St. Augustine's Ladder

by Owen Oliver

ST. AUGUSTINE'S LADDER

By OWEN OLIVER

ONE spring afternoon Mr. Felix left his office at three to visit the Temple Flower Show. He had only two hobbies in his placid existence. The minor hobby was flowers. The major hobby, of course, was money. He called it "business," and perhaps he was right, for he did not spend a deal of the money when he had gained it.

His business was that of a "financial agent," the more reputable class of money-lender. The loans were mostly mortgages well secured upon real property, and temporary advances to assist in winding up estates, or during the earlier stages of involved financial transactions of approved soundness. Upon occasions, however, he made advances to well-recommended clients upon their note of hand.

"Personal security," he sometimes told Stokes, his confidential clerk, "is sound security—if the person is!" He held, however, that the person usually wasn't. So he did not make this kind of advance frequently.

He did not think that young Dennis Montague was very "sound." Indeed, he thought it necessary to defend his action to Stokes. He explained that the young man was the nephew of Martin Montague, with whom he did much business; that Dennis's pleasantness had often facilitated the business while he was with his uncle; that he might possibly succeed to the concern some day; and that he only wanted twenty-five pounds to square up a betting loss. Anyhow, the old man lent him the money at a quite reasonable rate of interest.

"I regard it as chargeable to propaganda," he told Stokes, when he heard that the young man had been cut off with a shilling by his uncle, and was going abroad. "Proceedings? No, no! His uncle would pay up to stop them, and mentally charge it to me. We must write off the five-and-twenty—and Master Dennis. We shan't see him here any more."

But he came that afternoon about five o'clock, just when Stokes was preparing to close down and hurry home to his invalid wife and child. They were Stokes's two hobbies.

"Where's the old man, Stokes?" Dennis asked. "I came to kiss his hand before I hop it to Australia. I'm off in the Tartan to-morrow morning."

"Mr. Felix has gone to the Temple Flower Show," Stokes said. "He takes an interest in flowers that you wouldn't expect. I'm his hand for the moment, if you've come to put anything in it." Stokes grinned.

"You think that's a joke, eh?" Montague suggested. "I am a bit of a joker, Stokes; practical joker. Have a fag? Now take hold of your chair before I startle you out of your wits. I've come to square up. I'm not sure whether it's a joke or isn't. Let's see what you think. Old Ironsides"—he meant Martin Montague, Esq.—"sent for me this morning. He gave me my passage money, and a trifle to get along with, some time back, and he said that my account with him was closed—nice red lines across. But this morning he forked out two hundred pounds, and a lecture. He said that was worth about ten thousand pounds, if I used it properly."

"Paying up your debts, eh?" said Stokes. "It's twenty-seven pounds thirteen and fourpence with interest to date."

"Do you keep all the accounts in your head?" Montague inquired.

"No. I worked it out while you were in the waiting-room, on the off chance that you might be prepared to pay up."

"What an optimist you must be, Stokes! To fancy I'd pay! Well, the lecture wasn't about paying up debts. He said he spoke as representing my mother. He had been thinking out what she'd say to me if she were alive—a speculation I'd been rather avoiding. He keeps an old poetry book that was hers, it seems, by a chap named Longfellow. It appears there's a poem that she quoted to the old man, when he was a young rip, about some prosy old saint named Augustine. He says I narrowly escaped being misfitted with the name. He explained that the saintly gentleman invented a great stunt with a ladder. You made it out of your vices. I've got the material all right. The idea is to construct the rungs out of them. Tread 'em underfoot. Metaphorical, see? 'Men may rise on stepping-stones, Of their dead selves to better things.' Something like that it goes. The old man spluttered and grunted over it, so I can't swear to the exact words of the tosh; but I'm going to see if I can't go up a peg on that twenty-five pounds."

"Twenty-seven pounds thirteen and fourpence," Stokes corrected.

"I don't expect the old saint approved of interest," Montague demurred. "Have another fag? … They didn't in those days, you know—called it usury."

"It was a very reasonable rate of interest, under the circumstances," Stokes protested, with the credit of the firm at heart.

"Righto! I believe I'm going one better than a saint; but it shall be a twenty-seven pounds thirteen and fourpence rung. … I say, Stokes, my friend, I'm more likely to step higher off it if old Ironsides hears from your gov. that I came and squared up. Twig?"

"Ah!" said Stokes. "So that's why you're doing it."

He chuckled and rubbed his hands.

