The Balliols Read online

  Her voice had resumed its dreamlike tone. She had turned away. It can’t be that, he thought, it can’t conceivably be that.

  Later, in the pillowed darkness, he drew her close into his arms. For a little she lay there, listless and inert. Then she pulled away. “I’m tired. I’m sorry. My head aches rather.”

  A headache. That feminine excuse. The migraine that French novelists wrote about. So it was that, then.

  Balliol neither looked nor was a man of action. His inclination was to survey a subject rather than settle it; to examine its various implications; to consider its potentialities; rather than visualize an ultimate objective and plan the course by which that objective can best be reached. He was interested in an outcome; not concerned by it. He had the inquisitive curiosity of the spectator. On such rare occasions, however, as he saw beyond doubting that his own interests were involved, he was capable of direct and forceful action. Whatever Jane might have felt or be in danger of feeling, he was going to prevent the development of a situation that might make Lucy’s position less easy, happy and assured. He wasted no time on this particular occasion.

  The first letter he dictated on the following morning was to the estate agent whose card he carried in his pocket-book.

  “DEAR SIR, [he wrote]

  “You may remember that about six weeks ago we had some discussion in the North End Road, opposite one of your new houses. I am prepared to consider the possibility of building a house in that neighbourhood. Perhaps, therefore, you will be so good as to call on me with particulars and plans.”

  “She may not be interested in the idea of a house now. But at heart she is. She’ll soon get excited in it again. It will give her something to think about.”

  As soon as he had finished the dictation of his morning’s correspondence, he asked his secretary to get Mr. Roy Rickman for him on the telephone. “You may take some time getting him,” he added. “He’s a young man with no fixed hours or address.”

  It was, indeed, a full two hours before his secretary’s voice on the extension told him that Mr. Roy Rickman was at the other end.

  “Mr. Roy Rickman here now, Mr. Balliol.” Then a moment later Rickman’s voice came through. “Yes, this is Rickman. Is that you, Mr. Balliol?”

  His voice, Balliol thought, had a nervous, anxious note.

  “I wonder if you could spare me half an hour of your time?” he asked.

  “Of course I could.”

  “Could you come round some time this afternoon?”

  “Any time that’s convenient.”

  “Shall we say half-past three?”

  “Right.”

  The young man’s voice was eager: over-eager, in Balliol’s opinion. Or was that fancy? He wished he could have seen his face. Not that it really mattered what his manner was. Whatever might exist between himself and Jane was in its infancy… All the same… he would like to have known.

  Certainly his manner betrayed nothing but the heartiest self-confidence as he came with a jaunty stride into Balliol’s office. Balliol gave him a quick searching look. Yes: he was a handsome fellow; with something gay and irresponsible about him; something not yet tamed by life; a faunlike quality. He would appeal to the side of a woman’s nature that remained young and childlike, in spite of the responsibilities of marriage and motherhood. He might touch a side in Jane that he himself had touched once during their engagement; but now touched no longer. It was a small part of Jane: an Achilles heel. But he would need to be careful. Perhaps he had recognized the danger-point before either Jane or Rickman had.

  From Rickman’s manner he felt pretty sure that the boy had not recognized it. Rickman was too young for such accomplished acting. There was clearly no suspicion in his mind that Balliol could wish to see him for any but a friendly reason. That makes it easier, Balliol thought. He passed a box of cigarettes across the table.

  “Sit down,” he said. “Now, before I say anything to you, I want you to realize that this is an entirely informal talk; that I’ve not discussed this with any of my colleagues, that is to say. Before I do, I want to sound your feelings; to know how we stand to one another. The point is this: I’ve been very satisfied with the amount of business that you have brought our way; in particular in the fact that the clients you have brought us have remained our clients. That shows you have known how to recommend us to the people who are right for us. You don’t waste our time or theirs. That’s what we need. Now, you work, I am aware, for a great many different firms. It may be that you find that system satisfactory. I can see its advantages for a young man. It gives freedom and mobility. But it has disadvantages. If ever there’s a slump it’s the outside man, the freelance, who suffers. I was wondering whether you wouldn’t prefer to attach your interests permanently to one firm.”

  He paused, looking inquiringly at Rickman.

  The answer came without hesitation.

  “It depends on the kind of attachment. I don’t want to sit in an office all my life.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you should. As a matter of fact, you are far more useful outside an office than inside one. I’m suggesting that you should work as an outside representative, but for one firm only.”

  “Would that pay any one firm?”

  “Isn’t that the firm’s look-out?”

  Rickman smiled; his wide, boyish grin.

  “I meant to say, would any one firm pay me as much for the whole of my time, as a number of firms pay me for bits of it? After all, I’ve only a certain number of friends that I can induce to buy wine; but I can persuade the same friends to buy motor-cars, to insure their lives.”

  “I was suggesting that you should enlarge your acquaintance.”

  “That’s a slow business.”

