Originally published in "The Discerning Gentleman's Weekly"
Volume IX, number 21
Issue dated April 15th 1896
*
Strange events today indeed!
It is a week since I allowed myself to be so debauched and degraded at the hands and feet and... well, let us be frank, at all possible parts of the body of my Young Mistress. I related the experience here in these pages a few days ago, but have seen or heard nothing at all of her since. It is perhaps for the best -- thoughts of what I allowed myself to do and to have done to me in her accursed dungeon upon that evening still bring a sickening guilt to my soul.
I have had recourse to seek a separate bedchamber from my wife -- I could not lay with her knowing what I had done. What man could? I could not even bring myself to speak to her, so have feigned illness this past week, claiming headaches and sickness, and yet I have ever gone back to work. "Work is the best cure," Dr Malliday has always told me, and fortunately this excuse would appear to have convinced my darling Annabel.
But for how long?
At any rate, this is not the matter of which I took up my pen to write today. Annabel is downstairs, and knows nothing of it. She thinks perhaps I am working on papers or ledgers for the bank. She knows nothing of this journal, thank God!
And others would have course to thank the Good Lord too that its pages are kept secret, as tonight I have course to add others to my strange narrative; people of reputation and standing. On the one hand it is shocking and enough to make a man lose all faith in the moral fibre of the world. On the other, it is I must admit somewhat of a relief to me to discover that I am not alone in my sick and sordid perversions. There are others thus driven -- others in higher stations in rank and society, too. Oh yes, my friendly reader, I have discovered today that perhaps the whole world is wallowing in a sexual ardour I have barely seen the merest glimpse of.
Let me compose myself. I shall begin at the beginning and attempt to explain my narrative in an orderly and direct fashion.
I had arrived at the bank as usual this morning, somewhat earlier than was the custom, as had become my wont of these past few days, so that I may rise and avoid the necessity of a morning intercourse with my dear wife. For what words could I exchange with her, so sweet and trusting and above all such sordid acts as I polluted the world with?
Thus I was at my work even before Simmons had had an opportunity of drawing up the fire in the office, and it was quite bitterly cold while I worked at the morning's ledgers. However, I liked this, feeling that I deserved it. Even when Simmons did eventually arrive and organise the construction and ignition of the fire, I took little warmth either from its combustion or from his human company. Such devils as I do not deserve such comforts.
So I had spoken to barely a soul, excepting perhaps a word or two of reluctant greeting here and there, when at perhaps ten o'clock, Simmons lightly rapped upon the interconnecting door betwixt our offices, and explained that a message had arrived for me from the Sixth Floor.
The Sixth Floor, I should explain, is the very summit of the building, both in a literal and a figurative sense; it is where the board members of their offices, and where the very top decisions of the bank are made. A summons to the sixth floor can usually mean only one of two things for a man of my station -- promotion or dismissal.
"Who there wishes to see me?" I enquired of Simmons, trying desperately to keep the nerves away from my voice.
"Sir Reginald," he replied casually, as if the man were not Simmons's own relative, the man who had gained the impudent young fool his undeserved position within the bank!
"Sir Reginald wishes to see me?"
"Yes sir -- at your earliest convenience, apparently."
This could mean only one thing, I was convinced upon the point! Sir Reginald had somehow discovered my vile infidelity, and was about to have me thrown out of the bank's employee forthwith! There was no other explanation I could conceive upon for such a meeting -- oh, how that young fool Simmons would smirk at me! But perhaps he knew already?
It was impossible to tell, so I withheld myself and summoned as much dignity as I could muster, rising and heading for the stairs. Very well. If this was how it was to be, then so be it -- I had made my bed, and now I must lie in it. I could not skulk and hide -- I must at least face up to my punishment like a good Englishman ought.
Sir Reginald has his own secretary, a fastidious old chump named Carter who likes to think that he and he alone is responsible for the running of the bank, and that the entire edifice of the institution would crumble into dust without his presence. This tiresome old fellow, as thin as a rake and eighty if he is a day, kept me nervously pacing up and down outside of the door of Sir Reginald's office for some good five minutes, or perhaps more, before he eventually emerged and informed me -- as if he were doing me some great favour! -- that I could be admitted into the office.
Sir Reginald's office is a sight to behold, as of course befits his status upon the board of the bank. It is at least twice the size of me, and as well as the standard desk has its own small side table positioned next to the fire, with chairs clustered about it as if the place were some fellow's living room, or perhaps the smoking room of some gentleman's club!
It was in this area that Sir Reginald -- large, rounded, sixty years old with a shining bald head and a comical drooping moustache -- was seated, but there could be no mistaking the place for a gentleman's club at the current time. For, sitting next to him in another of his chairs and looking quite icily at me as I entered, was a rather striking Lady.
She was perhaps forty, with close, tight curls of chestnut hair and pale, slightly freckled skin. She looked at me with piercing blue eyes as I entered, and I felt as if the layers of my soul were being peeled away as easily as one might peel an onion. She knew all of my secrets -- this was the abiding impression that I had from her.
"He is here, sir, as you instructed."
I was not aware that Carter had followed me into the room, and found his announcement of my presence immensely irritating. To my great satisfaction, Sir Reginald evidently experienced a similar emotion, and not only dismissed the man but sent him off completely.
"I can see that, Carter!" he bellowed, with his deep voice, well-practised at the art of shouting down distinguished Gentlemen at meetings of the board. He holds some great sway in the bank, and indeed in London financial circles in general -- what Sir Reginald says is listened to, whether the listener likes it or not.
"Be a good fellow and take yourself off down to the archive, see if you can scare up that Siegerson document -- damn it, it must be down there! Just because those fools can't find it... Anyhow, away with you!"
Carter clearly held no appetite for this task, yet he bowed his head obediently and headed off to the archives, kept below in the cavernous cellars of the building. So I was left alone, with Sir Reginald and his Lady guest, awaiting my fate.
"You asked to see me, sir?" I enquired, somewhat redundantly.
"This is him?" the Lady asked. She had gotten to her feet, and walked across the deep red carpet to take a more studied look at me. Her pale blue dress trailed behind her, and I could not help but admire the grace and poise with which she carried herself.
Her tone, however, was somewhat less graceful.
"This is the tiresome little man who has my affairs so tied up and inconvenienced? For goodness sake Reginald, why do you allow such petty-minded little bean-counters to have the run of your bank? It won't do. It simply will not do!"
"Ah-hum, yes, well..."
