# The Strand Magazine/Volume 3/Issue 16/Two Marriage Eves

Illustrated by Jean de Paléologue.
Layout 4
Two Marriage Eves.
By Richard Dowling.
"I HAVE often told you," said James Mayfield to me the evening before my marriage with his daughter Kate, "that I owed my prosperity—or more accurately, my escape from destruction—to an accident, a chance, a miracle. Stand up and look at that piece of paper let into the overmantel. Have you ever observed it before?"
"'Yes," I said, rising and examining a faded document under a glass panel in the oak. "I have now and then noticed it, but have never been able to make out what it is."
"What do you take it for?"
"Well, it looks like half a sheet of business note-paper covered with indistinct figures that do not seem ordinary."
"Yes," he said, gazing with half-closed eyes at the paper through the smoke of his cigar. "They are not ordinary, nor is their history."
"It is not possible to make them out, they are so blurred and faint. Are they very old ?"
"You may as well know the history of that piece of paper."
"Twenty years. They are much faded since I first saw them," said he, crossing his legs. "Now you may as well know the history of that half-sheet of business paper, and what it has to do with me and your Kate's mother. Sit down and I will tell it to you."
I dropped back into my chair.
"Our Kate is nearly nineteen, as, no doubt, you are aware. It is the night before your marriage. You, thank Heaven! run no such risk as I ran the night before my marriage. There is no date on that blurred copy of figures, but if there were you would find it originated on the night before I was to be married, twenty years ago. You are short of thirty now, I was short of thirty then. You are now in what I should then have considered affluent circumstances. I am going to give you to-morrow our only child, and a fourth share in the business of Strangway, Mayfield & Co., of which I am the sole surviving partner, and that fourth share ought to bring you a thousand to twelve hundred a year. The night that document over the chimney came into existence I was accountant to Strangway & Co., at a salary of one hundred and fifty pounds per annum."
My father-in-law paused, and knocked the ash off his cigar.
"At that time," he went ​on, resuming his story, "the business of Strangway & Co. was in Bread-street. We had warehouses on the ground floor and in the cellars, the offices were on the first floor, and warehouses filled from over the first floor to the slates.
"The offices closed at six; but, as I was anxious to put everything in the finest order before starting on my honeymoon, I was not able to leave at that hour. In addition to the bookkeeping I did most of the routine correspondence, and I had some letters to write. When they were finished, I should lock up the place, put the keys in my pocket, leave them at Mr. Strangway's house on Clapham Common, and go on to my lodgings in Wandsworth, and from my lodgings to my sweetheart Mary's home, in Wandsworth too.
"As I was working away, writing letters at the top of my speed, and quite alone in the office—in the whole house—Stephen Grainly, one of our travellers, rang the bell, and, much to my surprise and annoyance, when I opened the front door, walked upstairs, following my lead through the unlighted passages. I never cared for Stephen Grainly, no one in the office liked him except Mr. Strangway himself. Grainly was an excellent man at his work; but, to my taste, too smooth and good—too sweet to be sound.
"'What, Mayfield,' he cried, 'working away still! Why, when I saw the light, I made sure it must be Broadwood (our assistant accountant, who was to take my place while I was away), and, as I had a goodish bit of money, I thought I'd better bank here than in my own home in Hoxton; I am not satisfied it is safe to stow three hundred pounds in cash in my humble home.'
"'All right,' said I; 'but I wish you had come earlier. The safest place to bank money in is the Bank.' He did not know I was going to be married next day, and I was glad of it, for the man always made me feel uncomfortable, and I did not wish him to touch my little romance even with a word.
"'Be here at four o'clock!' he cried. 'My dear fellow, I couldn't do it. How could I? Why, I didn't get to King's Cross until a quarter to six! Here you are. He produced his pocket-book. 'You needn't give me more than two minutes. Cheques, five hundred and seventy-four, eighteen six. Notes, two hundred and forty-five. Gold, forty-eight.'
"As you may fancy, I was in a hurry to get rid of him. He seemed in no hurry to go. He sat down, pulled out his handkerchief, and began wiping his forehead, although it was October, and by no means warm.
"He handed me his order-book."
"You will initial my book?' said he, and he handed me his order-book, part of which was ruled in money-columns, where he had a list of the money he had collected. The whole was eight hundred and sixty-seven pounds, eighteen shillings and sixpence, and for this I signed.
