Court Royal/Chapter XLIII
CHAPTER XLIII.
‘SHARES?’
Time was money to Mr. Check. He did not allow the grass to grow under his feet. Consequently, on reaching Plymouth he went at once to the Golden Balls. Mr. Cheek was a clear as well as a hard-headed man; he was a rapid thinker, and prompt in forming and acting on his decisions. He was one of those conquering men who conquer because dominated by self-assurance. He was headstrong and intolerant, because he was incapable of seeing from any other standpoint than his own, and of allowing that any other view was admissible. These are the heroes who have the world at their feet. What he willed he had always been able to carry out, because he cared for no one who opposed him. The public was the ass on which he had ridden ever since he began business. He knew perfectly its moods and maladies. He was indifferent to its wants, save so far as they affected him and helped in his business. Humbug was with him a form of advertisement—a means to an end. He was not himself a humbug, he was even brutally straightforward, but the public demanded cant of the man who posed before them as a politician, a preacher, or a trader, and Mr. Cheek donned it. In his domestic relations he was truthful, honest, and direct; in his relations with the public he was perfectly unscrupulous. He had a code of ethics for dealings within his home circle, but that home circle was limited now, it was contained within his waistband; he had none at all for dealings outside. He was a hard man, but he had a tender point—love for and pride in his son, a love that met with little response because ill-expressed, and a pride that met with rude shocks. He was an ambitious man. For long his ambition had been to make money. Now he was ambitious to make Charles a gentleman. But he did not know how to set about it. He had sent him, as a boy, to private schools, and, despising the classics, had refused to put him at an university. From dread of losing him from under his eye, he had opposed his going into the army; now he was conscious that he had made a mistake, but too proud to admit it. He was angry with society for not taking up Charles into it. Why should it not? Every day he heard of society letting down its net and drawing it up into its heaven, like the sheet of St. Peter’s vision, full of all sorts of strange beasts. Why was not Charles accepted? If society would not take up Charles, society must be cut down to his level.
He entered the shop of the Golden Balls with firm tread, and with his usual brusque and determined manner. Joanna was there. Towards dusk more business was done than at other times of the day. One gas jet was flaring near her head, accentuating her features. Mr. Cheek did not care in the least whether she was good-looking or the reverse. He looked at her no more than to satisfy himself that this was the same girl who had been photographed with his son.
‘Your name is Joanna Rosevere,’ he said.
Joanna stood up at once, and turned the gas so as to throw the light full on his face, and off her own.
‘And you,’ she said quietly—‘you are Mr. Cheek of the Monokeratic Principle.’
‘I received a letter from you on the 12th instant.’
‘Which I posted on the 11th instant.’
‘You have not a leg to stand on,’ said Mr. Cheek, roughly. ‘My son is a fool, but not such a fool as to propose to make you his wife. He swears he never asked you.’
She made no reply, but stood opposite him with her hands on the counter, her face in shadow, studying him.
‘Now look here,’ he said further: ‘in an amicable way I don’t mind squaring off. If you choose to fight, I’m your man, with thousands at my disposal, and quite prepared to chuck away thousands in law. What do you say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Perhaps you suppose that law in England is made for the purpose of redressing wrongs. No such thing. Law is made for the maintenance of lawyers. Justice is sold in England, and he with the longest purse wins; he can appeal from court to court, and ruin his adversary. You have nothing. What lawyer will look at you? Now—are you disposed for a compromise?’
‘I will take a hundred pounds.’
‘A hundred cocoa-nuts!’ scoffed Mr. Clieck. ‘Say five-and-twenty, and I will listen to you.’
‘I have named the sum,’ answered Joanna, and reseated herself, took up her sewing, and proceeded with it as if nothing had interrupted her. Mr. Cheek watched her thread a needle. Her hand did not shake.
‘You will get nothing if you refuse my offer.’
She made no answer, but continued stitching.
‘Charles is ashamed of himself already for having even spoken to you. What are you? A gutter girl.’
‘Lower than that, sir,’ exclaimed Joanna, without raising her head. ‘The gutters empty into Sutton Pool, and I came out of the blackest mud in the bottom of the pool.’
‘Charles has not a penny of his own.’
‘He has less than a penny, sir. He is in debt.’
