The Huxtable came later--a terrifying young man, who said little,
but listened with a tolerant smile--and after him a host of others,
entailed by his plans for Dwala. A house had been found in Park Lane.
The owner, who was travelling in the East, had left the thing intact;
his creditors wished to sell it as it stood. The appointments were
passable; he had been a rather random collector of good things--some
rubbish must be weeded out and replaced, but there was nothing to delay
possession.
However, it must be paid for. If Mr. Cato would produce his accounts,
the Huxtable would be glad to go through them with him.
‘Oh, I have no accounts to show.’
‘Why not?’
‘Dwala has been my guest. There is nothing to account for.’
‘But the property in Borneo--you have an account of that?’
‘No.’
‘This is all very curious. A man has a fortune of some hundreds of
thousands a year, and no account is kept of it!’
‘But he hasn’t got it yet. It lies buried in the earth in Borneo.’
‘Yes; it consists of mines, I know. But, of course, the fortune was
realisable as soon as the Privy Council gave their decision.’
‘Well, it hasn’t been realised.’
‘But the decision was given a week ago. Do you mean to say it has been
_neglected_ all this time?’
‘“Neglected” is a piece of impertinence, Mr. Huxtable.’
‘A week’s income lost means something like 10,000_l._’
‘How dare you come to me--me, who has been toiling night and day in the
Prince’s interest--in this authoritative, censorious way--I, who am old
enough to be your grandfather--talking of neglect?’
‘You regard it as an aspersion? Well, and what are the results of all
your labour?’
‘I have secured him justice.’
‘Justice is a matter of law, Mr. Cato: the Privy Council has attended
to that. If you were incapable of realising his fortune yourself,
why not have applied to some big financier--Baron Blumenstrauss, for
instance?’
‘I have seen Baron Blumenstrauss.’
‘Well, what did he say?’
‘He made an offer. He volunteered to buy all the Prince’s rights for
500,000_l._ a year.’
‘Then, surely, you have realised it?’
‘No, sir, I have not.’
‘You don’t mean that you refused his offer? You weren’t expecting
anyone to offer more, I suppose?’
‘I refused his offer.’
‘On what ground?’
‘I regard Baron Blumenstrauss as an immoral man. I regard his business
methods as immoral. If I had accepted the offer on the Prince’s behalf,
I should have been advising him to lend himself to a vile system of
exploitation, which I regard as one of the most infamous curses of our
modern civilisation. I would rather see Dwala starve.’
‘You have taken a very great responsibility on yourself, Mr. Cato.’
‘I am quite willing to bear it.’
A smile flickered round the Huxtable’s nose, and Mr. Cato felt that he
was being betrayed into melodrama. Silence ensued.
‘Your sentiments are very noble, Mr. Cato,’ said Huxtable at last. ‘I
should say that they did you every credit, if it were your own fortune
that we were talking about. But it is not. And if you think it over,
you will see that your conduct lies open to the very gravest criticism.
By a series of unusual circumstances you find yourself practically
master of the disposal of a vast fortune belonging to someone else.
Instead of accepting an excellent offer for the benefit of the person
whose interests you for some reason claim the right of defending, you
go off at a tangent in pursuit of your own political theories.’
‘Political theories?’
‘Yes, sir; political theories. Your views are well known. You regard
the ways of the money market as immoral; you preach saintliness in
the conduct of business; you think our social and financial system a
mistake; you are, in fact, opposed to our civilisation as you find it.
Those are your politics. Excellent! Charming! That is what makes your
speeches a success. Moreover, you have a perfect right to practise your
theories with your own property if you please. This Sermon-on-the-Mount
way of doing business would make you a delightful customer in the City,
no doubt. But when it comes to Prince Dwala’s affairs, the case is
different. You are in the position of a trustee.’
‘Then is a trustee to be without a conscience?’
‘Certainly not; that’s just the point. I wonder you mention it. A
trustee’s conscience ought to be a very delicate affair.’
‘Do you mean to insinuate that I have acted without conscience?’
‘I don’t insinuate it, sir; I say it straight out. You have acted
unconscientiously.’
‘You have the insolence to say that!’ cried Mr. Cato, jumping up, with
tears of fury in his voice. ‘You dare to sit there and tell me I have
no conscience; you ... you damnable young prig!’
The Huxtable sat with folded arms, looking at him coldly,
magisterially. This young untroubled man was the World, the
unrighteous, unanimous World, sitting in judgment on him.
‘You don’t improve your case by losing your temper and being abusive,’
said the World. ‘Your conscience, your whole conscience, should have
been bent on serving the Prince’s interests; it was your duty to divest
yourself of all personal theories, all prejudices, all principles, and
devote yourself only to getting the best price you could. You are not a
business man, and you had no right to experiment on the Prince’s behalf
with theories of business that never _have_ worked, never _will_ work,
and never _could_ work. Nobody will offer you a better price than the
Baron, because no one can afford a better price.’
‘Well, you have succeeded me. There are the mines intact. Go to the
Baron and get him to renew his offer.’
‘The Baron will not make the same offer again.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I have seen the Baron.’
‘You have seen him!... Then all this long discussion was a trap for me?’
‘You can call it a trap if you like, though I think the word is a
damaging one for you. I have seen the Baron, and he at once stated that
he washed his hands of the whole affair.’
‘But if his only motive is money, things are just as they were a week
ago. He can still make his money.’
‘You only expose your ignorance of the man you were so ready to
abuse--a man of unsullied reputation, by-the-bye. Money is _not_ his
only motive.’
‘What other motive has he?’
‘Pride.’
‘Him?’
‘Yes, sir; pride. When a man of that magnitude steps off his pedestal
and comes down to a suburban house to offer his services to a private
individual, he expects to be treated at least with consideration. He is
accustomed to dealing with Empires, Governments, National Banks; not
with obscure gentlemen in Hampstead villas. What happened? The Prince
fell asleep, and you gave the Baron a blunt rebuff.’
‘It’s not my business to keep Prince Dwala awake.’
‘It’s not your business to settle his affairs while he’s asleep. You
made an enemy of Baron Blumenstrauss.’
‘The Baron’s enmity to me is of no importance.’
‘Quite true; of no importance. But you made him the Prince’s enemy--an
enemy of the estate. He began negotiating against us at once, floating
companies over our head. He is omnipotent, and you turned him against
the Prince. His pride was hurt.’
‘Surely he can swallow his pride!’
‘No doubt; but not at the same figure. He offers only 400,000_l._ a
year.’
‘Well, what do you mean to do?’
‘I have accepted his offer.’
‘Ha!... I hope you made a good thing out of it?’
They both rose to their feet.
‘In what way, Mr. Cato?’
‘There was, I suppose, some commission attached to the negotiation?’
‘No, sir; there was no commission. Baron Blumenstrauss knew me better
than to offer me any such thing.’
It was perfectly true. It would have been inapt. There were other ways
in which the Baron could discharge his debt of gratitude to a young man
with a great future.
‘Where is the Prince?’ said Huxtable.
‘What do you want with him?’
‘I am going to take him into London.’
‘His house isn’t ready.’
‘Yes, it is. Will you make out your bill?’
‘What bill?’
‘For the expenses of his keep.’
‘He has been my guest, I tell you.’
‘As you please. Where is he now?’
‘He has gone for a walk with his governess.’
‘I will wait for him.’
This imperturbable young man sat quietly down in an armchair and
cracked his thumb-joints. Mr. Cato looked at him with silent wonder,
and left the room. He envied the Huxtable his nerves: his own were in a
tumult; he could not have stayed with him a moment longer.