CHAPTER XXV.—A WORD IN SEASON.
The suspicion which Philip now entertained regarding his uncle’s habits rendered the letters received from him the more surprising—they were so calm, kindly, and firm. He did not receive many: Mr Shield preferred that his instructions should be conveyed to him by Messrs Hawkins and Jackson. There was one waiting for him, however, on the morning on which he took possession of his chambers in Verulam Buildings, Gray’s Inn.
Wrentham had tried to persuade him to take chambers in the West End, indicating Piccadilly as the most suitable quarter for the residence of a young man of fortune who was likely to mix in society. There he would be close to the clubs, and five minutes from every place of amusement worth going to.
But Philip had notions of his own on this subject. He had no particular desire to be near the clubs: he expected his time to be fully occupied in the enterprise on which he was entering. What leisure he might have would of course be spent at Willowmere and Ringsford. The chambers in Verulam Buildings were all that a bachelor of simple tastes could desire. They were on the second floor, and the windows of the principal apartment overlooked the green square. To the left were quaint old gables and tiles, which the master-painter, Time, had transformed into a wondrous harmony of all the shades and tints of green and russet.
Sitting there, with the noisy traffic of Gray’s Inn Road shut out by double doors and double windows on the other side of the building, he could imagine himself to be miles away from the bustle and fever of the town, although he was in the midst of it. And sitting there, he read this letter from Mr Shield, which began as usual without any of the customary phrases of address:
‘I now feel that you have begun your individual life in earnest; and I am glad of it. By this step you secure full opportunity to show us what stuff you are made of. As already explained, I do not intend to interfere with you in any way. I do not wish you to seek my advice, and do not wish to give any. Once for all, understand me—my desire is to test by your own acts and judgment whether or not you are worthy of the fortune which awaits you.
‘When I say the fortune which awaits you, I mean something more than money.
‘I hope you will stand the test; but you must not ask me to help you to do so. Circumstances may tempt me at times to give you a word of warning; but my present intention is to do my best to resist the temptation. You must do everything for yourself and by yourself, if you are to satisfy me.
‘I admire the spirit which prompts your enterprise, and entirely approve of its object. But here let me speak my first and probably my last word of warning. No doubt you are anxious to convince me that the capital which has been placed at your disposal is not to be thrown away; and it is this anxiety, backed by the enthusiasm of inexperience, that leads you into your first blunder. You calculate upon reaping from six to eight per cent. on your investment. I do not pretend to have gone thoroughly into the subject; but considering the kind of investment and the manner in which you propose to work it, my opinion is that if you count upon from two to three per cent., you will be more likely to avoid disappointment than if you adhere to the figures you have set down. At anyrate, you will err on the safe side.
‘Further: you should also, and to a like extent, moderate your calculations as to the degree of sympathy and co-operation you will receive from the people you intend to benefit. I should be sorry to rob you of any part of the joy which faith in his fellow-men gives to youth. I think the man is happier who fails because he has trusted others, than he who succeeds because he has trusted no one but himself. I have failed in that way, and may fail again; yet my belief in the truth of this principle of trust is unchanged.
‘At the same time, whilst you have faith in others, your eyes should be clear. Before you give your confidence, do what you can to make sure that it is not given to a knave. Should you, with eyes open, allow yourself to be deceived, you would be a fool, not a generous man. I was a fool.
‘Pardon this allusion to myself; there was no intention of making any when this letter was begun.
‘Briefly, whilst hoping that your enterprise may be completely successful, I wish to remind you of the commonplace fact that greed and selfishness are elements which have to be reckoned with in everything we attempt to do for or with others, whether the attempt be made in the wilds of Griqualand or in this centre of civilisation. It is a miserable conclusion to arrive at in looking back on the experience of a life; but it is the inevitable one. The only people you will be able to help are those who are willing to help themselves in the right way—which means those who have learned that the success of a comrade is no barrier to their own success. You will have to learn that the petty jealousies which exist amongst the workers in even the smallest undertakings are as countless as they are incomprehensible to the man who looks on all around him with generous eyes. You will be a happy man if twenty years hence you can say that your experience has been different from mine.
