UNSOUND.
“Be wiser than other people if you can; but do not tell them so.”
If Major White was not a man of quick comprehension, he was, at all
events, honest in his density. He never said that he understood when he
did not do so. When he received a telegram in barracks at Dover to come
up to London the next day and meet Cornish at his club at one o'clock,
the major merely said that he was in a state of condemnation, and
fixing his glass very carefully into his more surprised eye, studied
the thin pink paper as if it were a unique and interesting proof of the
advance of the human race. In truth, Major White never sent telegrams,
and rarely received them. He blew out his cheeks and said a second time
that he was damned. Then he threw the telegram into a waste-paper
basket, which was rarely put to so legitimate a use; for the major
never wrote letters if he could help it, and received so few that they
hardly kept him supplied in pipe-lights.
He apparently had no intention of replying to Cornish's telegram,
arguing very philosophically in his mind that he would go if he could,
and if he could not, it would not matter very much. A method of
contemplating life, as a picture with a perspective to it, which may be
highly recommended to fussy people who herald their paltry little
comings and goings by a number of unnecessary communications.
Without, therefore, attempting a surmise as to the meaning of this
summons, White took a morning train to London, and solemnly reported
himself to the hall porter of a club in St. James's Street as the
well-dressed throng was leisurely returning from church.
“Mr. Cornish told me to come and have lunch with him,” he said, in his
usual bald style, leaving explanations and superfluous questions to
such as had time for luxuries of that description.
He was taken charge of by a button-boy, whose head reached the major's
lowest waistcoat button, was deprived of his hat and stick, and
practically commanded to wash his hands, to all of which he submitted
under stolid and silent protest.
Then he was led upstairs, refusing absolutely to hurry, although urged
most strongly thereto by the boy's example and manner of pausing a few
steps higher up and looking back.
“Yes,” said the major, when he had heard Cornish's story across the
table, and during the consumption of a perfectly astonishing
luncheon--“yes; half the trouble in this world comes from the
incapacity of the ordinary human being to mind his own business.” He
operated on a creaming Camembert cheese with much thoughtfulness, and
then spoke again. “I should like you to tell me,” he said, “what a
couple of idiots like us have to do with these confounded malgamiters.
We do not know anything about industry or workmen--or work, so far as
that goes”--he paused and looked severely across the table--“especially
you,” he added.
Which was strictly true; for Tony Cornish was and always had been a
graceful idler. He was one of those unfortunate men who possess
influential relatives, than which there are few heavier handicaps in
that game of life, where if there be any real scoring to be done, it
must be compassed off one's own bat. To follow out the same inexpensive
simile, influential relatives may get a man into a crack club, but they
cannot elect him to the first eleven. So Tony Cornish, who had never
done anything, but had waited vaguely for something to turn up that
might be worth his while to seize, had no answer ready, and only
laughed gaily in his friend's face.
“The first thing we must do,” he said, very wisely leaving the past to
take care of itself, “is to get old Ferriby out of it.”
“'Cos he is a lord?”
“Partly.”
“'Cos he is an ass?” suggested White, as a plausible alternative.
“Partly; but chiefly because he is not the sort of man we want if there
is going to be a fight.”
A momentary light gleamed in the major's eye, but it immediately gave
place to a placid interest in the Camembert.
“If there is going to be a fight,” he said, “I'm on.”
In which trivial remark the major explained his whole life and mental
attitude. And if the world only listened, instead of thinking what
effect it is creating and what it is going to say next, it would catch
men thus giving themselves away in their daily talk from morning till
night. For Major White had always been “on” when there was fighting. By
dint of exchanging and volunteering and asking, and generally bothering
people in a thick-skinned, dull way, he always managed to get to the
front, where his competitors--the handful of modern knights-errant who
mean to make a career in the army, and inevitably succeed--were not
afraid of him, and laughingly liked him. And the barrack-room
balladists had discovered that White rhymes with Fight. And lo! Another
man had made a name for himself in a world that is already too full of
names, so that in the paths of Fame the great must necessarily fall
against each other.
After luncheon, in the smaller smoking-room, where they were alone,
Cornish explained the situation at greater length to Major White, who
did not even pretend to understand it.
