CHAPTER XLIII.—OTHER PEOPLE’S MONEY.
At an early hour Wrentham was with him again, as smartly dressed and hat as glossy as if he had been on his way to a garden-party, or Ascot, which was the more probable expedition for him to be intent on. Whatever he thought of Philip’s haggard looks and ruffled dress, which indicated that he had been up all night, he affected not to perceive these signs of a mind perturbed.
‘Any letter this morning?’ he inquired after a cheerful greeting.
‘No letter from Mr Shield,’ answered Philip, comprehending the real meaning of the question.
‘Droll,’ muttered Wrentham, for an instant allowing his disappointment to appear. ‘Should have thought he would not have failed to write last night, knowing what a corner you are in. Never mind. I daresay he means to send the answer by messenger, and he can’t back out of giving you a lift, seeing that he is pledged to do so.’
‘He may be annoyed—he has reason enough to be so—and may refuse. What then?’
Wrentham shrugged his shoulders and smiled complacently.
‘Why, then, my dear old man, you must go in for the whitewash.’
‘The what?’
‘The whitewash. Go through the Court—the Bankruptcy Court.... Oh, you need not look so glum over it, for it is quite the pleasantest way of getting out of a difficulty, and every sensible man does it. I’ve been through the Court twice myself, and only want to go through it a third time in order to be certain of success. I assure you the Court of Bankruptcy is the gateway to fortune. Look at’——
He ran over a long list of notable commercial men who had undergone ‘the whitewash,’ as he termed it, in his flippant way, who had never done any good until they underwent the ordeal, and who were now wealthy and respected. He spoke of them with genuine admiration, and concluded with the declaration of his ambition to go through the Court once again: then, success was certain.
Philip stared at him. Surely the man would not dare to jest at such a time as this; and yet the species of consolation he offered him was very like a cruel jest. But it was impossible to look at Wrentham’s cheerful confident countenance and doubt his sincerity.
‘If the object I had in view had been different from what it is,’ Philip said coldly, ‘and if the money had been my own, probably I should not have felt the loss as I do.’
‘That’s just where I don’t understand you. The beauty of it to me is that the money was not your own—if it had been, I should have sung another tune. But it’s nonsense to think that anybody can be desperately upset when they are only losing other people’s money.’
Philip turned weariedly to the window: it was a hopeless endeavour to get this man to understand his sentiments on this subject.
‘Come, come; cheer up, old man—things never turn out so bad as they look. I know Shield has plenty, and he’ll stump up. If he doesn’t, why, there’s the Court open to you, and you can start again fresher than ever.’
‘We need not talk further on the subject at present,’ said Philip, turning round. ‘I shall wait till eleven o’clock, and if there is no message by that time, I go to Willowmere. Should I not call at the office on my way back, come here in the afternoon and let me know what is doing.’
‘All right. I am glad you are going to see Miss Heathcote. I believe she can give us some useful information—if she chooses.’
The mixture of good-nature and selfishness as displayed in Wrentham was at that time most painful to Philip. He felt as if his noble purpose had been dragged down to the level of a swindle; and if he had been a conscience-stricken swindler, he could not have endured sharper stings than his morbidly exaggerated sense of failure thrust into him.
Eleven o’clock struck, and still no message had come from Mr Shield.
After breathing the close atmosphere of Wrentham’s unscrupulous counsels, it was a relief to be out in the meadows again, although they were covered with snow: the crisp tinkle of the river in the frosty air was delightful music to his weary ears; and the trees, with their skeleton arms decked and tipped with delicate white glistening in the sunlight, refreshed his eyes.
‘Eh, lad, what is’t that has come to thee?’ was the greeting of Dame Crawshay. ‘Art poorly?’
‘Ay, poor enough; for I am afraid I have lost everything.’
‘Nay, nay, Philip; that cannot be—thou hast not had time for it,’ she said in distress and wonderment as they went into the oak parlour.
