JIM had been engaged to spend this week-end with a party, of which it is sufficient to say that though it would probably be amusing, it would not appear in the columns of the Morning Post. But on the Saturday afternoon he sent an excuse and remained in town instead. Much as he hated solitude, he had got something to do which made solitude a necessary evil. He had got to sit down and think, and continue thinking till he had made up his mind. He had to adopt a certain course of action, or by not acting at all commit himself to another course.

Claude had not come back into the room after sending that message by the telephone, and calling to him the farewell he had been unable to answer. A few seconds before only, when he himself had come into the room and found Claude examining the counterfoils of his cheque-book, he had thought that all was over, and had Claude said nothing to him, just looked at him, and pointed with a finger to the blank counterfoil close to the end of the book, Jim would have confessed. But Claude had spoken at once those incredible words, and the moment after had confirmed the reality of them by the message to his bank. The immensity of that relief had taken away Jim’s power of speech; had he tried to use his voice he must have screamed. Then he heard the door of the flat shut, and the next moment he was rolling on the sofa, his face buried in its cushions, to stifle his hysterical laughter.

The incredible had happened; the impossible was now part of the sober history of the month. The bank had called in question the cheque; evidently Claude had come down here to see whether he had drawn a cheque of corresponding date, had found a blank counterfoil (not the first in the book), and had accepted that as evidence that the cheque was of his own drawing. The possibility of a forgery never apparently occurred to him. His vaunted carelessness about money matters was strikingly exemplified; he had not exaggerated it in the least. What a blessed decree of Providence that one’s brother-in-law shall be so rich and such an idiot! Jim felt almost satisfied with the world.

But next moment with the same suddenness as this spasm of relief had come, it ceased. Swift and huge as the genie of some Arabian tale, a doubt arose. And before it fully developed itself, it was a doubt no longer, but a certainty. For one moment his relief had tricked him into believing that Claude thought the cheque to be of his own drawing; the next, Jim could no more delude himself with that. Rich as Claude was, fool as he was, it was not possible that he should believe himself to have drawn five hundred pounds in cash but a week ago, and to-day find no trace of it, nor any possible memory of how he had spent it. No, the cheque had been called in question; Claude therefore must know that forgery had been committed. That was certain.

But he had told his bankers that the cheque was genuine.

Jim got up from the sofa, put the cushion in its place, and smoothed it with mechanical precision. What did this mean? Did he guess by whom the forgery was committed? In a moment Jim felt injured and indignant at the idea of such a possibility crossing Claude’s mind. He had never given him the shadow of ground for thinking that such a thing as forgery was possible to him. It was an insult of the grossest kind, if such a notion had ever presented itself to him. But Claude was of a suspicious nature; once before, Jim remembered, Dora had talked some nonsense about Jim’s having cheated at croquet, and Claude had said that he was satisfied that this was not the case, when Jim told him it was not. He won a sovereign over that silly game of croquet.

But it was monstrous—if true—that Claude should suspect him of this. It was impossible for any self-respecting person, however unworthy of self-respect, to stop in his rooms, accept his hospitality, until he had made sure that such an idea had never crossed Claude’s mind. His sense of injury bordered upon the virtuous. And then, with disconcerting rapidity, sense of injury and virtue all vanished. He could not keep it up. He saw through himself.

Once more his mind went back to the rapturous possibility that had caused him to bury his face in the sofacushion. Was there any chance of Claude’s believing that the cheque was genuine? But already the question did not need an answer. That possibility was out of sight, below the horizon, and he was here alone, swimming, drowning.

That Claude knew forgery had been committed was certain then, and for some reason he shielded the forger. Either he suspected Jim (the sense of injury and virtue did not make themselves felt now), or he did not. If he did not, good. If he did, well, good also, since he shielded him.

Quick-witted and mentally nimble as he was, Jim took a little while to realize that situation. In the normal course of life he would necessarily meet Claude often, and he could not see himself doing so. He could not see how social intercourse was any more possible. Or would Claude avoid such intercourse, manage somehow that they should not meet? That might be managed for a time, but not permanently. Dora would ask him to dine, or Lady Osborne would ask him to stay, and either he or Claude would always have to frame excuses. Yet Claude’s words of farewell to him had been quite normal and cordial. There was nothing there that anticipated unpleasantness or estrangement in the future. Perhaps Claude harboured no suspicion against him. Then whom did he shield? There was only one person, himself, who could have done this, whom there could be sufficient motive for shielding.

And then suddenly his own dislike of his brother-in-law flared up into hatred, the hatred of the injurer for the injured, which is one of the few things in this world that are pure black, and have no ray of reflection of anything good, however inverted and distorted, in them. And he was living in the rooms, eating the food, drinking the wine of the man whom he hated. That Claude had loaded him with benefits made, as once before, his offence the greater. And he was in Claude’s power; at any moment, even if he did not suspect Jim now of having done this, he had but to send a further message to the bank, saying that their suspicion was correct, and he had not drawn the cheque, and he would suspect no further, for he would know.

