Chapter XLVI: Downhill

After that dumb leave-taking of Madge at the station, Philip returned to his chambers, passing through the human torrent of Cheapside without any sense of sound, touch, or feeling. The room in which she had so lately stood looked desolate somehow; and yet her visit was like an ill-remembered dream. Only the plaintive voice with the faint ‘Good-bye’ haunted his ears. The sound was still in them, move where he would.

He tried to shake off the stupor which had fastened upon him as the natural result of narcotics, overstrained nerves, and want of sleep. One clear idea remained to him: so far as Madge was concerned, he had acted as a man ought to act in his circumstances. Dick Crawshay would speedily satisfy her on that score. There was a tinge of bitterness in this reflection; and the bitterness brought a gleam of light, although not sufficient yet to dispel the confused shadows of his brain. It sufficed, however, to make him aware that it was Wrentham’s vague whisperings about Beecham, and Madge’s strange association with that person, which had urged him to act so harshly. For after all, there was no reason why he should not work his way out of the mess and win sufficient means to make Madge content, however far the position might be below that in which he would like to place her. But the haunting voice echoed its ‘Good-bye,’ and it seemed as if he had put away the love which might have sustained him in this time of trial. ‘What a fool, what a fool!’ And he paced the floor restlessly, repeating that melancholy confession.

He wished Wrentham would come back, so that he might discuss the state of affairs again, and obtain explanations of certain items in the accounts he had gone over during the night. There he was at last, and something particular must have happened to make him knock so violently.

He threw open the door, and Mr Shield entered in his hurried blustering way, bringing with him a mixed aroma of brandy and gin. His bushy beard and whiskers were tangled, and his somewhat bloodshot eyes stared fiercely into space.

‘Pretty mess—horrible mess,’ he muttered in his jerky manner, as he forced his way into the room and flung his huge form on the couch; ‘and I can’t get you out of it. I’m in a mess too.’

The surprise at the appearance of Shield, his rough manner, and the announcement he made, roused Philip most effectually from his own morbid broodings.

‘You in a mess, sir—I do not understand.’ In his bewilderment, he omitted the welcome which he would have given at any other time, and did not even express surprise that Shield should have answered his letter in person.

‘You’ll get it into your head quick enough.—Give me a drink first—brandy, if you have it. Take a cigar. They’re first-rate. Drink, smoke, and I’ll tell you.’

He threw a huge cigar on the table, and lit one himself in a furious way. But, in spite of his rough reckless manner, he was watching Philip narrowly from under his heavy eyebrows. Philip having mechanically placed a bottle and glass on the table, stood waiting explanations.

‘Light up.’ (The command was obeyed slowly.) ‘Give us soda.... Ah, that’s better. Take some—you’ll want it to keep your courage up.’

‘Not at present, thank you. I should be glad if you would tell me at once the meaning of your strange statement that you too are in difficulties. That fact makes my loss of your money so much the worse.’

‘It’s bad—bad. Easily told. Think of me doing it! Got into a bogus thing—lost every available penny I had. That’s why there is no help for you.’

Mr Shield did not look like a person who had fallen from the height of fortune to the depth of poverty. He drank and smoked as one indifferent to the severest buffets of fate.

‘Gracious powers—you cannot be serious!’ ejaculated Philip.

‘Fact, all the same. Not ruin exactly; but not a brass farthing to come to me for a year or more.’

Philip paced the floor in agitation, unable to realise immediately the horrible calamity which had befallen his uncle. But the severity of the shock had the effect of rousing him to new life and vigour. All his misfortunes dwindled to pettiness beside those of his benefactor. He stopped before him, calm, and with an expression of firmness to which the lines made by recent calamities added strength. There was no more wildness in the eyes; he had suddenly grown old.

‘I understand, Mr Shield, that your present position is no better than my own?’ he said slowly.

‘Not much—maybe worse.’

‘It shall not be worse, for whatever I can gain by any labour or skill is yours.’

