THE HISTORY OF A COMPACT
Three years earlier there had been an appalling railway accident
between Cordova and Seville. Two tightly packed trains had come into
collision, with results that had prevented even the Spanish officials
from hushing up the _contretemps_, and had sent an electric wave of
shudders over the whole news-reading world. Among the second division
of its victims, the dangerously, even mortally, wounded, there appeared
one name at least which added, in England, at any rate, to the
sensational interest which for nearly a week the affair induced. It was
that of the most prominent coming man of the day, Paul Gastineau, K.C.,
M.P., a man who had indeed arrived and who was bound, in French phrase,
to go far. Lay politicians were fond of quoting one another that a man
of such marvellous brain-power and capability for hard work had the
easy and certain reversion to the Woolsack: members of his own branch
of the profession, if they did not agree with the forecast, let it pass
unchallenged; while there were many grains of intentional truth in the
chaff indulged in by the other branch when they would declare that the
solicitor, who, having a fighting case on hand, failed to retain Paul
Gastineau, laid himself open to an action for negligence.
For Gastineau was above all things a fighter, and one who fought with
his brains as well as with his tongue; a distinction which they who
know courts of law will readily appreciate. An awkward adversary, ever
in deadly earnest, who always fenced with the button off; his enemies
and defeated opponents, and they were many, said not too scrupulously;
but he fought to win, and usually did win, leaving mere niceties and
quibbles to the schoolmen; and to have the knack of winning means much,
if not everything. It meant much for Paul Gastineau. He became the most
talked about man at the Bar, and his enemies being too human to let his
praises pass in silence, simply added their voices to the babble that
made him known. Our forefathers were stupid enough to regard the envy,
hatred and malice that attend on success as something of a drawback;
a toll, they called it, paid for being eminent: we know better, and
nowadays the wisely successful man regards his detractors as a valuable
asset in the working capital on which he pursues the business of
eminence.
Parties in the political world do not look far or seek beneath the
surface for their allies. Perhaps they are too busy, or too lazy; not
to suggest that they are too stupid. Anyhow they have a well-defined
leaning towards ready-made reputations: the practice may be expensive
and exacting, but it saves trouble. Once Gastineau had become an
established success his Party found that they could not do without
him, and to that success and to that discovery did a very worthy and
somnolent brewer, whose legislative faculties appeared to be somewhat
clouded by the fumes of his own ale, owe his more comfortable place of
repose in that honourable, if shunted, _wagon-lit_ called the House of
Lords. Eminent forensic lawyers are often failures in Parliament, and
Gastineau was clever enough at the Bar to make wiseacres pretty sure
of his falling short in the House. But the short-sighted soothsayers
who judge the individual from the aggregate had made no allowance for
a certain quality which, beyond his grit, his talent, and his power of
concentration, was to be an important factor in the success which he
forthwith became. They forgot that he was not altogether an Englishman:
there was Southern blood in his veins, a warmer tinge to his mind;
he had the vivacity and intellectual _chic_ of the Italian added to
the determination of an Englishman. So he rose almost at a bound to a
high position among the legal members of the House, and with that his
position seemed assured.
Naturally when it was seen that this distinguished man was among
the victims of the Spanish railway smash, something like a thrill
ran through the country which was the stage of his career. Society
speculated as to the extent of his injuries and his chance of recovery;
his own profession believed, many of them hoped, that, even if he did
recover, his flight would thenceforward be a drooping one, while our
old friend, the man in the street, always ready with an obvious moral
platitude, made much of the impending sword which Fate hangs over the
heads of even the most brilliantly successful of poor humanity.
