Conflict

Preface

It is always difficult to express thanks to one's birthplace for the qualities it bestows upon its citizens without seeming to call attention to the possession of those qualities. Yet as Birmingham does not bestow on its inhabitants the handicap of diffidence , I can unabashed confront this obstacle.

For Birmingham has a magnificently stimulating atmosphere which endows its citizens with qualities which we translate as confidence and hope and high ambition.

It is true , those who live outside that city may sneer at us as being cocksure , ignorant and insufferably conceited: but Birmingham brings us up with too sure belief in ourselves to let other folks' opinions trouble us.

And so, my city, I write a grateful eulogy of all those qualities you give your citizens. From the heart of the Midlands you send them forth into the world, surely and strongly equipped for the world-struggle. From early childhood they have breathed the spirit of

VI

PREFACE endeavour , incessant , always building , always making better , always confident. We see those citizens who rise to the heights of merchant princes devoting time and brain and fortune to the making and perfecting of their city: from the smoky bustling plain of commerce rise splendid Law Courts , Hospitals and Public Buildings, surmounted now by the great University , the finest flower of toil. And still we triumph in the fact that the Birmingham of to-day will be nothing to the Birmingham of to-morrow: for our city is the dearest ideal of those who live in it: and the pride of our city rises high in the hearts of those who issue from it.

Therefore , in gratitude for the cock-sure courage , the unlimited ambition , the aggressive endeavour, with which the city teems, a common heritage for those who spring from it I raise a small pecan of acknowledgment.

And because I love my heroine, I could think of no better city to produce her; and no better fate that could befall her than to go back to the work of city-making.

November, 1906.

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CHAPTER I “ A man may pay too dearly for his livelihood.”

Robert Louis Stevenson.

The click-click of the typewriter sounded in the distance. Overhead, the chill light of a late March afternoon filtered in through two closed and grubby skylights, while the fumes of a gas-fire lent added oppression to the atmosphere. A clerk was checking invoices with methodical swiftness: he was the only tenant of a room which bore the stamp of a private office. The roll-top desk, arm-chair, and safe gave importance to its stuffy smallness.

Presently the door flew open with a bang, and a stenographer appeared with a handful of letters. She was a smart young woman in a fussy waist and trim short skirt, and she carried the letters to the desk with provocative assurance.

“Miss van Heyten out?”

“Yes. She’s gone up to Mr. Berryfield’s.”

“Is he better?”

“Not that I know of. He’s an old man, you know: seventy if he’s a day. You don’t get pneumonia at that age without trouble.”

“Oh, Mr. Berryfield’ll last us all out!” The girl swung round with a pert toss of her head. “They say he’s never missed being at the office at nine, for fifty years — wet or fine — till this knock out. Just think ! Fifty years of drudgery.”

“Exactly. And it’s telling now. Eve always said — when the governor does jack up, he’ll go out altogether. He’s been living on his capital. No reserve fund.”

“It does seem funny without him, don’t it? I can’t stand seeing Miss Hey ten strutting about as if the place belonged to her. How Mr. Berryfield can think so much of her I can’t imagine. She’s such a dowdy.”

Miss Beet approached the little looking-glass which hung below the three pegs on the wall, and arranged her tie complacently.

Her companion continued his work without much attention to the radiant vision in front of him. He was used to Miss Beet’s coquetries. Office work has a dulling effect on the sensibilities.

“She’s a good worker,” he remarked.

“Oh, it makes me sick to see her staying here when everybody else has gone! You’d think she lived on office-work. It’s most unnatural. She’s only twenty-four, which is very young as girls go now-a-days. Why, one’s not on the shelf at twenty-nine, and we’ll soon be owning up to thirty. It’s seventeen that’s passee now-a-days. Funny, isn’t it, how fashions change?” Miss Beet twisted round, trying to get a good view of her back in the small compass behind her. “Though it’s extraordinary how blouses last,” she murmured pensively. “I don’t believe they’ll ever go out, do you? By the bye, if anything happens to Mr. Berryfield, we shall have to go into black !”

The thought was voiced with a fitting gravity. Her new pink blouse was very dear to Miss Beet’s emotional young heart. Her hearer did not encourage sentiment.

