PART FOUR

CRISIS

§ 1

To comprehend the deliberate sacrifice which Peter Jameson made for the cause of humanity, it is essential that you should realize both the man and the offering he brought. It was not, primarily, the sacrifice of money, but the giving-up of a great ambition. For money, regarded purely as the purchase price of material comfort, he cared very little. As a spender, he had small sympathy with the exotic luxury of his time. His amusements were essentially simple—a gun, a trout-rod, a horse, a good glass of wine. All these, he might have possessed without working.

But Peter had been picked up, while still a boy, into the fascinating game of business; and in that game he had found both work (which was vital to his temperament) and enjoyment. His personal qualities—resoluteness, concentration on the immediate job, a certain creative instinct, clear thinking, moral courage and a controlled imagination—fitted him eminently for the sport of commerce.

Nirvana Limited, which would have been to the average individual merely a machine for the making of an income, represented to Peter Jameson—at the outbreak of war—the ultimate aim in life. He loved that business, not only for the sake of what it might eventually bring him, but for itself. He loved it, like a good gardener loves his garden, as much for the labour as for the result. He had seen it grow, in six years, from starved plant to a goodly tree—fruit almost ripe for the plucking. He felled that tree deliberately, in cold blood, under no compulsion save that of his own soul. And he waved no flags to console him for the felling!

For the man was, despite the admixture of Miraflores strain, an Anglo-Saxon: responded—though he knew it not—to the blind spirit of that race which came out of Italy through France, welded itself to dour Saxon and berserk Viking, and so spread, fighting always but always fighting as an ultimate issue for Independence, to Virginia and Quebec, to the Falkland Islands and the Hebrides, to South Africa and Australasia; till it became—scarcely conscious of its own oneness—the final arbiter in the great world-struggle of Decency against the filthy doctrines of the Beasts in Gray.

And behind the man, equally resolute, equally blind to the spirit which moved her, stood Patricia, the Anglo-Saxon woman—thoroughbred, unflinching.

§ 2

England’s declaration of war did not make Peter Jameson “burn to avenge gallant little Belgium,” or eager, in the phraseology of the period, “to do his bit.” His commercial position was too damned awkward for the indulgence of any such sentiments.

He left Wargrave at ten o’clock on the morning of August the fifth; and reached the outskirts of London in forty-five minutes. Then he gave the wheel to Murray, and began to think. Throughout, his hand had been perfectly steady at the throttle, his foot firm on the accelerator. Their speed had averaged forty miles an hour.

Behind him, in the tonneau, sat Francis Gordon, acting as always on inspiration rather than reason, decision already reached. Francis Gordon talked to himself, under his breath: first in Dutch and then in German. He was testing, not his knowledge of those languages, but his accent. “_Ich kann es tun. Ich bin einer der einzigen die es tun konnen_,” he muttered. Then he began to recite, very slowly and almost inaudibly, the first speech from Schiller’s Republican Tragedy:

Leonora. “Nichts mehr. Nichts mehr. Kein Wort mehr. Es ist am Tag.”[1]

Peter was not talking to himself; had reached no decision. His brain went over the salient facts of the situation; weighing them up. Discarding details. Selecting essentials. The Jameson-Beckmann problem must wait. How would Nirvana be affected? Home-trade, for the moment at any rate, would collapse. The export-business might hold up. Might. Probably wouldn’t. Remained the fact that if the worst came to the worst he stood to loose seventeen thousand pounds. . . . After all, people must smoke. Wars didn’t last for ever. Could he see the thing through? Financially? . . .

“London & Joint Stock Bank, Pall Mall,” he said to the chauffeur.

They swirled through Piccadilly; nipped round past the Ritz; slowed down St. James’ Street; and pulled up.

“Afraid I can’t lend you the car, old man,” said Peter. “I shall want it all day. Are you coming down again to-night?”

“No,” answered Francis. “Prout’s bringing up my things on the afternoon train.” He stepped out of the tonneau; brushed himself carefully; and walked off down Pall Mall. Peter, telling Murray to wait, climbed the flat steps to the glass doors of the Bank. They were closed: but his knock brought a commissionaire, who recognized him; opened them.

“No business today, sir,” said the commissionaire.

“Manager in?” asked Peter.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ask him if he’ll see me.”

