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移除书签Some Do Not … · Part II · Chapter 2 2 (3/4)
“If you can listen. … Macmaster has been married to Mrs. Duchemin exactly nine months. … Have you got that? Mrs. Tietjens did not know this till this afternoon. The period Mrs. Tietjens complains of in her letter is nine months. She did perfectly right to write the letter. As such I approve of it. If she had known that the Macmasters were married she would not have written it. I didn’t know she was going to write it. If I had known she was going to write it I should have requested her not to. If I had requested her not to she would, no doubt, have done so. I did know of the letter at the moment of your coming in. I had heard of it at lunch only ten minutes before. I should, no doubt, have heard of it before, but this is the first time I have lunched at home in four months. I have today had a day’s leave as being warned for foreign service. I have been doing duty at Ealing. Today is the first opportunity I have had for serious business conversation with Mrs. Tietjens. … Have you got all that? …”
Port Scatho was running towards Tietjens, his hand extended, and over his whole shining personage the air of an enraptured bridegroom. Tietjens moved his right hand a little to the right, thus eluding the pink, well-fleshed hand of Port Scatho. He went on frigidly:
“You had better, in addition, know as follows: The late Mr. Duchemin was a scatological—afterwards a homicidal—lunatic. He had recurrent fits, usually on a Saturday morning. That was because he fasted—not abstained merely—on Fridays. On Fridays he also drank. He had acquired the craving for drink when fasting, from finishing the sacramental wine after communion services. That is a not unknown occurrence. He behaved latterly with great physical violence to Mrs. Duchemin. Mrs. Duchemin, on the other hand, treated him with the utmost consideration and concern: she might have had him certified much earlier, but, considering the pain that confinement must cause him during his lucid intervals, she refrained. I have been an eyewitness of the most excruciating heroisms on her part. As for the behaviour of Macmaster and Mrs. Duchemin, I am ready to certify—and I believe society accepts—that it has been most … oh, circumspect and right! … There has been no secret of their attachment to each other. I believe that their determination to behave with decency during their period of waiting has not been questioned. …”
Lord Port Scatho said:
“No! no! Never … Most … as you say … circumspect and, yes … right!”
“Mrs. Duchemin,” Tietjens continued, “has presided at Macmaster’s literary Fridays for a long time; of course since long before they were married. But, as you know, Macmaster’s Fridays have been perfectly open: you might almost call them celebrated. …”
Lord Port Scatho said:
“Yes! yes! indeed … I sh’d be only too glad to have a ticket for Lady Port Scatho …”
“She’s only got to walk in,” Tietjens said. “I’ll warn them: they’ll be pleased. … If, perhaps, you would look in tonight! They have a special party. … But Mrs. Macmaster was always attended by a young lady who saw her off by the last train to Rye. Or I very frequently saw her off myself, Macmaster being occupied by the weekly article that he wrote for one of the papers on Friday nights. … They were married on the day after Mr. Duchemin’s funeral. …”
“You can’t blame ’em!” Lord Port Scatho proclaimed.
“I don’t propose to,” Tietjens said. “The really frightful tortures Mrs. Duchemin had suffered justified—and indeed necessitated—her finding protection and sympathy at the earliest possible moment. They have deferred this announcement of their union partly out of respect for the usual period of mourning, partly because Mrs. Duchemin feels very strongly that, with all the suffering that is now abroad, wedding feasts and signs of rejoicing on the part of nonparticipants are eminently to be deprecated. Still, the little party of tonight is by way of being an announcement that they are married. …” He paused to reflect for a moment.
“I perfectly understand!” Lord Port Scatho exclaimed. “I perfectly approve. Believe me, I and Lady Port Scatho will do everything. … Everything! … Most admirable people. … Tietjens, my dear fellow, your behaviour … most handsome. …”
Tietjens said:
“Wait a minute … There was an occasion in August, ’14. In a place on the border. I can’t remember the name. …”
Lord Port Scatho burst out:
“My dear fellow … I beg you won’t. … I beseech you not to …”
Tietjens went on:
“Just before then Mr. Duchemin had made an attack on his wife of an unparalleled violence. It was that that caused his final incarceration. She was not only temporarily disfigured, but she suffered serious internal injuries and, of course, great mental disturbance. It was absolutely necessary that she should have change of scene. … But I think you will bear me out that, in that case, too, their behaviour was … again, circumspect and right. …”
Port Scatho said:
“I know; I know … Lady Port Scatho and I agreed—even without knowing what you have just told me—that the poor things almost exaggerated it. … He slept, of course, at Jedburgh? …”
Tietjens said:
“Yes! They almost exaggerated it. … I had to be called in to take Mrs. Duchemin home. … It caused, apparently, misunderstandings. …”
Port Scatho—full of enthusiasm at the thought that at least two unhappy victims of the hateful divorce laws had, with decency and circumspectness, found the haven of their desires—burst out:
“By God, Tietjens, if I ever hear a man say a word against you. … Your splendid championship of your friend. … Your … your unswerving devotion …”
Tietjens said:
“Wait a minute, Port Scatho, will you?” He was unbuttoning the flap of his breast pocket.
