thinks she can run it. Perhaps she could, if one had enough capital. But
one hasn’t. So that’s the end of that. First Nirvana, then
Jamesons—they all go the same way home. Serves me right for gambling, I
suppose. But I wish I hadn’t let _you_ down, Pat.”
“You haven’t let me down,” she flashed at him: and the sudden anger
surprised them both. “Do you think I married you just for money? Do you
think I want you to be like Rawlings? . . .”
“No”—somehow her anger soothed him—“of course I don’t.”
“Well then, why do you talk about letting _me_ down?”
“Because, Pat”—he spoke slowly, fumbling for words—“a man’s got no
right to marry a woman and have children if he can’t look after them.
Two years ago, we had three thousand a year; today, we’ll be lucky if
we’ve got six hundred. That’s failure, Pat. And you know what I think of
failure.”
She remembered a similar conversation, long ago, at the Carlton.
“It isn’t your fault,” she said stubbornly. “And besides”—her voice
grew very gentle—-“lots of people are very happy on six hundred a
year.”
“In books,” he sneered.
“Peter”—she looked at him and he saw her eyes suffuse—“that _hurts_.”
The sudden change in her dumbfounded him. Always, they had talked
openly, as man to man. Now, he knew instinctively that he must finesse.
And he hated finesse—even in commerce. Yet he was sorry to have hurt
her; told her so; tried to explain.
“It’s all right for some people, Pat. But it wouldn’t suit us. Imagine
us living in a place like ‘The Limes.’ . . .”
Thought Patricia, “He’s been home half a day and he hasn’t even kissed
me yet!”
Nevertheless, she pulled herself together. He had come home “on
business”; and he must be allowed to settle his business in his own way.
He looked thinner, she thought: and it seemed to her a shame that he
should be worried with money-matters when his real work lay elsewhere,
at the front.
She let him talk himself into optimism; admired the ultimate philosophy
with which he said: “Anyway, it’s only temporary. One doesn’t alter a
deal by talking round it. Jamesons will have to go. Let it! Once this
war’s over, I’ll get into business again. And then, then, my dear,
you’ll see me make things hum.”
He paid for tea; insisted on driving home himself. They spun out of
twilit country into the blueing gloom of war-time London; made Harley
Street in time for dinner.
The children, who had waited up for his return, greeted their father
uproariously; could hardly be induced to bed. Later Heron Baynet
produced Clicquot, a decanter of special brandy. The three of them made
semblance of enjoyment. Peter told them how he had wangled his leave;
Patricia broached a plan long contemplated—the taking of a little place
in the country; her father spoke, as always, of his work.
The little consultant with the lined face and the kind eyes was one of
the only three men in England who had made any study of war’s effect on
the fighting man’s nerves. Already, in the card-index on the table in
his consulting-room, he had tabulated five hundred cases; and from those
five hundred cases, a theory had begun to evolve itself—a theory of
eminent simplicity. Heron Baynet called it, “The Curve of the Limit of
Human Endurance.”
The curve and the limit of each individual varied, were affected by
conditions—physical, mental, and sexual, conditions of heredity and
conditions of pre-war environment. But of one thing, Heron Baynet
already held the absolute certainty:—The superman, as preached by
German philosophers, did not exist. Every human individuality possessed
its breaking-strain, the point beyond which will-power could not force
either the body or the brain. Any attempt to pass that “limit of human
endurance” must be foredoomed to failure.
And it seemed to Heron Baynet, sitting alone after the two had gone to
bed, that he could already detect from certain tones in his son-in-law’s
voice, from the way his conversation ran from one topic to another, from
the whole atmosphere his personality exuded, that Peter Jameson had
already abandoned the flat level of the normal, begun the slow climb up
that curve of endurance which must lead eventually to breaking
point. . . .
PART TWENTY-ONE
THE DROSS AND THE GOLD
§ 1
Despite his father-in-law’s diagnosis, there was no sign of overstrain
about the quiet young fellow in mufti who sat talking figures in George
Reid’s stuffy private office, the morning after his arrival in England.
One by one, Peter marshalled his facts; laid them before the middle-aged
clean-shaven man at the paper-littered desk.
“But are you sure you can find a buyer?” said Reid at last. “It all
seems to hang on that.”
“You can always sell things—at a price,” answered Peter. “The only
trouble is _time_. One can’t conclude a deal like this in under a week.
That’s where I want _your_ help. If I start the negotiations, will you
carry them through? Of course, you must name your own fee.”
“I don’t take fees for helping people in the Army,” said Reid.
