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she had something particular to say to him, usually annoying, she seldom
arrived on the scene until a few minutes before he was timed to depart
for his office.
She did not like early rising, but she did like to say to her friends,
“I think, my dear, it is a wife’s duty to give her husband her society
at breakfast.” She considered it marked her as a devoted spouse who was
willing to sacrifice her comfort for her husband’s pleasure. She
certainly did sacrifice her comfort, but whether Tydvil found pleasure
in it is open to argument.
The maid who attended to his simple wants found the master unusually
unresponsive. He was as much loved by his household staff as Amy was
disliked—which says volumes for his popularity. Tydvil had slept
badly, and was still simmering from a domestic argument of the previous
night.
There was, among others, an institution known as the Moral Uplift
Society, of which Amy was president. Its aim was to assist unfortunate
girls, who had run off the rails, back to the tracks of righteousness.
Jones had, on several occasions, contributed lavishly to its upkeep. A
quiet investigation, however, had suggested to him, that though its
expenditure was real, the results accruing from its efforts were
doubtful.
His insistence on being given some concrete evidence of its usefulness
was met with replies so vague, and so conflicting, that he arrived at
the conclusion that its secretary was a son of Ananias, and several of
the helpers were daughters of Sapphira. Moreover, his requests for a
balance sheet had been fruitless, though he admired the skill with which
his curiosity on the subject was baffled.
For several days Amy had been angling for a cheque for one thousand
pounds for the Moral Uplift Society. Usually he submitted to her
exactions patiently. This time, however, she met with a flat refusal
until he had seen a balance sheet prepared by his own auditor.
Amy was annoyed, but had no misgivings as to the outcome of Tydvil’s
extraordinary stubbornness. On the previous evening she had given up an
engagement to devote herself seriously to the matter. From eight o’clock
until ten-thirty, when he fled to his room, still recalcitrant, and
locked himself in—and her out—she had wrought with him faithfully.
He had remained silent, sullen and unyielding under the ordeal by
tongue.
All this may explain, if it does not excuse, the outburst of Tydvil
Jones as his eyes ran over the columns of the newspaper the maid had
placed beside his plate. Suddenly he sat erect. He dropped his half
lifted cup back into the saucer with a clash of china and jingle of
silver that shattered the dignified silence of the room.
In both hands he grabbed the paper, and glared at it with incredulous
eyes. It was no wonder he doubted their accuracy, for he read, under
triple and flattering headlines, the following paragraph: “Members and
friends of the Moral Uplift Society passed a hearty vote of thanks to
Mr. Tydvil Jones, the well known philanthropist, at their monthly
meeting yesterday afternoon. Mrs. Tydvil Jones, the president of the
Society, read a letter from her husband in which he offered a donation
of one thousand pounds to be used for any purpose the committee may
direct. This is the third cheque for a similar amount which Mr. Jones
has contributed to the funds of the society.”
“That well known philanthropist, Mr. Tydvil Jones,” read that paragraph
three times before its enormity filtered thoroughly into his system. The
third time, he read it standing up. The startled maid regarded her
employer with wide-eyed concern. She thought he was choking, so suffused
had his face become. Then the long suppressed volcanic eruption took
place. Tydvil hurled the newspaper to the floor and ground it tinder his
heel. This was bad enough, but his language…“It’s an outrage!” he
shouted. “A damned outrage and a damned conspiracy! Not a penny! Not one
damned penny!”
Fate decreed that, at that moment Amy entered the room and both saw and
heard her husband’s demonstration. It was only when his wife had
advanced towards the table that he was aware of her presence. Not that
that made any difference, Tydvil was beyond caring two hoots for Amy or
anyone else.
Scenting battle, the wide-eyed maid fled—but not out of earshot. Amy
advanced, showing no sign of emotion, and, stooping down, drew the
newspaper from under her husband’s foot. Deliberately she smoothed out
the creases of the torn page, and quietly placed it on the table. Then,
as quietly, she walked round the table and took her seat. She leaned
back in her chair with her cold eyes fixed on his flushed face. There
was a long thirty seconds’ silence.
Then Amy spoke calmly, “I am waiting, Tydvil.”
“For what?” he snapped.
“For your apology.” Her eyes never left his for a moment.
“Then you’ll wait a dashed long time!” He had leaned towards her with
both hands resting on the edge of the table, and his out-thrust chin
gave him an unusually bellicose air.
The lines about Amy’s mouth hardened. Her lips compressed to a straight
pink line, and there was cold fury in her grey eyes. Very few of her
friends would have recognised “Dear Amy” at that moment.
“I think, Tydvil, dear,” she said evenly, though the white knuckles
clenched on the arm of her chair showed what it cost to control her
voice—“I think, Tydvil, dear, that you have been overworking yourself.
I will ask Dr. Morris to call this evening. Perhaps a holiday will be
necessary.
“Morris, be hanged!” he snorted.
