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Roy Glashan's Library
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IGAR, please, Belton."
Ragan bent over the box his man brought him.
"The last of the dandies, eh, Belton?" he said, looking up at the valet. "Let's hope it's a case of the survival—until now—of the fittest." His lips twitched as he noted the uncomfortable look on Belton's impassive face.
"You instructed me to order no more, sir," said the man, a faint protest in his voice.
"Yes." Ragan nodded, pensively surveying the solitary Havana that remained in the box. "Belton, the loneliest, most stranded, down-and-out-looking thing in the whole world is the last cigar of the box. Make a note of that for your book."
"My book, sir?" Belton looked puzzled.
"Yes. Aren't you writing a book?"
"Book, sir? Certainly not, sir," remonstrated the valet, apparently shocked.
"Oh, I thought perhaps you were. You ought to—I could provide you with some material."
Ragan looked again at the cigar and shook his head. "I won't smoke it—that poor little, lonely survivor, Belton. I'll have a cigarette. So you are not writing a book? Do you do any journalism?"
"Journalism, sir? No, never, sir"—very emphatically, as though resenting the accusation.
"Ah, that's a pity. How about the market? Ever do anything with stock—shares, you know?"
Belton shook his head, a puzzled look in his eyes. "No, sir—of course not, sir."
Ragan sighed.
"Well, you are going to lose an opportunity of making a haul to-day."
Belton looked sorry. He was not the only man in the world, by some thousands, who believed what Ragan said when Ragan spoke about money. "The fact is, Belton," said Ragan, slowly, as though relishing every word—"the fact is, I'm ruined."
Belton deftly concealed a sudden smile.
"Indeed, sir!" he said, politely, manifestly believing that his master was joking. Ragan looked at him curiously.
"You don't believe it, Belton?" he asked.
The valet hesitated for a second only.
"Well, sir," he said, "it does seem a little bit far-fetched, sir." His smile refused to be concealed—it became almost a grin. The idea of Ragan being ruined was really amusing. Ragan, the multi-millionaire, the Petrol Potentate! No wonder Belton grinned.
"Far-fetched, hey?" said Ragan, a new, grim reflection in his voice. "You'll see. If I pay twenty shillings in the pound when my affairs are straightened out, Belton, there are men in the City of London—yes, and New York and Paris and Berlin, too—who will weep tears of joy!"
Belton's face changed suddenly. He knew when Ragan was serious. He turned very white and sat down suddenly.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Charles," he apologized. "My knees went queer—seemed to give out, kind of. This is a great shock to me, sir." The man was literally trembling. "I—I can't quite imagine it. Ruined! What are you going to do about it, sir?"
"Do about it, Belton? Oh, I've got thousands of friends—thousands. I'm going to rely on them to lend me a hand, to start me afresh. One isn't too old at thirty-five. It will be all right."
Uneasiness settled on the valet's face.
"Yes, sir," he said. But it was a question rather than a concurrence.
"Don't you think so, Belton? Don't you think my friends—lots of 'em are men I made—dragged 'em out of naked poverty, Belton—you don't mean that you think they won't help me, do you?"
Belton was silent, his eyes on the white cloth on the breakfast-table. Ragan was smiling—rather tensely.
"You don't think they'll help, eh, Belton? What's the matter with you? Say what you think."
"Very good, sir." The valet raised his head suddenly, and looked his master squarely in the eyes. "You ask me a plain question and give me leave to give a plain answer, sir. Well, then, I don't believe that out of the hundreds of money-grabbing time-servers and spongers and lying flatterers that have lived on you for years you'll find six real friends now that you need 'em. That's my opinion, sir. And, Mr. Charles, I know what I'm talking about."
Ragan's face was very serious.
"I say, Belton, aren't you exaggerating a bit? There are plenty of people who have come to this flat and cried—cried like children—about money, and have begged for a chance to do something to show their gratitude when I've helped them. Why, man, you've seen a lot of it for yourself. You've grown cynical, that's what's wrong."
Belton stood up.
"Very good, Mr. Charles," he said. "I hope you're right." He began mechanically to clear up the breakfast-table, then stopped suddenly.
"Mr. Charles," he said, flushing, "if things have gone kind of rocky in the City, I know you well enough to know that you'll soon master 'em again, without much help from any friends. If—what I mean to say—well, sir—it sounds ridiculous—I've—" He stopped.
Ragan looked at him almost hungrily. "Come on, Belton," he said. "Out with it."