"I tell myself so, to spare my blushes," the scapegrace said; "but, as a matter of fact, I'm not sure that it is the reason. You see, the poor old mater would have jawed me into it if she'd been living. Good old sort, the mater. His making out that he was speaking for her was an artful stunt; rather did me in. I felt that she ought to have an innings. … No, I'm not exactly doing it for nunky to hear of, but, as I am doing it, I shouldn't mind if he heard. … You've got to work it, Stokes. I've feed you with the secret of the ladder trick, and that, according to nunky, is worth ten thousand at least. … Here you are. Twenty-five pound notes, five ten bobs—no, six. Get a few fags with the odd money, old son. It's a lawyer's fee."

"Thanks," said Stokes.

He took the money, made out a receipt, signed it for Frederick Felix and Co., pp. H. Stokes, wished Montague luck, and saw him to the door. Then he came back and sat in his chair and stared at the wall. Presently he rose, and went and told the typist and the office boy that they could go. Then he sat in his chair again, and stared at the wall again; unbuttoned his coat to stop the pressure of his shabby pocket-book, reminding him of the money in it.

"If only I had the key of the safe and could lock it up and leave it here," he kept thinking, "I shouldn't mind so much; but to have to carry it home; to have twenty-seven pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence on me, besides my own few shillings; six shillings and eightgence and four shillings and twopence—no, three shillings and threepence. Lunch was eightpence and the tram will be threepence—nine shillings and elevenpence. To have all that money on me, and to see the corners of the bills sticking out from behind the clock, and the doctor's account to come. … 'Generous diet,' he said, and 'she ought to go to a bracing place for a month. Look at her face' … Merciful Heaven, don't I look at it! Rosy little face when I married her, and now. … Slow starvation, old clothes with no warmth in them. That's what's the matter with her. … If I took her in an armful of things—told her I'd had a bonus—I'd see her clap her hands again! She'd never suspect anything, and with good luck he wouldn't. Montague goes off to-morrow, and the governor doesn't dream of his paying, any more than I did. It's in Treasury notes that could never be traced. If I squared up the bills and had a fair start, a step-off—up the ladder of dishonesty! It can't be done. I'd best go home, or Lou will be worrying."

He rose, reached for his overcoat, shook his head, and sat down again.

"I can't face those bills," he gasped, "with this money in my pocket, and her poor pale face! The notes in my pocket-book will scream at me. 'I can save your wife,' they will shout. 'Save your wife and your son … My son! … Make them into a thief's wife and a thief's son. … It can't be done. Fancy Lou's face if the police came after me! I wouldn't care if I hadn't to take the blessed cash home. Well, I must, and I mustn't touch it. I wouldn't touch it, of course. … Well, I'll go."

He rose and went over to the coat peg again, shook his head, and returned to his chair once more.

"It's an even chance that he'd never find out if I borrowed the money," he muttered, "and ten to one that he wouldn't for several years, anyhow. I'd get Lou well, and the boy would get well with her. I'd get a rise or two; pay it back; make out that it came when he was on his holiday. He wouldn't trouble to trace the cheque. It would only be borrowing for a time in an emergency. That's a blackguard argument. It wouldn't be borrowing. It would be stealing, I know. It mustn't be done. … But what I've got to face is that, if I go home with that money in my pocket, and see those bills, and Lou looking washed out, holding by things as she crawls about to get my tea—the child crying, perhaps—I should do it—I should do it. There's only one way to keep my hands off that money. I mustn't take it home. I'll take it to the governor. That ought to put me a step up the saint's ladder! What blessed gup those poet chaps write! Honesty is just 'gup,' a fake kept up by those who have, to frighten off those who haven't from taking their fair share … I'm talking gup now, and don't believe a word of it. I'm going to walk a man's ladder; rise a step by treading underfoot this temptation. … And—and suppose I leave behind my wife and child? They want things—want things!"

He sat down again in his overcoat, threw his hat on the desk, buried his face in his hands. He pictured himself self-righteously climbing a ladder, and his pale-faced wife and child, crying to him, holding out their arms. He had almost decided to borrow the money, and then there came a thought to him. "Lou" had her ladder to climb, too, was patiently climbing it all the time. She would have no hesitation in treading this temptation underfoot. She would starve or freeze rather than eat or wear anything bought with the money.

"What's the use of arguing, boy?" she would say. "It's stealing, and stealing is stealing."

That, he told himself, was really all that there was to be said. "It would be stealing, and I'm not a thief. I don't believe I could make myself do it when it came to the point," he said; "but I won't risk the temptation; won't go through the misery of it. I'd be awake all night arguing it over and over, especially if she had one of her coughing turns. I'll take the money to the old man and have done with it."

He buttoned up his coat and went out into the street, walking to Mr. Felix's flat to save two penny 'bus fares, which he could fairly charge to the office, and spend on acid drops for Lou. They eased her cough.

