The Pauper of Park Lane

The work of the Clyde and Motherwell Company was always excellent. They turned out locomotives which could well bear comparison with any of the North-Western, Great Northern, or Nord of France, both as to finish, power, speed, and smoothness of running. Indeed, to railways in every part of the world, from Narvik, within the Arctic circle, to New Zealand, Clyde and Motherwell engines were running with satisfaction, thanks to the splendid designs of the chief engineer, Duncan Macgregor, the white-bearded old Scot, who at that moment was seated with Statham’s representative.

The conference between the engineers of the Italian ferrovia and the managers was over, and old Macgregor, who had been engineer for years to Cowan and Drummond, who owned the works before Statham had extended them and turned them into the huge Clyde and Motherwell works, still remained.

He was a broad-speaking Highlander, a native of Killin, on Loch Tay, whose services had long ago been coveted by the London and North-Western Railway Company, on account of his constant improvements in express engines, but who always refused, even though offered a larger salary to go across the border and forsake the firm to whom, forty years ago, he had been apprenticed by his father, a small farmer.

As a Scotsman, he believed in Glasgow. It was, in his opinion, the only place where could be built locomotives that would stand the wear and tear of a foreign or colonial line. An engine that was cleaned and looked after like a watch, as they were on the English or Scotch main lines, was easily turned out, he was fond of saying; but when it became a question of hauling power, combined with speed and strength to withstand hard wear and neglect, it was a very different matter.

Managers and sub-managers, secretaries and accountants there might be, gentlemen who wore black coats and went out to dine in evening clothes, but the actual man at the head of affairs at those great works was Duncan Macgregor – the short, thick-set man, in a shabby suit of grey tweed, who sat there closeted with Rolfe.

“You wrote to London asking to see me, Macgregor,” exclaimed the young man. “We’re always pleased to hear any suggestions you’ve got to make, I assure you,” said Charlie, pleasantly. “Have a cigarette?” and he pushed the big box over to the man who sat on the other side of the table.

“Thank ye, no, Mr Rolfe, sir. I’m better wanting it,” replied Macgregor, in his broad tongue. And then, with a preliminary cough, he said “I – I want very badly to speak with Mr Statham.”

“Whatever you say to me, Macgregor, I will tell him.”

“I want to speak to him ma’sel’.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. He sees nobody – except once a week in the city, and then only for two hours.”

“’E would’na see me – eh?” asked the man, whose designs had brought the firm to the forefront in the trade.

“I fear it would be impossible. You would go to London for nothing. I’m his private secretary, you know; and anything that you tell me I shall be pleased to convey to him.”

“But, mon, I want to see ’im ma’sel’!”

“That can’t be managed,” declared Rolfe. “This business is left to Mr Smale and myself. Mr Statham controls the financial position, but details are left to me, in conjunction with Smale and Hamilton. Is it concerning the development of the business that you wish to see Mr Statham?”

“No, it ain’t. It concerns Mr Statham himself, privately.”

Rolfe pricked up his ears.

“Then it’s a matter which you do not wish to discuss with me?” he said. “Remember that Mr Statham has no business secrets from me. All his private correspondence passes through my hands.”

“I know all that, Mr Rolfe,” Macgregor answered, with impatience; “but I must, an’ I will, see Mr Statham! I’m coming to London to-morrow to see him.”

“My dear sir,” laughed Rolfe, “it’s utterly useless! Why, Mr Statham has peers of the realm calling to see him, and he sends out word that he’s not at home.”

“Eh! ’E’s a big mon, I ken; but when ’e knows ma’ bizniss e’ll verra soon see me,” replied the bearded old fellow, in confidence.

“But is your business of such a very private character?” asked Rolfe.

“Aye, it is.”

“About the projected strike – eh? Well, I can tell you at once what his attitude is towards the men, without you going up to London. He told me a few days ago to say that if there was any trouble, he’d close down the works entirely for six months, or a year, if need be. He won’t stand any nonsense.”

“An’ starve the poor bairns – eh?” mentioned the old engineer, who had grown white in the service of the firm. “Ay, when it was Cowan and Drummond they wouldna’ ha’ done that! I remember the strike in ’82, an’ how they conciliated the men. But it was na’ aboot the strike at all I was wanting to see Mr Statham. It was aboot himself.”