‘So?’ grunted Shield as he drank and stared at the man through clouds of smoke.

‘Yes, my course is plain,’ Philip went on deliberately; ‘we must sell the works and material for what they will fetch; they ought to fetch more than enough to clear off the debts.’

‘Well?’

‘I believed—and still believe—that if you had been able to make the necessary advances, we could have carried the scheme to a successful issue, notwithstanding my blunders. My first mistake was in beginning on too big a scale. That cannot be helped. Now we have to look the ruin straight in the face, and whatever work can do to make you feel your losses less, it shall be done.’

‘Don’t see how it’s to be done,’ muttered Shield, as if finding a difficulty somewhere.

‘We’ll try our best at anyrate; and you will believe, Mr Shield, that I should never have touched the money, if there had ever occurred to me a suspicion that you might some day feel the loss of it. You will remember that I always understood your wealth to be almost unlimited.’

‘_My_ wealth never was, and isn’t likely to be. Been a mighty fall in diamonds lately.’

‘Well, I understood so.’ (The emphasis on the ‘my’ was not observed by Philip.) ‘However, I hope you agree to accept the only return I can make for all your kindness to me.’

‘Don’t see how it’s to be done,’ growled Shield, again finding a difficulty somewhere.

‘We must find that out, sir,’ said Philip with quiet resolution.

‘Got to find your way out of this mess first. The works won’t bring half enough to clear off your debts. You’ve been cheated all round—paying the highest price for rubbish’——

‘Impossible!’ interrupted Philip. ‘Wrentham may have made mistakes; but he is too much a man of business to have done that.’

‘Fact it was done, all the same. Then there’s no time to turn round. That bill you drew on me falls due in a week or so.’

Philip had been about to say, ‘Wrentham must account to us, if the materials have not been according to sample and order;’ but Wrentham was driven from his mind by the last sentence, which Shield jerked out before any interruption was possible.

‘Bill!—What bill?’

‘The one for six thousand—your brother Coutts discounted it, and’.... Here Shield made a long pause, looking steadily at Philip ... ‘but it was not signed by Austin Shield.’

The huge fist came down on the table with a thump that made the glasses rattle and the lamp shake. Philip stared for an instant, thunder-stricken by this new revelation. He recovered quickly, and gave a prompt answer.

‘If there is such a bill—I did not sign it either.’

Then they glared at each other through the smoke. Shield’s face with its shaggy hair always looked like that of a Scotch terrier, in which only the eyes give a hint of expression. Suddenly his hand was thrust out and grasped Philip’s with hearty satisfaction.

‘Right! Was sure of it without a word from you; but your brother is not sure that your signature is not genuine.’

‘Did he say so?’ (How the pale cheeks flushed with indignation at the thought that Coutts should admit the one signature to be a forgery, and doubt whether his was or not.)

‘Didn’t say it—looked it,’ answered Shield with jerky emphasis.

‘When did you see him?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Why did he not come to me then, as soon as he had seen you?’

‘Don’t know’—but there was a low guttural sound, as if Shield were inwardly chuckling with self-congratulation that he understood very well why Coutts had chosen to go to him and not to his brother.

Philip was annoyed and puzzled by this curious transaction. He had always regarded his brother as such a keen trader, that it was difficult to understand how a mistake of this magnitude could be made by him.

‘Did he say how he came to deal with a bill for so large an amount without mentioning it to me?’

‘Says he took it in the ordinary way of business from your manager Wrentham. Had no reason to doubt its genuineness till afterwards when he came to compare signatures. Then he called on me.’

‘Wrentham!’ Philip started to his feet. ‘Can the man have been cheating me all along?’

‘Looks like it.’

‘He ought to be here now. I’ll send for him’——

‘Stop! There’s more in the affair and more to be got out of it than we see at this minute. We have more than a week to work in. Let’s work.’

‘Willingly; but in this matter we have nothing more to do than repudiate the forgery, and leave Coutts and the police to settle with the forger.’

