Issuing from the offices of “The Island Navigation Company,” Sylvanus Heythorp moved towards the corner whence he always took tram to Sefton Park. The crowded street had all that prosperous air of catching or missing something which characterises the town where London and New York and Dublin meet. Old Heythorp had to cross to the far side, and he sallied forth without regard to traffic. That snail-like passage had in it a touch of the sublime; the old man seemed saying: “Knock me down and be d—-d to you—I'm not going to hurry.” His life was saved perhaps ten times a day by the British character at large, compounded of phlegm and a liking to take something under its protection. The tram conductors on that line were especially used to him, never failing to catch him under the arms and heave him like a sack of coals, while with trembling hands he pulled hard at the rail and strap.
“All right, sir?”
“Thank you.”
He moved into the body of the tram, where somebody would always get up from kindness and the fear that he might sit down on them; and there he stayed motionless, his little eyes tight closed. With his red face, tuft of white hairs above his square cleft block of shaven chin, and his big high-crowned bowler hat, which yet seemed too petty for his head with its thick hair—he looked like some kind of an idol dug up and decked out in gear a size too small.
One of those voices of young men from public schools and exchanges where things are bought and sold, said:
“How de do, Mr. Heythorp?”
Old Heythorp opened his eyes. That sleek cub, Joe Pillin's son! What a young pup-with his round eyes, and his round cheeks, and his little moustache, his fur coat, his spats, his diamond pin!
“How's your father?” he said.
“Thanks, rather below par, worryin' about his ships. Suppose you haven't any news for him, sir?”
Old Heythorp nodded. The young man was one of his pet abominations, embodying all the complacent, little-headed mediocrity of this new generation; natty fellows all turned out of the same mould, sippers and tasters, chaps without drive or capacity, without even vices; and he did not intend to gratify the cub's curiosity.
“Come to my house,” he said; “I'll give you a note for him.”
“Tha-anks; I'd like to cheer the old man up.”
The old man! Cheeky brat! And closing his eyes he relapsed into immobility. The tram wound and ground its upward way, and he mused. When he was that cub's age—twenty-eight or whatever it might be—he had done most things; been up Vesuvius, driven four-in-hand, lost his last penny on the Derby and won it back on the Oaks, known all the dancers and operatic stars of the day, fought a duel with a Yankee at Dieppe and winged him for saying through his confounded nose that Old England was played out; been a controlling voice already in his shipping firm; drunk five other of the best men in London under the table; broken his neck steeple-chasing; shot a burglar in the legs; been nearly drowned, for a bet; killed snipe in Chelsea; been to Court for his sins; stared a ghost out of countenance; and travelled with a lady of Spain. If this young pup had done the last, it would be all he had; and yet, no doubt, he would call himself a “spark.”
The conductor touched his arm.
“'Ere you are, sir.”
“Thank you.”
He lowered himself to the ground, and moved in the bluish darkness towards the gate of his daughter's house. Bob Pillin walked beside him, thinking: 'Poor old josser, he is gettin' a back number!' And he said: “I should have thought you ought to drive, sir. My old guv'nor would knock up at once if he went about at night like this.”
The answer rumbled out into the misty air:
“Your father's got no chest; never had.”
Bob Pillin gave vent to one of those fat cackles which come so readily from a certain type of man; and old Heythorp thought:
'Laughing at his father! Parrot!'
They had reached the porch.
A woman with dark hair and a thin, straight face and figure was arranging some flowers in the hall. She turned and said:
“You really ought not to be so late, Father! It's wicked at this time of year. Who is it—oh! Mr. Pillin, how do you do? Have you had tea? Won't you come to the drawing-room; or do you want to see my father?”
“Tha-anks! I believe your father—” And he thought: 'By Jove! the old chap is a caution!' For old Heythorp was crossing the hall without having paid the faintest attention to his daughter. Murmuring again:
“Tha-anks awfully; he wants to give me something,” he followed. Miss Heythorp was not his style at all; he had a kind of dread of that thin woman who looked as if she could never be unbuttoned. They said she was a great churchgoer and all that sort of thing.
