He was looking at her with a curious something which the woman could not quite understand in his eyes. She had seen that look somewhere, and in spite of herself she shivered. The anger died away in fear.
“I wanted you to postpone this wedding,” he went on softly. “I had an especial reason, a reason I will not give you, but which will interest you in a few months’ time. But you were fearful of losing your rich son-in-law. I didn’t realise then that that was your fear. I have satisfied myself—it really doesn’t matter how,” he said steadily, “that you are more responsible than I for this good match.”
He was a changed man. Mrs. Cathcart in her gusty rage could recognise this: there was a new soul, a new spirit, a new determination, and—that was it!—a new and terrible ferocity which shone from his eyes and for the moment hardened his face till it was almost terrible to look upon.
“Your daughter married me under a misapprehension. She told you all that I had to tell—almost all,” he corrected himself, “and I anticipated this visit. Had you not come I should have sent for you. Your daughter is as free as the air as far as I am concerned. I suppose your worldliness extends to a knowledge of the law? She can sue for a divorce tomorrow, and attain it without any difficulty and with little publicity.”
A gleam of hope came to the woman’s face.
“I never thought of that,” she said half to herself. She turned quickly to her daughter, for she was a woman of action. “Get your things and come with me.”
Edith did not stir. She stood the other side of the table, half facing her husband and wholly facing her mother.
“You hear what Mr. Standerton says,” said Mrs. Cathcart irritably. “He has opened a way of escape to you. What he says is true. A divorce can be obtained with no difficulty. Come with me. I will send for your clothes.”
Edith still did not move.
Mrs. Cathcart, watching her, saw her features soften one by one, saw the lips part in a smile and the head fall back as peal after peal of clear laughter rang through the room.
“Oh, mother!” The infinite contempt of the voice struck the woman like the lash of a whip. “You don’t know me! Go back with you? Divorce him? You’re mad! If he had been a rich man indeed I might; but for the time being, though I do not love him, and though I should not blame him and do not blame him if he does not love me, my lot is cast with his, my place is here.”
“Melodrama!” said the elder woman angrily.
“There’s a lot of truth and no end of decency in melodrama, Mrs. Cathcart,” said Gilbert.
His mother-in-law stood livid with rage, then turning, flung out of the room, and they heard the front door slam behind her.
They looked at each other, this strangely-married pair, for the space of a few seconds, and then Gilbert held out his hand.
“Thank you,” he said.
The girl dropped her eyes.
“You have nothing to thank me for,” she said listlessly. “I have done you too much wrong for one little act to wipe out all the effects of my selfishness.”
VI
The Safe Agency
The City of London is filled, as all the world knows, with flourishing and well-established businesses.
It abounds in concerns which proclaim, either with dignity or flamboyantly, the fact that this shop stood where it did a hundred years ago, and is still being carried on by the legitimate descendants of its founders.
There are companies and syndicates and trading associations, housed in ornate and elaborate buildings, suites of offices, which come into existence in the spring and fade away to nothingness in the winter, leaving a residue of unpaid petty accounts, and a landlord who has only this satisfaction—that he was paid his rent in advance.
The tragedies of the City of London lay in a large sense round the ugly and unpretentious buildings of the Stock Exchange, and may be found in the seedy sprinkling of people who perambulate the streets round and round that grimy building like so many disembodied spirits.
But the tragic gambler is not peculiar to the metropolis, and the fortunes made and lost in a day or in an hour has its counterpart in every city in the world where stock transactions are conducted.
The picturesque sorrows of the city are represented in the popular mind with the human wreckage which strews the Embankment after dark, or goes shuffling along the edges of the pavement with downcast eyes seeking for discarded cigar ends. That is sorrowful enough, though the unhappy objects of our pity are considerably more satisfied with their lot than most people would imagine.
The real tragedy and sorrow is to be found in the hundred and one little businesses which come into existence joyfully, and swallow up the savings of years of some two or three optimistic individuals. The flourishing note heads which are issued from brand new offices redolent of paint and fresh varnish, the virgin books imposingly displayed upon new shelves, the mass of correspondence which goes daily forth, the booklets and the leaflets, the explanatory tables and all the paraphernalia of the inexperienced advertiser, and the trickle of replies which come back—they are all part of the sad game.
Some firms endeavour to establish themselves with violence, with a flourish of their largest trumpets. Some drift into business noiselessly, and in some mysterious way make good. Generally, one may suppose, they came with the invaluable asset of a “connection,” shifting up from the suburbs to a more impressive address.
One of the businesses which came into existence in London in the year 1924 was a firm which was defined
