The liner "Claudia" was ripping her way eastwards through a calm Atlantic, like shears through an endless length of blue muslin.
An unclouded morning sun beat full upon the pale cheeks and delicate frame of Larssen's little twelve-year-old son, alone with his father on their private promenade deck. The contrast between the broad frame of the shipowner and the delicate, nervous, under-sized physique of his boy was striking in its irony. Here was the strong man carving out an empire for his descendants, and here was his only son, the inheritor-to-be. Neither physically nor mentally could Olaf ever be more than the palest shadow of his father, and yet Larssen was the only person who could not see this. He was trying to train his boy to hold an empire as though he were born to rule.
"How clever Mr Dean is!" Olaf was saying.
"Why?"
"Look at the set of wheels he's rigged up for me so as I can sail my boat on deck." He held up a beautiful model yacht, perfect in line and rig, with which he was playing. Underneath it was a crudely-made contrivance of wood and wire, with four corks for wheels—the handiwork of Arthur Dean.
"Was that your idea?" inquired Larssen.
"No, Dad.... Now, watch me sail her up to windward."
"Wait. You ought to have thought out that idea for yourself."
"I haven't any tools on board, Dad."
"Then go and make friends with the carpenter." Larssen took up the crude contrivance and looked it over contemptuously. "I want you to think out a better device; pitch this overboard; then find out where Mr Chips lives, make friends with him, and get him to construct you a proper set of wheels to your own design."
The boy looked troubled. "I don't want to throw it overboard!" he protested. "I want to sail my boat on deck now."
"Sonny, there are heaps of things that are good for you to do which you won't want to do. It's like being told by the doctor to take medicine. It's nasty to take, but very good for you.... I want to see you one day a big strong fellow able to handle men and things—a great big strong fellow men will be afraid of. That's to be your ambition. You've got to learn to handle men and things. Here's one way to do it."
"But Mr Dean wouldn't like it if he knew I'd thrown his wheels overboard."
"Dean is a servant. He's paid to do things for you. His feelings don't matter.... But you needn't tell him you threw his wheels away. Say they slipped over the side. Now, get a pencil andpaper, and let me see you work out a better contrivance."
Olaf obeyed, though reluctantly, and presently he was deep amongst the problems of the inventor. Lars Larssen watched the boy with a tenderness that few would have given him credit for.
"I've got it! Look, Dad!" cried the boy excitedly, and began to explain his idea and his tangled drawing.
"Good! That's what I want from you. Now, don't you feel better at having worked out the idea all on your own?"
"Yes, Dad. I'll go to Mr Chips at once and get it made. In which part of the ship does he live?"
"You must find that out yourself."
"How much shall I offer him?"
"Don't offer him anything. Make friends with him, and he'll do it for you for nothing."
"But I always give people money to do things for me."
"That's a bad habit. Drop it. Get things done for you for nothing."
"Why?"
"Because I want you to be a business man when you grow up, and not merely a spender of money."
"What does a business man mean exactly?"
"A ruler of men."
The boy looked troubled again. His confusion of thoughts sorted themselves into his declaration: "I don't want to be a ruler of men; I want people to like me."
"That's a poor ambition."
"Why?"
"Mostly anyone wants that. It's a sign of weakness. Drop it."
"What ought I to want?"
"People to fear you."
"Why should they be afraid of me, Dad?"
"For one thing, because some day you'll have all my money and all my power. Just how big that is you can't realise yet. That's one reason. The other reason must lie with yourself—you must make yourself strong and afraid of nothing. How many fights did you have this term, before you got ill?"
"Only one."
It was clear from the boy's downcast eyes that he had been beaten in his fight.
"That's bad. That's disobeying my orders. Didn't I tell you to fight every boy in the school until they acknowledged you master?"
"I'm not strong enough."
"You must make yourself strong enough. It's not a question of muscle, but will-power. When you're properly over this illness, I'll pick you out a school in England with about thirty or forty boys of your own age. They're soft, these English boys, softer than Americans. I want you to lick your way through them, and then I'll take you back to the States to polish up on Americans."
After a pause came this question: "Dad, must I have all your money when I grow up? Couldn't some one else have some of it?"
"Sonny, don't look at it that way. You're born to an empire; try and make yourself fit forit. I'm building it for you. It'll be a glorious inheritance.... Now throw those wheels overboard, and run along and find Mr Chips."
Presently Arthur Dean came to the private deck to ask if Larssen had any orders for him. He was acting as interim private secretary.
The shipowner dictated a few messages to be sent by wireless, and then remarked:
"When you're back in London, I suppose you'll be going to see your young lady as well as your parents?"
Dean blushed.
"Taking her back any presents?"
"Yes, sir."
"A ring?"
"Not yet, sir."
"Well, I don't doubt that'll come in its own good time."
"You don't think I ought to——?" began Dean tentatively.
"I don't interfere in that. It's your own private affair and no concern of mine. You can afford to marry her on your present salary. If she's a girl likely to make a good wife, I hope youwillmarry her. I like my employees to be married. It's healthy for them and makes them better business men. Is she an ambitious girl?"
"I hardly know that."
"Well, my advice to you is this: marry someone ambitious. You'll need it. You're inclined to weaken."
"It's very good of you to take such an interest in me."
"I like you. I want to make you one of my right-hand men eventually. Now I want to say this in particular: keep business affairs to yourself."
"I'll certainly do so, sir."
"Don't talk about them even to your parents, even to your young lady. I'm paying you a very good salary for a man of your age, and I expect a closed mouth about my affairs."
"Of course."