In his sanctum old Heythorp had moved to his writing-table, and was evidently anxious to sit down.
“Shall I give you a hand, sir?”
Receiving a shake of the head, Bob Pillin stood by the fire and watched. The old “sport” liked to paddle his own canoe. Fancy having to lower yourself into a chair like that! When an old Johnny got to such a state it was really a mercy when he snuffed out, and made way for younger men. How his Companies could go on putting up with such a fossil for chairman was a marvel! The fossil rumbled and said in that almost inaudible voice:
“I suppose you're beginning to look forward to your father's shoes?”
Bob Pillin's mouth opened. The voice went on:
“Dibs and no responsibility. Tell him from me to drink port—add five years to his life.”
To this unwarranted attack Bob Pillin made no answer save a laugh; he perceived that a manservant had entered the room.
“A Mrs. Larne, sir. Will you see her?”
At this announcement the old man seemed to try and start; then he nodded, and held out the note he had written. Bob Pillin received it together with the impression of a murmur which sounded like: “Scratch a poll, Poll!” and passing the fine figure of a woman in a fur coat, who seemed to warm the air as she went by, he was in the hall again before he perceived that he had left his hat.
A young and pretty girl was standing on the bearskin before the fire, looking at him with round-eyed innocence. He thought: 'This is better; I mustn't disturb them for my hat'. and approaching the fire, said:
“Jolly cold, isn't it?”
The girl smiled: “Yes-jolly.”
He noticed that she had a large bunch of violets at her breast, a lot of fair hair, a short straight nose, and round blue-grey eyes very frank and open. “Er” he said, “I've left my hat in there.”
“What larks!” And at her little clear laugh something moved within Bob Pillin.
“You know this house well?”
She shook her head. “But it's rather scrummy, isn't it?”
Bob Pillin, who had never yet thought so answered:
“Quite O.K.”
The girl threw up her head to laugh again. “O.K.? What's that?”
Bob Pillin saw her white round throat, and thought: 'She is a ripper!' And he said with a certain desperation:
“My name's Pillin. Yours is Larne, isn't it? Are you a relation here?”
“He's our Guardy. Isn't he a chook?”
That rumbling whisper like “Scratch a Poll, Poll!” recurring to Bob Pillin, he said with reservation:
“You know him better than I do.” “Oh! Aren't you his grandson, or something?”
Bob Pillin did not cross himself.
“Lord! No! My dad's an old friend of his; that's all.”
“Is your dad like him?”
“Not much.”
“What a pity! It would have been lovely if they'd been Tweedles.”
Bob Pillin thought: 'This bit is something new. I wonder what her Christian name is.' And he said:
“What did your godfather and godmothers in your baptism—-?”
The girl laughed; she seemed to laugh at everything.
“Phyllis.”
Could he say: “Is my only joy”? Better keep it! But-for what? He wouldn't see her again if he didn't look out! And he said:
“I live at the last house in the park-the red one. D'you know it? Where do you?”
“Oh! a long way—23, Millicent Villas. It's a poky little house. I hate it. We have awful larks, though.”
“Who are we?”
“Mother, and myself, and Jock—he's an awful boy. You can't conceive what an awful boy he is. He's got nearly red hair; I think he'll be just like Guardy when he gets old. He's awful!”
Bob Pillin murmured:
“I should like to see him.”
“Would you? I'll ask mother if you can. You won't want to again; he goes off all the time like a squib.” She threw back her head, and again Bob Pillin felt a little giddy. He collected himself, and drawled:
“Are you going in to see your Guardy?”
“No. Mother's got something special to say. We've never been here before, you see. Isn't he fun, though?”
“Fun!”
“I think he's the greatest lark; but he's awfully nice to me. Jock calls him the last of the Stoic'uns.”
A voice called from old Heythorp's den:
“Phyllis!” It had a particular ring, that voice, as if coming from beautifully formed red lips, of which the lower one must curve the least bit over; it had, too, a caressing vitality, and a kind of warm falsity.