Meanwhile in a poor monastery near an obscure Spanish town Gastineau
lay battling with characteristic determination to keep at bay Death
who stood over him. When he had been extricated from the wreckage of
the train he was placed aside on the ground to await means of removal
to the improvised hospital; and he had lain there in what, to a man of
his character and ambition, far exceeded the bitterness of death. His
spine was injured, he felt no pain, was, indeed, scarcely conscious of
the strange numbness and deprivation of all muscular power. But, after
the first stunning shock, his mind had become, even for him, abnormally
clear and alert, the change from lethargic dizziness had come like the
clearing off of vapours from the sun. “Thank Heaven,” he muttered to
himself, “this is the end, the lightning before death; if only it will
come quickly, for all is over with me.”
So in a state of savage, resentful impatience he lay there, looking
up at the stars, all unconcerned in their cold glitter, types of the
all-enduring, which mocked that poor transient clay which had aspired
to be a planet in a system so mundane as to admit of railway accidents;
and as he looked with despairing eyes he cursed them as the unjust
rulers of his fate. Then, for his mind was in too great a state of
exaltation to dwell long on any one thought, before him rose and
passed as in an extraordinarily vivid panorama the salient incidents
of his career, to be succeeded by the principal stages he had been
wont justifiably to picture in his future. Never to be. The past was
all he could claim now; the present was mere impotence, and the future
had vanished at the touch of a sleepy signalman’s hand on the wrong
lever. He ground his teeth as he thought of it; he had a good deal of
cynical philosophy in him, but it failed here, the stake had been too
great, the certainty of winning too absolute for him to regard this
startling reverse with equanimity. Then he came to review his triumphs,
his mistakes, his sins: the last had been mostly pleasant, none the
less so, perhaps, that his ambition had required their concealment; he
felt he would rather have lived for sin, flagrant, even, and open,
than died like this. If he had known how near the end was he would not
have been so careful; the world’s opinion, bah! What was it worth now?
Something came to his mind that since the jar of the accident he had
strangely forgotten; something that had sent him there, sent him, as
it turned out, to his death. Was there justice in that? Curiously his
legally trained mind began to busy itself in weighing the equity of
the penalty. It was at least strangely swift, fitting and thorough,
but was it just? _Summum jus, summa injuria._ He smiled resentfully
at the aptness of the adage, then became conscious that some one was
speaking to him, was sympathetically asking as to his hurt. A young
man knelt by his side and, with a cushion, tried to make his position
more comfortable, talking cheerily to him the while. He was one of
the uninjured passengers doing his best for his less fortunate fellow
travellers. For the moment Gastineau hated his succourer in a wave of
malicious envy; why had not this nobody, this worthy, common-place
young Englishman, dull, probably, and mentally circumscribed, with the
hallmark of Eton plainly showing, why had not this man been shattered,
and he, the brilliant worker, with a name and a place in the world,
have gone scatheless? So bitter was the selfish thought that for a
while he could hardly bring himself to acknowledge the young stranger’s
kindness; all he wanted was to be let alone, to die quickly. But the
other was not to be easily rebuffed; perhaps he made allowance for a
sufferer’s state of mind and temper; anyhow he soon won, by tactful
assiduity, the wounded man’s gratitude, to such a degree, indeed,
that when they came to bear Gastineau to the monastery he begged the
young fellow not to leave him. There self came in again, since other
sufferers might need the young Samaritan’s care; but the case seemed
desperate, and he could not bear to refuse a manifestly dying man’s
request.
In such manner began the friendship between Paul Gastineau and Geoffrey
Herriard.
Now, within the next few days, chance, that had brought Gastineau
to this pass, continued a sequel which had a singular and important
bearing upon the future of the two men it had thrown together.
Gastineau, having been carried to the monastery and tended by the
monks, ever ready for such an office of mercy, lay for days in a
semi-comatose condition on the borderland between life and death. He
was but one of some dozen victims under the care of these good brothers
who, simple and practically dead to the world beyond their narrow
sphere, took little heed of their patients’ identities; they were to
them simply suffering men whose pain called forth their loving service.
