was a new George Lawrence who sat at the table, toying with the morning's post, which he was merely pretending to read. He did not waste much time in preliminaries. He was well aware that, if the thing were not done quickly, it would not be done at all.

It was just after his wife had handed him coffee, with that bored and listless air which had troubled him for so many weeks, that he opened an imposing-looking document, which, however, was an appeal for a subscription to an orphanage, and then gave a loud exclamation. Indeed, it was so loud and so unexpected that she looked at him with a startled face.

"Why, what is the matter, George?"

He paused a moment for the sake of dramatic effect.

"It is simply that we are ruined—that's all."

His calmness sounded rather uncanny.

"Ruined!"

"Yes."

Narrowly, with eyes of discreetly veiled intensity, he watched her.

She rose at once and came to his side.

"You can't mean that?" she said.

She was very pale, her voice trembled, the pressure of her hand on his shoulder was almost more than he could bear. Somehow he felt like a man who has committed a mean and callous crime. But he was entirely desperate. He must go through with this thing now.

"Yes," he said, with his unnatural calmness, "it means practically the loss of all we have."

A deadly pause followed.

"All?" Her voice was strained, incredulous.

"Yes, practically all, I'm afraid. A hundred or so a year may be left for us, but it means the giving up of all the things we have been used to."

"Oh!"

That was her only comment; and then she asked, in a curiously matter-of-fact voice, if he would have some more coffee.

[Illustration: "As she spoke she rose ... and came across and flung her arms round George's neck."]

III.

A week passed. In that time George did not venture again to refer to the subject. It was simply that he had not the courage. He was already despicable in his own sight—he was branded with infamy. But, as he was soon to learn, the matter could not be allowed to rest where it was.

On the morning of the seventh day following the announcement, his wife informed him that she had been house-hunting in the suburbs. There was a light in her eyes, an animation in her manner which her husband had not seen for many months. She had found three houses—one at Ealing, one at Tooting, one at Golders Green—any one of which might meet their straitened circumstances, and yet provide the little strip of garden for which her soul craved.

Her eagerness to be of use to him, to help in this financial crisis, was rather pathetic. But there was not the least need to pity her. She was a woman transformed. There was an air of quiet but inflexible determination about her that astonished George Lawrence considerably. During that week of silence she had done much. And no longer was she bored and listless. In her eyes was the old look of eager interest, in her manner was the old decision which once had charmed him. Yes, she was a woman transformed.

That evening Jim Halkin fulfilled his promise—he came to South Audley Street to dine. There was no one to meet him. He had stipulated for that, in his odd way, when the invitation was given. As he said, he had rather got out of the ways of civilisation; besides, he wanted to talk very seriously to George.

It was near the end of the meal, as he was paring an apple, that Jim Halkin began his serious talking.

"Look here, my boy," he said, with the abruptness that was so like him, "I've been thinking that you are one of the chaps who ought to be doing things."

"I dare say you're right," mused George. "But tell me—what is there for a one-horse sort of fellow like me to do in the world?"

"Well, you are rather a drone in the hive at present, aren't you?" said Jim Halkin persuasively.

"Agreed."

"Now, there's this Settlement we've started down in Kent." It was really wonderful how the light suddenly shone in the eyes of Jim Halkin. "It's going strong, my friend—it is going very strong indeed."

"Another of these missions for the thriftless and undeserving poor," said George Lawrence warily. He often boasted of being "a plain man," who never felt sentimental towards the poor.

"Well, if you put it like that," said Jim cheerfully, and then he bad a really shocking relapse into his Cockney accent. "You see, we take poor kids out of the slums—poor kids who, if they were left where they were, would not have a dog's chance of becoming decent citizens."

"Oh, I dare say it's good work," said George. "Don't misunderstand me. And I admire the people who can do it. But I never feel the slightest call towards it myself. And a man has got to feel a very decided call to take on a job of that kind."

"Yes, I quite think so," said Jim Halkin. The eyes of his hostess had grown strangely bright. "But even if personal service is beyond you—and I don't say for a moment that you have any obligation in the matter—somehow I do feel that a man who is as rich as you are, George, might help enormously if only he would."

The silence which followed was strangely awkward.

"George is no longer a rich man," said his wife softly.

"No?" Jim Halkin gave an incredulous glance round the room.

