Success
_I am instructed to inform you that the Board of Directors have
considered the information concerning you which has been duly laid
before them._
_This information shows that very grave irregularities have been
going on for some considerable period. I am therefore directed
to inform you that the Board have decided to terminate your
appointment at once._
_The character of the information is such that the Board are giving
their very earnest consideration as to what course it is their
duty, in the interests of the firm, to adopt: in any case, I am
directed to remind you that, under your original contract, the
divulgence of anything of a confidential nature, at any time, will
render you liable to prosecution for breach of the said contract._
_I am, Sir,_
_Your obedient servant,_
_CECIL BRETT, Secretary._
So Nan read and then read again. Not that in her own mind she did not
understand; she did, the whole case, with a curious plainness. She
understood that much which at first glance appeared important was
really not so, merely detail—the unreceived letter, the antagonistic
secretary who might or might not be responsible, the difficulty
of securing a hearing, even the justice or injustice of the whole
proceeding—none complicated the case or truly influenced judgment on
it. It was perfectly simple and inevitable really, turning on the
old and quite natural law of might is right. Briefly it amounted to
this—there was one who had what the great firm of Galhardy’s wanted,
and had a species of right to, and he would not part with it at their
standard price: it had been taken from him without price, that was all.
How, did not matter; it had simply been done, as inevitably it must
have been. That dismissal should be a part of it was his own fault and
the consequence of what their past experience of him had taught them:
his probable future use to them was more than outweighed by the certain
irritation of his future proceedings. The firm naturally discarded the
thing which hampered or annoyed when the reason of its existence (so
far as they were concerned) had been achieved. The cost and consequence
to the thing, equally naturally, did not come into consideration;
it did not exist for a firm, which of necessity labours under the
notorious disabilities of a corporation; that which is without soul to
be saved, or body to be kicked, can take cognisance of no such trifles.
Nan dimly realised it, but she did not put it into words; she returned
the letter with other comments than that. Soon after, Barmister came
back with the book he had been for, and orders that she should find
something for him. She found it, and the short remainder of the evening
was spent without any reference to the directors’ decision.
But as they parted for the night, Michael said, “I must go home
to-morrow, and tell my father.”
She nodded: that was inevitable now, and a thing so difficult that
comment was superfluous, even banal.
“Yes,” she said, “you must go,” and she gave him a hand-grasp for good
night.
CHAPTER V
The Annarlys lived at Hurstbury, a suburb some little way from London.
They had lived there a long while, and occupied the comfortable
position that the well-to-do with handsome daughters come to occupy
in the course of time in the older and more distant suburbs. There
were three daughters: Constance, the eldest; Rosalind second, not long
engaged to be married; and Mabel, only recently free of the schoolroom.
There were two brothers younger than Mabel, but neither was at home
just now: Giles was back at school after the summer holidays, and Jack,
a year or two his senior, had remained in France for some final studies
when the family came through on their way home from Switzerland.
They had not been home long by the first Sunday in October, but they
had already settled to their usual ways and occupations. Rosalind,
as her custom was, spent the afternoon in company with her fiancé,
Dick Wharton, in the small room at the back of the house. In the
drawing-room Mrs. Annarly, a slender and still young-looking woman,
wrote letters. She wrote at a small table, protesting mildly at the
inconvenience, but doing nothing else to oust Mabel, who, at her
mother’s escritoire, wrote hockey notices with her mother’s favourite
pen on her mother’s paper. Mabel at that time was much addicted
to hockey; later in the year she added dancing and skating to her
enthusiasms. She was a healthy young animal, with a young animal’s
unconsciousness of its body and, sometimes, other people’s bodies too.
Constance, the eldest sister, was really the most like her mother:
one saw a strong facial resemblance as she sat now reading; and there
was some resemblance in character, too, though she was more definite
and cleverer, or, perhaps, better educated and more highly developed
than was customary for girls in her mother’s day. What was customary,
and the nice, right, and proper thing to do, was what Constance would
intuitively do in all the circumstances of life, almost without knowing
there was an alternative—there was no alternative to her.
To the mother and daughters there entered that Sunday afternoon
Michael, just come from Soho.
They were surprised to see him, for he did not often come home; and,
usually, when he did, remembered to telegraph first. Still, that he
should appear thus was not unprecedented, and Mabel merely looked up
from her notices as he entered and nodded an informal welcome, while
Constance smiled a pleasant greeting.
“My dear boy!” Mrs. Annarly exclaimed, “why didn’t you let us know you
were coming?”
“He didn’t know himself, I expect, mother,” Constance said; “busy
people never do seem to forecast their movements long in advance;
indeed, nobody does now, do they?”
