Part 30 (1/2)

He found himself wis.h.i.+ng he had known of the thing at the time. It would have been a fearful shock, but by now he would have grown used to it.

Something would have been done, or, if nothing had been done, the thing would have become ancient history--a familiar fact to which they would have adjusted themselves. It was awful to be told of it now, when it seemed too late to do anything, when the wound was so old, and yet the smart of it so fres.h.!.+

And she had been such a good wife--yes, on the whole. Their bickerings had been only bickerings, and he had often been as much to blame as she.

On the whole, she had been such a loyal friend and such a comforting companion. He had liked even her acid little speeches--on the whole. He had always thought her not very demonstrative perhaps, but very true--true as steel. Cold perhaps--he had felt that and resented it sometimes--but always true. He had never had a misgiving as to that in all his married life.

When he got home he went straight to his study and sat down at his writing-table. It was one o'clock, and Christine would have gone to bed--he was glad of that. He made an effort to collect his mind, because the immediate question was not of what Christine had done, not of the blow to him, not whether he wanted to see Christine or even could bear to see her, not of the change all his life and all his ideas had undergone. There was plenty of time to think of all that later on. He must think now of the other thing--of how he stood and of what he was going to do.

He took out his keys and unlocked the despatch-box that stood on the table. After pausing to take a drink of whisky and water, he opened the upper drawer and drew forth Caylesham's cheque for fifteen thousand pounds. It had been post-dated to the Monday--it was already Monday now.

In nine hours it was to have been credited to his account at the bank, ready to answer his obligations, to discharge his commitments, to rea.s.sure his creditors, to drive away all the clouds which had obscured the fair fame of his firm. Caylesham's cheque and Grantley's were to have been salvation. Grantley's alone was no use. And Caylesham's--he held it in his fingers and looked at it with a poring scrutiny.

Twice he reached for an envelope, in the mind to send it back--to send it back either with the truth or with a lie. Once he took hold of either end, as though to tear it across. But a paralysis fell on his fingers.

How should he send back, how should he destroy, that all-potent little slip of paper? It meant credit, honour, comfort, peace--perhaps even life. His imagination pictured two scenes--going to the City, to his office, next day, with that slip of paper; and going without it. The sketch was enough--his thoughts were too busy to fill in the details.

One picture meant a gradual ascent from out of all his troubles; the other, a fall into a gulf of calamity unfathomable. His hands refused to destroy or to send back the cheque.

But if he kept it, used it, owed salvation to it--what would that mean?

The question bewildered him. He could not make out what that would mean as regarded either himself or Caylesham or Christine--least of all what it would mean as regarded Christine. He was duly conscious that the act would be in some sort a condonation. A condonation going how far?

Imposing what att.i.tude and what course of conduct on him? How far would it condition his bearing towards Caylesham, how far affect his estimate of himself? Above all, how far dictate his relations to Christine? He knew very well what would come of destroying the cheque or of sending it back. He could not reason out what he would stand committed to if he kept and used it.

Ah, this horrible question could not have arisen, either, if he had known of the thing at the time. It was fearful to be told of it now.

”It's a terrible situation for a man to be placed in--terrible!” he said aloud.

The thought flashed across his mind that he could pretend not to know.

He could give Lady Harriet a caution; he could tell her he attached no importance to her words; she would take the hint and be glad. Caylesham would suspect nothing. He could keep the cheque. And Christine? Could he make that pretence to Christine?

He was sitting shrunk low into his chair, the cheque still in his fingers, when the door opened softly, and Christine came in. She had heard him open and close the front door, and had wondered why he did not come upstairs. His delay, taken with his staying out all the evening, made her ask whether anything had happened. She was in a white dressing-gown, which she had thrown on when she got out of bed, and little slippers of white fur. She looked very small, very dainty, very childish; her hair was like a child's too, brushed smoothly away from the forehead.

”Why, John, what's kept you so late? And what are you doing here?”

She came some steps towards him, before she saw what it was that he held in his hand. Then she smiled, saying:

”You're gloating over that cheque, you foolish man!”

He raised dull slow eyes to her.

”Yes, I've got it here,” he muttered.

Christine walked to the rug; his table was on one side of the fireplace, and she was within five or six feet of him.

”What are you doing with it?” she asked, with an impatient ring in her voice. She did not enjoy the sight of the cheque, and had hoped to be able by degrees to forget it.

”It's dated for Monday. I ought to pay it in in the morning.”

”Well, why not? Of course you'll pay it in.” A sudden hope rose in her.

”Nothing's occurred to make it unnecessary?”

He shook his head heavily, and laid the paper down on the table.