



Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive







THE MUTABLE MANY

A Novel

By Robert Barr

Second Edition


               “For the imitable, rank-scented many, let them

               Regard me as I do not flatter, and

               Therein behold themselves?

                   --CORIOLANUS.


London: Frederick A. Stokes Company

1896


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               He that trusts you,

               Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;

               Where foxes, geese. You are no surer, no,

               Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,

               Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is,

               To make him worthy, whose offence subdues him

               And curse that justice did it.

               Who deserves greatness,

               Deserves your hate: and your affections are

               A sick man’s appetite, who desires most that

               Which would increase his evil. He that depends

               Upon your favours, swims with fins of lead,

               And hews down oaks with rushes.. Hang ye!

               Trust ye?

               With every minute you do change a mind;

               And call him noble that was now your hate,

               Him vile, that was now your garland.”

                        Coriolanus.




THE MUTABLE MANY




CHAPTER I.

The office of Monkton & Hope’s great factory hung between heaven and
earth, and, at the particular moment John Sartwell, manager, stood
looking out of the window towards the gates, heaven consisted of a
brooding London fog suspended a hundred feet above the town, hesitating
to fall, while earth was represented by a sticky black-cindered
factory-yard bearing the imprint of many a hundred boots. The office was
built between the two huge buildings known as the “Works.” The situation
of the office had evidently been an after-thought--it was of wood, while
the two great buildings which it joined together as if they were
Siamese twins of industry, were of brick. Although no architect had ever
foreseen the erection of such a structure between the two buildings,
yet necessity, the mother of invention, had given birth to what Sartwell
always claimed was the most conveniently situated office in London.
More and more room had been acquired in the big buildings as business
increased, and the office--the soul of the whole thing--had, as it were,
to take up a position outside its body.

The addition, then, hung over the roadway that passed between the two
buildings; it commanded a view of both front and back yards, and had,
therefore, more light and air than the office Sartwell had formerly
occupied in the left-hand building. The unique situation caused it to
be free from the vibration of the machinery to a large extent, and as
a door led into each building, the office had easy access to both.
Sartwell was very proud of these rooms and their position, for he had
planned them, and had thus given the firm much additional space, with
no more ground occupied than had been occupied before--a most desirable
feat to perform in a crowded city like London.

Two rooms at the back were set apart for the two members of the firm,
while Sartwell’s office in the front was three times the size of either
of these rooms and extended across the whole space between the two
buildings. This was as it should be; for Sartwell did three times the
amount; of work the owners of the business accomplished and, if it came
to that, had three times the brain power of the two members of the firm
combined, who were there simply because they were the sons of their
fathers. The founders of the firm had with hard work and shrewd
management established the large manufactory whose present prosperity
was due to Sartwell and not to the two men whose names were known to the
public as the heads of the business.

Monkton and Hope were timid, cautious, somewhat irresolute men, as
capitalists should be all the world over. They had unbounded confidence
in their manager, and generally shifted any grave responsibility or
unpleasant decision to his shoulders, which bore the burdens placed upon
them with equanimity. Sartwell was an iron man, with firm resolute lips,
and steely blue eyes that were most disconcerting to any one who had
something not quite straight to propose. Even the two partners quailed
under these eyes and gave way before them if it came to a conflict of
opinion. Sartwell’s rather curt “It won’t do, you know” always settled
things.

Sartwell knew infinitely more about the works than they did; for while
they had been at college the future manager was working his way up into
the confidence of their fathers, and every step he took advanced his
position in the factory. The three men were as nearly as possible of the
same age, and the hair of each was tinged with grey; Sartwell’s perhaps
more than the others.

It was difficult to think of love in connection with the two partners,
yet it