Читать книгу The Honour of his House - Fred M. White - Страница 9

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Philip Saltburn fairly winced. He was fond enough of his father, he admired his many sterling qualities, but that brutal bluntness jarred him terribly now. There were many ways of arriving at the definite issue without that crudeness of speech which was almost a vice, as far as the capitalist was concerned.

He had been a successful man all his life, he was used to giving and taking blows, and he loved to fight for the pure joy of it. With him finesse and diplomacy were mere symbolic, and, because of this, he had gone direct to the point.

And, with it all, he had an almost boundless ambition. No man knew better the value of money, and money to him meant power, and nothing else. Personally, his habits were the simplest, and he could work for fourteen hours at a stretch on a biscuit and a cup of tea. He could smoke the best of cigars if they were offered him, but, if there was no tobacco to be had, it was all the same to him. Nothing mattered except money and good health, and the ability to lay out his millions to the best advantage.

He knew perfectly well that kings were powerless without it, and that an army might be paralysed for the need of it. By the side of a great capitalist a statesman or a general was a mere child. Money, money was everything. The time would come when he and others of his clan would be masters of the world, and they were showing it now in the way in which they were engineering that embroglio in Tortina. And Saltburn was perfectly frank in his aim—he talked of it in the hall at tea-time, he discussed it until the dinner bell rang. It was nothing to him that Lady Edna sat regarding him with a certain contemptuous disdain. The long purple lash swept her cheek as she listened, merely tolerating this crude specimen of humanity, and Philip writhed uneasily as he saw what was passing through her mind. He was a shrewd young man enough in his way, he knew the great world and its traditions far better than his father, and he was not blind to the fact that the noisy capitalist was doing his cause more harm than good.

For William Saltburn, from Lady Edna's point of view, would have been a terrible and monstrous affliction in the way of a father-in-law. It seemed to Philip that he could see these thoughts in the sleepy droop of her eyelids, and the slightly disdainful curve of her lips as she listened. He was glad enough when the first dinner bell rang and that big voice ceased to magnetise Saltburn's fellow guests.

Sir James Pallisser seemed to be frankly amused. Sherringborne was absorbed in a reverie, and the other two Government members listened with a boredom that they were at no pains to conceal. Occasionally Saltburn's keen eye flashed over them. His mode of address was contemptuously familiar and his opinion of them too thinly veiled. Lady Edna rose and Philip followed to open the door for her.

"I will get you to excuse me," she said. "It will be better, perhaps, if I do not come down to dinner. You are going to talk politics, and politics always give me a headache. They seem to lead to nothing but argument."

Sherringborne came out of his reverie.

"There will be seven of us altogether," he said. "I have asked de la Croisa to come over, Pallisser."

"I am glad to hear it," the Premier said heartily. "I always enjoy a chat with the Baron. Do you happen to know him, Mr. Saltburn? A most charming and entertaining companion."

"I met him once," Saltburn said abruptly. "Old-fashioned, exploded type of politician, sort of dancing master statesman. A man who would argue with scrupulous politeness and call you out if you disputed his facts after-wards. He's the man that made such a mess of Tortina. But for him we shouldn't have had all this trouble between Japan and the States. Plenty of brains, but too impulsive."

The last dinner bell rang out through the great house presently—the one note of noise in that peaceful place where everything seemed to run on oiled wheels, and where trouble and care had apparently no rest for the sole of its foot. Saltburn took it all in as he came down the great marble staircase, he saw the legendary pictures on the walls, the flesh pink statuary, and the glowing cabinets, wrought by master hands. He saw the servants in their resplendent liveries moving about the house silently and discreetly like an army of soldiers in a fortress where discipline is the watchword of it all.

Yet, the air of it all, the nameless something which is so impressive, had no effect upon him. He liked it, he admired it, he would have given a good round sum of his beloved money to catch such an atmosphere in a home of his own. But he could afford to leave all that presently to Philip and his future daughter-in-law, Lady Edna Cranwallis. It was characteristic of the man that he should regard this business as good as settled. He was in one of his most amiable moods when the footman pushed up the big oak chair behind him, and he unfolded his napkin.

Dinner was served in the great oak dining room, the walls of which were hung with a Beauvais tapestry which had a history of its own. The shaded lights twinkled in the fretted roof. There were points here and there in the darkness where art treasures obtruded themselves with a certain discreetness which was an art in itself. The table was decorated with gold and silver and flowers, loose and moist and feathery. The well-trained servants moved silently, there was no sound except the murmuring conversation round the dinner table. There was an air and an environment here, a certain brooding of the spirit of the centuries, which gave the entertainment a singular charm in the eyes of Philip Saltburn.

He was interested in all the men about him, but most of all he was interested in de la Croisa. The Baron was wearing the colour of an order round his neck, the ribbon across his breast gleamed dully red. He knew something about this man, of course, knew what de la Croisa might have been had he chosen to be supple and court popular opinion. He knew that he was listening to a man now, whose conversation was witty to a degree and whose converse sparkled with epigrams. And he felt, too, that behind all the light some laughter de la Croisa was watching all that was going on with the keen, discriminating eye of a hawk.

So far as Philip could see, most of the conversation at the dinner table was being monopolised by the Baron and his father. It was the same presently when the long elaborate meal drew to a close and cigars were lighted. It was the same again when a move was made to the drawing-room.

"We must not altogether forget our charming hostess," Sir James said. "Sherringborne, if you don't mind, I should prefer to have my coffee in the drawing-room."

Sherringborne did not appear to hear. The suggestion was repeated twice before it conveyed itself to his intelligence.

"By all means, my dear fellow," he murmured. "What do you other people say? Then come along."

Lady Edna looked up with a smile from the book she was reading. She sat in a remote corner near a window, the curtains of which were not yet drawn, the fading primrose light of the July evening fell upon her face. Philip Saltburn crossed over to her. Sooth to say, he was just a little tired of the rasping boom of his father's voice. It seemed to him that that dominating personality was singularly out of place here. The room was large enough to get away almost outside the region of Saltburn's environment. Philip could see now that Lady Edna was regarding his father somewhat as if she were a naturalist with a new specimen on the plate of a microscope.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"An autobiography," Lady Edna explained. "It is the life story of a successful man, a man who made his way from the ranks—that is, a capitalist. I always had a weakness for natural history."

"The type is new to you?" Philip asked quietly.

Lady Edna smiled as her eyes were turned in William Saltburn's direction.

"It was," she said demurely.