"Get the reason for it. This deal I'm engaged on is a big thing, and there are plenty of City people in London who'd like to know just what I'm planning, and just why Matheson and I sent you to Canada. I want you to keep them guessing until the scheme's floated. D'you get that?"
"Certainly, sir! You may rely on me not to say anything about your business affairs to anybody. I know how things leak around once anybody's told."
"That's right! Now send off those wireless messages, and then go and amuse yourself for the rest of the morning. Cabin and all quite comfortable?"
"Quite, thank you, sir," answered Dean, and went off buoyantly.
In the afternoon Olaf was sailing his yacht on deck on the new set of wheels made for him by the ship's carpenter, while his father sat stretched in a long deck-chair watching him tenderly and weaving dreams for his future. The thought crossed his mind—not for the first time—whether it wouldn't be advisable to get a stepmother for the boy. Larssen had a strong intuitive feelingthat he would not live to old age, and he wanted to know that the boy would have someone to care for him and to stand behind him while he was seating himself firmly on his father's throne.
Specifically, the shipowner was reviewing Olive as a possible stepmother. There was no scrap of passion in his thoughts. He was viewing the matter as a business proposition, weighing the pros and cons calmly and cool-bloodedly. Would Olive be the right stepmother for the boy? She was of good family, with influential connections. She made a fine presence as a hostess. Her ambition was undoubted. Even the trifling point of the similarity between Olive's name and that of his boy impressed him, by some curious twist of mind, as favourable.
"Dad, look at me!" called out Olaf. "I've made some buoys, and now I'm going to sail her round a racing course."
He had run needles through three corks, and planted them in the pitch-seams of the deck to form the three points of a large triangle, in imitation of the buoys of a yacht-race course.
"This buoy is Sandy Hook, and this one is the Fastnet, and that one over there is Gibraltar."
"Good!" said the shipowner. "I'll time the race." He took out his watch. "Are you ready?... Go!"
When the course was completed and the yacht lay at anchor again at Sandy Hook, Larssen called his son to the seat at his side.
"Do you remember much of your mother?" he asked.
The boy's face clouded over. "I don't know. Sometimes I seem to see her very plainly, and sometimes again I don't seem to see her at all when I try to. Was mother very beautiful?"
"Very beautiful, to me," assented the shipowner.
"I think I should have loved her very much."
"How would you like to have a new mother?"
Olaf thought this over in silence for some time.
"It depends," he ventured at length.
"Depends on what?"
"I don't know. I must see her. Then I could tell you."
"You care for the idea?"
"I must see her first."
"Yes, that's right. Well, Sonny, as soon as we're in London I'll take you to see her. But remember this: don't breathe a word of it to anyone. Keep a tight mouth. That's what a business man has always got to learn."
"Why?"
"Because silence in the right place means big money."
Olaf reflected over the new problem for some time.
"Dad," he said presently, "I'd like her to like me very much. And I'd like her to be a good sailor."
Larssen smiled at the naïve requirement.
"Is that very important?"
"Yes. You see, I want her to live with us on a yacht, and some women are so ill whenever they go on board a boat."
"Which do you like best: the country, or a big city, or the sea?"
"The sea—the sea! I hate a big city. The crowds of people make me feel...." He groped about for a word which would express his feeling " ... make me feel so lonely."
"You'll have to overcome that. One day your work will lie in controlling crowds of people."
"Dad, let me stay on a yacht till I get quite well again!"
Larssen considered for a moment. "Well, if it will help you to get your fighting muscle, I'll arrange it. There's a small cruising yacht of mine—the 'Starlight'—lying in Southampton Water. I might have her cruise about the Channel for you."
"Thank you, Dad, I'd like that immensely."
"Yes, I'll see to that. We must go up to London for a few days, and meanwhile I'll arrange to have the 'Starlight' put in order for you."
"Can I be captain of the yacht?"
"That's the spirit I want! But you can't be captain at a jump. You must work your way up. First you'll have to work for your mate's ticket. I'll tell the captain to put you through your paces—give you your trick at the wheel and so on. But see here, Sonny, it'll be work and not play. You'll have to obey orders just as if you were a new apprentice."
"I love the sea! I'll work right enough."
Larssen grew grave with memories. "Work? You'll never know work as I knew it. At fourteen I was a drudge on a Banks trawler. Kicked and punched and fed on the leavings of the fo'castle. Hands skinned raw with hauling on the dredge-ropes——"
A deck steward bearing a wireless telegram came to interrupt them. The message was from Olive, and it read:
"Important developments. Come to see me as soon as you arrive."
Larssen scribbled an answer and handed it to the steward for despatch.
The boy was thinking over the coming cruise of the "Starlight." Suddenly he exclaimed: "I've got an idea! Invite her on board my yacht!"
Larssen smiled. "That's a very practical test for her!" he said.
The Italian garden at Thornton Chase was perfect in its artificiality. It sloped down towards Richmond Park in a series of stately terraces with box-hedge borders trimmed so evenly that not a twig or leaf offended against the canons of symmetry. They were groomed like a racehorse. Centred in a square of barbered lawn was a fountain where Neptune drove his chariot of sea-horses. The Apollo Belvedere, the Capitoline Venus, Minerva, and Flora had their niches against a greenhouse of which the roof formed the terrace above—a greenhouse where patrician exotics held formal court.
Olive was feeding a calm-eyed Borzoi from the tea-table when Larssen and his little boy arrived. The pose was that of a Gainsborough portrait—she had dressed the part as closely as modern dress would allow. Sir Francis was leaning back in an easy-chair with one leg crossed squarely over the other knee, and in spite of country tweeds and Homburg hat, he was somehow well within the picture. But Lars Larssen, with his broad frame and his masterful step, was markedly out of harmony with that atmosphere of leisured artificiality.
