FATE IRONICAL
They were a merry party at the dinner-table, and the Reverend Silas
Geary amused them greatly by his discussion of that absorbing topic, is
golf worth playing? He himself, good man, deplored the fact that several
worthy persons who, otherwise, would have been working ten or twelve
hours a day as Cabinet ministers, deliberately toiled in the sloughs and
pits of the golf course.
"The whole nation is chasing a little ball," he said; "we deplore the
advance of Germany, but, I would ask you, how does the German spend his
day, what are his needs, where do his amusements lie? There is a country
for you--every man a soldier, every worker an intellect. In England
nowadays our young fellows seem to try and find out how little they can
do. We live for minimums. We are only happy when we have struck a bat
with a ball and it has gone far. We reserve our greatest honors for
those who thus excel."
Alban ventured to say that beer seemed to be the recreation of the
average German and insolence his amusement. He confessed that the
Germans beat his own people by hard work; but he asked, is it really a
good thing that work should be the beginning and the end of all things?
He had been taught at school that the supreme beauty of life lay in
things apart and chiefly in a man's own soul. To which Gessner himself
retorted that a woman's soul was what the writer probably meant.
"We have let civilization make us what we are," the banker said
shrewdly, "and now we complain of her handiwork. Write what you like
about it, money and love are the only two things left in the world
to-day. The story has always been the same, but people did not read it
so often formerly. There have always been ambition, strife, struggle,
suffering--why should the historians trouble to tell of them? You
yourself, Alban, would be a worker if the opportunity came to you. I
have foreseen that from the first moment I met you. If you were
interested, you would outdo the Germans and beat them both with your
head and your hands. But it will be very difficult to interest you. You
would need some great stimulus, and in your case it would be ambition
rather than its rewards."
Alban replied that a love of power was probably the strongest influence
in the world.
"We all hate work," he said, repeating his favorite dictum, "I don't
suppose there is one man in a thousand who would do another day's work
unless he were compelled. The success of Socialism in our time is the
belief that it will glorify idleness and make it real. The agitators
themselves never work. They have learned the rich men's secret--I have
heard them preaching the dignity of labor a hundred times, but I never
yet saw one wheeling a barrow. The poor fellows who listen to them think
that you have only got to pass a few acts of Parliament to be happy
forever after. I pity them, but how are you to teach them that the
present state of things is just--and if it is not just, why should you
wish it to last?"
Gessner could answer that. A rich man himself, all that concerned the
new doctrines was of the profoundest interest to him.
"The present state of things is the only state of things--in the bulk,"
he said; "it is as old as the world and will go on as long as the world.
We grumble at our rich men, but those who have amassed their own
fortunes are properly the nation's bankers. Consider what a sudden gift
of money would mean to the working-men of England to-day--drunkenness,
crime, debauchery. You can legislate to improve the conditions of their
lives, but to give them creative brains is beyond all legislation. And I
will tell you this--that once you have passed any considerable
socialistic legislation for this kingdom of Great Britain, you have
decided her destiny. She will in twenty years be in the position of
Holland--a country that was but never will be again."
No one disputed the proposition, for no one thoroughly understood it.
Alban had not the courage to debate his pet theorems at such a time, and
the parson was too intent upon denouncing the national want of
seriousness to enter upon such abstruse questions as the banker would
willingly have discussed. So they fell back upon athletics again, and
were busy with football and cricket until the time came for Anna to
withdraw and leave them to their cigars. Silas Geary, quickly imitating
her, waited but for a glass of port before he made his excuses and
departed, as he said, upon a "parochial necessity."
"We will go to the Winter Garden," Gessner said to Alban when they were
alone--"I will see that Fellows takes our coffee there. Bring some
cigarettes, Alban--I wish to have a little private talk with you."
Alban assented willingly, for he was glad of this opportunity to say
much that he had desired to say for some days past. The night had turned
very hot and close, but the glass roof of the Winter Garden stood open
and they sat there almost as in the open air, the great palms and shrubs
all about them and many lights glowing cunningly amid the giant leaves.
As earlier in the evening, so now Gessner was in the best of spirits,
laughing at every trivial circumstance and compelling his guest to see
how kindly was his desposition toward him.
"We shall be comfortable here," he said, "and far enough away from the
port wine to save me self-reproach to-morrow. I see that you drink
little, Alban. It is wise--all those who have the gout will speak of
your wisdom. We drink because the wine is there, not because we want it.
And then in the morning, we say, how foolish. Come now, light another
cigarette and listen to me. I have great things to talk about, great
questions to ask you. You must listen patiently, for this concerns your
happiness--as closely perhaps as anything will concern it as long as you
live."
He did not continue immediately, seeing the footman at his elbow with
the coffee. Alban, upon his part, lighted a cigarette as he had been
commanded, and waited patiently. He thought that he knew what was coming
and yet was afraid of the thought. Anna's sudden passion for him had
been too patent to all the world that he should lightly escape its
consequences. Indeed, he had never waited for any one to speak with the
anxiety which attended this interval of service. He thought that the
footman would never leave them alone.
"Now," said Gessner at last, "now that those fellows are gone we can
make ourselves comfortable. I shall be very plain, my lad--I shall not
deceive you again. When you first came to my house, I did not tell you
the truth--I am going to tell it to you to-night, for it is only right
that you should know it."
He stirred his coffee vigorously and puffed at his cigar until it glowed
red again. When he resumed he spoke in brief decisive sentences as
though forbidding question or contradiction until he had finished.
