"I have in these rough words shaped out a man
Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug
With amplest entertainment."
Mr. Gabriel Cassilis, who, like Julius Cæsar and other illustrious
men, was always spoken of by both his names, stepped from his carriage
at the door of the Langham Hotel and slowly walked up the stairs to
Mr. Beck's room. He looked older, longer, and thinner in the morning
than in the evening. He carried his hands behind him and bore a look
of pre-occupation and care. The man of unlimited credit was waiting
for him, and, with his first cigar, pacing the room with his hands in
his pockets.
"I got your letter," said Mr. Cassilis, "and telegraphed to you
because I was anxious not to miss you. My time is valuable--not so
valuable as yours, but still worth something."
He spread his hands palm downwards, and at right angles to the
perpendicular line of his body, had that been erect. But it was
curved, like the figure of the man with the forelock.
"Still worth something," he repeated. "But I am here, Mr. Beck, and
ready to be of any service that I can."
"My time is worth nothing," said the American, "because my work is
done for me. When I was paid by the hour, it was worth the hour's
pay."
"But now," Mr. Cassilis interposed, "it is worth at the rate
of your yearly income. And I observe that you have unlimited
credit--un-lim-it-ed credit. That is what we should hardly give
to a Rothschild."
He wanted to know what unlimited credit really meant. It was a thing
hitherto beyond his experience.
"It is my Luck," said Mr. Beck. "Ile, as everybody knows, is not to be
approached. You may grub for money like a Chinee, and you may scheme
for it like a Boss in a whisky-ring. But for a steady certain flow
there is nothing like Ile. And I, sir, have struck Ile as it never was
struck before, because my well goes down to the almighty reservoir of
this great world."
"I congratulate you, Mr. Beck."
"And I have ventured, sir, on the strength of that introductory
letter, to ask you for advice. 'Mr. Cassilis,' I was told, 'has the
biggest head in all London for knowledge of money.' And, as I am going
to be the biggest man in all the States for income, I come to you."
"I am not a professional adviser, Mr. Beck. What I could do for you
would not be a matter of business. It is true that, as a friend only,
I might advise you as to investments. I could show you where to place
money and how to use it."
"Sir, you double the obligation. In America we do nothing without an
equivalent. Here men seem to work as hard without being paid as those
who get wages. Why, sir, I hear that young barristers do the work of
others and get nothing for it; doctors work for nothing in hospitals;
and authors write for publishers and get nothing from them. This is a
wonderful country."
Mr. Cassilis, at any rate, had never worked for nothing. Nor did he
propose to begin now. But he did not say so.
He sat nursing his leg, looking up at the tall American who stood over
him. They were two remarkable faces, that thus looked into each other.
The American's was grave and even stern. But his eyes were soft. The
Englishman's was grave also. But his eyes were hard. They were not
stealthy, as of one contemplating a fraud, but they were curious and
watchful, as of one who is about to strike and is looking for the
fittest place--that is, the weakest.
"Will you take a drink, Mr. Cassilis?"
"A--a--a drink?" The invitation took him aback altogether, and
disturbed the current of his thoughts. "Thank you, thank you.
Nothing."
"In the silver-mines I've seen a man threatened with a bowie for
refusing a drink. And I've known temperate men anxious for peace take
drinks, when they were offered, till their back teeth were under
whisky. But I know your English custom, Mr. Cassilis. When you don't
feel thirsty you say so. Now let us go on, sir."
"Our New York friend tells me, Mr. Beck, that you would find it
difficult to spend your income."
Mr. Beck brightened. He sat down and assumed a confidential manner.
"That's the hitch. That's what I am here for. In America you may chuck
a handsome pile on yourself. But when you get out of yourself, unless
you were to buy a park for the people in the centre of New York City,
I guess you would find it difficult to get rid of your money."
"It depends mainly on the amount of that money."
"We'll come to figures, sir, and you shall judge as my friendly
adviser. My bar'ls bring me in, out of my first well, 2,500 dollars,
and that's £500 a day, without counting Sundays. And there's a dozen
wells of mine around, not so good, that are worth between them another
£800 a day."
