"I wasn't thinking of the money, sir," cried Ned outraged. "I was thinking of all those women and children."
Sir Geoffrey's face came up from his hand full of such passionate resentment that Ned was fairly startled. "By Gad, sir!" he cried, "and what right have you to suppose I don't think of them? night and day, sir--day and night!" Then his eyes finding Ned's, he stretched out his hand towards him in almost childish helplessness. "Oh, Ned! Ned!" he said, "you can't think what a relief it is to talk of this with--with one of ourselves--with--with a gentleman instead of a cursed money grubber--though I will say this for Hirsch, he isn't a cad."
"Then you've known of this before, sir," said Ned slowly. "I see----"
"Known! My God! Ned, what haven't I known since the devil entered into me to start this thing! I wouldn't tell you, Ned, for I knew you'd be like Helen; but I told the heir, and he liked it. All he wants is money. And I--all I wanted was to make something--just something for Helen after poor old Jeff--went. He'd have looked after her, you see--the Pentreaths have always kept our women well--always cared for them. But he died! Ay!"--here his trembling lip stiffened itself, "died as a Pentreath should for his Queen and his country."
In the pause that ensued Ned thought bitterly that he had died in an attempt to hold the yeomanry of England from showing the road to the rear. That was the truth, and behind that truth what a record of ignorance, ineptitude, greed of gain. Nothing for nothing, not even patriotism, was the modern motto; a cheap loaf and a disintegrated empire--caveat emptor even in the face of war.
"You can't believe it all, Ned," went on Sir Geoffrey, speaking now with less passion but more eagerness, as if his memories brimmed over, "until you've been through with it. I meant it all to be above board, but it wasn't. The jobbery was awful. Every man just clamouring for money. A gentleman oughtn't to touch a thing like that--it's pitch, Ned. He has to keep in with builders and masons and plumbers--Oh, my God!--the plumbers!--all thinking of nothing but 'pay, pay, pay.' Ah! Kipling knew the game when he wrote that refrain for England's heroism, her patriotism. It will go down to the ages, Ned, as one man's insight into what we English are becoming." He was walking up and down the room now, restlessly. "They were all bad, but Jenkin was the worst--and he ought to have known. It was his nephew who put in the electric plant. You'll say I ought to have struck, Ned, and so I ought, but your money was gone, Ned, and their's too, poor devils!--a lot of the farmers and people only put in a few pounds because it was my idea, you see. It had to go on. And what did I know about sea-sand and second-class putty. It isn't gentleman's work and that's a fact. But the jolly old Atlantic knew sharp enough and sent salt through the plaster and sea-spray through the concrete.... Then, when we were in a bad way, and Jenkin--pettifogging tradesman!--all for saving every penny, I met Hirsch. Between ourselves, Ned, he began by fancying Helen, and I--I--well! He isn't a cad, you know, and half those men one meets are; yet their wives don't--don't seem to mind."
He paused and looked at Ned Blackborough appealingly, but he was inexorable.
"Hardly the man I should have thought you'd have chosen, sir, as the father of your grandchildren."
Sir Geoffrey took it full in the face without flinching. "No," he said simply, "I suppose not. But I've gone down, Ned, gone down terribly. I sometimes wonder if she--if your aunt, I mean, would know me again if--if I saw her."
He took a turn or two without speaking, then gave an afterthought excuse which made Ned smile, and yet feel inclined to curse.