A Modern Tragedy (46 page)

“Well, we'll leave it now,” replied Mr. Stein, nevertheless looking at Arnold from his bright black eyes, very thoughtfully. He stretched out his hand for the document under discussion, and when Arnold rather unwillingly returned it, put it away in a drawer of his desk.

When their business together was over, and Arnold had retired, Mr. Stein drew out the Tasker Haigh balance-sheet again, and examined the figures carefully. He considered the lateness of the date of this year's annual meeting, Arnold's character and Tasker's reputation; then drawing the telephone towards him, instructed his broker to sell his holding in Messrs. Tasker, Haigh and Co. He also dropped veiled hints on the matter to one or two relatives and friends, and they did the same; soon there was quite a little slump in the shares on the local exchange, and the managers of various banks who held Tasker's shares as cover for various advances to the firm, looked at the quotation uneasily, and began
mentally to draft letters to Tasker asking for further security.

Meanwhile the lunch hour arrived, and Arnold Lumb went out for lunch with such astonishment, perplexity and anger in his heart that he found himself, without precise knowledge of how he came to be there, walking up the steps of the hotel he had used to frequent in the Valley Mill days, instead of those of the modest vegetarian restaurant he had recently patronised. After a mere moment of hesitation he went on, and entered the dining-room. He was hailed in friendly fashion by the men at several tables—partly out of genuine respect and liking for the man and regret for his bad luck, partly because as one of Stein's buyers his good will was of importance—and presently sat down with two or three old acquaintances. His face was so hot, his manner so obviously that of a person labouring under some strong excitement and burning to communicate it, that it was not surprising the table was soon in possession of the whole story; nor were interpretations of it lacking. Nobody seemed to advise Arnold to do anything about it, however, and when later he consulted Mr. Stein on the subject, his employer merely enquired drily: “Are you a shareholder?” and on Arnold's emphatic negative remarked: “Then it's not your business.”

“It was once,” said Arnold grimly, with a hot look. He had too much sense not to take a good deal of thought before neglecting Stein's advice, however, and though the matter rankled, and he spoke of it to his father and privately to one or two friends, he did nothing officially for the time.

By the end of the week the whole of the West Riding was murmuring that there was something not quite right about Tasker, Haigh and Co.'s balance sheet—and it must be true, said everyone, for Arnold Lumb was such an absolutely honest, decent, “straight” chap; besides look at the drop in the shares! A few of the company's largest share-holders rapidly met together in private to consider the position; when it was
discovered that the astute Mr. Stein, who had been invited to attend, was no longer entitled to do so, having recently parted with his holding, something like consternation prevailed. Corroboration of Arnold's estimate of the value of Messrs. Lumbs' business was privately sought, and unofficially found; evidence hinting at other illegal proceedings on Tasker's part seemed suddenly to crop up on every side, and Tasker, Haigh and Co.'s shares became almost unsaleable. It was decided at first to wait for the annual meeting, to raise the whole matter there and demand that the services of an impartial valuer be called in at once. But the directors held so many shares between them that if they chose to combine they could pretty well outvote any resolution, when the number of shareholders who never attended annual meetings was considered; and as Henry Clay Crosland was still confined to his room, it was understood, and would probably entrust his proxies to Walter, it was probable that the directors would so combine. Besides, if Tasker got the least hint of what was in the wind and how could he help suspecting something with his shares on the drop like this?—he'd be off like a shot; trust him for that! The case was therefore, on the petition of a number of shareholders, reported direct to the Director of Public Prosecutions, who began investigations at once.

I DON'T like leaving the boy to stand the racket,” said Tasker uneasily.

He strode up and down his wife's richly appointed bedroom, occasionally casting an uneasy glance at a strong new suitcase which lay, packed and locked, the most conspicuous object in the room, on a chair beneath a vivid-shaded standard lamp.

“Why shouldn't you leave him? What have the Haighs ever done for you?” demanded Marian bitterly from her pillows. “The girl's in love with you—it's like her impertinence. She thinks I'm not good enough for you, I suppose, because I worked in a shop. The boy's so stuck-up with his fine wife, he won't come near you. We've never been invited to their house once; no, not once in two years. After all you've done for them!”

