"That matters only to the man who runs it. Either way it would wreck your line--and you. As my time here is short, don"t pretend that it wouldn"t, because, of course, I know that you know that it would."
"Am I to understand," said the chairman, angrily, "that you come here to threaten me with this new line?"
"Well, I was talking about a carriage-cleaner. I want him rewarded. I want it done right away. When I want anything done I don"t tell myself that I won"t spend more than a couple of millions on getting it done."
"Men like you ought not to be allowed to live. I tell you that plainly, Mr Verd."
"There are no men like me. Good-afternoon, then."
"Oh, wait, wait! The man deserves to be rewarded, only these things must be done in the regular way. If he will write to--"
"I"m going to no underlings," said Cyrus Verd, "and I"m in a hurry. Next time I mark that map, _those marks will stop there_!"
The chairman seemed suddenly to recollect something. "What was this about a carriage-cleaner? Oh, yes, it"s irregular; but naturally you wouldn"t understand. I"ll see about it myself."
"When?"
"Within six weeks."
"Days?"
"Weeks."
"Then it shan"t be days. It shall be within six hours--a position of trust and three times his present wages within six hours. The way you talk makes me tired. If you know enough to come in when it rains, I guess you"ll drop this argument."
The chairman did drop it, and that same night the carriage-cleaner received the official intimation of his promotion.
Cyrus Verd was young, fabulously wealthy, and unmarried. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man. He was not exactly handsome, but he had that look of power which, in the eyes of women, does just as well. When he first came over he was the hope of many n.o.ble matrons with unmarried daughters. He afterwards became their despair; and this was in consequence of his marriage with Anna Fokes--a woman who had neither wealth nor high position--she had been a governess. She was remarkably beautiful, but her beauty was somewhat discounted by the fact that she had--or was said to have--a trace of negro blood in her veins. When this marriage was announced, a certain n.o.ble matron said a cruel thing to Cyrus Verd. She congratulated him sardonically on having no racial prejudices.
"I shall remember your kind words, countess," he said pleasantly.
Within a year the countess was a ruined woman. Evidence came to her husband"s knowledge which led him to divorce her. This terrible fall was closely followed by the loss of a part of her private income. She was left without a friend in the world and with much reduced means--a disgraced woman. There were some who said that Cyrus Verd had "remembered those kind words"; but if he was responsible for her exposure and ruin he was careful not to let any evidence of his actions appear.
It was seven years after his marriage that, as the _Times_ obituary states, he gave up almost the whole of his property. He prepared a long list of relations and friends of himself and of his wife, and of certain charitable and religious inst.i.tutions in which they were interested. He reserved for himself an annual income of five hundred pounds only, which to a man who had lived as a millionaire for years would be abject poverty. The remainder was divided among these relations, friends and inst.i.tutions, and made over to them by deed of gift. Of course, many people said that he was mad. If he was, his wife was mad also, for the step that he took was planned by him with her, and she fully agreed to it.
Personally, I do not think he was mad. I had expected him to take that step, and I think I could produce evidence that in a private letter I actually foretold it. For it happened by chance that I came upon him when he was in the enjoyment of what he called his annual holiday, and it was significant.
It was in an out-of-the-way Welsh village, one year before his marriage.
I was stopping there because it was out of the way chiefly--I had some work to do. Cyrus Verd was there in a caravan, and he was masquerading.
He was "H. Jackson, photographer," a travelling photographer in a very small way of business, with show-cases of fly-blown photographs of posed rustics affixed to the outside of his caravan. He wore a shabby serge suit, much stained with chemicals, and a soft felt hat. He had not attempted to disguise his face; he had never allowed any portrait of himself to appear in any ill.u.s.trated paper, shop window, or public gallery, and probably considered himself safe from recognition. But I had once been in the same drawing-room with Cyrus Verd, and he had been pointed out to me. He was not a man who could easily be forgotten. I never had the least doubt that the shabby man who stood touting for custom outside that caravan was Cyrus Verd.
I allowed him to photograph me. I remember that the price was seven shillings and sixpence for a dozen, and that he bothered me to take two dozen for fourteen shillings.
"No thanks, Mr Verd," I said.
He seemed to reflect for a moment, and then he asked me how I knew. I told him where I met him.
"It"s my only enjoyment," he said. "You won"t spoil it--everybody thinks I"m yachting."
"I won"t spoil it," I said. "You might enjoy it always if you cared so much about it."
"No, I couldn"t. Thank you. I am obliged to you."
"All right," I said. "Good-morning," and I moved off. He called me back again.
"You"ll excuse me," he said, "but you"ve not paid for those photographs."
"You haven"t printed them yet."
"My rule is that payment must be made at the time of sitting."
"Well, I won"t pay for a thing until I get it."
We squabbled about it, and finally came to a compromise. Then rather abruptly he asked me to come to supper with him that night.
"And I warn you," he said, "that I live solely on what I make by this photographic business."
Of course I went. We had supper in the caravan. It consisted of chops and potatoes, which Cyrus Verd cooked. He cooked better than he photographed. We drank beer, which Verd had fetched from the public-house in a jug. He had no servant with him, and did everything for himself. I jeered at him gently all through supper.
"It"s very pretty," I said, "but it is play-acting. It"s not genuine."
"It is absolutely genuine. I tell you that I love simplicity. Had I my choice, I would always go on like this, and I like the work too. In this little village I"ve already picked up enough orders to keep me busy for a week. Every year I have a month of this, and I look forward to it as I look forward to nothing else."
"What?" I said. "Do you think that this sort of thing proves that you love simplicity? It proves the absolute contrary--that you love variety.
No one is compelled to live the life of a rich man against his will. If you live that life for eleven months in the year, and the life of a poor man for one month, you like to be rich eleven times as much as you like to be poor."
"What you say," he said, "sounds plausible. But you don"t know the circ.u.mstances. I am sorry I cannot offer you a cigar. "H. Jackson, photographer," cannot afford to smoke cigars."
"I have my own case here," I said.
I selected a cigar, lit it, put the case back in my pocket, and watched Cyrus Verd. The fragrance reached him. He grew uneasy. He rose, and began to put the supper things away in silence.
"Shall I help you?" I asked.
"No!" he said snappishly. He held out for about five minutes, and then said, "Give me one of those cigars."
He opened the case with trembling hands, and took no notice of my amus.e.m.e.nt at first. When his cigar was lit, and the first sigh of satisfaction was over, he appeared aggrieved, and asked me what I was laughing at.
"Go back and be a millionaire," I said. "You dress this part well, and"--glancing round the caravan--"it"s very correctly staged; but you make the feeblest H. Jackson, peripatetic photographer, that ever disgraced the British drama."
"Listen," he said eagerly. "H. Jackson is a poor man. As a rule he smokes cheap s.h.a.g in a clay. A gentleman comes along and offers him a cigar. H. Jackson jumps at the treat, of course. Where"s the inconsistency?"
"I didn"t offer you a cigar. You asked for it. Cyrus Verd could do that, but H. Jackson could not."