The hot hours of the sunny afternoon went by, not slowly at all, but with unusual speed, though he passed them doing nothing, but occasionally walking up and down the room. He had told Parker when he sent his telegram of excuse about the river party that he would dine at home and alone, and it was a matter for surprise when he was told that dinner was ready. And after dinner he sat again in the room where this morning he had found Claude with his cheque-book, as far from his decision as ever. But about one thing he had made up his mind; he believed Claude knew, or at any rate, suspected who had done this. There was no other explanation that could account at all reasonably for his shielding the culprit. It was no time to invent Utopian explanations (and even they would be elusive to the seeker); Jim wanted to see the things that were actually the case on this evening.

What was to be done? What was to be done? He could not tell Claude that his suspicions were grossly and gratuitously insulting, for Claude had expressed none; he had said there was nothing to suspect, no ground for suspicion. Nor did Jim see that it was possible to continue seeing Claude, feeling that he was in his hands, that at any moment he might disown the cheque, and let the bank pursue the usual course. Claude had been generous, quixotically generous that morning; but who knew whether that might not only be a momentary impulse, or even a move merely to gain time, to consider? It was a serious step to let one’s wife’s brother be prosecuted. But very likely he had only done it to stay immediate proceedings: very likely he wanted to talk it over with Dora first.... And at that thought the breaking point came. Through these solitary hours Jim had faced a good deal, and the fibres of endurance were weakened. And he could not face that. Anything was more tolerable than the picture of Dora being told.

Generous! That word had occurred in his thoughts, and it had been applied by him to Claude. It was no less than his due; he had always been generous. His generosity had not cost him much, had not entailed self-denial, but it had been there, it had been given. First in very little ways, as when he gave Jim free living at the flat; then in larger ways, when for the sake of Dora he imputed mere carelessness to himself instead of letting crime be brought home to another. The price of his generosity concerned nobody. And Jim was beaten. The worst of him surrendered to something a little better than the worst. The surrender was not nobly made; it was made from necessity, because every other course was a little more impossible than that. Claude had to be told. He knew that he was in Claude’s hands already; the most he could do and the least was to seem to put himself there. And then suddenly he felt so tired that thought was no longer possible, and he fell asleep where he sat.

It was deep in the night when he woke, for the noise of traffic had almost sunk to silence, but from the dreamlessness of exhausted sleep he passed straight into full consciousness again, and took up the tragic train of thought where he had left it. He did not reconsider his decision—it was cut in steel—nor did he desire to, for to wish for the impossible requires the strong spring of hope, and of hope he had none. He was beaten; he resigned. And then on the outer darkness there shone a little ray. Claude, whom a few hours ago he had hated with the rancour of the injurer, had been generous, appallingly generous. Was there nothing he could do for Claude?

Yes; one thing, the hardest of all, the utmost. For weeks he knew things had not gone well with him and Dora. He got on her nerves, his vulgarities (as was most natural) irritated her, and she could no longer see in him anything but them. But there was more in Claude than that. She did not know it, but he might tell her. Perhaps if she knew, she would see, would understand.... Or had Claude already told her? That had seemed possible before, a thing easily pictured. But he did not think it likely now. It was not consistent with what Claude had already done. For it must have been for his wife’s sake that he had acted thus.

A little while before it had seemed to Jim the worst possible thing, the one unbearable thing, that Dora should know. But looked at from this new standpoint it was different. If Claude told her, it was one thing; it was another if he did. If he did, if he could, it might help Dora to see that there was something in Claude beyond his commonness. And—Jim was a long time coming to it—it might in some degree atone, not in Claude’s eyes, for he would not tell Claude what he meant to do, but in—in those eyes which look on all evil things and all good things, and see the difference between them.

There were a few arrangements to be made on Sunday, but he made them without flinching. Claude and Dora were at Grote, and a line to Claude there, asking to see him as soon as possible on Monday, and a line to Dora at Park Lane, saying that he wanted to see her alone in the afternoon, was all that was necessary. It was better to take those interviews in that order—he could not help being clever over it—for it was easier to face Dora, when able to tell her that he had already confessed to Claude. What he had to say would come with more force thus. She would see that for the sake of helping Claude and her, he had done something that could not have been easy.

All that day down at Grote they waited for news from Sir Henry, but none came. Lord Osborne, always optimistic, saw the most hopeful significance in his silence.