He felt bitter enough towards Coutts to have little regret for the loss which was about to fall on him. He would have felt still more bitter if he had known how eagerly Coutts had made use of this forged bill to endeavour to ingratiate himself into the place which Philip held in their uncle’s estimation.

Wrentham had assured Coutts, and given him what appeared to be conclusive evidence, that Shield had realised fabulous sums out of the diamond fields, and had it in his power to realise as much more if he chose to work the ground. The greedy eyes of Coutts Hadleigh had gleamed with wild fancies suggested by these disclosures of the man who had been for a time one of Shield’s London agents; and who must therefore be able to speak with certainty of his affairs; and the greedy brain had been for months busy devising schemes by which he might win the rich man’s esteem and confidence, with the prospect of a share, at least, of his possessions. This forged bill afforded him the opportunity he desired, and he made the most of it without committing himself to any definite charge against his brother.

The cleverest men are apt to judge others in some degree by reflection of their own natures, and so go wide of the mark. Coutts tried to reach the good-will of Mr Shield through his pocket; and he went wide of his mark. He was, however, at present happy in the idea that he had scored a bull’s-eye.

‘That all you see to do?’ queried Shield after a pause, during which he watched Philip.

‘So far as the forgery is concerned, that is all.’

‘Ah.... I see more. Maybe we can get back a little of the waste. No saying. Worth trying. Anyhow, we can have a grin at the beggars who thought us bigger fools than we looked. That’s what we’ve got to work for.’

‘I don’t quite see what advantage we are to obtain in that way.’

‘Clear enough, though. We recover a part of what is lost—maybe the greater part. Don’t give Wrentham or your brother a hint till you see me again. Go on with your arrangements as if you had heard nothing.’

‘Very well, since it is your wish. Meanwhile, I shall get another bed fitted up here, so that you can occupy it as soon as you are obliged to leave the hotel. We’ll manage to keep on the chambers somehow.’

‘All right,’ said Shield, nodding his head heavily. ‘But you don’t know what you are bringing on yourself. I’m fond of _that_.’

He pointed with his cigar to the brandy bottle. Philip gave his shoulders an impatient jerk; he had no need for this confession.

‘I hope not too fond, sir; although it is easy to understand how a man leading such a solitary life as yours has been may contract the habit of looking for comfort from that false friend. But if it be so, then it is better you should be with me than with strangers.’

‘Kind—very kind. I thank you. And now that I’ve given you all this bad news, here’s a bit of good news. Found an old friend of mine—takes interest in everything. Says he’ll make an offer for the works if on investigation he finds anything practicable in your scheme. More; if he finds that your failure is not due to negligence, he’ll make you an offer for your services as manager of some sort.’

This was indeed good news, and Philip’s eyes brightened with pleasure; but his first thought was for others.

‘Then we shall not starve, uncle, thank heaven; and if your friend has capital enough, I may see my project carried out under my own direction yet.’

‘Maybe. Don’t be too jolly over it. Beecham’s a crotchety cur, and may change the whole thing.’

‘Beecham!—Is he the friend you mean?’

‘Yes. Says he knows you, and rather likes you.’

‘He is very kind,’ said Philip coldly; ‘but there is a possibility of our not agreeing if brought into frequent contact.’

‘No fear of that, no fear of that.—I’m off. Good-night.’

But before going off, he helped himself from the brandy bottle again; then, without the slightest indication of unsteadiness, strode out of the room and got into the hansom which was waiting for him.

PENCIL-MAKING.

