Part 16 (1/2)

”Yes, Mr. Faversham; I see such a future before you as was never possible to any other Englishman.”

The speaker was a man about fifty years of age, short, stout, well fed, seemingly prosperous. A smile played around his lips---a smile which to a casual observer suggested a kindly, almost a childlike, innocence. He might have been interested in orphan schools, charity organisations, or any other philanthropic movement. His voice, too, was sympathetic and somewhat caressing, and his whole appearance spoke of a nature full of the milk of human kindness.

The two men were sitting in the corner of a smoking-room in a London club. A most respectable club it was, whose members were in the main comprised of financiers, prosperous merchants, and men of the upper middle cla.s.ses. Money was writ large everywhere, while comfort, solid comfort, was proclaimed by the huge, softly cus.h.i.+oned chairs, the thickly piled carpets, and the glowing fires. Any stranger entering the club would have said that its members were composed of men who, having plenty of this world's goods, meant to enjoy the comforts which their gains justly ent.i.tled them to.

d.i.c.k Faversham, to whom the words were spoken, smiled, and the smile was not without incredulity and a sense of wonder.

”Yes,” went on the speaker, ”you smile; you say in your heart that I am a bad example of my theories; but one mustn't be deceived by appearances. You think, because I am fat and prosperous, that I take no interest in my fellow-creatures, that I do not dream dreams, see visions, eh? Is not that so?”

”Not at all,” replied d.i.c.k; ”but your views are so out of accord with all this,” and he looked around the room as he spoke, ”that I am naturally a bit puzzled.”

”It is because I have accustomed myself to this, because I have seen inside the minds of rich men, and thus understand their prejudices and points of view, that I also see the other things. You have seen me in places different from this, my friend.”

”Yes,” replied d.i.c.k; ”I have.”

”Little as you have realised it,” went on the other, ”I have watched you for years. I have followed you in your career; I have seen your sympathies expand; I have been thrilled with your pa.s.sion too. You did not suspect, my friend, three years ago, that you would be where you are to-day, eh?”

”No,” a.s.sented d.i.c.k; ”I didn't.”

”You have thought much, learnt much, suffered much, seen much.”

”Yes; I suppose so,” and a wistful look came into his eyes, while his face suggested pain.

”It is said,” went on the stout man, ”that there is no missioner so ardent, so enthusiastic, as the new convert; but, as I have told you, you do not go far enough.”

d.i.c.k was silent.

”You are spoken of by many as a man with advanced ideas, as one who has an intense pa.s.sion for justice, as one, too, who has advanced daring plans for the world's betterment; but I, the fat old Englishman, the respectable millionaire, the man whom Governments have to consider--mark that--the man whom Governments have to consider and consult, tell you that your scheme, your plans are mere palliatives, mere surface things, mere sticking-plasters on the great, gaping sores of our times. That if all your ideas were carried out--yes, carried out to the full--you would not advance the cause of humanity one iota. In a few months the old anachronisms, the old abuses, would again prevail, while you would be a back number, a byword, a fellow who played at reform because you neither had the vision to see the world's real needs nor the courage to attempt real reform. A back number, my dear sir, and a mere play-actor to boot.”

The fat man watched the flush on d.i.c.k's face as he spoke, and was apparently gratified.

”You see,” he went on, still watching d.i.c.k's face closely, ”I am getting on in life, and I have shed my illusions. I have my own philosophy of life, too. I do not believe that the reformer, that the man who lives to relieve the woes of others must of necessity be a monk, a Peter the Hermit, a Francis of a.s.sisi. The labourer is worthy his hire; the great worker should have a great reward. Why should honour, riches, fall into the lap of kings who do nothing, of an aristocracy which is no aristocracy? Youth is ambitious as well as altruistic. Thus ambitions should be ministered unto, realised. Shakespeare was only a shallow parrot, when he wrote the words, 'Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition.' The man who flings away ambition becomes a pulpy reed. He lacks driving force, lacks elemental pa.s.sions. If one opposes primitive instincts, one is doomed to failure.”

”Pardon me if I fail to see what you are driving at,” interposed d.i.c.k.