‘Will you give him up?’
‘You know my terms.’
He stood watching her, puzzled at and admiring her self-possession.
‘Very well,’ he said, thrusting a hundred-pound note across the counter with one hand, and a paper with the other.
‘Sign this, and you shall have the money.’
She stood up, dipped the desk pen in ink, and appended her signature to the renunciation of her claims. Then she reseated herself, having taken the bank note, with an involuntary sigh, folded it, and put it in her bosom.
‘So—you, who could not read nor write at Mr. Worthivale’s, can read what is penned here, and sign your name to it in a bold hand—the same hand that wrote to me on the 11th instant.’
Joanna looked up at him in surprise.
‘I know all about it. Mr. Worthivale is a sort of relation, and has told me. What took you to him with forged testimonials, eh? Both you and the lady who gave the character have become actionable. Aware of that, eh?’
Joanna made no reply.
‘What took you there?’
‘I was sent,’ she answered.
‘I said so—sent by Lazarus.’
She did not answer.
‘Why did you examine the books and make extracts from them? Was that what Lazarus sent you there for, eh?’
She remained silent.
‘Never mind. Always make a cat squeak by pinching its tail. Make you speak. Where is Lazarus?’
‘He is not at home, sir. He will be here directly. Take a chair.’
Mr. Cheek did so. Just then, in came a woman with a Britannia metal teapot, milk jug, and sugar bowl, which she wanted to dispose of.
Mr. Cheek listened to the disputation over its value, to the remorseless way in which Joanna pointed out its defects, the way in which she flouted the poor woman when she named a reasonable sum as that which she demanded for them, the battle fought over a few pence when the shillings were settled, and the ignominious rout of the seller. As he listened Mr. Cheek’s interest was quickened. He looked more attentively at the girl, and observed her keen face and brilliant eyes. ‘She is no fool,’ he said to himself. ‘I wish I had her in my shop. She’d be worth pounds to me.’
Then in came Lazarus. Mr. Cheek gave him a nod. The Jew recognised him, uttered a crow of admiration, and rushed at him with both hands extended. Mr. Cheek at once put his hands under his coat-tails, and repelled Lazarus with a look.
‘A word with you,’ said he, ‘in your den.’
Lazarus bowed and pointed the way. Cheek knew the passage and the room well enough, though many years had passed since he had seen them.
‘Take a sedan, sir,’ begged the Jew, bowing at every comma. ‘You will find it easy, cuts off the draughts on all sides, sir. I will sit on my bed, my dear Mr. Cheek. Lord! what pleasure to see an old customer again! I hear affairs are flourishing with you, Mr. Cheek. I hear golden tidings of you, sir; and to think I had a hand in the making of you! Well, humble instruments, sir! very humble.’
‘A hand in the undoing of my son, if in the making of me,’ said Mr. Cheek, grimly. ‘Which latter proposition I dispute.’
‘No sudden embarrassment? Want a helping hand over a style?’ inquired Lazarus, fawningly.
‘No such luck for you?’ answered Mr. Cheek.
‘Then how may I meet your wishes?’
‘I am about,’ said Mr. Cheek, pompously, ‘to make large investments in mortgages on the property of a great duke in these parts, his Grace of Kingsbridge. I understand that he is in immediate need of a considerable sum; and as I have my tens and hundreds of thousands at command, I am inclined to lend him what he wants on the security of some of his estates. Now’—suddenly—‘what have you to do with the Duke’s affairs? You sent that clever girl outside to Court Royal to pry into and find out how the Duke’s books stood. What is your stake?’
Lazarus was so startled that he could not speak. He sat with open mouth and eyes, staring at his visitor.
‘Know all about it,’ said Mr. Cheek, coolly. ‘Steward is my relation. He and your girl out there have told me all but one thing. What is your interest in the Kingsbridge estates?’
Lazarus pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face.
‘You—you are going to lend money to the Duke!’ he exclaimed. ‘I did not suppose you such a gull. Do you know that his land is mortgaged to its full value in times like these?It is a bad business. Do not soil your fingers with it.’
‘Can take care of myself. Want no advice,’ said Mr. Cheek, unmoved.
