THE PAPER WAR.
The eight o’clock up express only stopped once between Palinsbridge and
Holloway; but on the occasion of that one pause, Mr. Stewart procured a
copy of the morning’s _Times_, where, occupying a prominent position, he
found Lord Kemms’ letter.
“It is a mercy Frank is a Lord,” remarked Mr. Croft, drily; “for I do
not think he would ever have got through the world in a subordinate
capacity. The longer I live, the more satisfied I feel Providence orders
these things a vast deal better than we could do.”
“You think, I suppose, Providence made him a Lord on the same principle
as it makes so many poor men inventors. If an individual have not five
pounds in the world, he has a patent—the compensating balance—is that
what you mean, Douglas?”
“Something of that kind,” answered his nephew. “I have often wondered
how Frank would have pushed his way had he been turned adrift at ten
years of age with half-a-crown in his pocket; one cannot marvel at men
like Raidsford being a little elated at the contemplation of their own
exploits, when one thinks of how few people there really are in the
world with any brains at all. Now, unprincipled though he may be, can
you help admiring Black? I confess, I have the very highest opinion
possible of that honest individual’s talent.”
“Much the same sort of talent as pickpockets and burglars are made of,”
answered Mr. Stewart.
“Oh! you are wrong there,” was the reply; “decidedly wrong; Black’s is
an administrative genius, mental—not physical. The pickpocket’s
cleverness is merely highly-cultivated manual dexterity, the same kind
of thing that makes some women clever at fancy work, at crochet, and
netting, and those fearful groups of flowers executed in Berlin wool,
which my Arabella’s soul delights in. A burglar, again, is merely an
advanced mechanic, but Black’s genius is of a very different order. He
has ability to conceive and impudence to execute; he has an immense
faculty of organization; he would have made a good Chancellor of the
Exchequer, I fancy; his resources are inexhaustible; his power of
construction enormous. No undertaking is too large for him to fear
carrying through. He puts me often in mind of those fellows at the
Circus, who can ride four horses at once. He could manage fifty
companies. I often think, when I am talking to Black, about what judges
sometimes say to criminals, namely, that it is a pity to see such
talents applied to such purposes; in another walk of life, Black’s
genius ought to have carried him to eminence.”
“Don’t waste your regrets upon such an arrant humbug,” Mr. Stewart
replied. “Nature has fitted him into the only hole he could by
possibility have filled. Black’s genius is a lying genius. Had it been
clothed by circumstances decently, externally apparelled with honesty,
and virtue, and truth, it would soon have got rid of those incumbrances,
and come forth in its primitive nakedness. I tell you Black has no
talent, save for dishonesty; if that devil were cast out of him, he
would be strong no longer. As Samson’s strength lay in his hair, so
Black’s lies in his falsehood, his cunning, his impudence, and his
plausibility. Take these things from him and he would be but as other
ordinary men; honest, perhaps, but weak; able to earn a living, but
certainly not to make a fortune. It is quite a mistake to imagine
because a man is clever in one walk, he could be clever if he pleased in
another. The walk is dictated by his particular cleverness, and Black’s
talent, as I said before, is lying.
“Yet he professes to be weary of planning, and scheming, and
uncertainty——”
“And very possibly that profession is true. A man may be weary of the
devil which possesses him, even though he be unable to get rid of it. At
one time, I confess, I thought Black was going to turn over a new leaf,
and content himself with the fine things the Protector had in store for
him, but now I fear the old Adam is too strong in Black ever to give him
a chance of turning from the evil of his former ways, and I am satisfied
if he can ruin our Company he will do it somehow. This business of
Kemms’ is bad too. How many shares have you, Douglas, besides your
qualification?”
“Five hundred,” was the reply; “and I shall give my broker instructions
to sell them.”
“You do not mean that?”
“Indeed I do; I have no intention of losing sixpence, if I can help it.
I have never lost money by a company yet, and I do not purpose beginning
now.”
“But it is so confoundedly mean to desert a failing cause.”