"There is a fellow-countryman of mine--you know him and know his
daughter. He believes that I am under some obligation to him and I do
not contradict him. When we met in London, many years after the business
transaction of which he complains, I asked him in what way I could be of
service to him or to his family, as the case might be. He answered that
he wanted nothing for himself, but that any favor I might be disposed to
show should be toward his daughter and to you. I took it that you were
in love with the girl and would marry her. That was what I was given to
believe. At the same time, this fellow Boriskoff assured me that you
were well educated, of a singularly independent character, and well
worthy of being received into this house. I will not deny that the
fellow made very much of this request, and that it was put to me with
certain alternatives which I considered impertinent. You, however, had
no part in that. You came here because the whole truth was not told to
you--and you remained because my daughter wished it. There I do not fear
contradiction. You know yourself that it is true and will not contradict
me. As the time went on, I perceived that you had established a claim to
my generosity such as did not exist when first you came here--the claim
of my affection and of my daughter's. This, I will confess, has given me
more pleasure than anything which has happened here for a long time. I
have no son and I take it as the beneficent work of Providence that one
should be sent to me as you were sent. My daughter would possibly have
married a scoundrel if the circumstances had been otherwise. So, you
see, that while you are now established here by right of our affection,
I am rewarded twofold for anything I may have done for you. Henceforth
this happy state of things must become still happier. I have spoken to
Anna to-night, and I should be very foolish if I could not construe her
answer rightly. She loves you, my lad, and will take you for her
husband. It remains for you to say that your happiness shall not be
delayed any longer than may be reasonable."
It need scarcely be said with what surprise Alban listened to this
lengthy recital. Some part of the truth had already been made known to
him--but this fuller account could not but flatter his vanity while it
left him silent in his amazement and perplexity. Richard Gessner, he
understood, had always desired a brilliant match for Anna, and had
sought an alliance with some of the foremost English families. If he
abandoned these ambitions, a shrewd belief in the impossibility lay at
the root of his determination. Anna would never marry as he wished. Her
birthright and her Eastern blood forbade it. She would be the child of
whim and of passion always, and it lay upon him to avert the greater
evil by the lesser. Alban in a vague way understood this, but of his own
case he could make little. What a world of ease and luxury and delight
these few simple words opened up to him. He had but to say "yes" to
become the ultimate master of this man's fortune, the possessor of a
heritage which would have been considered fabulous but fifty years ago.
And yet he would not say "yes." It was as though some unknown power
restrained him, almost as though his own brain tricked him. Of Anna's
sudden passion for him he had no doubt whatever. She was ready and
willing to yield her whole self to him and would, it might be, make him
a devoted wife. None the less, the temptation found him vacillating and
incapable even of a clear decision. Some voice of the past called to him
and would not be silenced. Maladroitly, he gave no direct reply, but
answered the question by another.
"Did Paul Boriskoff tell you that I was about to marry his daughter, Mr.
Gessner?"
"My dear lad, what Paul Boriskoff said or did can be of little interest
to you or me to-night. He is no longer in England, let me tell you. He
left for Poland three days ago."
"Then you saw him or heard from him before he left?"
"Not at all. The less one sees or hears from that kind of person the
better. You know the fellow and will understand me. He is a firebrand we
can well do without. I recommended him to go to Poland and he has gone.
His daughter, I understand, is being educated at Warsaw. Let me advise
you to forget such acquaintances--they are no longer of any concern to
either of us."
He waved his hand as though to dismiss the subject finally; but his
words left Alban strangely ill at ease.
"Old Paul is a fanatic," he said presently, "but a very kindly one. I
think he is very selfish where his daughter is concerned, but he loves
his country and is quite honest in his opinions. From what I have heard
in Union Street, he is very unwise to go back to Poland. The Russian
authorities must be perfectly well aware what he has done in London, and
are not likely to forget it. Yes, indeed, I am sorry that he has been so
foolish."
He spoke as one who regretted sincerely the indiscretions of a friend
and would have saved him from them. Gessner, upon his side, desired as
little talk of the Boriskoffs as might be. If he had told the truth, he
knew that Alban Kennedy would walk out of his house never to return. For
it had been his own accomplices who had persuaded old Paul to return to
Poland--and the Russian police were waiting for him across the frontier.
Any hour might bring the news of his arrest. The poor fanatic who
babbled threats would be under lock and key before many hours had
passed, on his way to Saghalin perhaps--and his daughter might starve if
she were obstinate enough. All this was in Gessner's mind, but he said
nothing of it. His quick perception set a finger upon Alban's difficulty
and instantly grappled with it.
"We must do what we can for the old fellow," he said lightly, "I am
already paying for the daughter's education and will see to her future.
You would be wise, Alban, to cut all those connections finally. I want
you to take a good place in the world. You have a fine talent, and when
you come into my business, as I propose that you shall do, you will get
a training you could not better in Europe. Believe me, a financier's
position is more influential in its way than that of kings. Here am I
living in this quiet way, rarely seen by anybody, following my own
simple pleasures just as a country gentleman might do, and yet I have
but to send a telegram over the wires to make thousands rich or to ruin
them. You will inherit my influence as you will inherit my fortune. When
you are Anna's husband, you must be my right hand, acting for me,
speaking for me, learning to think for me. This I foresee and
welcome--this is what I offer you to-night. Now go to Anna and speak to
her for yourself. She is waiting for you in the drawing-room and you
must not tease her. Go to her, my dear boy, and say that which I know
she wishes to hear."
He did not doubt the issue--who would have done? Standing there with his
hand upon Alban's shoulder, he believed that he had found a son and
saved his daughter from the peril of her heritage.
So is Fate ironical. For as they talked, Fellows appeared in the garden
and announced the Russian, who carried to Hampstead tidings of a failure
disastrous beyond any in the eventful story of this man's life.