The girl threw a laughing look back over her shoulder, and vanished through the door into the room.
Bob Pillin remained with his back to the fire and his puppy round eyes fixed on the air that her figure had last occupied. He was experiencing a sensation never felt before. Those travels with a lady of Spain, charitably conceded him by old Heythorp, had so far satisfied the emotional side of this young man; they had stopped short at Brighton and Scarborough, and been preserved from even the slightest intrusion of love. A calculated and hygienic career had caused no anxiety either to himself or his father; and this sudden swoop of something more than admiration gave him an uncomfortable choky feeling just above his high round collar, and in the temples a sort of buzzing—those first symptoms of chivalry. A man of the world does not, however, succumb without a struggle; and if his hat had not been out of reach, who knows whether he would not have left the house hurriedly, saying to himself: “No, no, my boy; Millicent Villas is hardly your form, when your intentions are honourable”? For somehow that round and laughing face, bob of glistening hair, those wide-opened grey eyes refused to awaken the beginnings of other intentions—such is the effect of youth and innocence on even the steadiest young men. With a kind of moral stammer, he was thinking: 'Can I—dare I offer to see them to their tram? Couldn't I even nip out and get the car round and send them home in it? No, I might miss them—better stick it out here! What a jolly laugh! What a tipping face—strawberries and cream, hay, and all that! Millicent Villas!' And he wrote it on his cuff.
The door was opening; he heard that warm vibrating voice: “Come along, Phyllis!”—the girl's laugh so high and fresh: “Right-o! Coming!” And with, perhaps, the first real tremor he had ever known, he crossed to the front door. All the more chivalrous to escort them to the tram without a hat! And suddenly he heard: “I've got your hat, young man!” And her mother's voice, warm, and simulating shock: “Phyllis, you awful gairl! Did you ever see such an awful gairl; Mr.—-”
“Pillin, Mother.”
And then—he did not quite know how—insulated from the January air by laughter and the scent of fur and violets, he was between them walking to their tram. It was like an experience out of the “Arabian Nights,” or something of that sort, an intoxication which made one say one was going their way, though one would have to come all the way back in the same beastly tram. Nothing so warming had ever happened to him as sitting between them on that drive, so that he forgot the note in his pocket, and his desire to relieve the anxiety of the “old man,” his father. At the tram's terminus they all got out. There issued a purr of invitation to come and see them some time; a clear: “Jock'll love to see you!” A low laugh: “You awful gairl!” And a flash of cunning zigzagged across his brain. Taking off his hat, he said:
“Thanks awfully; rather!” and put his foot back on the step of the tram. Thus did he delicately expose the depths of his chivalry!
“Oh! you said you were going our way! What one-ers you do tell! Oh!” The words were as music; the sight of those eyes growing rounder, the most perfect he had ever seen; and Mrs. Larne's low laugh, so warm yet so preoccupied, and the tips of the girl's fingers waving back above her head. He heaved a sigh, and knew no more till he was seated at his club before a bottle of champagne. Home! Not he! He wished to drink and dream. “The old man” would get his news all right to-morrow!
The words: “A Mrs. Larne to see you, sir,” had been of a nature to astonish weaker nerves. What had brought her here? She knew she mustn't come! Old Heythorp had watched her entrance with cynical amusement. The way she whiffed herself at that young pup in passing, the way her eyes slid round! He had a very just appreciation of his son's widow; and a smile settled deep between his chin tuft and his moustache. She lifted his hand, kissed it, pressed it to her splendid bust, and said:
“So here I am at last, you see. Aren't you surprised?”
Old Heythorp, shook his head.
“I really had to come and see you, Guardy; we haven't had a sight of you for such an age. And in this awful weather! How are you, dear old Guardy?”
“Never better.” And, watching her green-grey eyes, he added:
“Haven't a penny for you!”
Her face did not fall; she gave her feather-laugh.
“How dreadful of you to think I came for that! But I am in an awful fix, Guardy.”
“Never knew you not to be.”
“Just let me tell you, dear; it'll be some relief. I'm having the most terrible time.”