A lesser man would have been conscious of hisincongruity—not so with Larssen. He forced his personality on his environment. He made the Italian garden seem out of place in his presence. A sensitive would almost have felt the resentment of the trimly correct hedges and shrubs and the classic statues at being thrust out of the picture on Larssen's arrival.
For some time the conversation progressed on very ordinary tea-table lines. Olive made much of the little boy—petted him, sent in for special cakes to tempt him with, showered a host of questions on him about school and games and hobbies. Sir Francis exchanged views on weather, politics, and the coming cricket season with his guest. The latter subject mostly resolved itself into a monologue on the part of the baronet, since cricket held no more interest for Larssen than ninepins; but he listened with polite attention while Sir Francis expounded the chances of the Australian Team (he had been to Lord's that morning to watch them at preliminary practice), and his own pet theory of how the googly ought to be bowled.
Then, having offered libation on the altars of weather, politics, and cricket, the baronet felt himself at liberty to touch on business matters.
"Have you heard when Clifford will be back?" he asked.
"Let me see. To-day's the 26th. I expect him not later than May 3rd. Probably sooner."
"Everything going smooth?"
"Yes; fine. I'm glad we delayed the issue until May. Canada's getting well in the public eye just now. When the leaves spread out on the park-trees, town-dwellers begin to remember that the country grows crops. They recollect that there's 40 million acres of cropland in Canada—250 million bushels of wheat to move. They awake to the notion that the wheat will need transport to Europe. Yes, early May is the time for our Hudson Bay issue—Clifford was right in suggesting the postponement."
Olive caught the new drift of conversation between her father and her guest, and turned to cut in.
"Olaf would like to see the aviary," she said to her father. "Especially the new owl. It's so amusing to look at in the daytime. Will you take him round and show him everything?"
The boy jumped up gleefully, and Sir Francis roused himself from his easy-chair to obey his daughter's order. He had grown accustomed to obeying—experience had shown him it was more comfortable in the long run to do as she wished.
"Bring some cake along, and we'll feed the birds," he said to the boy, and the two moved off together to the aviary, which lay sheltered under the south wall of the house.
When the two were out of earshot, Larssen turned smilingly to Olive, and his tone was that of one who finds himself at home again.
"It's good to be back," he said.
Olive did not smile welcome to him, as he expected. There was an unlooked-for constraint in her voice as she inquired: "Another cup?"
"Thanks."
She took the cup from him.
"I've missed you," he added.
"I've had a worrying time," began Olive as she poured out tea and cream for him.
"Clifford?"
"Ye-es."
Larssen read through the slight hesitancy of her answer. "That means the Verney girl, does it?"
"I've seen her."
"Where?"
"At Wiesbaden."
"What made you travel to there?"
"She wrote me a letter."
"Which roused your curiosity."
"Yes."
"Did you satisfy yourself?"
"I satisfied myself that so far there's nothing to take hold of between her and Clifford."
"If she managed to give you that impression, she must be clever as well as attractive."
"I know I'm right.... Though of course they're in love with one another. Both admit it."
Olive was ill at ease—a most unusual frame of mind for her. Larssen guessed she had some confession to make, and prepared himself for an outwardly sympathetic attitude.
"No doubt she's got the hooks into Clifford tight enough," he answered. "It'll be merely a question of time. No cause for you to worry. Wait quietly. Have them watched."
"I intend to do nothing of the kind!" said Olive sharply.
Larssen at once adjusted himself to her mood. "Well, that's as you please. The affair is yoursand not mine. I don't doubt you have good reasons."
Olive played nervously with a spoon. "I've decided to drop the matter."
"Which?"
"Divorce."
Larssen had the sudden feeling that during his absence in the States the reins had slipped from his hands. He would have to play very warily for their recovery.
"No doubt you're right," he answered tacitly, inviting explanation.
"I want my husband back."
"Very natural."
"I want you to get him back for me."
"That's a large order. I don't know the circumstances yet."
"There's nothing much to tell. I saw this Miss Verney and I saw Clifford, and I've changed my mind—that's all."
"What did she say to you."
"She tried to make me believe that she wanted a divorce and would let the suit go undefended."
"Bluff?"
"Yes."
"You saw through it at once?"
"Yes."
"Then what's made you switch?"
"Why shouldn't I change my mind?" countered Olive coldly.
Larssen summed her up now with pin-point accuracy. Jealousy had worked this transformation. She wanted her husband because the otherwoman wanted him. And he, Larssen, was dependent on Olive's whims! The flotation of his Hudson Bay scheme hinging on her momentary fancies!
The fighting instinct surged up within him. He could look for no help from Olive—it was to be a single-handed battle with Clifford Matheson. Well, he'd give no quarter to anyone—man or woman!
Aloud he said, with a perfect assumption of resignation: "What do you wish me to do?"
"I don't know. I want you to suggest."
"I suppose Sir Francis knows all about everything?"
"No; I've told him nothing. He still believes Clifford went to Canada."
"That simplifies matters."
"How?"
"I've got the glimmering of a plan. Let me work out details before I put it before you for the O.K.... As I see the problem, it's this. You want Clifford to cut loose from Miss Verney. You want him to return to you. You want me to use that signature to my Hudson Bay prospectus to induce him to return."
"Well?"
"You're making a mistake."
"In what?"
"Never try to force a man's feelings in such a matter. Get him to persuade himself. Let him return of his own free will or not at all. Now my plan, if it works out right, will do that."
"Whatisthe plan?"
"Give me time to get details settled. Is Clifford in London?"
"I don't know where he is."