“Oh, as for Elaine, I wish him joy of her,” said Tasker contemptuously, jingling his keys. “She's a bitch if ever there was one. I don't give a damn for her. Or for her grandfather—bleating old sheep. But I'm fond of Walter. The information's to be sworn to-morrow morning,” he added, frowning: “So Dollam says. So I shall have to make up my mind.”

“Well, if you take my advice, you'll look after yourself and leave him to do the same,” urged Marian. “I shall be all right, you know. You get away while you can, Leonard.”

“I might telephone,” muttered Tasker. But then he remembered how disagreeable Walter had been on the telephone of late, and added sardonically: “Or I might not.”

MR. ANSTEY had announced by telephone that his father wished for a private interview with Mr. Crosland at an early hour that morning, preferably at Clay Hall, if Mr. Crosland could make it convenient. Although surprised by this formality from a relative and by the unwonted effort on the part of old Sir John, who rarely did anything of that kind nowadays, Mr. Crosland of course agreed, telephoned to Clay Mills that he should not be there till later in the morning, and provided suitable refreshments for his early guests. They were now leaving, after half an hour's earnest conversation; old Sir John was already seated in the car, his venerable head, bald and pale, sunk between his shoulders with a tortoise-like effect, slightly a-quiver; his dried hands, the colour of parchment, resting with the immobility of fatigue on the rug about his knees. For discretion's sake the Ansteys had brought no chauffeur, and this had proved a wise precaution, for as he stood on the steps of his home now, speeding his guests, Henry Clay Crosland looked a stricken man. He was wearing a small black cap over his ear to hide its dressing; and this lent an additional eeriness to the fearful look of perplexity and distress, which contorted his face and made it ghastly.

“I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Henry,” said Sir John in his thin old tones, leaning a little forward: “But we both felt it our duty, as your oldest friends, to inform you of what is going on, in case your co-directors are concealing it from you—from motives of kindness, no doubt.” This was part of his carefully prepared opening speech for that morning;
he was so upset by Mr. Crosland's anguish that he wished to comfort him, but so exhausted by the trying interview that he could find no new words.

“I'm deeply obliged to you both,” said Henry Clay Crosland with proud sincerity.

“You should put yourself in the hands of your solicitor at once,” urged Mr. Anstey. He had brought his father on this errand from a feeling of respect for Henry Clay Crosland, thinking that it would spare his pride and soften the blow to hear the news from a contemporary; but the whole thing was such a nasty mess, needing such prompt and decided action if anything was to be saved at all, that he could not forbear breaking in from time to time with practical advice. “You must dissociate yourself from your co-directors at once; you ought to volunteer information to the Director of Public Prosecutions.”

“But Walter?” stammered Mr. Crosland, reverting to this topic, as he had repeatedly reverted throughout the preceding interview, in pitiful request for reassurance—“Walter? You surely don't think he is criminally involved?”

“Surely not,” said Sir John soothingly, his old head nodding.

His son gave a smile which was meant to convey agreeable acquiescence; but in point of fact, remembering as he did Walter's determined effort to find Arnold Lumb a job, and interpreting it in the light of later events as a piece of bribery on Walter's part, an attempt to keep Arnold quiet which had failed, Mr. Anstey's considered judgment was that young Haigh was in the Tasker Haigh mess up to his neck. Mr. Anstey had held his tongue about it in public, for the Crosland's sake, but for the life of him he could not make his smile convincing now, and Henry Clay Crosland was not deceived.

As the Ansteys' car moved away Mr. Crosland bowed
formally in farewell, and remained on the Clay Hall steps in the attitude of a courteous host until his guests had passed out of sight round the curve of the drive. Then he walked slowly down into the garden, and pausing, turned and looked back at his house, grey and old and beautiful, gracious from having held for centuries man's thoughts of home.