‘You are not to think, however, that I consider all people moved by greed and selfishness alone: I only say that these are elements to be taken into account in dealing with them. The most faithful friends are sometimes found amongst the most ignorant of mankind: the greatest scoundrels amongst those who are regarded as the most cultivated.
‘Do you find this difficult to understand? You must work out its full meaning for yourself. I say no more. You have your warning. Go on your way, and I trust you will prosper.’
This was signed abruptly, Austin Shield, as if the writer feared that he had already said too much.
‘How he must have suffered,’ was Philip’s thought, after the first few moments of reflection over this letter. It was the longest he had ever received from his uncle, and seemed to disclose more of the man’s inner nature than he had hitherto been permitted to see. ‘How he must have suffered! Would I bear the scar so long if—— What stuff and nonsense!’
He laughed at himself heartily, and a little scornfully for allowing the absurd question even to flit across his mind. As if any possible combination of circumstances could ever arise to take Madge away from him! The tombstone of one of them was the only barrier that could ever stand between them; and the prospect of its erection was such a long way off, that he could think of it lightly if not philosophically.
But as he continued to stare out at those quaint russet gables and the green square, a dreamy expression slowly filled his eyes, and visions of the impossible passed before him. He had thrown himself into this work which he had found to do with such earnestness, that he had already passed more than one day without going to see Madge. Her spirit was in the work, and inspired his devotion to it, and all his labour was for her. In that way she was always with him, although her form and clear eyes might not be constantly present to his mind. That was a consolatory thought for himself; but would it satisfy her? Was it sufficient to satisfy himself how he had allowed three days to pass without his appearance at Willowmere?
He was startled when he recollected that it was three days since he had been there. Three days—an age, and how it could have passed so quickly he was unable to understand. He had certainly intended every evening to go as usual. But every day had been so full of business—details of plans and estimates to study and master—that he had been glad to lie down and sleep. The task was the more laborious for him, as he had not had previous knowledge of its practical intricacies, and he was resolved to understand thoroughly everything that was done.
‘I suppose she will laugh, and say it is like me—always at extremes; either trying to do too much, or doing too little. At anyrate, she will be convinced that I have taken kindly to harness. We’ll see this afternoon.’
There was another influence which unconsciously detained him in town. He shrank somehow from the interview with his father which must take place on his return to Ringsford. He had hoped to be able to take with him some friendly message from Mr Shield which would lead to the reconciliation of the two men; and as yet he was as far as ever from being able to approach the subject with his uncle.
His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of Wrentham, spruce and buoyant, a flower in his button-hole, and looking as if he had made a safe bet on the next racing event.
‘Came to tell you about that land,’ he said.
‘I suppose you have made arrangements for the purchase?’ rejoined Philip, as he folded his uncle’s letter and replaced it in the envelope.
Wrentham followed the action with inquisitive eyes. He was asking himself, ‘Has that letter anything to do with this coolness about the bargain, on which he was so hot a few days ago, or is it accident?’ Then, with a little real wonder, and some affectation of amusement at the innocence of his principal:
‘My dear Philip!’—Wrentham was one of those men who will call an acquaintance of a few hours by his Christian name, and by an abbreviation of it after an intimacy of a couple of days—‘you don’t mean to say that you imagine a question of the transfer of land in this greatest city of the world is to be settled off-hand in a forenoon?’
‘O no; I did not think that, Wrentham; but as the land is very much on the outskirts of the city, and has been for a long time in the market, I did not expect that there would be much delay in coming to terms about it.’
‘Ah! but you forget that it is within easy distance of an existing railway station, and close by the site of one which will be in working order before your houses can be built.’
‘Exactly. That is why I chose the spot.’
‘Just so; and you can have it; but the fellows know its full value, and mean to have it. Look at that.’
He handed him a paper containing the statement of the terms on which the land in question was to be sold. Philip read it carefully, frowned, and tossed it back to his agent.
‘Ridiculous!’ he exclaimed. ‘They must have thought you were acting for the government or a railway company. I believe it is considered legitimate to fleece them. Half the money is what I will give, and no more.’
