Originally published in "The Discerning Gentleman's Weekly"
Volume IX, number 19
Issue dated April 1st 1896
When I left you at the conclusion of my previous entry, my kind and patient reader, I had debased myself at the hands of my young beguiler, shamed myself more deeply and more completely than I had ever imagined might be possible. I had seen and experienced things that -- despite possessing what I had arrogantly imagined to be a sound working knowledge of the ways of the world -- I had never dreamed existed.
Oh how I hated myself that night! Cursed my own name as I crawled home bed, too ashamed to dare disturb my dear, sweet, loving Annabel. I took to the bed in the spare room of my dark house, and wept as I tossed and turned and got no sleep at all until just before the break of dawn.
"It is over!" I repeated to myself in defiant whispers, over and again. "It is done with! Finished!"
The next morning was a Saturday, and I rose late. I instructed the maid, Jemima, to prepare a hot bath for me, and did not go downstairs to face the world and my wife until I had soaked in the warm, soothing waters for some time. Trying to soak away the sin, to wash away the stain that went so much deeper than my skin.
Even the task of speaking to Jemima had been arduous -- the girl with the chestnut brown hair and meek and mild manner was only sixteen, a slip of a girl herself and too much of a reminder of the Young Lady in Maple Street. At one point I found myself imagining what it might be like to crawl for Jemima with a smirk upon her face.
Was my mind ruined? Was there no way back to decency and clean-living for me?
I felt a little better after the bath. A clean body helps lend cleanliness to the mind, and I was determined to make that day the first of a fresh start. When I was dried and dressed I finally decided to make a clean break of it and face the world, putting the madness of the past two days behind me.
Annabel was finishing her breakfast and studying that morning's copy of The Times when I joined her in the dining room of our happy little home. I was struck as I entered the room by how utterly beautiful she looked. As she leaned over studying the newsprint, the bright autumnal sunshine was piercing the windowpane and illuminating her lightly-curled, warmly-brown hair, just beginning to be flecked with the grey of her distinguished years, in the most delightful fashion. She was wearing a blue dress of hers that I had always thought most handsome, and as she heard the door open she looked up from the paper and affixed me with a most dazzling smile.
"Darling!"
I wanted the world to swallow me up and destroy me. I wanted, and knew I deserved, to be cast into the deepest, most fiery pits of hell itself. How could I even have thought of betraying such a Woman as this? How could I shame and stain the happy, good, moral little home she and I had built up together? Infect our perfect marriage?
"Hello my dear," I replied thickly, taking a seat at the table and studying the teapot to see how warm the liquid inside remained. I winced as the contact with the chair sent throbbing pains through my tortured posterior, an all-too-pertinent reminder of my recent punishment. Annabel, seemingly oblivious to my discomfort, abandoned her newspaper and rose to sit nearer to me along the table.
"Darling, how are you?" she asked, her eyes full of concern, a soft, delicate hand upon my shoulder. "The Colonel sent a telegram for you here yesterday -- he was most distressed that you did not go and see him on Thursday night... And you worked so late yesterday! Is all well at the bank?"
I shrugged off her hand, and instantly regretted the decision. She was hurt by the gesture, confused that her attempts at comforting me were being rejected, and I felt wretched at making her feel so.
"Is it the Cartwright stocks?" she asked, hiding her distress at my attitude. "I have been reading the reports of their difficulties in the newspaper these past few days... I know of course that the bank has investments tied up in their fortunes..."
"Yes... Yes, something very like that," I managed to say, not meeting her eyes. I could not. I felt sure that if she looked into my eyes she would see right through them into my dirty, filthy soul. I gazed out of the window instead, and concentrated on the chatter and the clatter of the world passing by outside.
"Would it not help to discuss it?" she asked, very lightly, not wanting to press the matter too far. I think I waved a hand dismissively at her. I had never before hidden any work matters from her, but how could I possibly discuss what ailed me?
