Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (467 page)

“I suppose they can,” Mr. Lawson said; “but it all seems to me to be very immoral. There is something queer about it all. It’s not thoroughly scrupulous.”

“You mean it’s too scrupulous,” Macdonald said. “That’s why it disturbs your English conscience. But I have got to do something to justify my having these fine rooms, whilst you have only got a sort of a dog kennel on the other side of the show-room, and you do all the work.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Mr. Lawson said, “because I am only an employee, and you’re a nobleman.”

“Only a foreign one,” Macdonald said.

“Oh, you behave exactly as if you were an English peer,” Mr. Lawson sighed as he began once more to redraft his advertisement.

“Now, I thought I behaved a little better than that,” Macdonald laughed.

“I don’t know,” Mr. Lawson said, “it’s all so queer.” Nevertheless, ten minutes later Macdonald heard him telling the advertisement agent’s young man in tones of the most business-like ferocity that there would be hell to pay if the agents did not get out blocks with the arms of Galizia and the Grand Duke in time for sixteen weekly papers and eleven dailies on Thursday.

And on Thursday itself, happening to see Sergius Mihailovitch going out of the show-room, he said rather timidly:

“Isn’t your Excellency going to attend the board meeting? It’s going on now.”

And Macdonald found that the board meeting was going on in his own room. Upon the black oak table eight blotting pads and eight shining pewter inkstands had been arranged, and round the table itself sat seven elderly gentlemen. One of them said to Mr. Lawson:

“Now, Mr. Secretary, it’s quite time we got begun.” And he looked at his watch.

But Mr. Dexter, looking more English than ever in a suit of pepper-and-salt tweed, cut away into long tails so that it resembled a gamekeeper’s suit — Mr. Dexter threw the whole assembly into confusion by exclaiming:

“God bless my soul! Let me introduce Count Macdonald to you all.” And Macdonald made the acquaintance of Major-General Alhusen, an elderly gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers; of Sir Archibald Cull, a very old gentleman with a white beard; of the Hon. Mr. Samuel Isaacstein, a middle-aged gentleman with mutton-chop whiskers and double chin; of two gentlemen whose names he could not catch; and of another gentleman whose real name was Bryant, but who was always addressed as Mr. Roy because he represented the firm of Roy, Roy, and Pringle, the solicitors to the company.

They all engaged in a great deal of desultory conversation, and Mr. Dexter talked a great deal of what the American railway system might do for the benighted country of Russia — the conversation having turned upon that kingdom because of Sergius Mihailovitch’s origin. All the time Mr. Lawson sat at the top left-hand comer of the table, silent and depressed, looking down at the papers spread on the table before him. Suddenly Mr. Isaacstein pulled out a fat gold watch.

“Really, Mr. Secretary,” he exclaimed, “it’s time you read the minutes of the last meeting. Time is money, you know.”

The son of a British peer, Mr. Isaacstein spoke the English language with a strong German accent. He had indeed been born and educated at Frankfurt on the Main.

They all took their places round the board of black oak, and, turning their faces towards Mr. Lawson, they began to play with quill pens in the inkstands before them. Then Sir Archibald Cull, who sat at the head of the table, said:

“Gentlemen, the business before the meeting—”

But one of the unidentified gentlemen interrupted: “Surely we’ve forgotten the minutes of the last meeting?” And Sir Archibald, without appearing disturbed, said: “Mr. Secretary, will you read the minutes of the last meeting?”

Mr. Lawson began to read out: “The Resiliens Motor Car Company of Great Britain and Ireland, Limited. Board Meeting at the company’s offices on September ist. Present, Sir Archibald Cull, Major-General Alhusen...”

A decorous silence reigned; they might have been in church, all these gentlemen so pink-fleshed, so white whiskered, and Sergius Mihailovitch felt descend upon him a deep calm, an unrivalled satisfaction. He was in the midst of a really British manifestation. Here was the solidity, the orderly routine, the practical knowledge of how to conduct public or commercial affairs.

He was sitting between Major-General Alhusen and Mr. Isaacstein. The secretary continued reading the minutes. Suddenly the Major-General said in a low voice:

“It’s going to rain. I’ve got a twinge of gout in my right big toe.”

Sir Archibald said from the end of the table: “It can’t be going to rain, the glass is going up.”

“It’s going to rain,” the General repeated obstinately. “My great toe is better than your glass.”

“I made the glass myself,” Sir Archibald said.

“Well, it was God made my toe,” the General said. “I guess He’s better at making things than you.”

All the while the secretary’s voice continued in a restful undertone. Mr. Dexter turned his head to one of the unidentified gentlemen beside him. He began to talk. Sergius Mihailovitch caught the words:

“... Added three and three-quarter million acres of wheat to the world’s supply of wheatland.”

Mr. Isaacstein said huskily, “You should take Flox for the gout, General. I always takes Flox mineself—”

The General paid no attention to him. He shouted at Sir Archibald:

“I’ll bet you two to one in monkeys that it rains before twenty-four hours are over.”

Mr. Lawson passed a sheet of paper to Sir Archibald, who exclaimed: “You know I never bet,” whilst he signed his name without reading the paper.

Mr. Lawson passed the paper to the Major-General, who signed it whilst he was listening to one of the unknown gentlemen opposite. The unknown gentleman opposite was suggesting that Alhusen should take out a weather policy at Lloyds. Alhusen pushed the paper on to Macdonald....