“But that’s ridiculous. You’re not here for your health.”
“Ridiculous or not, I won’t take any fee.” There was something very near
emotion in the accountant’s voice. “You can pay for having the accounts
audited if you like. But beyond that, not a farthing. Hang it all, when
you fellows are risking your lives, the least we old ’uns can do is to
see after affairs at home for you.”
“It’s damn decent of you,” said Peter, “but all the same, I don’t like
accepting favours.”
“Favours be blowed.” Reid lit himself a cigarette. “Let’s get down to
facts. First point: Are you quite sure it’s necessary to sell?”
“Quite.”
“Why? The business is perfectly solvent.”
“Because I happen to be in the Army.”
“Some one could run it while you’re away.”
“It isn’t that”—Peter spoke coldly, impersonally—“but if anything
happened to me there’d be the whole tangle over again. Whereas, if I can
get my fourteen thousand out, that _and_ the insurance money, at five
per cent. . . .”
“Very well,” interrupted Reid. “I follow you. Point two: Who’s your
buyer?”
“A firm called Beresford and Beresford. You’ll find them pretty tough
nuts to negotiate with.”
“Jews?” asked Reid, who had a slight acquaintance with the cigar-trade.
“Yes.”
“Well that’s one comfort. They won’t mess about. If they want the thing,
and the price suits them, they’ll have it. . . .”
§ 2
Peter had spoken with great certainty about Beresfords; but as he
climbed down the prison-like stone staircase of Great Winchester House
he began to wonder whether he might not have misjudged the situation.
Two and a half years ago, Maurice would have jumped at the opportunity
of acquiring Jamesons on the terms Peter now proposed to accept. But
things had altered in the cigar-trade; perhaps the arguments he intended
using would not be effective.
The whole proposition was very distasteful. He found himself hating the
City, almost wishing he were back in the firing-line. And when, through
various passages, he made his own offices, distaste deepened. Sitting
there, talking generalities to Miss Macpherson (it would be time enough
to tell her the business must be sold, after he had seen Maurice),
memories thronged over him. He saw his father again, uncording a parcel
of dock-samples, old George with his duster, Tom Simpson, himself as a
raw youth.
Recollection conjured up many such pictures that morning: comedies,
farces, tragedies, all enacted among the cedar-boxes and the mahogany
furniture of 28 b. Lime Street.
After Miss Macpherson had given him the promised figures and gone off to
her lunch, he prowled about the place. It seemed like a tomb now; all
the life gone out of it. The faces of the two girls in the clerks’ room
were as strange as the emptiness of the dusty racks.
Yet, for all its apparent deadness, Jameson & Company still made
profits. For a moment, studying the rough balance-sheet Miss Macpherson
had prepared, Peter doubted his wisdom in selling out. Why shouldn’t he
make a fight for it, let her carry-on? There was enough money on deposit
in the Bank to stall off Simpson’s executors for at least six months.
The selling of goods, under war-conditions, presented no difficulty.
What one could import, one could dispose of.
Still doubtful, he went out to lunch, avoiding the Lombard lest he
should meet Beresford, going instead to a noisy old-fashioned chop-house
where the food was as good as the service execrable. Over his chop,
wisdom prevailed. For Patricia’s sake and the sake of his children, he
dare not risk any more financial complications. With which resolution
firmly in his mind, Peter walked down St. Mary Axe, entered the
elaborate warehouses of Beresford and Beresford.
Maurice, dapper as ever, eye-glassed, patent-booted, but short-jacketed
and bowler-hatted in deference to war-conditions, happened to be in the
outer-office; welcomed Peter as a long lost brother.
“But what are you doing in mufti?” he asked, leading way through the
glass-partitioned sales-rooms (which, Peter noticed, were as bare of
stock as his own) into a green-carpeted sanctum of saddle-bag chairs and
roll-top desks.
“Usually get out of uniform when I’m on leave,” explained Peter.
The little dude unlocked one of the desks; sat down at it; produced a
box of fat oily Cabanas; pushed them across.
“Trust goods. But not at all bad,” he said.
Peter lit up; took the chair at the side of the desk; asked:
“Is your brother Charlie in town?”
“Yes. He’ll be back from lunch in about ten minutes.”
“Good,” said Peter. “I’ve come round to talk business. It’ll save time
if you’re both here.”
“Business?” queried the other, letting the monocle drop from his
eye-socket. “What sort of business?”
“Tell you when Charlie comes in. How are things in general?” They
settled down, Maurice on tenterhooks to find out what Peter could be
driving at, to desultory trade-gossip.
