The Second E. F. Benson Megapack

by E. F. Benson

  Kit had developed that morning at breakfast a strange unreasoning desire to go to church, and until Jack saw her eat he was almost afraid she was going to be ill. To church accordingly she had gone, dragging with her Alice Haslemere, who was staying with them. They had been put across the river in the punt, Kit armed with a huge Church service, and it was evident, so thought Conybeare as he strolled down to the water’s edge after the return of the punt, that Kit had smoked a cigarette as she went across. This, by the standard of perfection, he considered a mistake. If you are going to do a thing at all, do it thoroughly, he argued to himself, and that a woman should smoke just before going to church was a lapse from the proper level. But he took the cigarette-case with its turquoise monogram from where it lay on the cushion, and put it into his pocket. As like as not Kit would step on it when she got into the punt again.

  Jack had enjoyed a long conversation with Mr. Alington after dinner the evening before, and he was now strolling about the garden expecting him to come out and continue it. Alington was, as he had told Kit, a heavy-looking man, but conversationally he had not found him in the least heavy. He had the air of a solid, intelligent Englishman, whose mind had been considerably widened by extensive travel abroad, and took a large uninsular view of things. Had he been disposed to apply for a situation as a butler, no householder could have reasonably hoped to find a more trustworthy or respectable-looking man. Sobriety shone from his large mild eye, and the lines of his firm, somewhat full-lipped, mouth expressed steadiness in every curve. If as a butler he had been told that the whole of the Royal Family were coming to high tea in ten minutes, you would have felt yourself safe to bet that the intelligence would not flurry him, and that a sufficient high tea would somehow immediately appear. For so ample and well-furnished a man he had a curiously small voice, rather suggesting that it came from a distance, and he spoke his sentences in a precise manner, never correcting a word, as if he had thought them out before he opened his mouth. Colour was given to this supposition by the fact that he always paused a moment before speaking. Such a habit of speech, when worn by the majority, would predispose towards heaviness; but the result when it arrived was not, in the case of Mr. Alington, heavy. On the contrary, it was weighty—a far different thing. In the interval of reminding one of an admirable butler he irresistibly suggested a member of a Conservative Cabinet, safe of a peerage. It was only when considered as a floater of gold mines that his appearance was against him, and even then it was against him only on the score of probability, for it was impossible that even an imaginative public could invent a man in whom more primâ-facie confidence should be reposed as a trustee of the moneys of widows and fatherless.

  Jack strolled in the garden for nearly half an hour before he appeared, chucking pebbles into the Thames and cigarette-ends into the flower-beds. At breakfast Mr. Alington had been dressed in a black frock-coat, but now when he made his unhurried exit from the low drawing-room French window he wore a straw hat and a suit of decorous tweed, the result, no doubt, of his observation that no one else wore Sunday clothes. He carried a malacca cane in one hand; in the other a large tune hymn-book with edges red in one light, gold in another.

  “Lady Conybeare has started?” he inquired of Jack.

  “Yes; she has gone to church. She went nearly half an hour ago.”

  Mr. Alington paused a moment.

  “I had meant to go with her,” he said. “I had no idea it was so late.”

  “There is the punt here,” said Jack. “You can go now if you like. I had no idea you meant to.”

  “I thought everyone went to church on Sunday morning in England when they were in the country,” he said. “But I would sooner not go at all than arrive in the middle of the prayer of St. Chrysostom.”

  “And I would sooner arrive in the middle of the prayer of St. Chrysostom than at the beginning of it,” remarked Jack.

  A slight look of pain crossed Mr. Alington’s face, as if he had a twinge of neuralgia; but he made no further comment on Jack’s levity. He leaned his tune hymn-book carefully against the bottom of his basket-chair, after feeling that the lawn was dry, and lit a cigarette.

  “An exquisite morning,” he said, after a moment’s reflection. “The hills look as if they had been painted with cream for a medium, an effect so rare out of England.”