“Depend upon it, my dear,” he said to Dora as she went to bed that night, “depend upon it Sir Henry has seen my lady again, and has quite forgotten that we might be in some anxiety, because, as he knows now, forgetting he ain’t told us, there’s nought to be anxious about. That’s like those busy men—Lord, my dear! fancy passing your life in other people’s insides, so to speak—why it would make you forget your own name. But if there had been any cause for us to worry, depend upon it he’d have let us know. I bet I shall be making a joke of my lady’s ailments before I’m twenty-four hours older. I’ll be getting a few ready for her as I do my undressing to-night. And it’s me as is cheering you up, my dear, this moment. You go to sleep quiet, or else I’ll tell Mrs. O. that you’ve given me such an uncomfortable Sunday as I’ve not had since first we was married.”

Then came Monday morning. Dora had her early post brought up to her bedroom, but since she had received Saturday posts forwarded from town yesterday, there was nothing sent on. In fact, there was only one letter for her directed to her here. And she opened it and read it.

Claude had already left by an early train when she got down. She did not expect this, since, as far as she knew, he had no engagements that morning and had intended not to leave till a later train, but he had gone. Lord Osborne and she were going to lunch in the country and drive back afterward, but after breakfast, when the last guests had gone, she went to him. He was in the room he called the “lib’ry” and was reading the Morning Post.

“See here, my dear,” he said, “and think how we’re all at the mercy of the press. There’s my lady giving a little party this evening, and I’m blest if they don’t know all about it already. Listen here: ‘Lady Osborne has a small party to-night to meet——’”

“Ah, don’t,” said Dora, not meaning to speak, but knowing she had to.

Instantly the paper fell to the ground.

“What is it, my dear?” he said.

“I have heard from Sir Henry,” she said.

She gave him a moment for that; then she went on——

“Dad, dear,” she said, “there is trouble. He saw her again yesterday, and has written to me about it. There is something wrong. He does not know for certain what it is, but they will have to find out. Oh, it is no use my hinting at it. You’ve got to know.”

“Yes, my dear, yes,” said he.

“They have got to operate. It may be very bad indeed. They can’t tell yet. They don’t know till they see.”

Dora drew a long breath.

“It may be cancer,” she said, and by instinct she put her hand over her eyes, so that she should not see him.

“Mrs. O.?” he said very quietly.

Dora heard the buzzing of honey-questing bees in the flower-border outside the window, the clicking of a mowing machine on the lawn, and from close beside her the slow breathing of Lord Osborne. Without looking at him, she knew that he had pursed up his lips, almost as if whistling, a habit of his in perplexed moments. He had been smoking a cigar when she came in, and she heard him lay this down on a tray by his elbow. And then he spoke.

“Well, my dear,” he said, “we’ve all got to help her bear it, whatever it is.”

Dora found it impossible to speak for a moment. She could have given him sympathy had there been anything in his words that suggested it was wanted. She could have told him that they must hope for the best, that the worst was by no means certain yet; there were a hundred quite suitable things to say, if only he had appeared to need them in the least. But quite clearly, he did not; he did not happen to be thinking about himself at all or to want any consolation. And in face of this simplicity, she was dumb. It was perfect: there was nothing to be said except give the sign of assent.

“And, my dear, if you’ll order the motor round at once, I’ll put a few papers together, as I must take up with me, and then I think I’ll be off. And what’ll you do, my dear? Hadn’t you better stop as planned and have your morning in the country? Not but what I should dearly like to have you by my side.”

“Ah, Dad!” said she, and kissed him.

He smiled at her, holding her hand tight a moment.

“We’ve got to keep our pecker up, my dear,” he said, “so as to help her keep hers. She’ll be brave enough when she sees we’re brave, God bless her! And brave we are and will be, my dearie. We’d scorn to be cowards. And I’m glad we didn’t know this till this morning, for she’ll be pleased to hear as we had such a pleasant Sunday.”

“Yes, she could think of nothing else when she talked to me on Saturday,” said Dora.

What little more there was to be told she told him on their way up, but otherwise their drive was rather silent. Once or twice he leaned out of the window and spoke to the chauffeur.

“You can get along a bit quicker here,” he said. “There’s an empty road.”

Then he turned to Dora.

“If you don’t mind going a bit above the average, my dear?” he asked. “’Twould be a good thing, too, if we got home before Claude, and it’s but a slow train he’ll have caught.”

And once again as they crossed the great heathery upland of Ashdown Forest, redolent with gorse and basking in the sun: “Seems strange on a beautiful day like this!” he said. “But there! who knows but that we shan’t have some pleasant weather yet?”

Claude, meantime, getting Jim’s letter by the same post that had brought his news to Dora, had left by an earlier train, in order to see Jim as soon as possible. He had gone before Dora came down, and thus heard nothing of Sir Henry’s letter, and though he was anxious to know, as soon as he got to town, how his mother was, he determined to go to the flat on his way to Park Lane. That would not take long, whatever it might be that Jim wished to tell him; a few minutes, he imagined, would suffice.