Out in the street he had to argue the matter over again. Every shop window thrust temptation before his eyes. "Fine fruity invalid port." "The 'Doctor' underwear for ladies. Saves more lives than physic." "Fowls ready for the table, from seven and sixpence." "A week in Sunny Seaby." "Beefo"—with a picture of a husband handing it to his convalescing wife. A washer, a wringer, a waterproof, an umbrella, a warm coat—all things that Lou wanted—tempted him in turn. The windows were full of things that Lou needed, and that he couldn't buy for her. Even the savings for her new dress and his new suit had been spent during her illness. Several times he paused in front of a shop. Once he put a foot on the doorstep. "Real eiderdown, five feet by five feet, two pounds thirteen shillings and sixpence. Extraordinary bargain." Lou was always cold.

He got away from there by telling himself that he'd be sure to be caught out, and then, if he didn't go to prison, he would lose his job, and Lou would be even worse off. He persuaded himself away from other windows by the same argument. He didn't really believe that he would be caught, but he told himself so to keep his hands off his employer's money. He wondered now and then why he was so averse from taking it. It wasn't from religion—Lou was religious, but he wasn't. It wasn't from fear. It wasn't because it seemed so very wrong. He didn't think he would greatly blame another man for doing it in his place. It wasn't from any regard or any great esteem for his employer. His feelings towards Mr. Felix were lukewarm. He considered him an easy man to put up with, not very fidgety, not very irritable, and less mean than many of his kind. He paid Stokes "four five" a week. Stokes thought that he earned about "five ten," but he knew that most of the men round about him were getting only "three ten." So he didn't complain of Felix; didn't dislike him; to an extent liked him, but didn't dream of asking him for an advance or a loan. The old man's first question to borrowers was "What security?" Stokes could give none, and the fact that he was hard up would arouse "the old flint's" suspicions; perhaps cause him to think of making a change. "He wouldn't study me," he told himself, "any more than I would study him if anything better came along; and he'd never miss the money. I shouldn't worry about him. It's only—only the sort of thing I can't do, and go on thinking anything of myself. Well, I'll be able to chortle that I've stepped up the ladder to-night. … Chortle! When I see Lou's face looking like chalk! I'm a good mind to turn back and chance it … Here's his bally place. I'll get it over before I change my mind."

He walked into the Imperial Chambers; told the lift-boy "9 C"; was taken up to Mr. Felix's rooms; informed Mr. Felix's housekeeper that he was Mr. Felix's clerk and wanted to see the governor.

He was conducted along a soft-carpeted passage and shown into the best-furnished room which he had ever entered. He noted a silver basket full of peaches on the massive carved sideboard (how Lou loved peaches!), and a decanter of generous-lined port (the doctor said "port would do her good"). His employer sat in one of those many-cushioned armchairs in which you sink a foot. (Lou said it was the first thing she would buy if ever they came into money.) Several lovely vases were loaded with choice flowers, no doubt brought home from the flower show. (Lou almost danced for joy even now when he took her home a few flowers.) There was a fire in the grate, although the weather was warm. (Lou always put on her coat in the evenings nowadays.) In short, Stokes thought bitterly, his employer had everything which his sickly wife needed and hadn't; and now he was bringing him money which he had no use for, and which might perhaps have saved Lou's life. He sometimes wonders whether, if he could have thought of any other excuse for his visit, he might not have carried the money away, after all.

"Ah, Stokes!" the old man said. "What's happened to bring you here? Are we in trouble?"

"It's nothing to trouble you, sir," Stokes said. "A bit unexpected and startling. Dennis Montague called and paid over what he owed—twenty-seven thirteen four with interest. You might have knocked me down with a feather. I thought how surprised you'd have been if you'd been there."

"Um-m-m!" said Mr. Felix. "Perhaps not so surprised as all that. His uncle 'phoned, just before I left, to say that he hoped he would come. If he didn't, he was going to pay."

Stokes gasped. So if he had taken the money he would have been caught out at once! Honesty was the best policy, after all!

"He—he came just before five," he said, feeling that he had better say something. The old man seemed to be watching him.

"Just before five, eh? Do you think he paid it merely to get back in his uncle's favour? Or from honesty? His uncle will want my opinion on that."

"I think," Stokes said, "he did it because he thought his mother would have wished it. He said that Mr. Montague talked to him about some verses that his mother was fond of—St. Augustine's Ladder. The verses seemed to have made an impression on him, though he hardly liked to own it. I dare say you know them? Longfellow."

"Yes, yes. Will you have anything to drink, Stokes?"

"No, thank you, sir. My wife will be worrying over my being late. She's an invalid—just lately."

"Oh, you're married, eh? You needn't have troubled to come round to tell me. You could have 'phoned if you thought the matter sufficiently important."

"I came to bring the money, sir," Stokes explained. "You see, I hadn't the key of the safe."

He took out the pocket-book.