‘Time enough to prove my incapacity for business,’ he answered bitterly; ‘and my grand scheme will burst like a soap-bubble, unless Mr Shield comes to the rescue.’
‘And never doubt he will,’ she said earnestly, her own mind troubled at the moment by the knowledge of Mr Shield’s intentions, which she could not communicate. The sight of Philip’s face convinced her that the ordeal was too severe.
‘I sent to him yesterday afternoon asking help, and he has given no answer yet.’
‘But he will do it. Take heart and trust him. But there must be something wrong about this, Philip—that such a fortune should slip through thy fingers so quickly.’
‘Yes, there is something wrong; and I am trying to find out what it is, and where it is. I will find it out before long. But I am anxious to get back to town, and I want to see Madge for a few minutes. That was what brought me out.’
‘There’s a pity now! She’s gone to London all in a hurry after the post came in. I thought she was going to see thee.’
‘I sent no letter last night,’ said Philip, chilled with chagrin and disappointment. ‘Did she say that she was going to see me?’
‘Yes, and with good news; but if she finds thee looking as glum as thou art now, she’ll be frightened;’ and the dame tried to smile. Her soft kindly voice soothed him, although her words conveyed little comfort.
‘Where is Uncle Dick?’ he inquired after a brief pause.
‘He is away to the inspector about the cattle he is sending to Smithfield. I do hope he’ll get a prize; he has so set his heart on it.’
At any other time, Philip would have cordially sympathised with that good wish: at present, he scarcely noticed it.
‘I shall not see him to-day, then.... What time did Madge go?’
‘By the nine o’clock train. Stay and have a bite of something, lad. I do not believe thou hast been eating properly, or thou’dst be better able to bear this pother. It will be ready in ten minutes.’
‘Not now, Aunt Hessy, thank you,’ was his reply to her sensible proposal. ‘There is the more need for me to hurry back, since Madge is to call for me. I cannot make out how she did not reach my place before I started.—Good-bye.’
The dame had been watching him anxiously all the time; and now she laid her hand with motherly tenderness on his arm.
‘Thou art poorly, Philip: come back here to-night.’
‘I cannot promise that; but I will come as soon as possible.... Do you think it likely that Madge might have gone to see Mr Beecham?’ he asked abruptly.
‘What would she do that for?’ said Aunt Hessy with some surprise.
‘I don’t know—but it seems, they have struck up a great friendship.’ He spoke with affected carelessness, his eye scanning the floor.
‘Then I must tell thee, she has gone to Mr Shield, and will bring thee good news. Thou must learn the rest from herself. It would not be fair for me to take the pleasure from her.’
What had she gone to Mr Shield for? and what good news was she to bring him? Had she suspected or discovered that he was on the brink of ruin, and gone to plead for assistance? That would be a sting indeed. Hard as it might be for him to do it himself, it was unbearable to think that she should be brought to such a pass. This idea presented itself to him in all sorts of shapes, as he hurried back to Dunthorpe station, and it by no means tended to allay his agitation.
He drove straight from Liverpool Street to his chambers. They had been left in charge of one of the office lads, sent from Golden Alley for the purpose. This smart youth informed him that no one had called and no message had arrived during his absence.
He dismissed the lad and, with a dogged determination to master his nervous excitement, attacked the account-books and vouchers once more. His head was painfully clear now, and he was surprised at the sudden development of a hitherto unsuspected capacity for figures. He threaded the mazes of those long columns with what was for him singular rapidity and accuracy. He was rewarded by finding everything perfectly correct: the balance, although largely against him, was strictly in accordance with the items entered; and for every item, there was the voucher beside him.
He only paused when the fading light compelled him to rise and light the lamp. There was no mistake about it: the money had been spent in accordance with his directions, and there was no present return, nor any probability of a return in the future. A black lookout, truly; and he began to wonder gloomily whether it would not be best to undergo that whitewashing process of which Wrentham spoke so admiringly. By that means he would at anyrate save himself from the pain of losing more money which did not belong to him.
