Lord Mere de Beaurivage never spoke of the incident, to my knowledge, save, of course, in privacy to his solicitors; so I have no opportunity for testing Mr. Lawson’s version of the affair; but his friends assure me he originated the investment, acting upon the very honourable motive of adding to the sum he held in trust, and not letting the money of his neighbours lie idle.
At any rate, the order to purchase Paley’s Ordinary must have been given out in both names. What probably happened was that, in the absence of Mr. Lawson, Mr. Huggins’ order to sell was taken by the bank; at any rate, the very considerable profit was, I am again assured by Lord Mere de Beaurivage’s friends, equitably divided; and probably Mr. Lawson’s grievance lay in the fact that further transactions, in which he had no share, were undertaken in Mr. Huggins’ own name.
These further transactions were of a very simple sort. Indeed, high financial talent is often best seen in the simplicity of its operations. Mr. Huggins began by repaying in full to the account the original money due to the members of the Goose Club, which sum was therefore duly divided and accounted for at the Sacred Season of Peace and Goodwill to everybody’s satisfaction.
Meanwhile the remaining profit of £150 Mr. Huggins drew out in cash, closing his account with the bank, which had indeed always troubled him a little, as being something mysterious, and at the same time putting himself a little too much into the power of the other man.
The surplus cash thus available he put upon a winner called Winsome Winnie. Not that he had received any information about the powers of the animal, but because that very phrase had been attached as a pet name to his only child, a little daughter who had died some years before. That the odds were 50 to 1 did not alarm this daring spirit. He divided the proceeds; keeping two-thirds of them, and losing the remaining third upon yet another horse, the name of which I have not been able to trace. Disgusted with the turf by this reverse of fortune, Mr. Huggins, after some hesitation, simply kept the sum of money now at his disposal. It was just under five thousand pounds, and he kept it in the large bank-notes of the bookie, under the lid of a rather battered little japanned box, carefully locked, though inspected with his own eyes from three to five times every day.
It was impossible that some rumour of his good fortune should not have spread. He was privately visited by more than one neighbour with pressing requests for a loan, even at considerable interest; and as he had every opportunity for judging the prospects of the barrows in his row, he could, and did, lend with judgment. The loans were at short term, usually of a week, at the most of a fortnight, and calculated at a penny in the shilling for each seven days; or, as a special accommodation for larger customers, a shilling in the pound.
He extended his operations. He became the Providence of Barrow - men in South - East London, and soon extended his activities to shopkeepers.
Mr. Huggins had the supreme gift of discretion. Each operator was left under the impression that the loan had been made to him as a special favour, though it was certainly remarked that the lender’s circle of acquaintance was rapidly extending, and that he had many callers at his house after business hours, especially of a Saturday. He was wise enough to make no display, as his wealth increased, and it was greatly to the credit of his wife Matilda (or Amathea, as she was soon to be) that she added little to her parure, though she could not resist one particularly fine ostrich feather which she had seen in the shop of a neighbour, Mrs. Carey, who took in, mended, cleaned, turned, and otherwise served, the ladies of her neighbourhood. The transaction was the more tempting, as Mrs. Huggins had kindly helped Mrs. Carey upon more than one occasion and could, therefore, demand a special price.
The profession of private banking upon which George Huggins was now fairly launched is a lucrative one so long as it is confined to a certain scale. After that, it not only needs a particular clientéle, with offices in the West End and a considerable organisation, but involves grave risks and a special knowledge of the wealthy world—especially its younger members. It further requires a public licence, and is hardly ever conducted without occasional appearances in court. The financier was wise, therefore, to abandon those direct methods. He spent a few weeks in settling his affairs, concluding every transaction with great tenacity and vigour, still maintaining his own barrow as though nothing were to happen.
Feigning illness (a legitimate ruse), he put in a caretaker, and finally sold the humble barrow-stall which had been the foundation of his fortune and the good-will of a still sufficient trade in vegetables and fruit. Shortly afterwards his wife and he took a small villa in the northern suburbs, where he would be free from interruption by any former friends. There, dressed in the style required by the new state of life to which it had pleased God to call them, George and Matilda Huggins acquired a solid circle of new acquaintance, including the Reverend Percy Hay, the local clergyman. For they were now members of the Established Church and regular in their attendance.
George Huggins took the train for the City every week-day morning, returning rather earlier in the evening than most of his colleagues. He had at first no office. Later, after many discreet inquiries, he joined his name to that of a Mr. Jeffreys, General Agent, on a second floor in Austin Friars: an address which was useful for the receipt and despatch of correspondence, for telephone orders, and for following the markets upon the spot.
It is no derogation of a man who so splendidly made good later on to admit that during the first two years the total of his capital slightly diminished. He was disappointed in the Paolo Mine venture, and deservedly annoyed when the friend who had told him they would rise came out with a new Rolls Royce, himself having sold the stock in question. He was also quite wrong upon the fate of the Electricity Bill, having as yet no acquaintance among politicians. Shortly after, however, he successfully stagged the Roumanian Loan. It was a matter of only a few thousands, but they were enough to put him well forward of what he had been when he first took to the City. And then came the great stroke of his life, of which he is deservedly proud. As it may not be common knowledge, I will describe it.