“Himself! What does he concern you? You’ve never met him. He’s never been in Glasgow in his life.”

“Whether I’ve met ’im or no is my own affair, Mr Rolfe,” replied the old fellow, sticking his hairy fist into his jacket pocket. “I want to see ’im now, an’ at once. I shall go to the London office an’ wait till ’e comes.”

“And when he comes he’ll be far too busy to see you,” the secretary declared. “So, my dear man, don’t spend money unnecessarily in going up to London, I beg of you.”

By the old man’s attitude Rolfe scented that something was amiss, and set himself to discover what it was and report to his master.

“Is there any real dissatisfaction in the works?” he asked Macgregor, after a brief pause.

“There was a wee bittie, but it’s a’ passed away.”

“Then it is not concerning the works that you want to see Mr Statham?”

“Nay, mon, not at all.”

“Nor about any new patent?”

“Nay.”

Rolfe was filled with wonder. The attitude of the old fellow was sphinx-like and yet he seemed confident that the millionaire would see him when he applied for an interview. For a full half-hour they chatted, but canny Macgregor told his questioner nothing – nothing more than that he was about to go to London to have a talk with the great financier upon some important matter which closely concerned him.

Therefore by the West Coast evening express, Rolfe left Glasgow for the south, full of wonder as to what the white-bearded old fellow meant by his covert insinuations and his proud confidence in the millionaire’s good offices. There was something there which merited investigation – of that he was convinced.

Chapter Eighteen.

The Outsider

On the left-hand side of Old Broad Street, City, passing from the Royal Exchange to Liverpool Street Station, stands a dark and dingy building, with a row of four windows looking upon the street. On a dull day, when the green-shaded lamps are lit within, the passer-by catches glimpses of rows of clerks, seated at desks poring over ledgers. At the counter is a continual coming and going of clerks and messengers, and notes and gold are received in and paid out constantly until the clock strikes four. Then the big, old doors are closed, and upon them is seen a brass plate, with the lettering almost worn off by continual polishing, bearing the words “Statham Brothers.”

Beyond the counter, through a small wicket, is the manager’s room – large, but gloomy, screened from the public view, and lit summer and winter by artificial light. In a corner is a safe for books, and at either end big writing-tables.

In that sombre room “deals” representing thousands upon thousands were often made, and through its door, alas! many a man who, finding himself pressed, had gone to the firm for financial aid and been refused, had walked out a bankrupt and ruined.

Beyond the manager’s room was a narrow, dark passage, at the end of which was a door marked “Private,” and within that private room, punctually at eleven o’clock, three mornings after Rolfe’s conversation with Macgregor, old Sam Statham took his seat in the shabby writing-chair, from which the stuffing protruded.

About the great financier’s private room there was nothing palatial. It was so dark that artificial light had to be used always. The desk was an old-fashioned mahogany one of the style of half a century ago, a threadbare carpet, two or three old horsehair chairs, and upon the green-painted wall a big date-calendar such as bankers usually use, while beneath it was a card, printed with old Sam’s motto: —

“TIME FLIES; DEATH URGES.”

That same motto was over every clerk’s desk, and, because of it, some wag had dubbed the great financier, “Death-head Statham.”

As he sat beneath the lamp at his desk, old Sam’s appearance was almost as presentable as that of his clerks. Levi always smartened his master up on the day he went into the City, compelling him to wear a frock coat, a light waistcoat, a decent pair of trousers, and a proper cravat, instead of the bit of greasy black ribbon which he habitually wore.

“And how much have we gained over the Pekin business, Ben?” Mr Samuel was asking of the man who, though slightly younger, was an almost exact replica of himself, slightly thinner and taller. Benjamin Statham, Sam’s brother, was the working manager of the concern, and one of the smartest financiers in the whole City of London. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, with his hands thrust deep in his trousers-pockets.

“Ah!” he laughed. “When I first suggested it you wouldn’t touch it. Didn’t owe for Chinese business, and all that! You’d actually see the French people go and take the plums right from beneath our noses – and – ”

“Enough, Ben. I own I was a little short-sighted in that matter. Perhaps the details you sent me were not quite clear. At any rate,” he said, “I was mistaken, for you say we’ve made a profit. How much?”

“Twelve thousand; and not a cent of hazardous risk.”

“How did we first hear of the business?”

