“Mrs. Dove has a nervous horror of her husband’s being separated from her,”—he said, slowly—“She says that if he is taken away to a hospital she feels sure he will never come back. Then again, she has great faith in the doctor who has been attending Dove for the past six months—and he strongly recommends a private operation.”
“Of course! He wants to put the money into his own pocket,”—said McNason, calmly—“Well! I can’t be of any assistance in this business—so if that’s all you came about, you may consider that you have done your duty, and that the interview is finished. Good-night, Mr. Pitt!”
But Pitt still hesitated.
“It is Christmas Eve, sir,——” he began, falteringly.
“It is. I have been reminded of that fact several times to-day. What of it?”
“Nothing, sir, except—except—that it is a time of year when everyone tries to do some little kindness to his neighbour, and when we all endeavour to help the poor and sick according to our means,—and—and when some of us who are getting old may look back on our past lives and remember the ones we have loved who are no longer here,—when even you, sir,—you might perhaps think of your only son who is gone,—the son of the firm, as we used to call him,—Willie Dove carried the child many times on his shoulder round the works to see the engines in full swing,—and he was very fond of Willie—and—er—and—as I say, sir, you might, perhaps, for the dead boy’s sake, do a good turn——”
He paused. The millionaire had half risen from his chair, and was gripping its cushioned elbows hard with both hands.
“How dare you!” he muttered in choked accents—“How dare you use the memory of my dead son to urge a beggar’s plea! Why do you presume to probe an old grief—a cureless sorrow—in an attempt to get money out of me! Because it is Christmas Eve? Curse Christmas Eve!”
His voice sank to a hiss of rage, and Mr. Pitt, nervously shrinking within himself, sought for his hat and made towards the door. A terrific gust of rain just then swept against the windows like a shower of small stones, accompanied by the shrieking yowl of the wind.
“Christmas Eve!” repeated McNason, fixing his eyes with cold derision on his abashed overseer—“Peace and goodwill! That sounds like it, doesn’t it?” And he shook one hand with a mocking gesture towards the rattling casements. “Hear the storm? Any angels singing in it, do you think? Any God about? Bah! Christmas is a vulgar superstition born of barbarous idolatry! It serves nowadays as a mere excuse for the lower classes to gorge themselves with food, get drunk, and generally make beasts of themselves! There is no more ‘Peace and goodwill’ in it than there is in a public-house beer fight! And as for doing kindnesses to each other, I’ll be bound there’s not a man at my works who isn’t trying to get a bigger round of beef or a fatter goose for himself than his neighbour can afford. That’s charity! It begins at home! You know that, Mr. Pitt! Ha-ha! You know that—you have a large family! Christmas is a humbug, like most ‘religious’ festivals”—here he stretched his thin mouth into that unbecoming slit which suggested smiling, but was nothing like a smile—“I never keep it—and I do my best to forget it! Good-night!”