IN THE 'TIMES.'
If there was trouble at Homewood on that especial Wednesday, it had not
been a day of unmixed pleasure to two people in the city.
His worst enemy might have pitied Mr. Forde when on opening the 'Times,'
lying over the back of the official chair at St. Vedast Wharf, the first
sentence which met his eye was,
"Before Mr. Commissioner Blank." "_Re_ Archibald Mortomley," and all the
rest of it.
The paragraph was not altogether an inch long, but it proved enough to
make Mr. Forde turn as faint and sick as many a man brave enough and
honest enough had turned before in that very office.
In imagination he saw looming in the distance ruin and beggary. He heard
the gates of St. Vedast Wharf close behind him for the last time. Things
were worse with him, much worse than they had been when Mortomley's
nephew came to say his uncle meant to go into liquidation, and Mr. Forde
felt impelled once again to take his hat.
"I wish I had left then," he muttered.
If a house be tottering, the removal of even a single stone may hasten
the impending catastrophe. As Mr. Forde believed, Mortomley was a most
important stone in the edifice of his own safety, and yet even at that
juncture it never occurred to him it was his own mad sledge-hammer blows
had driven it so completely out of place that no one could ever hope to
make it available at St. Vedast Wharf again.
Really the manager was to be pitied. If there chanced to be one thing
more than another on which he piqued himself, it was his genius for
diplomacy, and, as Mr. Gibbons said, he had done a neat thing when he
employed his own solicitor to do Mortomley's work.
If everything could have been prevailed upon to work as he intended it
should, Mr. Forde would have been comparatively at ease; but edged tools
have sometimes a knack of cutting those who play with them, and already
one of Mr. Forde's tools had inflicted upon him a nasty wound.
"I will go round to Basinghall Street," he said almost aloud, as though
some balm of Gilead might be extracted even from Salisbury House, and he
went round to find Mr. Swanland out, Mr. Asherill urbane and unctuous as
ever.
Deriving little consolation from his unsatisfactory interview with the
latter gentleman, he walked on to Kleinwort's office, only to find him
absent also, and the time of his return uncertain.
Then, because he was able to think of no other person to whom he could
speak on the subject, he turned into Werner's counting-house.
As usual, Mr. Werner was within and visible.
"Have you seen the 'Times'?" asked Mr. Forde, after the first greetings
were exchanged.
"Yes," was the short reply.
"Were you not surprised?"
"I do not know. I suppose I was. I thought you would have expressed your
wishes more clearly."
"Clearly!" No italics and no number of interjections could convey an
idea of the tone in which Mr. Forde uttered this word. "Why, sir, I told
Benning as plainly as I could speak I wanted the matter kept out of the
papers, and if that was not sufficiently explicit, I repeated the same
thing to Swanland, and now just see the mess they have got me into."
"What do your directors say?"
"I have not seen any of them yet. What I shall say to them I cannot
imagine."
And Mr. Forde beat a dismal tattoo on the corner of the desk as he
spoke.
Then ensued a pause, during which Werner looked out at the weather,
which was wet and cheerless, and Mr. Forde looked at him.
"What do you think?" asked the manager at length.
"I do not think. What is the good of thinking? If you had not been so
decided on having your own way and insisting on Benning taking out the
order, this need never have happened; but you always imagine yourself
cleverer than anybody else, and so overshot the mark. Have you been to
Swanland?"
"Yes, he was out. I saw Asherill, however, who repudiated all knowledge
of Mortomley and his affairs and Swanland and his doings. He blessed me
and gave me a tract, and said he was going to speak at a meeting this
evening on behalf of a mission to some hopeful heathens in Africa. He
presented me with tickets and asked me to give them to any friend if I
could not make use of them myself. Here they are."
Henry Werner took the tickets and tore them into small atoms, flinging
these contemptuously into his waste basket.
"If he would speak on behalf of a mission to the heathens of the City of
London, I could furnish him with some anecdotes calculated to adorn his
address," he remarked. "But to return to Mortomley. In your place I
should meet the difficulty boldly. There is nothing disgraceful about
Mortomley's debt to you; nothing disgraceful about the man, spite of all
the mud with which you have been pleased to bespatter him. His worst
crime is illness, and that illness leaves you at liberty to make good
any story you like to tell. If it were Kleinwort now--"
"Kleinwort would never serve me as Mortomley has done," interrupted Mr.
Forde.
"It is very hard to tell what any man would do till he is tried," said
Mr. Werner sententiously.
