It was eight years before the wheels of life carried Scorrier back to
that disenchanted spot, and this time not on the business of the New
Colliery Company. He went for another company with a mine some thirty
miles away. Before starting, however, he visited Hemmings. The secretary
was surrounded by pigeon-holes and finer than ever; Scorrier blinked in
the full radiance of his courtesy. A little man with eyebrows full of
questions, and a grizzled beard, was seated in an arm-chair by the fire.
“You know Mr. Booker,” said Hemmings—“one of my directors. This is Mr.
Scorrier, sir—who went out for us.”
These sentences were murmured in a way suggestive of their uncommon
value. The director uncrossed his legs, and bowed. Scorrier also bowed,
and Hemmings, leaning back, slowly developed the full resources of his
waistcoat.
“So you are going out again, Scorrier, for the other side? I tell Mr.
Scorrier, sir, that he is going out for the enemy. Don't find them a
mine as good as you found us, there's a good man.”
The little director asked explosively: “See our last dividend? Twenty
per cent; eh, what?”
Hemmings moved a finger, as if reproving his director. “I will not
disguise from you,” he murmured, “that there is friction between us
and—the enemy; you know our position too well—just a little too well,
eh? 'A nod's as good as a wink.'”
His diplomatic eyes flattered Scorrier, who passed a hand over his
brow—and said: “Of course.”
“Pippin doesn't hit it off with them. Between ourselves, he's a leetle
too big for his boots. You know what it is when a man in his position
gets a sudden rise!”
Scorrier caught himself searching on the floor for a sight of Hemmings'
boots; he raised his eyes guiltily. The secretary continued: “We don't
hear from him quite as often as we should like, in fact.”
To his own surprise Scorrier murmured: “It's a silent place!”
The secretary smiled. “Very good! Mr. Scorrier says, sir, it's a silent
place; ha-ha! I call that very good!” But suddenly a secret irritation
seemed to bubble in him; he burst forth almost violently: “He's no
business to let it affect him; now, has he? I put it to you, Mr.
Scorrier, I put it to you, sir!”
But Scorrier made no reply, and soon after took his leave: he had been
asked to convey a friendly hint to Pippin that more frequent letters
would be welcomed. Standing in the shadow of the Royal Exchange, waiting
to thread his way across, he thought: 'So you must have noise, must
you—you've got some here, and to spare....'
On his arrival in the new world he wired to Pippin asking if he might
stay with him on the way up country, and received the answer: “Be sure
and come.”
A week later he arrived (there was now a railway) and found Pippin
waiting for him in a phaeton. Scorrier would not have known the place
again; there was a glitter over everything, as if some one had touched
it with a wand. The tracks had given place to roads, running firm,
straight, and black between the trees under brilliant sunshine; the
wooden houses were all painted; out in the gleaming harbour amongst the
green of islands lay three steamers, each with a fleet of busy boats;
and here and there a tiny yacht floated, like a sea-bird on the water.
Pippin drove his long-tailed horses furiously; his eyes brimmed with
subtle kindness, as if according Scorrier a continual welcome. During
the two days of his stay Scorrier never lost that sense of glamour. He
had every opportunity for observing the grip Pippin had over everything.
The wooden doors and walls of his bungalow kept out no sounds. He
listened to interviews between his host and all kinds and conditions of
men. The voices of the visitors would rise at first—angry, discontented,
matter-of-fact, with nasal twang, or guttural drawl; then would come
the soft patter of the superintendent's feet crossing and recrossing the
room. Then a pause, the sound of hard breathing, and quick questions—the
visitor's voice again, again the patter, and Pippin's ingratiating
but decisive murmurs. Presently out would come the visitor with an
expression on his face which Scorrier soon began to know by heart, a
kind of pleased, puzzled, helpless look, which seemed to say, “I've been
done, I know—I'll give it to myself when I'm round the corner.”
Pippin was full of wistful questions about “home.” He wanted to talk
of music, pictures, plays, of how London looked, what new streets there
were, and, above all, whether Scorrier had been lately in the West
Country. He talked of getting leave next winter, asked whether Scorrier
thought they would “put up with him at home”; then, with the agitation
which had alarmed Scorrier before, he added: “Ah! but I'm not fit for
home now. One gets spoiled; it's big and silent here. What should I go
back to? I don't seem to realise.”
Scorrier thought of Hemmings. “'Tis a bit cramped there, certainly,” he
muttered.
Pippin went on as if divining his thoughts. “I suppose our friend
Hemmings would call me foolish; he's above the little weaknesses of
imagination, eh? Yes; it's silent here. Sometimes in the evening I would
give my head for somebody to talk to—Hemmings would never give his head
for anything, I think. But all the same, I couldn't face them at home.
Spoiled!” And slyly he murmured: “What would the Board say if they could
hear that?”
Scorrier blurted out: “To tell you the truth, they complain a little of
not hearing from you.”
Pippin put out a hand, as if to push something away. “Let them try the
life here!” he broke out; “it's like sitting on a live volcano—what with
our friends, 'the enemy,' over there; the men; the American competition.
I keep it going, Scorrier, but at what a cost—at what a cost!”
“But surely—letters?”
Pippin only answered: “I try—I try!”
Scorrier felt with remorse and wonder that he had spoken the truth. The
following day he left for his inspection, and while in the camp of “the
enemy” much was the talk he heard of Pippin.
“Why!” said his host, the superintendent, a little man with a face
somewhat like an owl's, “d'you know the name they've given him down in
the capital—'the King'—good, eh? He's made them 'sit up' all along this
coast. I like him well enough—good—hearted man, shocking nervous; but
my people down there can't stand him at any price. Sir, he runs this
colony. You'd think butter wouldn't melt in that mouth of his; but he
always gets his way; that's what riles 'em so; that and the success he's
making of his mine. It puzzles me; you'd think he'd only be too glad
of a quiet life, a man with his nerves. But no, he's never happy unless
he's fighting, something where he's got a chance to score a victory.
I won't say he likes it, but, by Jove, it seems he's got to do it.
Now that's funny! I'll tell you one thing, though shouldn't be a bit
surprised if he broke down some day; and I'll tell you another,”
he added darkly, “he's sailing very near the wind, with those large
contracts that he makes. I wouldn't care to take his risks. Just let
them have a strike, or something that shuts them down for a spell—and
mark my words, sir—it'll be all up with them. But,” he concluded
confidentially, “I wish I had his hold on the men; it's a great thing
in this country. Not like home, where you can go round a corner and get
another gang. You have to make the best you can out of the lot you have;
you won't get another man for love or money without you ship him a few
hundred miles.” And with a frown he waved his arm over the forests to
indicate the barrenness of the land.