It was a delicious summer's morning, fresh, sparkling, sunny; the flower-beds in front of Clay Hall—a harmonious mass of pinks and snapdragons, dahlias and sweet-smelling stocks—breathed fragrance and colour joyously on the calm air; pairs of butterflies curvetted over them in swift assured swoops and vibrant flutterings, or lighted on the blooms and hung there caressingly, savouring their sweetness. One of these darlings of the day poised for a moment on Henry Clay Crosland's grey sleeve, and spread its scarlet and black wings horizontally, to their full extent, with a delicious air of coquetry and preening, so that it reminded him of Elaine. Mr. Crosland gazed down at the exquisite patterns on the butterfly's wings, the lovely soft black fur of its palpitating little thorax, and felt pain stab his heart. For these beauties were for him no more; he no longer had the quiet mind, the innocent heart, which made him fit to approach and love them. He saw the gracious and agreeable figure of his daughter-in-law, busy among her flowers, slowly drawing near him, and turned aside; the news he had just heard, the hints he had received, were so appalling, that he felt he must have time to recover from the awful shock before facing any other human being. He must pull himself rapidly together, of course, and brace himself for speedy action; he must consult his solicitor at once, he must see Walter. He gave a long anguished sigh at this last thought. Surely, surely Walter was not criminally involved! That nice good lad, so fond of Ralph, Elaine's adoring husband! But it was only too clear that John Anstey thought him so. With every step he took across the sweet bright garden,
Henry Clay Crosland saw vistas darker and more terrible opening before him. That the Tasker Haigh Company's balance sheet was indeed fraudulent, he had little doubt—had he not always, at the bottom of his heart, despised Leonard Tasker and distrusted him? If the balance sheet contained fraudulent statements, there must be some reason for them; the reason was only too probably that the accounts of the firm could not be balanced otherwise. The money subscribed three years ago by the public—could it all be legitimately accounted for? Mr. Crosland sadly feared it could not. The whole thing would come out at the company's annual meeting next week, even if the Director of Public Prosecutions took no action earlier, as the Ansteys had hinted that he would; the company would crash; his own holding would be worthless, his personal guarantees would be called upon, the Crosland Spinning Company nowadays could not stand for a moment the withdrawal of such sums as would be necessary to bolster up Messrs. Tasker Haigh—if indeed that could be done at all. Henry Clay Crosland saw himself stripped, bankrupt, penniless; his fine old business foundering, Clay Hall sold after a hundred years' possession by the Croslands, nothing left with which to start Ralph in life or even finish his education, nothing to provide for Elaine. And Elaine's husband in similar desperate plight. But all that financial disaster could have been endured, thought Henry Clay Crosland, his old heart thudding—it was terrible, but it could all have been endured with head erect—if only it had been incurred in innocence, if only his integrity had remained intact, if only he could still feel himself pure of heart and clean of hand. But he couldn't; all that was gone, it was gone, it was irrevocably gone! His name was tarnished; he was involved, he was responsible—yes, he was terribly responsible; those wretched small investors, who were now to lose all their savings, had invested in the Tasker Haigh
Company on the security of his name. He had allowed himself to be duped, when he had no right to allow himself to be duped, for he was the representative of others and had their interests in his care. Because he was old, and deaf, and tired, and had let things slide, hundreds of innocent decent folk were to know suffering and loss. A fearful sense of guilt pressed down upon him; unaccustomed, heavy; indeed it was too heavy to be borne. He could not bear it. He could not bear it! That he, Henry Clay Crosland, a man who had preserved, not always without cost, through all these long years, the most scrupulous honesty, the most sensitive integrity, the most determined magnanimity and benevolence towards his fellow-men—that he should at the end of it all be implicated in this coarse, colossal, common swindle—“for that's what it is,” whispered Henry Clay Crosland to himself: “It's a common swindle. And I have given it my support.” His son had given his life for his country, and all that his father could find to do to show his pride in him, thought Henry Clay Crosland in shame and anguish, was to betray the trust of the people for whose peace Richard had died. A groan escaped the old man's ashen lips; ah, Richard, Richard, he thought, if you had been alive! And suddenly his mind was made up, his decision taken; staggering a little, his fine grey eyes dilated, his handsome head thrust oddly forward, he crossed the sunlit garden, entered the cool house, went upstairs to his daughter-in-law's apartment, and having paused there for a moment to look at the photographs of Richard and Elaine and Ralph which stood upon her writing-table, passed on through the communicating door to his son's former dressing-room. He knew he should find there what he wanted; he knew.