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diff --git a/4379-h/4379-h.htm b/4379-h/4379-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..709b030 --- /dev/null +++ b/4379-h/4379-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16204 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<HTML> +<HEAD> + +<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=UTF-8"> + +<TITLE> +The Project Gutenberg E-text of The Fortunate Youth, by William J. Locke +</TITLE> + +<STYLE TYPE="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {text-indent: 0%; + font-size: small ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +P.footnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.transnote {font-size: small ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.intro {font-size: medium ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +P.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +</STYLE> + +</HEAD> + +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 4379 ***</div> + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +THE FORTUNATE YOUTH +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +WILLIAM J. LOCKE +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<TABLE ALIGN="center" WIDTH="100%"> +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%"> +<A HREF="#chap01">CHAPTER I</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%"> +<A HREF="#chap02">CHAPTER II</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%"> +<A HREF="#chap03">CHAPTER III</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%"> +<A HREF="#chap04">CHAPTER IV</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%"> +<A HREF="#chap05">CHAPTER V</A> +</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">CHAPTER VI</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">CHAPTER VII</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">CHAPTER IX</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">CHAPTER X</A> +</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap11">CHAPTER XI</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap12">CHAPTER XII</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap15">CHAPTER XV</A> +</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap20">CHAPTER XX</A> +</TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII</A> +</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> </TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER I +</H3> + +<P> +PAUL KEGWORTHY lived with his mother, Mrs. Button, his stepfather, Mr. +Button, and six little Buttons, his half brothers and sisters. His was +not an ideal home; it consisted in a bedroom, a kitchen and a scullery +in a grimy little house in a grimy street made up of rows of exactly +similar grimy little houses, and forming one of a hundred similar +streets in a northern manufacturing town. Mr. and Mrs. Button worked in +a factory and took in as lodgers grimy single men who also worked in +factories. They were not a model couple; they were rather, in fact, the +scandal of Budge Street, which did not itself enjoy, in Bludston, a +reputation for holiness. Neither was good to look upon. Mr. Button, who +was Lancashire bred and born, divided the yearnings of his spirit +between strong drink and dog-fights. Mrs. Button, a viperous Londoner, +yearned for noise. When Mr. Button came home drunk he punched his wife +about the head and kicked her about the body, while they both exhausted +the vocabulary of vituperation of North and South, to the horror and +edification of the neighbourhood. When Mr. Button was sober Mrs. Button +chastised little Paul. She would have done so when Mr. Button was +drunk, but she had not the time. The periods, therefore, of his +mother's martyrdom were those of Paul's enfranchisement. If he saw his +stepfather come down the street with steady gait, he fled in terror; if +he saw him reeling homeward he lingered about with light and joyous +heart. +</P> + +<P> +The brood of young Buttons was fed spasmodically and clad at random, +but their meals were regular and their raiment well assorted compared +with Paul's. Naturally they came in for clouts and thumps like all the +children in Budge Street; it was only Paul who underwent organized +chastisement. The little Buttons often did wrong; but in the mother's +eyes Paul could never do right. In an animal way she was fond of the +children of Button, and in a way equally animal she bore a venomous +dislike to the child of Kegworthy. Who and what Kegworthy had been +neither Paul nor any inhabitant of Bludston knew. Once the boy +inquired, and she broke a worn frying-pan over his head. Kegworthy, +whoever he might have been, was wrapt in mystery. She had appeared in +the town when Paul was a year old, giving herself out as a widow. That +she was by no means destitute was obvious from the fact that she at +once rented the house in Budge Street, took in lodgers, and lived at +her ease. Button, who was one of the lodgers, cast upon her the eyes of +desire and married her. Why she married Button she could never +determine. Perhaps she had a romantic idea—and there is romance even +in Budge Street-that Button would support her. He very soon shattered +any such illusion by appropriating the remainder of her fortune and +kicking her into the factory with hobnailed boots. It would be wrong to +say that Mrs. Button did not complain; she did. She rent the air of +Budge Street with horrible execration; but she went to the factory, +where, save for the intervals of retirement rendered necessary by the +births of the little Buttons, she was contented enough to stay. +</P> + +<P> +If Paul Kegworthy had been of the same fibre as the little Buttons, he +would have felt, thought and acted as they, and this history would +never have been written. He would have grown up to man's estate in the +factory and have been merged an indistinguishable unit in the drab mass +of cloth-capped humans who, at certain hours of the day, flood the +streets of Bludston, and swarm on the roofs of clanging and shrieking +tramcars, and on Saturday afternoons gather in clotted greyness on the +football ground. He might have been sober and industrious-the +proletariat of Bludston is not entirely composed of Buttons-but he +would have taken the colour of his environment, and the world outside +Bludston would never have heard of him. Paul, however, differed greatly +from the little Buttons. They, children of the grey cap and the red +shawl, resembled hundreds of thousands of little human rabbits +similarly parented. Only the trained eye could have identified them +among a score or two of their congeners. For the most part, they were +dingily fair, with snub noses, coarse mouths, and eyes of an +indeterminate blue. Of that type, once blowsily good-looking, was Mrs. +Button herself. But Paul wandered a changeling about the Bludston +streets. In the rows of urchins in the crowded Board School classroom +he sat as conspicuous as any little Martian who might have been bundled +down to earth. He had wavy black hair, of raven black, a dark olive +complexion, flushed, in spite of haphazard nourishment and nights spent +on the stone floor of the reeking scullery, with the warm blood of +health, great liquid black eyes, and the exquisitely delicate features +of a young Praxitelean god. It was this preposterous perfection which, +while redeeming him from ridiculous beauty by giving his childish face +a certain rigidity, differentiated him outwardly from his fellows. Mr. +Button, to whom the unusual was anathema, declared that the sight of +the monstrosity made him sick, and rarely suffered him in his presence; +and one day Mrs. Button, discovering him in front of the cracked mirror +in which Mr. Button shaved, when his hand was steady enough, on Sunday +afternoons, smote him over the face with a pound of rump steak which +she happened to be carrying, instinctively desirous not only to correct +her son for vanity, but also to spoil the comeliness of which he might +be vain. +</P> + +<P> +Until a wonderful and illuminating happening in his eleventh year, +little Paul Kegworthy had taken existence with the fatalism of a child. +Of his stepfather, who smelt lustily of sour beer, bad tobacco and +incidentally of other things undetected by Paul's nostrils, and whom he +saw rarely, he dwelt in mortal terror. When he heard of the Devil, at +Sunday school, which he attended, to his stepfather's disgust, he +pictured the Prince of Darkness not as a gentleman, not even as a +picturesque personage with horns and tail, but as Mr. Button. As +regards his mother, he had a confused idea that he was a living blight +on her existence. He was not sorry, because it was not his fault, but +in his childish way he coldly excused her, and, more from a queer +consciousness of blighterdom than from dread of her hand and tongue, he +avoided her as much as possible. In the little Buttons his experience +as scapegoat taught him to take but little interest. From his earliest +memories they were the first to be fed, clothed and bedded; to his own +share fell the exiguous scraps. As they were much younger than himself, +he found no pleasure in their companionship. For society he sought such +of the youth of Budge Street as would admit him into their raucous +fellowship. But, for some reason which his immature mind could not +fathom, he felt a pariah even among his coevals. He could run as fast +as Billy Goodge, the undisputed leader of the gang; he could dribble +the rag football past him any time he desired; once he had