"Well, sir, I've managed to put by a few hundred quid—pounds, sir. About seven hundred. If you'd like to take that as a loan, sir, I would be proud. I—I—believe in you, sir," stammered the man. It was the first time Ragan had ever seen Belton perturbed. "I know what you can do, sir—and I've had a good deal from you above my wages."
Ragan smiled. There was relief in his eyes—relief and something very friendly. He held out his hand.
"Shake hands, Belton," he said. "I've got one friend, anyhow. Leave that money where it is for a time, though. There are a lot of people in this town who owe me more than you do. I'll give them a chance first. But you're a white man, and I'm hoping to find some more of the same colour. Are the newspapers here?"
Belton brought them in, and Ragan opened one—a morning paper with a mighty circulation.
"Ah! They are on to it!" he snapped, sharply, and pointed to a flaring headline.
FAILURE
of
Mr. Charles Ragan,
The Petrol Prince.
John D. Rockefeller's
European Rival
In Liquidation.
Belton craned over his shoulder, staring with horrified eyes at the announcement.
"Ah! They are on to it!" he snapped,
sharply, and pointed to a flaring headline.
Then an electric bell somewhere outside the room purred long and insistently.
Ragan put down the paper.
"That's the first of the crowd who'll want me to settle out of hand, Belton. You'll get scores to-day. Stave 'em off—stave 'em off! Refer them to Mr. Griffiths, my solicitor," he said, a remote excitement in his voice.
Belton's face hardened as he went out.
Left alone, Ragan laughed softly.
"Now we shall see—just what sort of friends I've got," he murmured. A momentary cloud shadowed his keen, clean-shaven, good-looking face.
"If Belton's right," he said, then shrugged. "Impossible," he added. "Why, he gave himself away." He smiled as he thought of Belton's savings—but there was no mockery in the smile. He felt very friendly towards the valet, who had taken the news so hard.
And that was good for Belton—better than Belton dreamed.
For Ragan stood there worth a clear two and a half millions if he was worth a penny—and never a soul in the world but Ragan and one lawyer knew it.
IT had been the work of a year—delicate, tortuous, very skilful manipulation—this quiet "getting out" with two and a half millions. And the cost had been vast. There is no more sensitive organization in the world than the money market, and, at his zenith, no financier was more carefully watched than Charles Ragan. But for all that he had successfully effected the withdrawal from the money whirlpool of the huge, cumbrous amount and its quiet investment in steady national—of many nations—securities, without the knowledge of his financial foes and allies, and, cleverer still, without seriously harming anyone's interests. This done, there remained a long labour of bringing himself to the verge of ruin—in the public eye—so that he could fall alone, leaving safe all his associates, from the noble chairmen of the companies he had built up and dominated to the office-boys thereof.
And now that, too, was done. And nobody but his lawyer and himself knew the colossal ingenuity the doing had involved.
That he had been successful the headlines of the morning newspapers screamed at him.
He stood there, staring absently at the heavy type, wondering if he had been wise. The sound of Belton at issue with many callers fell upon his ears, and he smiled doubtfully. He wondered at the sudden loss of confidence. He had not felt like this when the idea had first come to him a year ago. Then it had seemed to him that there was no doubt at all that many people were his friends, because they liked him, and not merely because the cords of simple, unselfish friendship were, in many cases, supplemented—or should be—by the chains of gratitude.
He had said so the Griffiths, his lawyer, and Griffiths had laughed and dryly told him that no man but a bankrupt was really qualified to be a judge of gratitude.
He had thought that over. One man, even, he had asked—a man whom he had just lifted out of the slough of ruin and put in train to light his way to prosperity. "You say you are grateful. What would you do if I went right to the other end—smashed—and came to you for help?"
Folding his cheque, the man had said:—
"You would see, Mr. Ragan," and his voice had trembled. "I'm not one of the talkers—but you would see. All I had would be yours, at least."
And the man had believed he was speaking the truth.
THIS was to be Ragan's holiday and voyage of discovery. He had had enough of money-making, anyway—he wanted to retire—and so he had arranged it. He intended to retire, not as a raider retiring full-flushed with spoil from some stronghold of Mammon, but as a failure—a seeker for help, a searcher for material gratitude.
Griffiths, when the plan was explained, had said: "All you will discover is that the world is governed by self-interest. Don't do it, Ragan. You stand to lose more than you can gain. You think you have hosts of friends. Keep on thinking it. But, for Heaven's sake, don't test them."
Well—now Ragan would see for himself.