All the way up he pondered over it, but think as he might, he could find only one explanation of Jim’s request, and that was that he was going to confess. That was the best thing that could happen, and as far as he could see it was the only thing. But the thought of his own part embarrassed him horribly: he had no liking for his brother-in-law, and guessed that on Jim’s side there was a similar barrenness of affection. All this would make the interview difficult and painful: he could forgive him easily and willingly, but instinctively he felt how chilly a thing forgiveness is, if there is no warmth of feeling behind to vitalize it. But when first he suspected that Jim had done this, he felt sorry for him; if it turned out that he was going to confess, his pity was certainly not diminished.

On the threshold he paused: his repugnance for what lay before him was almost invincible, and all his pondering had led to nothing practical: he was still absolutely without idea as to what he should say himself. But the thing had to be done; waiting made it no easier, and he went in. He would have to trust to the promptings of the moment: all he was sure of was that he did not feel unkind, but only sorry. So—had he known it—he need not have been so very uncomfortable.

Jim was standing in the window, looking out on to the street. He turned as Claude came in, but said nothing. Something had to be done, and Claude spoke.

“You asked me to come and see you,” he said. “So I came up as early as I could. Oh, good morning, Jim!”

He looked up, and saw that Jim did not speak because he could not. His face was horribly white, and his lips were twitching. And at the sight of him, helpless, and, whatever he had done, suffering horribly, a far greater warmth of pity came over Claude than he had felt hitherto. All his kindness was challenged. And the prompting of the moment was not a mistaken one.

“Oh, I say, old chap,” he said, and stopped short.

For Jim broke. During all those two hideous days he had nerved himself up to encounter abuse, disgust, any form of righteous wrath and contempt. He knew well that Claude had spared him not for his own sake, but for Dora’s, and in this confession he was going to make, he was prepared to be treated as he deserved, though Claude had spared him public disgrace. But what he had not nerved himself up to encounter was kindness, such as that which rang in those few words. And once more, but now not with hysterical laughter, but with the weeping of exhaustion and shame and misery, he buried his head in that same sofa cushion.

Claude felt helpless, awkward, brutal. But it was no use doing anything yet: there was no reaching Jim till that violence had abated, and he sat there waiting, just crossing over once to the door, and bolting it for fear Parker should come in. And at length he laid his hand on Jim’s shoulder.

“It’s knocked you about awfully,” he said. “I can see that, I’m awfully sorry. You must have had a hellish two days. You needn’t tell me, you know.”

Jim pulled himself together, and raised his head.

“That’s just what I must do,” he said. “I forged your cheque.”

“Well, well,” said Claude.

But Jim had got the thing said, and now he went on with suppressed and bitter vehemence.

“I’ve always been a swindler, I think,” he said. “I’m rotten: that’s what the matter with me. I’ve cheated all my life. I can’t even play games without cheating. I cheated you at croquet once, and won a sovereign. Dora saw.”

Again Claude’s instinct, not his reason, prompted him and not amiss. It only told him he was sorry for Jim, and could a little reassure him over this.

“But she didn’t know we were playing for money,” said he quickly. “In fact, I told her we were not.”

“So it’s twice that you have spared me. Her, rather,” said Jim.

Claude accepted the correction. It was an obvious one to him no less than to Jim.

“Yes: she’d have been awfully cut up if she had known,” he said simply.

Jim got up.

“I wonder if you can believe I am sorry?” he said. “I am. My God, I’ve touched bottom now.”

“Why, yes, of course I believe it,” said Claude. “It’s broken you up, I can see that. Fellows don’t break unless they are sorry. But as for the thing itself, if you don’t mind my saying it, I think all cheating is touching bottom. It’s a rotten game. You know that now, though. And if you can believe me, I’m awfully sorry too. It’s a wretched thing to happen. But I’m so glad you told me: it makes an awful difference, that.”

Jim was silent a moment.

“I want to ask you something,” he said at length. “When did you first suspect me? Was it when I came in and found you here on Saturday?”

Claude bit his lip: he did not at all like answering this.

“No, before that,” he said. “At least I was afraid it was you as soon—as soon as I found I had left a cheque-book here. I’m sorry, but as you ask me, there it is.”

“From your previous knowledge of me?” asked Jim quietly.

“Well, yes, I suppose so, though you make me feel a brute. I say, I don’t think it’s any good going back on that, either for your sake or mine.”

“Yes it is: it hurts, that’s why it’s good.”

Claude shifted his place on the sofa a shade nearer Jim, and again laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Well, I think you’ve been hurt enough for the present,” he said. “I don’t like seeing it. You’ve had as much as you can stand just now.”

