It was Christmas Eve, — and though this fact has already been stated before, it cannot for the purposes of the present veracious chronicle of events be too strongly insisted upon. It was the Eve of the Angels, — and no devils were supposed to be anywhere about. For, as our Shakespeare tells us: —
“Ever ‘gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long,
And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallow’d and sp gracious is the time!”
Perhaps the great McNason, if he had not been so occupied with himself and his own affairs, might have thought of these lines when, on leaving his head office in the city, he travelled with the swiftness of the wind through a storm of sleet and snow to his palatial private abode some twenty miles out of town, rushing along at full speed in a superb motor-car sumptuously furnished with a rain-proof covering, rugs, foot-warmers, and all the luxurious paraphernalia wherewith a multi-millionaire may shield his valuable joints from the cold. For he professed, did McNason, to have Shakespearean proclivities, and had been heard to declare publicly that he preferred the Bard of Avon to the Bible. That was the way he put things, — with all the agreeable free-and-easy indifference to religion and to other folks religious sentiments which so frequently embellishes the character of the multi-millionaire. As a matter of fact he knew nothing about either the Immortal Plays or Holy Writ. They were sealed books to his limited comprehension. The divine teachings of Scripture, and the broadly beneficent and tender philosophy of Shakespeare were alike beyond him. He understood Ledger Literature in its every branch, — every smallest point concerning L.S.D. was familiar to him, — and such “quotations” from books as he could make, were intimately connected with the Stock Market. But for all romance he had a fine contempt, and for poetry and poetic sentiment a saturnine derision. More than anything perhaps, he hated and scorned any idea of things “supernatural.” He attended church very regularly on Sundays, — oh yes! — that was a particular item of “conscience and respectability” with him. But as everything he heard there had to do with “supernatural” matters, it is safe to presume that he was a hypocrite in going to listen to what he did not believe. However, in this he was not exceptional, — there are many like him. “Respectability” may be permitted to play the humbug when it is a millionaire, and drives to its country seat in a motor-car costing two thousand guineas, especially on Christmas Eve, which — despite colossal fortune-makers — remains indissolubly associated in the human mind with Poverty and a Manger. And it was with all the glow and splendour of humbug shining lustrously about him that the world-renowned McNason stepped out of his sumptuous vehicle as it stopped at his own door, and entered his stately baronial hall, where four powdered and liveried flunkeys stood waiting deferentially to receive him. Taking scarcely any notice of these gorgeous Personages, who were in his sight no more than flower-pots, umbrella stands, or other portions of ordinary household furniture, he addressed himself to a fifth retainer, severely attired in black, who, by a set of cords and tassels on his left shoulder and the effective simplicity of his costume as compared with the liveries of the other menials, implied to all whom it might concern that he was the commanding officer or major-domo of the royal McNason household.
“Anybody called, Towler?”
“Yessir. Mr. Pitt.”
“Mr. Pitt? Dear me! I saw him only this morning at the office. What did he want?”
“I couldn’t say, sir. He is waiting to see you.”
“Waiting? Here — at this hour?”
“Yessir. In the library.”
With a frown of irritation, the great Josiah threw off his sable-lined overcoat, which was received obsequiously by one of the powdered lacqueys in attendance, while a second accepted his hat with an air of grateful and profound humility. Then he walked slowly, deliberately, not to say in heavy-footed style, along a broad corridor, dimly yet richly lit by electric light filtering through coloured glass, where classic marbles were artistically grouped here and there in snowy contrast with the dark fall of velvet draperies and pyramidal masses of flowers, — where Venus gazed from under her sleepless lids, with white eyeballs astare at the ugly little man who passed her without looking up, — where Mercury, poising on tip-toe with winged heels, appeared to meditate an immediate flight from the wizened, wrinkled, moneyed creature below him who was so far and away from any conception of the godlike — and where Psyche, bending over the butterfly in her small caressing hands, seemed almost to shudder lest the very breath of the celebrated millionaire should shrivel the delicate expanding wings of the
Immortal Soul she so tenderly fostered. Preceded by the black-costumed Towler, who threw open various doors majestically as he advanced, Josiah entered the library, warm and cheerful with the red heat and glow of a sparkling log fire. A well-dressed gentlemanly-looking man who had been sitting near the table turning over a newspaper, rose as he approached and stood a moment without speaking, as though in some doubt or hesitation.
“Well, Pitt, what’s the matter? Anything gone wrong since this morning?”
“No, sir. Nothing.”
“Oh! Then what are you here for at such an hour and in such weather, eh?”
