Cosmo was too well acquainted with his father’s temper, and, withal,
too devoted a son to shock Mr Burden by any sudden introduction of
matters upon which the merchant must be presumed to judge far better
than he.
It was a beautiful thing—and a striking thing in these days of
irreverence and haste—to watch the delicate and modulated steps
whereby my old friend was brought, almost without his knowing it, to
the brink of the M’Korio. It was a process of that mingled affection
and reserve by which we daily see the young leading the aged towards
larger things, but one which no mere written description can fully
convey.
The young man would leave a book of Major Pondo’s in the hall by
accident; Mr Burden would pick it up under the impression that it
was a work of fiction: he would grow sufficiently interested in it
to take it into town with him; he would remark the half-tone blocks
representing the dryer parts of the delta: he would turn it sideways
to glance at the map of the river mouths; he would glance with
pleasure at the footnotes which referred him to Scripture—and when
he brought home the book Cosmo would forget its origin, but would
remember at last that it had been lent him by the son of Sir Samuel
Gare.
Had Cosmo any notes to write to Mr Barnett or to Mr Harbury, he was
careful to write them in his father’s house, to address them to their
offices, and to fling them at random upon the hall table whence they
should be picked up and posted; for his father hated disorder, and,
scolding, would catch them up himself.
He would even at times reconcile it with his conscience to address
envelopes to fictitious persons in the M’Korio settlement, or in the
delta where none resided.
He did not omit to leave the newspaper on the breakfast table,
so folded carelessly as to present, among other things, whatever
journalists might have printed that morning upon M’Korian matters: to
the astonishment and delight of his father he took to rising at an
hour earlier than the rest of the household, that he might have the
advantage of reading the news in full before his father should come
downstairs; but on those third or fourth days, when the M’Korio was
given a leading article, he would keep the newspaper throughout the
meal, until his father was in a hunger for it and would read it the
more keenly.
With something approaching art he spoke, and always spoke in praise,
of whatever small parcels had been invoiced from the office for this
apparently unimportant branch of the firm’s business, but affected
(wisely I think) to ignore their destination; now presuming that they
were for China, now actually causing their misdirection, and again
mispronouncing the name when his father reminded him.
He showed a curious anxiety with regard to a trade gun which Mr
Burden had received as a sample from Birmingham. He was especially
interested in the coats of mail; it was he who suggested to the
Society for the Promotion of Biblical Knowledge that they would do
well to write to a firm which penetrated the interior of the country,
and yet he who asked his father from whom such letters came and what
reply should be given them.
In the commonest topics of conversation, this atmosphere prevailed.
If his father spoke of cricket, Cosmo would remember the curious
aversion shown to that game by the son of Lord Benthorpe, an
aversion that had amused rather than annoyed so excellent a bowler
as Hagbourne, Mr Barnett’s friend.... The match had been played on Mr
Harbury’s ground.
If his father mentioned a club, it either was or was not a club to
which Charles Benthorpe or Major Pondo belonged.
Wine recalled the fact that it could not be drunk in the tropics;
whisky reminded him that it had been declared by such authorities
as Sir George Mackintosh and Lord Bannochry to be the healthiest
beverage for pioneers in the valleys of African rivers.
Nevertheless when, after a few weeks of this treatment, his father
himself spoke directly of the M’Korio, most obviously betraying a
mixture of authority and interest, Cosmo with exquisite consideration
turned the conversation into almost any other channel, and commonly
fell to talking of his undergraduate friends, of Imperial geography,
or of Mr Barnett’s great intimacy with, and salutary influence upon,
the resident members of the University.
One way with another the M’Korio became an atmosphere in that
household, long before the winter ended. It had all the qualities of
an atmosphere; ever present, circumambient, necessary to life, yet
but half perceived, an invisible influence. When I consider that
this great result had been achieved by a youth hitherto untrained in
the beneficent activities of commerce, I think no greater example
could be given of the power which has made modern England.
That Cosmo was naturally absorbed in Mr Barnett’s venture, and that
his conversation was bound to reflect it, I will not deny, but I
am confident that a conscious purpose animated him, and a method
learnt from his recent association with greater men. For “there
are friendships,” as that erratic but original Cambridge genius
Colthorpe has remarked, “there are friendships which are a liberal
education....”
