Roden's Corner Part 36

"If you will sit down," he said, "and keep your temper, you shall have plain speaking, and we can get to business. But if you do neither, I shall turn you out of the room."

"You?"

"Yes," answered Tony. And something which Mr. Thompson did not understand made him resume his seat in silence. The Frenchman smiled, and took up his speech where he had left it.

"Mr. Cornish," he said, "speaks with authority. We are, gentlemen, in the hands of Mr. Cornish, and in good hands. He has this matter at the tips of his fingers. He has devoted himself to it for many months past, at considerable risk, as I suspect, to his own safety. We and the thousands of employees whom we represent cannot do better than entrust the situation to him, and give him a free hand. For once, capital and labour have a common interest----"

He was again interrupted by Mr. Thompson, who spoke more quietly now.

"It seems to me," he said, "that we may well consider the past for a few minutes before pa.s.sing on to the future. There's more than a million pounds profit, at the lowest reckoning, on the last few months'

manufacture. Question is, where is that profit? Is this a charity, or is it not? Mr. Cornish is all very well in his way. But we're not fools. We're men of business, and as such can only presume that Mr.

Cornish, like the rest of 'em, has had his share. Question is, where are the profits?"

Major White rose slowly. He was seated beside Mr. Thompson, and, standing up, towered above him. He looked down at the irate red face with a calm and wondering eye.

"Question is," he said gravely, "where the deuce you will be in a few minutes if you don't shut up."

Whereupon Mr. Thompson once more resumed his seat. He had the satisfaction, however, of perceiving that his shaft had reached its mark; for Lord Ferriby looked disconcerted and angry. The chairman of many charities looked, moreover, a little puzzled, as if the situation was beyond his comprehension. The Frenchman's pleasant voice again broke in, soothingly and yet authoritatively.

"Mr. Cornish and a certain number of us have, for some time, been in correspondence," he said. "It is unnecessary for me to suggest to my present hearers that in dealing with a large industry--in handling, as it were, the lives of a number of persons--it is impossible to proceed too cautiously. One must look as far ahead as human foresight may perceive--one must give grave and serious thought to every possible outcome of action or inaction. Gentlemen, we have done our best. We are now in a position to say to the administrators of the Malgamite Fund, close your works and we will do the rest. And this means that we shall provide for the survivors of this great commercial catastrophe, that we shall care for the widows and children of the victims, that we shall supply ourselves with malgamite of our own manufacture, produced only by a process which is known to be harmless, that we shall make it impossible that such a monopoly may again be declared. We have, so far as lies in our power, provided for every emergency. We have approached the two men who, from their retreat on the dunes of Scheveningen, have swayed one of the large industries of the world. We have offered them a fortune. We have tried threats and money, but we have failed to close them but one alternative, and that is--war. We are prepared in every way.

We can to-morrow take over the manufacture of malgamite for the whole world--but we must have the works on the dunes at Scheveningen. We must have the absolute control of the Malgamite Fund and of the works. We propose, gentlemen, to seize this control, and invest the supreme command in the one man who is capable of exercising it--Mr.

Anthony Cornish."

The Frenchman sat down, looked across the table, and shrugged his shoulders impatiently; for the irrepressible Thompson was already on his feet. It must be remembered that Mr. Thompson worked on commission, and had been hard hit.

"Then," he cried, pointing a shaking forefinger into Lord Ferriby's face, "that man has no business to be sitting there. We're honest here--if we're nothing else. We all know your history, my fine gentleman; we know that you cannot wipe out the past, so you're trying to whitewash it over with good works. That's an old trick, and it won't go down here. Do you think we don't see through you and your palavering speeches? Why have you refused to take action against Roden and Von Holzen? Because they've paid you. Look at him, gentlemen! He has taken money from those men at Scheveningen--blood money. He has had his share. I propose that Lord Ferriby explains his position."

Mr. Thompson banged his fist on the table, and at the same moment sat down with extreme precipitation, urged thereto by Major White's hand on his collar.

"This is not a vestry meeting," said the major, sternly.

Lord Ferriby had risen to his feet. "My position, gentlemen," he began, and then faltered, with his hand at his watch-chain. "My position----"

He stopped with a gulp. His face was the colour of ashes. He turned in a dazed way towards his nephew; for at the beginning and the end of life blood is thicker than water. "Anthony," said his lordship, and sat down heavily.