"_You_ would not fail me. _You_ would always consider me. _You_ would
remember I have a wife and family depending upon me," observed Mr. Forde
entreatingly.
"If I were in a corner myself, I am quite certain I should do nothing of
the kind," was the frank reply. "My dear fellow bring the case home. Do
_you_ never fail other people? Do _you_ always consider me for instance?
Have _you_ given throughout the whole of this affair of Mortomley's one
thought to his wife or child? No you have not, and no man in business
does. You would pitch Kleinwort and me and a score more over to-morrow
if you could do so safely, and we would pitch you over if any
extraordinary temptation came in our way. You do not believe in us, and
we do not believe in you; but we do believe we have amongst us got into
such a cursed muddle we cannot afford to throw anybody overboard who
might swim to land and tell the story of our voyage. That is the state
of the case, my friend. It is not a cheerful view of the position, but
it is the true one."
"I have no doubt you would throw anybody overboard and jeer him while he
was drowning," said Mr. Forde bitterly. "Now let Kleinwort be what he
may, he has a heart. He is not like you, Werner."
"Well that is a comfort at any rate," remarked Mr. Werner. "I do not
think I should care to be like Kleinwort."
Mr. Forde did not reply. He always got the worst of the game when he
engaged in a verbal duel with Mr. Werner, so he remained leaning against
the corner of the desk for a minute or so in silence thinking how
extremely disagreeable Werner was and how hardly every one dealt with
him.
At length he roused himself and said, "I suppose there is no good in my
staying here any longer."
"You are quite welcome to stay" was the reply; "but I agree with you
that there is no good purpose to be served by your doing so."
"What a Job's comforter you are," sighed poor Mr. Forde.
"Job came all right in the end, if you remember," Mr. Werner replied.
"If you only fare ultimately half so well as he did you will not have
much cause to complain."
"Yes, to-morrow must come, no matter how much sorrow to-day holds,"
answered Mr. Forde unconsciously paraphrasing one of Kleinwort's
utterances. "If you see any of my people, Werner, do try to make things
a little pleasant for me."
"You had better explain what you propose telling them, so that I may
know the statement I am expected to back up," said Mr. Werner. "These
things ought to be arranged beforehand."
But Mr. Forde had already banged the door and departed, so that the last
utterance failed to reach his ears.
When Mr. Werner went out during the afternoon he met Mr. Kleinwort.
"Have not you some shares in that Spanish mine Green promoted," he
inquired.
The German nodded.
"Well, I heard this morning from good authority that the mine will never
pay, that the whole thing is a swindle, and was a swindle from the
beginning."
"Ah! what a world is this," said Kleinwort with a pious and resigned
expression of countenance.
"I do not think it is too late for you to sell," suggested Mr. Werner.
The German shrugged his shoulders.
"It matters not to me," he replied.
"I thought you said you had shares," remarked his companion.
"So I have; but they are in pledge don't you call it. That dear Forde
wanted them and he has got them. How nice it is when a man has got what
he wants."
"Kleinwort, I am afraid you are a great rogue," observed Mr. Werner
severely.
"Ditto to you half countryman of mine own," answered the other raising
his hat with a gesture of mock deference. "Have you been to St. Vedast
to-day? No. Neither have I. Seemed best, I thought, to leave poor Forde
to digest that neat little paragraph in the 'Times' without
disturbance!"
"It will be a bad thing for him, I am afraid," remarked Werner.
"It will be a bad thing for me, which is matter of much more interest to
Bertram Kleinwort," was the answer. "That accursed Benning and
thrice-accursed partner of the Christian wolf,--how I wish they were
both hanging on a gibbet higher than Haman's, and that I was big man
enough to pull their legs!"
Having giving utterance to which Christian desire Mr. Kleinwort
departed, leaving even Werner astonished at the tone of deadly hatred he
concentrated in one sentence.
"I believe you would do it too, you little devil," he decided. "Well, I
will go and tell Forde about the mine, and give him a chance of
selling."
But Mr. Forde was not at the wharf.
"He had received a letter by the second post," explained one of the
clerks, "which obliged him to start at once for Newcastle."
Mr. Werner smiled. He understood the cause of that sudden journey, but
he only said, "I will look round again on Friday."
But when Friday came, it was useless for him to do so. The shares in
that especial mine were a drug in the market. Every one was hastening to
sell, and no man could be found to buy.
Meantime, however, fortune, which never proves more utterly capricious
than when we believe ourselves down for life in her black books, had
relented and done Mr. Forde a gracious turn.
