The antagonism was the fiercer for being grounded in cupidity. It smoldered under the surface, ready to blaze out if he left an opening. There were those who would like to pick his bones. He was aware of this attitude. It burgeoned forth in many aspects of his affairs.
If he had looted the Norquay Trust within the law and let the plucked victims pick themselves bewildered out of the ruin, while he sat back with his share of the plunder and the great Norquay estate still firm in his grasp, these contemporaries of his would have esteemed him as a clever man, almost a great man, certainly a man with a genius for affairs. A man of affairs; a man who could safely and expeditiously get possession of large sums of money. What was the difference?
He might have been execrated by some who lost their money. The losers, they said cynically, always squeal. But if he had shrugged his shoulders and stood aside, his own class would have backed him to a man. They would have rallied round his standard. They would have upheld him in the press, socially, by every means within their power. Their admiration would have been tinctured with envy. They would have understood so clearly that genuine greatness was involved in making such a coup and getting clear when the crash came. His own people,—no, by God, the Walls and Deanes and Richstons were not his kind of people, not one of the whole pushing caravan, the petty tradesmen swollen to greatness with one generation of a rich country's development, grown greater with exorbitant profits derived from a war which had been fought for them but not by them. They were Grove's kind of people. And Grove had been a—a——
Well, he didn't like to ponder on Grove. There was no encouragement in that. He found his brother's memory depressing. Grove reminded him of a joyous diver plunging headfirst into the troubled waters of life and coming up, not with a pearl but with a handful of slimy ooze. Grove, he reflected, would probably not have given a second thought to discharging Stagg. And he was compelled to give several regretful thoughts to that unfortunate necessity.
Stagg knocked and entered, stood waiting. Rod motioned him to a chair.
"How long have you and Mrs. Stagg been with us?" he asked.
"Twenty-seven years next November, sir."
The man was proud of his length of service. It showed in his tone. Twenty-seven years. Rod looked at him. He had been an infant in arms when this man entered his father's service. For twenty-seven years Stagg had waited on them and theirs, arranging their tables, polishing their silver, serving their food, ministering deftly to their every want, expressed or implied.
"Have you saved any money?" Rod pursued. He had no false delicacy about asking such a question. He had to know whether he was about to chuck a penniless man out into a world that would be far harsher to William Stagg than Hawk's Nest had ever been, even in its most exacting moments. Rod had been taught, not as a lesson but as a principle of living, that faithful service begets an obligation. It seemed to him a natural corollary. His instincts inherited, acquired, however he came by them were more or less patriarchal.
"We've saved a good bit, sir."