Jim shook his head.

“There’s another thing, too,” he said. “I’m absolutely cleaned out, and I can’t repay you till next quarter.”

Claude considered this. It was perfectly cheap and easy to say that he need not think of paying at all, but his judgment gave him something better to say than that.

“Well, we’ll wait till then,” he said. “I don’t want to be unreasonable.”

Again Jim’s lip quivered, and Claude seeing that rose to go.

“Well, I must get back,” he said. “I want to hear how the mater is. She hasn’t been well, and Sir Henry Franks saw her on Saturday, and again yesterday. Look round after lunch, will you? I don’t think Dora and the governor get back till then. And you’ll come on to the musical show this evening? There’ll be some good singing. Right, oh!”

But still Jim could not speak, and there was silence again. Then Claude spoke quickly, finally.

“Buck up, old chap,” he said, and went straight to the door without looking back.

He let himself out, and went for a turn up and down the street before going to Park Lane. He had been a good deal moved, for, kind-hearted to the core, it was dreadful to him to see, as he expressed it, “a fellow so awfully down in his luck.” And he was conscious of another thing that struck him as curious. He had liked Jim during those few minutes he had seen him to-day, a thing he had never done before, and he wished he could have made things easier for him, which again was a new sensation, for all that he had ever done for his brother-in-law he had done, frankly, for Dora’s sake. But he could not see how to make this easier: it was no use telling him that cheating was a thing of no importance; it was no use telling him he need not pay back what he owed. That was not the way to make the best of this very bad job. Of course, Jim must feel miserable; it would be a thing to sicken at if he did not. Luckily, however, there was no doubting the sincerity of his wretchedness. And yet the boyish sort of advice implied by the “buck up” was in place, too. But he felt vaguely that he could have done much better than he had done: in that, had he known it, he would have found that Jim disagreed with him.

He was told to his surprise, by the servant who let him in, that Dora and his father had arrived a few minutes ago, and that Dora wished to see him as soon as he came in. Accordingly he went straight to her room.

“Oh, Claude!” she said, “you have come. We didn’t know where you were. I had no idea you had left Grote till I came down to breakfast.”

There was trouble in her voice, and he noticed it, wondering if by any chance it had something to do with the trouble he had seen already that day. But clearly it could not.

“What is it?” he said quickly.

“Your mother,” she said, for it was no use attempting to break things. “Sir Henry saw her again yesterday. There has to be an operation. There is some growth. They can’t tell what it is for certain until they operate. Dad is going to see her now. They have settled it is best for him to tell her. Of course he won’t tell her what the fear is. Oh Claude! I am so sorry; it is so dreadful.”

“How does the governor take it?” asked Claude.

“Exactly as you would expect.”

“But it will be awful for him telling her,” said he. “I had much better. Per or I, anyhow. It’ll tear his heart out.”

“He won’t let you. When Sir Henry spoke of telling her, he said at once. ‘That’s for me to do.’ And then he went away to have a few minutes alone before going to her.”

A tap came at the door: Lord Osborne always tapped before he entered Dora’s room. It was her bit of a flat, he called it, and his tap was ringing the bell, and asking if she was in.

“Well, Claude, my lad,” he said, “Dora will have told you. We’ve all got to keep up a brave heart, for your mother’s sake.”

Claude kissed his father, and somehow that went to Dora’s heart. He had once said to her that kissing seemed “pretty meaningless” when she was not concerned.

“Yes, Dad,” said he. “That we will.”

“That’s right, my boy. And that blessed girl of yours has been so good to me, such as never was, and if she’ll give her Dad a kiss, too, why there we are, and thank you, my dear. Now I’m going to see mother and tell her, and I daresay she’ll like to see you both some time to-day, though if she doesn’t, why you’ll both understand, won’t you? They’ve fixed it for to-morrow, if she’s agreeable.”

“Dad, do let me do that for you?” said Claude. “It’s better for me to tell her.”

“No, my lad, that’s for your father and no other,” said he, “though it’s like you to suggest it, and thank you, my boy. I’ll come straight back to you, my dears, and tell you how all goes, and how she takes it, and pray try to quiet Mrs. Per. She’s carrying on so silly, wringing her hands and asking, ‘Is she better? Is she better?’ And telling me to bear up and all, as if I didn’t know that, small thanks to her! Per takes her back to Sheffield this afternoon, thank the Lord, and may I be pardoned for that speech, but it’s how I feel with her ridiculous ways.”

He went straight to his wife’s room, and was admitted by the nurse. Lady Osborne was in bed, of course, but smiled to him with neither more nor less than her usual cheerfulness.