On the occasion of that meeting in behalf of the heathen, to which Mr.
Forde referred so contemptuously, Samuel Witney, Esq., took the chair,
and after various missionaries and others interested in the good work
had addressed the assemblage, and votes of thanks had been returned to
everybody for something, proposed to his dear brother in religion that,
as they must return to their respective homes from the Waterloo Station,
they should walk thither together.
Perfectly well Mr. Asherill understood the reason of this suggestion,
and for one moment he hesitated whether he should not charter a cab to
the City and tell Mr. Witney the literal truth, namely, that he
generally travelled to and from his snug villa residence _via_ the North
London Railway.
But immediately he decided to face the difficulty. Sooner or later his
fellow Christian was certain to question him about Mortomley, and the
sooner he did so, the less difficulty there might be in answering his
inquiries.
"I was very much surprised to see in the 'Times' this morning that Mr.
Mortomley had gone into liquidation," began Mr. Witney.
"Sad affair, is it not?" said Mr. Asherill, feeling his way.
"It is sad for us. We are creditors, as of course you are aware."
"I have been given to understand as much, but I am glad to know that you
are not creditors for any large amount, that is, I mean for anything
serious. A few thousands is of course a bagatelle, to a great concern
like the General Chemical Company."
"Humph!" ejaculated Mr. Witney. He did not care to say the loss if total
would mean half dividend or none at all, and yet still he was too much
exercised in spirit to be able to remain silent under the grievance.
"One does not like to lose even a comparatively small sum," he observed
at length.
"That is quite true," agreed Mr. Asherill, casting about in his own
mind to find the real reason why Forde, Werner, and Kleinwort had all
been so desirous to keep Mortomley on his feet.
According to Mr. Witney, the state of whose feelings Mr. Asherill read
like a book, the colour-maker did not owe the Company such an amount as
to warrant the fuss made over and the anxiety exhibited about his
affairs.
"What is your opinion on the subject of dividend?" asked Mr. Witney
after a pause.
"Well, I can scarcely be said to have an opinion," was the reply. "I
have nothing to do with the matter. My young partner has it all in his
own hands. I did not wish our firm to undertake the management of the
affair."
"Why?" inquired Mr. Witney.
"I really could scarcely tell you why," answered Mr. Asherill, "except
that I have my whims and fancies, as some people would call them.
Mortomley's father was a friend of mine, and although a member of the
Church of England, a thorough Christian. He was, I assure you,"
continued Mr. Asherill, as his companion shook his head in a manner
which might either have expressed disbelief or a desire to imply that
wonders would never cease. "He gave me a helping hand once, when help
meant more than it usually does" ('more than you would have given your
brother,' added Mr. Asherill mentally) "and I did not like the notion of
winding up the son. One never knows how sadly these things may end, and
of course a trustee ought to have no personal feeling towards a
bankrupt. He ought to be as impartial as justice herself. Mr. Swanland,
however, has got the management of the estate, which from what I hear is
a good estate, a very good estate indeed," finished Mr. Asherill
unctuously, as though he were saying grace before partaking of a
plenteous and well-served dinner.
"You think there will be a good dividend then?" suggested Mr. Witney.
"Well, I did hear," was the cautious answer, "some talk of twenty
shillings in the pound, but that I do not credit. The expenses, go to
work as we may, must be considerable, and then things may not fetch the
prices expected; and, further, poor Mortomley is ill, and that is always
a drawback; but if you get fifteen shillings, come now, you would not
grumble then?"
"No, certainly; but we should like to see twenty," said Mr. Witney. "I
will call round and have a talk with Mr. Swanland on the subject."
"Do," said Mr. Asherill cordially. "He will be able to tell you all
about it, much better than I," and the two men having by this time
arrived at Waterloo, they shook hands and blessed one another and
proceeded to their respective trains, Mr. Asherill thinking as he went,
"You do not know any more than I why your manager wanted this affair
kept quiet, but you will know to your cost some day, or I am greatly
mistaken."
After all, it is never the straws which know so well the way the wind is
blowing as those who see them swept along with the gale.
"I give the Chemical Company another year," went on Mr. Asherill,
mentally continuing the subject. "That I fancy will be about long
enough for them."
And then he fell to considering whether he should like to have the
winding up of the St. Vedast Wharf estate, and decided he should not,
for the simple reason that he did not think there would be much estate
left to wind up.
There is often a touching directness about the secret motives of
professing Christians. Perhaps this may be the reason why carnal and
unconverted creatures love so little those who love themselves and
worldly prosperity so much.