She sank into a low chair, disengaging an overpowering scent of violets, while melancholy struggled to subdue her face and body.
“The most awful fix. I expect to be sold up any moment. We may be on the streets to-morrow. I daren't tell the children; they're so happy, poor darlings. I shall be obliged to take Jock away from school. And Phyllis will have to stop her piano and dancing; it's an absolute crisis. And all due to those Midland Syndicate people. I've been counting on at least two hundred for my new story, and the wretches have refused it.”
With a tiny handkerchief she removed one tear from the corner of one eye. “It is hard, Guardy; I worked my brain silly over that story.”
From old Heythorp came a mutter which sounded suspiciously like:
“Rats!”
Heaving a sigh, which conveyed nothing but the generosity of her breathing apparatus, Mrs. Larne went on:
“You couldn't, I suppose, let me have just one hundred?”
“Not a bob.”
She sighed again, her eyes slid round the room; then in her warm voice she murmured:
“Guardy, you were my dear Philip's father, weren't you? I've never said anything; but of course you were. He was so like you, and so is Jock.”
Nothing moved in old Heythorp's face. No pagan image consulted with flowers and song and sacrifice could have returned less answer. Her dear Philip! She had led him the devil of a life, or he was a Dutchman! And what the deuce made her suddenly trot out the skeleton like this? But Mrs. Larne's eyes were still wandering.
“What a lovely house! You know, I think you ought to help me, Guardy. Just imagine if your grandchildren were thrown out into the street!”
The old man grinned. He was not going to deny his relationship—it was her look-out, not his. But neither was he going to let her rush him.
“And they will be; you couldn't look on and see it. Do come to my rescue this once. You really might do something for them.”
With a rumbling sigh he answered:
“Wait. Can't give you a penny now. Poor as a church mouse.”
“Oh! Guardy
“Fact.”
Mrs. Larne heaved one of her most buoyant sighs. She certainly did not believe him.
“Well!” she said; “you'll be sorry when we come round one night and sing for pennies under your window. Wouldn't you like to see Phyllis? I left her in the hall. She's growing such a sweet gairl. Guardy just fifty!”
“Not a rap.”
Mrs. Larne threw up her hands. “Well! You'll repent it. I'm at my last gasp.” She sighed profoundly, and the perfume of violets escaped in a cloud; Then, getting up, she went to the door and called: “Phyllis!”
When the girl entered old Heythorp felt the nearest approach to a flutter of the heart for many years. She had put her hair up! She was like a spring day in January; such a relief from that scented humbug, her mother. Pleasant the touch of her lips on his forehead, the sound of her clear voice, the sight of her slim movements, the feeling that she did him credit—clean-run stock, she and that young scamp Jock—better than the holy woman, his daughter Adela, would produce if anyone were ever fool enough to marry her, or that pragmatical fellow, his son Ernest.
And when they were gone he reflected with added zest on the six thousand pounds he was getting for them out of Joe Pillin and his ships. He would have to pitch it strong in his speech at the general meeting. With freights so low, there was bound to be opposition. No dash nowadays; nothing but gabby caution! They were a scrim-shanking lot on the Board—he had had to pull them round one by one—the deuce of a tug getting this thing through! And yet, the business was sound enough. Those ships would earn money, properly handled-good money.
His valet, coming in to prepare him for dinner, found him asleep. He had for the old man as much admiration as may be felt for one who cannot put his own trousers on. He would say to the housemaid Molly: “He's a game old blighter—must have been a rare one in his day. Cocks his hat at you, even now, I see!” To which the girl, Irish and pretty, would reply: “Well, an' sure I don't mind, if it gives um a pleasure. 'Tis better anyway than the sad eye I get from herself.”
At dinner, old Heythorp always sat at one end of the rosewood table and his daughter at the other. It was the eminent moment of the day. With napkin tucked high into his waistcoat, he gave himself to the meal with passion. His palate was undimmed, his digestion unimpaired. He could still eat as much as two men, and drink more than one. And while he savoured each mouthful he never spoke if he could help it. The holy woman had nothing to say that he cared to hear, and he nothing to say that she cared to listen to. She had a horror, too, of what she called “the pleasures of the table”—those lusts of the flesh! She was always longing to dock his grub, he knew. Would see her further first! What other pleasures were there at his age? Let her wait till she was eighty. But she never would be; too thin and holy!
