The factories of Lechworthy & Co. covered many acres at Setton Park, and the large village adjoining was inhabited almost solely by those employed in the factories.

In the factories as in the offices of Lechworthy & Co. one found the last word of effectiveness and enterprise. Time after time good machinery had been scrapped to make way for better and to meet American competition, and the enormous outlay involved had subsequently justified itself. Everything connected with their business was manufactured at Setton Park. Boxes and crates were made there. They made every metal article required—from the eyelets of a pair of cheap boots to the gold fittings of the most expensive dressing-case. They made their own glue. They even made their own thread.

Lechworthy & Co. were good employers. They paid fair wages, and in the treatment of their workwomen went far beyond what the Factory Acts required of them. Allotments, cricket fields, libraries, recreation halls abounded. Lechworthy & Co. had themselves seen to it that the least paid woman in the packing or lining departments could obtain an abundant supply of pure milk for her babies at a price she could easily afford. The sanitation was excellent, and the delightful air of the country—for the tannery was at a judicious distance—made town-workers envy their more fortunate comrades at Lechworthy’s. Thrift was compulsory and automatic. The man who grew old and past work, or who broke down from illness in the company’s service, found ample provision made for him from funds to which his own savings had contributed, augmented by the company’s generosity. Such a man need not leave Setton Park; there was a cottage for him, and it was not called an alms-house; medical attendance was provided free for him. The conditions still prevailed which were established when Lechworthy turned his business into a Limited Company. The ordinary investor had never been given a chance to put a penny into the concern. Lechworthy had by far the largest holding, and the other shareholders were men of a like mind, personal and political friends; men of substance, and, it was averred, of nice conscience. The company earned an excellent dividend, in spite of its philanthropical ideas.

It was not of course to be expected that Lechworthy & Co. would entirely escape criticism. The man who has political friends has also political enemies, and the political enemy is not always too scrupulous in the way in which he inquires into his opponents’ private business. A part at least of the raw material which the company purchased had been subjected to comment. Their attitude towards any smaller manufacturer was characterised as merciless—he was absorbed into Lechworthy’s, or he was frozen off the face of the earth. The scheme of compulsory thrift was commented upon even by those who did not deny a value to compulsory virtues. It was said quite truly that any man who voluntarily left the company’s service, or who was dismissed for misconduct, thereby sacrificed all that he had been compelled to put by. It was answered as truly that every man who entered the service knew upon what conditions he entered it, and that the company had a right to guard itself against disloyalty, defection and disorder, by all the means in its power. In view of the fact that Lechworthy had always proclaimed freedom of religious and political opinions, it was held to be remarkable that ninety per cent. of his work-people shared his political views, and that while every shade of dissent was represented among them, it was hard to find a member of the Church of England and impossible to find either a Catholic or an Agnostic. If this were mentioned to Lechworthy he said merely that he had been fortunate, or that he supposed that like attracted like. He was sincere, and had strong convictions; he was also shrewd and knew that strong convictions depend amazingly little upon argument. Many a workman of Lechworthy’s had professed for mercenary and time-serving reasons a religion which had afterwards become real to him—not as the result of a cool reasoning analysis, but by sheer force of habit and by the unconscious effect of example. Now and again a discharged servant of the company asserted bitterly that he had been discharged for his political or religious views, but the head of his department always had another story to tell, and the evidence of discharged servants is always—and quite properly—discounted. A more serious charge was that he had kept on servants whom he should have discharged. Mr Bruce Chalmers, the Conservative candidate, had attempted to address a meeting of the men in their dinner-hour. Lechworthy’s young men had smashed up the motor-car, and hurled stones and mud at himself, his wife, and his supporters. Mrs Bruce Chalmers had been seriously injured, the police had come to the rescue, and several of these fervent young men had been imprisoned without the option of a fine. But their situations were still waiting for them when they came out, and in some of the worst cases promotion rapidly followed. Lechworthy maintained that he had told Chalmers that if he addressed the men he would do so at his own risk, and that those who provoked a breach of the peace should not complain if the peace were broken. If, as he supposed, the law had punished his men sufficiently, it would have been unnecessary and unjust for him to punish them further. Those who knew that two words from Lechworthy would have prevented the outbreak, or knew what Lechworthy’s attitude would have been to a workman who had been fined for drunkenness, did not think the defence satisfactory. For the rest, the selection of books in the free library at Setton Park provoked a sneer, the blacking out of all the racing news in the reading-room papers seemed a little childish, and the absence of a rifle-range, when gymnasia, swimming-baths, and cricket fields were liberally provided, was taken as an instance of the short-sighted methods of professed lovers of peace.