  Lord Conybeare did not reply immediately, for he had not waited all this time in the garden for Alington to hear him talk about cream. Then he went straight to the point:

  “All you said last night interested me very much,” he began, “and your kind offer to invest some money for me in your new group of mines—”

  Mr. Alington held up a large white, deprecating hand. On the little finger was a plain gold signet-ring, bearing the motto, Fortiter fideliter feliciter.

  “It is nothing,” he replied; “pray don’t mention it. Indeed, Lord Conybeare, if I may say so, I only made that offer as a sort of feeler. Your reply to me then, your further reference to the subject now, show me that you are kind enough to be interested in my new undertakings.”

  “Profoundly,” said Lord Conybeare; then, with disarming frankness: “Money is the most interesting thing in the world and the most desirable. I often wish,” he added, “that I saw more of it.”

  Alington flicked a morsel of ash off the end of his cigarette.

  “That confirms me in what I was thinking of saying to you,” he replied. “Now will you allow me to speak with your own frankness? Ah, observe that beautiful line traced by that skein of starlings!”

  Jack looked up.

  “Lovely!” he said. “Pray speak.”

  “It is this then. My honest belief is that there are immense fortunes to be made in West Australian mining. I believe also, again with absolute honesty, that these claims which I own are—some of them, at least, extremely rich. Now, I wish very much that I was wealthy enough to work them by myself. I regret to say that I am not. I must therefore form a company. To form a company I must have directors.”

  “Surely your name—” began Conybeare politely, but with only the faintest conjecture of what might be coming.

  “My name, as you so kindly suggest, will no doubt be a little assistance,” said Alington, “for I am not wholly unknown in such matters. But it is not enough. This Company must be English; it must be formed here; the shareholders should be largely English. Why? For a variety of reasons. In the first place, you can raise ten thousand pounds here more easily than you can raise one thousand in Australia. Again, the British public is getting ready to go mad about West Australian mining, while in Australia they regard Australian mining without, well, without any premonitory symptoms of insanity. Perhaps they underrate its future; I think they do. Perhaps the British public overrates it; that also is possible. But I bring my wares to the best market. Now I ask you, Lord Conybeare, will you be on my board? Will you be my chairman?”

  He turned briskly round with the first quick movement that Conybeare had yet seen him make.

  “I,” he asked, “on a board of mining directors? I know about mines exactly what you told me, last night—that is to say, unless I have forgotten some of it.”

  The ghost of a smile flickered across Mr. Alington’s broad face, and he laid his large white hand on Jack’s knee. The latter seemed to regard it just as he might have regarded a harmless moth that had settled there. The poor thing did not hurt.

  “You saw that I smiled,” he said. “I saw that you saw it. I smiled because you spoke so far from the point. That is frank enough, is it not, to show you that I am telling you the truth. There are further proofs also.”

  Both in his action with his hand and in his speech the plebeian showed plain, but Jack did not resent it. He had not asked Alington down to the cottage to enjoy his refined conversation and his well-bred presence, but to talk business. That he was doing. Jack was quite pleased with him.

  “I do not follow you,” he said.

  Mr. Alington lit another cigarette from the stump of
his old one before replying, and rose to deposit the other out of sight in a garden-bed.

  “Cigarette-ends are so terribly dissonant with this charming garden,” he said. “Now, I am speaking to you from a purely business point of view. I supposed—it was natural, was it not?—that you were so kind as to ask me to your delightful house in order to discuss these mines. You see how frank I am.”

  Conybeare let his eye travel slowly down a reach of the Thames.

  “Yes, that was the reason why I asked you,” he said.

  “And I came for exactly the same reason. The pleasure of visiting you at your ‘cottage,’ as Lady Conybeare so playfully calls it, is great—very great; but plain business-men like me have little time for such pleasures. Frankly, then, I should not have come unless I guessed your reason. I, too, wished to talk about these mines, Lord Conybeare, and I ask you again to be a director on my board.”

