Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  “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 attenda
nce 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.”

  Mr. Alington paused.

  “We have been having a long and interesting talk,” he replied. “One can say more on Sunday morning than in the whole of the rest of the week put together.”

  “Yes, that’s so true,” said Kit, walking on ahead with him, and smoking violently. “The man who preached knew it too. It was like a night journey, I slept so badly. And was your talk satisfactory?”

  “To me, very,” said Mr. Alington. “I am convinced it will also prove satisfactory to Lord Conybeare. He has kindly consented to become my chairman and a director of my new group of mines, the Carmel mines, as they will be called.”

  “What a nice name!” said Kit. “And shall we all make our fortunes?”

  Mr. Alington nodded his massive head.

  “I shall be very much surprised if we do not get a modest competence out of the Carmel mines,” said he.

  CHAPTER III. AFTER THE GEE-GEE PARTY

  Lady Haslemere was entertaining what she called the “Gee-gees” or “Great Grundys” one night at her house in Berkeley Street. The “Gee-gee” party was an idea borrowed from Jack, and all who were weightiest in society came to it, a large number of them to dine, and the rest to the evening party. Just now her brother, Tom Abbotsworthy, was living with them, for his own house was being done up, and Alice had easily persuaded him to stay with them, instead of living with the Duke. Indeed to live with the Duke was nearly an impossibility; three women already had attempted to support the burden of being his Duchess, but they had all collapsed before long, leaving him in each case eminently consolable. He could hurry a person into the grave, so it was said, sooner than any man or woman in the kingdom. The last time Tom had seen him was about a week ago, at dinner somewhere, and the whole of his conversation had been to say loudly to him across the dinner-table at intervals of about two minutes, “Why don’t you marry?”

  Tom’s presence in the house was a great boon during the season; he relieved his brother-in-law of his duties as host in an easy, unostentatious manner, thereby earning his heartfelt gratitude, and discharging these duties, instead of leaving them undischarged. Lord Haslemere himself had a habit of being unreckoned with. He was an adept at doing wire puzzles, and played a remarkably good game at billiards, but otherwise there was nothing of him. He wore whiskers, spent the greater part of his day at the club, and was known as Whisky-and-Soda, not because he had intemperate leanings in that direction, but because there was really nothing else to call him. When his wife entertained, he shrank into what there was of himself, and the majority of his guests at an evening party did not generally know him by sight. His face was one stamped with the quality of obliviality; to see him once was to insure forgetting him at least twice. But at the “Gee-gee” parties he was made tidy, which he usually was not, and put in prominent places. He had been very prominent this evening, and correspondingly unhappy. He had taken a parrot-hued Duchess into dinner, and spilt a glass of wine over her new dress, and as her Grace’s temper was as high as the bridge of her nose, the evening had been unusually bitter.

  The “Grundy” dinner-party was succeeded by a vast “Grundy” At Home, to which flocked all the solid people in London, including those who “bridle” when a very smart set is mentioned, and flock thirstily to their houses, like camels to a desert well, whenever they are asked. It was the usual thing. There had been a little first-rate music — during which everyone talked their loudest — and a great many pink and china-blue hydrangeas on the stairs, a positive coruscation of stars and orders and garters — for two royal princes had been included among the “Gee-gees” — and about midnight Lady Haslemere was yawning dismally behind her fan, and wondering when people would begin to go away. In the intervals of her yawns, which she concealed most admirably, she spoke excellent and vivacious French to the Hungarian Ambassador, an old bald-headed little man, who only wanted a stick to make him into a monkey on one, and laughed riotously at his stuffy little monkey-house jokes, all of which she had frequently heard before. In consequence, he considered her an extremely agreeable woman, as indeed she was.