  “Not if you travel. Let me make myself clear. I was going to suggest that you should travel through the Colonies and the Far East; through English dependencies, at our expense and as our representative. I believe it would be a paying move; though I have, of course, still to convince my colleagues on that point. We have, naturally, representatives abroad, but they work for a number of firms; nor are they, in my opinion, the right type of person. They are of the commercial traveller class. They would interview the steward of a club, not the secretary. That’s not the kind we want nowadays. I want someone who’ll meet people on their own ground. I have been looking for someone like that for a long time. I think you are the man. Would it appeal to you? It would mean a great deal of travel.”

  “I should enjoy that.”

  “You’d have to be away for long periods.”

  “How long?”

  “How can I say? A year; eighteen months; two years?”

  “I could stand that. When would you be wanting me to start?”

  “Right now.”

  “That makes good hearing.”

  His eyes were bright with a gleam of adventure in them. Balliol felt reassured. Rickman might be in love with Jane; but he was more in love with life, ready to welcome excitement in whatever form it came. That was his danger but also his safeguard. He wasn’t the kind of person to put love first.

  “I’ll see what I can do for you,” he said.

  On the agenda for that afternoon’s board meeting he placed a memorandum: “Travellers.”

  X

  The directorate of Peel & Hardy, wine merchants, of Angel Street, St. James’, was composed, like many other firms, of a number of gentlemen who knew little of the business, but fancied they were responsible for its fortunes and actually did intermittently control it; whose presence on the board was due to odd legacies of shares; to occasional outbursts on the part of shareholders; to the belief, usually mistaken, that young blood was needed. Two only of their number were actually members of the staff: the joint managing directors, Balliol and his junior Prentice. Over the deliberations of these gentlemen presided, a venerable figurehead, the fifth Viscount Huntercoombe. He was a campaigner of sixty autumns. He knew nothing about the business and knew that he knew nothing.
He was there to lend respectability to the firm’s transactions and for that loan he drew ample fees as chairman. He introduced, he considered, the human touch. He was a judge of men. Most problems turned, he maintained, on character. He judged a balance-sheet by the handshake of its managing director.

  He was tall, with grey hair; his long thick nose was lined with purpling veins; a full loose mouth, because of adenoids, hung slightly open; a moustache drooped over his upper lip and was stained with tobacco smoke. His attire was slovenly; his waistcoat invariably spotted; a down of scurf on his coat collar. His manner of speech was slow and indistinct. In spite, however, of these obvious handicaps, he was a dignified and impressive personage. His comments carried weight. He never qualified his opinions with the words “I think” or “My impression is.” His opinions had in consequence the appearance of facts, against which his colleagues hesitated to place their mere conjectures. He very rarely exercised his power. A man who is continually expressing his views dogmatically wakes opposition. But the man who rarely delivers a pronouncement achieves a surprise attack, on such occasions as he does. No sentries are posted. In the absence of prepared defence he is left master of the field.

  But for the most part towards the deliberations of Peel & Hardy’s directorate he assumed a judicial attitude. He was content to propound problems. He would say, “On the agenda we have a suggestion by Mr. Balliol on the question of overhead expenses. Mr. Balliol will explain his scheme.” He would listen with an appearance of attention. He would invite the opinion of another director as soon as Balliol had finished; he would invite the opinion of each director in turn. He would never allow a meeting to disintegrate into discussion across the table. It had to follow the ritual of debate; with all remarks directed to the chairman. He recognized the point in a debate when further discussion had become unprofitable; when his colleagues were repeating themselves, in an attempt to explain themselves. “What I was really saying actually was this…” The moment that point was reached, the chairman put the motion to the meeting. He set out the chief points that had been made without throwing his weight either way; but his grouping of the argument left the issue clear. Though he could not have answered the simplest questions about the finances of the business, about its scope, about its detail, he was very definitely the head of the firm. Without appearing to guide, he guided.

  His presence as chairman can be attributed to that process of readjustment that during the Edwardian regime was described as the invisible revolution: the same process to which, for that matter, the firm itself and innumerable other prosperous City houses owed if not their existence, at any rate the nature of their survival.

  A hundred and forty years ago Messrs. Peel & Hardy, wine merchants, of Angel Street, St. James’, had been a small shop in Market Street, Soho, over which Mr. Peel had lived with a family of seven children. The industry of Mr. Peel, the capital of his son’s father-in-law, the material ambitions of his son, the social ambition, of his grandson, the spendthrift prodigality of his great-grandsons had led each in their turn to the growth of the business, the purchase of new premises, the mortgaging of the firm’s resources till finally a number of angry creditors had taken the firm into their own custody. The creditors’ ignorance of the wine trade, their inability to agree among themselves, had provided a shrewd solicitor with an opportunity to acquire the control of the business at a sum that was less than nominal. The name of Peel & Hardy still carried weight, the presence of a fifth viscount at the board room increased it. Balliol had been recommended to take a block of shares. A meeting of indignant shareholders had given him a joint directorship.