This evening, however, with the advent of the partridge she did speak.
“Who were your visitors, Father?”
Trust her for nosing anything out! Fixing his little blue eyes on her, he mumbled with a very full mouth: “Ladies.”
“So I saw; what ladies?”
He had a longing to say: 'Part of one of my families under the rose.' As a fact it was the best part of the only one, but the temptation to multiply exceedingly was almost overpowering. He checked himself, however, and went on eating partridge, his secret irritation crimsoning his cheeks; and he watched her eyes, those cold precise and round grey eyes, noting it, and knew she was thinking: 'He eats too much.'
She said: “Sorry I'm not considered fit to be told. You ought not to be drinking hock.”
Old Heythorp took up the long green glass, drained it, and repressing fumes and emotion went on with his partridge. His daughter pursed her lips, took a sip of water, and said:
“I know their name is Larne, but it conveyed nothing to me; perhaps it's just as well.”
The old man, mastering a spasm, said with a grin:
“My daughter-in-law and my granddaughter.”
“What! Ernest married—Oh! nonsense!”
He chuckled, and shook his head.
“Then do you mean to say, Father, that you were married before you married my mother?”
“No.”
The expression on her face was as good as a play!
She said with a sort of disgust: “Not married! I see. I suppose those people are hanging round your neck, then; no wonder you're always in difficulties. Are there any more of them?”
Again the old man suppressed that spasm, and the veins in his neck and forehead swelled alarmingly. If he had spoken he would infallibly have choked. He ceased eating, and putting his hands on the table tried to raise himself. He could not and subsiding in his chair sat glaring at the stiff, quiet figure of his daughter.
“Don't be silly, Father, and make a scene before Meller. Finish your dinner.”
He did not answer. He was not going to sit there to be dragooned and insulted! His helplessness had never so weighed on him before. It was like a revelation. A log—that had to put up with anything! A log! And, waiting for his valet to return, he cunningly took up his fork.
In that saintly voice of hers she said:
“I suppose you don't realise that it's a shock to me. I don't know what Ernest will think—”
“Ernest be d—-d.”
“I do wish, Father, you wouldn't swear.”
Old Heythorp's rage found vent in a sort of rumble. How the devil had he gone on all these years in the same house with that woman, dining with her day after day! But the servant had come back now, and putting down his fork he said:
“Help me up!”
The man paused, thunderstruck, with the souffle balanced. To leave dinner unfinished—it was a portent!
“Help me up!”
“Mr. Heythorp's not very well, Meller; take his other arm.”
The old man shook off her hand.
“I'm very well. Help me up. Dine in my own room in future.”
Raised to his feet, he walked slowly out; but in his sanctum he did not sit down, obsessed by this first overwhelming realisation of his helplessness. He stood swaying a little, holding on to the table, till the servant, having finished serving dinner, brought in his port.
“Are you waiting to sit down, sir?”
He shook his head. Hang it, he could do that for himself, anyway. He must think of something to fortify his position against that woman. And he said:
“Send me Molly!”
“Yes, sir.” The man put down the port and went.
Old Heythorp filled his glass, drank, and filled again. He took a cigar from the box and lighted it. The girl came in, a grey-eyed, dark-haired damsel, and stood with her hands folded, her head a little to one side, her lips a little parted. The old man said:
“You're a human being.”
“I would hope so, sirr.”
“I'm going to ask you something as a human being—not a servant—see?”
“No, sirr; but I will be glad to do anything you like.”
“Then put your nose in here every now and then, to see if I want anything. Meller goes out sometimes. Don't say anything; Just put your nose in.”
“Oh! an' I will; 'tis a pleasure 'twill be to do ut.”