“Well, and there’s my Eddie,” she said. “And I hope you’ve had a pleasant Sunday, my dear, as I’m sure you must have, with such pleasant company as came down to see you. I tell you I’m feeling a regular fraud this morning, for what with lying in bed and the medicine Sir Henry gave me, which took the pain away beautiful, I feel ever so much better. Now sit you down, Mr. O., and have a chat. Are you comfortable in that chair, my dear?”

“That I am, specially since I know you’re feeling easier and more like yourself, mother,” he said. “And before long, please God, we’ll have you looking after us all again.”

His wife was silent a moment. Then she spoke.

“Eddie, my dear,” she said, “Sir Henry said as how you would come and have a talk with me, for he’s told me nought himself, but just said, ‘You lie still and don’t worry, Mrs. Osborne,’ for he forgets as how you’ve been honoured. And I’ve guessed, my dear, that he means you’ve to tell me what’s the matter with me, and what they’re going to do to me. My dear, I’ll lie here a year, and take all the medicine they choose, if only——”

He moved his chair a little nearer the bed: the tears stood in his eyes, but his mouth was firm.

“I’ve come to tell you, my dear,” he said, “and we can’t always be choosers to have things the way we wish. We’ve got to submit to the will of God, and when them as are wise doctors, like Sir Henry, tells us it’s got to be this, or it’s got to be that, it’s His will, my dear, no less than the doctor’s word. He’s sent us a sight of joy and happiness and to-day, Maria, he’s sending us a bit of trouble, for a change, I may say. But we’ll take it thankful, old lady, same as we’ve taken all them beautiful years that we’ve had together. My dear, if I could get into bed there instead of you, and go through it for you! But that’s not to be. I’ll tell you as quick as I can, my dear, for there’s no use in being silly and delaying, but——”

He blew his nose violently, then left his chair, and knelt down by the bed, taking her hand in his. And he kissed it.

“They don’t quite know what’s wrong with you, dearie,” he said, “and they’ve got to see. You won’t feel nothing; they’ll give you a whiff of chloroform, and you’ll go off as easy as getting to sleep of a night. And when you wake, they hope that there’ll be good news for you, my dear, and that, as I say, you’ll soon be about again, scolding and vexing us and making our lives a burden, as you’ve always done, God bless you. There, Maria, I can manage my joke still, and I’m mistaken if I don’t see you smiling at me, same as ever.”

She had smiled, but she grew grave again.

“I want to know it all, Eddie, my dear,” she said. “There’s nothing you can tell me as I shall fear more than what I guess. Do they think it’s the cancer?”

“No, they don’t say that,” he said. “But they’ve got to see what it is. They’re not going to think anything yet, until they see.”

“Thank you, dearie, for telling me so gentle,” she said. “I declare it’s a relief to me to have it spoken. And when is it to be?”

“They said something about to-morrow. But that’s as you please, Maria. But, my dear, there’s no use in putting it off; better have done with it.”

“No; I wish as it could have been to-day. But what a lot of trouble the inside is, as I said to Dora on Saturday. Eddie, my dear, I’m such a coward. You’ve all got to be brave for me; it’s a lot of worry I’m giving. But it’s not my fault as far as I know; I’ve lived clean and wholesome. It’s a thing as is sent to one. Lor’, my dear, you’re crying. Now let’s have no sadness in this house; it would be shame on us if we couldn’t take our bit of trouble like men and women, instead of like a pig as squeals before you touch it. But what an upset! There’s you, my dear, wishing it was you, and there’s me, being so glad it’s not you. We shan’t agree about that, Mr. O. And now, my dear, if you’ll say a bit of a prayer, same as we’ve always said together every morning, you and I, before going down to our breakfast, and then let’s have Dora and Claude in, and have a bit of a chat. ‘Our Father,’ my dear. We don’t want more than that; it’s what we’ve always said together of a morning, and it hasn’t taken us far wrong yet.”

There was silence a little after that was said, and then Lord Osborne got up.

“And if I haven’t forgot to kiss you ‘Good morning,’ my dear,” he said. “Well, that’s that. And shall I fetch Dora and Claude? And what about Mrs. Per? Per’s out, I know. He left early this morning from Grote and had business in the City, which he said would keep him to lunch. Maria, my dear, my vote’s against Mrs. Per.”

“Wouldn’t she feel left out?” asked his wife.

“Well, she’d feel no more than is the case,” said he. “Give me Mrs. Per, my dear, when there’s Shakespeare or Chopin ahead, but not now. Such grimaces as she’s been making in the Italian room! You’d have thought her face was a bit of string, and she trying to tie knots in it! No, Mrs. O.; I’ll fetch Dora and Claude, and that’s all you get me to do. You may ring the bell for Mrs. Per, but not me.”