  He took off his straw hat—for they were sitting in the shade—and propped it carefully up against his chair by the side of the large tune hymn-book. Its removal showed a high white forehead and a circular baldness in the centre of flossy, light-brown hair, like a tonsure.

  “I am a plain business man,” he went on, “and when I am engaged in business I do not offer an advantageous thing to others unless I get an advantage myself; for to introduce sentiment into business is to make a pleasure of it and a failure. You must remember, my dear Lord Conybeare, that England is essentially aristocratic in her ideas. At least, so far as your nobility is Conservative, she is aristocratic. Think if Lord Salisbury joined a board how the public would clamour for allotments! Dear me, yes, the master of Hatfield might be a very rich man—a very rich man indeed.”

  Jack Conybeare was completely himself; he was not dazzled or unduly delighted at the offer. He merely wished to know what he got by it, taking for granted, and justly, that the man was sincere.

  “Marquises still count, then,” he said. “I give you my word I had no idea of it. I am glad I am a marquis. But what,” he added, “do I get by it?”

  “A salary,” said Mr. Alington, and his usual pause gave the remark considerable weight. “But we will pass over that,” he went on. “Directors, however, have the privilege of taking a great many shares before the concern is made public. In fact, in order to qualify for being a director, you must hold a considerable number.”

  “I am very poor,” said Jack.

  “That, fortunately, can be remedied,” said Mr. Alington.

  Jack was immensely practical, and very quick, and it was obvious at once that this was capable of two interpretations. He took the right one.

  “You mean it is a certainty for me?” he said.

  Again Mr. Alington let a perceptible pause intervene before he answered.

  “I mean this,” he said, “if you want plain speaking, and I think you do; it also suits me better. You shall be allotted a certain number of shares, say ten thousand, in my new group of mines. You will probably only have to pay the first call. You will be a director of these mines—and, by the way, there is another name I have in my mind, the owner of which I should also like to have on my board. I had the pleasure of seeing him at your house in London. Very well, I issue my prospectus, and my name, as you so kindly observed, counts for something. I, of course, as vendor, shall join the board after allotment. Yours and another I hope will be there too. Now, I feel certain in my own mind that such a board (with certain other names, which shall be my affair) will be advantageous to me. It will pay. I am certain also—I say this soberly—that between my prospectus and my board the shares will at once go up, so that if you choose you can sell out before the second call. Thus you will not be without your advantage also. We do no favour to each other; we enter into partnership each for his own advantage.”

  “And my duties?” asked Jack.

  “Attendance, regular attendance at the meetings of the company. On those occasions I shall want you to take the chair, read the report of the manager, if there is one to hand, make the statement of the affairs of the company, and congratulate the shareholders.”

  “Or condole?” asked Jack.

  “I hope not. I should also ask you to immediately approach Lord Abbotsworthy, and ask him to be on the board. His is the other name I mentioned.”

  “Whatever do you want Tom Abbotsworthy for?” asked Conybeare surprisedly.

  “For much the same reason as I want you. He is already an earl—he will be a duke. Dear me, if I was not a man of business I should choose to be a duke.”

  Jack pondered a moment.

  “It is your own concern,” he said. “I will ask him with pleasure, and I think very probably he will consent. Oddly enough, he and I were talking about this sudden interest in West Australia only yesterday morning.”

  “I think that many other people will be talking of it before long,” said Alington.

  “I consent,” said Jack.

  Mr. Alington showed neither elation, relief, nor surprise. But he paused.

