II
When he reached the little drawing-room of their flat his wife was making tea. She was rather short, with a good figure, and brown eyes in a flattish face, powdered and by no means unattractive. She had Slav blood in her—Polish; and Granter never now confided to her the finer shades of his thoughts and conduct because she had long made him feel himself her superior in moral sensibility. He had no wish to feel superior—it was often very awkward; but he could not help it. In view of this attempt at blackmail, more than awkward. It was extraordinarily unpleasant to fall from a pedestal on which he did not wish to be.
He sat down, very large, in a lacquered chair with black cushions, spoke of the leaves turning, saw her look at him and smile, and felt that she knew he was disturbed.
“Do you ever wonder,” he said, tinkling his teaspoon, “about the lives that other people live?”
“What sort of people, Charles?”
“Oh—not our sort; match-sellers, don’t you know, flower-sellers, people down and out?”
“No, I don’t think I do.”
If only he could tell her of this monstrous incident without slipping from his pedestal!
“It interests me enormously; there are such queer depths to reach, don’t you know.”
Her smile seemed to answer: ‘You don’t reach the depths in me.’ And it was true. She was very Slav, with the warm gleam in her eyes and the opaque powdered skin of her comely face. An enigma—flatly an enigma! There were deep waters below the pedestal, like—like Philæ, with columns still standing in the middle of the Nile Dam. Absurd thought!
“I’ve often wondered,” he said, “how I should feel if I were down and out.”
“You’re too large, Charles, and too dignified, my dear; you’d be on the Civil List before you could turn round.”
Granter rose from the lacquered chair, jingling his coins. The most vivid pictures at that moment were, like a film, unrolled before his mind—of the grey sunlit river and that accosting blackguard with his twisted murky face and lips uttering hoarse sounds; of the yellow baby, and the girl’s gipsy-dark glance from behind it; of a police court, and himself standing there and letting the whole cartload of the law fall on them. He said suddenly:
“I was blackmailed this afternoon on the Embankment.”
She did not answer; and, turning with irritation, he saw that her fingers were in her ears.
“I do wish you wouldn’t jingle your money so!” she said.
Confound it! She had not heard him.
“I’ve had an adventure,” he began again. “You know the flower-girl who stands at that corner in Tite Street?”
“Yes; a gipsy baggage.”
“H’m! Well, I bought a flower from her one day, and she told me such a pathetic story that I went to her den to see if it was true. It seemed to be, so I gave her some money, don’t you know. Then I thought I’d better see how she was spending it, so I went to see her again, don’t you know.”
A faint “Oh! Charles!” caused him to hurry on.
“And—what do you think—a blackguard followed me to-day and tried to blackmail me for ten pounds on the Embankment.”
A sound brought his face round to attention. His wife was lying back on the cushions of her chair in paroxysms of soft laughter.
It was clear to Granter, then, that what he had really been afraid of was just this. His wife would laugh at him—laugh at him slipping from the pedestal! Yes! It was that he had dreaded—not any disbelief in his fidelity. Somehow he felt too large to be laughed at. He was too large! Nature had set a size beyond which husbands——!
“I don’t see what there is to laugh at,” he said frigidly. “There’s no more odious crime than blackmail.”
His wife was silent; tears were trickling down her cheeks.
“Did you give it him?” she said in a strangled voice.
“Of course not.”
“What was he threatening?”
“To tell you.”
“But what?”
“His beastly interpretation of my harmless visits.”
The tears had made runlets in her powder, and he added viciously: “He doesn’t know you, of course.”
His wife dabbed her eyes, and a scent of geranium arose.
“It seems to me,” said Granter, “that you’d be even more amused if there were something in it!”
“Oh, no, Charles, but—perhaps there is.”
Granter looked at her fixedly.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, there is not.”
He saw her cover her lips with that rag of handkerchief, and abruptly left the room.
He went into his study and sat down before the fire. So it was funny to be a faithful husband? And suddenly he thought: ‘If my wife can treat this as a joke, what—what about herself?’ A nasty thought! An unconscionable thought! Really, it was as though that blackmailing scoundrel had dirtied human nature till it seemed to function only from low motives. A church clock chimed. Six already! The ruffian would be back there on the Embankment waiting for his ten pounds. Granter rose. His duty was to go out and hand him over to the police.
‘No!’ he thought viciously, ‘let him come here! I’d very much like him to come here. I’d teach him!’
But a sort of shame beset him. Like most very big men, he was quite unaccustomed to violence—had never struck a violent blow in his life, not even in his school-days—had never had occasion to. He went across to the window. From there he could just see the Embankment parapet through the trees in the failing light, and presently—sure enough—he made out the fellow’s figure slinking up and down like a hungry dog. He stood watching, jingling his money—nervous, sarcastic, angry, very interested. What would the rascal do now? Would he beard this great block of flats? And was the girl down there too—the girl, with her yellow baby? He saw the slinking figure cross from the far side and vanish under the loom of the mansions. In that interesting moment Granter burst through the bottom of one of his trousers’ pockets; several coins jingled on to the floor and rolled away. He was still looking for the last when he heard the door-bell ring—he had never really believed the ruffian would come up! Straightening himself abruptly, he went out into the hall. Service was performed by the mansion’s staff, so there was no one in the flat but himself and his wife. The bell rang again; and she, too, appeared.
“This is my Embankment friend, no doubt, who amuses you so much. I should like you to see him,” he said grimly. He noted a quizzical apology on her face and opened the hall door.