”You'll see in a minute,” a.s.serted the other. ”What I urge is this: the man who sets up a new kingdom should be a king. It is his right. The man who sees a new earth, a more glorious earth, an earth where justice and right abound, and where neither poverty nor discontent is known--I say the man who sees that new earth and brings it to pa.s.s should rule over it as king. He should have, not the pomp and empty pageantry of a paltry hereditary king, but the honour, the power, the riches of the true king.”

The man paused as if he expected d.i.c.k to reply, but no reply was forthcoming. Still, the stout man was evidently satisfied by his survey of d.i.c.k's face, and he noted the flash of his eyes.

”That is why, to come back to where we were a few minutes ago,” he went on, ”I see such a future for you as was never possible to any other Englishman. I see you, not only as the man who will revolutionise the life of this starved and corrupt country, not only as the man who will bring in a new era of prosperity and happiness for all who are citizens of the British Empire, but as the man who can enjoy such a position, such honours, such riches as no man ever enjoyed before. Do you follow me? The people who are redeemed will make haste to heap glory and honour upon their redeemer.”

”History does not bear that out,” was d.i.c.k's reply.

”No, and why, my friend? I will tell you. It is because the men who have aimed to be saviours have been fools. It is because they have been blind to the elemental facts of life. The first business of the saviour is not self-interest--I do not say that--but to regard his own welfare as essential to the welfare of others. The man who allows himself to be crucified is no true saviour, because by allowing it he renders himself powerless to save. No, no, I see you, not only as one who can be a great reformer, and as one who can strike death-blows at the h.o.a.ry head of abuse, but as one who can lift himself into such fame and power as was never known before. The plaudits of the mult.i.tudes, the most glorious gifts of the world, the love of the loveliest women--all, all, and a thousand times more, can be yours. That is your future as I see it, my friend.”

”Do you know what I think of you?” asked d.i.c.k, with a nervous laugh.

”It would be interesting to know,” was the reply.

”That your imaginative gifts are greater than your logical powers.”

The stout man laughed heartily. ”I suppose I puzzle you,” he replied. ”You think it strange that I, the financier, the millionaire if you like, who eats well, drinks good wine, smokes good cigars, and who is a member of the most expensive clubs in London, should talk like this, eh? You think it strange that I, who two hours hence will be hobn.o.bbing with financiers and Cabinet ministers, should be talking what some would call rank treason with an advanced labour leader, eh? But do not judge by outward appearances, my friend; do not be misled by the world's opinions. It is not always the ascetic who feels most acutely or sympathises most intensely.

”As I told you, I have watched you for months--years. For a long time I did not trust you; I did not believe you were the man who could do what I saw needed doing. Even when I heard you talking to the ma.s.ses of the people--yes, carrying them away with the pa.s.sion of your words--I did not altogether believe in you. But at length I have come to see that you are the man for my money, and for the money of others.”

Again he looked at d.i.c.k keenly.

”Ah, I astonish you, don't I? You have looked upon such as I as enemies to the race. You have not realised that there are dozens of millionaires in this city of millionaires who almost hate the money they have made, because they see no means whereby it can be used for the uplifting and salvation of the oppressed and downtrodden. They do not talk about it, yet so it is. I tell you frankly, I would at this moment give half--two-thirds--of all I possess if thereby I could carry out the dream of my life!”

The man spoke with pa.s.sion and evident conviction. There was a tremor in his voice, and his form became almost rigid. His eyes, too, flashed with a strange light--a light that spoke almost of fanaticism.

”You already have in your mind what burns in mine like a raging furnace,” he went on. ”You see from afar what has become a fixed, settled conviction with me. You behold as a hazy vision what I have contemplated for a long time, until it is clearly outlined, thoroughly thought out. I will tell you what it is directly. And if that great heart of yours, if that fine quick mind of yours does not grasp it, a.s.similate it, and translate it into actuality, it will be one of the greatest disappointments of my life. I shall for evermore put myself down as a blind fool, and my faith in human nature will be lost for ever.”

”Tell me what it is,” and d.i.c.k's voice was tense with eagerness.

