COMMERCE.
“The world will not believe a man repents.
And this wise world of ours is mainly right.”
“Then you are of opinion, my dear White, that one cannot well refuse to
meet these--er--persons?”
“Not,” replied Major White to Lord Ferriby, whose hand rested on his
stout arm as they walked with dignity in the shade of the trees that
border the Vyver--that quaint old fish-pond of The Hague--“not without
running the risk of being called a d----d swindler.”
For the major was a lamentably plain-spoken man, who said but little,
and said that little strong. Lord Ferriby's affectionate grasp of the
soldier's arm relaxed imperceptibly. One must, he reflected, be
prepared to meet unpleasantness in the good cause of charity--but there
are words hardly applicable to the peerage, and Major White had made
use of one of these.
“Public opinion,” observed the major, after some minutes of deep
thought, “is a difficult thing to deal with--'cos you cannot thump the
public.”
“It is notably hard,” said his lordship, firing off one of his pet
platform platitudes, “to induce the public to form a correct estimate,
or what one takes to be a correct estimate.”
“Especially of one's self,” added the major, looking across the water
towards the Binnenhof in his vacant way.
Then they turned and walked back again beneath the heavy shade of the
trees. The conversation, and indeed this dignified promenade on the
Vyverberg, had been brought about by a letter which his lordship had
received that same morning inviting him to attend a meeting of
paper-makers and others interested in the malgamite trade to consider
the position of the malgamite charity, and the advisability of taking
legal proceedings to close the works on the dunes at Scheveningen. The
meeting was to be held at the Hôtel des Indes, at three in the
afternoon, and the conveners hinted pretty plainly that the proceedings
would be of a decisive nature. The letter left Lord Ferriby with a
vague feeling of discomfort. His position was somewhat isolated. A
coldness had for some time been in existence between himself and his
nephew, Tony Cornish. Of Mr. Wade, Lord Ferriby was slightly
distrustful.
“These commercial men,” he often said, “are apt to hold such narrow
views.”
And, indeed, to steer a straight course through life, one must not look
to one side or the other.
There remained Major White, of whom Lord Ferriby had thought more
highly since Fortune had called this plain soldier to take a seat among
the gods of the British public. For no man is proof against the
satisfaction of being able to call a celebrated person by his Christian
name. The major had long admired Joan, in his stupid way from, as one
might say, the other side of the room. But neither Lord nor Lady
Ferriby had encouraged this silent suit. Joan was theoretically one of
those of whom it is said that “she might marry anybody,” and who, as
the keen observer may see for himself, often finishes by failing to
marry at all. She was pretty and popular, and had, moreover, the
_entrée_ to the best houses. White had been useful to Lord Ferriby ever
since the inauguration of the Malgamite scheme. He was not
uncomfortably clever, like Tony Cornish. He was an excellent buffer at
jarring periods. Since the arrival of Joan and her father at The Hague,
the major had been almost a necessity in their daily life, and now,
quite suddenly, Lord Ferriby found that this was the only person to
whom he could turn for advice or support.
“One cannot suppose,” he said, in the full conviction that words will
meet any emergency--“One cannot suppose that Von Holzen will act in
direct opposition to the voice of the majority.”
“Von Holzen,” replied the major, “plays a doocid good game.”
After luncheon they walked across the Toornoifeld to the Hôtel des
Indes, and there, in a small _salon_, found a number of gentlemen
seated round a table. Mr. Wade was conspicuous by his absence. They
had, indeed, left him in the hotel garden, sitting at the consumption
of an excellent cigar.
“Join the jocund dance?” the major had inquired, with a jerk of the
head towards the Hôtel des Indes. But Mr. Wade was going for a drive
with Marguerite.
Tony Cornish was, however, seated at the table, and the major
recognized two paper-makers whom he had seen before. One was an
aggressive, red-headed man, of square shoulders and a dogged
appearance, who had “radical” written all over him. The other was a
mild-mannered person, with a thin, ash-colored moustache.
The major nodded affably. He distinctly remembered offering to fight
these two gentlemen either together or one after the other on the
landing of the little malgamite office in Westminster. And there was a
faint twinkle behind the major's eyeglass as he saluted them.
“Good morning, Thompson,” he said. “How do, MacHewlett?” For he never
forgot a face or a name.
“A'hm thinking----” Mr. MacHewlett was observing, but his thoughts died
a natural death at the sight of a real lord, and he rose and bowed. Mr.