At the age of sixty Lechworthy determined to retire from the board of his company. He had relinquished the position of managing director some years before. He was not so young as he had been—it was his favourite observation—and other men could be found to take his place on the board. He was an active Member of Parliament and he was the proprietor of the Morning Guide. The paper did not pay, and Lechworthy did not run it to pay; he said more than once in public that he ran it in the service of Christ. Incidentally, it was of some use as an organ of his political party, and a most enthralling hobby for himself. While in England he was quite incapable of leaving the editor alone for two days together. The same doctor who had recommended him to retire from the board of Lechworthy & Co. had suggested a prolonged holiday in some place where it would be impossible for him to see a copy of the Morning Guide.

The occasion of his retirement had of course to be marked. Sounded upon the subject, Lechworthy had objected to the service of gold plate or to his full-length portrait by the most fashionable and most expensive artist. He did not want for money, or for the things that money can buy, and he said that he thought the talented artist might find some more pleasing subject. He knew too, that subscriptions would come from many who could ill afford to give them, and that idea was repellent to him. But he consented to receive an illuminated address, to which his employees might affix their signatures. The address swelled itself to a book, every leaf of the finest vellum, magnificently bound, majestically expressed. The title-page declared as follows:

The presentation of this rather portentous volume was to take place on a Saturday evening. On the afternoon of that day every employee of the company was invited to tea by Lechworthy. A number of vast marquees were erected for the purpose on the cricket-field; and the return match between Setton Park and the Hanley Wanderers was in consequence postponed. The Evening News headed its paragraph on the subject: “Lechworthy packing—who made the portmanteau?” But the paragraph itself dealt seriously with statistics supplied by the firm of caterers, informing the curious how many hams or how many pats of butter had been thought sufficient. The Setton Park Band performed on the occasion. The antique show of Punch and Judy was to be seen freely, and swings were prevalent. Wilberforce Lechworthy went from one marquee to another, joined in the audience that witnessed the flagrant immoralities of Mr Punch, and chatted with the crowds that waited for their turn at the swings. He displayed a king-like memory for faces and the geniality of a headmaster on Speech-day. The presentation of the address took place some hours later in a hall which, though it was the largest at the company’s disposal, could not provide seating accommodation for one third of its workers. Heads of departments had tickets, and seniority of service counted. For those who were of necessity omitted, Mr Lechworthy had provided a fine display of fireworks. Inside the hall the Bishop of Merspool was in the chair, Mr Albert Grice, M.P., was ready to speak, and the address was to be presented by Mr Hutchinson, supported by speeches from Mr Wallis, Mr Salter and Mr Bailey. In spite of this, either from altruism or from want of thought, several of the privileged workmen offered their tickets freely to comrades who had otherwise to be content with the display of fireworks; nor were these offers invariably accepted. Some observations by the Bishop on the influences of religion in our commercial life occupied five lines in the papers next morning, concluding, “The presentation then took place.” The Morning Guide was more explicit and gave nearly a column. It reported the Bishop, Mr Grice, and Mr Hutchinson; it summarised Mr Wallis and Mr Salter, and asserted that Mr Bailey (who had spoken for twenty-five minutes) “added a few words of graceful eulogy.” All it said of Mr Lechworthy was the bald statement that he returned thanks. Thus, indeed, had Mr Lechworthy directed.

None of the papers noted the presence on the platform of Miss Hilda Auriol, the niece of Mr Lechworthy, nor can it be pretended that she constituted an item of public interest. But, for the idle purposes of this story, something must be said of her, even if, in consequence, it become necessary to suppress any detailed account of Mr Bailey’s words of graceful eulogy, or of the Bishop’s rediscovery that it is better to be good.