Presently, to their joy and Herriard’s satisfaction, Gastineau, who had
seemed doomed, began to mend. He regained in a surprising degree his
mental faculties; the doctor shook his head at any idea of complete
recovery; he could never walk again, but, with care till the crisis was
well past, he would live. It was wonderful, wonderful, he declared;
not one man in a thousand would have survived such an injury, but the
vitality of the _Señor Inglese_ was the most marvellous he had ever
known; it was a revelation; and, after all, though most of us die when
we need not, there are some subjects whom it is absurdly difficult to
kill. But then look at him. Did one ever see such unmistakable power in
any one as this dark, resolute Englishman manifested? Were all mankind
built of that steel-like fibre physicians would be few. But to give
him the best chance it would be well to remove him to the air of the
mountains, and the sooner it was done the better.
Accordingly, early one morning, the patient, accompanied by Herriard,
was driven off on a journey of some half-dozen leagues to the
restorative atmosphere the doctor had suggested.
Now it happened that, an hour after their departure, death, as
though determined not to be twice baulked, struck his dart at one of
the patients who remained at the monastery, an Englishman also, a
stockbroker of travelling proclivities whose proposed itinerary had
scarcely included the River Styx. During the morning the reporter of
the local paper, who had, from the columns of a Madrid “contemporary,”
discovered that an Englishman of note was among the wounded (a fact
which he had totally failed to get wind of at first hand), bustled up
to the monastery with an eye to “copy” and the unusual importance of a
series of press telegrams to the capitals of Europe. Only to be told
that the Englishman had died that morning. Too disgusted at a lost
opportunity to enquire more closely as to the identity of the deceased,
he jumped to the conclusion that it was of course the eminent advocate
and distinguished member of the British Parliament who was dead, and
hurried off in sorrow to his office, formulating his dispatch by the
way. So it came to be flashed abroad that Paul Gastineau had, as
expected, succumbed to his injuries.
Herriard reading the news some days after was hot on contradicting it,
and greatly surprised when Gastineau forbade him to do so.
“Let it be,” he commanded. “It is scarcely a mistake. I am dead. Yes;
considering what my life has been, as really dead as many a man who is
in his grave. Let it be so, Herriard; give me your word that you will
not set the mistake right. I will tell you why presently.”
He was so evidently in earnest, that Herriard could not refuse to
pass his word, unaccountable as the request seemed. Yet, perhaps, to
him who, being a humble member of the same profession, knew well his
companion’s position and character therein, it was just conceivable
that this brilliant and ambitious man could not bear to swallow fate’s
nauseous dose in public. If we have to make a wry face we need not
stand in the market-place to do it.
So it came to pass that the report of Gastineau’s death was never
contradicted; he was supposed to have been buried in an obscure Spanish
grave; obituary notices appeared in the papers, and the very fact
that these were allowed to pass unchallenged practically confirmed
their truth. This business of a supposititious death would, however,
have been difficult to carry out successfully had it not been helped
by the circumstance that Gastineau stood, so far as family ties were
concerned, almost alone in the world. There was no near relative to go
out to Spain and make enquiries, even as a pious duty. Such distant
cousins as he had were poor, for he had raised himself; he had never
encouraged any advances they had attempted, and they accepted the news
of his death with little more interest than the rest of the world. So
when presently it appeared that he had left to his friend Geoffrey
Herriard a life interest in his property the relations had scarcely an
excuse for a grievance.
But when once the deception had been decided on, the busy, acute brain,
as keen as ever, set to work strenuously to perfect all the details
of the business. And something more. The hidden light was to burn as
brightly as ever behind its screen of lies; the dead hand was to strike
as viciously as of old, the stilled voice to sting through other lips.
Gastineau studied Herriard and came to the conclusion that he was
fitted for the purpose he had in mind. He could have done with a little
less honesty, but the scheme in its very character contained an element
which would neutralize that. Paul Gastineau was not going to play the
dead man in aught save in name. He was still a power. The sword with
which he had fought and gained so many encounters had snapped in his
hand, but he would do some savage execution yet with the jagged dagger
it had become. He was not going to lie still and impotently watch the
unchecked triumphs of the rivals and enemies he hated and despised. The
sole sharer of his secret was clever, ambitious, sick of waiting for
his chance, and, by Heaven, he should have it.