Thus, through the agency of a son, in a manner which recalled the
training of some proud graminivorous creature for the use of man by
a method gentle yet firm, most filial, most efficient, Mr Burden,
in spite of the routine of a lifetime, was gradually brought to the
vision of a great Imperial opportunity.
It was towards the end of March, after a day spent in an attitude
of curious reserve, that he at last spoke plainly to his son of a
subject which had long occupied his mind.
In deference to his father’s wishes, Cosmo had that day dined at
home.
It was late in the evening at Avonmore: the fire lit in fitful
glimpses the eight red leather chairs ranged along the wall of the
smoking-room, the many photographs of Mr Watt’s work and of that of
the late Sir Edward Burne-Jones, as also the noble engraving of “The
Gambler’s Wife,” which hung amidst them in all its wealth of line and
value.
The hour and the scene were propitious, when Mr Burden committed
himself to a confidence unique in his lifetime; for, with the single
exceptions of Mr Abbott, whose advice he most constantly demanded, of
his head clerk (a man of immense experience), and of his sister, no
human being, he could boast, had inspired his ventures or had ever
been privy to his intentions.
His heir, however, his only son, who would in time direct the whole
fortunes of the house, had a clear right of admission into so
considerable a change as that which he contemplated: for that son’s
evident good use of his academic opportunities, and his excellent
choice of acquaintance, seemed to make him worthy of it in spite of
his innocence of affairs.
Rousing Cosmo, therefore, from the reading of an article upon
the _Decline of Portugal_, Mr Burden very weightily declared a
considerable anxiety to be present in his mind.
Twice that day there had been some trouble in the office about
the trade with the North; Cosmo was therefore to be excused if he
immediately sympathised with his father upon the rise of freights
to Reikjavick, and the inexplicable dropping off of the demand for
English stoves in Iceland. Mr Burden assured his son with remarkable
solemnity that he was mistaken. He paused a moment and said:
“You probably know, Cosmo, in fact you certainly know by this time,
that a portion of our firm’s business is done with the M’Korio Delta.”
Cosmo was far too loyal to deny his acquaintance with that fact,
but his features showed how little it had occupied his thoughts. Mr
Burden paused again and frowned. He went on:
“Now, this trade has never been of value to us ... but I have often
thought ... I may have been wrong ... I have often thought that it
might have been developed if I had looked more closely into the
matter.”
After a full and yet more fruitful pause, the third, but not the
last, in the course of this critical discourse, Mr Burden proceeded
with astonishing breadth and grasp to develop that theory of commerce
which distinguishes us from our less fortunate rivals. Compelled as
I am to condense his diction, I am yet careful to repeat his actual
phraseology, in a matter of which he was a master and of which I
cannot even call myself a novice.
He set forth first that times were not what they had been; that
competition was keen; that new markets had to be looked for; our
prosperity was indeed increasing, but the ratio of that increase
was declining. For a full ten minutes he distinguished in the most
lucid manner between actual and comparative growth; finally, he
propounded with some hesitation, yet warmly and grandly, as a scheme
or suggestion of his own, that the new markets might be expected to
arise in new countries.
Cosmo, to whose vigorous if quiet mind original theories immediately
appealed, was moved to a whole world of thought and allusion by his
father’s sudden insight. He recalled examples of success achieved
upon such lines; Australia suggested many, Johannesburg many more,
nor did he neglect the Western States of America; but he asked what
the M’Korio Delta, known so long, tropical, forgotten, could have in
common with these?
It was then that Mr Burden fully delivered himself of the idea which
had so long been maturing in his brain; he hoped—he could not tell
why—it was but a hope—yet he hoped that the M’Korio Delta might prove
one of those undeveloped tracts of an Empire whose future contained
almost infinite possibilities.
“This idea of mine,” he added, “has been singularly confirmed by
one or two things I have read, and certain chance allusions of
travellers in the last few years. I doubt whether our explorers or
our journalists have had quite the same opportunities of judging the
Delta as myself; and I am not accustomed to form my judgment upon
that of other men. Nevertheless, I am struck by the singular way in
which all modern research upon the matter seems to converge towards
my own original conclusions.”