“Well, perhaps it would be more comfortable,” said she, “without Lizzie, if you’re sure as she won’t feel she should have been sent for. I don’t feel to want any antics to-day.”

He stood by the bed a moment before going.

“I’ve never loved you like to-day,” he said.

“Well, that’s good hearing,” she said; “but you repeat yourself, Eddie. I’ve heard you say that before, my dear.”

“And it was always true,” said he.

The moment he had left the room she called to the nurse.

“Now make me tidy, nurse,” she said, “and if you’d smooth the bedclothes, and a pillow more, my dear, would make me look a little more brisk-like and fit for company. There’s Lady Dora coming, so pretty and so sweet to me, and my son Claude, her husband. My hair’s all anyhow, so if you’d just put a brush to it, and there’s a couple of rings on the dressing table, which I’ll put on; handsome, aren’t they, diamonds and rubies. Thank you, nurse, and we’re only just in time. Come in, my dears; come in and welcome.

“Such a way to receive you,” she said. “But there, why apologize, for if I didn’t always say my bedroom was the pleasantest room in the house. Dora, my dearie, you’ve taken good care of Mr. O., and thank you, and he’s so pleased with you that I’m on the way to be jealous. You wait till I’m about again, and see if I don’t cut you out. Mr. O., do you hear that? Dora’s got no chance against me, when I’m not a guy like this, lying in my bed. And you sit there, Dora, and Claude by you, as should be, and Mr. O. on the other side. There’s a nice comfortable party, what I like.”

“What’s this talk of a guy?” said Claude. “You look famous, mother.”

“Well, then, my looks don’t belie me. Who shouldn’t look famous with her friends and family coming to see her like this? Dora, my dear, you’ve got to take my place to-day, if you’d be so kind, for there’s the concert this evening, and I won’t have it put off. Lor’, I shall be here, as comfortable as ever I was, with my door open, and listening, and feel that I was with you all, wearing my new tiara and shaking hands. No, my dear, there’s no sense in putting it off. Such nonsense! I’ve asked our friends to come and see us this evening, and them as feel inclined shall come, if my word is anything. But we’ll be a woman short at dinner, thanks to my silliness. I wonder if Lady Austell would be able to come, for there’s the savoury of prawns as she took twice of last time she dined with us. I bid her to the party, I know, but not to dinner, I think. Claude, do you go and telephone to her now for me, and you, Mr. O., go down and help him; and I’ll chat to Dora the while.”

There was no mistaking the intention of this diplomacy, and the two men left the room. Then Lady Osborne turned to Dora.

“My dear,” she said, “you’ll have heard all there is to know. And I just want to tell you that I’m facing it O. K., as Claude says. There’ll be nothing on my part to make anybody else shake and tremble. But you’ll have an eye to your dad, dear. He feels it more than me, though God knows, I’m coward enough really. It’s got to be, and though I hate the thought of the knife—well, my dear, those as are born into the world and have the pleasure of it have to take the troubles as well as the joys. And if they find the worst, I’m prepared for that, as long as I know you’ll stick to Mr. O., and help him. And there’s Claude, too. Sometimes I’ve thought you’ve not been so happy together as I could have wished. I don’t know what is wrong, but I’ve thought sometimes as all isn’t quite right. I wanted to say just that to you; that was why I sent them down together, so crafty. But he loves you, my dear, and you can’t do more than love. And you’re going to bear him a child, please God. My dear, that’s the best thing God ever thought of, if I may say so, for us women. I’ve had two, bless them, and I should have liked to have had a hundred. I’d have borne each one with thanksgiving.”

She was silent a moment.

“Claude’s a kind lad,” she said. “He takes after father. And he loves you, too. I’m not presuming, I hope, my dear. That’s all that’s been on my mind, and I wanted to get it said. You’ll forgive an old woman as is your boy’s mother. Thank you, my dear, for giving me that kiss. I’ll treasure that. I’ll think of that when they send me off to sleep to-morrow.”

The others came back at this moment with the news that Lady Austell would come to dinner.

“Now that’s nice for your brother,” said Lady Osborne. “He’ll like to find his mamma here.”

Dora had telephoned to Jim to say she would come and see him after lunch. Since receiving his note that morning, she had given but little thought to what he might have to say to her, for these other events banished all else from her mind. In spite of that which lay before them all, she could hardly feel sad, she could hardly feel anxious, for the noble simplicity and serenity of the other three infected her, to the exclusion of all else, with its own peace. She had not got to comfort anybody, to make any effort herself; she was lifted off her feet and borne along in these beautiful shining waters of courage and quietness. Indeed, it seemed to her that no one was making any effort at all; she did not find her father-in-law sitting with his head in his hands, and rousing himself, when she came in, to a semblance of cheerfulness; she did not see Claude trying to suppress signs of emotion. They all behaved quite naturally. At first it amazed her, for she knew, at any rate, that there was no lack of love and tenderness in either of them; it seemed that they must be exerting some stupendous control over themselves. Then she saw, slowly but surely, how wide of the mark such an explanation was. They were exerting no control at all, they behaved like that because they felt like that, because their attitude toward life and death and love was serene and large and quiet. All these months it had been there for her to see, but, inexplicably blind as she now felt she had been, she had needed this demonstration of it before she began, even faintly, to understand.