"I suppose I could get his address through Miss Verney?"
"No doubt."
"Where is she in Wiesbaden?"
"With Dr Hegelmann."
"Just one more question: are you a good sailor?"
"Yes; but why? What a curious question!"
Larssen smiled at her reassuringly. "You'll have to trust me a little. Naturally I want my Hudson Bay scheme to go through smoothly, and if at the same time I can bring husband and wife together, why, it'll be the best day's work done in my life! It'll make me feel good all over!"
"Thanks; that's kind of you!" returned Olive, thawed by the cordial ring of his words.
"No need for thanks—wait till I've worked thedeus ex machinâstunt.... What do you think of my boy?"
"A dear little fellow! But he needs care."
"He looks weak now, but that's the after-effect of the illness. He'll put on muscle presently. He'll be a match for any boy of his age in six months' time."
"I hope so."
"Sure. Let's come and join them at the aviary."
They rose and walked to the house, chatting of impersonal matters, and nothing affecting the Hudson Bay scheme passed between Larssen and Olive or Sir Francis until the moment of leaving.
The baronet was at the door of the motor, seeing his guests depart, when Larssen said in a low voice:
"Important matter to see you about. Could you come to the office?"
"When?"
"To-night?"
"To-night I'm due at the banquet to the Australian Team."
"Couldn't you come on afterwards? I shall be at the office till midnight. It's about the Hudson Bay deal."
"Very well—I'll come about eleven."
"Right! I'll expect you."
As they drove home in the car, Larssen said to his boy:
"Tell me your impressions."
"I think the garden is fine, and the birds are bully little fellows."
"Mrs Matheson—do you like her?"
"Is she——Is she the lady you meant when you said on board ship you were going to marry someone?"
"I want to know what you think of her."
A troubled look came into Olaf's sensitive eyes. "I don't like her very much, Dad."
"Why not?"
"I don't think she means what she says."
"You're mistaken. Mrs Matheson has taken a great liking to you, and I want you to be very nice to her. You must meet her again and get better acquainted. Now see here, I'd like you to invite her on your yacht. That's the big test, isn't it?"
Olaf's eyes brightened at the mention of the yacht. "Very well, Dad," he answered. "Ifyou want me to, of course, I'll try and be nice to her."
"I'll send you down to Southampton Water with Dean, and from the yacht I want you to write a letter to Mrs Matheson. I'll give you the gist of what to say, and you'll put it in your own words."
"Are you going to marry Mrs Matheson, Dad?"
"Not if you don't like her after better acquaintance. I promise you that."
Larssen had spoken part truth when he told Olive over the tea-table that he had the glimmering of a plan in his mind. But its object was by no means what he had led her to believe. It was a scheme of an audacity in keeping with his previous impersonations of the "dead" Clifford Matheson, and its single objective was the attainment of his personal ambitions. Even his own son was to be used to help in the gaining of that one end.
The new scheme, in its essential, held the simplicity of genius. He would, single-handed, float the Hudson Bay company with Matheson's name at the head of the prospectus, whether Matheson assented or not.
The first move was to evade the spirit of his own written compact: "Until May 3rd, I fix up nothing with the underwriters." To get round this obstacle, he decided on the audacious plan of underwriting the entire issuehimself. That is to say, he would give an absolute guarantee that if any portion of the five million pounds were not subscribed for by the general public, he himself would pay cash for and take up those shares. It was a huge risk. In the ordinary course of business no single financehouse in London, the world's financial centre, would take on its shoulders the guaranteeing of a five million pound issue. Lars Larssen proposed to do it. In order to provide the requisite security, he would have to mortgage his ships and his private investments. He would be dicing with nine-tenths of his entire fortune.
The second move was to prevent interference, while the issue was being offered to the public, from those who knew anything of the inner history of the flotation—Matheson, Olive, Elaine, and Dean. Arthur Dean could easily be kept out of the way. Elaine would no doubt be still confined to the surgical home at Wiesbaden. Matheson and his wife were problems of much more difficulty. In whatever part of Europe Matheson might be, he would be certain to hear of the flotation. The point was to delay his knowledge of it for two or three days. After that, interference on his part could not undo what had been done. "One cannot unscramble an egg."
For the success of the first move, it was essential to have the willing co-operation of Sir Francis. Consequently Larssen was particularly cordial and gracious to him that evening at the Leadenhall Street offices, passing him compliments about his business abilities, which found their mark unerringly.
Presently the shipowner got down to the crux of the matter, taking out the draft prospectus from the drawer in his desk and smoothing it out to show the signature of Clifford Matheson.
"As you see, I sent it to Clifford to O.K.," he said.
Sir Francis looked at the signature through his pair of business eyeglasses, and nodded an official confirmation.
Larssen continued: "There's no alteration necessary—Clifford passes it as it stands. But I've thought of one point which I reckon would add very considerable weight in its appeal to the public."
"What's that?"
"The underwriting. There are a few blank lines here"—he turned over to a page of small type—"where the details of the underwriting arrangements were to be filled in. We were negotiating on a 4 per cent. basis, you remember. On some of it we should have had to offer an overriding commission of another 1 per cent. Say 4½ per cent. on the average—that's £225,000 on the round five million shares. A big sum for the company to pay out!"
"I don't see how we can avoid it."
"We might cut it out altogether and state that 'No part of this issue has been underwritten.' That sounds like confidence on our part."
Sir Francis shook his head emphatically. "It might do in the States, but it won't do over here. Our public wouldn't like it. It's not the thing."
Larssen knew this latter was an overwhelming reason to the baronet's mind.
"Very well; pass that suggestion," said he. "Here's a far better one. Suppose we could get the underwriting done at 3 per cent. straight. That would save the company £75,000."