"Have you taken the numbers of the notes?' I asked.
"No,' said he. ​"I made a list myself of the numbers on a sheet of paper, and pushed cheques, notes, and gold up to the flat, middle part of my desk. I did not want to take out any of the account-books that night, and when I had finished the letters and he was gone, I should put the money in the safe in the back room. The memorandum of the numbers I should leave with the keys at Clapham, and the whole transaction would be dealt with by my assistant, Broadwood, in the morning.
"Making out the list had taken a little time, as the notes were all small and no two in a sequence; they had been collected for minor accounts in the country. Twenty years ago banking facilities were not so great as now, and we got from country customers large numbers of notes which would in our day be considered worn-out curiosities.
"I put my list of notes on the desk beside me, and went on with my letters, several of which were now ready for the copying-press. Copying is a mechanical operation at which I could work easily while Grainly was there. I wished to goodness he would go away. As I have said, no one in our place liked the man but the governor.
"That evening Grainly talked a lot about the business and the news of the day, and all sorts of things. I could not tell him to go away, for he could see I was not myself leaving yet, and copying the letters, putting them to dry, enclosing them in envelopes, and addressing them was not occupation for which a man could reasonably claim quiet.
"When my batch of letters were ready, seeing half an hour's work still before me, I held them out to him and said, 'When you are going, I should be obliged if you would post these, as I am not nearly finished here yet.'
"'Certainly,' said he, taking the hint and rising. He caught the letters in his hand and for a moment stared at me in a peculiar way. I thought he was going to resent physically my hint that he should take himself off. If he had I should have fared badly, no doubt, for he was a much bigger and more powerful man than I. He did not, however, attempt violence. He shifted his eyes from me and turned them slowly round the room, on the desk, and towards the door.
"'Anyone in the place who could show me out? All the gas is turned off below, and I have never gone down in the darkness,' said he, moving away.
"'There's no one but ourselves here. I'll show you the way,' I said with alacrity, delighted to get rid of him.
"I struck a match to light him."
"I had led him through the long, dark corridor and half down the stairs, when he suddenly cried out, 'My stick! I left my stick above. I won't be a minute, Mayfield. Just wait here for me!'
"He ran upstairs to fetch his stick, and was back with me in the darkness, in a few seconds.
"'I found it all right,' said he; 'it was just at the door. I got it without going in at all.'
"I struck a match to light him, and presently he was out on the asphalt of Bread-street, walking rapidly towards Cheapside.
"When I got back to the counting-house the cheques were on the flat top of the desk. The gold and notes were gone!
"I had taken the numbers of the notes on a sheet of paper, and left the list on the ​sloping part of my desk to dry, before putting it into my pocket.
"The paper on which I had taken the numbers of the notes was gone also!"
As my father-in-law spoke, I rose to my feet and tapped the glass over the document let into the oak above the fireplace, saying, "And this is the paper with the numbers of the stolen notes on it."
"And that is not the paper with the number of the stolen notes on it," said James Mayfield.
"From the moment I left the counting-house to show Grainly out that night, twenty years ago, no one has ever seen the list I made of the notes. Grainly must have destroyed it the moment he was out of Bread-street."
My father-in-law finished his glass of port and resumed his story:—
"Here was I, on the eve of my marriage, simply ruined.
"Grainly had my receipt for the two hundred and ninety-three pounds cash, and he had the two hundred and ninety-three pounds cash also, and Grainly was a thief who enjoyed the favour of his employer, while I was in no particular favour with the firm. I believe up to that time I was supposed to be honest.
"The forty-eight pounds in gold was, of course, gone as much as if it had been dropped into the crater of a burning mountain; and as the numbers of the notes could no longer be produced, and they had not come direct from a bank, but had been picked up here and there in the country, the two hundred and forty-five pounds were gone as though they had been blown overboard in the Atlantic Ocean.
"It was plain there would be no use in following Grainly, even if I knew the way he had gone when he gained Cheapside. It was plain no marriage could take place to-morrow morning. It was plain my course was to go without the loss of a moment to Mr. Strangway and tell him what had happened. Whether he would believe me or not, who could say? Not I, any way. He might reasonably order me into custody. Very well, if he did I must not grumble or feel aggrieved. Our wedding was fixed for eleven o'clock next morning. By eleven to-morrow I might be in jail, charged with stealing the money or being an accomplice in the robbery.