Wilberforce Lechworthy, childless and a widower, had been glad to adopt Hilda Auriol, one of his married sister’s very numerous family. At the age of six he professed to have detected in her a decided character. She was now twenty-three, and her uncle was very fond of her, but she was perhaps the only person of whom he was much afraid. Let it not be supposed that her temper was either sour or dictatorial. She was sunniness itself, and her criticism of life—including her uncle—was fresh and breezy. Her perspicacity detected and her soul abhorred anything that was specious and plausible; in practical politics and in the conduct of a great modern business the specious and the plausible have unfortunately their place, and Wilberforce did occasionally say things after which he experienced a momentary reluctance to meet his niece’s eye. She had a sense of humour and she was by nature a fighter. Her uncle himself was not a keener politician, and it was perhaps fortunate that in most respects their politics were identical. If she had asserted her independence she had not lost her femininity; she did take much thought as to the wherewithal she should be clothed, and she liked admiration. And she got it. If she had not already refused six offers of marriage, it was merely because she had not allowed six men to go quite as far as they had intended. Heart-whole, she had not yet met a man who much interested her, nor was she trying to arrange the meeting. She paid no great attention to athletics, but she could swim a mile, could sit a horse, and was a really good shot with a revolver. Of the last item her uncle had not entirely approved. “Why not?” said Hilda. “It’s a question of instinct. Instinct wouldn’t let me play football or smack a policeman’s face, but it does let me learn to shoot and want to vote.” She explained that she was only ready to use violence if it were not her own violence but the violence of the other sex. “For instance, when young Bruce Chalmers had the cheek to try to address your men, I would not have thrown stones myself, but—if I had been there—I would have encouraged the men who did throw them.”

“For goodness’ sake don’t say that,” said her uncle. “It was a lamentable occurrence, and it was most unfortunate that it was a woman who was hurt. It has done us more harm than good.”

Hilda laughed. She had a rather disconcerting laugh.

At the presentation she had looked charming. In the afternoon she had made friends with a dozen babies and played games with them, and she still wore her afternoon dress. But she looked fresh, cool, unruffled, delicately tended. Her mutinous little mouth remained firm and quiet, but a wicked brightness came into her eyes whenever a speaker achieved unconscious humour—and this was a calamity which occurred to most of the speakers. On the other hand, when Mr Grice recalled “an intensely amusing anecdote related to me by an old Scottish lady,” Hilda sighed gently and seemed to be thinking of far-off sad things. To such an extent may feminine perversity be carried.

Mr Grice, Mr Hutchinson and Mr Wallis were all directors of the company, and returned to London in Mr Lechworthy’s special saloon carriage. The express stopped at Setton Park by arrangement to pick it up. The Bishop had already spread his ecclesiastical wings in another direction. Supper was served at a little flower-decked table in the carriage for the party of eight. The three who have not already been mentioned were Lechworthy’s elderly unmarried sister, who was nervous and good-natured; Burton, his secretary, who had obligingly taken a short-hand note; and Mr Harmer, quite recently of Corpus, Oxford, and at present a leader-writer on the Morning Guide. Mr Harmer wore at first the air of a man who had got the little party together and meant to be kind to them, even if they did not quite reach his level. Later he had a brief conversation with Hilda Auriol, to whom he wished to say complimentary things; Hilda, metaphorically speaking, smote him between the eyes, and thereafter he wore the air of a dead rabbit. Yet she addressed her uncle’s secretary as Tommy, and went into fits of laughter over his excellent but irreverent imitation of the Bishop of Merspool, done for her private delectation. She was polite and charming to Mr Hutchinson and Mr Wallis, who admired her intensely; and to Mr Grice, who admired her quite as much as a married and middle-aged Member of Parliament had any business to do. Altogether, it was a cheerful little party. Mr Lechworthy, his sister and his niece did not touch the dry champagne to which the others did justice; but Mr Lechworthy’s ginger-ale, taken in a champagne-glass, presented a colourable imitation of festivity. At the moment of the cigarette, Miss Lechworthy and her niece retired to rest with instructions that they were not to be called before London.

In the little saloon, when the supper-table had been cleared, the men sat round and chatted, Mr Harmer alone being taciturn—which was unusual with him. If the conversation was now more serious it was quite optimistic. Mr Grice removed a faded malmaison from his button-hole, jerked it into the outer darkness, and remarked that it must be difficult for a man of Mr Lechworthy’s splendid energy to get himself to take a holiday at all.