It was the eve of the Great War. Mr. Jeffreys was out at lunch. The private telephone was rung up, and a Voice asked that, without delay, a very large bull account should be opened on margin in the stocks of three named armament firms, a bear ditto in two named foreign government loans and a solid investment in a controlling company which had hitherto been under a German directorship. The Voice went on to explain without reserve, and as to a full confidant, the nature of his information, introducing two important political names, and before ceasing confirmed the usual proportion of the proceeds to its correspondent. Only after all this had been said (and it took a good two minutes to say it, for the Voice was very eager and even excited), did the Voice, intrigued by Mr. Huggins’ silence, ask anxiously whether it had the right number? Mr. Huggins saw no cause to inform It that It had not. He replaced the receiver on its hook without a word.
There has grown up a silly modern habit of decrying the genius of our great commercial men, especially when their fortunes have been rapidly acquired. Their success is set down to chance, and is besmirched with imputations of dishonesty.
I say this modern habit is a vile one, born not only of envy but of ignorance. For had the calumniators any real knowledge of the men they run down they would be unable to deny them the same sort of genius as distinguishes the great Captains of History.
What George Huggins did on this memorable occasion is an example.
During the few moments when he was holding the receiver to his ear with his left hand George Huggins was rapidly noting down the name of the stocks, the prices, the margins, the dates, with a pencil in his right.
He immediately left the office. Within a week, all Europe being then at war, that dreadful calamity had within the mysterious designs of Providence launched the very moderate fortune of George Huggins into its advance towards becoming one of the largest of our time.
For once the great man was bewilde
red. The first huge sum had come so simply, so rapidly and so naturally, and in such overwhelming figures, that he hardly felt himself to be himself. And not a few wild projects cantered through his brain when, after the settlement, he was racing northward to Palmers Green in a first-class carriage—which projects, had he indulged in them, might, I admit, have led to disaster. It was the strong sense of his wife which saved him, and he was ever grateful to her. He found her eating tripe and onions, a favourite dish of hers when she could prepare it after her own fashion (for she had given the servant a night out), and drinking from a tankard a very excellent brand of stout laced with gin.
He shared the meal, and when it was over and she had heard the full news, she made him his plan of campaign.
And see how wise she was! The whole thing was simply to be put into secure Government Stock. She trusted England. Indeed, she was confident that the war would be over in a few weeks, and of course in our favour.
Meanwhile until things had settled down, and when he had come to know (as he soon would with such a fortune) those who pull the strings of our affairs, he might cautiously distribute his investment, and if he so willed, increase his now great possessions. But the principal thing was safety. They were made, he and she. That was the point. But both remembered in silence that there was no heir.
The rest came easily enough. George Huggins was talked of. The simplicity of his manner and the kindness of his heart were remarked. No foolish hesitation was shown by families whose wealth happened to be of older growth in inviting him and his wife to their tables. His spontaneous generosity in the matter of the Belle Vue Hospital gave him, not a mere knighthood, as the Secretary had suggested, but a baronetcy. It was as Sir George and Lady Huggins that they entertained and did what lay in them for their country during the great life and death struggle of those four years. Before the end of them, Sir George had occupied during a few fateful weeks one of the more important ministries, succeeding to a large wholesale grocer, and succeeded in turn by one of our shrewdest speculators in rising seaside resorts. He left office through no other cause than the strain which its cares put upon a man of his years, and, of course, accepted a peerage upon retiring from the more active duties of public life.
He was indifferent as to what his title should be. But having recently constructed (in spite of the building difficulties during the war) a charming little Jacobean thing at Mere Bruvvish, in Berkshire, the heralds pointed out to him that the spelling of the name in some early documents would seem to indicate an original French form, Beaurivage.
George, First Baron Mere de Beaurivage, therefore became the style and title of this very eminent, and (I think I may say) very typical British man of business.
It was remarked that his simplicity remained conspicuous in spite of his elevation. Thus he insisted on the plain pronunciation Mere de Bruvvish—or even Bruvvish alone—attaching to his new title, as it had to the village where he retired for the week-ends; and it was with difficulty that he could be persuaded to sign his name with a little “d” for the “de,” or to separate that particle from the main term of Beaurivage. He made no efforts to speak an English other than that to which he had been trained in childhood, and no one acquainted with the pride of our gentry will doubt me when I say that it was ready to receive him in his plain and rugged honesty as it would have been had he spoken in the most exquisite accents of the stage.
In the now wide circle of their society the Mere de Beaurivages had been glad to discover a really intimate friend in Hilda Maple. There was a warm and affectionate sincerity in her relation towards Lady Mere de Beaurivage which Matilda—Amathea as she now was—sometimes missed in her grander acquaintances. She felt the atmosphere of Rackham Catchings to be homely. She admired the close admixture of every modern comfort with every ancient tradition in these honourable walls—the Ancestor had got there a little before her—and she often said to herself and to her husband that when they should build themselves a proper place they would keep that model in mind.
