Payment Deferred

came and sat down quietly in the deserted dining-room. She was very tired, and she was very worried. Of course, she believed dear Will when he said he had made all that money, but still⁠—he might have made a mistake somewhere, and it might not be as he thought. She felt very frightened about his obvious determination to leave the Bank. Not for all the wealth Will said he had made would she admit to herself that the main cause of her worry was the haunting suspicion that perhaps Will had made this money illegally. He might be taken away and put in prison. That would be terrible, but, of course, she would always love him and be true to him. Indeed, Mrs. Marble, thinking in muddled fashion but doggedly as was her wont, decided that something like this must have happened. He had not really done anything wicked of course, but there would be suspicions against him, and all the evidence would point that way, and so on. His recent anxiety, which even Mrs. Marble had guessed at, and his mutterings at night as he lay at her side all seemed to prove the same thing. Poor boy, he must be very worried. And the thought of him sitting there all alone in the half-dark drawing-room moved her to vast pity. All her queer love for him rose in her breast and she felt her eyes growing moist. She loved him very, very dearly. It was because of this anxiety of his that he had not been as tender towards her as he had once been. But that would end now, now that he knew that she was on his side and shared his trouble. There was nothing in the world so dear to Mrs. Marble as the kisses of that little, shabby man with the reddish moustache, who bore the fires of hell eternally in his bosom. With her love welling up in her breast until it began even to oppress her, so that she had to rest her hand over her heart, Mrs. Marble came to the crossroads of her life⁠—and did not even know that she had reached them. Without further thought she went out of the room, and quietly across into the other, bearing love and hope to her darling husband.

He was sitting in the position that had become habitual, in the uncomfortable late Victorian armchair, facing the window and about two yards from it. His position indicated an awkward compromise between tension and relaxation. On the chair beside him stood his whisky and his glass, and on his lap lay his book, as if he had interrupted his reading for a moment to follow some train of thought which had just occurred to him. But for the last hour nearly, it had been too dark to read. Mr. Marble was half drunk, and his mind was working out possibilities of unimaginable horror, as he gazed out into the nearly dark garden which held his secret.

“Dear,” began Mrs. Marble, and then, as he did not answer: “Are you awake, dear?”

She came nearer to him, walking like a grey ghost in the semidarkness, and touched him lightly on the shoulder. Mr. Marble sprang into instant activity. He writhed in his chair, and the whisky decanter went over with a crash, sending its scant contents gurgling out on to the carpet.

“What⁠—what⁠—” he spluttered. After all, a man can be ready for all emergencies only for a limited time, and Mr. Marble had relaxed for once. Then he saw that it was only his wife. “Oh, it’s you, you fool,” he snarled, ashamed of his absurd fear⁠—he would not admit to himself what he had been afraid of⁠—and angry with her, with himself, and with everything else.

“Oh Will, I’m so sorry,” said Mrs. Marble, stooping to pick up the decanter, her slippers sopping with whisky.

A bare half-inch remained in the decanter⁠—mere mockery. Mr. Marble peered at it, and swore. It was an ugly word he used, and Mrs. Marble drew her breath in sharply. But she still tried to make the peace.

“Never mind, Willie boy,” she said, “I couldn’t help it. You can get some more in the morning. Never mind, dear.”

They were the little pathetic words she used to use when John was a little boy, very near to her heart, and something had upset him. To Mrs. Marble’s mind the loss of his whisky must affect Mr. Marble in the same way as did a broken toy affect Baby John.

“Never mind, dear,” said Mrs. Marble, and she put out her hand to his forehead, just as she used to do.

But Mr. Marble only pushed her away pettishly, and growled out the ugly word he had used before. It was that that upset Mrs. Marble. She was used to his fits of temper⁠—she would not have loved him so dearly had he not had them, baby like⁠—but he had never sworn at her, never before. Still she made another effort, trying to get past his outstretched arm to touch his forehead and ruffle back the sparse hair in the way she loved doing.

“That wasn’t what I wanted to speak about, dear,” she said. “I wanted⁠—”

“I hope to God it wasn’t,” sneered Marble. “You would be a bigger fool than even I thought you were if you came in here just to upset my whisky.”

“Oh, Willie, Willie,” sobbed Mrs. Marble. She was crying now.

“Oh, Willie, Willie,” mocked Mr. Marble, his nerves fretted red raw.

“No, Willie, do listen. I wanted to tell you that I know about it, after all, and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter a bit, dear. It won’t alter me at all.”

She was able to say this long speech⁠—long for her, that is⁠—only through the inability of her husband to say or do anything. He had gripped the arms of the chair and was staring at her in terror. Then at last he spoke, or rather croaked. His throat was dry and his heart was