“A man who can act so splendidly in one instance,” Port Scatho said. … “And your going to France. … If anyone … if anyone … dares …”
At the sight of a vellum-cornered, green-edged book in Tietjens’ hand Sylvia suddenly stood up; as Tietjens took from an inner flap a cheque that had lost its freshness she made three great strides over the carpet to him.
“Oh, Chrissie! …” she cried out. “He hasn’t … That beast hasn’t …”
Tietjens answered:
“He has …” He handed the soiled cheque to the banker. Port Scatho looked at it with slow bewilderment.
“ ‘Account overdrawn,’ ” he read. “Brownie’s … my nephew’s handwriting. … To the club … It’s …”
“You aren’t going to take it lying down?” Sylvia said. “Oh, thank goodness, you aren’t going to take it lying down.”
“No! I’m not going to take it lying down,” Tietjens said. “Why should I?” A look of hard suspicion came over the banker’s face.
“You appear,” he said, “to have been overdrawing your account. People should not overdraw their accounts. For what sum are you overdrawn?”
Tietjens handed his passbook to Port Scatho.
“I don’t understand on what principle you work,” Sylvia said to Tietjens. “There are things you take lying down; this you don’t.”
Tietjens said:
“It doesn’t matter, really. Except for the child.”
Sylvia said:
“I guaranteed an overdraft for you up to a thousand pounds last Thursday. You can’t be overdrawn over a thousand pounds.”
“I’m not overdrawn at all,” Tietjens said. “I was for about fifteen pounds yesterday. I didn’t know it.”
Port Scatho was turning over the pages of the passbook, his face completely blank.
“I simply don’t understand,” he said. “You appear to be in credit. … You appear always to have been in credit except for a small sum now and then. For a day or two.”
“I was overdrawn,” Tietjens said, “for fifteen pounds yesterday. I should say for three or four hours: the course of a post, from my army agent to your head office. During these two or three hours your bank selected two out of six of my cheques to dishonour—both being under two pounds. The other one was sent back to my mess at Ealing, who won’t, of course, give it back to me. That also is marked ‘account overdrawn,’ and in the same handwriting.”
“But good God,” the banker said. “That means your ruin.”
“It certainly means my ruin,” Tietjens said. “It was meant to.”
“But,” the banker said—a look of relief came into his face which had begun to assume the aspect of a broken man’s—“you must have other accounts with the bank … a speculative one, perhaps, on which you are heavily down. … I don’t myself attend to client’s accounts, except the very huge ones, which affect the bank’s policy.”
“You ought to,” Tietjens said. “It’s the very little ones you ought to attend to, as a gentleman making his fortune out of them. I have no other account with you. I have never speculated in anything in my life. I have lost a great deal in Russian securities—a great deal for me. But so, no doubt, have you.”
“Then … betting!” Port Scatho said.
“I never put a penny on a horse in my life,” Tietjens said. “I know too much about them.”
Port Scatho looked at the faces first of Sylvia, then of Tietjens. Sylvia, at least, was his very old friend. She said:
“Christopher never bets and never speculates. His personal expenses are smaller than those of any man in town. You could say he had no personal expenses.”
Again the swift look of suspicion came into Port Scatho’s open face.
“Oh,” Sylvia said, “you couldn’t suspect Christopher and me of being in a plot to blackmail you.”
“No; I couldn’t suspect that,” the banker said. “But the other explanation is just as extraordinary. … To suspect the bank … the bank … How do you account? …” He was addressing Tietjens; his round head seemed to become square, below; emotion worked on his jaws.
“I’ll tell you simply this,” Tietjens said. “You can then repair the matter as you think fit. Ten days ago I got my marching orders. As soon as I had handed over to the officer who relieved me I drew cheques for everything I owed—to my military tailor, the mess—for one pound twelve shillings. I had also to buy a compass and a revolver, the Red Cross orderlies having annexed mine when I was in hospital. …”
Port Scatho said: “Good God!”
“Don’t you know they annex things?” Tietjens asked. He went on: “The total, in fact, amounted to an overdraft of fifteen pounds, but I did not think of it as such because my army agents ought to have paid my month’s army pay over to you on the first. As you perceive, they have only paid it over this morning, the 13th. But, as you will see from my passbook, they have always paid about the 13th, not the 1st. Two days ago I lunched at the club and drew that cheque for one pound fourteen shillings and sixpence: one ten for personal expenses and the four and six for lunch. …”
“You were, however, actually overdrawn,” the banker said sharply.