When Mr Burden had said these things, Cosmo, with a wisdom beyond
his years, pointed out the extreme risks attending all colonial
experiments. The risk was not perhaps a risk to the nation as a
whole; but it was invariably present for the individual speculator.
His father nodded rhythmically and wisely as his son betrayed in
every phrase an increasing caution, but he cut him short with a firm
gesture.
“No one knows that better than I, Cosmo,” he said. “I would not enter
into any scheme that did not promise to obtain a very large support
from the public, and, I hope, some kind of official recognition....
When you are as old as I am,” he went on, as Cosmo would have
interrupted him, “you will know that official recognition, even if
it is unofficial,” here he hesitated for a moment, “even if it is
_informal_, is what makes the public come in.”
And with this expression of opinion, Mr Burden permitted to linger
upon his lips, a faint smile which showed the importance he justly
attached to his knowledge of the world.
He might have gone further, but Cosmo, for all his freshness, knew
what was passing in his father’s mind. There ran in his voice a
grace and humility strangely contrasting with his heavy features and
attitude.
“My dear father,” he said. “If I could do anything ... but no one
takes me seriously in business yet.” His eyes smiled as he said it.
His father answered proudly. “They will, Cosmo, they will,” and never
was his confidence in the future better placed.
“I only know men just as friends ... I know what you mean ...
the University does that ... I was thinking who of all that lot
understands the place best.... You know, for _my_ part,” changing
his tone to a digression, “I believe in it, but I mean politically;
commercially it wants all sorts of special knowledge ...” then his
face filled with thought and he stared at the fire.
Mr Burden smiled tolerantly: he had a reminiscent vision of his boy’s
rapid successes: of the academic triumph in Modern Languages, and,
still better, the firm friendships acquired with men proud to be his
equals ... perhaps through these an introduction to families that
would accept or even search an alliance: such early affections as....
But his reverie was cut short by an inspiration of Cosmo’s.
“Why not ask Lord Benthorpe?” he said.
“Lord Benthorpe!” cried Mr Burden. He was surprised and a little
shocked, and he let it be perceived.
Lord Benthorpe was a public man; it was only by his own desire
that he had not taken a high place in his party. As it was, in
administration he had come near to being, he might yet be, a great
Imperial Figure. Mr Burden could well remember how this somewhat
younger man had been acclaimed as a worthy successor to his
celebrated grandfather. His reputation, especially in youth, had been
surrounded by that purely political atmosphere which the patriotism
of purely commercial men turns into a halo. All these things Mr
Burden insisted upon openly in reply to his son. Perhaps, as old
men will, he somewhat exaggerated the importance of a name which
recent years had somewhat lessened; but his life had run upon lines
sufficiently remote from politics to warrant his humility, and, if
he doubted the possibility of obtaining Lord Benthorpe’s advice upon
so small a matter as the M’Korio, it was because he estimated at its
full value the weight of that advice, should he but have the good
fortune to receive it.
Cosmo was earnest. He protested that he could not see his father’s
objection. He did not know Lord Benthorpe well, but he knew Lord
Benthorpe’s son extremely well. He was absolutely certain, he said,
that Mr Burden misunderstood the simplicity of such men. Then, apart
from that, Lapthorne and Curley had asked advice on neutral matters,
and had received it—he assured his father that Lord Benthorpe’s world
had for the City as great a regard as ever the City for them; they
knew upon what the Empire reposed, and they saw—and for the matter
of that he, Cosmo, saw—that, but for some communication between the
Benthorpes and the Burdens, the Empire could hardly survive.
He would have said more in the same strain, had not Mr Burden,
whose pride was dimly suffering from so much protest, risen, rather
abruptly, and announced a decision to take his own time in the
matter. His son had the tact to say good-night.
And Mr Burden also went to his room—but for two hours he wrote and
rewrote a letter in the third person, in which Mr Burden presented
his compliments to Lord Benthorpe, and expressed in _oratio obliqua_
his apologies, his request for advice, and his trust that it might be
obtained. This letter that same night, very late, Mr Burden carefully
posted with his own hand in the pillar-box nearest to Avonmore—the
pillar-box which stands at the corner where Mafeking Avenue falls
into Alexandrovna Road.