Accordingly he one day considerably startled Herriard by proposing to
him a scheme, extraordinary enough, yet of obvious feasibility. It was
simply this: That they should return to London secretly, and that he,
Gastineau, out of gratitude for the services rendered him, should repay
service for service by putting the whole of his great talents at his
young friend’s disposal to the furtherance of his career. Herriard, in
a word, was to be the mouthpiece of the stricken man’s brain. Gastineau
should be the dramatist and stage-manager, Herriard the actor, the
manifest form of the invisible spirit.
“I will make you, Geoffrey,” he protested, warming to kindle the
necessary enthusiasm in his intended pupil. “Your fortune at the
Bar, that will be child’s play; I will guarantee for you, if I live,
something higher, a prize more glorious than mere money. Don’t think
of that; leave money-grubbing to tradesmen; more than enough for
everything a man can want will come of course, for you cannot march
successfully through our profession without the accompaniment of the
golden cymbals! But if I take you in hand as I propose, there is no
saying where you will stop. Because I am at the end of my tether,
which has pulled me up with an ugly jerk, because I can do no more for
myself, is no reason why, so long as my brains are left me, I should
not do something for another man. No, don’t begin to thank me; I am not
even pretending that there is any virtue in my offer. If,” he laughed,
“I had still the use of my legs I wouldn’t do it, that’s obvious. I
should be too keen on my own career to trouble much about helping
another man on. I should, if I had completely recovered, have probably
given you a piece of jewellery in acknowledgment of your kindness,
and always been your friend and glad to see you. I am selfish; all
successful men are, although some contrive to disguise it from a stupid
public by advertising the contrary; it has made me; I don’t say I could
not have got on without practising selfishness, but it would have taken
me much longer, and time, you know, is of the essence of our contract
with Fate in these days of hustle, rush and scramble. And it is just
that very instinct of self that now draws me to you; for selfishness by
no means implies ingratitude. Within limits, they who make self their
god are keenly grateful to those who serve in his temple. It is just
as well to be honest in a matter of this kind, and for neither of us to
enter upon a contract such as I am proposing with false impressions.
For it must be a contract, my dear Geoffrey; binding by the very seal
of our individual interests, and to be honourably kept in its spirit as
well as on its material side. It will be necessary for us to believe
in one another, to trust one another. Those are general stipulations:
the only specific conditions I shall make are, absolute, inviolable
secrecy, which you would hardly break, and, what you may find less
easy to comply with, implicit obedience to my instructions. I am not
surprised to see you look serious at that, but don’t misunderstand
me. I am not going to put a knife in your hand and send you forth to
murder one of my pet aversions. I have no intention of asking you to do
anything, to use any weapon which an ordinary man of the world need in
honour, our code of to-day, shrink from. But if I want a man hit hard
you must hit him hard; you will be my soldier, and when I send you out
to fight I don’t expect you to patch up a truce and arbitrate. I have
always been a fighting man, and as my representative, my proxy, you
would have to carry my banner, which bears the motto, ‘No compromise.’
The rewards would be great. If, as I hardly suppose, my affairs should
turn out so that it became necessary for me to levy toll of your
earnings, I would take care you were no loser by that. I will get you
into the House, and what is more, I will make you master of the art of
making your mark there when you are in. That is the real crux. That is
where nine out of ten, even clever, men fail. There need be no limit to
your ambition. Every day’s programme shall be sketched for you, every
wrong turning marked with a red cross, every pitfall fenced, the right
road clearly marked. You shall see your fellow travellers drop off, but
you shall, if you follow my clue, go on triumphantly, each milestone
marking a new success. The world is before you to conquer. The world
consists mainly of fools, but even fools get in your way, it is all
they can do, and there are clever spirits to oppose your progress. The
conquest is easy enough, but unhappily men usually find that out too
late, when they are too old for the fray. I doubt whether you could do
it alone, Geoffrey, at least while the victory is worth having, but
with me behind you, you may be irresistible. Is it a compact?”
