第86章 THE SILENCE(3)

Hemmings moved a finger, as if reproving his director."I will not disguise from you," he murmured, "that there is friction between us and--the enemy; you know our position too well--just a little too well, eh? 'A nod's as good as a wink.'"His diplomatic eyes flattered Scorrier, who passed a hand over his brow--and said: "Of course.""Pippin doesn't hit it off with them.Between ourselves, he's a leetle too big for his boots.You know what it is when a man in his position gets a sudden rise!"Scorrier caught himself searching on the floor for a sight of Hemmings' boots; he raised his eyes guiltily.The secretary continued: "We don't hear from him quite as often as we should like, in fact."To his own surprise Scorrier murmured: "It's a silent place!"The secretary smiled."Very good! Mr.Scorrier says, sir, it's a silent place; ha-ha! I call that very good!" But suddenly a secret irritation seemed to bubble in him; he burst forth almost violently:

"He's no business to let it affect him; now, has he? I put it to you, Mr.Scorrier, I put it to you, sir!"But Scorrier made no reply, and soon after took his leave: he had been asked to convey a friendly hint to Pippin that more frequent letters would be welcomed.Standing in the shadow of the Royal Exchange, waiting to thread his way across, he thought: 'So you must have noise, must you--you've got some here, and to spare....'

On his arrival in the new world he wired to Pippin asking if he might stay with him on the way up country, and received the answer: "Be sure and come."A week later he arrived (there was now a railway) and found Pippin waiting for him in a phaeton.Scorrier would not have known the place again; there was a glitter over everything, as if some one had touched it with a wand.The tracks had given place to roads, running firm, straight, and black between the trees under brilliant sunshine;the wooden houses were all painted; out in the gleaming harbour amongst the green of islands lay three steamers, each with a fleet of busy boats; and here and there a tiny yacht floated, like a sea-bird on the water.Pippin drove his long-tailed horses furiously; his eyes brimmed with subtle kindness, as if according Scorrier a continual welcome.During the two days of his stay Scorrier never lost that sense of glamour.He had every opportunity for observing the grip Pippin had over everything.The wooden doors and walls of his bungalow kept out no sounds.He listened to interviews between his host and all kinds and conditions of men.The voices of the visitors would rise at first--angry, discontented, matter-of-fact, with nasal twang, or guttural drawl; then would come the soft patter of the superintendent's feet crossing and recrossing the room.Then a pause, the sound of hard breathing, and quick questions--the visitor's voice again, again the patter, and Pippin's ingratiating but decisive murmurs.Presently out would come the visitor with an expression on his face which Scorrier soon began to know by heart, a kind of pleased, puzzled, helpless look, which seemed to say, "I've been done, I know--I'll give it to myself when I'm round the corner."Pippin was full of wistful questions about "home." He wanted to talk of music, pictures, plays, of how London looked, what new streets there were, and, above all, whether Scorrier had been lately in the West Country.He talked of getting leave next winter, asked whether Scorrier thought they would "put up with him at home"; then, with the agitation which had alarmed Scorrier before, he added: "Ah! but I'm not fit for home now.One gets spoiled; it's big and silent here.

What should I go back to? I don't seem to realise."Scorrier thought of Hemmings."'Tis a bit cramped there, certainly,"he muttered.

Pippin went on as if divining his thoughts."I suppose our friend Hemmings would call me foolish; he's above the little weaknesses of imagination, eh? Yes; it's silent here.Sometimes in the evening Iwould give my head for somebody to talk to--Hemmings would never give his head for anything, I think.But all the same, I couldn't face them at home.Spoiled!" And slyly he murmured: "What would the Board say if they could hear that?"Scorrier blurted out: "To tell you the truth, they complain a little of not hearing from you."Pippin put out a hand, as if to push something away."Let them try the life here!" he broke out; "it's like sitting on a live volcano--what with our friends, 'the enemy,' over there; the men; the American competition.I keep it going, Scorrier, but at what a cost--at what a cost!""But surely--letters?"

Pippin only answered: " I try--I try!"

Scorrier felt with remorse and wonder that he had spoken the truth.

The following day he left for his inspection, and while in the camp of "the enemy" much was the talk he heard of Pippin.

"Why!" said his host, the superintendent, a little man with a face somewhat like an owl's, "d'you know the name they've given him down in the capital--'the King'--good, eh? He's made them 'sit up' all along this coast.I like him well enough--good--hearted man, shocking nervous; but my people down there can't stand him at any price.Sir, he runs this colony.You'd think butter wouldn't melt in that mouth of his; but he always gets his way; that's what riles 'em so; that and the success he's making of his mine.It puzzles me;you'd think he'd only be too glad of a quiet life, a man with his nerves.But no, he's never happy unless he's fighting, something where he's got a chance to score a victory.I won't say he likes it, but, by Jove, it seems he's got to do it.Now that's funny! I'll tell you one thing, though shouldn't be a bit surprised if he broke down some day; and I'll tell you another," he added darkly, "he's sailing very near the wind, with those large contracts that he makes.