“I don’t hold with mourning,” he said tersely.

“But it’s such an old firm!” returned Miss Beet, now wallowing in pensive forecast. “I think it’s the least that we can do, especially if we’re remembered. He’s just the sort to leave a mourning ring all round. I should think Miss van Heyten’s certain to get something. It isn’t as if he’d any family. He has nothing but the business to take interest in. You mark my words, he’ll think of us !”

Miss Bett’s hopeful imaginings stopped inconsequently. The door had opened again, and a young girl was entering. It could not be claimed that Mary van Heyten was an attractive figure. Her features were finely and firmly moulded, and she had beautiful grey eyes, very frank and intense : but the slight form was hidden in garments of shapeless cut and discordant colour, a green bodice sandwiched on to a brown skirt, and surmounted by an old-fashioned black jacket which matched her sailor hat. As she walked her skirt dragged unevenly, and it could be seen that her gloves were full of holes and her boots were clumsy and needed blacking. It was obvious that Miss van Heyten had not only no taste for dress but apparently no time for it.

And yet there was a verve in the poise of her head and an assurance in her carriage which commanded instant attention. She did not droop; her gait had a spirited air which was almost a swagger. She was so unconscious of the defects of her appearance that even Miss Beet did not dare to sneer at it.

The door closed behind her, and she stood pulling the hat-pins from her hat in preoccupation. Her hair, pushed back into a loose knot, lacked even the saving grace of tidiness. Her brow was creased into a deep furrow.

Both the young man and the girl greeted her advent with awakened interest. The clerk stopped his filing. Miss Beet turned her back upon the desk and stood facing her, with the titillated demeanour which any news pertaining to serious illness brings.

“Well, is he any better?”

“No.” The newcomer spoke with difficulty. Her voice was strained and husky. “There are two doctors with him. They couldn’t tell me anything.”

“They haven’t given up hope?” Miss Beet’s voice came with eager brightness. A sudden revulsion of feeling seemed to seize the hearer, she turned almost savagely.

“Of course not! ,,

“Well, I’m sure!” Miss Beet retreated, injured. The clerk took up the cudgels sympathetically.

“It’s a perfectly harmless question, Miss van Heyten, considering that Mr. Berryfield’s past seventy ”

“He’s stronger than any of us.”

“Ah, but his sedentary life must tell.”

The words struck on the girl’s ear with disgusting unctuousness. Mr. Berryfield, whom they all had feared so, lay helpless, and like ghouls, the office slaves exulted.

“Business is all very well, but he’s stuck too close to it, and he’s reaping the results. You can’t play tricks with a constitution and escape results.”

“No indeed!” Miss Beet struck in jauntily. “I think it’s simply sinful to work as Mr. Berryfield has worked. Why, life’s not worth living, lived like that.”

“Not worth living!”

Miss van Heyten was not in a condition to argue calmly. While it is possible to exist on thirty shillings a week and save on it, the food which that sum provides is often not the food a highly-strung girl fancies. Neither can one work fourteen hours a day without “results.” Mr. Berryfield’s secretary was at the stage when the slamming of a door would make her start from her chair, and the day’s calculations followed her home and danced before her closed eyes even while she slept. At the present moment, her voice was shaking in a curious manner as she broke out with her answer.

“Not worth living! to have built up such a firm as Berryfield’s : to have made with one’s own hands with scarcely any capital a business like Berryfield’s — the biggest in the tube trade? To be first of anything is worth living for, and there's no one in sight of us.”

The girl paused, breathless. From the deep circles round them, her eyes blazed forth furiously. Her hearer answered with irritating serenity.

“Oh, I dunno. What about Cuvier’s? They’re getting a lot of contracts now.”

“Nothing that matters.”

“I’m not so sure. From what I hear, Cuvier’s pretty smart.”

“Cuvier! why, he’s been bankrupt.” The words lashed forth.

“Ah, but he’s up again. That was ages ago. I don’t say he’s not a bit of a gambler, but he’s a big man, and now he’s sound enough.”

“I’m surprised — surprised !”

Miss van Heyten turned, confronting him. Tier heart was nearly bursting with rage at such disloyalty. Mr. Berryfield was lying sick to death, and his own people were beginning to erect new gods and pulling at his pedestal.

