The Osbornes

by E. F. Benson

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.