"What house would take it on at that?"
"Iwould."
"You!" exclaimed the amazed Sir Francis.
"Why not?" quietly replied the shipowner.
"But——!" The baronet paused in perplexity.
"Well, what's the particular 'but'?"
"We—the company—would have to ask you for the fullest security."
"Of course."
"Security up to the whole five million pounds."
"Of course."
"But——But I don't quite see your reason for the suggestion."
"My reason is just this," answered Larssen earnestly. "I want that prospectus to breathe out confidence in every line and every word. I want the whole five millions taken up by the public, and not left partly on the underwriters' shoulders. I want to do everything I can to make the public realise that they're being offered the squarest deal that ever was. What better plan could you have than getting the vendor—myself—to guarantee the whole issue at a mere 3 per cent. cover? No financial house of any standing would look at it for a trifle of 3 per cent. But I stand in and take the whole risk—the whole five million risk—and give you securities on my ships that bears looking into with a microscope."
Sir Francis gasped his admiration of the daring offer.
"That's pluck!" he exclaimed.
"Well, what do you say? Are you agreeable, for one?"
"Certainly—certainly!"
"Then will you bring St Aubyn and Carleton-Wingate here, and get their consent? Say to-morrow morning?"
"That's very short notice."
"You can get them on the telephone. If they're here to-morrow morning and consent—there ought to be no difficulty about that—you three Directors can sick the lawyers on to me at once and fix up the security deeds in a day or so."
"You ought to have been born an Englishman!" said the baronet admiringly.
"One point occurs to me. Let's keep this matter close until the prospectus is actually launched. I don't want any Stock Exchange 'wreckers!' trying to stick a knife into my back. You know some of their tricks?"
"Certainly—certainly!"
"I don't think I'd even mention it to your daughter. Women—even the best of them—can't help talking."
"Women are not meant for business," agreed the baronet sententiously.
In pursuance of his second move, Larssen had to see Miss Verney. To write to her would probably be fruitless waste of time; and it was emphatically not the kind of interview to delegate to a subordinate. He had to seek her in person.
It was curious to reflect that, in this tangle of four lives, the balance of power had shifted successively from one to the other. At first it was with Matheson. A letter of his had brought the shipowner hastening to Paris to see him. Later, it was Larssen who sat still and Matheson who hurried to find him. Later again, it was Olive who held decision between the two men. And now Elaine.
As soon as he had settled the underwriting affair with Sir Francis and his two co-Directors, Larssen went straight to Wiesbaden to the surgical home, and had his card sent in to Elaine.
Elaine received him in the garden of the home, under the soft shade of a spreading linden, where she had been chatting with another patient. Near by, a laburnum drooped in shower of gold over a bush of delicate white guelder-rose as Zeus over Danæ. Upon the wall of the home wistaria hungher pastel-shaded pendants of flower, like the notes of some beautiful melody, sweet and sad, along the giant staves of her stem. A Chopin could have harmonized the melody, weaving in little trills and silvery treble notes from the joy-song of the nesting birds.
The bandages had been removed from the patient's eyes, and she wore a pair of wide dark glasses side-curtained from the light.
After a few conventional words of greeting and inquiry, Larssen drew up a chair beside hers. "You're wondering why I've called on you," he began. "You're thinking that a stranger—and a busy man at that—wouldn't have travelled to Wiesbaden merely to inquire after you. You're thinking that I want something."
"What is it you want from me?" asked Elaine with frank directness.
"I want your help," returned Larssen with an assumption of equal frankness.
"My help! For what?"
"For Matheson."
"And what is this help you want from me?"
"It's simple enough, but first let me spread out the situation as I see it. If I'm wrong, you'll correct me.... To begin with, Matheson is a man of complex character and high ideals. The latter have been snowed under in his business career. He's like an Alpine peak. From the distance, it looks cold and aloof, but underneath there's a carpet of blue gentian waiting to spring out into blossom when the sun melts off the snow-layer. I don't pay idle compliments when I say that I haven'tfar to look for the sun that's melting off the snow."
He paused.
Elaine remained silent, but Larssen's vivid metaphor went home to her.
"I used to admire Matheson as a financier," pursued the shipowner. "Now I respect him as a man. He's put up the fists to me over what he believes to be his duty to the British public, and I like him all the better for it."
"You threatened Mr Matheson that you would have me dragged into a divorce court if he didn't sign agreement to your prospectus."
It was a definite statement and not a question, and from it Larssen judged that the financier had told her everything from start to finish.
"I did, and there's where my mistake lay. One mustn't threaten a man of Matheson's calibre. Please understand this, Miss Verney, all question of divorce is dead."
"It would make no difference to me."
"It was fine of you to say so to Mrs Matheson. You've pluck."
"Then you've been talking matters over with Mrs Matheson?"
"Certainly. I want to arrive at a final settlement for all of us."
"How?"
"That's where I want your help. First let me complete my lay-out of the situation.... Matheson is a man of high ideals. But he tangled up his life pretty badly on the night of March 14th, when he tried to cut loose from his old career. It was amistake. We've both made mistakes, he and I. The unfortunate part is that the consequences don't fall on us. They fall on Mrs Matheson and yourself. You note that I place Mrs Matheson before yourself? That's deliberate."
Again he paused, but Elaine did not make any comment. She guessed now what Larssen had come to say to her, and a shiver of fear went through her. Not fear of Larssen as a man, but as a spokesman for Fate. In the deliberate unfolding of his statement, there was the passionless gravity of Fate.