Mr. Cassilis gasped.
"Do you mean, Mr. Beck, do you actually mean that you are drawing a
profit, a clear profit, of more than £1,300 a day from your rock-oil
shafts?"
"That is it, sir--that is the lowest figure. Say £1,500 a day."
"And how long has this been going on?"
"Close upon ten months."
Mr. Cassilis produced a pencil and made a little calculation.
"Then you are worth at this moment, allowing for Sundays, at least a
quarter of a million sterling."
"Wall, I think it is near that figure. We can telegraph to New York,
if you like, to find out. I don't quite know within a hundred
thousand."
"And a yearly income of £500,000, Mr. Beck!" said Mr. Cassilis, rising
solemnly. "Let me--allow me to shake hands with you again. I had no
idea, not the slightest idea, in asking you to my house the other day,
that I was entertaining a man of so much weight and such enormous
power."
He shook hands with a mixture of deference and friendship. Then he
looked again, with a watchful glance, at the tall and wiry American
with the stern face, the grave eyes, the mobile lips, and the muscular
frame, and sat down and began to soliloquise.
"We are accustomed to think that nothing can compare with the great
landholders of this country and Austria. There are two or three
incomes perhaps in Europe, not counting crowned heads, which approach
your own, Mr. Beck, but they are saddled. Their owners have great
houses to keep up; armies of servants to maintain; estates to nurse;
dilapidations to make good; farmers to satisfy; younger sons to
provide for; poor people to help by hundreds; and local charities to
assist. Why, I do not believe, when all has been provided for, that a
great man, say the Duke of Berkshire, with coal-mines and quarries,
Scotch, Irish, Welsh, and English estates, has more to put by at the
end of the year than many a London merchant."
"That is quite right," said Mr. Beck; "a merchant must save, because
he may crack up; but the land don't run away. When you want stability,
you must go to the Airth. Outside there's the fields, the rivers, the
hills. Inside there's the mines, and there's Ile for those who can
strike it."
"What an income!" Mr. Cassilis went on. "Nothing to squander it on. No
duties and no responsibilities. No tenants; no philanthropy; no
frittering away of capital. You _can't_ spend a tenth part of it
on yourself. And the rest accumulates and grows--grows--spreads and
grows." He spread out his hands, and a flush of envy came into his
cheeks. "Mr. Beck, I congratulate you again."
"Thank you, sir."
"I see, Mr. Beck--you are yet an unmarried man, I believe, and without
children--I foresee boundless possibilities. You may marry and found a
great family; you may lay yourself out for making a fortune so great
that it may prove a sensible influence on the course of events. You
may bequeath to your race the tradition of good fortune and the habit
of making money."
"My sons may take care of themselves," said Mr. Beck; "I want to spend
money, not to save it."
It was remarkable that during all this generous outburst of vicarious
enthusiasm Mr. Beck's face showed no interest whatever. He had his
purpose, but it was not the purpose of Mr. Cassilis. To found a
family, to become a Rothschild, to contract loans--what were these
things to a man who felt strongly that he had but one life, that he
wished to make the most of it, and that the world after him might get
on as it could without his posthumous interference?
"Listen Mr. Beck, for one moment. Your income is £500,000 a year. You
may spend on your own simple wants £5,000. Bah! a trifle--not a
quarter of the interest. You save the whole; in ten years you have
three millions. You are still under fifty?"
"Forty-five, sir."
"I wish I was forty-five. You may live and work for another quarter of
a century. In that time you ought to be worth twelve millions at
least. Twelve millions!"
"Nearly as much as ran away and was lost when the Ile was struck,"
said Mr. Beck. "Hardly worth while to work for five-and-twenty years
in order to save what Nature spent in three days, is it?"
What, says the proverb, is easily got is lightly regarded. This man
made money so easily that he despised the slow, gradual building up of
an immense fortune.
"There is nothing beyond the reach of a man with twelve millions," Mr.