He nodded, and when she had gone lowered himself into his chair with a sense of appeasement. Pretty girl! Comfort to see a pretty face—not a pale, peeky thing like Adela's. His anger burned up anew. So she counted on his helplessness, had begun to count on that, had she? She should see that there was life in the old dog yet! And his sacrifice of the uneaten souffle, the still less eaten mushrooms, the peppermint sweet with which he usually concluded dinner, seemed to consecrate that purpose. They all thought he was a hulk, without a shot left in the locker! He had seen a couple of them at the Board that afternoon shrugging at each other, as though saying: 'Look at him!' And young Farney pitying him. Pity, forsooth! And that coarse-grained solicitor chap at the creditors' meeting curling his lip as much as to say: 'One foot in the grave!' He had seen the clerks dowsing the glim of their grins; and that young pup Bob Pillin screwing up his supercilious mug over his dog-collar. He knew that scented humbug Rosamund was getting scared that he'd drop off before she'd squeezed him dry. And his valet was always looking him up and down queerly. As to that holy woman—! Not quite so fast! Not quite so fast! And filling his glass for the fourth time, he slowly sucked down the dark red fluid, with the “old boots” flavour which his soul loved, and, drawing deep at his cigar, closed his eyes.
The room in the hotel where the general meetings of “The Island Navigation Company” were held was nearly full when the secretary came through the door which as yet divided the shareholders from their directors. Having surveyed their empty chairs, their ink and papers, and nodded to a shareholder or two, he stood, watch in hand, contemplating the congregation. A thicker attendance than he had ever seen! Due, no doubt, to the lower dividend, and this Pillin business. And his tongue curled. For if he had a natural contempt for his Board, with the exception of the chairman, he had a still more natural contempt for his shareholders. Amusing spectacle when you came to think of it, a general meeting! Unique! Eighty or a hundred men, and five women, assembled through sheer devotion to their money. Was any other function in the world so single-hearted. Church was nothing to it—so many motives were mingled there with devotion to one's soul. A well-educated young man—reader of Anatole France, and other writers—he enjoyed ironic speculation. What earthly good did they think they got by coming here? Half-past two! He put his watch back into his pocket, and passed into the Board-room.
There, the fumes of lunch and of a short preliminary meeting made cosy the February atmosphere. By the fire four directors were conversing rather restlessly; the fifth was combing his beard; the chairman sat with eyes closed and red lips moving rhythmically in the sucking of a lozenge, the slips of his speech ready in his hand. The secretary said in his cheerful voice: “Time, sir.”
Old Heythorp swallowed, lifted his arms, rose with help, and walked through to his place at the centre of the table. The five directors followed. And, standing at the chairman's right, the secretary read the minutes, forming the words precisely with his curling tongue. Then, assisting the chairman to his feet, he watched those rows of faces, and thought: 'Mistake to let them see he can't get up without help. He ought to have let me read his speech—I wrote it.'
The chairman began to speak:
“It is my duty and my pleasure,' ladies and gentlemen, for the nineteenth consecutive year to present to you the directors' report and the accounts for the past twelve months. You will all have had special notice of a measure of policy on which your Board has decided, and to which you will be asked to-day to give your adherence—to that I shall come at the end of my remarks....”
“Excuse me, sir; we can't hear a word down here.”
'Ah!' thought the secretary, 'I was expecting that.'
The chairman went on, undisturbed. But several shareholders now rose, and the same speaker said testily: “We might as well go home. If the chairman's got no voice, can't somebody read for him?”
The chairman took a sip of water, and resumed. Almost all in the last six rows were now on their feet, and amid a hubbub of murmurs the chairman held out to the secretary the slips of his speech, and fell heavily back into his chair.
The secretary re-read from the beginning; and as each sentence fell from his tongue, he thought: 'How good that is!' 'That's very clear!' 'A neat touch!' 'This is getting them.' It seemed to him a pity they could not know it was all his composition. When at last he came to the Pillin sale he paused for a second.