“I never made any pretension to Quixotism. The moment Frank said he had
written to the _Times_, I made up my mind to sell; and, if you were
wise, you would sell also.”
“No; I shall not adopt that course,” said Mr. Stewart; but he did not
tell his nephew what course he intended to adopt.
“It will be a bad business for Dudley, if anything should go wrong with
the Protector,” remarked Mr. Croft, after an uncomfortable pause. “He
has mortgaged Berrie Down.”
“Surely not!” exclaimed Mr. Stewart.
“Surely yes,” was the reply. “Old Craddock has advanced five thousand
pounds upon it at four and a half—good interest too, I call that, on
security good as the Bank of England.”
“I wish I had heard of it.”
“So do I,” was the reply; “but my lawyer knew nothing about the matter
till it was all settled.”
“What did he want the money for; do you know?”
“Bills, I understand; and that the sum I have mentioned will not meet
the one-half of those he has out. ’Pon my honour, I am very sorry for
Dudley. He will be a beggar before he is ten years older.”
“He is an awful fool,” observed Mr. Stewart.
“So he may be; but folly is not a sin, is it?”
“It is sin’s half-brother, or whole father, or something of the kind, at
any rate,” retorted Mr. Stewart; “but here is King’s Cross, and now for
Mr. Black,” and so saying the old man sprang as lightly from the
compartment as his much younger companion; and, bustling out of the
station, hailed a cab, which speedily conveyed the pair to Lincoln’s Inn
Fields.
“Where Mr. Black had already been,” Arthur informed them. “He is gone on
to Dowgate Hill, where, he told me, any message would find him until one
o’clock. Shall I send and ask him to come up?”
“No,” Mr. Stewart decided; “we will follow him.”
“I saw Lord Kemms’ letter in this morning’s _Times_,” Arthur remarked.
“Yes; his Lordship ought to have a straight waistcoat, and
bread-and-water diet for a week, to teach him not to be so hasty,”
answered Mr. Stewart. “Black must answer him.”
“He said, he hoped you would leave him to do so,” Arthur replied. “He
does not seem to attach much importance to the matter.”
“Does he not? I wish I could think it of no consequence,” replied Mr.
Stewart. “Now, Douglas, are you ready?” and he again bustled out, and
seated himself in the hansom which had waited for them.
“Mr. Croft!” it was Arthur, who, following the younger man out, spoke
now in a lowered tone of voice, “do you think this will affect the
Company?”
“There is no telling,” the other answered; “only, if you have many
shares, take my advice and get rid of them—quietly, you know, quietly.”
“What was Dudley saying to you?” Mr. Stewart inquired as they drove off
in the direction of the City.
“Asking me how this would affect the Protector, and I advised him to
sell his shares.”
“He has not a share beyond those Black gave him. A couple of hundred,
paid up.”
“Then, what has he done with all the money for which Berrie Down is
mortgaged and to be mortgaged?”
“God knows! given it to Black, most probably.”
“Then he is virtually a ruined man.”
“Time will show,” answered Mr. Stewart, philosophically. “I do not think
he will get much back from Black, at all events.”
“Those are the kind of men, then, Raidsford had in his mind, when he was
speaking about companies last night.”
“Likely enough; but there were idiots in the world before Limited
Liability was thought of, and there will be idiots in the world when
Limited Liability is no more.”
“Still, it does seem hard.”
“That if a man will rush into the flame he should be burnt. Do you
propose, Douglas, constituting yourself a species of knight-errant to
rescue distressed gentlemen from the consequences of their folly? You
could never prevent a man like Dudley getting into trouble. By right, he
was Black’s natural prey, natural and legitimate. You do not quarrel
with a cat for catching a mouse; why should you bemoan Dudley losing his
money to Black?”
“I pity his wife.”
“Ah! there I go with you; but she followed her fancy in marrying him,
and she must pay for the indulgence of her fancy sooner or later. The
best thing which could happen for her ultimate happiness would be for
her husband to get a thorough sickening of following his own courses. I
consider him one of the most conceited prigs I ever met. He won’t take a
hint from me on any subject.”