“Through the secret channel in Paris.”

“The woman?”

“Yes.”

“Better send her something.”

“How much? She’s rather hard-up, I hear.”

“Women like her are always hard-up,” growled old Sam. “Leave it to me. I’ll get Rolfe to send her something to-morrow.”

“I promised her a couple of hundred. You mustn’t send her less, or we shall queer business for the future.”

“I shall send her five hundred,” responded the head of the firm. “She’s a very useful woman – and pretty, too, Ben – by Jove! she is! She called on me in her automobile at the Elysée Palace about eighteen months ago, and I was much struck by her. She knows almost everybody in Paris, and can get any information she wants from her numerous male admirers.”

“She’s well paid – gets a thousand a year from us,” Ben remarked.

“And we sometimes make twenty out of the secret information she obtains for us,” laughed old Sam. “Remember the Morocco business, and how she gave us the complete French programme which she got from young Delorme, at the Quai d’Orsay. We were as much in the dark as the newspapers till then, and if we hadn’t have got at the French intentions, we should have made a terribly heavy loss. As it was, we left it to others – who went under.”

“She got an extra five hundred as a present for that,” Ben pointed out.

“And it was worth it.”

“Delorme doesn’t know who gave the game away to us. If he did, it would be the worse for Her Daintiness.”

“No doubt it would. But she’s a fly bird, and as only you and I and Rolfe know the truth, she’s pretty confident that she’ll never be given away.”

“She’s in town – at Claridge’s – just now, so you need not write her to Paris. She asked me to call the night before last, and I went,” said Ben. “She wanted to get further instructions regarding a matter about which I wrote her. I dined with her.”

Sam grunted as he turned slightly in his chair.

“Rather undesirable company – eh – Ben?” he exclaimed, with some surprise. “Suppose you were seen by anyone who knows her? And recollect that all Paris knows her. It is scarcely compatible with our standing in the City for you to be seen in her company.”

“My dear Sam, I took very good care not to be seen in her company. I’m not quite a fool. I accepted her invitation with a distinct purpose. I wanted to question her about one of her friends – a man who may in future prove of considerable use to us. He’s, as usual, in love with her, and she can twist him inside out.”

“Ah! any man’s a fool who allows himself to fall under the fascination of a woman’s smiles,” remarked the dry-as-dust old millionaire. “We’ve been wise, Ben, to remain bachelors. It’s the unmarried who taste the good things of this world.”

Benjamin sighed, but said nothing. He, like Sam himself, had had his love-romance years ago, and it still lingered within him, lingered as it does within the heart of every man who has loved a woman that has turned out false and broken her pledge of affection. Ben Statham’s was a sorry story. Before his eyes, even now that thirty years had gone, there often arose the vision of a sweet, pale-faced, slim figure in white muslin, girdled with blue; of green meadows, where the cattle stood knee-deep in the rich grass, and of a cool Scotch glen where the trees overhung the rippling burn and where the trout darted in the pools.

But it had all ended, as many another love-romance has, alas! ended, in the woman forsaking the man who loved her, and in marrying another for his money.

Three years later her husband – the man whom she had wedded because of his position – was in the bankruptcy court, and six months afterwards he had followed her to her grave. But the sweet recollection of her still remained with Ben, and beneath that hard and wizened countenance beat a heart foil of tender memories of a day long since dead.

His brother Samuel’s romance was even more tragic. Nobody knew the story save himself, and it had never passed his lips. The society gossips who so often wrote their tittle-tattle about him never dreamed the strange story of the life of the great financier, nor the extraordinary romance that underlay his marvellous success. What a sensation would be produced if they ever learnt the truth! In those days long ago both of them had been poor, and had suffered in consequence. Now that they were both wealthy, the bitterness of the past still remained with them.

They were discussing another matter, concerning a project for an electric tramway in a Spanish city, the concession for which had been brought to them. They both agreed that the thing would not pay, therefore it was dismissed.

During their discussion Rolfe entered, and, taking his seat at the small table near his master, busied himself with some letters.

Suddenly Benjamin Statham exclaimed —

“Oh! by the way, there’s a queer-looking Scot from the Clyde and Motherwell works who’s been hanging about for a couple of days to see you, Sam. Says he must see you at all coats.”