Thompson remained seated and made that posture as aggressive and
obvious as possible. The remainder of the company were of varied
nationality and appearance, while one, a Frenchman of keen dark eyes
and a trim beard--seemed by tacit understanding to be the acknowledged
leader. Even the pushing Mr. Thompson silently deferred to him by a
gesture that served at once to introduce Lord Ferriby and invite the
Frenchman to up and smite him.
Lord Ferriby took the seat that had been left vacant for him at the
head of the table. He looked around upon faces not too friendly.
“We were saying, my lord,” said the Frenchman, in perfect English and
with that graceful tact which belongs to France alone, “that we have
all been the victims of an unfortunate chain of misunderstandings.
Had the organizers of this great charity consulted a few paper-makers
before inaugurating the works at Scheveningen, much unpleasantness
might have been averted, many lives might, alas, have been spared.
But--well--such mundane persons as ourselves were probably unknown to
you and unthought-of; the milk is spilt, is it not so? Let us rather
think of the future.”
Lord Ferriby bowed graciously, and Mr. Thompson moved impatiently on
his chair. The suave method had no attractions for him.
“A'hm thinking,” began Mr. MacHewlett, in his most plaintive voice, and
commanded so sudden and universal an attention as to be obviously
disconcerted, “his lordship'll need plainer speech than that,” he
muttered hastily, and subsided, with an uneasy glance in the direction
of that man of action, Major White.
“One misunderstanding has, however, been happily dispelled,” said the
Frenchman, “by our friend--if monsieur will permit the word--our friend,
Mr. Cornish. From this gentleman we have learned that the executive of
the Malgamite Charity are not by any means in harmony with the
executive of the malgamite works at Scheveningen; that, indeed, the
charity repudiates the action of its servants in manufacturing
malgamite by a dangerous process tacitly and humanely set aside by
makers up to this time; that the administrators of the fund are no
party to the 'corner' which has been established in the product; do not
desire to secure a monopoly, and disapprove of the sale of malgamite at
a price which has already closed one or two of the smaller mills, and
is paralyzing the paper trade of the world.”
The speaker finished with a bow towards Cornish, and resumed his seat.
All were watching Lord Ferriby's face, except Major White, who examined
a quill pen with short-sighted absorption. Lord Ferriby looked across
the table at Cornish.
“Lord Ferriby,” said Cornish, without rising from his seat, and meeting
his uncle's glance steadily, “will now no doubt confirm all that
Monsieur Creil has said.”
Lord Ferriby had, in truth, come to the meeting with no such intention.
He had, with all his vast experience, no knowledge of a purely
commercial assembly such as this. His public had hitherto been a
drawing-room public. He was accustomed to a flower-decked platform,
from which to deliver his flowing periods to the emotional of both
sexes. There were no flowers in this room at the Hôtel des Indes, and
the men before him were not of the emotional school. They were, on the
contrary, plain, hard-headed men of business, who had come from
different parts of the world at Cornish's bidding to meet a crisis in a
plain, hard-headed way. They had only thoughts of their balance-sheets,
and not of the fact that they held in the hollow of their hands the
lives of hundreds, nay, of thousands, of men, women, and children.
Monsieur Creil alone, the keen-eyed Frenchman, had absolute control of
over three thousand employees--married men with children--but he did not
think of mentioning the fact. And it is a weight to carry about with
one--to go to sleep with and to awake with in the morning--the charge
of, say, nine thousand human lives.
For a few moments Lord Ferriby was silent. Cornish watched him across
the table. He knew that his uncle was no fool, although his wisdom
amounted to little more than the wisdom of the worldly. Would Lord
Ferriby recognize the situation in time? There was a wavering look in
the great man's eye that made his nephew suddenly anxious. Then Lord
Ferriby rose slowly, to make the shortest speech that he had ever made
in his life.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I beg to confirm what has just been said.”
As he sat down again, Cornish gave a sharp sigh of relief. In a moment
Mr. Thompson was on his feet, his red face alight with democratic anger.
“This won't do,” he cried. “Let's have done with palavering and talk.
Let's get to plain speaking.”
And it was not Lord Ferriby, but Tony Cornish, who rose to meet the
attack.
“If you will sit down,” he said, “and keep your temper, you shall have
plain speaking, and we can get to business. But if you do neither, I
shall turn you out of the room.”
“You?”