‘You are bewildered and befooled by aristocratical hocus-pocus. I’ve seen the sort of thing done on a platform with a few passes, and a man loses his power of will. He does everything the electro-biologist orders. The Duke has made his passes over you—be on your guard. The case is hopeless.’
‘What have you to do with the matter?’
‘I—I? Oh yes! I have lent money. I have taken up a mortgage or two. I’ve burnt my fingers. Perhaps you would like to see what the burdens on the estate are. You shall see.’
He went to his closet and extracted a memorandum-book, and offered it to his visitor.
‘Is this what was extracted by your girl?’ asked Cheek.
Lazarus winced.
‘I see your name nowhere here,’ said the great trader.
‘No—no—but I am there. What do you think of that? Is it ugly or is it beautiful?’
‘Very ugly indeed, for the Duke. Nevertheless, I don’t see any great risk. I shall take over the two mortgages that have been called in.’
‘Others are going to follow,’ said the Jew. ‘I have been to several of the mortgagees, who are my friends, belong to my race, and they are all stirring. Have you seen fowlers out wild-duck shooting when the winds drive the birds near shore? The men make a ring of boats and row inwards, driving the ducks and geese together till they start to fly, and then—bang! bang! bang! from all sides, and down they fall in hundreds. We’ll bring down our ducal ducks. Will you join in the sport?’
Lazarus looked hard at his visitor, and Cheek measured him with his eyes.
‘You are not moving out of love for the Duke?’ said the Jew, derisively; ‘not out of desire to uphold so grand a pillar of the Constitution?’
‘The Duke and the ducal family are nothing to me. I want their land.’
‘Their land and residence; Court Royal, with its park.’
Lazarus laughed maliciously.
Cheek looked hard at him. ‘And you—you would do the same?’
‘Of course. I want their land. I want to smoke them out, smoke ’em out like foxes.’
‘Lion this,’ said Cheek, ‘smoked by fox. Joking apart, what is your game? You want the land. You have an eye on Bigbury Bay, to make of that a second Torquay. You want to work the slate quarries and the petroleum shale. Bah! you have not the capital.’
‘Look here,’ said Lazarus; ‘let us go shares. Your kinsman Worthivale has been deluding you with assurances of solvency. The family never can pay its debts. I will foreclose on Court Royal. Do not help them against me. Others will follow. They are all ready. It is like an avalanche; pop! and it shoots down and buries all below. You lie by and buy the land as we or the Duke soil. Pick it up bit by bit.’
‘I shall go to Kingsbridge, and see the place.’
‘Go, by all means. Then you will be a judge if fortunes are to be made there. Bigbury Bay—that a second Torquay! You must find the site first, and the shelter. Why, the fishermen stand on the cliffs, and angle off them into deep water. Will you dig out a city in the rocks, like Petra? Slate at Kingsbridge! We have slate more accessible to Plymouth than that. Oil shale!—it has been tried. Plenty of shale, but no oil. Or do you want to oust the great family, and settle into its nest? Lend them money, and you will be done. The Marquess will marry an heiress, and wash his debts away. You will get your money back, but you won’t get into Court Royal.’
‘You are eager to keep me off,’ said Mr. Cheek. ‘What is your stake?’
‘Fifty thousand, mine. I lead the way; I am Mr. Emmanuel, with my thumb on Court Royal and Kingsbridge. Others are coming on, till the family is crushed.’
‘Fifty thousand!’
‘Yes. Do not let us fight. Let us share the spoil together.’
Mr. Cheek made no reply. He was considering.
‘You are going to Kingsbridge, eh?’ said Lazarus. Be on your guard against the great people there. They do not regard you as belonging to the same order of creatures as themselves. They hold themselves a long way ahead of the like of us.’
‘The like of us!’ repeated Mr. Cheek, indignantly. ‘Don’t class yourself with me.’
‘They make use of us, squeeze us as lemons, and throw the rind away. If they think they will get money or information out of you they will be gracious enough. Your cousin Worthivale will give them a hint to use you well. They will dazzle you with their magnificence, condescend to you most graciously, stupefy your mind with admiration of their polish and amiability and urbanity, then, when they have made what they wanted out of you, they will slam the door in your face and pass you unnoticed in the street. Be on your guard. I have forewarned you. If you want them to remain amiable and gracious, you must have their thumbs in a vice.’