“On what sort of subject?” inquired Mr. Croft, a little curiously.
“Why, you know he might learn a little of business, fit himself for some
more lucrative post, but the moment I mentioned my idea he was up like a
rocket. ‘He did not intend to retain the secretaryship an hour longer
than he could advantageously dispose of his shares. If I imagined he was
going to remain at the beck and call of every one who liked to call and
beckon, I never was more mistaken in my life.’ Whereupon,” added Mr.
Stewart, “I, of course, humbly apologised; and remarked that I had
certainly been under the delusion he wished to add to his income, but I
was happy to find I had been mistaken; because, from my own limited
experience of the expenses of living in London, I felt satisfied he
could not long afford to live at the rate he was doing on a thousand a
year.”
“Was not that a little——”
“Impertinent, you would say,” finished Mr. Stewart, as his nephew
paused; “that is precisely what I remarked to you a few moments
since—knight-errantry in the nineteenth century is always impertinent;
but still, if one sees a man walking straight on to the brink of a
precipice, involuntarily one shouts out a warning to him. That is what I
did—and that is what I got for my pains. Now, Mr. Dudley may go to the
devil, for any trouble I shall take to prevent his travelling that easy
road.”
“But his wife, and the children?”
“One of the children will happily never need a marriage portion,”
returned Mr. Stewart, “and the other is a boy. As for Mrs. Dudley, we
have talked that over before; and, speaking of her, Douglas, may I
inquire the reason of the special interest you seem to feel about her? A
charming lady, doubtless, but still, a recent acquaintance. You are not
in love with her, I hope?”
“No,” Douglas Croft answered, “I do not love her.”
“What is the link, then? for a link of some kind there must be.”
“Perhaps that my wife dislikes her,” suggested Mr. Croft; then he added,
in a different tone: “I have been a stupid ass and an awful sinner—that
is the reason I like Mrs. Dudley.”
“Complimentary to Mrs. Dudley.”
“True, nevertheless,” answered Mr. Croft; and at this moment they
arrived at Mr. Black’s offices in Dowgate Hill, where they found that
gentleman thoroughly enjoying himself.
“So you are really going to leave his Lordship in my hands for
execution?” he said, when Mr. Stewart had explained the purpose of their
visit. “I am delighted to hear it, for I was just sketching out a letter
in answer to his. May I read it to you?”
“No,” answered Mr. Stewart, “I do not wish to be mixed up with it in any
way. The matter rests between you and Lord Kemms, and we must decline
all interference. Fight it out yourselves. Whether the letter ought to
be answered at all, until after the next board-day, is a question for
you to decide.”
“I will take that responsibility on my own shoulders,” remarked Mr.
Black. “Of course, all this is Mr. Raidsford’s doing, not Lord Kemms’. I
only wish it was Raidsford I had to answer, I would give him a dose that
ought to cure him of meddling for a while again.”
“Could you not publish the formula?” asked Mr. Croft; “it might be
useful to the general public.”
“There are some medicines the success of which depends as much on the
person who administers them as on the drugs they actually contain,”
laughed Mr. Black; “and I don’t think my physic would do Mr. Raidsford
much good, unless I gave it to him with my own hands. Meddling humbug!
what the deuce does he know about companies?”
“I suppose it is true concerning things as well as people—that we
generally dislike that which we do not know,” said Mr. Stewart.
“And a vast number of both things and people that we do,” added Mr.
Black. Shortly after which speech his visitors took their departure,
leaving him to finish his letter at his leisure.
Next day it appeared in the _Times_, and ran to the following effect:—
“SIR,—In the _Times_ of to-day I see (unlike his Lordship, I read the
papers) that Lord Kemms wishing, for some inscrutable reason, to ‘set
himself straight with the general public,’ repudiates all connection
with the Protector Bread and Flour Company (Limited). How such
repudiation is to effect the difficult task Lord Kemms has set
himself, he, perhaps, can explain; but as his letter is calculated to
injure our credit, I beg leave to state, first—
“That Lord Kemms distinctly gave me permission to place his name on
our Direction.