Cassilis went on. "He may rule the world, so long as there are poor
states with vast armies who want to borrow. Why, at the present moment
a man with twelve millions at his command could undertake a loan with
Russia, Austria, Turkey, Italy, or Egypt. He could absolutely govern
the share market; he could rule the bank rate----"
Mr. Beck interrupted, quite unmoved by these visions of greatness:
"Wal, sir, I am not ambitious, and I leave Providence to manage the
nations her own way. I might meddle and muss till I busted up the
whole concern; play, after all, into the hands of the devil, and have
the people praying to get back to their old original Providence."
"Or suppose," Mr. Cassilis went on, his imagination fired with the
contemplation of possibilities so far beyond his own reach--"suppose
you were to buy up land--to buy all that comes into the market.
Suppose you were to hand down to your sons a traditional policy of
buying land with the established principle of primogeniture. In twenty
years you might have great estates in twenty counties----"
"I could have half a state," said Mr. Beck, "if I went out West."
"In your own lifetime you could control an election, make yourself
President, carry your own principles, force your opinions on the
country, and become the greatest man in it."
"The greatest country in the world is the United States of
America--that is a fact," said Mr. Beck, laughing; "so the greatest
man in it must be the greatest man in the world. I calculate that's a
bitter reflection for Prince Bismarck when he goes to bed at night;
also for the Emperor of all the Russias. And perhaps your Mr.
Gladstone would like to feel himself on the same level with General
Ulysses Grant."
"Mr. Beck," cried Mr. Cassilis, rising to his feet in an irrepressible
burst of genuine enthusiasm, and working his right hand round exactly
as if he was really Father Time, whom he so much resembled--"Mr. Beck,
I consider you the most fortunate man in the world. We slowly amass
money--for our sons to dissipate. Save when a title or an ancient name
entails a conservative tradition which keeps the property together,
the process in this country and in yours is always the same. The
strong men climb, and the weak men fall. And even to great houses like
the Grosvenors, which have been carried upwards by a steady tide of
fortune, there will surely one day come a fool, and then the tide will
turn. But for you and yours, Mr. Beck, Nature pours out her
inexhaustible treasures----"
"She does, sir--in Ile."
"You may spend, but your income will always go on increasing."
"To a certain limit, sir--to five thousand and fifty-three years. I
have had it reckoned by one of our most distinguished mathematicians,
Professor Hercules Willemott, of Cyprus University, Wisconsin. He made
the calculations for me."
"Limit or not, Mr. Beck, you are now a most fortunate man. And I shall
be entirely at your service. I believe," he added modestly, "that I
have some little reputation in financial circles."
"That is so, sir. And now let me put my case." Mr. Beck became once
more animated and interested. "Suppose, sir, I was to say to you, 'I
have more than enough money. I will take the Luck of the Golden
Butterfly and make it the Luck of other people.'"
"I do not understand," said Mr. Cassilis.
"Sir, what do you do with your own money? You do not spend it all on
yourself?"
"I use it to make more."
"And when you have enough?"
"We look at things from a different point of view, Mr. Beck. _You_
have enough; but I, whatever be my success, can never approach the
fourth part of your income. However, let me understand what you want
to do, and I will give such advice as I can offer."
"That's kind, sir, and what I expected of you. It is a foolish fancy,
and perhaps you'll laugh; but I have heard day and night, ever since
the Ile began to run, a voice which says to me always the same
thing--I think it is the voice of my Golden Butterfly: 'What you can't
spend, give.' 'What you can't spend, give.' That's my duty, Mr.
Cassilis; that's the path marked out before me, plain and shinin' as
the way to heaven. What I can't spend, I must give. I've given nothing
as yet. And I am here in this country of giving to find out how to do
it."
"We--I mean the--the----" Mr. Cassilis was on the point of saying "the
Idiots," but refrained in time. "The people who give money send it to
charities and institutions."
"I know that way, sir. It is like paying a priest to say your prayers
for you."
"When the secretaries get the money they pay themselves their own
salaries first; then they pay for the rent, the clerks, and the
advertising. What remains goes to the charity."