"We are giving up all this," said Mrs. George, in a low voice. "George, you know, has recently been ruined."

"Ruined!" Jim's face was a study as he looked from wife to husband, and back again from husband to wife. "Why—why, surely you can't ruin Crœsus!"

"Oh, yes," said George nervously. "The richest man alive can ruin himself if he plays about with the things he doesn't understand."

The miserable wretch ended with a noise in the throat that was meant for a laugh. He simply dare not look in the direction of his wife.

"Well, well!" said Jim Halkin. Again he glanced from one to the other. His vivid temperament had plunged him into acute misery. He despised money, and he pitied profoundly the people who made it their god; but these were his friends, and he knew—at least, he thought he knew—what the possession of money meant to them.

He watched George covertly. How pale and miserable he looked! Money undoubtedly meant very much to him, poor chap. And if it meant so much to George, who was a man, how much more—how very much more—must it mean to the weaker vessel who was George's wife! For a moment Jim Halkin had simply not the courage to look at his hostess.

"Why, how serious you are about it!" The clear tones of Mrs. George were a positive refreshment to the sensitive soul of Jim Halkin. "You don't mean to say that you can possibly feel about money in the way that George and I do." And her laugh rang as brave as truth.

"But, my dear woman," said Jim Halkin, "do you mean to say that you, who have possessed a great—at least, a considerable fortune, can laugh at the loss of it?"

"Why not?" The voice was steady and level, the honest eyes clear as truth. "I really think that this loss is the very best thing that could possibly have happened to George and me."

And, as she spoke, she rose, an impulsive child of Nature, from her end of the table, and came across and flung her arms round George's neck.

IV.

After dinner, in the drawing-room, George was silent and embarrassed. He could not meet the eyes of his wife, he could not endure the note of triumph in the voice of his friend.

"Yes, it's a big thing," said Jim Halkin, recurring again and again to the subject which seemed to absorb his whole life. "A very big thing indeed. We provide a home, an education, a career for two thousand of the poorest kids in London, and I've only one regret."

"What is that, pray?" asked Mrs. George, with a little quiver in her voice.

"That the number isn't twenty thousand instead of two. But it will be, one of these days. Mark what I say." Jim Halkin was like a boastful boy.

"I am sure it will be," said Mrs. George softly. "But it's a great pity George has lost all his money. He might have done so much for you." She looked almost gaily at the husband who did not venture to look at her. "I would never have let him have a moment's peace, you know, until he had given you at least twenty thousand pounds."

"Yes, a great pity," Jim Halkin agreed. "But, as he can't give us his money, may I suggest that he gives us something more valuable?"

"Pray, what is that?"

"Himself."

"Himself?"

"You see," said Jim Halkin, "it so happens that we are advertising for a resident superintendent. Four hundred a year and a house. Must be married. Preference given to public school and university man. Now, what do you say to it? Of course, it isn't South Audley Street, but it's an uncommonly nice part of Kent. And it would be a rare stroke of luck for us if you and George really went into it. You both have such a grip on things that it is in your power to help us wonderfully."

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Mrs. George. "I would undertake it myself without a moment's hesitation, but I daren't answer for George. He simply hates the lower orders."

"Yes, I know," said Jim Halkin, shaking his head sadly. "And so did I at one time. But I love 'em now, and the lower they are, the more I love 'em—that is, if they are young enough."

"Yes, yes," she said wistfully, "but poor old George is not like you."

"Well, I can remember the time," said Jim Halkin stoutly, "when I was remarkably like George. I used to sit in my club and hear the latest gossip, and my only concern in the world was the exact position of the thirteenth trump. And then the time came when the girl I wanted to marry wouldn't have me, simply because I wasn't good enough, and that was the best and kindest action ever done for me by anybody."

"But you are more than good enough for any woman now," said Mrs. George softly.

"Think so?" said Jim Halkin, with an air of genuine surprise. And then he added humbly: "Anyhow, she married a better chap than I shall ever be."

"I should like to meet him," said Mrs. George.

"You are beginning to make old George horribly jealous, aren't you?" said Jim cheerfully, as he turned to his friend.

"Jealousy is not one of George's weaknesses," said his wife.