  “I think you will find it worth your while,” he said. “And now, Lord Conybeare, there is another point. In the working of a big scheme like this—for, I assure you, this is no cottage-garden affair—there is, as you may imagine, an enormous deal of business. Somebody has to be responsible for, or, at any rate, to sanction, all that is done. Whether we put up fresh stamps, or whether we decide to use the cyanide process for tailings, or sink a deep level, or abandon a vein, or use the sulphide reduction, to take only a few obvious instances, somebody has to be able to answer all questions, difficult ones sometimes, possibly even awkward ones. Now, are you willing to go into all this, or not? If you wish to have a voice in such matters you must go into it. On that I insist. I hear you are a first-rate authority on chemical manures—a most absorbing subject, I am sure. Are you willing to learn as much about mines? On the other hand, it is open to you and Lord Abbotsworthy to leave the whole working of such affairs to me and certain business men whom I may appoint. But, having left it, you leave it altogether. You will have no right of being consulted at all about technical points unless you will make them your study. If you decide to leave these things to those whose life has been passed in them, good. You put implicit confidence in them, and if required, you will say so, honestly, at the meetings. If, on the other hand, you wish to have a voice in technical affairs, your voice must be justified. You must make mines, technically, your study. You must go out and see mines. You must acquire, not a superficial, but a thorough knowledge of them. You must be able to form some estimate of what relation one ounce of gold to the ton bears to the cost of working, and the capital on which such a yield will pay. Now which? Choose!”

  And Mr. Alington faced round squarely, a little exhausted on so hot a morning by a volubility which was rare with him, and looked Jack in the face.

  “Which do you advise?” asked the other.

  “I cannot undertake to advise you. I have merely given you the data of your choice, and I can do no more.”

  “Then spare me details,” said Jack.

  Mr. Alington nodded his head gravely.

  “I think you are wise,” he said, “though I could not take the responsibility of influencing your own opinion. I pay you for your name. Your name, to tell you the truth, is what I want. You delegate business to business men. I hope you will put the matter in the same light to Lord Abbotsworthy. With regard to your salary as chairman, I cannot make you a precise offer yet; tentatively, I should suggest five thousand a year.”

  Lord Conybeare had to perfection that very useful point of good breeding, namely, the ability to preserve a perfectly wooden face when hearing the most surprising news. Mr. Alington, for all the effect this information apparently had on it, might have been speaking to the leg of a table.

  “That seems to me very handsome,” he replied negligently.

  “It seems to me about fair,” said Mr. Alington.

  Lord Conybeare was puzzled, and he wondered whether Kit would understand it all. How his name
on a “front page,” as Mr. Alington called it, with attendance at a few meetings, at which he would read a report, could be worth five thousand a year, he did not see, though he felt quite certain that Mr. Alington thought it was. Whether it would turn out to be so or not, he hardly cared at all; clearly that matter did not concern him. If anyone was willing to pay five thousand a year for his name they were perfectly welcome to have it; indeed, he would have taken a much smaller figure. He had no idea that marquises were at such a premium. His distinguished ancestry had suddenly become an industrial company, paying heavily. “The new Esau,” he thought to himself, “and a great improvement on the old. I only lend my birthright, and the pottage I receive is really considerable.”

  Some time before they had reached this point in their conversation the punt had been taken across the river again to fetch Kit and Alice Haslemere back from church, and as Mr. Alington said his last words it had returned again with the jaded church-goers. He put on his straw hat, picked up the big tune hymn-book, and with Conybeare strolled down to the bottom of the lawn to meet them.

  “Devotion is so very fatiguing,” said Kit, in a harassed voice, as she stepped on to the grass. “Alice and I feel as if we had been having the influenza—don’t we, dear? And I’ve lost my cigarette-case. It is too tiresome, because I meant to pawn it. I am sure I left it in the punt.”

  Jack took it out of his pocket and returned it to her.

  “Thank your dear husband you didn’t step on it,” he remarked.

  Kit took it petulantly, and lit a cigarette.

  “Oh, Jack, I wish you wouldn’t be so thoughtful,” she said. “Thoughtful people are such a nuisance. They always remind one of what one is doing one’s best to forget, and put one’s cherished things in safe places. Oh, I’m so glad I’m not a clergyman. I should have to go to church again this evening. What’s that book, Mr. Alington? Oh, I see. Have you and Jack been singing hymns on the lawn? How dear of you! I didn’t know you thought of going to church, or I would have waited for you. I understood you were going to talk business with Jack. There is business in the air. Just a trifle stuffy.”