Cuvier’s was a younger firm which had only arisen in the last few years: it was true it was forging rapidly ahead, and of late years on one or two occasions had seriously threatened Berryfield’s. It is never pleasant to feel young blood overtaking one. Berryfield’s reign had been so unquestioned that any intrusion on its supremacy seemed a positive impertinence, and Cuvier’s daring strokes of business were bitterly resented by the older firm. Rumours of Cuvier’s personal immorality added to Mr. Berryfield’s animosity against his business rival.

There are two kinds of financiers, the money-spinner and the gambler. One has the lust of acquisition, the other the lust of conflict. To the one victory is a principle; to the other, an emotion. Berrvfield and Cuvier represented the two poles of temperament: personal hate was inevitable in their rivalry. Cuvier’s very name was a red rag to Mr. Berryfield ; and to hear it now, sent his devoted secretary into a whitehot frenzy.

“You’ll be defending his moral character next!”

Miss van Heyten’s tone was not calculated to mollify her opponents. Miss Beet tiptoed daintily over to the enemy.

“His portrait’s very handsome. Did you see it in last week’s Sketch ? I love that sleepy kind. And a man as rich as him, living in London too, must have such temptations,” Miss Beet sighed delicately.

“Whatever he is in private life don’t make him a rascal in business. The fact is, Berryfield’s has had the whole field so long, Mr. Berryfield can’t stand a younger man coming alongside him.”

“Cuvier’s will never be alongside us.”

Mr. Berryfield had at least one loyal adherent in his secretary.

A girl of courage and of character, her training had developed both. Left an orphan in early childhood, a London uncle, then a young and struggling journalist, had paid for her board and education in Birmingham, choosing that city on account of the scholarships at the excellent High Schools, through which indeed Mary had considerably lessened the cost of her education. When the girl arrived at the mature age of fifteen, her uncle married. From that day she had pushed and struggled and fought her way alone.

It had been a hard fight until she had arrived at Berryfield’s.

Miss van Heyten possessed divers qualities which pleased the old Quaker. Her principles were as rigid as his own : her sense of duty and of loyalty unswerving. He trusted her as he trusted no other on his staff. Her quick brain, too, attracted him : he found her judgment keen and daring.

Since his illness, she had gone daily to his house, reported everything and received directions, returning to fulfil them, for Mr. Berryfield liked to drive alone, and there was no one but Miss van Heyten to take his place. It must be said that the young woman in question was in no way daunted by the sudden responsibility. She felt like a partner in the business: Mr. Berryfield listened to her opinion, even invited it : she knew his wishes absolutely; more, shared his ideals. The honour of the firm was as dear to her as it was to Mr. Berryfield.

Business people are not devoid of sentiment. The careless words of the clerk struck to her soul. Her sensitive face was twitching with the intensity of her emotion as she answered.

“It takes more than a few years to build up such a reputation as we’ve got. Our word’s as good as other people’s agreements. We’ve never had a deal which the whole world mightn’t know of. There’s no firm in the whole country which is so respected. Mr. Berryfield hasn’t given his life for nothing. To belong to Berryfield’s is something to be proud of.”

The tears had started to her eyes. Ill-fed, uncouthly dressed, the working girl had a certain spiritual dignity. She was one of the drudges that pushed Life’s wheel, but the glory of endeavour illumined her for one brief moment.

Then her exaltation faded: with a sudden crimsoning of countenance, she moved awkwardly to the desk, conscious of the lack of sympathy from those who heard — more of their contempt.

Miss Beet was not slow in voicing it.

“Why, you’re as bad as Mr. Berryfield. If you’ll excuse me, dear, you take things much too seriously. All work and no play, you know, et cetera. One must have some relaxation. We’re made for pleasure quite as much as for work: in fact, if you’re a girl, more so,”

Miss Beet placed her hands on her trim waist and cast a responsive glance to admiring masculinity. Mary caught the glance. Something in her sickened at the tawdry invitation, the cheap superficiality of the flirtation.

She sat down to the desk with the decisive air that was habitual to her.

“If yop don’t find pleasure here, you ought to,” she said tersely. “It’s better to be doing things that count, than twisting round in a young man’s arms at dances.”