“I don’t want to see anybody from Glasgow,” snapped Statham. “Tell him I’m not here, whoever he is.”

“He’s the old engineer, Macgregor,” Rolfe said. “He mentioned to me when I was in Glasgow the other day that he particularly wished to see you, and that he was coming up on purpose. I told him it was a wild-goose chase.”

“Engineer? What does he do? Mind the engine – one of the men who threaten to go on strike, I suppose,” remarked old Sam.

“No,” laughed Rolfe. “He’s a little more than engineer. It is he who has designed nearly every locomotive we’ve turned out.”

“Oh! valuable man – eh? Then raise his salary, Rolfe, and send him back to Glasgow to make a few more engines.”

“He’s waiting outside at the counter now, and won’t go away,” exclaimed the secretary.

“Then go to him and say he shall have fifty pounds more a year. I can’t be bothered to see the fellow.”

Rolfe rose and went to the outer office, where Macgregor stood patiently. He had waited there for best part of two days and, with a Scot’s tenacity, refused to be put off by any of the clerks. He wanted to see Mr Samuel Statham, “an’ I mean to see ’im, mon,” he told everybody, his grey beard bristling fiercely as he spoke.

He was evidently a man with a grievance. Such men came to Old Broad Street sometimes, and on rare occasions Mr Benjamin saw them. There were hard cases of men ignorant of the ways of business as the City to-day knows it, having been deliberately swindled out of their rights by sharks, concessions filched from their rightful owners, and patents artfully stolen and registered. But old Duncan Macgregor, with his white beard, was of a different type – the type of honest, hard-working plodder, out of whose brains the great Clyde and Motherwell works were practically coining money daily.

As Rolfe advanced to him he said: —

“I’m sorry, Macgregor, that Mr Statham is quite unable to see you to-day. He’s engaged three deep. I’ve told him you wished to see him, and he says that he much appreciates the great services you’ve rendered to the firm, and that you are to receive a rise of salary of fifty pounds a year, beginning the first of last January.”

“What!” cried the old man. “What – ’e offers me another fifty pounds! ’E’s guid an’ generous; but I have na’ come here for that. I’ve come to London to see him – ye hear! – to see him – d’ye hear, Mr Rolfe, an’ I must.”

“But, my dear sir, you can’t!”

“Tell him I don’t want his fifty pound,” cried the old man so derisively that the clerks looked up from their ledgers. “I must speak to him, an’ him alone.”

“Impossible,” exclaimed Rolfe, impatiently.

“Why impossible?” asked the old fellow. “When Mr Statham knows the business I’ve come upon he won’t thank ye for keepin’ us apart. D’ye ken that, mon?” and his beard wagged as he spoke.

“I know nothing, Macgregor, because you’ve told me nothing,” was the other’s reply.

“Well, I tell ye I mean to see him, an’ that’s sufficient for Duncan Macgregor.”

“Mr Duncan Macgregor will, if he continues to create a scene here, find himself discharged from the employ of the Clyde and Motherwell works,” remarked Rolfe, drily.

“An’ Duncan Macgregor can go to the North-Western to-morrow at a bigger rise than the fifty pounds a year. D’ye ken that?” replied the man from Glasgow.

“Then you refuse to accept Mr Statham’s offer to you?”

“Of course, mon. Ye don’t think that I come to London a cringin’ for more pay, do ye? If I wanted it I could ha’ got it from another company years ago,” replied the independent old fellow. “No, I must see Mr Statham. Go back an’ tell him so. I’m here to see him on a very important matter,” and, dropping his voice, he added, “a matter which closely concerns himself.”

“Then tell me its nature.”

“It’s private, sir. Until Mr Statham gives me leave to tell you, I can’t.”

“But he wants to know the nature of the business,” answered the secretary, again struck by the old fellow’s pertinacity. It was not every man who would decline a rise of a pound a week in his salary. Rolfe was puzzled, but he knew old Sam well enough to be aware that even if a duke called he would refuse to see him. He only came to the City once a week to discuss matters with his brother Ben, and saw no outsider.

“I can’t tell ye why I want to see Mr Statham; that’s only his business and mine,” replied the bearded Scot. The clerks were now smiling at Rolfe’s vain attempts to get rid of him.

“Will you write it? Here – write on this slip of paper,” the secretary suggested.

The old fellow hesitated.

