not relieve all the misery it creates.”
Charity, as all the world knows, should begin at an “at home.” Lord Ferriby knew as well as any that there are men, and perhaps even women, who will give largely in order that their names may appear largely and handsomely in the select subscription4 lists. He also knew that an invitation card in the present is as sure a bait as the promise of bliss5 hereafter. So Lady Ferriby announced by card (in an open envelope with a halfpenny stamp) that she should be “at home” to certain persons on a certain evening. And the good and the great flocked to Cambridge Terrace. The good and great are, one finds, a little mixed, from a social point of view.
There were present at Lady Ferriby's, for instance, a number of ministers, some cabinet, others dissenting6. Here, a man leaning against the wall wore a blue ribbon across his shirt front. There, another, looking bigger and more self-confident, had no shirt front at all. His was the cheap distinction of unsuitable clothes.
“Ha! Miss Ferriby, glad to see you,” he said as he entered, holding out a hand which had the usual outward signs of industrial honesty.
“Is that the gas-man?” inquired Major White, gravely. He had been standing8 beside her ever since his arrival, seeking, it seemed, the protection of one who understood these social functions. It is to be presumed that the major was less bewildered than he looked.
“Hush!” And Joan said something hurriedly in White's large ear. “Everybody has him,” she concluded; and the explanation brought certain calm into the mildly surprised eye behind the eye-glass. White recognized the phrase and its conclusive9 contemporary weight.
“Here's a flat-backed man!” he exclaimed, with a ring of relief. “Been drilled, this man. Gad10! He's proud!” added the major, as the new-comer passed Joan with rather a cold bow.
“Oh, that's the detective,” explained Joan. “So many people, you know; and so mixed. Everybody has them. Here's Tony—at last.”
Tony Cornish was indeed making his way through the crowd towards them. He shook hands with a bishop11 as he elbowed a path across the room, and did it with the pious12 face of a self-respecting curate. The next minute he was prodding13 a sporting baronet in the ribs14 at the precise moment when that nobleman reached the point of his little story and on the precise rib3 where he expected to be prodded15. It is always wise to do the expected.
At the sight of Tony Cornish, Joan's face became grave, and she turned towards him with her little frown of preoccupation, such as one might expect to find upon the face of a woman concerned in the great movements of the day. But before Tony reached her the expression changed to a very feminine and even old-fashioned one of annoyance16.
“Oh, here comes mother!” she said, looking beyond Cornish, who was indeed being pursued by a wizened17 little old lady.
Lady Ferriby, it seemed, was not enjoying herself. She glanced suspiciously from one face to another, as if she was seeking a friend without any great hope of finding one. Perhaps, like many another, she looked upon the world from that point Of view.
Cornish hurried up and shook hands. “Plenty of people,” he said.
“Oh yes,” answered Joan, earnestly. “It only shows that there is, after all, a great deal of good in human nature, that in such a movement as this rich and poor, great and small, are all equal.”
Cornish nodded in his quick sympathetic way, accepting as we all accept the social statements of the day, which are oft repeated and never weighed. Then he turned to White and tapped that soldier's arm emphatically.
“Way to get on nowadays,” he said, “is to be prominent in some great movement for benefiting mankind.” Joan heard the words, and, turning, looked at Cornish with a momentary18 doubt.
“And I mean to get on in the world, my dear Joan,” he said, with a gravity which quite altered his keen, fair face. It passed off instantly, as if swept away by the ready smile which came again. A close observer might have begun to wonder under which mask lay the real Tony Cornish.
Lady Ferriby joined them at this moment—a silent, querulous-looking woman in black silk and priceless lace, who, despite her white hair and wrinkled face, yet wore her clothes with that carefulness which commands respect from high and low alike. The world was afraid of Lady Ferriby, and had little to say to her. It turned aside, as a rule, when she approached. And when she had passed on with her suspicious glance, her bent21 and shaking head, it whispered that there walked a woman with a romantic past. It is, moreover, to be hoped that the younger portion of Lady Ferriby's world took heed22 of this catlike, lonely woman, and recognized the melancholy23 fact that it is unwise to form a romantic attachment24 in the days of one's youth.
“Tony,” said her ladyship, “they have eaten all the sandwiches.”
And there was something in her voice, in her manner of touching25 Tony Cornish's arm with her fan that suggested in a far-off, cold way that this social butterfly had reached one of the still strings26 of her heart. Who knows? There may have been, in those dim days when Lady Ferriby had played her part in the romantic story which all hinted at and none knew, another such as Tony Cornish—gay and debonair27, careless, reckless, and yet endowed with the power of making some poor woman happy.
