Indiscretion
I wonder how many people’s lives are ruined by a moment’s indiscretion. The wrong word at the wrong time—and then finish to all their dreams. They have to go on living with their tongues bitten a second too late. No use calling back the spoken word. What is said is said.
I know three people who have been made to suffer because of a chance sentence flung into the air. One of them was myself. I lost my job through it. The other fellow lost his ideals; and the woman … well, I guess she did not have much left to lose, anyway. Maybe she lost her one chance of security. I have not seen either of them since. The curt typewritten letter came from him a week later. I packed up then and cleared away from London, leaving the shreds of my career in the wastepaper basket. In less than three months I read an announcement in a weekly rag that he was claiming a divorce. The whole thing was so needless, too. A word from me—and a word from her. And all through that sordid little street that runs between Shaftesbury Avenue and Leicester Square.
We stood at the door of the office, he and I. It was cold, it was December. I had a cold in the head, and I did not want to think about Christmas. He came out of his private office and gave me a genial clap on the shoulder.
“You’re no advertisement for the time of the year,” he said, “come out and have a bite of lunch.”
I thanked him. It is not every day, or every Christmas for that matter, that one’s chief broadcasts his invitations. We went to his favourite restaurant in the Strand. I felt better once I had a plateful of beef before me, but even so his own exuberance irritated me, his easy laugh, his familiarity with the waiter. He had the audacity to place a sprig of holly in his buttonhole.
“Look here, Chief,” I said. “What’s the big idea? Are you going to play Santa Claus at a kids’ party?”
He laughed loudly, a spot of gravy at the corner of his mouth.
“No,” he said, “I’m going to be married.” I made the usual retort.
“I’m not joking,” he went on. “I’m telling you the truth. They all know at the office. Told ’em before I left this morning, Kept it secret up till now because I didn’t want a scene. Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”
I watched his smug, self-satisfied expression.
“Hell!” I said. “You don’t know what I think about women.”
He laughed again. His mood was ridiculous.
“This is different,” he told me, “this is the real thing. I’ve found her at last—the only girl. You know, I’m fond of you, my dear fellow, I’m glad you came along to lunch.”
I made some sort of noise of sympathy.
“It’s all very sudden, of course,” he said, “but I believe in that. I like everything cut and dried. None of your hanging about. We’re going to Paris this evening, while this afternoon there will be a short ceremony at a registry office.” He pulled out his watch. “In exactly an hour’s time,” he said, “I shall be a married man.”
“Where’s your bride?” I asked.
“Packing,” he smiled foolishly. “I only decided this trip yesterday evening. You’ll have a tremendous amount of work at the office, I’m afraid, before the Christmas rush.”
He leant forward, patronising, confidential. “I have a great deal of faith in you,” he said, “I’ve watched you these last few months. You’re going to do big things. I don’t mind saying …” he lowered his voice as though people listened and cared … “I don’t mind saying I shall depend on you in the future to work like blazes. You’d like a rise, wouldn’t you? Might think of getting married yourself?”
I saw his friendly beam without emotion, and remembered with cynicism a proverb about “a little something makes