sent him +home to his mother with a bleeding nose, and, even in that hour of +triumph, popular sympathy had been with Billy, not with him. It was the +only problem in existence to which his fatalism did not supply the key. +He knew himself to be a better man than Billy Goodge. There was no +doubt about it. At school, where Billy was the woodenest blockhead, he +was top of his class. He knew things about troy weight and geography +and Isaac and the Mariners of England of which Billy did not dream. To +Billy the football news in the Saturday afternoon edition of The +Bludston Herald was a cryptogram; to him it was an open book. He would +stand, acknowledged scholar, at the street corner and read out from the +soiled copy retrieved by Chunky, the newsboy, the enthralling story of +the football day, never stumbling over a syllable, athrill with the joy +of being the umbilicus of a tense world, and, when the recital was +over, he would have the mortification of seeing the throng pass away +from him with the remorselessness of a cloud scudding from the moon. +And he would hear Billy Goodge say exultantly: +</P> + +<P> +"Didn't Aw tell yo' the Wolves hadn't a dog's chance?" +</P> + +<P> +And he would see the admiring gang slap Billy on the back, and hear +"Good owd Billy!" and never a word of thanks to him. Then, knowing +Billy to be a liar, he would tell him so, yelping shrilly, in +Buttonesque vernacular (North and South): +</P> + +<P> +"This morning tha said it was five to one on Sheffield United." +</P> + +<P> +"Listen to Susie!" +</P> + +<P> +The parasitic urchins would yell at the witticism—the eternal petitio +principii of childhood, which Billy, secure in his cohort from bloody +nose, felt justified in making. And Paul Kegworthy, the rag of a +newspaper crumpled tight in his little hand, would watch them disappear +and wonder at the paradox of life. In any sphere of human effort, so he +dimly and childishly realized, he could wipe out Billy Goodge. He had a +soul-reaching contempt for Billy Goodge, a passionate envy of him. Why +did Billy hold his position instead of crumbling into dust before him? +Assuredly he was a better man than Billy. When, Billy duce et auspice +Billy, the gang played at pirates or Red Indians, it was pitiful to +watch their ignorant endeavours. Paul, deeply read in the subject, gave +them chapter and verse for his suggestions. But they heeded him so +little that he would turn away contemptuously, disdaining the travesty +of the noble game, and dream of a gang of brighter spirits whom he +could lead to glory. Paul had many such dreams wherewith he sought to +cheat the realities of existence: but until the Great Happening the +dream was not better than the drink: after it came the Vision Splendid. +</P> + +<P> +The wonderful thing happened all because Maisie Shepherd, a slip of a +girl of nineteen, staying at St. Luke's Vicarage, spilled a bottle of +scent over her frock. +</P> + +<P> +It was the morning of the St. Luke's annual Sunday-school treat. The +waggonette was at the vicarage door. The vicar and his wife and +daughter waited fussily for Maisie, an unpunctual damsel. The vicar +looked at his watch. They were three minutes late, He tut-tutted +impatiently. The vicar's daughter ran indoors in search of Maisie and +pounced upon her as she sat on the edge of the bed in the act of +perfuming a handkerchief. The shock caused the bottle to slip mouth +downward from her hand and empty the contents into her lap. She cried +out in dismay. +</P> + +<P> +"Never mind," said the vicar's daughter. "Come along. Dad and mother +are prancing about downstairs." +</P> + +<P> +"But I must change my dress!" +</P> + +<P> +"You've no time." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm wet through. This is the strongest scent known. It's twenty-six +shillings a bottle, and one little drop is enough. I shall be a walking +pestilence." +</P> + +<P> +The vicar's daughter laughed heartlessly. "You do smell strong. But +you'll disinfect Bludston, and that will be a good thing." Whereupon +she dragged the tearful and redolent damsel from the room. +</P> + +<P> +In the hard-featured yard of the schoolhouse the children were +assembled-the girls on one side, the boys on the other. Curates and +teachers hovered about the intervening space. Almost every child wore +its Sunday best. Even the shabbiest little girls had a clean white +pinafore to hide deficiencies beneath, and the untidiest little boy +showed a scrubbed face. The majority of the boys wore clean collars; +some grinned over gaudy neckties. The only one who appeared in his +week-day grime and tatterdemalion outfit was little Paul Kegworthy. He +had not changed his clothes, because he had no others; and he had not +washed his face, because it