“Too much Government control for my liking,” said Maurice. “Still,
except for the freights, I’m not grumbling.”
His brother came in: a fat little man with goggly eyes and red hands,
one of which he extended cordially to Peter.
“Very glad to see you back, Peter. Very glad indeed. When’s the war
going to be over?”
“Peter’s come round to talk business,” interrupted Maurice.
“Business!”—Charlie hung up his soft hat—“what sort of business? I
didn’t know there was any business left to talk about.”
He also unlocked his desk; sat down at it; took out a cigar-box;
selected a weed. Looking at the two of them, Peter could not help a
totally unreasonable feeling of contempt—contempt not only for them,
but for himself for wanting money from them. There was a little of the
Weasel’s rasp in his voice as he began:
“The business is this. As you know, Simpson is dead. There’s no one left
to carry on Jamesons. And so, I’ve got to sell it. I’ve come to you
first. You know almost as much about the show as I do. If you want it,
you must make up your minds within twenty-four hours. . . .”
“Rather rushing things, aren’t you, Peter?” interrupted Maurice.
“Possibly,”—it must be remembered that Peter knew his men pretty
well—“but what am I to do? Leave doesn’t last for ever; and I’ve got to
have the whole thing settled before I go away.”
“But what’s the price?” Charlie’s mind moved more directly if less
rapidly than his brother’s.
“Well”—Peter spoke slowly—“of course you’ll take stock and book-debts
at a valuation. We shan’t quarrel about that. The only question is how
much the goodwill’s worth.”
“Goodwill!” Maurice screwed his monocle back into his eye. “My dear
Peter, you must be joking. I shouldn’t dream of paying for goodwill.”
(“Then he’s a buyer!” commented Peter’s mind.) “A cigar importing
business has no goodwill. You and I decided that years ago. It’s a
personal business.”
“Not under present conditions. The import-licence represents a share in
an absolute monopoly.”
“Only while the war lasts.”
They wrangled about goodwill for ten minutes. Then Maurice said
casually:
“I suppose you’ve got to pay out a good deal of money to Simpson’s
estate.”
“A certain amount,” admitted Peter, “and frankly that’s one of the
reasons why I’m anxious to dispose of the business. You see, it’s a bad
time to get rid of outside investments”—he spoke as if he had millions
of them—“and although Simpson’s capital was not enormous, I don’t feel
inclined to realize a lot of shares so as to replace it.”
“So you want us to do it for you,” said Maurice.
“Your position’s different to mine. You’re both here to look after
things: I’m not.”
“That’s quite true,” interrupted Charlie.
Maurice, who wanted the business badly but did not wish to appear
over-keen, looked angrily across at his brother; took up the running
himself.
“You’d want to be paid in cash, I suppose?” he said.
“Take your own time about that,” answered Peter largely. “If it suits
you better to pay me out as you realize the stock and book-debts, I
don’t mind. There’ll be interest, of course.”
Maurice came back to the question of goodwill; was sheered off by Peter;
began to fish for figures. But these, his antagonist refused to give.
“My accountant’s working on them,” he prevaricated, “they’ll be ready
tomorrow. But it’s no good showing them to you unless you’re prepared to
deal.”
“Can’t you give me some idea? I’m only trying to find out if we can
afford it.”
It was time to fire the last shot. “Maurice,” said Peter, “you know as
well as I do that there’s no question of affording. All you’re asked to
do—barring the payment for goodwill—-is to take over sound stock and
good book-debts; realize on ’em; and pay the money over to me. If you
don’t want to do it, say so; and I’ll either sell the show to Elkins or
tell my accountants to liquidate.”
“You’re in such a hurry,” began Maurice. “Can’t you leave us till
tomorrow?”
“No, I can’t.”
“But about this goodwill. How much do you want for it?”
“A year’s profits.”
The two brothers looked at each other; and Peter, watching, saw that he
had the fish hooked. They didn’t want Elkins to have the business. They
didn’t want it liquidated. They wanted it for themselves.
“Look here, Peter,” began Maurice ingratiatingly, “you and I are old
pals. Of course, I quite see you must have this thing settled quickly.
But I’m sure you wouldn’t want us to pay more than it’s worth for the
business: any more than _we_ should like to pay you less.”
“Of course not,” smiled Peter. He knew Maurice Beresford in his
“between-you-and-me-and-the-gate-post-and-as-old-friends” mood.
“Well, why not leave the details to our accountants? You want to sell.