All rose to their feet in confusion. Major White seemed somehow to be quicker than the rest, and caught Lord Ferriby in his arms--but Lord Ferriby was dead.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

WITH CARE.

"Some man holdeth his tongue, because he hath not to answer: and some keepeth silence, knowing his time."

Those who live for themselves alone must at least have the consolatory thought that when they die the world will soon console itself. For it has been decreed that he who takes no heed of others shall himself be taken no heed of. We soon learn to do without those who are indifferent to us and useless to us. Lord Ferriby had so long and so carefully studied the _culte_ of self that even those nearest to him had ceased to give him any thought, knowing that in his own he was in excellent hands--that he would always ask for what he wanted. It was Lord Ferriby's business to make the discovery (which all selfish people must sooner or later achieve) that the best things in this world are precisely those which may not be given on demand, and for which, indeed, one may in nowise ask.

When Major White and Cornish were left alone in the private _salon_ of the Hotel des Indes--when the doctor had come and gone, when the blinds had been decently lowered, and the great man silently laid upon the sofa--they looked at each other without speaking. The grimmest silence is surely that which arises from the thought that of the dead one may only say what is good.

"Would you like me," said Cornish, "to go across and tell Joan?"

And Major White, whose G.o.d was discipline, replied, "She's your cousin.

It is for you to say."

"I shall be glad if you will go," said Cornish, "and leave me to make the other arrangements. Take her home tomorrow, or tonight if she wants to, and leave us--me--to follow."

So Major White quitted the Hotel des Indes, and walked slowly down the length of the Toornoifeld, leaving Cornish alone with Lord Ferriby, whose death made his nephew suddenly a richer man.

The Wades had gone out for a drive in the wood. Major White knew that he would find Joan alone at the hotel. Bad news has a strange trick of clearing the way before it. The major went to the _salon_ on the ground floor overlooking the corner of the Vyverberg. Joan was writing a letter at the window.

"Ah!" she said, turning, pen in hand, "you are soon back. Have you quarrelled?"

White went stolidly across the room towards her. There was a chair by the writing-table, and here he sat down. Joan was looking uneasily into his face. Perhaps she saw more in that immovable countenance than the world was pleased to perceive.

"Your father was taken suddenly ill," he said, "during the meeting."

Joan half rose from her chair, but the major laid his protecting hand over hers. It was a large, quiet hand--like himself, somewhat suggestive of a buffer. And it may, after all, be no mean _role_ to act as a buffer between one woman and the world all one's life.

"You can do nothing," said White. "Tony is with him."

Joan looked into his face in speechless inquiry.

"Yes," he answered, "your father is dead."

Then he sat there in a silence which may have been intensely stupid or very wise. For silence is usually cleverer than speech, and always more interesting. Joan was dry-eyed. Well may the children of the selfish arise and bless their parents for (albeit unwittingly) alleviating one of the necessary sorrows of life.

After a silence, Major White told Joan how the calamity had occurred, in a curt military way, as of one who had rubbed shoulders with death before, who had gone out, moreover, to meet him with a quiet mind, and had told others of the dealings of the destroyer. For Major White was deemed a lucky man by his comrades, who had a habit of giving him messages for their friends before they went into the field. Perhaps, moreover, the major was of the opinion of those ancient writers who seemed to deem it more important to consider how a man lives than how he dies.

"It was some heart trouble," he concluded, "brought on by worry or sudden excitement."

"The Malgamite," answered Joan. "It has always been a source of uneasiness to him. He never quite understood it."

"No," answered the major, very deliberately, "he never quite understood it." And he looked out of the window with a thoughtful noncommitting face.

"Neither do I--understand it," said Joan, doubtfully.

And the major looked suddenly dense. He had, as usual, no explanation to offer.

"Was father deceived by some one?" Joan asked, after a pause. "One hears such strange rumours about the Malgamite Fund. I suppose father was deceived?"

She spoke of the dead man with that hushed voice which death, with a singular impartiality to race or creed, seems to demand of the survivors wheresoever he pa.s.ses.

White met her earnest gaze with a grave nod. "Yes," he answered. "He was deceived."

"He said before he went out that he did not want to go to the meeting at all," went on Joan, in a tone of tender reminiscence, "but that he had always made a point of sacrificing his inclination to his sense of duty. Poor father!"

"Yes," said the major, looking out of the window. And he bore Joan's steady, searching glance like a man.