“My dear aunt,” replied Cornish, with a levity28 with which none other ever dared to treat her, “the benevolent29 are always greedy. And each additional virtue—temperance, loving-kindness, humility—only serves to dull the sense of humour and add to the appetite. Give them biscuits, aunt.”
And offering her his arm, he good-naturedly led her to the refreshment-room to investigate the matter. As she passed through the crowded rooms, she glanced from face to face with her quick, seeking look. She cordially disliked all these people. And their principal crime was that they ate and drank. For Lady Ferriby was a miser1.
At the upper end of the room a low platform served as a safe retreat
for sleepy chaperons on such occasions as the annual Ferriby ball.
To-night there were no chaperons. Is not charity the safest as well as
indiscretions?
Upon this platform there now appeared, amid palms and chrysanthemums31, a long, rotund man like a bolster32. He held a paper in his hand and wore a platform smile. His attitude was that of one who hesitated to demand silence from so well-bred a throng33. His high, narrow forehead shone in the light of the candelabra. This was Lord Ferriby—a man whose best friend did his best for him in describing him as well-meaning. He gave a cough which had sufficient significance in it to command a momentary quiet. During the silence, a well-dressed parson stood on tiptoe and whispered something in Lord Ferriby's ear. The suggestion, whatever it may have been, was negated34 by the speaker on receipt of a warning shake of the head from Joan.
“Er—ladies and gentlemen,” said Lord Ferriby, and gained the necessary silence. “Er—you all know the purpose of our meeting here to-night. You all know that Lady Ferriby and myself are much honoured by your presence here. And—er—I am sure——” He did not, however, appear to be quite sure, for he consulted his paper, and the colonial bishop near the yellow chrysanthemums said, “Hear, hear!”
“And I am sure that we are, one and all, actuated by a burning desire to relieve the terrible distress35 which has been going on unknown to us in our very midst.”
“He has missed out half a page,” said Joan to Major White, who somehow found himself at her side again.
“This is no place, and we have at the moment no time, to go into the details of the manufacture of malgamite. Suffice it to say, that such a—er—composition exists, and that it is a necessity in the manufacture of paper. Now, ladies and gentlemen, the painful fact has been brought to light by my friend Mr. Roden——” His lordship paused, and looked round with a half-fledged bow, but failed to find Roden.
“By—er—Mr. Roden that the manufacture of malgamite is one of the deadliest of industries. In fact, the makers36 of malgamite, and fortunately they are comparatively few in number, stricken as they are by a corroding37 disease, occupy in our midst the—er—place of the lepers of the Bible.”
Here Lord Ferriby bowed affably to the bishop, as if to say, “And that is where you come in.”
“We—er—live in an age,” went on Lord Ferriby—and the practical Joan nodded her head to indicate that he was on the right track now—“when charity is no longer a matter of sentiment, but rather a very practical and forcible power in the world. We do not ask your assistance in a vague and visionary crusade against suffering. We ask you to help us in the development of a definite scheme for the amelioration of the condition of our fellow-beings.”
Lord Ferriby spoke38 not with the ease of long practice, but with the assurance of one accustomed to being heard with patience. He now waited for the applause to die away.
“Who put him up to it?” Major White asked Joan.
“Mr. Roden wrote the speech, and I taught it to papa,” was the answer.
At this moment Cornish hurried up in his busy way. Indeed, these people seemed to have little time on their hands. They belonged to a generation which is much addicted39 to unnecessary haste.
“Never in my life,” answered Major White. “Is he worth seeing?”
But Cornish hurried away again. Lord Ferriby was still speaking, but he seemed to have lost the ear of his audience, and had lapsed41 into generalities. A few who were near the platform listened attentively42 enough. Some who hoped that they were to be asked to speak applauded hurriedly and finally whenever the speaker paused to take breath.
The world is full of people who will not give their money, but offer readily enough what they call their “time” to a good cause. Lord Ferriby was lavish43 with his “time,” and liked to pass it in hearing the sound of his own voice. Every social circle has its talkers, who hang upon each other's periods in expectance of the moment when they can successfully push in their own word. Lord Ferriby, looking round upon faces well known to him, saw half a dozen men who spoke upon all occasions with a sublime44 indifference45 to the fact that they knew nothing of the subject in hand. With the least encouragement any one of them would have stepped on to the platform bubbling over with eloquence46. Lord Ferriby was quite clever enough to perceive the danger. He must go on talking until Roden was found. Had not the pushing parson already intimated in a whisper that he had a few earnest thoughts in his mind which he would be glad to get off?