“Secondly. That the terms on which his name was to appear were fully
settled between us.
“Thirdly. That the list of directors was published in almost every
respectable paper throughout the kingdom, and daily for some weeks in
the _Times_; and that, consequently, Lord Kemms must have been
perfectly well aware his name was placed on the Direction.
“Fourthly. That Lord Kemms gave no opportunity, either to myself or
our secretary, Mr. Dudley, of entering into the slightest explanation
on the subject. He called at the offices of the Company, in Lincoln’s
Inn Fields, but only for the purpose, apparently, of indulging in a
monologue, since, when Mr. Dudley and I endeavoured to utter a few
words concerning the question in dispute, he indignantly rushed out of
the secretary’s room, declaring he should write to the _Times_. Under
the unfortunate impression that the matter can have the slightest
interest for the general public, he has carried out his threat, and I
am therefore compelled to request the insertion of this letter.
“I have not the remotest idea of the source of Lord Kemms’ irritation,
and can only say, that nothing could be farther from the intention of
any person connected with the Company than to give his Lordship the
least cause of offence.
“Your obedient Servant,
“PETER BLACK.”
“Sept., 18—
Next day but one appeared another letter from Lord Kemms, stating that
every “fact” contained in Mr. Black’s letter was untrue—that he had
never given permission for his name to be published—that he had never
known it was so published, until some time after his return from the
Continent, when he happened to meet with a prospectus of the “Protector
Bread and Flour Company (Limited),” and then for the first time became
aware of the use which had been made of his name. He considered that in
the interests of the general public, he was bound openly to state the
nature of the fraud which had been practised. He pointed confidently for
authentication of his statement, if authentication were necessary, to
the fact of his never having been registered even as a shareholder; and
he declared he had given both Mr. Dudley and Mr. Black ample opportunity
of explaining the line of conduct which had been pursued.
This epistle immediately elicited two in reply: one from Arthur Dudley,
to the effect that Lord Kemms was mistaken in imagining he had afforded
an opportunity either for discussion or explanation. “Not,” added
Arthur, “that it would have been in my power to give his Lordship any
information on the subject, as I am in utter ignorance of the facts of
the case; but, had this been otherwise, I should still have failed to
obtain a hearing.”
Mr. Black followed suit by remarking, that a nobleman who could consider
seeing a prospectus “having his attention called,” might reasonably be
supposed ignorant of the true meaning of words, and through the whole of
his letter gave his Lordship the benefit of this doubt. Mr. Black stated
that though shares had been duly allotted, whilst Lord Kemms was abroad,
registration of course was difficult; that his name, failing the legal
qualifications, had remained on the Direction as a matter of courtesy,
since, having failed to take any steps to constitute himself a director,
by attendance or otherwise, the business of the Company had been
conducted without his presence or concurrence, to which circumstance,
Mr. Black adroitly more than hinted, Lord Kemms’s ill-humour was
attributable.
To these letters Lord Kemms replied in a singularly confused epistle,
which branched off from the question really at issue, to vague
statements concerning companies in general, and limited liability in
particular. Mr. Raidsford being a much cleverer contractor than author,
really did his Lordship an immense deal of mischief over these letters,
and, although the editor of the _Times_ kindly spared the owner of Kemms
Park nearly a column of small type, and stated at the foot, “we can
insert no more letters on this subject,” thus leaving the ball with his
Lordship, still that general public, with which Lord Kemms had been so
eagerly anxious to set himself right, was greatly divided in opinion,
and vexed in spirit as to who was to blame—whether Lord Kemms, or Mr.
Black, or both, or neither.
To settle the matter, there ensued a most voluminous correspondence
between the pair—a correspondence which, unrestricted by any fear of the
_Times’_ editor, swelled out to sheet after sheet of letter-paper
closely written.
A few copies of that correspondence, printed at the time for general
circulation, and freely advertised in the _Times_, are still extant, and
may be perused by the curious in such matters, when down for a month at
the seashore, or recovering from serious illness, or at any other
peculiarly leisure period.