The Bank, always quiet, seemed—that morning—like a tomb. Clerks bent over their ledgers; lights burned: but no customers waited at the iron-grilled counters, no sovereigns clinked in the brass shovels.

“Step this way, sir,” said the commissionaire.

Peter followed him across the stone floor, through the glass doorway into the manager’s parlour—soft-carpeted, lavishly furnished with dark mahogany and saddle-bag chairs.

Mr. Davis, the branch-manager, was a gray-bearded man with the clothes of a prince and the manners of a diplomat. As a West End Branch, “Pall Mall” did not seek mercantile business. They had taken the Nirvana account, officially, “to oblige their old client Mr. Jameson, whose private account they had handled for so many years.” This courtesy had not gone as far as a reduction in their usual rates of interest!

“Good morning, Mr. Jameson. I half expected you.” Mr. Davis rose; shook hands. “Won’t you take a seat?”

“Thanks. I came to ask you about the financial position. This war, you know. The papers talk about a moratorium. I understand that to mean a suspension of credit. . . .”

“Only in extreme cases, Mr. Jameson. Only in extreme cases. Of course, we are not desirous, at the moment, of increasing facilities. We are, if I may use the expression, sitting on the fence. But my directors—I have a letter from them before me now—are anxious for me to impress on all our clients, that they do not anticipate any financial crisis. Measures, as I am given to believe, have been taken; temporary expedients adopted; by which. . . .” He went on to explain them, at some length.

“Then I take it,” said Peter, “that on the resumption of banking-business. . . .”

“Matters will be exactly as they were a week ago.” Mr. Davis rose again, shook hands, made his point courteously. “Naturally, Mr. Jameson, as Nirvana Limited will not be under the necessity of making payments, they will not require any addition to the overdraft which you have guaranteed for them.”

“Of course not,” said Peter. The interview had turned out according to anticipation. If Nirvana wanted any more money, it would have to be found in cash.

He stood for a moment on the steps of the Bank. London had not altered in a night. The straight aristocratic thoroughfare seemed a little busier than usual. That was all. Then he looked for the gaudy sentries outside Marlborough House; saw that they were in khaki!

“The factory, please, Murray; and as fast as you can,” said our Mr. Jameson. . . .

[1] “No more. No more. Not a word more. It is the Day.”

§ 3

To describe “Pretty” Bramson as nervous, would be a gross understatement. The man was scared stiff; had been for two days. Peter found him wandering about the half-empty building—(the English workman does not usually put in an appearance till twenty-four hours after “Bank Holiday”)—damp cigarette between his lips, white about the gills, alternatively fidgeting and depressed. The famous black moustaches were distinctly out of curl: the brilliantined hair lacked its usual polish.

“Morning, Bramson. You look rather out of sorts.”

Bramson led melancholy way into the private office.

“It’s all U P with us now,” he said. “We’re ruined. That’s about the long and short of it.”

“Rats!” snapped Peter, lighting a cigar.

“The Bank will be down on us for that overdraft. . . .”

“Don’t be a fool. To begin with, they can’t call in any loans. There’s a moratorium. Secondly, if they do want their money, I can pay it. Do you really think I guarantee liabilities I can’t meet?”

“I hadn’t thought of the moratorium,” began Bramson, plucking up courage.

Peter, puffing slowly at his cigar, got over the flash of temper.

“Worried about that thousand of yours?” he queried suddenly.

“No-o. Not exactly. But. . . .”

“You _are_ worried. Of course you’re worried. So am I. So’s everybody else. Let me remind you that _I’ve_ got twelve thousand pounds in the concern, in addition to that confounded overdraft. But we shan’t either of us save our money by worrying. For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together, man. Let’s have a look at last month’s figures. . . .”

Bramson went to the safe; opened it; took out some papers “Get a pencil,” said Peter, “and write down what I tell you. . . . Ready. . . . Right. . . . Now then: Assets . . .” He dictated steadily; picking out the amounts from the big type-written statement. “Liabilities. . . .” The dictation continued. “That’s the lot, I think. Add them up please.”

Bramson read out the figures: “Assets £27,862, Liabilities, including overdraft, £22,396.”

“Which means,” commented Peter, “that your thousand and my twelve are worth—about five between them. Roughly forty cents on the dollar. _If_ we could sell the factory as a going concern.”

“You haven’t taken anything for the good-will of the business,” put in Bramson.