It was no wonder, then, that Jim’s affairs had been obliterated from her mind, but now as she entered that flat, she wondered what he wanted that should make him wish to see her in this appointed way. For a moment, with a sickening qualm, she went back to that quarter of an hour’s suspense on Saturday morning, when she had allowed herself to fear that he was connected in some hideous fashion with the cheque Claude could not recollect about. That had haunted her afterward, too, when she lay long awake at Grote on Saturday night; but Claude had said so emphatically that the cheque was all right, that she felt her fear to be fanciful. Meantime Jim did not yet know about Lady Osborne, and as soon as she entered she told him.

“Oh, Jim!” she said, “we are in trouble. Lady Osborne has got to have an operation. There is something wrong, and they want to see what it is. There is a growth of some sort. And, oh, I have been so blind, so blind! They are all behaving so splendidly, and yet behaviour is the wrong word; they behave splendidly just because they are splendid. I never guessed they were like that. I’ll tell you all about it. But first, what did you want to see me about? You don’t look well, dear. What is it?”

“I’m all right,” said he.

“But what is it?” asked Dora again, vaguely frightened.

Jim leaned forward, with his elbows on his knees, propping his head on his hands. This was worse than the telling of Claude had been, but it had to be done. He had promised some humble, sorry little denizen within him that he would do it.

“Did Claude speak to you about a cheque,” he asked, “which he could not remember drawing?”

“Yes, and then afterward he said it was all right,” said she.

“Then I’ve got to tell you,” he said.

Then her fear seized her again in full force.

“Don’t, Jim,” she cried, “don’t tell me there’s anything wrong.”

“It’s no use beating about,” he said. “I forged that cheque and cashed it. Claude knows; I told him.”

Dora sat still a moment. Then she put her hands up to her head.

“Open the window,” she said, “I am stifling.”

He got up and threw open the window away from the street. Then he walked over to the chimney piece and leaned his elbows on it, with his back to her.

At first Dora felt nothing but hard anger and indignation, and she knew that if she spoke at all it would be to say something which could do no good, and perhaps only make a breach between them that could never be healed.

And it was long that she waited, it was long before any spark of pity for him was lit. Then she spoke.

“Oh, Jim, what a miserable business!” she said. “But why did you tell me? Couldn’t you have spared me knowing? Or perhaps you were afraid Claude would tell me.”

“No; I don’t tell you for that reason,” he said. “After I saw Claude this morning, I knew he would never tell you.”

“Why, then?”

“Because I want to tell you about Claude. It may do some good. Well, Claude’s treated me in a way that’s beyond my understanding. He is beyond your understanding, too, at present, and that’s why I am telling you. I wish you could have been here when I told him. He was only sorry for me. If he was God, he couldn’t have been more merciful. And it wasn’t put on. He felt it; and I wanted, for once, to see if I couldn’t be of some use.”

He turned round and faced her.

“I want you to know what sort of a fellow Claude really is,” he said. “I know you don’t get on well, and that’s because you don’t know him. You judged him first by his face—that, and perhaps a little bit by his wealth. And then you judged him by what you and I call vulgarity and want of breeding. That’s not Claude either. Claude’s the fellow who treated a swindler and a forger in the way I’ve told you. He’s got a soul that’s more beautiful than his face, you know, and he’s the handsomest fellow I ever saw. I wanted you to get a glimpse of it. It might help things. That’s all I’ve got to say. I’m sorry for giving you the pain of knowing what I’ve done, but I thought it might do good. He’s just broken me up with his goodness. That’s Claude.”

The anger was quite gone now, and it was a tremulous hand that Dora laid on his shoulder.

“Oh, Jim,” she said, “thank you! I am so sorry for you, you know, and I’m grateful. I shall go back and tell Claude I know, and—and thank him, and be sorry.”

“Yes, that is the best thing you can do,” said Jim.

Claude was alone in their sitting room when she got back, and, as he always did, he rose from his chair as she entered. For a moment she stood looking at him, mute, beseeching. Then she came to him.

“Thank you about Jim, dear,” she said. “He has just told me about it, to make me—make me see what you were. Oh, Claude, I didn’t know.”

And then the tears came. But his arm was around her, and her head lay on his shoulder.