The Man Who Understood Women and Other Stories/With Intent to Defraud
WITH INTENT TO DEFRAUD
He wished he were dead. It was not a phrase, a verbal extravagance; he wished it. The only time that he was free from anxiety was when he was asleep. His days were full of hard work, and disappointments, and efforts to make civil words do the duty of money; and it often occurred to George Collier, when he lay his head on the pillow, that if no to-morrow morning came to disturb him, it would be a blessed state of things. He was a writer of humorous books.
When he married Eva, he had been nine-and-twenty, and sanguine, though his humour did not command big prices so far. The critics were very kind to him, and Eva was very admiring; and he went on writing patiently. But by degrees he saw that his confidence had been premature. And then he saw that his marriage had been premature. And then a child was born; and he gave up his ideals and sank to pot-boiling, and the pot-boiling did not make the pot boil very violently, either.
A baby added to his embarrassments a good deal. The long-clothes seemed no sooner bought than it needed short-clothes; and before he had recovered from the cost of these, it had grown out of them. The nurse appeared to lie awake all night thinking what she could ask for next, and she was a superior person, with imagination.
To-day there were school fees to be paid, and Eva was no longer admiring, and their address was Pandora Road, Balham. The little house to the right was called "Broadlands," and the one to the left was called "The Towers"; and Collier, in a fit of moroseness, had labelled their own house, "The Hut," and made enemies among the neighbours.
Yes, Eva's sympathy had worn out, like the cheap drawing-room carpet. Balham and Tooting had got on her nerves, perhaps; or George, the failure, was a different man from the popular humorist with whom she had pictured herself driving to brilliant receptions in fashionable gowns. Anyhow, when he reflected that there had been a time when secretly he wrote poetry about her, he turned hot.
She was a pale, slight woman, with grey eyes and fluffy hair, and a red flannel dressing-grown in the morning. After luncheon, when she made her toilette, the grey eyes acquired a soulfulness that came out of a phial, and nobody would have suspected the tart and vulgar reproaches that could fall from her lips. Had she been what she looked, he thought sometimes, contemplating her wonderingly when an acquaintance was present, his courage wouldn't have deserted him so soon. But, if he had confessed that she weighed on him, the acquaintance would have considered him an unappreciative brute; she looked too wistful, and delicate, and fragile to weigh on anyone.
He was forty years of age, and soberly and deliberately he wished he were dead. Only one thing deterred him from making away with himself in a painless fashion; it was the knowledge that he would leave her and Chick unprovided for.
This was his frame of mind when he came to project a fraud. He saw his way to dying comfortably while safeguarding Chick and Eva from want. That is to say, he saw his way if he could raise the money necessary to pay the premium; he proposed to assure his life and commit suicide.
The curious part of it was, that he had always been a very scrupulous man, "as honest as the day"—that day that nobody remembers. He had never wronged anyone by so much as sixpence, and could have confronted a cross-examination without a tremor. People had often said that he was "too conscientious to get on." Yet now he was meditating robbery on an extensive scale and barely perceiving his defection.
A man whom he knew very well, and who frequently dropped in of an evening, was Mr. Horace Orkney, a solicitor. George was not sensible of any strong esteem for him, but—perhaps for that reason—Orkney looked the likeliest person for what he wanted; and one afternoon he betook himself to the gentleman's office.
"I have," he said, when greetings had been exchanged, "come on rather delicate business. I needn't tell you that what I am going to say is in confidence."
"Quite so," said Orkney, playing with the ends of his moustache.
"The fact is, things aren't going well; I'm deadly tired of it all, and Well, the truth is, I'm anxious to make away with myself."
The lawyer was only thirty-six, and he started.
To make away with yourself? Oh, nonsense!"
I mean what I say," insisted Collier; "don't imagine I'm talking through my hat—I haven't come here to waste your time. But my life isn't assured. You see the difficulty. I've got to think of my wife and child, and they'd be practically penniless."
"Assure it," suggested Mr. Orkney, with a shrug; "I should certainly assure my life, in any case, if I were you. But, my dear Collier, do let me dissuade you from such a—such a 'Pon my word!" He pulled out his monogrammed handkerchief, diffusing an agreeable odour of white rose. "You upset me very much."
"I won't trouble you with my arguments; I haven't come to make a sensation, and be talked round, and that kind of thing. My mind is made up, and I know my own mind better than anybody can tell it to me. You say, 'assure'; the point is, I can't assure, because I can't put my hands on the money."
"Oh," said Orkney. "What did you think of assuring for?"
"While I am about it I want to make a proper provision; I want to arrange for an income of, say, four or five hundred. For them to get as much as that, from a safe investment, the premium would be pretty stiff. A year's premium would come to—well, I reckon it three hundred and twenty pounds. Now, my idea was"
"Was—what?" asked the solicitor, blandly.
George was nervous. His gaze wandered.