At the head of the beautiful valley of Borrowdale lies the little hamlet of Seathwaite. Near a clump of historic yews, six or eight whitewashed cottages nestle, a favourite haunt of artists, and the one solitary place in England where plumbago is to be found in absolute purity. Here the mountains converge on either side, until Glaramara at last fills the gap and closes in the vale. Travellers who wish to proceed farther, must go, either on horseback or on foot, over Sty Head Pass, and so into Wastdale, or past Scafell, into Langdale. Secluded little spot in Cumberland as this is, its hidden treasure was well known to our ancestors at least two hundred years ago; nor did any sentimental ideas of spoiling the lovely scenery deter them from mining into the mountain-side in search of that peculiar form of carbon commonly known as blacklead, plumbago, or graphite. The first and by far the most generally used of these names is a decided misnomer, for although there are many lead-mines in Cumberland, plumbago contains no trace of lead, but is one of the two crystallised forms in which carbon exists; the other being the diamond. Plumbago as found here lies in nests or pockets—or _sops_, as they are locally named. These sops are cavernous holes, varying in size from a few cubic inches to several cubic feet, and occur in the solid rock, resembling on a large scale what are known as air-holes in iron castings. The miners follow certain veins of granite as a guide to the sops, and come upon them suddenly in the heart of the mountain. It is in these that the plumbago—or _wad_, as the workmen call it—is found, in the form of black lumps, just like eggs in a nest. Some pieces are as small as peas, and others as large as big melons. How that plumbago came there, is a great puzzle to geologists. Odd pieces have been occasionally turned up by husbandmen whilst delving the ground; but it is probable that these were originally imbedded in the rocks, masses of which, having become detached by frost and rain, fell into the valley, and in their descent were broken up, and so laid bare the plumbago that was inside.

Owing to its power of standing great heat, our forefathers used plumbago for crucibles, a large portion being sent to the Mint for operations connected with coining. Pencils were also made of it; and people who have been accustomed to hear of Cumberland lead-pencils, may imagine that they are yet; but it is a mistake. A drawing-pencil made of this virgin graphite cannot be manufactured to cost less than a shilling; and who, except for some exceptional work, would give such a price? The scientific chemist has stepped in and supplied a cheaper article. Conté, a Frenchman, about the end of last century, was the first to suggest a substitute, or rather a partial one; and since then, his idea has been step by step worked out and perfected, until to-day we are able to produce a commercial pencil at the wholesale price of less than one farthing. Even crucibles are now rarely made from it; so that, what with one thing and another, the Borrowdale mine has been closed for the last five years. Many of the visitors suppose that the stoppage of the works is caused by the mine having been exhausted. This, however, is a mistake, as there is every reason to believe that there are yet very large quantities of plumbago in the rock; but the cost of production, and the discovery of cheaper substitutes, render further mining impracticable as a commercial undertaking.

To give an idea of the difference in value of plumbago—the last lot from this mine sold in London brought thirty shillings per pound; and it has been known to sell for one hundred and sixty shillings; whilst the price at present for best foreign is about forty shillings per hundredweight, or, say, fourpence per pound. Inferior qualities, such as are used for blackleading grates, &c., can be bought much cheaper. Foreign plumbago is chiefly imported from Ceylon and Bohemia, where it is found in veins in large quantities; but as this kind cannot be used for pencils in its crude state, it has to be ‘manufactured.’ This is done largely at Keswick; so that, after all, when a purchaser buys a ‘best Cumberland pencil,’ he is not altogether deceived; for although the blacklead does come from Ceylon and the cedar from Florida, were they not first introduced to each other by the Keswick workman, toiling at his bench in the water-turned mills on the banks of the Greta? The Borrowdale graphite varies much in degree of hardness; consequently, in the old days when it was made into pencils, each lump was tested and sorted according to the depth of colour it produced on a piece of paper. The classification was from H.H.H. or very hard, to B.B.B.B. or very soft and black. The graphite was then sawn by hand into strips, which were inserted into a slot or groove in the wood, and the whole glued together and turned in a lathe into a pencil. The method of to-day is quite different, and there being great competition in this trade, speed combined with good work is the principal end to be attained to bring the cost as low as possible.