"Well, now, this is a dead straight proposition," continued Jim. "Four hundred a year and a house. Of course, it's nothing at all for people like you, and it will mean real hard work and responsibility. But suppose you take it on for a year. Take it on for a year, my friends, and do penance for the arrogance of the idle rich."

"It's a splendid idea," said Mrs. George.

But George shook his head sourly. To him the idea was anything but splendid.

"It's a magnificent idea," affirmed his wife—"simply magnificent. It would make a new man of you, George—at least, I know it would make a new woman of me. Besides, four hundred a year and a house and a garden, I think you said, Jim——"

"Did I say a garden? There is one, anyhow. Quite tip-top. Acres and acres. Peas and cabbages and potatoes, and so on. In fact, we depend upon it for the veg."

"For the what?" said George, with a frown.

"For the vegetables, you old fool," said Jim Halkin heartily. "There are two thousand mouths to feed."

"Oh!" said George, like a man suffering acutely.

During the pause which followed, the ardent gaze of Jim Halkin transfixed man and wife.

"Well, now, what do you say to it?" Jim's eyes seemed to burn. "Four hundred a year and a garden. You'll be keeping the wolf from the door, and you'll be earning your corn."

George turned involuntarily to his wife, to the woman "who had married him for his money." For very shame he hardly knew how to meet that splendidly expectant face.

"And you really don't mind?" he said weakly enough.

"Mind?"

"The great unwashed, and potato-growing, and so on?"

"I'd love it—I'd simply love it! We should really be doing something—something to justify all the good things we've had, which we have not learned how to appreciate."

To the mind of George Lawrence this, of course, was mere sentimentalism. But he was quite unequal now to the task of reproving it. He was dishonoured in his own sight. Moreover, was there not in his wife's face that which he had never hoped to see there?

Yes, after all, it was right that some penalty should be exacted. Let him make reparation for his miserable blindness. It was quite true that he had a deep-rooted dislike of "the lower orders"; also, the cultivation of potatoes and kidney beans and cabbages did not appeal to him at all. But something was due to this woman of whom he was totally unworthy. And although others need never learn his dismal secret, it surely behoved him to make payment in kind before he could even begin to think of reinstatement in his own sight.

"You really mean what you say?"

"I was never more in earnest in anything," said his wife. "I think this idea of Jim's is splendid. And I think it would save us both from drifting into—drifting into ennui and Heaven knows what besides."

"But I put it to you, suppose we are not exactly ruined, after all? Suppose I have exaggerated a bit?"

"It doesn't really alter the case in the least."

"Is that to say that if you were given the choice between carrying on here as we are, or going down into Kent and helping to run this Settlement, you would not hesitate?"

"Not for one moment—not for one single moment."

"Very well," said George. "But perhaps I ought to tell you that I may not be hit quite so hard as I thought. Besides, the wolf doesn't come very easily to the door of a man with as many rich relations as I have. It may not be a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence, after all. In fact, I think we shall be able to go on just as we are."

"He's hedging shamefully," Jim Halkin broke in.

"Yes, shamefully." And Mrs. George was very near to tears.

"Oh, no, I'm not," proclaimed George, with a wry smile. "I've made a fool of myself, that's all. Jim, I've decided to accept this appointment of resident superintendent to your Settlement—if that's what it calls itself—that you've been kind enough to offer me, and I shall do my honest best to earn my corn."

Jim Halkin jumped up from his chair and stretched out an impulsive hand. "Bravo!" he cried, with the shout of a boy. "It's a great thing for us—a very great thing for us!"

"You really think that?" said Mrs. George softly.

"I do, indeed. Old George is the clearest-headed man I know."

"It doesn't say much for the company you keep," said George sourly. "But I'm only going to do this for a year, mind—one calendar year, dating, shall we say, a month from to-morrow?—and pray don't think it is out of any sentimental regard for humanity."

"No?"

Jim Halkin and Mrs. George smiled at one another. Both were amused but completely baffled by the tone of angry vehemence.

"No, my friends, I don't care a row of little apples for 'humanity.' I hate the sound of the word, and always did. I'm simply going to do penance for having touched humanity's lowest level, that's all."

Suddenly Jim Halkin and Mrs. George began to peal with laughter.

George's face was as irresistibly comic as his manner. He was really rather delightful when he was "in one of his moods."

Copyright, 1914, by J. C. Snaith, in the United States of America.