First, however, he must call at the Lee-Knightons. There, at any rate, he was sure of his reception. It would put him in good heart for the disappointments that—according to Griffiths and Belton—awaited him. Sir John—another who owed all his present prosperity to Ragan—he knew, would help him. Lady Lee-Knighton's liking for him, he believed, was proof against adversity, and Clare—was Clare? The only reason Clare and he were not yet formally betrothed, it was tacitly understood, was because she was a month or so too young. In two months she would be nineteen, when, her mother had encouraged Ragan to believe, everything could be formally arranged. Yes, Ragan was sure of his friends in that house.
So he went there—not in his big limousine, nor his electric runabout, nor his silver-grey Rolls-Royce touring-car, for all these were now held up by the liquidators, acting for yesterday's first flurried meeting of creditors. He went on foot.
At the end of the street he came face to face with Fitzlough—Major Fitzlough.
The Major was hurrying but at sight of Ragan he stopped abruptly, his fat, red face becoming radiant and a curious glitter flashing into his pale, quick, rather cruel-looking eyes.
"Charles Ragan on foot!" he said, playfully, in his metallic voice. "The man of many motors! Wonderful!" He laughed a jolly laugh. "I was hurrying to catch you before you went to the City, Charlie, my boy."
The Major was one of those bluff, breezy, "old uncle" men who "my boy'd" everybody. An adventurer, if ever there was one, whose happy hunting-ground was the fringe of good society. A bear—or rather cub-leader, a tuft-hunter. "I like a lord, and I'm not ashamed of it, my boy—why should I be, hey?" An extraordinarily fine bridge-player, equally good at billiards, habitué of all the best paddocks and grandstands, he knew more than a little of the City. But, apparently, he had not read his paper yet that morning. He shook hands.
"Charles, my boy, I need two ponies for two days precisely," he began—as he had often begun before, but Ragan interrupted him. A newsboy came racing past, hoarsely hawking the early sporting edition of an "evening" paper, and Ragan beckoned him. The Major watched.
Ragan bought and opened a paper and directed Fitzlough's attention to a column dealing with himself.
The breezy old soldier gasped, turned purple, and then the colour faded, leaving his cheeks unwholesomely mottled.
"Great Scot, Ragan!" he said. He owed Ragan between two and three hundred pounds—loans snatched deftly at the right instant. All the bluff heartiness was gone—the man's eyes had hardened and the remotely predatory gleam in them had died out. They reflected nothing but the spirit of defence, of wariness, now. The Major was on guard—this looked as though he might be called upon to refund those airy loans!
"What does this mean, Ragan?" he asked. Ragan shrugged his shoulders.
"Smash," he said, curtly, reading the man like print.
Major Fitzlough gave him back the paper.
"I'm sorry—upset. This is a great shock. I'm upset—it is terrible!"
He fixed his glossy silk hat more firmly on his head, glancing round sharply. He was not sure that it was going to do him any good to be seen chatting with this ruined stock-gambler.
"I sympathize deeply—deeply, Ragan. Is it irretrievable?"
"Quite." Ragan's skin crawled with contempt.
The Major made as though to move on.
"Terrible—terrible!" he said, and took a step forward. "See you at the club later."
Ragan let him go without answering. He knew that the man was thanking his gods that he had never given any written acknowledgment of those loans, which he would never repay—had never intended to repay.
Ragan shrugged and resumed his walk. He had known, what the Major was long enough ago; he had never expected the money back. The man was little more than a jackal with a careful air of bluff breeziness. London is stiff with them.
Ragan had not even paid him the compliment of marking him off as one of those whom he should "test." He had merely pitied him before; now he just despised him.
"What can you expect from a wolf but a bite?" said Ragan, gaily, and continued his way to the Lee-Knightons.
A MOTOR-CAR was standing outside the house when he arrived—a long, low, yellow car, which he recognized at once. It belonged to young Hugo Wallhurst, son of Wallhurst, the coal baron.
Something stirred slowly in his heart as he recognized the car. Nine o'clock in the morning is a very unusual hour at which to call upon anyone. But Ragan had a reason for calling. What reason had young Wallhurst? He knew that the boy was a worshipper of Clare Lee-Knighton.
Then he laughed again. It was too fanciful to imagine that Wallhurst had called for any reason connected with him. And yet he was too quick to fail to see that if Wallhurst were desperate for Clare, and if the newspapers were right, now was his chance, if ever.