“Good heavens, Miss Heyten! You can’t work day and night!” The young man spoke defensively.

“You can go home and rest, so that you’re fresh for the morning’s work, instead of frittering your energy in foolishness and coming half-asleep!”

Mary was sincere in her belief. Responsibility makes one strangely old. At a very early age she had summed up the worth of youth’s distractions. Dances and theatres mean late hours, and late hours mean early morning headaches ; country excursions mean money, which must be taken from the sick fund in the savings bank. Who but unthinking fools could take pleasure in frivolities with such inevitable consequences ? Pity her not, nor blame her neither ! Where other maids swayed lightly this way and that to the shrill flutes of fancy, Mary’s spirit thrilled in no way to the pretty tinkling. For her, the roll of drums upon man’s battle-field ! Her blood danced to the grim fury of the struggle. At Berrvfield’s she stood close up against the whirring wheel of industry; her young strength pushed the rim. When the headaches did not come, her working days were full of joy; and even when she felt depressed and ill, there was a certain pleasure to be found in battling with Nature and winning through by sheer will-power.

But alas, for Mary’s philosophy the retort was ii very obvious. It came from Miss Beet’s lips with astonishing pertinence.

‘‘Well, you don’t look fit for work.”

"No, you’re sticking at it much too hard. Every one’s saying how ill you look. Do take a bit of advice now.”

“I’m not ill. I’m not ill.”

With blazing eyes the girl faced them. She was defending so much. This faintness that she combatted was threatening to overthrow her ; it was beating at the doors. But she was holding the fortress still for Berryfield’s. She would never give in — never ; yet the clerks’ coarse sympathy maddened her. She spoke desperately.

“When Mr. Berryfield comes back it will be all right. It’s only the responsibility. If I could see him for

a moment ” She broke off with a queer, dry

sob. Suddenly she felt lonely. Only she in all the firm seemed to care for what he cared for; only she was there to guard his interests. The others grudged their time, devotion, strength — conserving such for their miserable outside lives. Mary alone gave all and held back nothing.

Miss Beet was not ill-natured. Her voice softened.

“But he mayn’t be back for some time, and you have too much, really. You’ve been here till eleven every night this week. Why don’t you leave things to Mr. Sanders?”

“Sanders is manager of the works. I’m a secretary !” The well-meant words came as fuel to the fire. Most women would have “left things” to Sanders, the active, pushing, up-to-date ; only Mary knew the temptation she had fought, to “leave things” to his grasping hands ! But she had kept true to her trust.

“I keep things in my hands, because Mr. Berryfield can know then exactly what has happened, and everything is then done as he wishes. Sanders would do as he thinks best. I do as Mr. Berryfield thinks best,”

Loyally she held the colours: her head was aching tragically: the terrible weakness was creeping over her: every nerve was tingling. Yet she must hold on.

Miss Beet shrugged her shoulders. If Miss van Heyten chose to work herself to death, it was her look-out. She turned away with a swing of her accordion-pleated skirt.

“Oh well, it will kill you,” she said flippantly. “A girl oughtn’t to have such responsibility.”

“It’s a man’s place,” said her colleague with equal determination.

Mary mastered her emotion with an effort.

“Have you finished those invoices ?” said she.

“Nearly.”

“Finish them in the next room, then. I can’t do my letters with you chattering. I’ll send for you when I want you, Miss Beet. Get on with the filing.”

Miss van Heyten could command authority. In another minute she was alone. She rose up quickly, and glanced at the square of glass which hung on the wall opposite. The face that looked back at her was the face of a sick person.

Poor food, close rooms, and incessant strain were routing a vigorous nervous constitution. Signs of this had not been wanting for weeks past. A growing disinclination for her untempting meals, queer shooting headaches which left perpetual heaviness as a reminder, pricking sensations which ran through her whole body to the tips of her fingers. But she had taken little heed of these signals until the sight of her lined visage woke her into consciousness.

Supposing she fell ill?

For the first time in her life fear touched her. She fought desperately: she could not be ill. There was no one who could take her place till Mr. Berrvfield returned. Besides, she could not afford it. She must combat and subdue the feeling with inertness.

