Beggar’s Choice (8 page)

The fat man was in the outer office when I came through. He didn't speak to me, though we'd had a nodding acquaintance some years before. He recognized me all right though—I could see that. It rather rubs it in when the people you didn't think good enough for you, start thinking you're not good enough for them. Not that I cared what Bobby Markham did. I didn't like him any better than I liked his brother. I suppose they were brothers; there was a good deal of likeness, only Arbuthnot was hard where Bobby was soft, and thick-set where Bobby was just fat. I put down Arbuthnot as a bully, and Bobby as a silly ass. Their voices were alike though.

“Oh,” I said, “Bobby's been telling me?” That was Anna all over—she gave his name away as easily as saying good-morning. “And where do you come in? He talked about a client.”

She tipped up her chin again.

“Oh, I was the client.”

“Look here, Anna,” I said, “what's all this nonsense? It doesn't take me in a bit, you know, this spoof offer of five hundred pounds and Mr. Bobby Markham's talk about a client who has forged a check and wants me to forge another so as to get him out of a hole.”

I thought she turned paler.

“Not
him
,” she said, “
her
.”

“Meaning you?”

She
had
turned paler. For the first time, I thought she had stopped acting.

“Yes,” she said, “yes. That's why I asked you whether you hated me, Car. If you do, you've got your revenge to your hand.”

I wanted to be quite sure what she meant, so I said,

“Yes?”

“Yes—
yes,”
she said. “Do you hate me, Car? Because if you do, you've only to go to Uncle John and tell him just what Bobby and I have said to you to-night.”

Of course she knew that I wouldn't do any such thing. She was playing up, but under all the theatrical stuff there was something that made me feel a bit sorry for her. You can tell when any one is frightened. I thought she was frightened, and I wondered what on earth she'd been up to.

I leaned back against the jamb of the door and tried to keep my temper.

“What have you been up to?” I said.

“Bobby told you.”

“Good Lord, Anna, do you really want me to believe you've been forging checks?”

She nodded.

“One check—Car, it sounds worse than it is. Won't you let me tell you about it? I—I—it's been dreadful having no one to talk to.”

“Mr. Markham?” I suggested.

“Bobby doesn't count.”

I thought that was nice for Bobby, who was probably mixing himself up in a shady business because he was fool enough to be fond of her.

“I want to tell you about it. You'll listen—won't you? You must, because it wouldn't be fair if you didn't. I didn't mean to do anything wrong. I thought Uncle John was dying, and I knew he'd left me everything, because he told me so himself only the week before, so I didn't think there was any harm in my writing that check—he'd have given me the money twice over if I'd asked him for it.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Because he was unconscious, and I couldn't wait. I had to have the money. And now I don't know what to do.”

I gave her the best advice I could. She really was frightened.

“There's only one thing you can do—make a clean breast of it.”

“To Uncle John?”

“Yes.”

She sat there and looked at me for about half a minute. There wasn't any color in her face. Then she said,

“He'd never forgive me.” She said that slowly; and then, like a flash, “You think that would play your game.”

If she had been a man I should have struck her. Not that it's any use anyhow—you can't strike the beastly mind that thinks that sort of thing.

She gave a gasp, leaned forward, and caught me by the arm.

“No—no—I didn't mean that! Car—I didn't mean it! Other people are like that, but not you. You'd help me out if you could. You're trying to help me out, even if you do hate me.”

I wasn't going to answer that.

“I'm desperate—I don't know what I'm saying. If he knows, he'll cut me out of his will—and I don't know how to be poor—I've counted on the money always. If you were any one else, you wouldn't help me—but you're Car—you'll help me, won't you?”

“You can help yourself—I can't.”

“No—no—
no
! He wouldn't leave me a penny, and if he doesn't leave it to me, it will all go to charities, for he told me so. You won't get it anyhow, Car—
no
, I didn't mean that—Car, I didn't—I don't know what I'm saying.”

She turned from me, caught at the doorpost with both hands, hid her face against her arm, and burst into wild weeping. It was horrible to hear her. She wasn't pretending, she was really crying. Later on, when I touched her arm, I could feel her sleeve soaking wet with her tears. A woman crying like that makes a man feel a most awful fool, unless he can take her in his arms and comfort her—and that was just about the last thing in the world I wanted to do with Anna.

I sat down and waited, and I didn't say anything, because there didn't seem to be anything to say. After a bit she quieted down, and at last she let her arms drop and moved round so that she was facing me again. She put her hands in her lap and leaned her head back against the doorpost. Her face was wet, and her eyes were shut.

“I didn't mean it,” she said.

“That's all right.”

“I know you're not like that.”

While she was crying I'd been thinking a bit.

“Look here, Anna,” I said, “I don't really know what you've been driving at with this fake advertisement business, and getting me down here, but I do know one thing—if you've really been up to anything with Uncle John's check-book, you've given Bobby Markham a pretty dangerous hold over you. I don't know an awful lot about him, but what I do know wouldn't make me feel I should be safe in putting my reputation and—” I hesitated for a moment, and then I let her have it straight—“my liberty into his hands.”

She looked at me between her wet black lashes and said,

“Wouldn't it?”

“No, it wouldn't—not by a long chalk.”

She gave a nod, quite casual and careless.

“Oh, Bobby's all right. He eats out of my hand.” Then she leaned forward and put her left hand on my knee. “What about
you
, Car?”

“Me?” I couldn't make out what she meant.

“Yes, you—you—
you
. I've put myself in Bobby's power. Haven't I put myself in yours? Bobby knows about the check. What about you? Don't you know about it? If Bobby's got a hold over me, haven't you got one too?” She stared at me in the strangest way. “What about it, Car?”