The compact was made readily enough, the chances of the strange
proposal being too dazzling to be rejected. If the purely ethical side
of the arrangement lodged a feeble protest in Herriard’s mind, the
material advantage with which it was weighted drove the monitor out of
hearing. Success deferred is to the impatience of youth more galling,
perhaps, than the settled disappointment of failure to a maturer mind.
From Herriard success, the immediate success which a fairly clever and
ambitious man expects to be his, had been withheld to a degree that
had begun to gall him. Other men of his standing, no cleverer but more
pushing, or more lucky, than he, were forging ahead. We are never so
conscious of our slow progress as when we see ourselves left behind by
others who started with us. Here, ready to Herriard’s hand, was a means
of catching up and passing his rivals, indeed of astonishing his world.
It seemed rather like making a compact with the devil, he would tell
himself with a laugh; yet where, he argued, was the wrong? He was going
to rob no one; it was merely a partnership that he was entering into,
and the success of a partnership is gauged by its strongest rather than
its weakest member. Why should a bed-ridden man of genius be debarred
from the active exercise of his mental powers? Where was the dishonour
in being his spokesman, any more than his amanuensis?
So the argument went all one way; the strange partnership began,
and was not long in justifying its existence. Men who frequented
the fruitful and thorny paths of the law began to speak of Geoffrey
Herriard as one of the cleverest of rising counsel; some, speculating
in “futures” out of the capital of their reputation for foresight,
pointed at him as the coming man. He went far to justify them by the
lucky capture of a seat at a bye-election, the victory being in some
measure due to a series of particularly smart and telling speeches,
which tore into shreds the platform of his opponent, a flabby
soap-maker with a long purse and a short vocabulary. Herriard’s maiden
speech was a success. “Best I’ve heard since poor Paul Gastineau,” Sir
Henry Hartfield commented.
“Rather reminds me of him,” his companion remarked. “Something of the
same fiery periods and tendency to antithesis. It just shows how easily
a man’s place can be filled, even the cleverest.”
The resemblance in style was indeed remarkable both at the Bar, on
the platform, and in the House, for in the early day of his pupildom
Herriard had to keep tight and assiduous hold on his master’s hand. The
work was hard, but the tutor was clever in imparting his knack, and,
with a reputation increasing to a flattering degree, the incentive to
industry on the pupil’s part was great.
Every night Herriard paid a visit to the secluded house in Mayfair,
sometimes to stay far into the early hours of the morning, rehearsing
a speech, analyzing the probable trends of a cross-examination, making
notes from Gastineau’s quick observation of weak points or strong
ones, spotting flaws, devising traps, in fact looking to every rivet
in his own armour, speculating on every possible loose joint in his
adversaries’ for the morrow’s tilt.
So the singular conjunction of rare master and apt pupil had continued
in almost unbroken success for more than three years. Herriard
had gained such a degree of confidence in playing his part as now
almost to wear his instructor’s talent at second-hand. He promised
to become a rich man, and Gastineau, with ample means of his own
for his circumscribed luxury, was pleased that it should be so. In
return for wealth and reputation he expected Herriard to mark down,
to follow up and worry certain old-time rivals of his own. His pupil
sometimes marvelled at the malignant viciousness of his “riding
orders.” It was as though Gastineau had given him a rhetorical bottle
of vitriol to fling over the smug face of some self-satisfied prig
of an Under Secretary. Still he felt in honour bound to fling the
corrosive denunciations with the most stinging effect, very much to the
distortion of the Superior Being’s cultivated blandness. Then Gastineau
was wont to declare himself well satisfied; and perfect friendship,
founded on mutual service, existed between the two men.
But strange events, little dreamt of by either, were on their way to
meet them; events which were to turn into disastrous twistings the
paths that had run so easily side by side.