OFFICIAL.
“One may be so much a man of the world as to be nothing in the world.”
Political Economy will some day have to recognize Philanthropy as a
possible--nay, a certain stumbling-block in the world's progress
towards that millennium when Supply and Demand shall sit down together
in peace. Charity is certainly sowing seed into the ridges of time
which will bear startling fruit in the future. For Charity does not
hesitate to close up an industry or interfere with a trade that
supplies thousands with their daily bread. Thus the Malgamite scheme so
glibly inaugurated by Lord Ferriby in his drawing-room bore fruit
within a week in a quarter to which probably few concerned had ever
thought of casting an eye. The price of a high-class tinted paper fell
in all the markets of the world. This paper could only be manufactured
with a large addition of malgamite to its other components. In what may
be called the prospectus of the Malgamite scheme it was stated that
this great charity was inaugurated for the purpose of relieving the
distress of the malgamiters--one of the industrial scandals of the
day--by enabling these afflicted men to make their deadly product at a
cheaper rate and without danger to themselves. This prospectus
naturally came to the hands of those most concerned, namely, the
manufacturers of coloured papers and the brokers who supply those
manufacturers with their raw material.
Thus Lord Ferriby, beaming benignantly from a bower of chrysanthemums
on a certain evening one winter not so many years ago, set rolling a
small stone upon a steep hill. So, in fact, wags the world; and none of
us may know when the echo of a careless word will cease vibrating in
the hearts of some that hear.
The malgamite trade was what is called a _close_ one--that is to say
that this product passed out into the world through the hands of a few
brokers and these brokers were powerless, in face of Lord Ferriby's
announcement, to prevent the price of malgamite from falling. As this
fell so fell the prices of the many kinds of paper which could not be
manufactured without it. Thus indirectly, Lord Ferriby, with that
obtuseness which very often finds itself in company with a highly
developed philanthropy, touched the daily lives of thousands and
thousands of people. And he did not know it. And Tony Cornish knew it
not. And Joan and the subscribers never dreamt or thought of such a
thing.
The paper market became what is called sensitive--that is to say,
prices rose and fell suddenly without apparent reason. Some men made
money and others lost it. Presently, however--that is to say, in the
month of March--two months after Tony Cornish had safely conveyed his
malgamite makers to their new home on the sand dunes of
Scheveningen--the paper markets of the world began to settle down
again, and steadier prices ruled. This could be traced--as all
commercial changes may be traced--to the original flow at one of the
fountain-heads of supply and demand. It arose from the simple fact that
a broker in London had bought some of the new malgamite--the
Scheveningen malgamite--and had issued it to his clients, who said that
it was good. He had, moreover, bought it cheaper. In a couple of days
all the world--all the world concerned in the matter--knew of it. Such
is commerce at the end of the century.
And Cornish, casually looking in at the little office of the Malgamite
Charity, where a German clerk recommended by Herr von Holzen kept the
books of the scheme, found his table littered with telegrams. Tony
Cornish had a reputation for being clever. He was, as a matter of fact,
intelligent. The world nearly always mistakes intelligence for
cleverness, just as it nearly always mistakes laughter for happiness.
He was, however, clever enough to have found out during the last two
months that the Malgamite scheme was a bigger thing than either he or
his uncle had ever imagined.
Many questions had arisen during those two months of Cornish's honorary
secretary ship of the charity which he had been unable to answer, and
which he had been obliged to refer to Roden and Von Holzen. These had
replied readily, and the matter as solved by them seemed simple enough.
But each question seemed to have side issues--indeed, the whole scheme
appeared suddenly to bristle with side issues, and Tony Cornish began
to find himself getting really interested in something at last.
The telegrams were not alone upon his office table. There were letters
as well. It was a nice little office, furnished by Joan with a certain
originality which certainly made it different from any other office in
Westminster. It had, moreover, the great recommendation of being above
a Ladies' Tea Association, so that afternoon tea could be easily
procured. The German clerk quite counted on receiving three
half-holidays a week and Joan brought her friends to tea, and her
mother to chaperon. These little tea-parties became quite notorious,
and there was a question of a cottage piano, which was finally
abandoned in favour of a banjo. It happened to be a wire-puzzle winter,
and Cornish had the best collection of rings on impossible wire mazes,
and glass beads strung upon intertwisted hooks, in Westminster, if not,
indeed, in the whole of London. Then, of course, there were the
committee meetings--that is to say, the meeting of the lady committees
of the bazaar and ball sub-committees. The wire puzzles and the
association tea were an immense feature of these.