"Man alive," Mr. Felix cried, "why couldn't you keep it till the morning? "

"It might have looked as if I was running off with it," Stokes said.

"What?" The old man stared at him. "Run off with twenty-seven pounds? Why, hundreds pass through your hands in cash, apart from cheques! Why should you be suspected of wishing to retain this particular amount?"

"Well," Stokes said, "I—of course I should have paid it in to-morrow morning, but—suppose anything happened to me. It was money paid over by a man who's off abroad to-morrow morning, in Treasury notes, which I knew you didn't expect to come in. I didn't know that his uncle had mentioned to you that he was likely to pay, you see, sir."

"I see that. I don't see why anyone should suspect that you would take the money. I had a good character with you. I was prepared to give you one. I don't quite like this business, Stokes."

"Sir, I've brought you the money. Here it is. What more could I do?"

"Paid in before five, you said. It is now six-thirty-five. Was there—is there any special reason why people should think you might be tempted by un-earmarked cash? You mentioned an invalid wife just now."

"There's a child, too," Stokes said huskily. "He's sickly as well. I do all I can for them. It isn't enough. The doctor says they need all sorts of things that I can't give them. Yes, anyone might say that I had temptation enough. … Well, here's the money, sir."

"Ah-h-h!" said Mr. Felix. "You've been making a St. Augustine's Ladder of it, eh? … A bit afraid of yourself, eh? … I must think this over."

"Sir," Stokes implored, "I've brought it all right. I don't say I wasn't afraid of being tempted if I took it home. … Sir, my wife and the child. … She's no colour left, sir, and she was such a bright little thing when we got married. Sometimes she holds on to the furniture to get about the room. The boy's not doing well, either. He's ten months. … Sir, I am an honest man. I've brought the money. If you won't trust me after this, for Heaven's sake keep me on till I've found another crib! We've nothing but my screw to live on, sir, the three of us."

"And so," Mr. Felix said, "I suppose you are in debt, eh?"

"Only a few pounds, sir, and the doctor's bill when it comes. We go without everything we can. I kept off the temptation, sir, anyway. It seems that you don't give a man credit for making a—a Saint Augustine's Ladder of it. Before you think over firing me——"

Mr. Felix held up his hand.

"Tut tut!" he said. "I wasn't going to think about that. My trouble is this St. Augustine's Ladder business. … You'd better have a glass of whisky, Stokes, and a biscuit with it. The ladder business is upsetting, confoundedly upsetting. I like the idea in theory, you know, but I don't want to supply the vices that you tread down in practice; don't want you to feel covetous because of the needs of your family, eh? We can remedy that. You'd better put those notes back in your pocket. I gather that they'll square you up and do a few things for your wife."

"Sir!" Stokes gasped. "Sir! I'll certainly have no further temptation ever to touch anything of yours. It wouldn't be possible after this."

"Then," Mr, Felix said, "you are welcome to go on with the ladder business. I suppose you can find other vices for rungs, eh? What I have to consider is how far I can go in for it. It seems to me that I am rather short of the necessary vices. A little too fond of money, perhaps, eh? It's worse than a vice. It's a folly when you've no one to leave it to. What increase of salary, I wonder, should I have to give you to put myself up a rung? … Ha, ha, ha! Funny notion! Funny notion! We'll consider the question further in the morning, Stokes. Meanwhile you'll want to get home to your wife. Just touch that bell. … Harris, fetch my largest handbag but one. You'd better take a couple of bottles of port for your wife, and some peaches. It's a funny notion, this ladder business. I remember that, at election times, my father used to stick two ladders on the wall, and Gladstone and Salisbury climbing them, a rung for each seat. … Ah, here's the bag! … How about some flowers? Does your wife like flowers?"

"Oh, sir!" Stokes cried. "Oh, sir! You're—you're——"

"Climbing my ladder," old Felix said. "Climbing my ladder. … The main idea is good, but I hope that St. Augustine was wrong about the method. I don't see that I can go very high on vices. I am not a very vicious man."

•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•

Mrs. Stokes, now restored in colour and spirits, says that the saint was wrong, "of course!"

"Saints," she pointed out the other evening, when Mr. Felix came in to supper, "weren't married, and a man only understands things properly when he has a wife and a child. Climbing on your wickedness, indeed! Why, it's only an excuse for being naughty! I expect he'd been a rip before he was a saint, and was trying to make the best of it. Anyhow, if you do dreadful things, Dick, it will be no use telling me that it's only to make a ladder of them!"

"You've got hold of the wrong end of the stick as usual, Lou," Stokes protested. "It's the bad things you don't do that make the ladder; but you can make very good rungs by doing good ones."

Mr. Felix, who had done some ordnance clerking during the War, nodded approval.

"That's the correct make," he said. "St. Augustine's Ladder, Mark II."