"My idea was, that you might be willing to advance the sum, with a view to doing me a turn, and making a bit at my death. I—I'm eager to make the proposal as attractive as I can. If you'll let me have three hundred and twenty, I'll fix up my Will at once and leave you a thousand. What do you say? I think it's fair."
Horace Orkney tapped his fingers together pensively.
"One likes to do a pal a turn, of course, but What company are you thinking of, anyhow? You seem to overlook the fact that in a case of suspected suicide"
"I've overlooked nothing—I've thought it all out, and I know exactly what I shall do. A cousin of my wife's has a cottage in Kent, on the Darenth. We've often stayed there. The lawn slopes to the river, and there's an Indian canoe. No more solitary place could exist. Now, I can easily contrive so that we get an invitation to go down for a week. One evening after working hard all day, I shall say that I'm going out for a breath of fresh air; I shall ask what time they're going to have supper, and set my watch by their clock, so that I 'mayn't be late.' I shall ask my wife to remind me of something I have to do in the morning, and skip through the window in the highest spirits. Well, the canoe upsets. Everybody knows I could never learn to swim."
"But your intentions may change, my friend! And if they do, where are my three hundred and twenty pounds? In the natural course of things, you may live for thirty or forty years."
"I thought," said Collier, "of waiting till the spring; but if you don't think it'd look suspicious, the accident can occur next month. There's not much risk of my intentions changing in a month!"
There was silence.
"I'll turn it over in my mind," said Orkney, at last. "Now you must let me send you away; I'm busy."
Having turned it over in his mind, he agreed. He provided George Collier with the sum of three hundred and twenty pounds to take out a policy, and George made a Will by which Horace Orkney was bequeathed one thousand. The rest was left to Eva, who, to give her her due, was an affectionate mother.
The humorist was now comparatively content. It was already November, and he was to die in April. He had had hopes that Orkney would pronounce it safe for him to take the step earlier, but on reflection Orkney had said that the spring would be best, after all.
It was a disappointment, but George was too grateful to complain of a crumpled rose-leaf. He had borne the slings and arrows so hopelessly that he told himself he would be a rotter to kick at five more months; he was not unreasonable. And, as the weeks wore away, his satisfaction increased. He was a weary man looking forward to a perpetual holiday.
There was a serious epidemic of influenza in London that year. Everybody who could afford to do so was flying to the watering-places, or the Continent; and among those who remained in town and were laid low, was Mrs. Collier. This was at Christmas.
The doctor did not, at the beginning, regard her case gravely. But she got worse, in spite of his optimism, and after a fortnight in bed she died.
George was inexpressibly shocked. Though he had long since outlived his illusions about her, she had been his wife, his daily companion. To realise that she was gone dismayed him. He remembered the girl, and shed tears at the grave of the woman. Not analysing, not drawing the distinction, but just grieving honestly.
After she was buried, as he sat in the quiet parlour, smoking at night, it occurred to him that as the child would now be doubly an orphan, he must arrange where she was to live when April came. In the circumstances she would be an heiress, and he wanted her to be suitably brought up. Fortunately, he had a maiden sister who could be depended on to carry out his wishes in this respect. He nodded thankfully, reflecting how much troubled he would have been for Chick's future otherwise.
And January came to an end, and February began. And February waned; and it was March.
George was surprised to note how rapidly time had passed since the funeral. He put "March 1st" at the top of a letter very slowly, and sat looking at it with startled eyes. A month more, and the consummation would be reached. Poor little Chick, he would have to leave her!
Oddly, now that the end of it all was so near, he felt less eager than he had done. He had been conscious of late, of a certain enjoyment in life—a new enjoyment. The quiet parlour, with his pipe, and a novel, had been pleasant. He had gone up to his room at night without a groan, and seated himself at his desk in the morning with an unfamiliar zest. Only a month! Well, let him make the most of it!
But that was easier to say than to do. Death no longer figured in his thoughts as a perpetual holiday; now that he was a widower, it figured as a skeleton, and thrust itself into the cosiest hours. Perhaps Chick was on his knee and he was stroking her hair—and the skeleton clanked. Perhaps he was writing, in the small hours, interested in his work—and the skeleton mocked him. What was the good of Chick's love, when he had to leave her directly? What was the good of revising a chapter, when he would be bones before the book was done?
He shuddered. It was no use blinking the truth; the fact was, the conditions had altered. He would have been a cheerful man to-day, for all his pecuniary worries, if he had been allowed; and the worries themselves looked less formidable, somehow. Eva had made the worst of everything, and—Heaven forgive him!—had always been a muddler. It was amazing what a difference her removal made. He was satisfied with life now, and—he knew he did not want to die.
At last he determined to go to Orkney and beg to be released. It was an odious task, but the alternative was more obnoxious still; and he went.
Orkney looked at him in blank disapproval when he had stammered to a conclusion.