* * * * *
That night, before he slept, an indecision oppressed Mr Burden.
He felt he had taken a plunge. He was not sure whether it was for
well or for ill; but he knew for certain that he was on the way to
unfamiliar places, nor is such expectation congenial to men grown old.
All the next day this double mood haunted him. It was mixed with
vague suspicions of interference and quarrel; it left him ill at
ease, until, upon the morning of the morrow, there reached him a
charming note, straightforward, easy and most terse; the notepaper
was plain and thick, the hand fluent, the phraseology easy. It was
a letter worthy of the care with which Mr Burden preserved it. It
spoke of his son’s great promise, praised his University record and
the multitude of his friends; it begged that Cosmo’s acquaintance
with Charles might take the place of an introduction; it assured Mr
Burden, with open emphasis, that no one in England had a greater
right to consult every judgment upon a matter where his firm’s
enterprise in trade had, almost alone, laid the foundation of our
power. Nothing of moment remained, save the signature, the simple
word “Benthorpe,” written undoubtedly with a thick quill;—and the
old-world courtesy of a postscript, begging that Mr Burden would let
the writer know upon what day and by what train he would reach Great
Monckton, “the next,” ran the last words of the letter, “the next
after the quiet little wayside station of Keynes.”
* * * * *
It is always a matter of balance for the judicious mind, when it
meditates an approach upon Placton, whether it should travel by
the Great Western to Halsden Junction or the South-Western line to
Great Monckton. Each is at an equal distance of three miles from the
mansion, but a host of considerations, which might prove tedious to
the anxious reader of his fortunes, ultimately decided Mr Burden
to attempt the latter. It was from Waterloo, not from Paddington,
that he engaged upon that fateful journey which came so near to
transforming the fortunes of our race.
The mixture in him of audacity and routine—a mixture common to the
mercantile classes of our countrymen—awakened the struggle which
lasted during the whole journey to the quiet little wayside station
of Keynes.
He was alone. In the days when the distinction was of importance he
had acquired a habit of travelling first class; this habit he had
preserved. He owed to it the solitude which permitted such a conflict
to arise in his mind.
His fortune had been inherited from so solid an ancestry, had been
preserved by so persistent an effort of probity and diligence, that
any speculation whatsoever had for him, at his age, a savour of
sacrilege.
On the other hand, the expansion of the British Raj, his faith in its
future, the example of so many nations created out of nothing by the
confidence of his contemporaries, above all, the remarkable wealth
acquired by those who had risked all upon the destiny of the Empire,
led him on to boldness.
Hard-headed business men are not easily to be persuaded when opposing
arguments present themselves to the mind. Mr Burden was not resolved
when he reached at last the quiet little wayside station of Keynes.
For a few moments he was at once bewildered and annoyed at hearing
that he was required to change, but, when he had paid the customary
fees and found himself once more alone in a well-lit carriage, this
annoyance disappeared before a renewal of the problem which vexed
him. His mind, however, was vigorous, he bent upon that problem the
fullest of his energies, and, as the train pulled out of the quiet
little wayside station of Keynes, he had very nearly arrived at
the firm conclusion, that so much was to be said upon either side,
as to make the judgment of some further adviser necessary before a
determination could be taken.
His mind was hardly fixed upon this excellent solution when the train
stopped; he heard called the name of Great Monckton, and the presence
of a servant who led him to a carriage, the honest English courtesy
of the Porter, Stationmaster, Guard, Newsagent, Ticket Collector, and
General Boy, the sharp country air and the name of Placton several
times repeated, gave him that sentiment of repose which accompanies
the neighbourhood of the great. And the carriage rolled, and scented
woods passed incessant through the evening, and more and more did Mr
Burden feel himself to be approaching security and the basis upon
which our England is founded.
There was a lodge, a fine gate cast in imitation of wrought-iron
and gilded in the Aylesbury manner, an aged woman who courtesied
with astonishing charm, a drive of close upon a mile, ancient and
well-groomed trees, a square church tower showing dimly against the
sky, and, in a dale which the drive skirted, a lake with boat house,
island and terrace, as in the well-known view.