“I come now to the measure of policy to which I made allusion at the beginning of my speech. Your Board has decided to expand your enterprise by purchasing the entire fleet of Pillin & Co., Ltd. By this transaction we become the owners of the four steamships Smyrna, Damascus, Tyre, and Sidon, vessels in prime condition with a total freight-carrying capacity of fifteen thousand tons, at the low inclusive price of sixty thousand pounds. Gentlemen, de l'audace, toujours de l'audace!”—it was the chairman's phrase, his bit of the speech, and the secretary did it more than justice. “Times are bad, but your Board is emphatically of the opinion that they are touching bottom; and this, in their view, is the psychological moment for a forward stroke. They confidently recommend your adoption of their policy and the ratification of this purchase, which they believe will, in the not far distant future, substantially increase the profits of the Company.” The secretary sat down with reluctance. The speech should have continued with a number of appealing sentences which he had carefully prepared, but the chairman had cut them out with the simple comment: “They ought to be glad of the chance.” It was, in his view, an error.
The director who had combed his beard now rose—a man of presence, who might be trusted to say nothing long and suavely. While he was speaking the secretary was busy noting whence opposition was likely to come. The majority were sitting owl-like-a good sign; but some dozen were studying their copies of the report, and three at least were making notes—Westgate, for, instance, who wanted to get on the Board, and was sure to make himself unpleasant—the time-honoured method of vinegar; and Batterson, who also desired to come on, and might be trusted to support the Board—the time-honoured method of oil; while, if one knew anything of human nature, the fellow who had complained that he might as well go home would have something uncomfortable to say. The director finished his remarks, combed his beard with his fingers, and sat down.
A momentary pause ensued. Then Messieurs Westgate and Batterson rose together. Seeing the chairman nod towards the latter, the secretary thought: 'Mistake! He should have humoured Westgate by giving him precedence.' But that was the worst of the old man, he had no notion of the suaviter in modo! Mr. Batterson thus unchained—would like, if he might be so allowed, to congratulate the Board on having piloted their ship so smoothly through the troublous waters of the past year. With their worthy chairman still at the helm, he had no doubt that in spite of the still low—he would not say falling—barometer, and the-er-unseasonable climacteric, they might rely on weathering the—er—he would not say storm. He would confess that the present dividend of four per cent. was not one which satisfied every aspiration (Hear, hear!), but speaking for himself, and he hoped for others—and here Mr. Batterson looked round—he recognised that in all the circumstances it was as much as they had the right—er—to expect. But following the bold but to his mind prudent development which the Board proposed to make, he thought that they might reasonably, if not sanguinely, anticipate a more golden future. (“No, no!”) A shareholder said, 'No, no!' That might seem to indicate a certain lack of confidence in the special proposal before the meeting. (“Yes!”) From that lack of confidence he would like at once to dissociate himself. Their chairman, a man of foresight and acumen, and valour proved on many a field and—er—sea, would not have committed himself to this policy without good reason. In his opinion they were in safe hands, and he was glad to register his support of the measure proposed. The chairman had well said in his speech: 'de l'audace, toujours de l'audace!' Shareholders would agree with him that there could be no better motto for Englishmen. Ahem!
Mr. Batterson sat down. And Mr. Westgate rose: He wanted—he said—to know more, much more, about this proposition, which to his mind was of a very dubious wisdom.... 'Ah!' thought the secretary, 'I told the old boy he must tell them more'.... To whom, for instance, had the proposal first been made? To him!—the chairman said. Good! But why were Pillins selling, if freights were to go up, as they were told?
“Matter of opinion.”
“Quite so; and in my opinion they are going lower, and Pillins were right to sell. It follows that we are wrong to buy.” (“Hear, hear!” “No, no!”) “Pillins are shrewd people. What does the chairman say? Nerves! Does he mean to tell us that this sale was the result of nerves?”
The chairman nodded.
“That appears to me a somewhat fantastic theory; but I will leave that and confine myself to asking the grounds on which the chairman bases his confidence; in fact, what it is which is actuating the Board in pressing on us at such a time what I have no hesitation in stigmatising as a rash proposal. In a word, I want light as well as leading in this matter.”
Mr. Westgate sat down.