He passed his hand slowly over his head and stared vacantly, like one dazed by some mental vision of horror. Had he then lost faith in the work he had undertaken? Was he to bow down and own that he had blundered egregiously in imagining that there were men—and women too—willing to work and capable of seeing the advantages of being paid for what they produced—paid for quality as well as quantity—rather than by a fixed wage for so much time spent on the premises of the employer? No; he had not blundered: the system was in a minor degree already in vogue in various trades, and there was no reason why it should not be developed to its full extent, so that the workman should find that his labour was tangible capital, which would increase as it improved in quality and productiveness.
His eye fell on the open account-books on his table. What a cruel commentary on his brave speculations. He had tried to realise them—tried under the most favourable circumstances of time and money. The people were in a ferment of discontent with their condition, ready, apparently, to enter upon any scheme which promised to improve it; and the capital he had invested in his scheme for their benefit was considerable. And he had failed!
Again the dogged look came into his face. The failure was not due to the men or to the scheme: the fault lay in himself. He had mismanaged somehow; and he had not yet found out how.
He was roused from his reverie by a sharp knock at the door. It was Wrentham, who entered briskly and with the air of one who has important intelligence to communicate. His manner was not precisely excited; but it was flustered, as if he had been running a race and was a little out of breath. ‘No message yet, old man, I suppose?’
‘None,’ replied Philip, and his tone was not indicative of a pleasant humour. ‘Has anything happened—since I saw you?’
‘Yes, something has happened,’ was the answer.
Wrentham cooled suddenly when he observed how Philip had been occupied. ‘Have you seen Miss Heathcote?’
Philip had a repugnance to the sound of Madge’s name on this man’s lips, and yet it was pronounced respectfully enough.
‘I have not seen her yet.—But look here, Wrentham; I wish you would do without referring to Miss Heathcote so frequently. I do not like to have her name mixed up in the mess of my affairs.’
‘I beg your pardon, my dear Philip, if I have touched the very least of your corns. ’Pon my honour, it was accidental, and I am sorry for it.’
‘All right, all right.’
‘Well, but I must ask you to pardon me once again, for I am compelled to refer to the lady, and I hope to do so as a gentleman should in speaking to his friend of the fair one who is to be that friend’s wife. Will you grant me leave?’
‘What is it?’ was the irritable query.
‘I mentioned to you that I imagined Miss Heathcote could throw some light on the proceedings of Mr Beecham and Mr Shield. Now I know she can.’
‘You say that as if you thought she would not. How do you know that she knows anything about their business?’
‘Don’t get into a temper with me—there’s a good fellow. Although I could not enter into your plan with the enthusiasm you and I would have liked, I am anxious—as anxious as yourself—to see you out of this scrape.’ (He had good reasons of his own to be anxious; for there was a certain strip of blue paper in the hands of Philip’s bankers which it was imperative that Wrentham should get possession of; and that he could not do unless a round sum was paid in to Philip’s account during the week.)
‘Don’t mind my ill-humour just now,’ muttered Philip apologetically, in answer to his manager’s appeal.
‘Certainly not,’ Wrentham went on, instantly restored to his usual ease. ‘Well, I could not rest in the office to-day, and having put everything square until to-morrow, I went up to Clarges Street.’
‘To call on Mr Shield again?’
‘No; but to examine apartments in the house opposite to the one in which he is staying. Whilst I was engaged in that way, I looked across the road and saw, in the room opposite, Beecham, Shield, and Miss Heathcote together.’
‘Well, you guessed that Beecham was a friend of my uncle’s, and as she started this morning to visit Mr Shield, there was nothing extraordinary in seeing them together.’
‘Oh, you were aware of that! No; nothing extraordinary at all in seeing them together; but it confirms my surmise that Miss Heathcote can give us—you, I mean—information which may be useful.’
They were interrupted by a gentle knock at the door, and when Philip opened it, Madge entered.