had not occurred to him to do so. Moreover, +Mrs. Button had made no attempt to improve his forlorn aspect, for the +simple reason that she had never heard of the Sunday-school treat. It +was part of Paul's philosophy to dispense, as far as he could, with +parental control. On Sunday afternoons the little Buttons played in the +streets, where Paul, had he so chosen, might have played also: but he +put himself, so to speak, to Sunday school, where, besides learning +lots of queer things about God and Jesus Christ which interested him +keenly, he could shine above his fellows by recitations of collects and +bits of Catechism, which did not interest him at all. Then he won +scores of good-conduct cards, gaudy treasures, with pictures of Daniel +in the Lions' Den and the Marriage of Cana and such like, which he +secreted preciously beneath a loose slab in the scullery floor. He did +not show them to his mother, knowing that she would tear them up and +bang him over the head; and for similar reasons he refrained from +telling her of the Sunday-school treat. If she came to hear of it, as +possibly she would through one of the little Buttons, who might pick up +the news in the street, he would be soundly beaten. But there was a +chance of her not hearing, and he desired to be no more of a blight +than he could help. So Paul, vagabond and self-reliant from his +babyhood, turned up at the Sunday-school treat, hatless and coatless, +his dirty little toes visible through the holes in his boots, and his +shapeless and tattered breeches secured to his person by a single +brace. The better-dressed urchins moved away from him and made rude +remarks, after the generous manner of their kind; but Paul did not +care. Pariahdom was his accustomed portion. He was there for his own +pleasure. They were going to ride in a train. They were going to have a +wonderful afternoon in a nobleman's park, a place all grass and trees, +elusive to the imagination. There was a stupefying prospect of wondrous +things in profusion to eat and drink-jam, ginger-beer, cake! So rumour +had it; and to unsophisticated Paul rumour was gospel truth. With all +these unexperienced joys before him, what cared he for the blankety +little blanks who gibed at him? If you imagine that little Paul +Kegworthy formulated his thoughts as would the angel choir-boy in the +pictures, you are mistaken. The baby language of Bludston would petrify +the foc'sle of a tramp, steamer. The North of England is justly proud +of its virility. +</P> + +<P> +The Sunday school, marshalled by curates and teachers, awaited the +party from the vicarage. The thick and darkened sunshine of Bludston +flooded the asphalt of the yard, which sent up a reek of heat, causing +curates to fan themselves with their black straw hats, and little boys +in clean collars to wriggle in sticky discomfort, while in the still +air above the ignoble town hung the heavy pall of smoke. Presently +there was the sound of wheels and the sight of the head of the vicar's +coachman above the coping of the schoolyard wall. Then the gates opened +and the vicar and his wife and Miss Merewether, her daughter, and +Maisie Shepherd appeared and were immediately greeted by curates and +teachers. +</P> + +<P> +Maisie Shepherd, a stranger in a strange land, pretty, pink, blushing, +hatefully self-conscious, detached herself, after a minute or two, from +the group and looked with timid curiosity on the children. She was a +London girl, her head still dancing with the delights of her first +season, and she had never been to a Sunday-school treat in her life. +Madge Merewether, her old schoolfellow, had told her she was to help +amuse the little girls. Heaven knew how she was to do it. Already the +unintelligibility of Lancashire speech had filled her with dismay. The +array of hard-faced little girls daunted her; she turned to the boys, +but she only saw one—the little hatless, coatless scarecrow with the +perfect features and arresting grace, who stood out among his smug +companions with the singularly vivid incongruity of a Greek Hermes in +the central hall of Madame Tussaud's waxwork exhibition. Fascinated, +she strayed down the line toward him. She halted, looked for a second +or two into a pair of liquid black eyes and then blushed in agonized +shyness. She stared at the beautiful boy, and the beautiful boy stared +at her, and not a word could she find in her head to speak. She turned +abruptly and moved away. The boy broke rank and slowly followed her. +</P> + +<P> +For little Paul Kegworthy the heavens had opened and flooded his +senses, till he nearly fainted, with the perfume of celestial lands. +The intoxicating sweetness of it bewildered his young brain. It was +nothing delicate, evanescent, like the smell of a