Mr Lechworthy was smoking the briar pipe which he permitted himself after dark. His figure was lean, and at this late hour of night did not show any sign of fatigue. He sat upright. His hair was grey, but he had no tendency to baldness. He did not wear spectacles or false teeth. He certainly seemed for a man of his age unusually strong and healthy. But he made his customary observation that he was not as young as he had been. He spoke of his holiday plans.

“Let me see,” said Mr Wallis. “I suppose you go to Sydney first?”

“Sydney and then Auckland. Might go on by one of the Union boats from there. But I want to get a little off the usual lines, and I think that I should do better to buy or hire a schooner there. I know very little about such things, but I have friends at Auckland who would help me. I’m fond of sailing.”

“You’re to be envied,” said Grice. “No business, no House of Commons. Nothing to do but enjoy yourself.”

Lechworthy fixed his rather fanatical eyes on him. “Nothing to do but enjoy myself? That would be a poor kind of life, Grice. No, no. Let me use my holiday as I have tried to use politics, journalism, and even the business with which I have just disconnected myself—to the highest service of all.”

“Quite so,” said Hutchinson. “The rest—the gain in health and strength—will be valuable to you, because they will enable you to resume that service.”

“Yes, yes. True enough. But I had thought of something beyond that. A voyage without an end in view would not greatly interest me, and even if one does not work one must at least have some sort of occupation. Our friend, Mr Harmer, will laugh at me, but I am proposing to write a pamphlet—it may even be a little book.”

It should surely be abhorrent to a leader-writer to laugh at his proprietor’s ambitions. Mr Harmer did not laugh. He left his taciturnity and his brandy-and-soda to observe that he was convinced that Mr Lechworthy already possessed materials for a dozen books—interesting books too. If there was any difficulty about getting the thing into literary shape Mr Harmer would only be too happy, etc., etc.

“Thank you very much. If I don’t ask you, it won’t be because I don’t know your capabilities in that way. But, you see, Mr Harmer, I’m not going to try to do anything literary. I couldn’t. And if you did it for me under my name, I should be wearing borrowed plumes. Tell you what I’m going to do—I’m going to make notes of the different missions in the islands I visit. I can only touch the fringe of the subject, of course. Goodness knows how many inhabited islands there are where I’m going—Eastern and Southern Pacific—and I shall only have six or eight months there. Still I want to wake up our people about South Sea Missions. The ordinary man knows nothing about the islands. What could you, Tommy, for instance, tell us about them?”

“I dunno,” said Tommy, reflectively. “I read some yarns about them when I was a kid. All coral and cokernuts, ain’t they?”

“Ah! There are human souls there too. Yes, and I’m told that in one group at any rate Roman Catholicism is rampant. There’s work to be done.”

“Well,” said Grice, “if we hadn’t been fools enough to let the French slip in and grab what they wanted—”

“Grice, my friend, let us be proud that in one instance, at any rate, this country has not done all the grabbing. I’m not going to suggest that we should add one square foot to our possessions. We have too much—territorially, we’re gorged. No, let us see rather what we can do to spread the true religion in place of the false. That’s what I feel. If I can do one little thing for the cause of true religion, then my holiday won’t be entirely wasted.”

“No, indeed,” said Mr Wallis, who suddenly felt that his cigar and the glass in front of him had been inappropriate.

Mr Lechworthy’s fist descended solemnly on the table before him. “True religion—that’s the only thing. I’ve kept it before me in my business. I’ve tried to show that it is possible to treat the workman as a brother, to consider his soul’s eternal salvation, and yet to make a fair profit. I’ve dared to bring practical religion into journalism. The Morning Guide loses me so much every day, so much every year. The money’s set aside for it—to produce a paper which will never print a divorce case or an item of racing news—a paper in which every feuilleton clearly and distinctly enforces a good moral—a paper which will be the sworn foe of this blatant self-styled imperialism. In the House I venture to say that I belong to the religious party. You’ll find little religion among the Conservatives—and what there is, is largely tainted with ritualism. Unprofitable servant that I am, little though I have done, I have at least kept my faith and carried it into my life.”