But it was a slender chance, for it was Ragan's intention to explain to the Lee-Knightons his real position and his scheme of "exploration" for the next few months. That was why he was calling so early—to allay the effect of the newspapers. It was due to them, at least. He had decided that on the previous evening. With a certain uneasiness it had occurred to him that perhaps it would have been in better taste to have taken them into his confidence before.
That the news had spread throughout the house he saw in the first glance at the man who opened the door in response to his ring.
But he had little opportunity of observing the manservant, for as the door closed Lady Lee-Knighton came into the hall.
She started at sight of Ragan, and it seemed to him her rather florid face paled a little. For a fraction of time—so minute as to be barely perceptible—she hesitated. Then she came to him smiling. But her eyes were strange. They were cold and hard and wary. So changed were they from the ordinary that it seemed to Ragan almost as though she were some other woman—a stranger. Then she shook hands, and began to talk swiftly.
"Good morning," she said. "You are our second early caller. Mr. Wallhurst came a little while ago. There must be something in the air this morning; no one wants to go to the City. Sir John refused point-blank to go; it was too fine for work. We are going motoring. I haven't even had energy enough to look at the papers this morning. It is too hot to read, or even pretend to."
Ragan was turning cold. The insincerity of the woman was too obvious. It was blatant—in her fixed smile, her cold eyes, her high, hurried voice, the abrupt, nervous movements of her hands. She hastened on.
"Besides, we have had something more to think about, Mr. Ragan." She nodded with a horrible archness. "A surprise. Clare and Hugo Wallhurst. It seems that they have had an understanding—between themselves—for months past. Clare hinted at something of the kind last night, and this morning Hugo called and they came to us together. It was pretty; not, perhaps, quite what her father and I had planned for Clare. But what were we to do? They adore each other. So—it is arranged."
She stopped with almost a gasp of relief; she had got it out before Ragan explained. There was fear in her eyes—both fear and relief. She stared at Ragan, palpitating.
There was fear in her eyes—both fear and relief.
Very calm, diamond hard, Ragan spoke.
"Ah, I see," he said. "You have not yet looked at this morning's papers, Lady Lee-Knighton?"
"No." Her hands trembled faintly. "Why do you ask?"
Ragan smiled. He knew she lied, and he guessed at the frenzied secret haste with which she must have made her plans for Clare and Wallhurst before he (Ragan) arrived. Something in his heart was icy-cold, but he remained self-possessed.
"This is the art of—diplomacy, is it not?" he said.
The bitter contempt in his eyes stung her suddenly. She could have screamed at him. But she controlled herself, and, tensely low-voiced, gave him the truth.
"It is," she said. "Will you combat it?"
She glanced round. No one was within hearing, and quite suddenly she gave herself up to the luxury of anger and the vicious frankness of anger.
"It is," she repeated. "You have been a millionaire so long that you have become arrogant, contemptuous of appearances. But we are not. The world is looking on always, and only millionaires can afford to forget it—millionaires and paupers. Since you insist, I will tell you that I did see the papers very early this morning, and I saw that you were ruined. Well, was I to throw my daughter into the morass with you? You expect a great deal too much if you expect that. What reason was there? Perhaps you think that because you helped my husband when he needed help you are entitled to claim Clare. You are wrong, Mr. Ragan. Financial matters are for the City. See my husband there and adjust your claims on his gratitude there. Clare's future is in my province. I will deal with it according to my own judgment. You affect contempt because I try to arrange that people should know that Clare and Hugo were affianced before we knew of your failure, but I do not agree that it is contemptible. And you will find few people who will."
She half turned away.
"And Clare? Is she content?" inquired Ragan.
"Perfectly. Clare is very sensible."
"Then—being—Dr—ruined, and therefore ineligible—I am dismissed?" demanded Ragan, very quietly.
A stare of hatred and disdain was his only reply for a moment. Then:—
"You are unreasonable and unjust," she said. "I will not discuss it."
"Yon do not deny that solely by my help your husband has climbed from the verge of ruin to comparative wealth?" he asked. "Why do you hate me so?"
She shook her head, like one suddenly spent.
"I will tell you. You hate me now because you arc treating me badly."
"If it affords you any satisfaction to think that, do so," she said, and left him. Ragan stared round, a little dazed, for a second.
"Why, I thought she liked me—she and Sir John and that Clare loved me!" he said, weakly, he recovered himself immediately and the butler let him out. He walked back slowly to his flat, thinking desperately.
He saw now, with extraordinary clearness, that either he was completely out of touch with the ordinary, everyday outlook of the world, or that the Lee-Knightons were unusually worthless people. Why, they had acted as he had read of people acting with a leper—they fled at sight.