We’re quite prepared to buy. A few hundreds one way or another can’t
make any difference to either of us. Don’t you think that’s best,
Charlie?”
Charlie looked up from his desk; began, “Well, I think we ought to know
how much money is involved”; caught his brother’s eye; ended up, “Yes. I
think that would be the best way.”
“There’s only one thing,” said Peter at parting, “I think you ought to
keep on our old Staff, at any rate until they can find other jobs.”
“My dear Peter,” purred Maurice, “we’re so short-handed that they’ll be
a god-send.”
But when Peter broke the news to Miss Macpherson, she said, very firmly:
“Oh, I don’t think I’d like to work for Beresford & Beresford, Mr.
Jameson. I’d rather go into one of the Government Offices. You see, to
have carried on while you were away would have been a kind of war-work,
wouldn’t it? Whereas if I went to them. . . .”
She left the sentence unfinished, and its hearer a little amazed. For
Government Offices did not pay the same wages as private employers; and
patriotism in money-matters—except his own, about which he always felt
a trifle foolish—was a little beyond the scope of P.J.’s
imagination. . . .
§ 3
The Beresfords lost no time in getting to grips, no opportunity of
pointing out the worthlessness of the concern they proposed acquiring.
At his very first interview with George Reid, their intermediary—the
dignified portly principal of Messrs. Guthrie, Guthrie, Jellybrand, Sons
and Guthrie—made their attitude very clear. He was given to understand,
he said, that Jameson & Co. had been for many years prominently
associated with a German firm, domiciled in Cuba, who had recently been
black-listed by the British Government for serious misdemeanours. Under
the circumstances, and as patriotic merchants, his clients felt some
diffidence in negotiating.
When Reid (primed by Peter who had anticipated the argument) pointed out
that Beresfords had also, prior to the war, traded with Beckmanns, and
that they had only abandoned trading with them because _his_ clients,
Messrs. Jameson & Co., refused to supply further shipments, Mr. Guthrie
professed bland ignorance.
The matter—went on Mr. Guthrie—was not of vast importance: still, it
undoubtedly affected the question of goodwill. And, while on the
subject, he felt it only fair to say that—had Messrs. Beresford taken
_his_ advice—they would have thought twice before entering into
negotiations at all; as, in his opinion, the excess profits tax would
swallow up any increased earnings that could be made. However, his
clients had pledged their word, and he would be glad to have the
balance-sheet—which, with Mr. Reid’s permission, he would take away and
study at leisure.
Followed a long letter, querying the item of “furniture and fixtures,”
alluding once again to the debated question of goodwill, suggesting that
the book-debts should be guaranteed by the sellers, the stock valued by
some independent expert. Followed another interview, a demand to examine
the lease of the premises, and—(“I told you so, Reid,” said Peter when
he heard of it)—a very tactful request for a copy of the contract with
Beckmanns!
Meanwhile Maurice insisted on entertaining Peter and Patricia to dinner
at Claridges’: a dinner during which he assumed the deal already
completed, and after which, over enormous cigars and exiguous liqueurs,
he did his best to settle all disputed points in his own favour.
“Horrid cynical little man,” commented Patricia after he had dropped
them at Harley Street.
“Oh, we’re all thieves together in the cigar-trade,” answered Peter. “If
I were in Maurice’s position and he in mine, I should do just the same.
He knows that if he can only play out time till my leave’s up, he’ll get
the business at his own price.”
“Well, I think it’s very mean of him.”
“Don’t be so foolish, Pat”—Peter laughed the new bitter laugh she was
growing to hate. “There’s no sentiment in commerce.”
She thought of their mad happy Christmas together; and sighed. He had
reverted to his old absorbed self, the Peter of Nirvana days: grim,
concentrated, efficient. She was his chattel again, no longer his pal.
That sentiment swayed him, that he hated parting with the “old
business,” that his weakened resolution needed constant screwing-up to
bluffing-point—Patricia did not realize. She knew that he was fighting
a losing battle against time, felt dimly that his financial anxieties
were more on her behalf and the children’s than his own. And for these
things her heart sympathized with him: but her neglected love suffered,
suffered impotently.
Reason asked: “Why _do_ you love this man?”—and found no sure answer.
Reason told her that he was hard, incapable of any but the most casual
affection; that his fidelity indicated nothing but lack of temperament,
that he would have been happier unmarried. But Instinct, ousting reason,
replied: “And in spite of it all, you _do_ love him.”