  The business that came into the hands of the present board and the shareholders that they represented for a tenth of its real value was made in a short time to pay steady dividends. Its average balance-sheet declared a profit often per cent. As the majority of the shareholders had purchased their shares for an exceedingly small sum, they received a yearly interest of sixty to seventy per cent, upon their outlay. So contented were the shareholders with the management of the firm’s activities that the annual shareholders’ meeting had been for fifteen years the barest of formalities. None of the shareholders bothered to attend. Lord Huntercoombe delivered an elaborate, carefully-phrased speech; he called on Mr. Balliol to make his report and Mr. Prentice to make his secondary report. The balance-sheet was passed, a director retired in rotation and offered himself for re-election; a shorthand-typist transcribed the speeches; but the speeches were made to empty chairs. The motions were proposed and seconded by clerks qualified by complimentary shares to take their places in the meeting. It tickled Balliol’s sense of the ironic that the business should be supported by the capital of people none of whom the directors had ever seen; that the rewards of his work went to strangers; that he had no idea who his employers really were. He had read down the list of their names. It had conveyed nothing to him. Shares had been come by at odd times, as the result of the various transactions of the last indigent Peel; shares had been left casually in wills; had exchanged hands as bets; been bartered; been lost; been assigned and re-assigned. Their present owners had no personal feeling of contact with the business that so little ago had been a wine shop in a side street in an unfashionable part of London.

  “I really would like to see them all in a body, once,” Balliol had remarked.

  “It’ll be a bad day when you do,” Prentice had retorted.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Shareholders, like most other people, keep quiet when they are grateful. It’s only when they’ve got a grievance that you hear from them. A couple of bad balance-sheets and we’d be certain of a good audience for our annual orations.”

  Which was the kind of remark that Balliol had come to expect from Prentice. Prentice was one of those men whose opinions on life, whose attitude to life, whose general attack on life, is in direct opposition to his temperament. In politics Prentice was a Fabian. He believed in democracy; he believed in the future. He believed in a Wellsian machine age; when men and women would work, without the incentive of competition, to establish the ideal state. The various proposals that he brought before the board were invariably of a democratic tendency, built on a belief in a democratic future. He would say, “In ten years’ time a different class of person will be drinking wine. Palates will be different. He will be less educated. We must consider that.”

  In spite, however, of his belief in the future, he was extremely cynical. He invariably attributed the lowest personal motive to any suggestion that might come from one of the departmental managers. He was a tall, thin, bald-headed man, with a slightly blue chin and closely-pursed lips. He never laughed. Occasionally, when confronted with a particularly blatant example of commercial malpractice, he would smile wryly. He was the last person in whom you could imagine yourself confiding. He intensely disliked his fellow mortals. Though he was married, he spent most of his time in the United Universities Club. Privacy was respected there, he said.

  In spite of, perhaps because of, his manifest unamiability, Balliol cherished for him an affection that he was extremely careful to conceal. He was convinced that there was nothing Prentice would have more disliked than the feeling that he was liked. Their relations were on the whole extremely cordial. They rarely met except in the board-room, where they discussed plans for the firm’s future through the medium of the chairman. They never resorted to those informal conferences at which usually the business of a board meeting is decided before the directors meet. That Prentice would have considered, not dishonourable—he did not hold personal and commercial honesty to be the same commodities—but the statement of an alliance between himself and Balliol. Than such a tie there was little he would have disliked more. Consequently, when Balliol said to Rickman, “Nothing is, of course, decided till I’ve seen my board,” he was not playing a Spenlow-Jorkins gambit. He had no means of guessing how Prentice would receive his suggestion. Opposition from Prentice would be extremely difficult to com
bat. He was prepared, however, to press his point.

  There were two points on the agenda besides his own. There was ‘Frank Walker’s Wages.’ And ‘Cigar Department.’ The latter was a proposal from Prentice. The chairman took the question of Walker’s wages.

  “Frank Walker’s Wages,” he read out. Then lifted his eyes, looking down the table as though he were saying, “Now, who is going to tell me about Frank Walker’s Wages?”

  The secretary spoke.

  “Walker has applied to me for a rise. He is receiving thirty shillings a week. He has been in the company’s employ three years. He is a packer. He has had no rise since he has been with us.”

  “I see. And what would the average wage of a packer be?”

  “From twenty-five shillings to two pounds.”

  “And he has been with us three years. How old is he?”

  “About twenty-eight.”

  “It seems reasonable that he should be raised; if his work is satisfactory, that’s to say. Do you know anything about him, Mr. Prentice?”

  Prentice shook his head. He knew him by name. He knew him by sight. But he had never been made aware of his individual existence. Balliol was in the same position. He was conscious of a face and a name. That, and no more than that.

  “In that case we had better see what the head of his department has to say.”

  There was silence while Walker’s immediate chief was summoned. A short, stocky man, with a nervous manner, a choker collar, a curl low-plastered on his forehead, he shifted uneasily on his feet.

  The chairman greeted him as though he were the guest of the evening.

  “Ah yes, Mortimer. Now, we want to ask your opinion about Walker. Frank Walker. As perhaps you know, he has applied for a rise of salary.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  “You would say, Mortimer, that thirty-five shillings a week was not an excessive sum for a packer: a man of twenty-eight who has been with us for three years?”