Yes! there stood the man! By electric light, in upholstered surroundings, more ‘down and out’ than ever. A bad lot, but a miserable poor wretch, with his broken boots, his thin, twisted, twitching face, his pinched shabby figure—only his hungry eyes looked dangerous.
“Come in,” said Granter. “You want to see my wife, I think.”
The man recoiled.
“I don’t want to see ’er,” he muttered, “unless you force me to. Give us five pound, guv’nor, and I won’t worry you again. I don’t want to cause trouble between man and wife.”
“Come in,” repeated Granter; “she’s expecting you.”
The man stood, silently passing a pale tongue over a pale upper lip, as though conjuring some new resolution from his embarrassment.
“Now, see ’ere, mister,” he said suddenly, “you’ll regret it if I come in—you will, straight.”
“I shall regret it if you don’t. You’re a very interesting fellow, and an awful scoundrel.”
“Well, who made me one?” the man burst out; “you answer me that.”
“Are you coming in?”
“Yes, I am.”
He came, and Granter shut the door behind him. It was like inviting a snake or a mad dog into one’s parlour; but the memory of having been laughed at was so fresh within him that he rather welcomed the sensation.
“Now,” he said, “have the kindness!” and opened the drawing-room door.
The man slunk in, blinking in the stronger light.
Granter went towards his wife, who was standing before the fire.
“This gentleman has an important communication to make to you, it seems.”
The expression of her face struck him as peculiar—surely she was not frightened! And he experienced a kind of pleasure in seeing them both look so exquisitely uncomfortable.
“Well,” he said ironically, “perhaps you’d like me not to listen.” And, going back to the door, he stood leaning against it with his hands up to his ears. He saw the fellow give him a furtive look and go nearer to her; his lips moved rapidly, hers answered, and he thought: ‘What on earth am I covering my ears for?’ He took his hands away, and the man turned round.
“I’m goin’ now, mister; a little mistake—sorry to ’ave troubled you.”
His wife had turned to the fire again; and with a puzzled feeling Granter opened the door. As the fellow passed he took him by the arm, twisted him round into the study, and, locking the door, put the key into his pocket.
“Now then,” he said, “you precious scoundrel!”
The man shifted on his broken boots. “Don’t you hit me, guv’nor, I got a knife here.”
“I’m not going to hit you. I’m going to hand you over to the police.”
The man’s eyes roved, looking for a way of escape; then rested, as if fascinated, on the glowing hearth.
“What’s ten pounds?” he said suddenly; “you’d never ha’ missed it.”
Granter smiled.
“You don’t seem to realise, my friend, that blackmail is the most devilish crime a man can commit.” And he crossed over to the telephone.
The man’s eyes, dark, restless, violent, and yet hungry, began to shift up and down the building of a man before him.
“No,” he said suddenly, with a sort of pathos, “don’t do that, guv’nor!”
The look of his eyes, or the tone of his voice, affected Granter.
“But if I don’t,” he said slowly, “you’ll be blackmailing the next person you meet. You’re as dangerous as a viper.”
The man’s lips quivered; he covered them with his hand, and said from behind it:
“I’m a man like yourself. I’m down and out—that’s all. Look at me!”
Granter’s glance dwelt on the trembling hand. “Yes, but you fellows destroy all belief in human nature,” he said vehemently.
“See ’ere, guv’nor; you try livin’ like me—you try it! My Gawd! You try my life these last six months—cadgin’ and crawlin’ for a job!” He made a deep sound. “A man ’oo’s done ’is bit, too. Wot life is it? A stinkin’ life, not fit for a dawg, let alone a ’uman bein’. An’ when I see a great big chap like you, beggin’ your pardon, mister, well fed, with everything to ’is ’and—it was regular askin’ for it. It come over me, it did.”
“No, no,” said Granter grimly; “that won’t do. It couldn’t have been sudden. You calculated—you concocted this. Blackmail is sheer filthy cold-blooded blackguardism. You don’t care two straws whom you hurt, whose lives you wreck, what faiths you destroy.” And he put his hand on the receiver.
The man squirmed.
“Steady on, guv’nor! I’ve gotta find food. I’ve gotta find clothes. I can’t live on air. I can’t go naked.”
Granter stood motionless, while the man’s voice continued to travel to him across the cosy room.
“Give us a chawnce, guv’nor! Ah! give us a chawnce! You can’t understand my temptations. Don’t have the police to me. I won’t do this again—give you me word—so ’elp me! I’ve got it in the neck. Let me go, guv’nor!”
In Granter, motionless as the flats he lived in, a heavy struggle was in progress—not between duty and pity, but between revengeful anger and a sort of horror at using the strength of prosperity against so broken a wretch.
“Let me go, mister!” came the hoarse voice again. “Be a sport!”
Granter dropped the receiver and unlocked the door.
“All right; you can go.”
The man crossed swiftly.
“Christ!” he said; “good luck! And as to the lady—I take it back. I never see ’er. It’s all me eye.”
He was across the hall and gone before Granter could decide what to say; the scurrying shuffle of his footsteps down the stairs died away. ‘And as to the lady—I take it back. I never see ’er. It’s all me eye!’ Good God! The scoundrel, having failed with him, had been trying to blackmail his wife—his wife, who had laughed at his fidelity—his wife, who had looked—frightened! ‘All me eye!’ Her face started up before Granter—scared under its powder, with a mask drawn over it. And he had let that scoundrel go!... But why—scared? Blackmail—of all poisonous human actions!... Why scared?... What now ...!
1921.