I Shall Not Want (12 page)

At nine o'clock the young ladies were sent home. It was a pleasant and gentlemanly convention that, having kept the girls on their feet for twelve hours with only an hour's interval for lunch and ten minutes for tea, they should then be sent home before the men, like the weaker vessels that they were.

And it was understood that, once nine o'clock had passed, the men could go too when they were finished. John Marco had calculated, carefully and exactly, that by not breaking off even for a single minute he could get through his work by nine-fifteen. Then, by running if necessary, he could arrive at Abernethy Terrace where the Kents lived by nine-twenty-five: Mrs. Kent had told him that if he arrived no later than nine-thirty—after that it would have seemed somehow improper—he could have ten minutes of her daughter's company before the family went to bed.

But as nine-twenty was approaching—he was late already—Mr. Morgan came up to him. He seemed to take it for granted that John Marco would be ready before the others; he did not comment on it.

All that he said was: “Do you mind stepping this way, Mr. Marco. I want to re-organise the corsets.”

And John Marco answered, “Very good, sir.”

It was ten minutes past ten when Mr. Morgan released him; John Marco, his arms round a pink silken bosom like a
prima donna's,
deposited the dummy on the small table over by the window and Mr. Morgan announced that they were through. He said good-night and, walking through the empty shop, left him there. John Marco followed, turning out the gas-lights as he came.

But this time John Marco did not run: there was no point in it. He walked slowly, like any other man who has worked too long; too long and too hard. Even so, he went in the direction of Abernethy Street instead of Chapel Villas.

When he got there, the shop and the rooms above it were in darkness: he stood on the pavement and gazed up at the house front. He was late. But somehow he did not regard this weary détour as wasted: she was there even if he could not see her. And he knew that every night until they were married he would be here like this; whether she were awake or sleeping, sometime during the evening he would be standing there.

Then he turned and still wearily went back to Chapel Villas and the nightly catechism of old Mrs. Marco.

He knew before he reached the house that there was something wrong, something alarmingly wrong. His mother was standing out there in the cold on the pavement waiting for him. He saw her from the end of the street, a stooping, muffled figure, swathed in all the wraps and capes she could lay her hands on. From a distance, in the lamp-light, she looked entirely spherical; it was only as he got nearer that he could see that she had wrapped a rug round herself and was clasping the two ends across her.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked. “It'll be the death of you.”

“Where have you been?” she began.

“I've been at the shop,” he said. “We're always late at sale-time.”

But the answer did not satisfy her.

“You're not telling me the truth,” she said. “You're in some kind of trouble and you won't tell me.”

He took her by the arm and began to lead her up the tiled front-path.

“Come inside,” he said. “You're not yourself to-night.”

He was used to these moods of hers and knew how to handle her. At that moment his one thought was to get her inside so that their neighbours should not hear her; he wondered how long she had been standing there making an exhibition of herself.

But once in the tiny porch Mrs. Marco would not budge.

“She's come,” she said. “She's waiting for you.”

“Who's come?”

“The young lady.”

John Marco felt a sudden icy wind blow across him; but he controlled himself.

“What young lady?” he asked steadily.

But Mrs. Marco was past replying; it was doubtful indeed, whether she had even heard him.

“She's there,” she said. “Sitting waiting for you. She wouldn't tell me what she wanted. She only said that she'd got to see you to-night. . . .” Mrs. Marco paused. The night air had got into her lungs and she gave herself up to a fit of coughing. When she could speak again, she clung to him. “Oh, John, John,” she said, “what have you done to yourself? What is it she wants with you?”

He pushed her away from him; he was rough with her by now.

“Who is she?” he asked. “Who are you talking about?”

It was only as he put the question that he realised that it might be Mary, who was sitting there. Something—anything—might have happened, and she had come to him. He pushed open the sitting-room door and stood there, staring into the white face and deep eyes of Hesther Croome.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Then John Marco recovered himself.

“Why have you come here?” he asked.

“I told you I wanted to see you,” she replied quietly.

“You had no right to come here,” he said.

“I did it for your own good,” Hesther Croome answered just as quietly. “I am giving you one more chance.”

“One more chance?”

“To save yourself.”

Before John Marco could answer—and he was trembling now so that he could scarcely stand—Mrs. Marco had pushed her way in front of him.

“What is it you're talking about?” she kept asking. “Why can't I be told? What is it?”

Hesther Croome looked at the old woman contemptuously, running her eyes up and down her.

“Do you want me to tell her?” she asked.

John Marco remained where he was; his face was greenish-white under the gas-light.

“We'll talk alone,” he said.

Miss Croome removed a small, silver smelling-bottle and applied it first to one nostril and then to the other.

“Send her away,” she said.

But it was not easy. Mrs. Marco became strident. She began abusing Miss Croome. “She's blackmailing you,” she said. “She's come for money. That's what it is. I can see it in her face; she's come for money.”

John Marco took her by the shoulders and pushed her towards the door.

“You don't understand,” he said. “Go to bed and leave us alone.”

“I won't go,” Mrs. Marco replied vehemently. “I shall stay here. I'm needed.”

She was still protesting, as John Marco thrust her out into the passage and turned the key on her. Then the two people inside the room heard the sound of her voice subside, and the noise of crying begin. A moment later, they heard her footsteps shuffle brokenly away in the direction of the kitchen; she was beaten. She was still crying, crying like a child.

Miss Croome was the first to speak.

“You may as well confess it,” she said.

John Marco turned on her. “I don't know what you mean,” he said.

“Oh yes you do,” she answered. “You've got it on your conscience.”

“I've got nothing on my conscience.”