Mr. Pitt hummed and hawed. He was one of McNason’s most trusted overseers; and at the great factories which daily ground down human lives into the McNason millions, he had under his management a very large number of the men employed. The only fault that could be found with him from a strictly business point of view was, that he had some vestiges of a heart. These vestiges were troubling him a little just now.
“There was one thing I forgot to mention to you in my report to-day,” he began; “I can’t think how it slipped my memory.”
“Neither can I!” and Josiah smiled a hard smile—” Whatever it is, if you forgot it, it cannot be of much importance!”
Mr. Pitt did not seem to perceive the implied compliment to himself.
“Well, perhaps not,” — he answered slowly, “still I should blame myself if I neglected it — I should certainly blame myself —— —— — —”
Here he broke off and coughed nervously, while McNason, drawing a large elbow chair to the fire, sat down and spread out his thin veiny hands to the blaze in irresponsive silence.
“It’s — it’s about Willie Dove, sir—” he said.
McNason looked up with peering eyes that narrowed at the corners like those of a snake.
“Willie Dove!” he echoed, slowly. “H’m — h’m — let me see! Who is Willie Dove?”
“Surely you remember him?” replied Pitt, quickly, with a touch of warmth in his tone—” Twenty-five years ago he was one of the smartest travellers in your employ—”
“Was he?” And McNason smiled blandly, but indifferently.
“Why, yes of course he was!” and Mr. Pitt’s voice grew still warmer with feeling as he spoke—” Surely, Mr. McNason, you can’t have altogether forgotten him? He made immense business for the firm, — immense! A wonderfully active and energetic man, — never lost time or opportunity and brought us no end of valuable custom—”
“Quite right of him!” interpolated McNason, “He did his duty, no doubt, and was paid for doing it. Well?”
Mr. Pitt played absently with his watch-chain. He was conscious that a check had been summarily put on any eloquent dissertation he might have been disposed to make concerning the past abilities and qualifications of Willie Dove.
“I thought — I fancied you might perhaps be interested,” he murmured.
“Twenty-five years is a long time, Pitt,” said McNason, slowly, “a very long time! It is a quarter of a century. One’s interest in any man is apt to exhaust itself naturally in such a period.”
Mr. Pitt looked up quickly, and then looked down. There was somethi
ng in the hard, furrowed countenance of Josiah that suggested a mental dry heat or dry cold, — any force in fact, that may be known to absorb or disperse particles of generous sentiment. Yet Pitt was not a coward, and though he stood in wholesome awe of the captious moods and whims of the great millionaire upon whom his own existence and that of his family depended, he determined not to relinquish the errand on which he was bound without a struggle.
“Well, sir,” he resumed, in accents rendered firm by a kind of inward desperation, “whether you are interested or not, I think it my duty to tell you that Willie Dove, — the man who through his energy, fidelity and tact, helped to establish the firm, is now lying seriously ill. He is nearly sixty years old, and having a large family to provide for, had been unable to put by anything for his own rainy day—”
“He should not have had a large family,” — interpolated McNason, stretching out his lean ill-shaped legs more comfortably in front of the fire—” it’s quite his own fault!”
“Perhaps,” proceeded Pitt, with considerable emphasis, “if he had been less honest and high-principled in his business connection with us, he might have been more well-to-do in his own affairs. But, as matters stand, his position is a sad one. He is afflicted with a painful disease, which, however, can he absolutely cured by an immediate surgical operation. The doctors assure him that he will be well and strong enough to live out his full measure of years comfortably and usefully if he will only submit to their treatment—”
“Well, if he wants to live, why doesn’t he?” inquired McNason, lazily.
“Simply because he can’t afford it,” replied Pitt, bluntly.
The great millionaire took up a poker, and looking critically at the fire, broke a large gaseous lump of coal into a bright blaze.
“Oh! Well, that settles it,” he said. “Then I suppose he must, as the common folk say, ‘go home’!”
A sparkle of indignation lightened Mr. Pitt’s quiet grey eyes. But he restrained his feelings.
“The operation fee would be a hundred guineas,” he went on in a calm business-like tone—” Good nursing and a change of air would perhaps run into a hundred more. Say two hundred pounds. That sum would save his life.”
“I daresay!” And McNason’s thin lips widened into a grin—” But if he hasn’t got the two hundred, he must accept the inevitable. After all, when a man is nearly sixty, a few years more or less in the world doesn’t matter!”
Mr. Pitt looked at his employer steadily.
“Have you any cause of complaint or offence against Dove, sir?”