Cornish was quite accustomed to finding a number of letters awaiting
him, and had been compelled to buy a waste-paper basket of abnormal
dimensions--so many moribund charities cast envious eyes upon the
Malgamite scheme, and wondered how it was done, and, on the chance of
it, offered Cornish honourable honorary posts. But the telegrams had
been few, and nearly all from Roden. There was a letter from Roden this
morning.
“DEAR CORNISH” (he wrote),--
“You will probably receive applications from malgamite workers in
different parts of the world for permission to enter our works. Accept
them all, and arrange for their enlistment as soon as possible.
“Yours in haste,
“P.R.”
Percy Roden was usually in haste, and wrote a bad letter in a beautiful
handwriting.
Cornish turned to the telegrams. They were one and all applications
from malgamite makers--from Venice to Valparaiso--to be enrolled in the
Scheveningen group. He was still reading them when Lord Ferriby came
into the little office. His lordship was wearing a new fancy waistcoat.
It was the month of April--the month assuredly of fancy waistcoats
throughout all nature. Lord Ferriby was, as usual, rather pleased with
himself. He had walked down Piccadilly with great effect, and a bishop
had bowed to him, recognizing, in a sense, a lay bishop.
“What have you got there, Tony?” he asked, affably, laying his smart
walking-stick on an inlaid bureau, which was supposed to be his, and
was always closed, and had nothing in it.
“Telegrams,” answered Cornish, “from malgamite makers, who want to join
the works at Scheveningen. Seventy-six of them. I don't quite
understand this business.”
“Neither do I,” admitted Lord Ferriby, in a voice which clearly
indicated that if he only took the trouble he could understand
anything. “But I fancy it is one of the biggest things in charity that
has ever been started.”
In the company of men, and especially of young men, Lord Ferriby
allowed himself a little license in speech. He at times almost verged
on the slangy, which is, of course, quite correct and _de haut ton_,
and he did not want to be taken for an old buffer, as were his
contemporaries. Therefore he called himself an old buffer whenever he
could. _Qui s'excuse s'accuse._
“Of course,” he added, “we must take the poor fellows.”
Without comment, Cornish handed him Roden's letter, and while Lord
Ferriby read it, employed himself in making out a list of the names and
addresses of the applicants. Cornish was, in fact, rising to the
occasion. In other circumstances Anthony Cornish might with favourable
influence--say that of a Scottish head clerk--have been made into what
is called a good business man. Without any training whatever, and with
an education which consisted only of a smattering of the classics and a
rigid code of honour, he usually perceived what it was wise to do. Some
people call this genius; others, luck.
“I see,” said Lord Ferriby, “that Roden is of the same opinion as
myself. A shrewd fellow, Roden.” And he pulled down his fancy
waistcoat.
“Then I may write, or telegraph, to these men, and tell them to come?”
asked Cornish.
“Most certainly, my dear Anthony. We will collect them, or muster them,
as White calls it, in London, and then send them to Scheveningen, as
before, when Roden and Herr von Holzen are ready for them. Send a note
to White, whose department this mustering is. As a soldier he
understands the handling of a body of men. You and I are more competent
to deal with a sum of money.”
Lord Ferriby glanced towards the door to make sure that it was open, so
that the German clerk in the outer office should lose nothing that
could only be for his good--might, in fact, pick up a few crumbs from
the richly stored table of a great man's mind.
Lord Ferriby leisurely withdrew his gloves and laid them on the inlaid
bureau. He had the physique of a director of public companies, and the
grave manner that impresses shareholders. He talked of the weather,
drew Cornish's attention to a blot of ink on the high-art wallpaper,
and then put on his gloves again, well pleased with himself and his
morning's work.
“Everything appears to be in order, my dear Anthony,” he said.
“So there is nothing to keep me here any longer.”
“Nothing,” replied Cornish; and his lordship departed.
Cornish remained until it was time to go across St. James's Park to his
club to lunch. He answered a certain number of letters himself, the
others he handed over to the German clerk--a man with all the virtues,
smooth, upright hair, and a dreamy eye. The malgamite makers were
bidden to come as soon as they liked. After luncheon Cornish had to
hurry back to Great George Street. This was one of his busy days. At
four o'clock there was to be a meeting of the floor committee of the
approaching ball, and Cornish remembered that he had been specially
told to get a new bass string for the banjo. The Hon. Rupert Dalkyn
had promised to come, but had vowed that he would not touch the banjo
again unless it had new strings. So Cornish bought the bass string at
the Army and Navy Stores, and the first preparation for the meeting of
the floor committee was the tuning of the banjo by the German clerk.