"It is... complicated. There are certain private accounts, confidential matters... And in any case, all too dry and dull a set of affairs to sully a weekend with, my dear!"
I managed a thin smile then, and did finally turn to face her. She was trying desperately hard to look comforting, and to hide her concern. Finally, she stood back up and went to the window.
"It is a fine day outside!" she enthused, gazing up at the clear blue sky. "Perhaps we could go for a walk down to the park later on? You know how you enjoy the autumnal shades of the trees so... It always raises your spirits, being closer to nature. It would be so lovely!"
Such innocent, charming pursuits! How could I tell her that I was a devil undeserving of such homely pleasures?
"Oh, and I quite forgot to mention!" she continued, dashing across to the side table, upon which the letters brought by the morning post had been deposited. "There was a letter from James this morning! Oh, you should see how he writes! He is quite the young Gentleman, I am sure!"
She carried across the letter, written in neat and delicate script, from our youngest son. He was currently in his penultimate term at prep school, and next year would be joining our oldest boy up at Wincastle, if the fees could be afforded. My position at the bank ought to have been enough to cover the costs comfortably, but supposing I had compromised my position? Supposing somebody had discovered my dreadful, dark secret? I could have brought the lives of all of my family crashing down into ruin.
"So lovely, don't you think?" she said, handing me the letter. I could barely concentrate on reading it, my hands made the paper tremble so.
"Darling? My love, what's the matter?"
I could say nothing to her. I flung the letter to the table and, ignoring her protestations, strode out into the hallway, swiftly picked up my coat and hat and went out into the cold, clear air of the street. I knew not where I was headed, only that I could be shut up with the guilt no longer.
Slowly, matters improved somewhat.
It seems very hard to believe. Perhaps it is simply that my soul is degraded and beyond repair, but I do not believe that you too, reader, have not had some similar experience. If you have read this far, you must perhaps have at least some crumb of sympathy for my bedevilled plight, and I trust I am not taking too great a liberty to suggest that you too have done things of which you are ashamed.
And no matter how terrible it seems, the guilt fades, does it not? As time marches onward and Chronos places greater distance between oneself and one's previous actions, so gradually one's feelings and emotions fall into their previous balance, and you suppose that after all you might live life again as once you did.
It took some days, but I was even able to lie with Annabel again, and not feel that I had ruined any prospect of ever being intimate with her evermore. No longer did I constantly see the face of my intoxicating Young Lady in my mind. I found that I could banish her from my thoughts. I buried myself into my work at the bank, was a doting and devoted husband once more at home, and after a while I even began to be able to visit the Colonel again, at his new address.
I was very careful, however. I ensured that I always took a taxi to the far end of Maple Street, and no matter how inclement the weather I walked the distance down to number eleven. To have gone the shorter route and taken a cab directly to his door would have meant passing number twenty-two, and I was not strong enough to steel myself to be able to do that. If I did not see that accursed dwelling, I could perhaps pretend that it did not exist. That its occupant had been a figment of my imagination, and the whole sad and sorry affair had never occurred.
A little over two months went past.
It was the middle of January, I recall distinctly. The boys had lately returned to their respective schools after a long and very pleasant Christmas period with Annabel and I, where we were all together and jolly and thought of sin and depravity could not have been further from my mind.
It was dark and rainy outside, and even in the middle of the morning the day had the gloom of midwinter clinging to it. The skies were heavy with cloud, and the raindrops battered constantly against the windows of my office like a barrage of artillery in some interminable battle. But nonetheless, I was happy to concentrate upon my work -- I am not being immodest when I say that I was a very capable and dedicated servant of the firm, which was why I had managed to progress so comparatively swiftly in my field. Even with my grey hairs sprouting through, there were not many of equivalent rank within the company who were less than ten years my senior.
I recall hearing an exchange of voices in the outer room of the office, and I registered that one of them was female, but I did not look up from the ledger upon which I was concentrating. Simmons then walked carefully into the room, stopped a few paces short of my desk and coughed politely to alert me to his presence.