It took many years before Patricia, looking back on that dark week,
realized herself one of those women whose love can only walk
hand-in-hand with their _respect_; that whatever this man of hers might
do or say, instinct, stronger than any reasoning power, gave her the key
to his motive: and always, that motive was the same—a desire, voiceless
but founded on sure conviction, to do the right thing. . . .
Still, it was a beast of a week! Try as she might, Patricia could not
wrest his mind from his business problems to herself. Even during their
visits to Francis, he seemed incapable of putting the thing aside. She
grew to resent the constant messengers bringing bulky envelopes from
Reid, the servants, “Your office wants you on the telephone, sir,” the
afternoons he must spend in the City.
For Peter had no intention of allowing Maurice to play out time. He
hustled Reid till Reid hustled Guthrie; met this point; refused that;
threatened here; was purposely dilatory there; used every artifice to
bring matters to a climax before the Thursday morning when he must
return to France.
In the end, by luck rather than judgment, he succeeded. Maurice
Beresford (afraid lest Peter should carry out his latest threat—to
liquidate Jameson & Co. altogether) suggested a conference. They met,
the two accountants and the three principals, at Guthrie’s offices; sat
down in his mahogany board-room to a long session. Talk, as usual at
such meetings, coiled away from essentials; wound itself into
interminable knots over unimportant minutiæ . . . till Peter’s temper,
long held in leash, got the better of him.
“And don’t you think, Mr. Jameson,” began Guthrie blandly, “that the
transfer should be made as from the date of the balance-sheet?”
“If you want to know what _I_ think,” Peter flashed back at him, “I
think we’re all sitting round this table like a lot of blithering
idiots, talking sanguinary rubbish. Anyway, I’m fed up with it. Look
here, Maurice”—he turned on the little man furiously—“you’ve been
mucking about for six days. I’ve met you over the guaranteeing of the
book-debts, the price of the fixtures, and the indemnity for repairs
under the lease. What the hell more do you want?”
Guthrie, ruffled out of his portly dignity, sat silent and disgruntled;
Reid’s eyes twinkled; Charlie Beresford fidgeted uncomfortably; but his
brother, screwing monocle into eye-socket, retorted calmly:
“I don’t want to pay anything for goodwill.”
“Then the deal’s off.” Peter began to gather up the papers in front of
him. “If you won’t pay more than the actual value of the assets, I’ll
wind up the show myself. . . .”
“But . . .” began Maurice.
“Though why the devil you’ve wasted all this time, God alone knows,”
finished Peter. He completed the collection of papers, rose to go.
For once in the history of Beresford & Beresford, the junior partner
saved the situation. Maurice, not realizing Peter’s temper unassumed,
thinking it a bluff, sat silent; leaving Charlie’s frightened
acquisitiveness to exclaim:
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t pay _something_ for goodwill. Only, it’s a
question of how much. Couldn’t we compromise, Peter?”
Our Mr. Jameson sat down again. The outburst had steadied his nerves;
his commercial judgment revived. Inwardly, he laughed a little: it
seemed quaint that his loss of temper should have brought the Beresfords
to heel so quickly. But what he actually said was:
“Compromise? Why the whole amount’s only chicken food.”
“Damn dear chicken-food,” commented Maurice. “You’re asking a year’s
profits. That’s about two thousand five hundred pounds.” He changed his
tone. “Look here, Peter, your time’s valuable, so’s mine. I’ll tell you
what I’ll do. The indemnity under that lease of yours might run into a
lot of money. Supposing we waive it, and give you a thousand in cash for
the goodwill.”
Pouted Guthrie, recovering his dignity: “That seems to me a very liberal
offer.” . . .
And at twelve hundred, Peter compromised. It was a weak thing to do, and
he knew it weak as he did it; but time pressed, and somehow he felt sick
of haggling. The old Peter, the Peter who would have fought up to the
last ten-pound note, had left his patience at Ypres!
But it was the old Peter who insisted on the immediate exchange of
letters; who dictated the rough agreement to Guthrie’s pert blond
typist; appended steady signature at foot.
“And about the contract itself?” asked Maurice Beresford as the party,
all smiles and handshakes, broke up. “You’ll have that sent out to you,
I suppose?”
“It won’t be necessary, Maurice. Reid has my power of attorney. You
see”—our Mr. Jameson couldn’t resist a last crow over old opponents—“I
never expected to bring you up to the scratch before I went away!”
But Maurice only chuckled, “Well, there’s _one_ thief less in the
cigar-trade anyway, Peter”; and insisted on accompanying him to the
corner of Lombard Street. . . .
§ 4