There were, of course, flowers to be bought and arranged _tant bien que
mal_ in empty ink-stands, a conceit of Joan's, who refused to spend the
fund money in any ornament less serious, while she quite recognized the
necessity for flowers on the table of a mixed committee.
The Hon. Rupert was the first to arrive. He was very small and neat and
rather effeminate. The experienced could tell at a glance that he came
from a fighting stock. He wore a grave and rather preoccupied air. He
sat down on the arm of a chair and looked sadly into the fire, while
his lips moved.
“Got something on your mind?” asked Cornish, who was putting the
finishing touches to the arrangement of the room.
“Yes, a new song composed for the occasion 'The Maudlin Malgamite';
like to hear it?”
“Well, I would rather wait. I think I hear a carriage at the door,”
said Cornish, hastily.
Rupert Dalkyn had to be elected to the floor committee because he was
Mrs. Courteville's brother, and Mrs. Courteville was the best chaperon
in London. She was not only a widow, but her husband had been killed in
rather painful circumstances.
“Poor dear,” the people said when she had done something perhaps a
little unusual--“poor dear; you know her husband was killed.”
So the late Courteville, in his lone grave by the banks of the Ogowe
River, watched over his wife's welfare, and made quite a nice place for
her in London society.
Rupert himself had been intended for the Church, but had at Cambridge
developed such an exquisite sense of humour and so killing a power of
mimicry that no one of the dons was safe, and his friends told him that
he really mustn't. So he didn't. Since then Rupert had, to tell the
truth, done nothing. The exquisite sense of humour had also slightly
evaporated. People said, “Oh yes, very funny,” than which nothing is
more fatal to humour; and elderly ladies smiled a pinched smile at one
side of their lips. It is so difficult to see a joke through those
long-handled eye-glasses.
Cornish was quite right when he said that he had heard a carriage, for
presently the door opened, and Mrs. Courteville came in. She was small
and slight--“a girlish figure,” her maid told her--and well dressed.
She was just at that age when she did not look it--at an age, moreover,
when some women seem to combine a maximum of experience with a minimum
of thought. But who are we to pick holes in our neighbours' garments?
If any of us is quite sure that he is not doing more harm than good in
the world, let him by all means throw stones at Mrs. Courteville.
Joan arrived next, accompanied by Lady Ferriby, who knew that if she
stayed at home she would only have to give tea to a number of people
towards whom she did not feel kindly enough disposed to reconcile
herself to the expense. Joan glanced hastily from Mrs. Courteville to
Tony. She had noticed that Mrs. Courteville always arrived early at the
floor committee meetings when these were held at the Malgamite office
or in Cornish's rooms. Joan wondered, while Mrs. Courteville was
kissing her, whether the widow had come with her brother or before him.
“Has he not made the room look pretty with that mimosa?” asked Mrs.
Courteville, vivaciously. People did not know how matters stood
between Joan Ferriby and Tony Cornish, and always wanted to know.
That is why Mrs. Courteville said “he” only when she drew Joan's
attention to the flowers.
The meeting may best be described as lively. We belong, however, to an
eminently practical generation, and some business was really
transacted. The night for the Malgamite ball was fixed, and a list of
stewards drawn up; and then the Hon. Rupert played the banjo.
Lady Ferriby had some calls to pay, so Cornish volunteered to walk
across the park with Joan, who had a healthy love of exercise. They
talked of various matters, and of course returned again and again to
the Malgamite affairs.
“By the way,” said Joan, at the corner of Cambridge Terrace, “I had a
letter this morning from Dorothy Roden. I was at school with her, you
know, and never dreamt that Mr. Roden was her brother. In fact, I had
nearly forgotten her existence. She is coming across for the ball. She
says she saw you when you were at The Hague. You never mentioned her,
Tony.”
“Didn't I? She is not interested in the Malgamite scheme, you know. And
nobody who is not interested in that is worth mentioning.”
They walked on in silence for a few minutes. Then Cornish asked a
question.
“What sort of person was she at school?”
“Oh, she was a frivolous sort of girl--never took anything seriously,
you know. That is why she is not interested in the Malgamite, I
suppose.”
“I suppose so,” said Tony Cornish.