Guessing her thoughts, Larssen's voice deepened as he continued: "I definitely place Mrs Matheson before yourself. She is his wife. He married her for better or worse. However mistaken he may have been in his estimate of her, he must keep to his promise of the altar-side. She is his wife. As a man of honour, Matheson's first duty is to stand by his wife. I don't want to wound your feelings, believe me. But I have to say this: you must realise Mrs Matheson's point of view."
"I think I do."
"Do you realise that she is eating her heart out in loneliness?"
"I didn't know."
"I do know. I went to see her a couple of days ago at Thornton Chase. The change in her these last few weeks startled me. I deliberately say this: you have, unknowingly, dealt her a blow from which she will never recover. She is naturally far from strong, and though I'm not a doctor, I venture to make this prophecy: within three years, Mrs Matheson will be dead."
A low cry of expostulation came from Elaine.
"It's an ugly, brutal fact," pursued Larssen, pressing home his advantage to the fullest extent. Now that he had probed for and reached the raw nerve of feeling, he intended to keep it tight gripped in the forceps of his words. "It's brutal, but it's true. Unwittingly, you have shortened her life."
"I've sent Mr Matheson away," faltered Elaine.
"I guessed that. But will he stay away from you?"
"Yes."
"I doubt it."
"We've said good-bye!"
"But he writes to you?"
There was an answer in her silence.
"He writes to you. That means a great deal—a very great deal."
"What do you want from me?" cried the tortured girl.
"Reparation," was the grave answer.
"To——?"
"To Mrs Matheson—to his wife."
"What more can I do than I have done?"
"Doesn't your heart tell you?"
"I'm torn with——"
"With love for him. I know. I know. I'm asking from you the biggest sacrifice of all—for his sake and for her sake. While she lives, give her back what happiness you can," Larssen's voice had lowered almost to a whisper.
"What more can I do than I have done?"
"Much more. Write to Matheson definitely andfinally. Send him back to his wife. She is to cruise on board the 'Starlight'—a yacht of mine—with my little son. Send Matheson to meet her on the yacht."
"And then?"
"Then they will come together again. I'm certain of it. I've seen Mrs Matheson and read the change in her feelings. She'll be a different woman now.... Can you see to write?"
"Yes—faintly."
"Then write to Matheson what your heart will dictate to you," said Larssen gently.
Presently he resumed: "Where is he now?"
"At Nîmes."
"Ah, yes—the trial."
"It should be finished to-day."
"Then Matheson will probably be returning to London to see me. There's no need for him to hurry back. He could board the 'Starlight' at Boulogne or any other port he might prefer."
"Isn't May 3rd the day that ends your agreement?" asked Elaine.
"It is; but I'll extend that date." Larssen took from his pockets a fountain-pen and a scrap of paper and scribbled a few words on it, signing his name underneath. "Suppose you enclose this when you're writing to Matheson? It extends our agreement until May 20th."
He passed the paper to her.
The power of the human word, of the human voice—how limitless it is! Larssen, master of word and voice, had Elaine convinced through and through of his sincerity in the matter of reconcilinghusband and wife. He had appealed with unerring judgment to her finest feelings, and she read her own altruism into his words.
Larssen knew that his point was won, and long experience had taught him to close an interview as soon as he had carried conviction.
"I won't tire you any longer," he said, rising. "I just want to say this: you'rebig. You're the finer woman by far, but she is his wife."
The trial at Nîmes proved a wearisome, sordid affair, and its result was a foregone conclusion. If there had been some motive of romantic jealousy on the part of the youth Crau, a French jury might have returned a sentimental verdict of acquittal. As it was, they found him guilty, and the judge sentenced him to three years penal servitude.
Rivière was heartily glad when the trial was over. It was now the end of April—close to the date of May 3rd, when the truce between Larssen and himself would expire. The shipowner would be back in London, and no doubt would have heard from Olive something of the changed situation. Force of circumstance would make him readjust his attitude, and he would probably be ready to offer compromise.
Rivière judged it advisable to return to England, and there to wait for overtures on the part of Larssen. He had taken ticket for London, and was preparing for travel, when two letters reached him, from Olive and Elaine.
The latter gave him a keen thrill of pleasure. It was written by Elaine herself, and this was proof indeed of the miracle of surgery wrought by DrHegelmann. But its contents made him very thoughtful. She was asking him to go back to his wife. She was pointing out to him a path of duty exceedingly hard to tread.
Olive's letter added further pressure on his feelings. She was advised to try a sea-voyage for her health, she told him; Larssen had placed his yacht at her disposal; she begged her husband to meet her at Boulogne and once more to give her a chance to explain. It was an appeal utterly different to the attitude she had taken at Wiesbaden—there was now a sincerity in it which Rivière could not mistake.
The enclosure in Elaine's letter did not surprise him. If Larssen of his own accord offered to extend the truce until May 20th, it must mean that the shipowner was aware of his shaky position and ready to suggest compromise.
The effect of those three communications on Rivière's mind was what Larssen had so shrewdly planned. Rivière wired to his wife that he would meet her at Boulogne Harbour.
That evening he caught a Paris express with a through P.L.M. carriage for Boulogne. At the Gare de Lyon, in the early morning, they shunted him round the slow and tedious Girdle Railway to the Gare du Nord, clanked him on the boat train, and sped him northwards again in a revigorated burst of railway energy. North of Paris, a P.L.M. carriage undergoes a marked change of character. It deferentially subdues its nationality, and takes on an Anglo-American aspect. Harris-tweeded young men pitch golf-bags and ice-axes on the rack,and smoke bulldog pipes in its corridors with an air of easy proprietorship. American spinsters, scouring Europe in couples, order lunch in high-pitched American without troubling to translate. The few Frenchmen who find themselves in the train have almost the apologetic air of intruders.