“But what am I to do with it?” Macdonald asked him. “Do with it?” the General exclaimed, as if he were trying to talk courteously to an idiot. “Sign it, of course!”

“But I don’t know what it is,” Macdonald said.

“Oh, sign it, sign it!” the General said. Then he called to the gentleman across the table:

“Lloyds won’t insure against a certainty, and when my toe aches—”

“Gentlemen,” Sir Archibald exclaimed from the top of the table, “the business before the meeting is the raising of a further capital sum of...”

Mr. Lawson took down his words rapidly. No one else paid him any attention.

Mr. Isaacstein pulled the paper out of Macdonald’s hand. “You don’t sign it,” he said. “You weren’t present at the last meeting.” He signed himself and threw the paper across the table. He winked largely at Macdonald and chuckled.

Everybody was talking at once about a by-election in Worcestershire. One of the unnamed gentleman had got hold of the new prospectus of the company which had been drafted by Messrs. Roy & Roy. He wanted to know what was meant by the term “good will” in that document, and he made some light pencil markings. Sir Archibald exclaimed that “good will” meant the stock, buildings, and fixtures. Mr. Lawson explained that it did not mean the stock, buildings, and fixtures. The gentleman who was known as Mr. Roy, but whose real name was Mr. Bryant, quietly took the document from the unnamed gentleman and rubbed out the pencil marks with a piece of india-rubber.

Sir Archibald exclaimed: “Gentlemen, the proposal to raise new capital is carried unanimously. As there is no other business before the meeting this meeting is now adjourned...”

The unidentified gentleman said that Sir Archibald ought to have used the words “at an end” instead of “adjourned.” But every one was on their feet. Mr. Isaacstein clapped Macdonald on the shoulder.

“That’s how it’s done, me boy!” he exclaimed. He winked once more and, pulling out his fat watch, he hurried away.

Sir Archibald and the General took their high hats from Macdonald’s bureau. Each of the high hats had a deep mourning-band. They each said: “Good day, gentlemen,” and walked out side by side. The two unidentified gentlemen took their high hats from off the red seats of Chippendale chairs against the wall. Each of their high hats had a mourning band not quite so deep. They each said: “Good day, gentlemen,” and left the room. Mr. Roy, whose real name was Bryant, gathered all his papers into a black bag and took his bowler hat from the table before him. He left the room without saying “Good day,” for his mind was already deeply occupied with a case that he had to attend immediately at the Law Courts. Mr. Lawson was gathering up his own papers and the blotting paper of all the other gentlemen. He appeared to be very tired, and was grumbling to himself.

Macdonald approached Mr. Dexter, who was standing in a British attitude before the fireplace, his two hands upon his hinder thighs. He smiled benevolently at Macdonald.

“A good day’s work,” he said. “Shall we go and have lunch, and talk over our own little affairs?”

“I’m afraid I can’t lunch with you,” Macdonald said. “I’ve kept the King of Galizia waiting for us all this time. But just tell me one thing... Shall I be expected to sign the minutes of the next meeting?”

“Of course you will,” Mr. Dexter said, with a British breeziness. “Of course; of course we all shall.”

“I didn’t understand a single word,” Macdonald said. “Of course not, of course not,” Mr. Dexter answered. “We none of us did. But it’s all right.”

“You mean,” Macdonald asked, “that the money will come out of the pockets of the small investors just as well, whether we understand it or not?”

“And when are we really to discuss our own little affair?” Mr. Dexter evaded Macdonald’s question.

“I don’t know,” Macdonald said. “I am very busy. I’ve got the concession from the King and the Queen- Mother properly signed and sealed. But I can’t say when I shall have time to talk it over. I’m not much in the humour at this moment.”

“Oh, come!” Mr. Dexter exclaimed. “Come, come!” Mr. Lawson, who had gathered up all his blotting paper, approached Macdonald noiselessly.

“I should much like,” he said, “to have a word with Your Excellency before Your Excellency leaves the room. It’s not a matter connected with the company, but I believe it’s rather urgent.”

Mr. Dexter began to tiptoe towards the door. “I’ll go and speak a word or two to His Majesty,” he said, “whilst you’re having your private interview.”

He was almost out of the’ door in his eagerness. But Macdonald called out to him:

“It won’t be any use, you know, your trying to get concessions out of the King behind my back. The King is still a minor.”

Mr. Dexter stood still as if he had been struck a hard blow in the chest.

“Oh, it’s all right,” Macdonald said. “I know you aren’t trying to go behind my back. I know your eagerness is really due only to your desire to lick the dust off a king’s boots.”

Mr. Dexter’s lips moved inarticulately.

“There, there!” Macdonald exclaimed; “that is only my nasty humour. If you would like it, I shall have the greatest pleasure in taking you and your daughter for a run with the King and myself and the ladies. We can lunch somewhere by the river. It will be very pleasant.” A high smile irradiated Mr. Dexter’s cheeks.

“That will be delightful!” he said; and he hastened through the door, leaving a sort of glow of gratitude behind him.

“How you
do
treat Mr. Dexter!” Mr. Lawson said. “What a polished irony you have! I try to think of things to say like that, but they never come into my head.’

Macdonald was stamping his feet and swearing violently. His eyes blazed, and all his hair became ruffled.

“It’s the most damnable business,” he said. “Oh, it’s damnable!”