"I locked the office, telegraphed to Mary that I had been unexpectedly delayed, jumped into a hansom, and drove to Strangway's house in Clapham.
"Gracious Mr. Mayfield are you ill?"
"I told the servant to take in word that I wished to see Mr. Strangway most particularly. I suppose she had heard about my wedding; anyway she smiled very knowingly, and said: 'I hope you'll have fine weather and good luck on your holiday, Mr. Mayfield, though it is rather late in the year to expect fine weather. Gracious, Mr. Mayfield, are you ill?' she cried at the end. I daresay my face told tales.
"'Not ill,' I said, 'but very anxious to see Mr. Strangway at once, if you please.'
"She showed me into the library, hurried ​off, and in a few seconds Mr. Strangway entered smiling. He, no doubt, thought my anxiety to see him was connected with my marriage.
"When he heard my story he was grave enough. 'Two hundred and ninety-three gone?' said he, frowning.
"'Gone,' said I.
"'And the numbers of the notes gone with the money?' said he, looking me full in the face, with a heavier frown.
"'Not a trace left of the paper on which I took the numbers.'
"'Are you sure no one but Grainly could have entered the counting-house?'
"'Perfectly sure. All the doors communicating with other parts of the house were shut—had been locked for the night. I had not been outside the counting-house since luncheon.'
"For a few moments he reflected. The awkward part of it, Mayfield,' said he, 'is that you are to be married to-morrow. Of course, your marriage must go on. But I'll tell you what I think would be best for you. Suppose you attend the office as usual to-morrow morning: you could leave for a couple of hours later, get the ceremony over, and come back.'
"'Oh!' I said, 'with this hanging over me? I half expected to be locked up to-night. But I could not get married until the money is found, Mr. Strangway.'
"'Found! Found! The money can never be found. Why, we have nothing to go on! Anyway, I shall not take steps to-night. Perhaps it would be best to postpone your marriage. Yes, it would not do to marry under the circumstances. I am very sorry for you. But all that can be done in the interests of justice must be done. Keep the keys, and be in Bread-street at the ordinary time in the morning."
My father-in-law paused here. His cigar was smoked out, but he had not finished his story. He did not offer to move, and I sat still. After a few moments he went on:—
"I will be merciful to you, and tell you nothing of the scene at my wife's place when I called later. Her father and mother were then living. I told my story to all three as I have told it to you, and all agreed the best thing was to postpone the marriage for a month.
"Well, I'm not getting on as fast as I promised, but I shall not keep you much longer.
"When I reached the office in the morning I had another good look round, but nothing whatever was to be discovered. I turned the whole place inside out. Nothing, absolutely nothing connected with the case turned up until, to my astonishment, Stephen Grainly walked into the office. Until his appearance I had, in a dim way, made up my mind that all would be cleared up, and my innocence established by his absconding. His arrival showed that he meant to brazen the thing out with me, and I felt from that moment helpless and paralysed.
"'Grainly,' said I, as soon as I could talk, 'when you came back for your stick last night, did you notice the money you gave me on the desk where I put it?'
"'No, my dear Mayfield. I did not cross the threshold of this room.'
"'You did not see or touch the money or the piece of paper on which I had taken down the numbers of the notes?'
"'No, certainly not. I could not see your desk from the door, and I was not further than the door. You do not seem well. I sincerely hope there is nothing the matter?'
"'The cash you brought in last night—the two hundred and ninety-three pounds—has been stolen, that's all,' said I.
"'Stolen!' he cried, falling back. 'You don't mean to say that!'
"'Ay, and stolen within an hour—within half an hour—of our being here together last night.'
"'I cannot—I will not—believe such a horrible thing. Stolen! And in the very office, too!
"I never saw better acting in all my life than his indignation and horror and astonishment. I could hardly believe my eyes and ears. I had spent a sleepless night, and was half dazed and wholly stupid and in despair. For a while I felt that, after all, he might be innocent, and that I, in a moment of excitement and haste, had placed the money and the memorandum in some place of security which I could not now recall.