While passing through the corridor of a second-class carriage, Rivière happened on the tubby little figure and rosy smiling countenance of Jimmy Martin the journalist. Martin never forgot a face or a name—it was part of his profession to make an unlimited acquaintanceship with everyone who might possibly "have a story to tell."
"Hail, sir!" said he cheerily. "You haven't forgotten the little sermon I had to preach to you on the infallibility of my owners, theEurope Chronicle?"
Rivière shook hands cordially. "I remember perfectly. You're going home on holiday, I expect?"
"I'm going home for good, praise be. I've sacked my owners. I told them that they were a set of unmitigated liars, scoundrels and bloodsuckers, and that I couldn't reconcile it with my conscience to work for them any longer without a 20 per cent. increase in pay. They demurred, and I promptly sacked them—having in my pocket an offer from a London paper. Thus we combine valour with prudence—a mixture which is more colloquially known as 'business.'"
"What's your new post?"
"Reporter for theLondon Daily Truth. Ifyou've a story to tell at any time, and want a platform to speak from, 'phone me up."
"Thanks; I will."
"I've been turning my think-tank on to the Hudson Bay Transport flotation. You certainly had some inside information on that deal. Why did it shut up with a snap, I ask myself. Who banged the lid down?"
Martin's effort to pump information was very transparent, but his infectious good humour made it impossible to take offence.
Rivière was a keen judge of men, and he felt instinctive confidence in the honesty of the whimsical little journalist. One could trust this man. There was nobody within hearing along the corridor of the railway carriage. Accordingly he answered:
"If you'll keep the information strictly to yourself until I want publication, I'll tell you."
Martin sobered instantly. "Mr Rivière," said he, "you can trust me absolutely. I play square."
"So I judge.... You ask me who banged the lid down. I did."
"Phew! You must have landed Larssen a hefty one on the solar plexus."
"The matter is not finally settled yet. It's just possible that I might need the platform you offered me. Then I'll talk further."
"Exclusive?" asked Martin, with the journalist part of him on top.
"I can't promise that. It depends."
"Well, first call at any rate. We might get out a special edition in front of the other fellows. We've started a new evening paper at theDaily Truthoffice, and I'd like to secure a scoop for one of the two.... My stars, if I could have seen the scrap between you and Larssen! There must have been some juicy copy in that!"
"No doubt," commented Rivière drily. "Well, I'll say good-bye now."
"Anyhow, thanks for your promise. I'll look forward to the next meeting.Au revoir, as they say in this whisker-ridden country."
Boulogne harbour was crowded with grimy tramp steamers, fishing boats, and a rabble of plebeian harbour craft, but the yacht "Starlight" was not in view. Rivière inquired at the office of the harbour-master, and was informed that a telegram promised the yacht's arrival by nightfall.
She arrived true to promise, and lay out beyond the twin piers of the harbour-mouth in the quiet of sunset of the evening of April 30th—a trim-lined, quietly capable, three-masted craft. Larssen had referred to her as a "small cruising yacht," but in reality the "Starlight" was much more than that casual description would convey. In addition to her extensive sailing power, she had a set of marine oil engines for use in light winds or special emergency, and her cabins and saloons were roomy and comfortable. She could carry a party of a dozen passengers with comfort if there were need, and had four life-boats as well as a shore dinghy. The kitchen equipment was admirable. Altogether, a trim, well-found yacht which might have voyaged round the world without mishap.
The dinghy was sent off with the mate and a couple of seamen, and entered the harbour toenquire for Rivière at the harbour-master's office, according to arrangement.
"Pleased to meet you, sir," said the mate. "Mrs Matheson's compliments, and will you come aboard?"
"Is Mr Larssen on the yacht?"
"No. Mrs Matheson, her maid, and Master Olaf—that's all. We're giving the little chap a training in seamanship.... Jim, take the gentleman's luggage."
They rowed out to the "Starlight," lying trimly at anchor like a capable, self-possessed hostess awaiting the arrival of a week-end guest at a country-house. Olive waved greeting to her husband as he came near. By her side was Larssen's little son, holding her hand. He might have almost been posed there by the shipowner to inspire confidence in the peaceful intentions of the yachting cruise.
Olive thoroughly believed that Larssen's sole object in placing the yacht at her disposal was to reconcile husband and wife, and so indirectly to smooth over the quarrel between himself and Clifford. She had no suspicion that his real objective was to get Matheson on the high seas, the only region where he could not hear of the coming flotation of the Hudson Bay Transport, Ltd. Larssen had told her that she was free to order the yacht's movements as she pleased—he merely suggested in a perfectly casual way that a cruise to the Norwegian fjords might prove enjoyable.
"It was good of you to come!" said Olive as her husband mounted the gangway to the white-raileddeck. There was unmistakable sincerity in her greeting.
"I'm to be captain of the 'Starlight' as soon as I get my skipper's ticket," confided the little boy as he shook hands.
Matheson had made up his mind to carry out Elaine's wish. He had come back to his wife; and he was prepared to fall in with any plan that she might propose. Accordingly, when she suggested the alternatives of a cruise down the Channel and up to the Hebrides, or a cruise to Norway, he left the decision to her. She chose Norway. Matheson, with the shipowner's agreement in his pocket to extend their truce to May 20th, raised no objection. There was ample time to be back in England before that date.
Olive gave her orders to the captain. Before weighing anchor, the latter sent on shore for further provisions. At the same time he dispatched a telegram to Larssen stating that they were bound for Norway that evening.