“Yes,” answered Tony. And something which Mr. Thompson did not
understand made him resume his seat in silence. The Frenchman smiled,
and took up his speech where he had left it.
“Mr. Cornish,” he said, “speaks with authority. We are, gentlemen, in
the hands of Mr. Cornish, and in good hands. He has this matter at the
tips of his fingers. He has devoted himself to it for many months past,
at considerable risk, as I suspect, to his own safety. We and the
thousands of employees whom we represent cannot do better than entrust
the situation to him, and give him a free hand. For once, capital and
labour have a common interest----”
He was again interrupted by Mr. Thompson, who spoke more quietly now.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that we may well consider the past for a
few minutes before passing on to the future. There's more than a
million pounds profit, at the lowest reckoning, on the last few months'
manufacture. Question is, where is that profit? Is this a charity, or
is it not? Mr. Cornish is all very well in his way. But we're not
fools. We're men of business, and as such can only presume that Mr.
Cornish, like the rest of 'em, has had his share. Question is, where
are the profits?”
Major White rose slowly. He was seated beside Mr. Thompson, and,
standing up, towered above him. He looked down at the irate red face
with a calm and wondering eye.
“Question is,” he said gravely, “where the deuce you will be in a few
minutes if you don't shut up.”
Whereupon Mr. Thompson once more resumed his seat. He had the
satisfaction, however, of perceiving that his shaft had reached its
mark; for Lord Ferriby looked disconcerted and angry. The chairman of
many charities looked, moreover, a little puzzled, as if the situation
was beyond his comprehension. The Frenchman's pleasant voice again
broke in, soothingly and yet authoritatively.
“Mr. Cornish and a certain number of us have, for some time, been in
correspondence,” he said. “It is unnecessary for me to suggest to my
present hearers that in dealing with a large industry--in handling, as
it were, the lives of a number of persons--it is impossible to proceed
too cautiously. One must look as far ahead as human foresight may
perceive--one must give grave and serious thought to every possible
outcome of action or inaction. Gentlemen, we have done our best. We
are now in a position to say to the administrators of the Malgamite
Fund, close your works and we will do the rest. And this means that we
shall provide for the survivors of this great commercial catastrophe,
that we shall care for the widows and children of the victims, that we
shall supply ourselves with malgamite of our own manufacture, produced
only by a process which is known to be harmless, that we shall make it
impossible that such a monopoly may again be declared. We have, so far
as lies in our power, provided for every emergency. We have approached
the two men who, from their retreat on the dunes of Scheveningen, have
swayed one of the large industries of the world. We have offered them a
fortune. We have tried threats and money, but we have failed to close
them but one alternative, and that is--war. We are prepared in every way.
We can to-morrow take over the manufacture of malgamite for the whole
world--but we must have the works on the dunes at Scheveningen. We must
have the absolute control of the Malgamite Fund and of the works. We
propose, gentlemen, to seize this control, and invest the supreme
command in the one man who is capable of exercising it--Mr.
Anthony Cornish.”
The Frenchman sat down, looked across the table, and shrugged his
shoulders impatiently; for the irrepressible Thompson was already on
his feet. It must be remembered that Mr. Thompson worked on commission,
and had been hard hit.
“Then,” he cried, pointing a shaking forefinger into Lord Ferriby's
face, “that man has no business to be sitting there. We're honest
here--if we're nothing else. We all know your history, my fine
gentleman; we know that you cannot wipe out the past, so you're trying
to whitewash it over with good works. That's an old trick, and it won't
go down here. Do you think we don't see through you and your palavering
speeches? Why have you refused to take action against Roden and Von
Holzen? Because they've paid you. Look at him, gentlemen! He has taken
money from those men at Scheveningen--blood money. He has had his
share. I propose that Lord Ferriby explains his position.”
Mr. Thompson banged his fist on the table, and at the same moment sat
down with extreme precipitation, urged thereto by Major White's hand on
his collar.
“This is not a vestry meeting,” said the major, sternly.
Lord Ferriby had risen to his feet. “My position, gentlemen,” he began,
and then faltered, with his hand at his watch-chain. “My position----”
He stopped with a gulp. His face was the colour of ashes. He turned in
a dazed way towards his nephew; for at the beginning and the end of
life blood is thicker than water. “Anthony,” said his lordship, and sat
down heavily.
All rose to their feet in confusion. Major White seemed somehow to be
quicker than the rest, and caught Lord Ferriby in his arms--but Lord
Ferriby was dead.