Moreover, she had an odd attachment to Sussex; perhaps because she had once been taken to the Downs behind Brighton for a Board School treat in her early youth, perhaps because an uncle of hers had been ostler in the then large stables of the Monarch at Byfield.
One way and another, Rackham Catchings was half a home in her mind already. She was glad to feel that Hilda and she were like sisters. Yet John Maple had never as yet met her during any one of the four or five times on which she had passed a week-end in the place; and in the rich houses of London he had only seen the couple once (and even then it was from some way off) in a crush at Bakeham House. The poor old gentleman had seemed terribly hot and out of breath after squeezing up those stairs.
Chapter VII
So John Maple came down to Aunt Hilda’s for that week-end. Once more did he put his foot down firmly on Spegel, refusing to do a turn after the Thursday night, but promising by way of compensation to go into the Provinces on Tuesday.
It was on the Friday as he had promised that he went down. He was offended, as he always was, by the motor-car and the French driver at the station; he wanted the old coachman (who was dead), and the old horse (who was worse than dead). He was offended, as he always was, by the new sham timber front of Rackham Catchings as he came up the drive. He was in a nasty mood.
But as for that determination in his heart, on the twenty thousand pounds, it had turned into cold iron. It was the hardest thing in him. But it was no longer in the air. Isabeau had done the trick. Upon my soul, as the too quick, too expensive car shot vulgarly through those dignified old trees up the new sweep of new drive to the new unfortunate great door in the devastated front of what had once been his home, he felt as though the twenty thousand pounds were there in a purse, to be thrown at his aunt when he should meet her.
But when he got in he did not meet her. The atheist Gaul who had driven him smiled cheerfully enough, though in a fashion a little too manly for his servile position, and handed him his bag from the front of the car almost as though they were equals—a thing intolerable. It was at once a worry and a relief to hear that his aunt was out and would not be back for an hour or two. It was more like home, however, to be met by Corton and to talk to that old friend. Then he spent the time remaining wandering through the rooms, noting for the twentieth time what had been left the same as in his own days of childhood, and what had been changed.
Most had been changed, but not all. The schoolroom was just the same, except that they had put the boxes into it, as though it were derelict. What had once been the hall with its simple little eighteenth - century porch of wooden pillars and wooden Pediment had been degraded into a sort of back entrance, and where the old drive had gone on to it there was now moss and grass, though it was still hard with the old gravel.
What had been the main stairs of the house—how he loved the old carved banisters!—were now the back way to the bedrooms and passages above; the main staircase was a wicked new oaken thing, chemically stained to look old, leading up from the new hall.
That hall itself was a piece of stage scenery. He called up what had been torn down to make space for all that new big room. He smiled to remember that it was nothing but the big empty, spare, plastered cavern where all manner of household wreckage piled up; where also the beer casks used to be kept in his father’s time. He remembered how he had kept his bicycle there, and how proud he had been of it when he had been first allowed to ride it. He remembered having asked leave to keep his rabbits in there during the cold weather.
So all that was gone. And in its place was this sham old oak with the huge great beam—Baltic, not English, and the ridiculous sham date upon it—and in the dining-room, where he had been allowed on grand occasions of childhood, in the old dining-room now panelled, damasked and changed out of recognition, the abominable Ancestor grinning, and the abominable “refectory” table, long, with carved legs, darkened, and of the sort called antique.
He would change all that.
Aunt Hilda came in, not over-pleased with whatever she had been doing. She had been calling on the county people, and she always felt after doing that that she was not quite on their scale.
But before going out to call upon people (and she was so kind that she had done it in her little car, leaving the big one for John and his luggage), she had read two letters which had put her out not a little. The first was John’s with its enclosure—and it made her hot with anger to think of it. The second was from the Esthonian. He would not wait. It was a shame, and it was silly. She had virtually sold the place. She was quite sure that either Lord Hellup or dear Amathea’s husband would buy. Why, it would probably be decided that very week end. He could perfectly well wait. She was sure he was only fussing in order to make her renew. And that she was determined she would not do.
But this criticism of the Esthonian was uncharitable and also unwise in Aunt Hilda. The Esthonian was really suffering, for Esthonians who have Europeans in their debt are yet often in debt themselves to bigger Esthonians; and such was the condition of this Esthonian. And for all I know, even the larger Esthonian up above was in debt to yet another enormous Esthonian, until you got to the centre of the great spider’s web in New York, to which nowadays even Frankfort and London bow down.
But anyhow, in this piffling matter of these few thousand pounds the Esthonian was fussing abominably, and his letter was peremptory. The date for payment fell in the very next week. He respectfully but very urgently required her answer. Had she received anything on account? Had she anything to show him in writing which he could show to others (for the Esthonian was quite frank in this matter, as he sometimes was when he thought it profitable to be so). He said he really needed the money; and he really did—there was no reason why he should pretend not to; quite the contrary. But it is true that the Esthonian did not need the money so very much as he pretended.
The Haunted House Page 8