"This is very unbusiness-like," he said, "very unbusiness-like indeed You put me in a most awkward position, Collier. I don't want to see you die, of course—I—I hope I have a heart—but an agreement is an agreement, and I have pressing need for a thousand pounds. As it happens, I've got a bill"
"You see," said George, helplessly, "there's the child! I don't like to leave her alone in the world."
"I thought you told me, at the time of your wife's death, that she could go to an aunt in Dorking?"
"Yes; I did. But Well, I'm very fond of her. The parting is devilish hard."
"I don't see why it should be any harder this morning than when you came here and made your proposal. I did a friendly thing for you, and I must say this isn't at all fair treatment. It wasn't an agreement that I could enforce, you know—I relied on your honour. And now you put me off with empty excuses."
"Don't say that," faltered George. "To tell you the honest truth—I don't know how it is—since I lost my wife I—I'm not so depressed. I feel lighter, and there's a different aspect to things. I can't explain it."
"No!" said Orkney, firmly, "I won't hear it. I won't have the blame laid at the door of that poor little woman. This is cowardly, Collier. Be a man and say that you've changed your mind and are trying to back out."
"Very well, then," replied George, "I've changed my mind. I want to live, and to pay you the thousand pounds as soon as I can get it together."
The solicitor smiled finely.
"It was a very fair rate of interest for the time agreed upon. But for a period of years Anyhow, we needn't discuss the point! So far as I understand your position, there would be very little prospect of your repaying even the principal."
"In other words, you won't consent?"
"I regret," said Orkney, "I regret very much that you should have put such a suggestion forward, because I am unable to consent to it, and it's a peculiarly painful one to refuse. I don't think it was delicate of you. Collier; it wasn't good taste."
"‘Good taste' be damned!" said George hotly. "Finally, you insist on your pound of flesh?"
"Finally," returned Orkney, rising, "I repeat that if you're a man of honour, there's only one thing for you to do."
He touched the bell, and George slunk out into the street.
It was April already; he had either to break his undertaking, or to fulfil it without delay. Instinctively he saw the literary value of the situation. But the humorist felt no desire to treat it humorously. He found himself, on the contrary, perpending it as an experiment in realism.
To the devil with literature! He must die or tell Orkney that he was going to sell him! Which should it be? One course was ghastly, and the other was disgraceful.
He vacillated hourly for a fortnight. And Orkney, meanwhile, seemed ubiquitous. George could not take a walk without meeting him; and Orkney always stopped and spoke, and asked him very coldly how he was.
George used to struggle for composure, but not with success. Then the solicitor would elevate his eyebrows and sigh significantly; and Collier went his way, feeling despicable and ashamed.
"The Pound of Flesh," "To Be or Not to Be,"—what a lot of titles suggested themselves for the story that might be written! The thought of it obsessed him; and one evening he actually began it. The impulse was foolish, but the occupation was fascinating, and he wrote with unaccustomed ease. He treated the subject in a serious narrative.
At one o'clock he came to a point where he had to determine what the end was going to be. How was it to end? He rose and paced the room, refilling his pipe. He could not light it—it was blocked. He wasted five minutes on it, fuming. If he didn't smoke, he couldn't think.
Formerly he had annexed his wife's hairpins in such emergencies; and, as a last resource, it occurred to him that, if he searched in the wardrobe where her belongings had been put away, he might find some hairpins.
The key was on his own key-chain, and he went upstairs. The dead woman's trifles had been laid on the shelves. He saw her work-basket, and her dressing-case, and the set of brushes, with "E" on the backs in silver, that he had given her on her last birthday. There was a hat that she had been trimming when she was taken ill, with the needle still sticking in it.
He paused. Momentarily, what he was doing seemed sacrilege. Then he opened the dressing-case and lifted the tray.
There were hairpins scattered at the bottom. There was also a bundle of letters, tied with ribbon, and directed in a handwriting that looked familiar. George stared at it. Was he making a mistake, or What on earth had the correspondence been about? He turned white, and pulled the ribbon off.
The dates that the letters bore were of the last two years. There was nothing criminal in them; but they were a man's confidential communications to a woman he loved. They spoke of the writer's "sympathy," of his regret that he could do nothing to "alleviate the dreariness of her life." There were frequent allusions to what "might have been." And they began, "Dearest Mrs. Collier," and were signed, "Yours with devotion, Horace Orkney."
George stumbled out of the bedroom and returned to the parlour; he sank into his chair there, with knitted brows, pondering. After a while he picked up his pen again; but he did not continue the story. He wrote:
"Dear Sir,—I restore to you herewith certain letters of yours, for which I have no use. I perceive that the late Mrs. Collier's untimely decease frustrated your hope of marrying a widow whose natural attractions would have been enhanced by the possession of nine thousand pounds, and I tender you my condolence. The bequest in my Will will stand. But, as you once pointed out, I may, in the ordinary course of things, live for forty years longer. Believe me I have every intention of doing so if I can."
And he did, and became a very successful man.