Tietjens said:
“Yesterday, for two hours.”
“But then,” Port Scatho said, “what do you want done? We’ll do what we can.”
Tietjens said:
“I don’t know. Do what you like. You’d better make what explanation you can to the military authority. If they court-martialled me it would hurt you more than me. I assure you of that. There is an explanation.”
Port Scatho began suddenly to tremble.
“What … what … what explanation?” he said. “You … damn it … you draw this out. … Do you dare to say my bank. …” He stopped, drew his hand down his face and said: “But yet … you’re a sensible, sound man. … I’ve heard things against you. But I don’t believe them. … Your father always spoke very highly of you. … I remember he said if you wanted money you could always draw on him through us for three or four hundred. … That’s what makes it so incomprehensible. … It’s … it’s …” His agitation grew on him. “It seems to strike at the very heart. …”
Tietjens said:
“Look here, Port Scatho. … I’ve always had a respect for you. Settle it how you like. Fix the mess up for both our sakes with any formula that’s not humiliating for your bank. I’ve already resigned from the club. …”
Sylvia said: “Oh, no, Christopher … not from the club!”
Port Scatho started back from beside the table.
“But if you’re in the right!” he said. “You couldn’t … Not resign from the club. … I’m on the committee … I’ll explain to them, in the fullest, in the most generous …”
“You couldn’t explain,” Tietjens said. “You can’t get ahead of rumour. … It’s half over London at this moment. You know what the toothless old fellows of your committee are. … Anderson! Ffolliott … And my brother’s friend, Ruggles. …”
Port Scatho said:
“Your brother’s friend Ruggles. … But look here. … He’s something about the Court, isn’t he? But look here. …” His mind stopped. He said: “People shouldn’t overdraw. … But if your father said you could draw on him I’m really much concerned. … You’re a first-rate fellow. … I can tell that from your passbook alone. … Nothing but cheques drawn to first-class tradesmen for reasonable amounts. The sort of passbook I liked to see when I was a junior clerk in the bank. …” At that early reminiscence feelings of pathos overcame him and his mind once more stopped.
Sylvia came back into the room; they had not perceived her going. She in turn held in her hand a letter.
Tietjens said:
“Look here, Port Scatho, don’t get into this state. Give me your word to do what you can when you’ve assured yourself the facts are as I say. I wouldn’t bother you at all, it’s not my line, except for Mrs. Tietjens. A man alone can live that sort of thing down, or die. But there’s no reason why Mrs. Tietjens should live, tied to a bad hat, while he’s living it down or dying.”
“But that’s not right,” Port Scatho said, “it’s not the right way to look at it. You can’t pocket … I’m simply bewildered. …”
“You’ve no right to be bewildered,” Sylvia said. “You’re worrying your mind for expedients to save the reputation of your bank. We know your bank is more to you than a baby. You should look after it better, then.”
Port Scatho, who had already fallen two paces away from the table, now fell two paces back, almost on top of it. Sylvia’s nostrils were dilated.
She said:
“Tietjens shall not resign from your beastly club. He shall not! Your committee will request him formally to withdraw his resignation. You understand? He will withdraw it. Then he will resign for good. He is too good to mix with people like you. …” She paused, her chest working fast. “Do you understand what you’ve got to do?” she asked.
An appalling shadow of a thought went through Tietjens’ mind: he would not let it come into words.
“I don’t know …” the banker said. “I don’t know that I can get the committee …”
“You’ve got to,” Sylvia answered. “I’ll tell you why … Christopher was never overdrawn. Last Thursday I instructed your people to pay a thousand pounds to my husband’s account. I repeated the instruction by letter and I kept a copy of the letter witnessed by my confidential maid. I also registered the letter and have the receipt for it. … You can see them.”
Port Scatho mumbled from over the letter:
“It’s to Brownlie … Yes, a receipt for a letter to Brownlie …” He examined the little green slip on both sides. He said: “Last Thursday. … Today’s Monday. … An instruction to sell North-Western stock to the amount of one thousand pounds and place to the account of … Then …”
Sylvia said:
“That’ll do. … You can’t angle for time any more. … Your nephew has been in an affair of this sort before. … I’ll tell you. Last Thursday at lunch your nephew told me that Christopher’s brother’s solicitors had withdrawn all the permissions for overdrafts on the books of the Groby estate. There were several to members of the family. Your nephew said that he intended to catch Christopher on the hop—that’s his own expression—and dishonour the next cheque of his that came in. He said he had been waiting for the chance ever since the war and the brother’s withdrawal had given it him. I begged him not to …”