"That is so, sir; and I do not like that method. I want to go right
ahead; find out what to do, and then do it. But I must feel like
giving, whatever I do."
"Your countryman, Mr. Peabody, gave his money in trust for the London
poor. Would you like to do the same?"
"No, sir; I should not like to imitate that example. Mr. Peabody was a
great man, and he meant well; but I want to work for myself. Let a man
do all the good and evil he has to do in his lifetime, not leave his
work dragging on after he is dead. 'They that go down into the pit
cannot hope for the truth.' Do you remember that text, Mr. Cassilis?
It means that you must not wait till you are dead to do what you have
to do."
Mr. Cassilis altered his expression, which was before of a puzzled
cheerfulness, as if he failed to see his way, into one of unnatural
solemnity. It is the custom of certain Englishmen if the Bible is
quoted. He knew no more than Adam what part of the Bible it came from.
But he bowed, and pulled out his handkerchief as if he was at a
funeral. In fact, this unexpected hurling of a text at his head
floored him for the moment.
Mr. Beck was quite grave and in much earnestness.
"There is another thing. If I leave this money in trust, how do I know
that my purpose will be carried out? In a hundred years things will
get mixed. My bequests may be worth millions, or they may be worth
nothing. The lawyers may fight over the letter of the will, and the
spirit may be neglected."
"It is the Dead Hand that you dread."
"That may be so, sir. You air in the inside track, and you ought to
know what to call it. But no Hand, dead or alive, shall ever get hold
of my stamps."
"Your stamps?"
"My stamps, sir; my greenbacks, my dollars. For I've got them, and I
mean to spend them. 'Spend what you can, and give what you cannot
spend,' says the Voice to Gilead P. Beck."
"But, my dear sir, if you mean to give away a quarter of a million a
year, you will have every improvident and extravagant rogue in the
country about you. You will have to answer hundreds of letters a day.
You will be deluged with prospectuses, forms, and appeals. You will be
called names unless you give to this institution or to that----"
"I shall give nothing to any society."
"And what about the widows of clergymen, the daughters of officers,
the nieces of Church dignitaries, the governess who is starving, the
tradesman who wants a hundred pounds for a fortnight, and will repay
you with blessings and 25 per cent. after depositing in your hand as
security all his pawn-tickets."
"Every boat wants steering, but I was not born last Sunday, and the
ways of big cities, though they may be crooked, air pretty well known
to me. There are not many lines of life in which Gilead P. Beck has
not tried to walk."
"My dear sir, do you propose to act the part of Universal
Philanthropist and Distributor at large?"
"No, sir, I do not. And that puzzles me too. I should like to be quiet
over it. There was a man down to Lexington, when I was a boy, who said
he liked his religion unostentatious. So he took a pipe on a Sunday
morning and sat in the churchyard listening to the bummin' and the
singin' within. Perhaps, sir, that man knew his own business. Perhaps
thoughts came over his soul when they gave out the Psalm that he
wouldn't have had if he'd gone inside, to sit with his back upright
against a plank, his legs curled up below the seat, and his eyes
wandering around among the gells. Maybe that is my case, too, Mr.
Cassilis. I should like my giving to be unostentatious."
"Give what you cannot spend," said Mr. Cassilis. "There are at any
rate plenty of ways of spending. Let us attend to them first."
"And there's another thing, sir," Mr. Beck went on, shifting his feet
and looking uneasy and distressed. "It's on my mind since I met the
young gentleman at your house. I want to do something big, something
almighty big, for Mr. Ronald Dunquerque."
"Because he killed the bear?"
"Yes, sir, because he saved my life. Without that shot the Luck of
Gilead P. Beck would have been locked up for ever in that little box
where the Golden Butterfly used to live. What can I do for him? Is the
young gentleman rich?"
"On the contrary, I do not suppose--his brother is one of the poorest
peers in the house--that the Honorable Mr. Ronald Dunquerque is worth
£500 a year. Really, I should say that £300 would be nearer the mark."