There were a few seconds of silence. Then somewhere at the back of the saloon a fool of a servant opened a bottle of soda-water. It went off with a loud and ironical pop. The gurgle of the fluid seemed to utter a repeated tut-tut. But Mr Lechworthy was unperturbed. Gliding easily into another subject, he began to talk about cameras. His book or pamphlet, whichever it might be, was to be profusely illustrated. Mr Wallis, an amateur photographer of some experience, was lavish with his advice. Later, a possible title for the book was discovered. Mr Grice, who had been a little sleepy, grew suddenly alert again and almost disproportionately enthusiastic. “A magnificent and noble enterprise that could only have occurred to yourself, Lechworthy,” was a phrase that possibly overstated the facts. Tommy Burton slept peacefully—poor Tommy Burton—much in love with Hilda Auriol and condemned to perpetual cheerfulness and brotherhood.

Thus it happened that the schooner which Cyril Mast had sighted bore with it to the island of Faloo Mr Lechworthy and his niece. He had never intended to take Hilda with him at all, but then Hilda had always intended to go. Faloo had never been part of his programme, and all that the skipper could tell him about it was that it was wrongly charted; but Hilda had caught a glimpse of it in the evening light and decided that she must spend an hour or two there. It was immediately discovered that the ship needed oranges and taro, and that Faloo might as well provide them. Lechworthy still had a will of his own, but then the captain knew so much more and Hilda cared so much more, and the sweet content of the South Seas had settled down upon him. He had eaten peach-flavoured bananas and he was learning the mango. The expressed juice of the fresh lime, mingled with ice and soda-water, seemed to him the best drink that had ever been found. As to the missions—well, he was getting a general impression (which bothered him a little, because it was not quite the impression that he had meant to get), and he would fill in the bare facts later. He had taken many photographs and would develop the rolls of film as soon as he could find the time—unless he came upon somebody who would do them for him.

At dawn the Snowflake lay in a dead calm just outside the reef. Cyril Mast took a good look at her. The snowy decks, the brilliant white paint and the polished metal showing a hundred bright points of light in the sunshine, told that this was no ordinary trader. Had the retreat of the exiles been discovered at last? No, for the ship to come in that case would be something sterner than this pretty toy. In a few minutes he had changed his clothes; and now his collar, his necktie and his waistcoat proclaimed his calling. He could manage a canoe excellently himself—it was his favourite pastime when sober—but now his dignity demanded that a couple of natives should propel him out through the opening in the reef to the schooner’s side. The natives—as curious as Mast—were eager for the work. At the moment the mad idea which Mast subsequently carried out had not yet entered his head. All that he wanted was to find out what the schooner was, and if possible to get some break in the accursed monotony of his island life. He wanted, pathetically, to exchange a few civilities with some white man who did not know too much about him—to catch a glimpse of the outside world that had been closed to him. That was why he wore the starched dog-collar that was so uncomfortable, and the frayed black alpaca jacket, and the waistcoat of clerical cut. He had not worn them for ages; but he meant now, for an hour perhaps, to get back to the old time, before certain events had made Faloo the only place in the world for him.

Already there were many natives on the beach, adorned with wreaths and necklaces of flowers, wearing holiday clothes. It might be of course that the schooner was merely waiting for a wind, but perhaps a boat would come ashore and there would be much festivity. Possibly some order had come to them from King Smith, for a few of the natives who would have launched their canoes were restrained by the others; and the two men who had taken Cyril Mast out did not attempt to go on board. Of King Smith himself nothing was to be seen. The white men still slept peacefully in their bedrooms at the club, or in their own houses. The schooner was Cyril Mast’s own discovery; none of the others knew of its arrival.

On the deck of the Snowflake Mr Lechworthy came forward with hand outstretched.

“I don’t know your name, sir,” he said, “but I am glad and proud to meet you. Missionary enterprise is a subject in which I take the deepest interest. My name’s Lechworthy—you may have come across it in connection with my business.”

Cyril Mast stammered his own name. He was astounded. He, the pariah, the outcast, had been mistaken for a missionary. This man of wealth and position was admiring his heroic self-sacrifice. And that beautiful girl with the laughing eyes—

“Permit me, sir, to present you to my niece, Miss Auriol.”

