Charles Snow - George Passant

I was certain that the ‘sharp practice’ had nothing to do with the suspicions: I did not follow it up. We were both silent for a moment: Jack pulled out a case and offered me a cigarette. I thought I recognised the case, and Jack said, with his first smile since I tried to question him: ‘Yes. It’s the famous present.’ His smile stayed as he ran a finger along the initials. ‘I like having something permanent to remind me exactly who I am. It gives me a sort of solidity that I’ve always lacked.’

We both laughed. Then Jack said quietly: ‘I simply cannot understand what these people expect to find. It’s simply unreasonable for them to think they might pull out a piece of dishonesty. Why, if there’d been anything of the kind, I could have covered it up ten times over. If I’d had to meet every penny a month ago, I could have covered it completely. I happened to have an extra offer of money to tide me over any difficulty just about that time.’

‘Who from?’

‘Arthur Morcom.’

I exclaimed.

‘Why ever not? Oh, you were thinking of his keeping away because of Olive. I don’t see why he should.’ He hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘he made the same offer this afternoon.’

‘It’s not useful now,’ I said.

‘It might be extremely useful,’ said Jack. Then he took back the words, and said: ‘Of course you’re right. I can’t use money until they give up these inquiries.’ He broke off: ‘You know’ — he showed, instead of the fear and resentment I had seen so often in his face that night, a frank, surprised and completely candid look — ‘these inquiries seem fantastic. They ask me about something I’ve said years ago — what I told people about the profits of the agency and so on. I just can’t believe that what I said then might ruin everything now. Even if I’d done the dishonest things they believe I’ve done — which I’ve not — I’m certain that I still couldn’t believe it. All those actions of mine they ask about — they’re so remote.’

Yes, that was honest. On a different occasion, I had been through the same myself.

When I left, I walked straight to Morcom’s. It was after one o’clock, but I had to speak to him that night. As it happened, he was still up. From the first word, his manner was constrained. He asked me to have a drink without any welcome or smile. I said straight away: ‘I’ve just come from Jack’s. He tells me that you offered him money this afternoon.’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t you see it might be dangerous?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If Jack skips now, they’ll take George for certain. For him, it’s inevitable disaster. If you make it possible for Jack to go — and, well, it’s crossed his mind. He’s no hero.’

‘That is true,’ said Morcom, still in a cold, disinterested tone.

‘I had to warn you tonight,’ I said.

‘Yes.’

After a silence, I said: ‘I’m not too happy about them.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Morcom. ‘I told you this was likely to happen. I thought you wouldn’t be able to stop it. I might as well say, though, that I rather resent you considered it necessary to tell people that I was paralysed with worry. I dislike being made to look like a nervous busybody. Even when it turns out to be justified.’

‘I said nothing.’

‘Jack said that he heard I was very worried. I mentioned it to no one but you.’

Casting back in my mind, I was beginning to reassure myself: then, suddenly I remembered asking Roy to send word at any sign of trouble — because of Morcom’s anxiety.

Morcom said: ‘You know?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I mentioned it to Roy Calvert. It was my last chance of getting the whole truth. I made it clear—’

‘I told you in confidence,’ said Morcom.

I took refuge in being angry with Roy. I knew that he was subtle and astute about human feelings — yet he had been so clumsily indiscreet. But I ought to have known that he, like many others, was in fact, subtle, astute — and indiscreet. The same sensitiveness which made him subtle, which gave him antennae to reach another’s feelings, also caused this outburst of indiscretion. For it was from the desire to please in another’s company, Jack’s or George’s, that he produced the news of Morcom’s concern — from the same desire to share an emotion with another which is the root of all the deepest subtlety, the subtlety, which, whatever it is used for ultimately, arises from a spontaneous realisation and knowledge of another.

Just as, ironically, Morcom himself had once broken into a graver indiscretion in Eden’s drawing-room.

It is one of the myths of character that subtlety and astuteness and discretion go hand in hand by nature — without bleak experience and the caution of age, which takes the edge both from one’s sensitiveness and the blunders one used to make. The truth is, if one is impelled to share people’s hearts, the person to whom one is speaking, must seem, must be, more vivid for the moment than anyone in the world. And so, even if he is irrelevant to one’s serious purpose, if indeed he is the enemy against whom one is working, one still has the temptation to be in a moment’s conspiracy with him, for his happiness and one’s own against the rest. It is a temptation which would have seemed, even if he troubled to understand it, a frivolous instability to George Passant. But, for many, it is a cause of the petty treasons to which they cannot look back without shame.

Morcom was speaking with a restrained distress. Some of it I should have expected, whatever the circumstances, if he heard that he was being discussed in a way he felt ‘undignified’. But tonight that was only the excuse for his anger. He was suffering as obviously as George. His cold manner was held by an effort of self-control; he was trying to shelve the anxiety in a justified outburst. Yet his anxiety was physically patent. With a mannerism that I had never seen him use before, he kept stroking his forehead as though the skin were tight.

We talked over the inquiries. Information must have been laid, I said, a week or two ago. I went on: ‘Jack told me that he could easily have raised money just before that time. If there had been any call. He said you made your first offer then — is that true, by the way?’

‘I ought to have done it in the summer,’ said Morcom. ‘I suppose it came too late. But I couldn’t resist doing it at last. I’ve always had a soft spot for Cotery, you know.’

That was true: it had been true in the days of his bitterest jealousy. It was true now. He was filled with remorse for not having tried to help them until too late.

In a moment he asked me: ‘What are the chances in this case?’

‘It’s impossible to say. We don’t even know they’ve got enough to prosecute on.’

‘What’s your opinion?’

I paused: ‘I think they’ll prosecute.’

‘And then?’

‘Again I don’t know.’

‘I’d like to have your view.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you remember it’s worth very little at this stage — I think the chances are against us.’

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I can’t do anything in the open. I’ve got to tell you that again. I insist that nothing I’ve said shall be repeated to anyone else. For any reason whatever. That’s got to be respected.’

‘Yes.’

‘But if I can help in private—’ he said. ‘You’ve got to ask. Whatever it is. Remember, whatever it is. You aren’t to be prevented by any sort of delicacy about dragging up my past.’

He had spoken very fast. I answered: ‘I shall ask. If there’s any possible thing you can do.’

‘Good.’

‘There may be — practical things. We shall probably want money.’