“All I can make of it is that that loose-shouldered chap Roden is a
scoundrel,” he said bluntly, from behind a great cigar, “and wants
thumping. Now, if there's anything in that line--”
“No; but you must not tell him so,” interrupted Cornish. “I wish to
goodness I could make you understand that cunning can only be met by
cunning, not by thumps, in these degenerate days. Old Wade has taken us
by the hand, as I tell you. They come to town, by the way, to-morrow,
and will be in Eaton Square for the rest of the season. He says that it
is his business to meet the low cunning of the small solicitors and the
noble army of company promoters, and it seems that he knows exactly
what to do. At any rate, it is not expedient to thump Roden.”
Major White shrugged his shoulders with much silent wisdom. He
believed, it appeared, in thumps in face of any evidence in favour of
milder methods.
“Deuced sorry for that girl,” he said.
Cornish was lighting a cigarette. “What girl?” he asked quietly.
“Miss Roden, chap's sister. She knows her brother is a dark horse, but
she wouldn't admit it, not if you were to kill her for it. Women”--the
major paused in his great wisdom--“women are a rum lot.”
Which, assuredly, no one is prepared to deny.
Cornish glanced at his companion through the cigarette smoke, and said
nothing.
“However,” continued the major, “I am at your service. Let us have the
orders.”
“To-morrow,” answered Cornish, “is Monday, and therefore the Ferribys
will be at home. You and I are to go to Cambridge Terrace about four
o'clock to see my uncle. We will scare him out of the Malgamite
business. Then we will go upstairs and settle matters with Joan. Wade
and Marguerite will drop in about half-past four. Joan and Marguerite
see a good deal of each other, you know. If we have any difficulty with
my uncle, Wade will give him the _coup de grâce_, you understand. His
word will have more weight than ours We shall then settle on a plan of
campaign, and clear out of my aunt's drawing-room before the crowd
comes.”
“And you will do the talking,” stipulated Major White.
“Oh yes; I will do the talking. And now I must be off. I have a lot of
calls to pay, and it is getting late. You will find me here to-morrow
afternoon at a quarter to four.”
Whereupon Major White took his departure, to appear again the next day
in good time, placid and debonair--as he had appeared when called upon
in various parts of the world, where things were stirring.
They took a hansom, for the afternoon was showery, and drove through
the crowded streets. Even Cambridge Terrace, usually a quiet
thoroughfare, was astir with traffic, for it was the height of the
season and a levee day. As the cab swung round into Cambridge Terrace,
White suddenly pushed his stick up through the trap-door in the roof of
the vehicle.
“Ninety-nine,” he shouted to the driver in his great voice. “Not nine.”
Then he threw himself back against the dingy blue cushions.
Cornish turned and looked at him in surprise. “Gone off your head?” he
inquired. “It is nine--you know that well enough.”
“Yes,” answered White, “I know that, my good soul; but you could not
see the door as I could when we came round the corner. Roden and Von
Holzen are on the steps, coming out.”
“Roden and Von Holzen in England?”
“Not only in England,” said White, placidly, “but in Cambridge Terrace.
And “--he paused, seeking a suitable remark among his small selection
of conversational remnants--“and the fat is in the fire.”
The cab had now stopped at the door of number ninety-nine. And if Roden
or Von Holzen, walking leisurely down Cambridge Terrace, had turned
during the next few moments, they would have seen a stationary hansom
cab, with a large round face--mildly surprised, like a pink harvest
moon--rising cautiously over the roof of it, watching them.
When the coast was clear, Cornish and White walked back to number nine.
Lord Ferriby was at home, and they were ushered into his study, an
apartment which, like many other things appertaining to his lordship,
was calculated to convey an erroneous impression. There were books upon
the tables--the lives of great and good men. Pamphlets relating to
charitable matters, missionary matters, and a thousand schemes for the
amelioration of the human lot here and hereafter, lay about in
profusion. This was obviously the den of a great philanthropist.
His lordship presently appeared, carrying a number of voting papers,
which he threw carelessly on the table. He was, it seemed, a subscriber
to many institutions for the blind, the maimed, and the halt.
“Ah!” he said, “I generally get through my work in the morning, but I
find myself behindhand to-day. It is wonderful,” he added, directing
his conversation and his benevolent gaze towards White, “how busy an
idle man may be.”