She fell upon the pile of letters with desperate intensity, calling all her strength to push the panic from her, and to some extent succeeding, though the fear stayed dully in the background. When one is entirely dependent on one’s own energy, the temporary loss of that energy has an appalling significance: when one has in addition an overwhelming conception of one’s responsibilities, the burden becomes oppressive.

Miss van Hey ten had the courage of a dozen average men ; she knew she must not let her thoughts dwell on the possibilities of illness. She plunged into the contents of the pile of letters as into a douche-bath.

Half-a-dozen were read mechanically, and as mechanically dismissed. Then one arrested her attention. It was a short note, merely stating that a representative from the rival firm of Cuvier’s was coming from London that day to bring a matter before Mr. Berryfield’s notice, for which they must ask explanation. In the over- wrought state of the girl’s mind, the letter was a menace, so unexpected and mysterious that she felt what she very seldom felt, the need of counsel.

Miss van Heyten was a young woman of prompt action. A telephone stood on the desk. In another minute she had given a number and was holding the receiver to her ear.

“That you, Mr. Sanders? I’ve just received a letter from Cuvier’s saying there’s a serious matter they must bring before our notice, and get an explanation. What? Nothing to do with you? I didn’t say it had !”

A growl from the other end of the wire.

“I can’t see Mr. Berryfield. If I could, I shouldn’t be consulting you.”

The girl’s face flushed.

“I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me, Mr. Sanders. I was going to tell you: Cuvier’s are sending a man down to see me. Yes. Me!”

H

A sharp request from the unseen interlocutor.

“You? Why should I send him on to you? I can see him perfectly well. ... I tell you, Mr. Berryfield can’t be got at. There are two doctors with him now. ... No, of course they haven’t given him up; but it’s impossible to worry him with this. . . . Refuse to see Cuvier’s messenger ? What do you think I’m here for?”

“What was that?”

The reply came stentoriously.

Miss van Heyten hung up the receiver sharply. Between her and Sanders, the manager of the works, there was an open feud. He was sharp and pushing, and bitterly resented the girls importance with Mr. Berryfield. On her side the girl distrusted Sanders: she knew that everything was not brought to her notice. Between the office and the works communication faltered, how or where it was difficult to say, but she felt the lack of loyalty. Mr. Berryfield away, Sanders had the opportunity of engaging on expeditions of his own, and Miss van Heyten scented them.

She sat still, thinking. An insignificant girl, pale of skin and sunken-eyed, with no feminine charm and grace : yet a woman, and a young woman, facing a load of responsibility which must be shouldered manfully. A woman with the dull sense of the need to live and the difficulty of so doing, with the multiplicity of cares attendant on so large a business weighing on her, with the under-current of physical uneasiness threatening her strength. Nothing romantic : only a conscientious clerk, trying her hardest to keep her head above the flood and guide her master’s barque through troubled waters.

Cuvier’s was threatening Berryfield’s. She alone was there to defend the firm. She, unnerved and overworked, answerable for her actions to a stern employer who could give no help.

Heroism is the most picturesque and gallant of the virtues. I claim it for this tired-out young woman when she set her lips together, drew her head up, and looked back at the office wall with eyes in which determination burned again.

Chapter II

“ Put them in a hospital, place them in jail in yellow overalls, do what you will, young Jessamy finds young Jenny.”

R. L. S.

Miss van Heyten had betrayed unwonted emotion in her conversation with her fellow-clerks. The young woman whom Mr. Cuvier’s representative confronted, showed no sign of it. She was so eminently clerk-like that he hesitated on the threshold. He had come on a matter of grave importance, and had not expected to be confronted with this shabby, insignificant young girl. For the moment he did not realise that she was the person he was supposed to see.

He spoke tentatively.

“Mr. Berryfield ....?”

Miss van Heyten nodded curtly.

“I’m his secretary. You are from Cuvier’s. We were advised of your coming by this morning’s post.”

Mr. Hayden Cobb still hesitated. He was a tall, strongly-built young man with deep-set eyes and a sensitive but resolute mouth. There was a quiet reserve about him which Mary resented as “superior.” The indefinable atmosphere of good breeding which surrounded him, set him apart from the crudities of the office-clerks. He made no pretence of politeness nor of homage and yet there was chivalry in his bearing. It intensified her natural hostility that he had the advantage of her in manner and equipment ; she felt in some way it reflected upon Berryfield’s.