“Yes – if you’ll let me seal it up in an envelope.”

Rolfe at once assented, and, with considerable care, the old fellow wrote some pencilled lines, folded the paper, sealed it in the envelope, and wrote the superscription.

A few moments later, when Rolfe handed it to the old millionaire, who was still at his table chatting with his brother, he asked, in the snappish way habitual to him: – “Who’s this from – eh? Why am I bothered?”

“From the man Macgregor, from Glasgow. He won’t go away.”

“Then discharge the brute,” he replied, and with the note in his hand he finished a remark he had addressed to his brother.

At last, mechanically, he opened it, and his eyes fell upon the scribbled words.

His jaw dropped. The colour left his cheeks, and, sitting back, he glared straight at Rolfe as though he had seen an apparition.

For a few moments he seemed too confused to speak. Then, when he recovered himself, he said, half apologetically: – “Ben, I must see this man alone – a – a private matter. I – I had no idea – I – ”

“Of course, Sam,” exclaimed his brother, leaving the room. “Let me know when he’s gone.”

“Rolfe, show him in,” the millionaire ordered. The instant his secretary had gone he sprang to his feet, examined his face in the small mirror over the mantelshelf for a moment, and then stood bracing himself up for the interview.

Chapter Nineteen.

The Man who Loved

A few nights later Max Barclay was seated in the stalls of the Empire Theatre with Marion.

They never went to the legitimate theatre because she had no evening-dress. Even to be seen in one would have caused comment among her fellow employés at Cunnington’s. The girls were never very charitable to each other, for in the pernicious system of “living-in” there is no privacy or home life, no sense of responsibility or of freedom.

The average London shop girl has but little leisure and little rest. Chronically over-tired, she cares little to go out of an evening after the long shop hours, and looks forward to Sunday as the day when she can read in bed till noon if she chooses, snooze again in the afternoon, and perhaps go to a café in the evening. It was so with Marion. The sales were on, and there were “spiffs,” or premiums, placed by Mr Warner upon some out-of-date goods which it was every girl’s object to sell and thus earn the commission. So she was working very hard, and already held quite a respectable number of tickets representing “spiffs.”

In a dark blue skirt, white silk blouse and black hat, she looked extremely pretty and modest as she sat beside her lover in the second row of the stalls, watching the ballet with its tuneful music, clever groupings, and phantasmagoria of colour. She glanced at the watch upon her wrist, and saw that it was nearly ten o’clock. In half an hour she would have to be “in.”

The bondage of his well-beloved galled Max, yet he could say nothing. Her life was the same as that of a hundred thousand other girls in London. Indeed, was she not far better off that those poor girls who came up from their country homes to serve a year or two’s drudgery without payment in order to learn the art and mystery of “serving a customer” – girls who were orphans and without funds, and who very soon found the actual necessity of having a little pocket-money for dress and for something with which to relish the stale bread and butter doled out to them.

The public have never yet adequately realised the hardships and tyranny of shop-life, where man is but a mere machine, liable to get the “sack” at a moment’s notice, and where woman is but an ill-fed, overworked drudge, liable at any moment to be thrown out penniless upon the great world of London.

Some day ere long the revelation will come. There are certain big houses in London with pious shareholders and go-to-meeting directors which will earn the opprobrium of the whole British public when the naked truth regarding their female assistants is exposed. In “the trade” it is known, and one day there will arise a man bolder and more fearless than the rest, who will speak the truth, and, moreover, prove it.

If in the meantime you want to know the truth concerning shop-life, ask the director of any of the numerous rescue societies in London. What you will be told will, I assure you, open your eyes.

The couple of hours Max had spent with Marion proved delightful ones, as they always were. Promenading in the lounge above were many men-about-town whom he knew, and who, seeing him with the modest-looking girl, smiled knowingly. They never guessed the truth – that he loved her and intended to make her his wife.

“Charlie is back from Glasgow,” she was saying. “He came to the shop this afternoon to ask if I had seen you, and to explain how the other night he, by a most fortunate circumstance, missed the Continental train, for next morning Mr Statham wanted him to do some very important business, and was delighted to find that he had not left. Another man has gone out to the East.”

“If he wanted to know my movements he might have called at Dover Street,” Max remarked thoughtfully, the recollection of that night in Cromwell Road arising within him.