He was still thinking vaguely when he arrived at his flat.
On the stairs Griffiths, the lawyer, pale and worried, was standing. He was a young man and faithful to Ragan.
They went in together.
"What is it?" asked Ragan.
The eyes of the other man looked keenly at the millionaire.
"Why, they've started on you already!" he said, rather shrilly. "Heavens! isn't there any decency left in the world?" He recovered himself, sat down close to Ragan, and began to speak very earnestly.
"I hope they have hit you hard," he said, and his tone was bitter. "Hard enough for you to see the folly of this thing—and to stop it. Man, you must. They've been at me, too—vultures! Ragan, I've heard men—small men, little men—say things this morning that would make you ill. For the sake of the money—quite small sums, some of them—you owe them. You don't know—can't guess. Some of them are like wolves—fighting, almost, over priority of claims. Afraid, too. I've seen things before—queer, shady things—but I've never seen such absolute frank greediness—inconsideration—in my life as some 'friends' of yours have shown this morning. You see, they all thought you were as safe as the Bank of England. They relied on your accounts—and the idea of any chance of losing them simply scares them cold—sets them on edge. They were too nervous to believe me when I told em you'd pay twenty shillings in the pound."
He paused a moment. Then he continued, flatly: "Ragan, you'll have to give up your idea. It stirs things up too much—horrible things. The world is—what we've made it. Call it a pool with clear water on top, and the poisonous bad things sunk to the bottom. Agitate the pool, and all those bad things come to the top. See what I mean? The driving force is Self-Interest—all the rest is the nickel and the shiny part of the life machine. It's all right—good enough for people who haven't been intelligent enough to build a better machine—all right as long as you don't touch the source of the power—the driving force. That disturbs the machine. Heavens, what a world we've made of it!"
The phrase seemed wrung out of him. He pointed to Ragan with a shaking forefinger.
"And you—what do you stand to get out of it all? Let me tell you. A broken heart, a shattered faith, a soured outlook. You want to go out to discover sincerity, gratitude. But you will only discover greed!"
He shook his head nervously as Ragan opened his lips.
"I know—I know; there are cases here and there—here and there—of sincere kindness, sympathy, little friendly things—lots of them, if you like; but you won't find them in the places where you propose to look. Man, in one hour this morning I've heard a dozen men who I thought were your friends talk as though they hated you, for fear of their little money; and many of them have practically lived on you—your business—for years. You must let the thing go—end it. You have all you can expect, even one or two real friends. The rest are nothing—acquaintances—friends until you test them."
Ragan thought for a long time, very still, very white.
"I believe you've had enough of it already," said Griffiths.
"Enough? Enough?" Ragan rose suddenly, his face hard and twisted. "They've broken me already. Enough?"
A light of understanding rose in the solicitor's eyes.
"You don't mean the Lee-Knightons—already?" he said.
Ragan nodded.
"Certainly the parents, but I can't believe yet that Clare would—"
He hesitated. Before he could finish the door opened and a girl came in.
"Miss Lee-Knighton," announced Belton, tensely.
She came straight to Ragan, arms out, eyes wide, unfaltering. Never had he seen her so beautiful, nor loved her more.
She came straight to Ragan, arms out, eyes wide, unfaltering.
"They told me a thousand things—terrible," she said. "Mother sent for Hugo Wallhurst. I tried to do what they said, but I couldn't—I couldn't! How could I—"
Ragan took her, hungrily, his eyes victorious. She was crying, and clung to him like a child, a little tired child.
Petting her, Ragan understood. They had done all they could to dissuade her—the pitiless-eyed mother, the suave and skilful father, the elders. And they had failed to keep her. She had won to him—just. For she was young, and she loved him; and so she had conquered the world—the world as her parents focused it for her.
Ragan's problem was solved.
It was youth—fearless, careless, unconstrained—that kept the world sweet; youth and love, the key of youth. He had wondered what was wrong with the world. Now he knew. Nothing was wrong except that men and women grow old—old and hard and bitter.
Over the bowed head of the girl Ragan nodded to Griffiths.
"End it," he said.
Griffiths smiled and went. The great experiment was over before it had well begun.
Ragan lifted the girl's face.
"Listen, dear," he said. "You have done nothing wrong. You have done everything right for you and for me, and nothing wrong for your people."
And he told her of the millions he had kept, and they went together to tell the mother and the father, who, at middle age, nevertheless were grown so old, so old, that they thought the millions were all that mattered.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.