His words did not soothe her.

“I am afraid I must ask to see whoever is in charge.”

“I am in charge.”

“Of Berryfield’s ?”

Incredulity was written in his tone. Mary’s lips compressed themselves.

“Yes. Mr. Berryfield attends to everything himself. I go to him each day to take his letters and directions. The last week he has been too ill to see me so I have had to manage by myself. There is no one else whom you can see.”

The newcomer’s eyes were fixed upon the girl : they were studying her anaemic face. Mary felt herself flushing under the close scrutiny. She drew herself up antagonistically.

“Perhaps you will kindly make up your mind what you’re going to do as I’m busy.” She put out her hand to touch the bell. A distinct smile came into the young man’s eyes. He put his hat down.

“I think I had better see you then.”

“Be as quick as possible, please.”

Cobb measured a glance with this business-like young woman, and discovered that her eyes were grey and singularly unresponsive. Also that her square jaw belied the pallor of her complexion. He was in the presence of somebody who counted, and he was beginning to realise it.

He sat down and took out his pocket-book.

“My business is that your manager has induced our foreman to sell him certain information.”

“Sanders ?”

“Yes. We suspected some one was tampering with the man. Then these letters were discovered. They prove that Sanders has been buying inside information.”

“There must be some mistake!”

Miss van Heyten’s brow was knitted ; her eyes were stern.

Cobb referred to the pocket-book.

“There is another name implicated. Denvers. He seems to be forming a syndicate to help you purchase something to which we have the prior claim !”

“Denvers!”

Mary laughed outright.

“I thought there was some muddle ! Denvers help Berryfield’s ! Why, Denvers has nothing ; he’s the sort of man who ‘knows people’ and forms shady syndicates for highly speculative enterprises. Denvers help us, when we’ve a reserve fund of a million. Its

too amusing. Really, Mr. — er ” She took up the

card, and read out the name carelessly, “Cobb — if that’s all you’ve come to tell me, I needn’t detain you.”

She was rising. The young man no longer saw her shabbiness. She was a power, insolent and unassailable. His lips tightened, his eyes grew steely. He had risen also.

“Will you do me the favour of looking at these please.”

Mary stretched out her hand for the letters; her gaze met his, but something stabbed within her heart. Mr. Cobb’s resolute demeanour also inspired confidence.

The sight of the handwriting turned her cheeks a little paler. She switched on the green-shaded desk lamp, and bent down, peering at the words. One sentence flashed out, as in characters of fire.

“I shall be seeing Denvers on Tuesday and will write you how far he has proceeded with our syndicate.”

One may nerve oneself to meet disaster, yet when it comes the realisation is as overpowering as if it had been unexpected. There could be no doubt of the justice of the charge that Cuvier’s had brought against them. Sanders’ handwriting was unmistakable.

Yet that Berryfield’s could be impugned by Cuvier’s !

She could not stop now to think of the shame of it. All her wits and strength were needed to guard the dignity which was so seriously threatened. She raised her head with a composure which mystified the young man opposite. He did not see the clenched hands upon her knee, the force with which she kept her voice even. He was only conscious of her unshaken self-possession.

“This is a very serious matter. I must thank you for having brought it to our notice. Mr. Berryfield has been away for three weeks now ”

“Unfortunately, these letters date three months back.”

She had made a gigantic effort and preserved the mask of calmness but behind it her tired brain was whirling. She did not see his meaning. She only knew she hated this quiet, self-assured young man who looked “London” all over, the corrupt extravagant London where Cuvier lived. Though she had never set eyes on the latter, she shared her employer’s feeling toward him. Cuvier raced ; figured at fashionable gatherings; was a personage whose doings were chronicled by the London papers. His secretary came from that world and bore its imprint. The fact that he was remarkably good-looking, and had treated her with a simple respect which she did not receive from the clerks in the office, her only men acquaintances, added to her irritation.

If he had blustered, she could have retorted; as it was, she had nothing to retaliate against.

His brown eyes regarded her very steadily as he spoke.