Amy raised her brows slightly. “Perhaps, my dear Tydvil,” she knew of
old how the reiterated “Dear Tydvil” grated, “you will explain the cause
of your irritation. Your conduct may be, indeed is, unpardonable.” She
waved a hand slightly and went on, “I am quite unused, as you know, to
hearing such language. Neither am I used to being sworn at before my
servants.”
The statements were unassailable facts. Usually she would have
side-tracked Tydvil into a defence that he had not sworn at her. But he
was too full of wrath to be distracted by minor issues. He snatched up
the crumpled paper and, in a voice that she scarcely recognised, he read
that outrageous paragraph aloud. “What’s the meaning of that infernal
falsehood?” he demanded. “You know I have refused to subscribe to that
den of racketeers. Eh? Eh?”
There was a nasty little smile on the corners of Amy’s lips as she
answered.
“The paragraph is quite in order, my dear Tydvil. It states what
actually took place at our meeting yesterday.” She paused, and the smile
deepened. “Indeed, I handed the paragraph into the newspaper offices
myself.”
“Meeting—yesterday—afternoon!” He gasped his surprise with each word.
“You told me you knew I particularly wished to be present. You told me
yourself it was—postponed.” Amazement struggled with his wrath.
Amy nodded slightly, quite unabashed. “I am quite aware of that, as I
was aware that you intended to make a very disagreeable fuss over a
quite unnecessary balance sheet. I most strongly object to your
interference in matters in any of my societies that do not concern you.”
Staring at her, open mouthed, Tydvil sank slowly back into his chair.
“But the letter!” he gasped, “the letter…”
“I saw to that, too.” She spoke as though humouring a petulant child.
Jones turned the revelation over in his mind. “Do you mean to tell me
you wrote that letter yourself?” he said at last.
She nodded. “I typed it myself, and read it to the meeting. It was not
signed, and no one saw it but myself.”
“And,” his voice shook with his rising wrath again, “you expect me to
hand over that cheque!”
She nodded emphatically. “I most certainly do.”
“Then let me tell you this,” he shouted, thumping the table while
everything on it jangled to his blows, “I’ll see you to Jericho before I
give you a farthing; and you can explain why as you dashed well please.”
“After the publicity the matter has been given, you will find it rather
awkward to say that you have changed your mind.” Amy smiled her
derision.
Jones pressed his finger furiously on the bell button. The maid arrived
with a rapidity that would have excited suspicion had either combatant
been in a mood to notice trifles.
He turned to her. “Tell Carter to bring round the single-seater,” he
said abruptly. “Tell him I wish him to drive me to the office.” The girl
vanished on the word.
Meanwhile, the tension between the two increased. Up till now, Tydvil’s
actions, to use diplomatic phraseology, had been merely unfriendly. The
ordering of the car had been a declaration of war. Like some other good
people, Amy’s self-denial extended only to others. She had laid it down
that the exercise of the walk along St. Kilda road to the city was
necessary for his health. Moreover, it set the staff an example of
unostentation. Now, his ordering of the car was flat and flagrant
rebellion.
When the maid disappeared, Amy said acidly, “I think, Tydvil dear, we
have already settled the question of your using a car to take you to the
office.”
“Well, I’m unsettling it,” he snorted. He picked up the paper and,
turning a most aggressive back on his wife, he pretended to read.
Five minutes passed in strained silence. The maid returned. “The car is
waiting, sir.”
Before Jones could move, his wife said quickly, “Oh, Kate! Mr. Jones has
changed his mind. Tell Carter to take the car back.”
This was one of Amy’s choicest methods of management. She relied for its
success on Tydvil’s horror of scenes, even in private, and felt certain
he would shrink from a brawl before the maid. But, for, once, she had
misjudged the extent of the revolt.
Jones sprang to his feet, and arrested the maid as she moved, with a
barked “Wait!” The girl stopped. “If you convey that message, both you
and Carter will be summarily dismissed. Bring me my hat and coat.”
The girl hesitated, and looked at her mistress for guidance. She was
between a horde of devils and a very deep sea. “Do you hear me!”
thundered the voice of the master, and never before had she heard it
with such a ring of fury. Suddenly she recognised that she was a
spectator to a revolution. When, a minute later, she returned, Amy was
sobbing, with her face in her plate.
“Oh, Tydvil! To think you would insult me before the maids!”
“I haven’t begun insulting you yet!” he growled truculently. “Just wait
a bit!” and he left without even glancing at her again.
That he reached his office by car instead of using his legs, added one
more link to the chain of circumstances. He arrived just twenty minutes
before the time his staff had learned to expect him, and saw certain
things that were as unexpected as he was.
Beside the door of Tydvil Jones’s private office at the warehouse, was a
railed enclosure containing a large writing table. This was presided
over by Miss Geraldine Brand, who was a young woman of no small
importance in C. B. & D. She was not only guardian of the door, but was
Tydvil’s private secretary and his link with the departmental heads.
The self-possessed and entirely adequate Geraldine knew as much of
Jones’s affairs as did his banker or his solicitor. Heads of departments
paused at her desk and treated her as
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