“Then you're worse than I thought you were. You're not worth saving.”

She removed the top of the smelling bottle again and started playing with it. He noticed as she did so that her hands were calm and steady. And for the first time he began to doubt his strength against hers. But he controlled himself and spoke coolly and deliberately.

“What is all this that you're imagining?” he asked.

“You robbed the dead,” she answered.

There was a silence which ran on until John Marco did not dare let it last any longer.

“You're mad,” he answered. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I can tell you how much it was you stole,” she went on. “It was a hundred and fifty pounds.” She let the words linger on her tongue as she said it.

John Marco had left his place by the chair and began walking up and down the room. His mind had suddenly grown clear and resourceful again.

“Is that sum missing?” he asked.

“You know it is.”

“And what makes you think I took it?”

“There was no one else.”

He laughed at her.

“No one else,” he said. “It might have been anyone. It might have been the servant. She was in and out of the room the whole time. It might have been the lawyer: he wouldn't be the first lawyer to steal his client's money. It might have been the doctor—people trust doctors. It might have been Mr. Tuke—we've only got his word for it. I gave the box to him in the bedroom.”

Miss Croome was regarding him again: she was smiling now.

“How do you know it was that night it was stolen?” she asked.

“I know nothing about it at all,” he answered.

“Yet you accuse all those people,” she said.
“Good
men like Mr. Tuke and Dr. Preece.”

“I accuse no one,” he retorted. “You're forgetting that I—don't even know that any money
has
been stolen. Women,” he looked hard at her—“especially unmarried women, have delusions sometimes. They get put away because of them.”

“But I have certain proof,” Hesther Croome answered.

At the sound of the word, John Marco stopped himself, he knew that he must be doubly calm now.

“What is it?” he asked.

“My uncle left me a letter saying how much was in the box,” she said.

John Marco did not answer immediately. But he realised then that he had nothing more to fear. She had thrown her proof before him and it was useless. He began to laugh.

“He left you a letter,” he said jeeringly. “A crazy old man whose mind was wandering. I don't care if he left you a hundred letters. It proves nothing. You could arrest the whole of London on that kind of evidence.” Now that he felt safe he could afford to speak angrily. “And you come here at this time of night and accuse me!”

“That wasn't the only reason I accused you,” she said.

John Marco paused.

“I have other proof,” she continued.

“What is it?” he asked. “More letters? More imaginings?”

“I followed you,” she said. “I followed you at lunch-time when you left the shop.”

He felt fear strike at him again as she said it. But he continued to face her, continued to look her full in the eyes.

“What's that to me?” he asked. “What do I care if I'm followed?”

“Don't you want to know where you were followed?”

John Marco swung round on her.

“Must I be expected to endure more of this madness?” he asked.

“It isn't madness,” she answered. “I followed you to your bank.”

He was silent for a moment: he felt now that the net was closing round him, closing tighter than he could ever have foreseen it. But he was still calm.

“Haven't I the right to go to my bank?” he asked.

“It was a lot of money you paid in,” she said.

He saw a loop hole there, one dwindling gap which the mesh-work had not yet covered.

“That had nothing to do with your money,” he said.

“That was something of my own. Do you want to know how much it was? It was fifty pounds.”

“I know already,” she answered. “I heard you tell the cashier.”

The thought that she had been so close to him, that she had been in his shadow at that moment alarmed him still further. But he kept his voice level.

“What did I do with the rest of it then?” he asked. “Waste my substance in riotous living?”

“You aren't that sort of man,” she answered. “You paid it into other banks. You went to Parr's Bank, in Bayswater, on the Wednesday and to Fowler's Bank, in Edgeware Road, on the Friday. You haven't been into a bank since.”

When she had finished speaking, he sank down. He was cold, desperately cold, and his stomach was sick inside him. It was not merely that he was trembling now, he was shivering.

“Is that the whole of your proof?” he asked; he managed to jerk the words out of him.

“It is,” she answered.

“Then go to the police with it,” he said. “Go to the police and make yourself a laughing stock. Go to the police and see if you ever dare to show your face inside the Chapel again.”

She got up slowly and drew on her gloves again.

“Very well, then,” she said. “I
will
go. I shall go to the police.”

He stood up and let her pass and she went out into the inky hall. Then he followed her to the front door and opened it for her. He was breathing heavily and his heart was pounding.

“Is that your last word?” she said from the porch.

“It is,” he said, without looking at her.

But when she got to the gate he called her back.

The room was in silence. The only sound—so slight that it only made the silence seem deeper—was the
everlasting
ting-ting
of the ornamental marble clock on the mantelpiece with the bronze figure of Father Time swinging in an endless and silly see-saw beneath. They had been sitting there in that chilly front parlour for nearly an hour, the two of them, but for the last five minutes John Marco had not spoken. His eyes were fixed on that maddening pendulum, aimlessly crossing and recrossing its path in space.

“I'm still waiting for your answer,” Miss Croome said quietly.

John Marco started.

“I've told you I'll give you the money back,” he said.

“I don't want you to give it to me back,” she answered. “It isn't that I came for.”

“But I can't do it,” he said. “It's not in reason to ask it.”

“There's no other way,” she reminded him.

“Yes, there is,” he said. “I'd go to prison sooner.”

“You're not the sort of man who lets himself be put in prison,” she answered. “You're too fond of the future. Think of the shame of it if they arrested you. Think of what they'd say about you in the Chapel. Think of what would happen to your mother if they
took you
away. You'd never get another place in a shop, remember. You have to handle money. They wouldn't trust you again. This has got to be a secret between the two of us.”