What would the chairman do now? The situation was distinctly awkward—seeing his helplessness and the lukewarmness of the Board behind him. And the secretary felt more strongly than ever the absurdity of his being an underling, he who in a few well-chosen words could so easily have twisted the meeting round his thumb. Suddenly he heard the long, rumbling sigh which preluded the chairman's speeches.
“Has any other gentleman anything to say before I move the adoption of the report?”
Phew! That would put their backs up. Yes, sure enough it had brought that fellow, who had said he might as well go home, to his feet! Now for something nasty!
“Mr. Westgate requires answering. I don't like this business. I don't impute anything to anybody; but it looks to me as if there were something behind it which the shareholders ought to be told. Not only that; but, to speak frankly, I'm not satisfied to be ridden over roughshod in this fashion by one who, whatever he may have been in the past, is obviously not now in the prime of his faculties.”
With a gasp the secretary thought: 'I knew that was a plain-spoken man!'
He heard again the rumbling beside him. The chairman had gone crimson, his mouth was pursed, his little eyes were very blue.
“Help me up,” he said.
The secretary helped him, and waited, rather breathless.
The chairman took a sip of water, and his voice, unexpectedly loud, broke an ominous hush:
“Never been so insulted in my life. My best services have been at your disposal for nineteen years; you know what measure of success this Company has attained. I am the oldest man here, and my experience of shipping is, I hope, a little greater than that of the two gentlemen who spoke last. I have done my best for you, ladies and gentlemen, and we shall see whether you are going to endorse an indictment of my judgment and of my honour, if I am to take the last speaker seriously. This purchase is for your good. 'There is a tide in the affairs of men'—and I for one am not content, never have been, to stagnate. If that is what you want, however, by all means give your support to these gentlemen and have done with it. I tell you freights will go up before the end of the year; the purchase is a sound one, more than a sound one—I, at any rate, stand or fall by it. Refuse to ratify it, if you like; if you do, I shall resign.”
He sank back into his seat. The secretary, stealing a glance, thought with a sort of enthusiasm: 'Bravo! Who'd have thought he could rally his voice like that? A good touch, too, that about his honour! I believe he's knocked them.
It's still dicky, though, if that fellow at the back gets up again; the old chap can't work that stop a second time. 'Ah! here was 'old Apple-pie' on his hind legs. That was all right!
“I do not hesitate to say that I am an old friend of the chairman; we are, many of us, old friends of the chairman, and it has been painful to me, and I doubt not to others, to hear an attack made on him. If he is old in body, he is young in mental vigour and courage. I wish we were all as young. We ought to stand by him; I say, we ought to stand by him.” (“Hear, hear! Hear, hear!”) And the secretary thought: 'That's done it!' And he felt a sudden odd emotion, watching the chairman bobbing his body, like a wooden toy, at old Appleby; and old Appleby bobbing back. Then, seeing a shareholder close to the door get up, thought: 'Who's that? I know his face—Ah! yes; Ventnor, the solicitor—he's one of the chairman's creditors that are coming again this afternoon. What now?'
“I can't agree that we ought to let sentiment interfere with our judgment in this matter. The question is simply: How are our pockets going to be affected? I came here with some misgivings, but the attitude of the chairman has been such as to remove them; and I shall support the proposition.” The secretary thought: 'That's all right—only, he said it rather queerly—rather queerly.'
Then, after a long silence, the chairman, without rising, said:
“I move the adoption of the report and accounts.”
“I second that.”
“Those in favour signify the same in the usual way. Contrary? Carried.” The secretary noted the dissentients, six in number, and that Mr. Westgate did not vote.
A quarter of an hour later he stood in the body of the emptying room supplying names to one of the gentlemen of the Press. The passionless fellow said: “Haythorp, with an 'a'. oh! an 'e'. he seems an old man. Thank you. I may have the slips? Would you like to see a proof? With an 'a' you said—oh! an 'e.' Good afternoon!” And the secretary thought: 'Those fellows, what does go on inside them? Fancy not knowing the old chairman by now!'...