Miss Auriol took one glance at his pimply, blotchy complexion, and in great charity remembered that there was a complaint called prickly heat and that a prolonged sojourn in the tropics must be unhealthy for a European. She chatted freely. They expected to sail again later in the morning, but were sending a boat ashore to see if they could get some fresh fruit. Her uncle and she had thought of going in the boat and getting an hour, perhaps, in Faloo.

As she spoke, Cyril Mast made up his mind. He would act the part that had been given him. The deception could not be kept up for any length of time, but it might be managed for one hour. It was simple enough to call the club the mission-house. Few if any of the members would be about at this hour, and he could manage to get breakfast served at a table on the lawn outside the house. An hour in which to see this beautiful English girl—

He found himself speaking rapidly. They must certainly come ashore and have breakfast at the mission-house. His canoe would pilot their boat. It would be the greatest pleasure for him to show them something of the island. See, that was the mission-house there among the orange trees.

Hilda Auriol and her uncle agreed that it looked charming; the invitation was at once accepted. Preparations for their departure and the arrangements for their return were made at once. Cyril Mast’s canoe flew over the water, the schooner’s boat following. Speaking partly in the native tongue and partly in English he explained to the crowd on the beach that the ship was “Mikonaree.” He would take the “Mikonaree” and his daughter up to the club, where they wished to go. The others—they must entertain them as best they could—would be going up to the stores to buy things and the King would direct what was to be done.

On their way up from the beach to the club-house Mr Lechworthy asked if Mr Mast had been long on the island.

“Four years.”

“And never a holiday?”

“No,” said Mast, who every moment felt more like a real missionary, “no, I have needed no holiday.”

“Rather lonely, I should think,” said Hilda.

“Well, one has one’s work. There are other white men on the island too—traders and planters. You may possibly see some of them up at the mission-house.”

Lechworthy began on the subject of his book—his projected work on the missions of the South Seas. A native girl ran up with a necklace of flowers for Hilda. Mast began to talk more easily and fluently, falling into the part that had been assigned to him. He described King Smith, that prodigy among natives, with accuracy and with some humour. He was sketching the French Mission for his guests as they entered, with exclamations of delight, the beautiful garden of the Exiles’ Club. Somewhere at the back of his head Mast was wondering why King Smith had not appeared. The arrival of a schooner constituted a great event. What could he be doing?

Just at present the King sat in his office, deep in thought. Another event had happened which made the schooner’s arrival of comparatively little importance in his eyes. It was the first sign that his power might not hold back the native outbreak, and it had come before he expected it. In the early morning, while it was still dark, the King as he lay awake had heard a scream—brief, agonised. It seemed to be fairly near—a hundred yards or so away. He had lighted a lantern and searched the scrub at the back of the stores. There he had found the dead body of a white man with a native knife sticking in his throat. The white man was Duncombe, and no complaint against him had ever reached the King’s ears. It was a private revenge, and might not end there.

The King decided and acted quickly. Already the body was buried out of sight, covered with quicklime in a shallow grave. Hundreds of the natives were in a state of angry ferment, held back by the King with difficulty; if they saw that the first step had already been taken, it would be impossible to hold them back at all. The King himself had been the grave-digger and had kept his own counsel. Duncombe would be missed at the Exiles’ Club that day. On the morrow his friends would be anxiously searching for him. Meanwhile, the King would have found out the assassin and would have used the strange gift with which the natives credited him. He would talk to the man seriously in the melodious native tongue, and say that he wished for his death. No other step would be necessary. The man would go back to his hut, refuse food, remain obstinately silent, and presently draw a cloth over his face and die. In what way the death was caused the King could not have told you, though once before he had used this gift. Modern science may choose between an explanation by hypnotic suggestion, or a blunt denial of a fact which has been credibly witnessed and reported.

In a few days the strange disappearance of Duncombe would be forgotten. The King felt sure that for a while at any rate no further provocation would come from the white men. The natives would quiet down again, and their King would be free to follow the line of his own ambitions.

For the moment nothing else could be done. The King roused himself and went out to look at the schooner. Word had already been brought to him that this was not a trader. His interest was no more than idle curiosity. He did not know that already there reclined in a lounge-chair on the lawn of the Exiles’ Club the man for whom he had been seeking. Lechworthy proposed to enjoy his hour or two in Faloo; he also did not know. He did not know that he was destined to remain in Faloo for days, and to meet with incidents that were but little enjoyable.