Months, years had pa.s.sed since d.i.c.k had left Wendover Park, and both his life and thoughts had become revolutionised. Perhaps this was not altogether strange. His manner of life had been altered, his outlook altogether new.

Even now as he looked back over those fateful days he could not understand them. They seemed to him rather as some wild fantastic series of dreams than as sane and sober realities. Yet realities they were, even although they were a mystery to him. Often in his quiet hours he caught himself thinking of the figure of the woman in the smoke-room of the outward-bound s.h.i.+p, which no one but himself could see, while again and again he almost s.h.i.+vered as he felt himself sinking in the black, turbulent sea, while conflicting powers seemed to be struggling to possess him. Indeed, the wonder of that night never left him. The light which shone in the darkness, the luminous form above him, the great, yearning, pitying eyes which shone into his, and the arms outstretched to save.

Sometimes it was all visionary and unreal--so visionary was it that he could not believe in its reality, but at other times he could not doubt. It was all real--tremendously real. Especially was it so as he thought of those after days when he had fought the greatest battles of his life. Again and again he had seen himself in the library at Wendover while Romanoff stood beside him and told him of his plans; again and again had he recalled the moment when he took the pen in his hand to sign the paper, and had felt the grip on his wrist which had paralysed his hand.

Was it real, or was it imaginary?

”Suppose I had signed it?” he had often asked himself; ”where should I be now? I should be a rich man--the owner of old Charles Faversham's huge fortune. Possibly I should have married Lady Blanche Huntingford and acted the part of the rich squire. But what would Romanoff have exacted of me? What would be my thoughts about Tony Riggleton?”

Yes; those were wonderful days, whether they were a dream or a reality, and sometimes he called himself a fool for not following the Count's advice, while at others he shuddered to think of the dangers from which he had escaped.

He had never seen nor heard of Lady Blanche since. On his arrival in London he had written an explanatory letter, and had expressed the hope that she would not lose interest in him. But he had received no reply. Evidently she regarded him as a kind of an impostor, with whom she could no further a.s.sociate herself.

Neither had he ever seen or heard of Romanoff. This dark, sinister man had pa.s.sed away into the shadows, and only remained a strange memory, a peculiar influence in his life.

Of Tony Riggleton he had heard various stories, all of which were of the same nature. Tony had been true to the programme he had marked out. He had filled Wendover Park with a motley crowd of men and women, and the orgies there were the talk of the neighbourhood. He had also a flat in London where he had indulged in his peculiar tastes.

It was on hearing these stories that d.i.c.k had felt that he had acted the fool. He had become cynical, too, and laughed at the idea that virtue and honour were wise.

”If I had followed Romanoff's advice,” he had said to himself, ”I might have----” And repeatedly he had recounted what he might have done with the wealth which he had thought was his.

For many months d.i.c.k had a hard struggle to live. His few weeks of riches had unfitted him for the battle of life. Society was shaken to its foundations; the world was a maddening maze. Again and again he had offered himself for the Army--only to be rejected. He was conscious of no illness, but the doctors persistently turned him down.

Presently he drifted towards the industrial North of England and became employed in a huge factory where thousands of people worked. It was here that d.i.c.k's life underwent a great change. For the first time he found himself the daily, hourly companion of grimy-handed toilers.

This gave him a new vision of life; it placed new meanings on great problems; he was made to look at life from new angles. For the first time he felt the squalor, the ugliness of life. He lived in a grimy street, amidst grimy surroundings. He saw things as the working cla.s.ses saw them, saw them with all their grey unloveliness, their numbing monotony.

Still ambitious, still determined to carve out a career, he felt oppressed by the ghastly atmosphere in which he found himself. He was now fast approaching thirty, and he found himself unable to adapt himself to his new conditions. He thought of all he had hoped to do and be, and now by some sport of fate he had become engulfed in this maelstrom of life.

Little by little the inwardness of it all appealed to him. He had to do with men and women who were drunken, foul-mouthed, depraved. What wonder that he himself was becoming coa.r.s.ened every day! Things at which he would once have shuddered he now pa.s.sed by with a shrug of his shoulders. How could the working cla.s.ses be refined, how could they have exalted ideas amidst such surroundings?