Mr Burden, noting all these things with pure intent, felt something
old in his blood: he revered in his mind Lord Benthorpe’s mighty
image, and laid his doubts at the feet of so much achievement and
experience. He thirsted (if I may use the phrase) for the presence of
the British statesman.
It was not long delayed. They led him into that majestic house,
dark, panelled, venerable: walls so old that no man now living there
had seen them rise, oak felled before Her late Majesty assumed the
sceptre, furniture compared with whose taste that of Prince Albert
was modern, deep carpets from Brussels and Aubusson, pictures by
the Oxford Turner, by Etty, by Frith, by men whose very names are
forgotten—they led him, I say, past these monumental splendours, till
he reached a vast apartment wherein by the light of two candles of
pure yellow wax Lord Benthorpe sat alone—an illuminate spiritual
figure startling against a background of vague darkness and suggested
tapestries.
I have said enough of this statesman’s build, manner and history to
convince my readers that the moment was supreme in Mr Burden’s life.
As he entered and was announced, he felt so keenly the emotions of
awe and gratitude that he hesitated for a moment to advance.
What Lord Benthorpe had done and was, all England knows: the
conqueror of Raub and the hero of Pútti-Ghâl.
Mr Burden was a merchant worth at most but £257,000, and that locked
up entirely in his business; but no difference of fortune affected
the demeanour of the more illustrious man.
With the commercial classes of three European and fourteen Colonial
capitals Lord Benthorpe had been famous for that rare power of
putting his visitors at their ease: he did not fail with Mr Burden.
For though that unaffected man broke into a cold sweat under his
first addresses, a short three-quarters of an hour in the company of
the soldier-politician restored his power of speech and made him feel
the presence of a friend.
* * * * *
When it was evident that Mr Burden had entered this happier phase,
Lord Benthorpe, settling into an air of business, asked, as he had
asked so many in his active and useful life, what he could _do_ for
his guest.
It was a formula he had been taught from the nursery: he had used
it upon inferiors of every grade, and always with success—unless
I except an unfortunate interview with a cabman which in no way
regards these pages: for whereas the cabman on that long past day had
poured out with many oaths a list of incongruous things which Lord
Benthorpe might do for him, and closed it with a refusal of all save
the payment of the mere fare he had called to collect, every other
visitor, from the Secretary of the Society for the Prevention of
Diseases to the Sendar of Raub had been charmed to admiration by the
manner in which the phrase was delivered.
Mr Burden felt the spell, and it was with evident gratitude in
his voice that he declared himself arrived to discuss the matter
mentioned in his letter.
Lord Benthorpe smiled without effort, and tapping the table before
him with his fingers as was his wont, murmured twice:
“By all means.... By all means.”
Then there was silence in that great dark room for the space of
nearly four minutes.
A clock ticked solemnly in a corner, out of sight, and every now and
then Lord Benthorpe tapped again with his fingers upon the table; but
for these there was no sound to mask Mr Burden’s breathing. At last
Lord Benthorpe pushed back his chair, crossed his legs, supported his
left elbow on his knee, his head upon his left hand, and said again
in that low meditative tone, which was so full of responsibility and
reminiscence:
“By all means....”
Without, in some remote ante-chamber of the great building, a servant
played upon a gong of restrained and ample tones; the house was
filled with the summons, but softened as it was, Mr Burden found
in it a suggestion rather than a command that he should dress for
dinner. With this object he rose.
His host preceded him, lit a candle with his own hands, and showed
the way up the staircase. At its head opened a very wide corridor,
lit from above by skylights, and hung with pictures which were part
of the glory of the house.
They passed one canvas after another, Lord Benthorpe still holding
and shading the candle, Mr Burden listening with intelligent respect
to all he heard. This was Naples, that Lucerne; a third Nice, a
fourth Mentone—all the strange, beautiful places Lord Benthorpe had
admired in the course of his extensive travels: pictures ordered by
him from local masters whose name still stood clearly inscribed in
the bottom left-hand corner of their creations.