McNason met his inquiring eyes with his own special gimlet glance, sharp as the point of a screw.
“None! Not the least in the world! Why should I? I scarcely remember the man!”
“Well, if you have nothing against him, would you not perhaps be inclined to help him? The claims of your business are, I know, enormous, and it is of course easy to forget the names and identities of the various persons who have all done their little best to build up the firm, — but Dove’s is really an exceptional case. He was always liked and respected at the works, — many of the men there know him well and speak most highly of him, and I can add my own testimony to that of the others. It seems a pity to let so faithful a servant of the firm die for want of a little first aid—”
“Did he send you to beg of me?” asked McNason with a kind of vicious abruptness. Mr. Pitt’s pale face flushed a little.
“Certainly not, Mr. McNason! Willie Dove would never beg of any man. He merely told me his case and said: ‘Perhaps Mr. McNason would lend me the money. I would work it all back.’ And to speak the truth, I really thought — yes, sir, I really thought you would be glad to lend it! — even to give it! Two hundred pounds is no more to you than two hundred pence would be to me. But supposing you make it a loan, and have any doubts as to Dove’s ability or willingness to pay it back, I myself will be security for him. I would advance him the money if I had it to spare, — but unfortunately I am rather pressed for cash just now — I also have a large family — —”
McNason smiled a smile resembling the death-grin of the fabulous dragon of St. George.
“A mistake, Pitt! — quite a mistake! Large families merely make the world more difficult to live in and money scarcer to get! Money needs to be kept in close quarters — close, very close quarters! It has a habit of running away unless it is imprisoned, Pitt! It runs away much faster than it runs in! Governments know that! — and kings! And when governments and kings find it slipping through their fingers, they come to Me! — to me, Josiah McNason! — and I tell you what it is, Pitt, I’ve enough, to do with lending money to Big Persons and taking securities on Big Things without bothering myself concerning Little Commercials! See? I lend to Royalties, Titles and Magnificences of all classes and all nations, — and I’ve done so much lately in this line that I’m short of money myself just now, Pitt! — ha, ha! — I’m short of money!”
Mr. Pitt stared, and was for a moment speechless. He had often thought (taking shame to himself for indulging in such a reflection) that Mr. McNason was certainly a very ugly man, but he had never seen him look uglier than at the present moment. Such a mouthing, wrinkled mask of a face as the firelight now flashed upon was surely not often seen among living humanity. Even the grey-white goatee beard that adorned Josiah’s sharp chin, wagged up and down with its possessor’s silent mirth in a fashion which made its expression abnormally atrocious.
“I’m short of money!” repeated the millionaire, rubbing his hands pleasantly together—” I don’t mind lending this Willie Dove five pounds, as you say he served the firm well a quarter of a century ago, — but two hundred! Now, Mr. Pitt, you’re a sensible man, — a man of business, — and you know that to ask such a sum on loan for a decayed and diseased commercial traveller is absurd! He would never be able to ‘work it back’ as he says. And as for your being his security, I have too much respect for you to allow you to put yourself into such an awkward position. You’d regret it, — you really would, Pitt! Besides, why not let Dove go to one of the Hospitals and take his chance among the young students and general cutters-up of bodies, eh? They’d charge him very little — perhaps nothing — especially if they found his disease complex enough for good ‘practice’!”
Mr. Pitt gave an unconscious gesture of physical repulsion.
“Mrs. Dove has a nervous horror of her husband’s being separated from her,” — he said, slowly—” She says that if he is taken away to a hospital she feels sure he will never come back. Then again, she has great faith in the doctor who has been attending Dove for the past six months — and he strongly recommends a private operation.”
“Of course! He wants to put the money into his own pocket,” — said McNason, calmly—” Well! I can’t be of any assistance in this business — so if that’s all you came about, you may consider that you have done your duty, and that the interview is finished. Good-night, Mr. Pitt!”
But Pitt still hesitated.
It is Christmas Eve, sir,—” he began, falteringly.
It is. I have been reminded of that fact several times to-day. What of it?”
Nothing, sir, except — except — that it is a time of year when everyone tries to do some little kindness to his neighbour, and when we all endeavour to help the poor and sick according to our means, — and — and when some of us who are getting old may look back on our past lives and remember the ones we have loved who are no longer here, — when even you, sir, — you might perhaps think of your only son who is gone, — the son of the firm, as we used to call him, — Willie Dove carried the child many times on his shoulder round the works to see the engines in full swing, — and he was very fond of Willie — and — er — and — as I say, sir, you might, perhaps, for the dead boy’s sake, do a good turn—”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 930