"Mr. Strangway, on reaching the office half an hour earlier than his usual time, gave orders for another search. It was quite unavailing. No tale or tidings of the cash came that day.
"No secret was made of the affair in the office, and as the hours went on I became confident that in Mr. Strangway's eyes I was the criminal. I don't know how it ​happened, but I did not feel this much. I did not feel anything much. I was in a dream—a stupor.
"Stolen!"
"Late in the afternoon Mr. Strangway called me into his office, and told me that, considering everything, he did not intend placing the affair in the hands of the police that day, but that if to-morrow's sun went down upon matters as they now stood, he should be obliged to take action. The loss of the money I could bear,' said he, 'but the ingratitude I will not stand.'
"This was as good as accusing me the robbery. Again I wonder that I was not more put out, but I felt little or nothing beyond helpless and numbed.
"Before I left Bread-street that evening Grainly sent me a note begging me, for my own sake, not to think of bolting! Bolting,' said he, 'in a case of this kind would be taken as an admission of the very worst.'
"Even this daring impudence did not rouse me, did not waken me; through the whole terrible affair I do not think I was ever as much excited as I am now.
"Next day Mr. Strangway said not a syllable about employing the police, or indeed about the affair at all, nor did he, as far as I knew, take steps in the matter. On the day following he made an astonishing announcement. He called Grainly and me into his private office, and said—
"'The present is the first time in the history of our firm that anything of this kind has occurred—that we have been robbed from the inside. I have made up my mind not to do anything about it just now. I keep an open mind. Some day we may find an easy explanation of the mystery, or it may never be cleared up. I accuse no one. I will say no more of the affair until I can either put my hand on the man who did it, or tell you both face to face, as you are now, that I have discharged from my mind for ever the notion that any man who takes my money as a servant took it also as a thief.' ​"A fortnight after the loss of the money, a telegram came for Mr. Strangway. It was sent into his private office. Presently he opened his door and beckoned me to go in, and when I had entered he motioned me to a chair.
"Mr. Strangway waved the telegram."
"'Mr. Mayfield,' said he, 'I wish at the earliest moment to relieve you of what must have been a terrible anxiety. The thief has been found, and is now in custody!' Mr. Strangway waved the telegram. 'I have just got the message saying Stephen Grainly, with the bulk of the notes on his person, is in the hands of the police. He was about leaving this country—for Spain, it is supposed. He stole the money a fortnight ago, and stole the list you had made of the numbers of the notes. Knowing the way in which the notes had come into his own hands in the country, he felt confident they could not be traced from their source to him, and of course they could not be traced from him to the Bank of England, as the list of the numbers was destroyed by him.'
"'Then, how in the world, sir, were they traced?' said I.
"Mr. Strangway raised the blotting-pad and took from under it a piece of paper, the back of a letter.
"'The news of the robbery got about,' said he, and of course our customers were interested in it, Mr. Young, of Horsham, among the rest. Mr. Young, of Horsham, was one of the people you wrote to that evening, the evening of the robbery, and you sent him more than you intended.'
"'Not the missing sheet with numbers? I know I couldn't have done that, for I saw the memorandum on the slope of my desk after closing his letter and handing it with the others to Grainly.'
"'No, but you put the memorandum on the slope of your desk with the ink side up, and you copied Mr. Young's letter in the copying press and while it was damp put it down on the list of the notes in unblotted copying ink, and the numbers of the notes were faintly but clearly copied, reversed of course, on the fly-leaf of Young's letter, and ​Mr. Young sent the copy back to me privately! Look.'
"Mr. Strangway handed me the fly-leaf of Young's letter, and there were the numbers of the notes, dim to be sure, but not quite as dim there as they are now under the glass let into the oak of the over-mantel. Grainly had put a few of the notes in circulation, and they had been traced back to him.
"He stole the money, Mayfield,' said Mr. Strangway to me, and he tried to ruin you, or anyway he wanted to saddle you with the theft, and for a while I more than suspected you. But all is clear at last, and I'll pay you handsomely one day for suspecting you.'
"And so he did," said my father in-law. "He lent me the money to buy a partnership in the firm, and I am the firm all to myself now—and shall be until the new partner comes in to-morrow."
He rose and shook me by the hand and tapped me on the shoulder saying, "Your partner for life will be wondering what has kept you. Run away to Kate now, my boy."