The pamphlet was to be had gratis at the Company’s offices, Lincoln’s
Inn Fields; it was forwarded free by post to all parts of England; it
was made the subject of newspaper comment and private criticism, until,
in absolute despair, Lord Kemms cursed the Protector, and Mr. Black, and
all his own kindred, and, under the shades of his ancestral trees, vowed
a vow that the next time he rushed into print he might be pilloried, and
pelted with eggs, and bespattered with mud and dirt, as had been the
case latterly.
But he stuck to his point; and, although right is not always might, in
the hands even of a nobleman, still Lord Kemms may have been pronounced
the victor, insomuch as he contrived to do the Protector a vast deal of
injury; to shake the Company to its very foundation; to create an
enormous amount of alarm amongst the shareholders; and to cause the
directors much perplexity and annoyance.
After all, a company is very like a woman; once blown upon, its credit
is worth but little from that time forth for ever. It may demean itself
with the extremest propriety; under circumstances of temptation it may
remain honest and fair dealing, it may struggle for a livelihood, and
earn one in the properest manner possible; and yet, when all these
things are placed to the credit side of the account, they shall not
outweigh the damning fact that a shadow once fell over it; that it was
“talked about;” that there were diversities of opinion as to its
conduct; that there were doubts expressed as to its perfect and
immaculate purity.
Thus, at any rate, affairs turned out with the Protector. By a curious
feminine logic, ladies discovered that the quality of the Company’s
bread was affected by the newspaper correspondence.
Heaven knows! perhaps the fair creatures were weary of waging an
unprofitable war with their servants—those real chiefs of London
households; perhaps the entreaties—very humble and servile—of Markby,
round the corner, carried due weight with the so-called mistresses of
town mansions and suburban villas; perhaps the “cash down” principles of
the Company were too strict to suit the laxer views of people who had
been accustomed to the greater freedom of a “six months’ run;”
perhaps—but why go on multiplying suppositions, when the actual result
is all which need be stated?—customers fell off in abundance; week after
week a smaller quantity of bread required to be baked, a more limited
supply of flour was demanded; till at length the directors began to look
gloomily in each other’s faces, and inquire “what business was coming
to.” The shares also decreased in value, and by the time another half
year came round, things had begun to look, as Mr. Black declared, “very
blue.”
As for Arthur Dudley, he had reluctantly renewed those bills, for which
Mr. Black was, he considered, responsible, once again, and paid off the
others out of the money raised on Berrie Down.
He did not, so he conceived, owe a sixpence in the world, and he had the
property in Lincoln’s Inn, his furniture and his salary, but still
things were “looking blue” with him also. When he came to cast up his
year’s expenditure, he discovered a thousand pounds would nothing like
see him through it.
He was an honest man, as I have said before, but he had gone on
spending—spending—without a thought of how all this spending was to be
provided for, until the gradual depreciation of the Protector’s shares
roused him from his dream of security, and compelled him to look his
position in the face.
Then he realised to himself for the first time, how much easier it is to
be economical in the country than in London; how much less chance there
is of a person living beyond his income amidst green fields than amongst
bricks and mortar. At Berrie Down, he could have accounted for every
sixpence; in town, all he could clearly determine was that the money had
gone—where it was gone he might have defied a conjuror accurately to
tell.
Cabs here; expenses there; a luncheon with so-and-so, a dinner with some
one else; a picnic at Bushey; Heather’s visit to Hastings; fees to Dr.
Chickton. It was but a guinea now, and ten pounds again, and half a
sovereign on such a date; and yet, these items mounted up.
There are only ten hundred single pounds in a thousand a year, and a
five-pound note Arthur knew had often not covered his daily expenditure.
If he dare have told Heather then—if he only dare have left that
miserable office of his, where he kept poring over bills and cursing
impatient creditors—it would have been a comfort to the man; but there
had arisen a coolness between him and Heather of late. She was either
jealous or exacting—perhaps both; she objected, not by words, which he
might have combated, but by manner to his excessive intimacy with Mrs.