Michael said he supposed not, and when Mrs. Annarly said she hoped he
was going to stay some few days, answered that he expected so. Both
answers were, perhaps, a little automatic, though no one noticed:
conversation never really lagged where Constance and Mrs. Annarly were,
because the one had a well-bred way of filling pauses, and the other
frequently asked a second question before her first had been answered,
so providing the person addressed with a choice of two to answer.
She did this when she inquired about Michael’s journey. “Did you travel
all the way to-day?” she asked, and then went on to speak of the
inconvenience of Sunday travelling, and to inquire if he had not found
the trains very slow.
He answered some part of the composite question, and then inquired for
his father.
Mr. Annarly was in the dining-room taking a nap, but it was near his
time for waking. He usually woke some half hour before tea-time, and
either walked round the garden, or went to his long-disused workshop,
according to the weather and time of year.
Michael would go to him.
He was not gainsaid. He seldom was at home in these days, though it had
not always been so. Far from it; he was essentially not one of them,
and all had been aware of the fact, and let him be aware of it in the
past. The present privileges and indulgences dated from the time of his
success, and were owing to the fact that shortcomings are excusable in
a brilliant and overtired brainworker, which are not in an unimportant
and struggling engineer. He left the drawing-room now, and went to look
for his father, a full ten minutes earlier than anyone else would have
been allowed to do it.
For a little after he left, the mother and eldest daughter made a few
desultory remarks about his return and about the probable length of
his stay; then Constance returned to her book and Mrs. Annarly to her
letter. When she had finished it she began another; but she did not
finish that. Before long she put down her pen, and went to see if the
servants had Michael’s room ready. Constance did not approve of going
to see if the servants had done things; in her household it would never
have been necessary. But she did not say so, she seldom said unpleasant
things; she merely glanced up as her mother left the room.
Mabel, who had finished her last notice, saw the look, and smiled a
little. “Poor old mater,” she said, “she’s always on the fidget.”
Constance did not reply; her habit of not saying unpleasant things was
continued behind people’s backs as well as before their faces.
The younger sister, meeting with no response, yawned, stretched
herself, and sauntered down the room to the further window, which
looked out towards the back. For a minute she stood without speaking,
then suddenly she leaned forward with interest.
“Hulloah!” she exclaimed. “What can be the matter with the governor?”
Constance glanced up. “What?” she said.
“He’s standing outside the workshop,” Mabel reported, “talking hard,
and with no hat on! He must be excited about something! I suppose
Michael’s there, though I can’t see him. There—now he’s going in;
father, I mean. I wish he’d turn; I can’t see his face to see if it’s
good or bad business. I wonder what’s up?”
“Perhaps nothing,” Constance suggested in her unruffled way, and
returned to her book.
But a little later, when the gong brought the father and son, as well
as the lovers, to tea, she was obliged to admit that Mabel might be
right; something, apparently, had occurred, something unpleasant.
Michael himself betrayed nothing in look or manner (all that was past
for him; he was down at the bottom now, on the level, and he had got
his bearings, to a certain extent). He behaved much as usual; perhaps
a little more courteously, quicker to see others’ wants, less ready to
take service as a matter of course, and showing some patient interest
in the remarks Dick ventured on subjects which he, good fellow,
believed most deserving of the attention of his brother-in-law elect.
After tea, Dick had to go home: some relation of weight was spending
the week-end with his family, and it was thought politic that he should
devote Sunday evening to his company. So, after a rather lingering
farewell, he departed. Rosalind saw him off, and did not hasten his
departure; she thought it very dull that he should go. When he was gone
she came back to the drawing-room. The housemaid had just taken away
the tea-things, leaving Constance and Mabel alone.
“Well, what did I tell you?” Mabel was saying as Rosalind entered.
“There is something up; father’s in a regular taking.”
“What a nuisance,” Rosalind said. “I hope he’ll get over it soon; I
want a cheque for my trousseau, and a big one.”
She went to the glass over the mantelpiece and arranged her necklet,
debating, one might fancy from her expression, the comparative
becomingness of green and blue, or some kindred subject interesting to
a fair beauty. But Constance’s voice made her look over her shoulder.
“Yes, I am afraid you are right,” the eldest sister said; “it does look
as if something has happened to upset father: I am afraid Michael must
have told him some bad news.”
“Michael?” Rosalind exclaimed. “What a shame! He has no business to
come here and upset the poor old boy, especially just now when I want
him to be in an extra good temper for my trousseau cheque.”
“I do wonder what it is,” Mabel speculated, frankly consumed with
curiosity: “I guess mother’s hearing about it now. She’s sure to tell
us as soon as she comes back; I wish she’d hurry up.”
She had not long to wait. Before a great while Mrs. Annarly came in,
and, as her daughters had foreseen, immediately told all she knew.
She invariably did tell them all she knew, heard, or thought, quite
without realising that sometimes it was a breach of confidence to do
so. What she had to tell now was not confidential; nor was it very