A smooth deft dinner was served to Matheson and his wife in the comfortable saloon as the yacht weighed anchor, slung round to a light wind from the south-east, and made gently towards the outer edge of the Goodwins. Through the starboard portholes Wimereux Plage twinkled gaily to them from its string of lights on esplanade and summer villas; Cap Grisnez flashed its calm white light of guardianship; Calais town sent a message of kindly greeting from the far distance; only the Varne Sands whispered a wordless warning as they swirled the waters above them and sent a flock ofshivering wavelets to beat against the smooth hull of the "Starlight."
On that night of April 30th, while Clifford Matheson slept on board the yacht, the presses of Fleet Street thundered off millions of newspapers which bore on their financial page the impressive prospectus of Hudson Bay Transport, Ltd. The post bore off to every town and village in the United Kingdom hundreds of thousands of copies of the issue in its full legal detail.
Heading the prospectus were these names on the Board of Directors:—
The capital was divided into 5,000,000 Ordinary £1 Shares, and 4,000,000 Deferred Shares of 1s. The latter were assigned to the vendor, Lars Larssen, in payment for various considerations. He had also underwritten the entire issue of Ordinary Shares for a commission of 3 per cent. The lists for subscription were to open on May 1st and close at midday on May 3rd. The London and United Kingdom Bank, in which Lord St. Aubyn was a Director, was receiving subscriptions and carrying out the routine of issuing allotment letters.
Such in essence was the prospectus of HudsonBay Transport, Ltd. It embodied every point that Larssen aimed for. It was entirely legal, since Matheson had O.K.'d a copy of the prospectus, and the further agreement between the two men had been technically evaded by the fact of Larssen underwriting the entire issue himself.
By the time the "Starlight" reached Norway, the subscription lists would be closed and Matheson would be impotent to veto the issue. If he were three days on the high seas between France and Norway, Larssen would have gained the control of Britain's wheat-supply.
And Matheson had no knowledge of the daring game that his adversary was venturing. Not even a suspicion of it. In his pocket was the shipowner's agreement to extend their truce to May 20th. His mind was at rest regarding the Hudson Bay Scheme.
His thoughts were now centred on Olive and the strangevolte facein her feelings towards him. The change in her was scarcely understandable. Yet it was entirely a normal outcome of her essential character. Olive had never appreciated Clifford's value to herself until that day at Wiesbaden when she had realised his value to the woman who was ready to sacrifice her reputation and her happiness in order to free his hands. The torrent of bitter words she had poured on Elaine was the reflex action of that sudden realisation. It was born of uncontrollable jealousy.
Now she wanted to win Clifford back. It was not sufficient that he had returned to her side. She wanted his regard, his esteem, his affection, his love. She wanted a child by him to bind them together.The tenderness with which she was looking after Larssen's little son was an outward expression of that inner hope. It was a prophecy of the future. Olaf stood for what might be. If she should have a child of her own, she felt convinced that Clifford would remain with her.
Those feelings were now the focus of Olive's thoughts. The sincerity of her greeting to Clifford was not an assumed emotion. It was inner-real. And yet it might not last for long. The effect of her drug-taking was to make every momentary feeling seem an eternal, ineradicable mainspring of action. Her many moods were each at the moment vitally important to her. They obsessed her. The morphia had not only undermined her physical health, but had made her mind the prey of every passing emotion.
For his part, Matheson was trying to weigh up the essential value of this sudden change in his wife. He admitted the sincerity; he doubted the permanency. He realised that she ardently desired a child of her own—that was plain to read from her attitude towards Larssen's son. But in the past she had always been impatient with children, and he questioned whether her present feeling was more than transitory.
The morning of May 1st brought grey sky, grey waters, and a tumbling sea. The yacht was beating north-east, close-hauled, into a stiff breeze from eastwards. No land was in sight—only a few trawler sails and a squat, ugly tramp steamer flinging a pennant of black smoke to westwards. As the day wore on the wind rose steadily, and inthe afternoon the watch turned out to reef sails. Matheson was an excellent sailor, and this tussle with the elements exhilarated him. Olive, too, was quite at home on board a yacht, and the two marched the decks together in keen enjoyment of the bite of the wind and the whip of the salt spray.
By nightfall the wind had increased to a half-gale but the "Starlight" rode through the sea in splendid defiance, sure of her staunchness and steady in her purpose.
In this fight for the control of Britain's wheat-supply, Larssen had played to the highest his powers of intellect, his foresight, and his ruthless determination. He had forced the signature of Clifford Matheson to the draft prospectus, thus sanctioning its issue. He had evaded by one daring stroke the spirit of his own signed agreement. He had most carefully and minutely arranged for the flotation of the company at the time when Matheson would be on the high seas and out of touch with London news.
The "Starlight" was a well-found yacht, capable of weathering any North Sea gale. She had oil-engines to supplement her sailing power. She was provisioned for a month. Rough weather would not drive her back to harbour. She could fight through any wind or sea to Norway. Nothing had been overlooked to carry Larssen's scheme to perfect success.
Save only the hand of Providence.... Fate....
For such a man as Lars Larssen there is no other antagonist he need fear.
But Fate, with its little finger, can squeeze him to nothingness.
Out in the North Sea, wallowing sullenly in the trough of the waves, her masts gone by the board and her deck awash, lay the derelict schooner "Valkyrie" of Bergen. She would have been at the bottom of the sea had it not been for her cargo of Norway pine, keeping her painfully afloat against her will. Fate, with its little finger, moved this uncharted peril right in the track of the "Starlight," beating close-reefed through the buffeting waves on the night of May 1st, while Larssen, in his London home, satisfied that his plans had foreseen every human eventuality, slept the easy sleep of the successful.