“Of course I haven’t. That’s the whole question. Up to the end of last month, we were making profits. That was why you bought Turkovitch’s shares, wasn’t it? Do you think we’re going to make a profit this month?”

“We might.”

“Forget it,” said Peter genially. “The best we can hope for is to nurse the show through this damned war—if it doesn’t last too long. Now listen to me. . . .”

He plunged into details, giving his orders succinctly. This must go: that be curtailed. Publicity account, selling expenses, manufacturing charges, clerical work—Peter dealt with each seriatim, hardly referring to the figures on the table. “As for the finance,” he concluded, “I’ll deal with that myself. But mind you, the whole thing’s a gamble . . . Play poker, Bramson?” he asked suddenly.

“Occasionally.”

“Well, if you ever put up your last table-stake to bluff the jack-pot on a busted flush—you’ll understand the present position of _Nirvana Limited_.”

Two minutes later the car was purring Citywards.

§ 4

Passing over London Bridge, through Gracechurch Street and Fenchurch Street, Peter saw that the City had in no wise altered. The same drays, motor-omnibuses, taxicabs and motor-cars fought their way through its streets. The same bareheaded clerks hurried along its pavements. The same hawkers proffered the same wares. Only the closed doors of the banking-houses portended the unusual.

In his own office at Lime Street nothing spoke of world-crisis. Parkins still sat at the enquiry desk. Old George was still dusting cigar boxes. Miss Macpherson’s typewriter clicked and tinkled from the clerks’ office beyond the stock-rooms. Simpson, just back from his chop at “The George and Vulture” showed no signs of depression. He, too, had interviewed his bank manager.

“And what did Smollett say about Beckmann’s bills?” asked Peter.

“It looks as though we shall have to meet them after the moratorium,” said Simpson. “You see they’ve been discounted through an English bank. As far as I can make out, Beckmann’s aren’t technically Germans at all. The firm’s domiciled in a neutral country—so Smollett says. . . .”

“Do you mean to say we shall be allowed to go on importing the brand?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Simpson.

That there could be any patriotic reasons for not trading with Beckmanns, did not strike them. The war was not yet twenty-four hours old; and neither the obtuse Simpson nor the concentrated Peter had realized it as more than a disturber of business.

“Elkins and Beresford will be sure to try and use this to prejudice customers against the brand,” suggested Peter.

“Let them.” Somehow, the crisis seemed to have nerved Simpson. Peter never remembered him so decided.

“We must go slow,” was his verdict. “Of course trade will absolutely disappear for the first week or so. Then it’ll begin to pick up again. There’ll be no difficulty about supplies. Whatever happens on land, our Navy’s got the Germans beaten at sea. Go slow, and keep our resources liquid—that’s my idea. . . . By the way, how about that factory of yours?”

Peter hesitated a moment—Simpson had always been rather hostile about Nirvana—then said, “I’ve been up there this morning. Bramson’s rather rattled. We shall have to go slow there too. It’s a pity the brand couldn’t have had another two years’ hard advertising before this happened. As it is—everything depends on how long the war lasts. If it goes on more than six months, I may have to find a partner. That means parting with a big slice of my shares. You see, I don’t feel I ought to take any more of my capital out of this business.”

“No. I agree with you there. Though if it became absolutely necessary. . . . By the way, you won’t mind my saying so, but I never understood why you took on ‘Pretty’ Bramson. He hasn’t got a very good reputation in the trade. And then his cousin Marcus being a competitor. . . .”

“Oh, he’s not a bad little chap.” Peter, like all good men of business, was over-loyal to his staff. “The only trouble is that he hasn’t got much guts. But he’s all right as long as you keep an eye on him. . . . Good Lord, it’s nearly three o’clock, and that poor devil of a chauffeur of mine hasn’t had his lunch yet.”

“Had any yourself?” asked Simpson.

It was the one detail of the day which our Mr. Jameson had forgotten!

§ 5

“And are we _quite_ ruined?” chaffed Patricia as they finished dinner the same evening. Prout and the Rawlings had taken the afternoon train to town, leaving her lonely and—to tell the truth—more than a little worried.

“Not quite, old thing,” retorted Peter. . . .

But that night, for the first time in years, he woke up suddenly; saw her sleeping peacefuly in the white bedstead next his own—and realized that his responsibilities were not exclusively confined to the financing of Nirvana Limited.