There were portraits too. A very fine, but somewhat sinister figure,
turbaned and sombre, was his great-aunt Kathleen, his grandfather’s
only sister. His grandmother, represented as the Tragic Muse, filled
amply the next frame; his grandfather the next.
Standing in his robes against a fringed and tasselled velvet curtain
of a rich purple hue with a broken pillar at his side, while a
sunbeam bursting through a distant cloud, threw into fine relief the
orator’s gesture, the Great Irishman was represented speaking in the
House of Lords in favour of the reform of the Poor Law. His left hand
touched with the index finger a map of Great Britain; his right was
slightly raised to heaven in dignified appeal. A wolf-hound nestling
at his feet indicated the domestic nature of his character, for the
taste of that time permitted the allegory in spite of the grave
improbability of such a creature’s presence in such a place and upon
such an occasion.
Towards the end of the corridor, before a painting more modern
in treatment and hanging quite alone, they halted a moment in
silence. It represented a woman yet young: hair of a colour similar
to her own was caught up behind her head in those ordered masses
once known as the Chignon; her skirt, which was most ample, was of
a brilliant pink; she was seated writing at a superb escritoire,
or writing-table, holding a graceful quill in a hand of which the
little finger emerged coquettishly above its fellows. The frame was
surmounted by the ornament of a dainty coronet; upon the features an
amiable smile was recorded.
“My wife,” said Lord Benthorpe simply. Then, after a long pause, “by
Marsten ...”; finally in a deeper and more subdued voice ... “from a
photograph.”
The two men parted, and Mr Burden dressed in profound thought,
wondering to have seen so much greatness united with such native ease.
Lord Benthorpe had been granted by his financial assistants the
widest latitude for this evening’s entertainment. Indeed, a cheque,
upon which no questions were asked, was sent him the moment his
request reached them. He preferred, however, with inbred tact, to
call but one other guest to his table, lest the merchant should be
confused by too considerable a gathering. This other guest, chosen
with admirable judgment, was Mrs Warner, who lived as an honoured
neighbour in the seclusion of her widowed cottage near by. Lord
Benthorpe introduced the clergyman’s widow as is the custom among
men of breeding, in a voice so low and blurred as to leave Mr Burden
under the erroneous impression that the lady, if not a peeress,
enjoyed at least a courtesy title; nor can I regret the trivial
error, when I reflect how admirably it served at once to prove the
equality that reigns over all our social relations, and to afford,
though by an illusion, the most vivid interest and pleasure to my
dear old friend.
As for the meal that followed, not the mere meats, though these also
had been ordered by the master of the house and cooked to singular
perfection—not these, but the subdued and cultured converse which
illumined it, are most worthy of memory.
To a soup, clear, but if anything insufficiently salted, and during
the absorption of which very little was said, succeeded a boiled
turbot, whose sauce, a mixture of butter and of flour, was handed
noiselessly from out the surrounding darkness by a manservant other
than he who poured at intervals of due length, and at the personal
choice of each guest, hock or claret.
Both these administrants, and yet a third, who would occasionally
appear and pass out again through the immense portals of the room,
secretly astounded Mr Burden by the perfection of their training,
and the singular dignity of their demeanour; nor could he doubt
that their features, though difficult to discern beyond the circle
of light which fell upon the table, corresponded with their other
characteristics.
It was during the consumption of the fish (turbot as I have said—and
boiled), that Lord Benthorpe, with practised good-will, opened
the verbal tournament by an allusion to Mrs Warner’s little work,
“Hours of Healing,” with which he was sure Mr Burden had long been
acquainted. Mr Burden, in the act of disguising his ignorance under
a strong assertion of his familiarity with the gem, could not but
admire within himself the literary skill of one whose rank he
imagined so exalted. It confirmed him in his respect for a class
which gallantly neglects its gilded leisure, not only for the service
of the State, but also for that of humanity at large.
To this impression Lord Benthorpe added by asking, with apparent
interest, whether or not the work of the parish had recently afforded
matter for serious comment. Mrs Warner replied that nothing of
moment could she recall since the affair in which her host, in his
capacity of Justice, had so amply seconded her efforts to correct the
disorders of a wandering circus recently visiting the village.
