“They must not,” said Sir John. “Therefore we must get a man on board the Snowflake. That ship must be lost with crew and passengers. Our man may be able to save himself or he may not. It’s a devilish risky business. Still, money will tempt people.”
“I wouldn’t trust a paid man on that job,” said Pryce. He reflected a minute. “My lot’s thrown in with the sinners. Tell you what, Sweetling—I’ll do it myself.”
CHAPTER V
The societies that are to be permanent grow without plan, much as a coral island grows. The schemed Utopia never lives; it leaves no room for compromise and becomes pot-bound; it guards with wise foresight against numberless events which never happen, and the unforeseen event blows in upon it and kills it.
The Exiles’ Club had never been planned at all. The first of its members to arrive at Faloo—Sir John Sweetling—had not the slightest intention of starting such a club. He was a man of considerable ability and he had been clever enough to see that the smash of his tangled operations was inevitable, and that any defence would be wasted speciousness. Recalling to himself a voyage which he had once made as a young man, he left before the smash came and while he still had considerable means at his disposal, even if he had no legal claim upon them. A chance of that early voyage had shown him Faloo, and it was his intention to lie concealed in Faloo for two or three years and then under a different name to resume his business career in San Francisco.
He found himself hospitably received by the priests of a small French mission and by the King of the island. With the former he never became on intimate terms, and he took occasions to tell them more than once that he was by education and conviction a member of the Church of England. But he found the King interesting—in his ambitions and energetic character, as well as in his education and appearance, totally unlike any island native of whom Sir John had ever heard.
Sir John noted, too, that the island had considerable natural resources, and that these were capable of development; labour was in any case cheap and plentiful, and, if he worked in with the King, forced labour would also be available. The King was a poor man, owning nothing but the land which he had inherited, within sight of wealth but unable to reach it for want of the knowledge and capital without which it was impossible to trade. Sir John had always assimilated quickly and eagerly any kind of business knowledge, and he had picked up a good deal of useful information about the island trade; his capital was safe and at his command. Before long he had entered into a partnership with the King, and had purchased from him land and plantations in one of the most delightful spots in the island.
Of natural and inherent vice Sir John had very little. Crimes of violence and passion were distasteful to him. A love of money and position had drawn him gradually into a career of gross and abominable fraud, but it is doubtful if he ever saw it as fraud himself—technical error, committed with the best intentions, is how he would have characterised it. In the days of his prosperity at home he had been rather a generous man. A church in a London suburb boasted a pulpit of coloured marble, which had been the gift of Sir John Sweetling, and the munificence of the donor had been the subject of a complimentary reference in a sermon; nor would it be safe to say that at the time he made this presentation, though it was practically paid for with stolen money, he was altogether a hypocrite. He loved decency and order. He was always anxious that the proper form should be observed. He loathed that slackness of fibre which leads men to unshaven chins or made-up neckties. His orderly characteristics remained fairly constant, even in a soft and enervating climate, although in other respects, as we have already seen, circumstances and the Exiles’ Club considerably modified him. At the time of his arrival at Faloo he did not realise that he was cornered. He prepared a return to the outside world.
He was soon convinced that not in two or in twenty years would it be safe for him to show himself. He had trusted friends in England who knew at least where letters could be addressed to him, and they kept him informed. At his own request he was sent copies of what the Press had to say about his disappearance. He read it all with amazement and with extreme but temporary depression. These writers, it seemed to him, were actuated by spite and expressed themselves with virulence. They ignored facts which should have told, more or less, in his favour. They credited him with no honest desire to restore money, had his speculations been more successful. They put the worst constructions on these “technical” lapses. In the case of a prospectus they seemed to be unable to distinguish between deliberate lies and an overstatement incidental to a sanguine temperament. He had never said to himself, “Let us steal this money”; he had merely said, “Let us make this investment look as attractive as we can.” And does not every tradesman try to make his goods look attractive? Is there any close and ungarnished accuracy about the ordinary advertisement? Sir John felt angry and sore at the view which had been taken; but he put his San Francisco scheme aside.