Croft.
And it was so perfectly ridiculous! jealousy in the matter was so
utterly uncalled for! There was nothing wrong in his friendship for Mrs.
Croft—nothing; therefore ill-humour, even dissatisfaction, was quite
unreasonable.
If he had given his wife cause for anger, Arthur could have understood
her antagonism—but without cause? Just as though a flirtation were not
fifty times harder to endure patiently than a _liaison_; as though the
external caution which the latter demands were not preferable to the
flaunting boldness of that virtue which fearlessly laughs aloud while
looking down into the very pit of Vice.
Sin does not, as a rule, voluntarily walk on the same pavement with
injured wives, staring them out of countenance; sin does not come to a
woman’s house, dressed out in the extreme of the fashion, trailing its
silks and satins over carpets which are trodden by the feet of sorrowful
and neglected women.
There is something to be urged against sin! Injured husbands and wives
have decidedly the best of the argument when once the seventh
commandment is broken and strange idols occupy the shrines which once
were consecrated to the household deities; but against flirtation
conjugal jealousy is powerless: it can suspect all things, and confirm
none; it has no cause to bring openly, even into the domestic court; it
suffers and yet has no disease; it feels the smart, yet can lay its hand
on no open wound.
Flirtation is like a shadow: it follows you about, and still no man can
lay a hand upon it; it may dog your footsteps and disturb your peace,
and yet, if complaint be made of it, you are assured it is only a fancy
which is distressing you.
It is the person who complains in this case who is in fault, not the
person who offends; it is the exacting wife or jealous husband, not the
foolish man, or forgetful woman, who is to blame if domestic unhappiness
accrue from an over-appreciation of Mr. This, or Mrs. That.
What folly to strive to keep a husband eternally at home! What absurdity
to suppose a wife is never to speak civilly to a male acquaintance! so
the defence runs, while it is not thought necessary even to keep the
cause of offence discreetly in the background. The whole affair is so
moral, so strictly proper, that it is never supposed possible dear John
can grow weary of seeing Alonzo, nor Mary become tired of hearing
Imogen’s praises sounded.
There is no sin—of course not—and therefore, no harm being done, every
one ought to be satisfied; only when flirting Virtue becomes, as it does
in such cases, brazen-faced, the question arises whether Sin, with
averted head and downcast eyes, be not the easier vanquished opponent of
the two.
At all events, without for a moment insinuating that Mrs. Douglas Croft
was other than the most discreet of British matrons, it is open to doubt
whether the most indiscreet of women could have given Heather Dudley
one-half so many heart-aches as did that amiable and estimable wife.
Had Mrs. Dudley been wise and philosophic, she would doubtless have
reflected that Arthur, never having been a peculiarly agreeable addition
to the family circle, was quite as well out of it; but then, Heather,
being neither wise nor philosophic, fretted herself over her husband’s
defection till she almost lost her beauty. A great mistake!
She had loved this poor, weak husband, borne with him through the years,
lightened his troubles, been obedient to his slightest wish, and this
was the result;—that he deserted her whenever the woman who had jilted
him held up her finger to beckon him back; that he forgot all his wife’s
faith, and truth, and tenderness, and remembered only he had once been
attached to this handsome virago, whose preference flattered his vanity;
who felt pleased to have this old admirer following in her train.
Well! Heather had long known she did not possess her husband’s heart;
and if this were a fact, what could it matter to whom he gave it?
Thus she strove to reason herself into contentment; but a woman is not
the most reasonable creature in existence where her affections are
interested, and accordingly, perhaps, she was as Arthur decided, a
little wayward and exacting; a wife burdened at that time with many
anxieties, amongst which, perhaps, the worst was—Lally.
For as the leaves fell, Lally had drooped, and now, when Christmas was
at hand once again, the child drooped more and more.
There could be no question about the matter, Lally was very ill indeed;
far more seriously ill than when twelve months previously Bessie had
“kissed her to pieces” under the misletoe, and hung up holly branches
over her bed.