The three mills at Keswick employ about a hundred workpeople, males and females. The men earn on an average about twenty-five shillings per week, and the women about twelve. The blacklead—we are now speaking of imported plumbago—is first crushed and then mixed with what is technically called a _binding_, the composition of which is a trade secret and varies at each mill. Its purpose is, as the term denotes, to give a glutinous consistency to the powdered plumbago and also to add to the blackness of its marking qualities. Lampblack, sulphuric acid, gum-arabic, resin, and several other substances are used in this binding. The whole is worked into a pulp between revolving stones. It is then partially dried and again crushed. Whilst in this half-dry state, it is forced through a mould under considerable pressure. These moulds are of various sizes, from a very big one a quarter-inch square, used for fancy walking-sticks—a mere catchpenny, and purchased only by tourists as mementoes—to the little round ones used for putting into pencil-cases and which are called ‘lead-points.’ The intermediate sizes are known as Carpenters, Drawing, Pocket-book, and Programme. A workman receives the thin strip of blacklead as it is slowly forced through the mould, and at intervals breaks it off, carefully placing it on a board between pieces of wood. By this means a large quantity can be kept without fear of damage. When sufficient is moulded to compose a baking, the oven is heated; and these long slips, which are exactly the size of the lead in a pencil, are cut into lengths of about four inches, and packed with care in cast-iron crucibles. These are then put into the oven, and allowed to remain at a red heat for two hours. When gently cooled, the leads are ready for pencils.

In another part of the manufactory, a different kind of work is going on—that of preparing, or rather working the wood, for it undergoes no change but that of shape. Cedar is universally used, except in very low qualities and carpenters’ pencils. Most of this wood comes from America; and Florida is one of the largest exporting States. The chief reasons for using cedar are—that it is easily worked, is soft, straight-grained, free from knots, and is sweet-scented. Am eminent firm of toilet-soap makers have taken note of this last quality, and purchase all the cedar sawdust that is made in these pencil-mills. A minimum of waste is one of the sure signs of an advanced civilisation. Many and various circular saws reduce the cedar logs into strips of two sizes—one, about thirty inches long, an inch and a quarter wide, and three-eighths of an inch thick; the other, of the same dimensions, but only half the thickness. These are examined; and any having defects, such as knots, cracks, &c., are laid aside, to be used in shorter lengths, the bad places having been cut out. The thicker or three-eighth-inch strips are then passed through the grooving-machine, which cuts out three perfect and clean grooves up the whole length. These are now ready to receive the strips of lead, which are first dipped in glue and placed by girls into the grooves, which they exactly fill. The wood has now the appearance of having three black lines running parallel along the whole length. This surface is then brushed over with hot glue and the thinner strip placed firmly on it. If any pencil is looked at closely, the joining of these two pieces will be easily noticed. The whole is placed, with many similar ones, in a frame, where they are pressed firmly together until the glue has quite set.

It will be understood that now each piece is composed of two strips of wood, firmly glued together, inside which, three grooves, filled with plumbago composition, run from one end to the other—about thirty inches, or sufficient to make four pencils to each groove—that is, twelve pencils in all. The length of a finished pencil is seven inches. These pieces are then taken to a very curious machine and passed twice through. The first time, the top surface is ploughed from end to end into what resembles three distinct semicircular ridges; the piece is then turned, and the other side treated in a similar manner. The result of this second ploughing is that three perfectly circular and entirely separate lengths are seen to emerge from the machine. On examining any one of these, it will be found to be a pencil thirty inches long, having the vein of blacklead exactly in the centre. This is an American invention, and has done much to reduce the cost of the modern pencil.

The pencils, however, have to pass through many hands before they can claim to be finished. Women rub them with fine sand-paper, other women varnish and polish them, and then they are cut by a circular saw into seven-inch lengths. For the first time, they could now be recognised by a child as pencils. A thin shaving is taken off each end, which gives them a finished appearance and causes the lead to shine, as the saw does not cut clean enough for a fastidious public. Lastly, the pencil is stamped, not necessarily always with the maker’s name, for nowadays he occasionally sinks his individuality for the purpose of selling his wares; and for an order of a gross, some makers will stamp any village stationer’s name on each pencil.

MR PUDSTER’S RETURN.