When a clever man thinks he has performed a particularly clever trick, and finds that, by some instinct of self-preservation, the person to be tricked upsets all his calculations, whilst there still remains a chance of persuading him that he is making a mistake, there comes over the clever person a peculiar change. It is like a sudden lull in the wind: he shows neither surprise nor regret on his own part, but a certain respectful pity for the blindness of the other in not seeing the advantage offered him. So with Wrentham at this moment. He left the paper lying on the table, as if it had no further interest for him, and took out his cigar-case.
‘You don’t mind a cigar, I suppose?... Have one?’
‘Thank you. Here is some sherry: help yourself.’
Wrentham helped himself, lit his cigar, and sank back on an easy-chair, like a man whose day’s work is done, and who feels that he has earned the right to rest comfortably.
‘I’ve been trotting between pillar and post about that land all day,’ he said languidly, ‘because I fancied you had set your mind on it; and now I feel as tired as if I had been doing a thousand miles in a thousand hours. Glad it’s over.’
‘You do not think it is worth making the offer, then?’
‘My dear boy, they would think we were making fun of them, and be angry.’
Wrentham rolled the cigar between his fingers and smiled complacently.
‘Surely, they must be aware that the price they are asking is absurd—they cannot hope to obtain it from any one in his senses. Look at this paragraph: there is land bought by the corporation yesterday—it is almost within the city, and the price is more than a third less than these people are asking from us.’
Wrentham’s eyes twinkled over the paragraph.
‘Ah, yes; but, you see, these people were obliged to sell; ours are not. However, we need not bother about it. They require more than you will give, and there is an end of it. The question is, what are we to do now?’
‘Take land farther out, where the owners will be more reasonable, and we can reduce our rents so as to cover the railway fares.’
‘But the farther out you go, the more difficulty you will have in finding workmen.’
‘I have thought of that, and have secured an excellent foreman, who will bring us the labourers we require; and for the skilled workmen, an advertisement will find them.’
‘And who is the man you have engaged?’
‘Caleb Kersey.’
Wrentham laughed softly as he emitted a long serpentine coil of smoke.
‘On my word, you do things in a funny way. I am supposed to be your counsellor as well as friend; and you complete your arrangements before you tell me anything about them. I don’t see that my services are of any use to you.’
‘We have not had time to find that out yet. What advice could you have given me in reference to Kersey?’
‘Oh, I have nothing to say against the man, except that, as soon as you had your establishment ready to begin operations, he would have every soul in your employment out on strike for higher wages or for new terms of agreement, which will cause you heavy loss whether you knuckle down or refuse. I know the kind of man: he will be meek enough until he gets you into a corner—or thinks he has—and then he turns round and tells you that he is master of the situation, whatever you may be. That’s his sort.’
‘I think you are mistaken, Wrentham. I am sure that you are mistaken so far as Kersey is concerned. He managed that business of the harvest for my father when nobody else could, and he managed it admirably. He wants nothing more than fair-play between master and man, and he believes that my scheme is likely to bring about that condition.’
‘All right,’ said Wrentham, smiling, and helping himself to another glass of wine; ‘here’s good luck to him—and to you. We are all naturally inclined to be pleased with the people who agree with us. We’ll say that I am mistaken, and, on my honour, I hope it may be so.’
Philip flushed a little: he could not help feeling that Wrentham was treating him as if he were a child at play, and did not or could not see that he was a man making a bold experiment and very much in earnest.
‘It is not merely because Kersey agrees with me that I have engaged him,’ he said warmly. ‘I know something about the man, and I have learned a good deal from him. He has the power to convey my meaning to others better than I could do it myself. They might doubt me at first; they will trust him; and he is one of those men who are willing to work.’
‘That is everything you want in the meanwhile, except the land on which to begin operations. I promised to take your answer back to these people by four o’clock. I shall have just time to drive to their office. I suppose that there is nothing to say except that we cannot touch it at the price?’
‘Nothing more.’
‘Very well. I will report progress to-morrow; but I have no expectation of bringing them down to your figure. Good-day.’
Although Wrentham bustled out as if in a hurry, he descended the stairs slowly.
‘He may have gone in for a mad scheme,’ he was thinking; ‘but he is a deal ’cuter in his way of setting about it than I bargained for.... This is confoundedly awkward for me.... Must get out of it somehow.’
(To be continued.)