It cannot be denied that Lord Benthorpe was pleased with the
recollection; a merited content overspread his features as Mrs Warner
went on to describe the vigour with which the lord of the manor had
lent his influence to discountenance, the magistrate his power to
punish, a case of gross cruelty to animals which had taken place in
this show.
It seems that a tiger having, in some irrational fit, attached itself
to the trunk of the sole elephant the manager could boast, was
lashed off again by the application of a horsewhip, the weals caused
by which were the more difficult to prove in court, both from the
inconvenience of bringing the victim before the bench, and from the
peculiar parallel stripes already provided by nature upon the poor
creature’s hide.
When this relation was accomplished, Mrs Warner had the tact to add
that his lordship’s experience in the East (an experience which she
coupled with the name of Pútti-Ghâl) had luckily given him an ample
knowledge of tigers. He it was, she informed Mr Burden, who had
pointed out that in all such cases the truer Christianity of our
Indian fellow-subjects, had long learnt to drag off the infuriated
feline by a steady pull upon its tail.
Lord Benthorpe asserted in reply that so long as he had the
confidence of His Majesty, and was honoured by him with a Commission
of the Peace, there was nothing he would more rigorously pursue than
the inhumanity of the lower classes towards dumb animals; and, having
so expressed himself, he once more relaxed the momentary firmness
of his lips, and left to them their more usual expression of open
amiability.
At this moment appeared, with some ceremony, a leg of mutton loading
a dish of pure silver, whereon the presence of little runnels leading
to one united depression for the retention of the gravy, marked the
practical combined with the luxurious.
The conversation having turned upon tigers, perhaps the most
interesting of the animal creation, and Lord Benthorpe’s experience
in the East having been, as was public knowledge, manifold, it is
little wonder if he occupied the remainder of the meal in a somewhat
lengthy description of his adventures in the pursuit of this game;
for, though no class of the community knows better when to be
silent, neither is any better fitted for sustaining a monologue than
that which the host of the evening had adorned.
Making light, with becoming modesty, of his own courage in the
innumerable dangers which he had encountered, he did not even allude
to the little affair at Pútti-Ghâl, save to illustrate a point upon
the habits of the tigers which infest that neighbourhood. Nor was
anything in his many miraculous escapes incredible to an audience as
well informed as were the merchant and the clergyman’s widow upon the
ferocity of wild beasts, and the indomitable spirit of man.
Lest I should seem to lay too much insistence upon what was, after
all, but an episode in Mr Burden’s career, I will dwell no longer
upon the close of the meal.
Of the pudding I have no record: there is little occasion to mention
the cheese.
[Illustration: MRS WARNER’S RETREATING FIGURE]
I must not, however, omit to praise the gesture with which Lord
Benthorpe opened the door, nor that with which Mrs Warner rewarded
him as she swept through it to the drawing-room beyond. As she
left the room Mr Burden, gazing at what he afterwards called her
retreating figure, could not help marvelling at the simple grace, the
total absence of affectation, and, at the same time, the wonderful
dignity of her carriage. The impression was heightened, not only by
the error into which he had originally fallen as to her social rank,
but by the striking character of her dress, which was of a shining
electric green, comparable to that which illumines the wing cases of
certain tropical beetles.
In her absence the conversation flagged; they slowly sipped their
wine, and Mr Burden, who had smoked after dinner every day for nearly
fifty years, waited most anxiously for the appearance of tobacco.
If none was offered him, it was because Lord Benthorpe, naturally
clinging to what remained of his ancient authority, forbade in the
house which yet sheltered him the use of a narcotic he abhorred.
Mr Burden, remembering that such eccentricities were but the
tradition of an older society which he profoundly respected, suffered
in silence; but his suffering impressed with a monotonous dullness
the few moments during which Lord Benthorpe retained him to drink
wine. Indeed, until they rejoined Mrs Warner, nothing passed between
the two men save a remark from Lord Benthorpe, that the stripes upon
the tiger, to which allusion had been made during dinner, were a
curious instance of mimetic selection, permitting the man-eater to
be almost indistinguishable from the tall grasses wherein he lurked.
To this Mr Burden replied that Providence had endowed all animals,
even the weakest, with marvellous opportunities for self-protection.