“M--m--yes!” answered the major, with his stolid stare.
Cornish broke what threatened to be an awkward silence by referring at
once to the subject in hand.
“It seems,” he began, “that this Malgamite scheme is not what we took
it to be.”
Lord Ferriby looked surprised and slightly scandalized. Could it be
possible for a fashionable charity to be anything but what it appeared
to be? In his eyes, wandering from one face to the other, there lurked
the question as to whether they had seen Roden and Von Holzen quit his
door a minute earlier. But no reference was made to those two
gentlemen, and Lord Ferriby, who, as a chairman of many boards, was a
master of the art of conciliation and the decent closing of both eyes
to unsightly facts, received Cornish's suggestion with a polite and
avuncular pooh-pooh.
“We must not,” he said soothingly, “allow our judgment to be hastily
affected by the ill-considered statements of the--er--newspapers. Such
statements, my dear Anthony--and you, Major White--are, I may tell you,
only what we, as the pioneers of a great movement, must be prepared to
expect. I saw the article in the _Times_ to which you refer--indeed, I
read it most carefully, as, in my capacity of chairman of
this--eh--char--that is to say, company, I was called upon to do. And I
formed the opinion that the mind of the writer was--eh--warped.” Lord
Ferriby smiled sadly, and gave a final wave of the hand, as if to
indicate that the whole matter lay in a nutshell, and that nutshell
under his lordship's heel. “Warped or not,” answered Cornish, “the man
says that we have formed ourselves into a company, which company is
bound to make huge profits, and those profits are naturally assumed to
find their way into our pockets.”
“My dear Anthony,” replied the chairman, with a laugh which was almost
a cackle, “the labourer is worthy of his hire.”
Which seems likely to become the _dernier cri_ of the overpaid
throughout all the ages.
“Even if we contradict the statement,” pursued Cornish, with a sudden
coldness in his manner, “the contradiction will probably fail to reach
many of the readers of this article, and as matters at present stand,
I do not see that we are in a position to contradict.”
“My dear Anthony,” answered Lord Ferriby, turning over his papers with
a preoccupied air, as if the question under discussion only called for
a small share of his attention--“my dear Anthony, the money was
subscribed for the amelioration of the lot of the malgamite workers. We
have not only ameliorated their lot, but we have elevated them morally
and physically. We have far exceeded our promises, and the subscribers,
who, after all, take a small interest in the matter, have every reason
to be satisfied that their money has been applied to the purpose for
which they intended it. They were kind enough to intrust us with the
financial arrangements. The concern is a private one, and it is the
business of no one--not even of the _Times_--to inquire into the method
which we think well to adopt for the administration of the Malgamite
Fund. If the subscribers had no confidence in us, they surely would not
have given the management unreservedly into our hands.” Lord Ferriby
spread out the limbs in question with an easy laugh. Has not a greater
than any of us said that a man “may smile, and smile, and be a
villain”? A silence followed, which was almost, but not quite, broken
by the major, who took his glass from his eye, examined it very
carefully, as if wondering how it had been made, and, replacing it with
a deep sigh, sat staring at the opposite wall.
“Then you are not disposed to withdraw your name from the concern?”
asked Cornish.
“Most certainly not, my dear Anthony. What have the malgamiters done
that I should, so to speak, abandon them at the first difficulty which
has presented itself?”
“And what about the profits?” inquired Cornish, bluntly.
“Mr. Roden is our paid secretary. He understands the financial
situation, which is rather a complicated one. We may, I think, leave
such details to him. And if I may suggest it (I may perhaps rightly lay
claim to a somewhat larger experience in charitable finances than
either of you), I should recommend a strict reticence on this matter.
We are not called upon to answer idle questions, I think. And
if--well--if the labourer is found worthy of his hire ... buy yourself
a new hat, my dear Anthony. Buy yourself a new hat.”
Cornish rose, and looked at his watch. “I wonder if Joan will give us a
cup of tea,” he said. “We might, at all events, go up and try.”
“Certainly--certainly. And I will follow when I have finished my work.
And do not give the matter another thought--either of you--eh!”
“He's been got at,” said Major White to his companion as they walked
upstairs together, as if Lord Ferriby were a jockey or some common
person of that sort.