  Kit and her husband were not at the dinner, both having refused point-blank to go, on the ground that they had done their duty to “Grundy” already; but they turned up, having dined quietly at home, at about half-past eleven, with Mr. Alington in tow. He was not known to many people present, but Lady Haslemere instantly left her Ambassador, having received instructions from Kit, and led him about like a dancing bear. She introduced him to royalty, which asked him graciously whether he enjoyed England, or preferred Australia, and other questions of a highly original and penetrating kind; she presented him to stars and orders and garters, and to all the finest “Gee-gees” present, as if he had been the guest of the evening. Kit’s eye was on her all the time, though she was talking to two thousand people, and saw that she did her duty.

  The rooms were as pretty as decorated boxes can be, and hotter than one would have thought any boxes could possibly get. People stood packed together like sardines in a tin, cheek to jowl, and appeared to enjoy it. Anæmic men dropped inaudible questions to robust females, and ethereal-looking débutantes screamed replies to elderly Conservatives. Nobody sat down — indeed, there was not room to sit down — and the happiest of all the crowd, excepting those who had dined there, were the enviable mortals who had come on from one house, and were able to announce that they were going on to another. Three small drawing-rooms opened out the one from the other, and the doorways were inflamed and congested. Whoever took up most room seemed to stand there, and whoever took up most room seemed to be dressed in red. Altogether, one could not imagine a more successful evening. Politicians considered it a political party, those who were not quite so smart as Lady Haslemere’s set considered it the smartest party of the year, and everybody who was nobody considered that everybody was there, and looked forward to buying the next issue of Smart Society, in order to see what “Belle”
or “Amy” thought of it all.

  The noise of two or three hundred people all talking at once in small rooms causes a roar extraordinarily strident, and, as in the case of rooms full of tobacco-smoke, intolerable unless one contributes to it oneself. Mr. Alington had to raise his small, precise voice till it sounded as if he was intoning, and the effort was considerable. This particular way of passing a pleasant evening in the heat of the summer was hitherto unknown to him, and he looked about him in mild wonder. He felt himself reminded of those crates of ducks and fowls which are to be seen on the decks of ocean-going steamers, the occupants of which are so cruelly overcrowded, and of whom the most fortunate only can thrust their beaks through the wicker of their prison-house, and quack desolately to the breeze of the sea. Lady Haslemere’s rooms seemed to him to resemble these bird-crates, the only difference being that people sought this suffocating imprisonment of their own free will, because they liked it, the birds because the passengers had to be fed. One or two very tall men had their heads free, a few others stood by windows, and could breathe; but the majority could neither breathe nor hear, nor see further than their immediate neighbours. They could only quack. And they quacked.

  By degrees the party thinned; an unwilling lane was cut through the crowd for the exit of the princes, and the great full-blown flowers in the hedges, so to speak, bobbed down in turn as they passed, like a field of poppies blown on by a passing wind. After them those lucky folk who were going on to another house, where they would stand shoulder to shoulder again with a slightly different crowd, and express extreme wonder that their neighbours had not been at Lady Haslemere’s (“I thought everyone was there!”), made haste to follow. Outside all down the street from Berkeley Square at one end to Piccadilly at the other stretched the lines of carriage-lamps, looking like some gigantic double necklace. The congestion in the drawing-room developed into a really alarming inflammation in the cloak-room and the hall, and everyone wanted her carriage and was waiting for it, except the one unfortunate lady whose carriage stopped the whole of the way, as a stentorian policeman studiously informed her, but who could only find attached to her ticket a small opera hat instead of the cloak which should have covered her. People trod on each other’s toes and heels, and entangled themselves in other folks’ jewels and lace. Rain had begun to fall heavily, the red carpet from the door to the curbstone was moist and muddy, contemptuous footmen escorted elderly ladies under carriage umbrellas to their broughams, and large drops of rain fell chill on the elderly ladies’ backs. Loungers of the streets criticised the outgoers with point and cockney laughter, but still the well-dressed crowd jostled and quacked and talked, and said how remarkably pleasant it had been, and how doubly delightful it was to have come here from somewhere else, and to go on somewhere else from here.