Lord Ferriby knew those earnest thoughts, and their inevitable47 tendency to send the audience to the refreshment-room, where, as Lady Ferriby's husband, he suspected poverty in the land.
“Is not Mr. Cornish going to speak?” a young lady eagerly inquired of Joan. She was a young lady who wore spectacles and scorned a fringe—a dangerous course of conduct for any young woman to follow. But she made up for natural and physical deficiencies by an excess of that zeal48 which Talleyrand deplored49.
“I think not,” answered Joan. “He never speaks in public, you know.”
“I wonder why?” said the young lady, sharply and rather angrily.
Joan shrugged50 her shoulders and laughed. She sometimes wondered why herself, but Tony had never satisfied her curiosity. The young lady moved away and talked to others of the same matter. There were quite a number of people in the room who wanted to know why Tony Cornish did not speak, and wished he would. The way to rule the world is to make it want something, and keep it wanting.
“I make so bold as to hope,” Lord Ferriby was saying, “that when sufficient publicity51 has been given to our scheme we shall be able to raise the necessary funds. In the fulness of this hope, I have ventured to jot52 down the names of certain gentlemen who have been kind enough to assume the trusteeship. I propose, therefore, that the trustees of the Malgamite Fund shall be—er—myself——”
Like a practiced speaker, Lord Ferriby paused for the applause which duly followed. And certain elderly gentlemen, who had been young when Marmaduke Ferriby was young, looked with much interest at the pictures on the wall. That Lord Ferriby should assume the directorship of a great charity was to send that charity on its way rejoicing. He stood smiling benevolently53 and condescendingly down upon the faces turned towards him, and rejoiced inwardly over these glorious obsequies of a wild and deplorable past.
“Mr. Anthony Cornish,” he read out, and applause made itself heard again.
“Major White.”
And the listeners turned round and stared at that hero, whom they discovered calmly and stolidly entrenched54 behind the eye-glass, his broad, tanned face surmounting55 a shirt front of abnormal width.
“Herr von Holzen.”
No one seemed to know Herr von Holzen, or to care much whether he existed or not.
“And—my—er—friend—the originator of this great scheme—the man whom we all look up to as the benefactor56 of a most miserable57 class of men—Mr. Percy Roden.”
Lord Ferriby meant the listeners to applaud, and they did so, although they had never heard the name before. He folded the paper held in his hand, and indicated by his manner that he had for the moment nothing more to say. From his point of advantage he scanned the whole length of the large room, evidently seeking some one. Anthony Cornish had been the second name mentioned, and the majority hoped that it was he who was to speak next. They anticipated that he, at all events, would be lively, and in addition to this recommendation there hovered58 round his name that mysterious charm which is in itself a subtle form of notoriety. People said of Tony Cornish that he would get on in the world; and upon this slender ladder he had attained59 social success.
But Cornish was not in the room, and after waiting a few moments, Lord Ferriby came down from the platform, and joined some of the groups of persons in the large room. For already the audience was breaking up into small parties, and the majority, it is to be feared, were by now talking of other matters. In these days we cannot afford to give sufficient time to any one object to do that object or ourselves any lasting60 good.
Presently there was a stir at the door, and Cornish entered the large room, followed leisurely61 by a tired-looking man, for whom the idlers near the doorway62 seemed instinctively63 to make way. This man was tall, square-shouldered, and loose of limb. He had smooth dark hair, and carried his head thrown rather back from the neck. His eyes were dark, and the fact that a considerable line of white was visible beneath the pupil imparted to his whole being an air of physical delicacy64 suggestive of a constant feeling of fatigue65.
“Who is this?” asked Major White, aroused to a sense of stolid19 curiosity which few of his fellow-men had the power of awakening66.
“Oh, that,” said Joan, looking towards the door—“that is Mr. Percy Roden.”
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1
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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rib
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| n.肋骨，肋状物 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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dissenting
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| adj.不同意的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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conclusive
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| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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13
prodding
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| v.刺，戳( prod的现在分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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14
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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15
prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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16
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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18
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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19
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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22
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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28
levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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31
chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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32
bolster
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| n.枕垫；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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33
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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34
negated
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| v.取消( negate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；否定；否认 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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makers
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| n.制造者，制造商（maker的复数形式） | |
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corroding
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| 使腐蚀，侵蚀( corrode的现在分词 ) | |
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38
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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39
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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40
jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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41
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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43
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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45
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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46
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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47
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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48
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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49
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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52
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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53
benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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54
entrenched
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| adj.确立的，不容易改的(风俗习惯) | |
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55
surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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56
benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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57
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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58
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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59
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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60
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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61
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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62
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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63
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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64
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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65
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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66
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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