“I don't know what you mean.” I said that, but of course it wasn't really true. It had only just stopped being true though. You know how it is—what you're thinking runs ahead of what you're saying. The minute the words were out of my mouth I wished I hadn't said them, because she laughed in my face.

“How plainly have I got to put it? You know enough to damn me if you choose to go to Uncle John with your knowledge. No, that's too crude—you wouldn't do that—would you?”

“Am I to say ‘thank you' for that?” I was very angry.

“No, you wouldn't do that—you wouldn't go to Uncle John. But if you met him, and he asked you, what would you do then? Would you give me away?” Her voice broke sharply in the middle of the last word.

“You mean if he asked me about the check? I haven't seen him or heard from him for three years. Why should he ask me?”

“I don't know.” She sounded tired and bewildered. “I—don't know. I—was—just—supposing. Would you give me away?”

“What's the good of supposing?”

“Car—
would
you? I told you myself. It isn't as if you had found it out. I
told
you. You couldn't give away what I'd told you myself. Could you?”

I put my hand on her arm. That was when I felt that the sleeve was wet.

“What makes you think I'll ever have the chance?”

“Old men have fancies,” she said. Her arm shook. She leaned nearer. “Suppose he sent for you. Suppose he asked you questions. Suppose you saw your chance of outing me and coming back to your old place.” She wrenched her arm out of my hold and threw herself back against the half open door. “Oh, why did I tell you anything? Why was I such an utter, utter fool as to tell you?”

She had been trying me pretty high all along, and my temper got the better of me.

“What sort of damned cad do you take me for?” I got to my feet. “That's about enough,” I said. “I'm going.”

She jumped up and came to me with the tears running down her face.

“Car—will you promise not to tell? Will you swear you won't tell him what I told you? I'll believe you if you promise.”

I was too angry to say anything, and I suppose she thought I was hesitating, for she began to catch her breath and sob.

“I only told you because I trusted you so. You
can't
use what I told you because I trusted you.”

I got hold of myself again, but I expect my voice was pretty rough.

“I didn't ask you to tell me anything. I wouldn't have come within a hundred miles of this place if I'd had any idea of what you were going to tell me. But since you've known me all your life, I should think you'd have enough sense to know it won't go any farther. You'd much better make a clean breast of it yourself. But if you won't do that, keep clear of a fool's trick like forgery in the future. Uncle John's no fool himself, and you're bound to be found out.”

“But not through you? Word of honor?”

“I told you so. Good-night.”

She let me go a dozen yards, and then called after me.

“Where are you going?”

“To the car.”

“It's not there.”

“Where is it?”

She hesitated.

“I didn't want them hanging about. I didn't want—Bobby.”

“How am I to get back? Where are we?”

“You don't know?”

I'd begun to think I did.

“Linwood Edge?”

“Of course. I thought you knew. I thought you'd see me home. I wanted to get rid of Bobby, so I told him to take the car to the corner by the bridge just out of the village.”

I didn't in the least want to walk back through the wood with her but there didn't seem to be any way out of it. I knew where we were now—on the edge of my uncle's land with about a quarter of an hour's walk between us and the house, and another few minutes on to where Anna had sent the car to wait.

She picked up the lantern and fastened the crazy door. We went on down the narrow path again. The yellow light was round our feet, and everywhere all about us the woods were dark and very still. She didn't speak, nor did I. It was a long time since I had walked in Linwood. I had walked there with Isobel. Isobel's pool was there. I wondered where Isobel was. And then, breaking a ten minutes' silence, Anna made me jump by speaking her name.

“Isobel Tarrant's down here. I suppose you know that?”

I didn't see why I should tell Anna what I knew, so I just said,

“Is she?”

“Yes. I suppose we shall all be dancing at her wedding soon.”

My heart stood quite still for a minute. It was a most horrible feeling. After a bit I said,

“Is she going to be married?”

I had to say it; but I had to say it so that Anna wouldn't notice anything. I think I managed it all right.

“It's not given out yet, so don't congratulate her.”

“Who is it?”

“Giles Heron. He's since your time. He bought Brockington. He's a very good match for a girl like Isobel who hasn't a penny and never will have. Miss Willy has put everything into an annuity, you know.”

I didn't say anything. I was glad it was so dark.

We came out on to the edge of the wood, and I could see the paddock stretching black between us and the drive. The elms that edged it were blacker still. The sky had a little faint light in it. The yellow lantern-light seemed to belong to a different place. Anna must have thought that too. She slid back the glass and blew out the candle.

We went on till we came to the road. Then I said good-night and began to walk down towards the gate, but she came running after me.

“Car—wait a minute.”

“What is it?”

“It's—you. Why are you—so thin?”

“I'm not in the least thin.”

“You are—
frightfully
. When I saw you——” Her voice choked. “What have you been doing to yourself?”

“Nothing.”

“Car—”

“Good-night, Anna,” I said. And this time I got away.

I found the car, not where she had said, but practically in the village street. It couldn't have been far short of midnight. The driver had the bonnet open and was tinkering away by the light of an electric torch. I asked him what was wrong, and he said he didn't know. There was no sign of Bobby Markham.

I thanked my stars it was so late and so dark. I certainly didn't want any one to come along and recognize me. I could just imagine how the village gossips would enjoy themselves.

The driver went on tinkering, and I walked up and down. There wasn't a light to be seen anywhere. Presently he called out and asked me to hold the torch. As I took it, I heard a car come round the corner where the street bends in the middle, and I saw the headlights. It was going slow—a small Morris—and just as it came abreast of us, the driver reached up for the torch, and in taking it turned the light right into my eyes and nearly blinded me.

The next thing I saw was the tail-light of the Morris going over the bridge. Then I lost it; but by the sound I thought it had turned in at my uncle's gate, and I wondered who was going there so late.