"Then he is a gentleman, and I am--well, sir, I hope I am learning
what a gentleman should do and think in such a position as the Golden
Butterfly has brought me into. But the short of it is that I can't say
to him: 'Mr. Dunquerque, I owe you a life, and here is a cheque for so
many thousand dollars.' I can't do it, sir."
"I suppose not. But there are ways of helping a young man forward
without giving him money. You can only give money to poets and
clergymen."
"That is so, sir."
"Wait a little till your position is known and assured. You will then
be able to assist Mr. Ronald Dunquerque, as much as you please." He
rose and took up his gloves. "And now, Mr. Beck, I think I understand
you. You wish to do something great with your money. Very good. Do not
be in a hurry. I will think things over. Meantime, you are going to
let it lie idle in the bank?"
"Wal, yes; I was thinking of that."
"It would be much better for me to place it for you in good shares,
such as I could recommend to you. You would then be able to--to--give
away"--he pronounced the words with manifest reluctance--"the interest
as well as the principal. Why should the bankers have the use of it?"
"That seems reasonable," said Mr. Beck.
Mr. Cassilis straightened himself and looked him full in the face. He
was about to strike his blow.
"You will place your money," he said quietly, as if there could be no
doubt of Mr. Beck's immediate assent, "in my hands for investment. I
shall recommend you safe things. For instance, as regards the shares
of the George Washington Silver Mine----"
He opened his pocket-book.
"No, sir," said Mr. Beck with great decision.
"I was about to observe that I should not recommend such an
investment. I think, however, I could place immediately £20,000 in the
Isle of Man Internal Navigation Company."
"An English company?" said Mr. Beck.
"Certainly. I propose, Mr. Beck, to devote this morning to a
consideration of investments for you. I shall advise you from day to
day. I have no philanthropic aims, and financing is my profession. But
your affairs shall be treated together with mine, and I shall bring to
bear upon them the same--may I say insight?--that has carried my own
ventures to success. For this morning I shall only secure you the Isle
of Man shares."
They presently parted, with many expressions of gratitude from Mr.
Gilead Beck.
A country where men work for nothing? Perhaps, when men are young. Not
a country where elderly men in the City work for nothing. Mr. Cassilis
had no intention whatever of devoting his time and experience to the
furtherance of Mr. Beck's affairs. Not at all: if the thoughts in his
mind had been written down, they would have shown a joy almost boyish
in the success of his morning's visit.
"The Isle of Man Company," we should have read, "is floated. That
£20,000 was a lucky _coup_. I nearly missed my chances with the
silver mine; I ought to have known that he was not likely to jump at
such a bait. A quarter of a million of money to dispose of, and five
hundred thousand pounds a year. And mine the handling of the whole.
Never before was such a chance known in the City."
A thought struck him. He turned, and went back hastily to Gilead
Beck's rooms.
"One word more. Mr. Beck, I need hardly say that I do not wish to be
known as your adviser at all. Perhaps it would be well to keep our
engagements a secret between ourselves."
That of course was readily promised.
"Half a million a year!" The words jangled in his brain like the
chimes of St. Clement's. "Half a million a year! And mine the
handling."
He spent the day locked up in his inner office. He saw no one, except
the secretary, and he covered an acre or so of paper with
calculations. His clerks went away at five; his secretary left him at
six; at ten he was still at work, feverishly at work, making
combinations and calculating results.
"What a chance!" he murmured prayerfully, putting down his pen at
length. "What a blessed chance!"
Mr. Gilead Beck would have congratulated himself on the disinterested
assistance of his unprofessional adviser had he known that the whole
day was devoted to himself. He might have congratulated himself less
had he known the thoughts that filled the financier's brains.
Disinterested? How could Mr. Cassilis regard any one with money in his
hand but as a subject for his skill. And here was a man coming to him,
not with his little fortune of a few thousand pounds, not with the
paltry savings of a lifetime, not for an investment for widows and
orphans, but with a purse immeasurable and bottomless, a purse which
he was going to place unreservedly in his hands.
"Mine the handling," he murmured as he got into bed. It was his
evening hymn of praise and joy.