The Osbornes

by E. F. Benson

What was to be done? What was to be done? He could not tell Claude that his suspicions were grossly and gratuitously insulting, for Claude had expressed none; he had said there was nothing to suspect, no ground for suspicion. Nor did Jim see that it was possible to continue seeing Claude, feeling that he was in his hands, that at any moment he might disown the cheque, and let the bank pursue the usual course. Claude had been generous, quixotically generous that morning; but who knew whether that might not only be a momentary impulse, or even a move merely to gain time, to consider? It was a serious step to let one’s wife’s brother be prosecuted. But very likely he had only done it to stay immediate proceedings: very likely he wanted to talk it over with Dora first.... And at that thought the breaking point came. Through these solitary hours Jim had faced a good deal, and the fibres of endurance were weakened. And he could not face that. Anything was more tolerable than the picture of Dora being told.

Generous! That word had occurred in his thoughts, and it had been applied by him to Claude. It was no less than his due; he had always been generous. His generosity had not cost him much, had not entailed self-denial, but it had been there, it had been given. First in very little ways, as when he gave Jim free living at the flat; then in larger ways, when for the sake of Dora he imputed mere carelessness to himself instead of letting crime be brought home to another. The price of his generosity concerned nobody. And Jim was beaten. The worst of him surrendered to something a little better than the worst. The surrender was not nobly made; it was made from necessity, because every other course was a little more impossible than that. Claude had to be told. He knew that he was in Claude’s hands already; the most he could do and the least was to seem to put himself there. And then suddenly he felt so tired that thought was no longer possible, and he fell asleep where he sat.

It was deep in the night when he woke, for the noise of traffic had almost sunk to silence, but from the dreamlessness of exhausted sleep he passed straight into full consciousness again, and took up the tragic train of thought where he had left it. He did not reconsider his decision—it was cut in steel—nor did he desire to, for to wish for the impossible requires the strong spring of hope, and of hope he had none. He was beaten; he resigned. And then on the outer darkness there shone a little ray. Claude, whom a few hours ago he had hated with the rancour of the injurer, had been generous, appallingly generous. Was there nothing he could do for Claude?

Yes; one thing, the hardest of all, the utmost. For weeks he knew things had not gone well with him and Dora. He got on her nerves, his vulgarities (as was most natural) irritated her, and she could no longer see in him anything but them. But there was more in Claude than that. She did not know it, but he might tell her. Perhaps if she knew, she would see, would understand.... Or had Claude already told her? That had seemed possible before, a thing easily pictured. But he did not think it likely now. It was not consistent with what Claude had already done. For it must have been for his wife’s sake that he had acted thus.

A little while before it had seemed to Jim the worst possible thing, the one unbearable thing, that Dora should know. But looked at from this new standpoint it was different. If Claude told her, it was one thing; it was another if he did. If he did, if he could, it might help Dora to see that there was something in Claude beyond his commonness. And—Jim was a long time coming to it—it might in some degree atone, not in Claude’s eyes, for he would not tell Claude what he meant to do, but in—in those eyes which look on all evil things and all good things, and see the difference between them.

There were a few arrangements to be made on Sunday, but he made them without flinching. Claude and Dora were at Grote, and a line to Claude there, asking to see him as soon as possible on Monday, and a line to Dora at Park Lane, saying that he wanted to see her alone in the afternoon, was all that was necessary. It was better to take those interviews in that order—he could not help being clever over it—for it was easier to face Dora, when able to tell her that he had already confessed to Claude. What he had to say would come with more force thus. She would see that for the sake of helping Claude and her, he had done something that could not have been easy.

All that day down at Grote they waited for news from Sir Henry, but none came. Lord Osborne, always optimistic, saw the most hopeful significance in his silence.

“Depend upon it, my dear,” he said to Dora as she went to bed that night, “depend upon it Sir Henry has seen my lady again, and has quite forgotten that we might be in some anxiety, because, as he knows now, forgetting he ain’t told us, there’s nought to be anxious about. That’s like those busy men—Lord, my dear! fancy passing your life in other people’s insides, so to speak—why it would make you forget your own name. But if there had been any cause for us to worry, depend upon it he’d have let us know. I bet I shall be making a joke of my lady’s ailments before I’m twenty-four hours older. I’ll be getting a few ready for her as I do my undressing to-night. And it’s me as is cheering you up, my dear, this moment. You go to sleep quiet, or else I’ll tell Mrs. O. that you’ve given me such an uncomfortable Sunday as I’ve not had since first we was married.”

Then came Monday morning. Dora had her early post brought up to her bedroom, but since she had received Saturday posts forwarded from town yesterday, there was nothing sent on. In fact, there was only one letter for her directed to her here. And she opened it and read it.

Claude had already left by an early train when she got down. She did not expect this, since, as far as she knew, he had no engagements that morning and had intended not to leave till a later train, but he had gone. Lord Osborne and she were going to lunch in the country and drive back afterward, but after breakfast, when the last guests had gone, she went to him. He was in the room he called the “lib’ry” and was reading the Morning Post.