The conversation after they entered the drawing-room, though full
of interest and charm, must no longer detain the reader, who will
have formed a sufficient judgment of its character from the careful
analysis which he has just perused.
It was at the early hour of ten that Mrs Warner left them, and Mr
Burden, recognising that an enforced departure before morning prayers
would leave but little time for discussion on the following day,
boldly approached the subject which had brought him to Placton.
He put forward very earnestly his doubts and his hopes upon the
future of his African trade; he told Lord Benthorpe frankly, how
vastly superior were the opportunities of the politician to those of
the merchant for determining the probable future of such a district
as the M’Korio, and he asked, in the plainest terms, for advice.
[Illustration: LORD BENTHORPE RECOGNIZING THE IMPORTANCE OF
BUSINESS-MEN TO THE EMPIRE]
Lord Benthorpe’s reply so greatly surprised him, that he did not at
first recognise its immense importance. It was roughly to the effect,
that Lord Benthorpe himself had long been seeking a similar source
of information, and had determined, strangely enough, to approach Mr
Burden.
“I am very glad you wrote to me,” he said, “because I believe myself
to be by nature diffident where initiative is required ... but as you
have written to me, believe me, Mr Burden, it is not I who have to
determine you, but you that _have_ determined me.... I have seen the
Empire, Mr Burden, in its broader and its remoter aspect. Well,” here
some memory of public speaking seemed to seize Lord Benthorpe, “well,
after having so seen it, near and far, in the snows of Canada, or the
burning deserts of Rajpootan, I can say that it has never reposed,
that I have never seen it reposing, upon any other basis (upon any
other permanent basis) than the energy, the shrewdness, the courage,
and the probity, of our English business men.”
As he spoke thus, Mr Burden felt new influences flooding into his
soul, and Lord Benthorpe continued:—
“If you will allow me to say so, your view of the M’Korio as a
practical investment would only complete and inform my knowledge of
its political future; but, between my knowledge and your estimate,
the latter is immensely the more important of the two.”
Then it was that Mr Burden became greater than himself. The
confidence reposed in him, the critical power which, however hidden
from others, he well knew himself to possess; the just deference paid
to his judgment and interest; above all, the high recognition of a
successful career, affected him to the degree of inspiration. He
spoke of the M’Korio with increasing confidence; he was carried on
from sentence to sentence, assuming a certitude which, if he did not
possess it as a positive knowledge, he could claim by the more divine
right of prophecy. Nay, he exceeded his own moments of strongest
conviction;—so true is it that the human mind, when it feels itself
the instrument of destiny, outleaps the narrow boundaries of mere
sensual experience.
Exquisite as was his breeding, Lord Benthorpe betrayed a very
genuine enthusiasm; and when Mr Burden had reached the climax of his
harangue, the statesman was tapping his fingers with such rapidity
as to suggest the antique rattle or the buzzer of modern times. He
looked up as Mr Burden ended and said:
“Do you know, do you know, Mr Barnett?”
Mr Burden replied that his son was very intimate with Mr Barnett and
his friends, but that he himself had never met him.
Then Lord Benthorpe described in some detail the vision which Mr
Barnett had conceived. He told him how frequently Mr Barnett had
come to him at Placton and in town, to discuss the possibilities of
the M’Korio; of how, more than once, a syndicate had nearly been
formed, but how they each felt, he and Mr Barnett and a group of
other men, the necessity of more knowledge. That solid knowledge
they had now acquired. Greatly as he admired Mr Barnett’s organising
power, and much as he respected, nay loved, his ardent patriotism, he
had mistrusted the visionary until he had heard the practical man.
And now (Lord Benthorpe concluded) there was nothing between them
all and the creation of a mighty province, save such few meetings,
one with the other, as the formalities towards the formation of a
syndicate required. He would beg Mr Barnett or Mr Harbury to write to
Mr Burden, and they would meet, and the thing should be done.
As is necessary in business, the two men went over the ground
again seven or eight times, careful to add nothing to their former
conclusions, and before half-past one the future was fairly clear.
Thus, thus was Mr Burden decided. I that write this love my country,
but I loved him too; and I could weep to think that, in her profit
from his own action, he profited nothing; but only died.