flower. It as thick, +pungent, cloying, compelling. Mouth agape and nostril wide, he followed +the exquisite source of the emanation like one in a dream, half across +the yard. A curate laughingly and unsuspectingly brought him back to +earth by laying hands on him and bundling him back into his place. +There he remained, being a docile urchin; but his eyes remained fixed +on Maisie Shepherd. She was only a rosebud beauty of an English girl, +her beauty heightened by the colour of distress, but to Paul the +radiance of her person almost rivalled the wonder of her perfume. It +was his first meeting of a goddess face to face, and he surrendered his +whole being in adoration. +</P> + +<P> +In a few minutes the children were marched through the squalid streets, +a strident band, to the dingy railway station, a grimy proletariat +third-class railway station in which the sign "First Class Waiting +Room" glared an outrage and a mockery, and were marshalled into the +waiting train. The wonderful experience of which Paul had dreamed for +weeks—he had never ridden in a train before—began; and soon the murky +environs of the town were left behind and the train sped through the +open country. +</P> + +<P> +His companions in the railway carriage crowded at the windows, fighting +vigorously for right of place; but Paul sat alone in the middle of the +seat, unmoved by the new sensation and speed, and by the glimpses of +blue sky and waving trees above the others' heads. The glory of the day +was blotted out until he should see and smell the goddess again. At the +wayside station where they descended he saw her in the distance, and +the glory came once more. She caught his eye, smiled and nodded. He +felt a queer thrill run through him. He had been singled out from among +all the boys. He alone knew her. +</P> + +<P> +Brakes took them from the station down a country road and, after a mile +or so, through stone gates of a stately park, where wonder after wonder +was set out before Paul's unaccustomed eyes. On either side of this +roadway stretched rolling grass with clumps and glades of great trees +in their July bravery—more trees than Paul imagined could be in the +world. There were sunlit upland patches and cool dells of shade +carpeted with golden buttercups, where cattle fed lazily. Once a herd +of fallow deer browsing by the wayside scuttled away at the noisy +approach of the brakes. Only afterward did Paul learn their name and +nature: to him then they were mythical beasts of fairyland. Once also +the long pile-of the Tudor house came into view, flashing-white in the +sunshine. The teacher in charge of the brake explained that it was the +Marquis of Chudley's residence. It was more beautiful than anything +Paul had ever seen; it was bigger than many churches put together; the +word "Palace" came into his head—it transcended all his preconceived +ideas of palaces: yet in such a palace only could dwell the radiant and +sweet-smelling lady of his dream. The certainty gave him a curious +satisfaction. +</P> + +<P> +They arrived at the spot where the marquees were erected, and at once +began the traditional routine of the school treat-games for the girls, +manlier sports for the boys. Lord Chudley, patron of the living of St. +Luke's, Bludston, and Lord Bountiful of the feast, had provided +swing-boats and a merry-go-round which discoursed infernal music to +enraptured ears. Paul stood aloof for a while from these delights, his +eye on the section of the girls among whom his goddess moved. As soon +as she became detached and he could approach her without attracting +notice, he crept within the magic circle of the scent and lay down +prone, drinking in its intoxication, and, as she moved, he wriggled +toward her on his stomach like a young snake. +</P> + +<P> +After a time she came near him. "Why aren't you playing with the other +boys?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +Paul sat on his heels. "Dunno, miss," he said shyly. +</P> + +<P> +She glanced at his rapscallion attire, blushed, and blamed herself for +the tactless question. "This is a beautiful place, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's heavenly," said Paul, with his eyes on her. +</P> + +<P> +"One scarcely wants to do anything but just-just-well, be here." She +smiled. +</P> + +<P> +He nodded and said, "Ay!" Then he grew bolder. "I like being alone," he +declared defiantly. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I'll leave you," she laughed. +</P> + +<P> +The blood flushed deep under his unwashed olive skin, and he leaped to +his feet. "Aw didn't mean that!" he protested hotly. "It wur them other +boys." +</P> + +<P> +She was touched by his beauty and quick sensitiveness. "I was only +teasing. I'm sure you like being with me." +</P> + +<P> +Paul had never heard such exquisite tones from human lips. To his ears, +accustomed to the harsh Lancashire burr, her low, accentless voice was +music. So another of his senses was caught in the enchantment. +</P> + +<P> +"Yo' speak so pretty," said he. +</P> + +<P> +At that moment a spruce but perspiring young teacher came up. "We're +going to have some boys' races, miss, and we want the ladies to look +on. His lordship has offered prizes. The first is a boys' race-under +eleven." +</P> + +<P> +"You can join in that, anyhow," she said to Paul. "Go along and let me +see you win." +</P> + +<P> +Paul scudded off, his heart aflame, his hand, as he ran, tucking in the +shirt whose evasion from the breeches was beyond the control of the +single brace. Besides, crawling on your stomach is dislocating even to +the most neatly secured attire. But his action was mechanical. His +thoughts were with his goddess. In his inarticulate mind he knew +himself to be her champion. He sped under her consecration. He knew he +could run. He could run like a young deer. Though despised, could he +not outrun any of the youth in Budge Street? He took his place in the +line of competing children. Far away in the grassy distance were two +men holding a stretched string. On one side of him was a tubby boy with +a freckled face and an amorphous nose on which the perspiration beaded; +on the other a lank, consumptive creature, in Eton collar and red tie +and a sprig of sweet William in his buttonhole, a very superior person. +Neither of them desired his propinquity. They tried to hustle him from +the line. But Paul, born Ishmael, had his hand against them. The fat +boy, smitten beneath the belt, doubled up in pain and the consumptive +person rubbed agonized shins. A curate, walking down repressing bulges +and levelling up concavities, ordained order. The line stood tense. +Away beyond, toward the goal, appeared a white mass, which Paul knew to +be the ladies in their summer dresses; and among them, though he could +not distinguish her, was she in whose eyes he was to win glory. The +prize did not matter. It was for her that he was running. In his +childish mind he felt passionately identified with her. He was her +champion. +</P> + +<P> +The word was given. The urchins started. Paul, his little elbows +squared behind him and his eyes fixed vacantly in space, ran with his +soul in the toes that protruded through the ragged old boots. He knew +not who was in front or who was behind. It was the madness of battle. +He ran and ran, until somebody put his arms round him and stopped him. +</P> + +<P> +"Steady on, my boy-steady on!" +</P> + +<P> +Paul looked round in a dazed way. "Have A' won th' race?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid not, my lad." +</P> + +<P> +With a great effort he screwed his mind to another question. "Wheer did +A' coom in?" +</P> + +<P> +"About sixth, but you ran awfully well." +</P> + +<P> +Sixth! He had come in sixth! Sky and grass and trees and white mass of +ladies (among whom was the goddess) and unconsiderable men and boys +became a shimmering blur. He seemed to stagger away, stagger miles +away, until, finding himself quite alone, he threw himself down under a +beech tree, and, after a few moments' vivid realization of what had +happened, sobbed out the agony of his little soul's despair. Sixth! He +had come in sixth! He had failed miserably in his championship. How she +must despise him—she who had sent him forth to victory! And yet how +'had it been possible? How had it been possible that other boys could +beat him? He was he. An indomitable personage. Some hideous injustice +guided human affairs. Why shouldn't he have won? He could not tell. But +he had not won. She had sent him forth to win. He had lost. He had come +in a sickening sixth. The disgrace devastated him. +</P> + +<P> +Maisie Shepherd, interested in her child champion, sought him out and +easily found him under the beech tree. "Why, what is the matter?" +</P> + +<P> +As he did not answer, she knelt by his side and put her hand on his +lean shoulder. "Tell me what has happened." +</P> + +<P> +Again the celestial fragrance overspread his senses. He checked his +sobs and wiped his eyes with the back of his grubby hand. "Aw didn't +win," he moaned. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor little chap," she said comfortingly. "Did you want to win so very +much?" +</P> + +<P> +He got up and stared at her. "Yo' told me to win." +</P> + +<P> +"So you ran for me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay!" +</P> + +<P> +She rose to her feet and looked down upon him, somewhat overwhelmed by +her responsibility. So in ancient days might a fair maiden have +regarded her knight who underwent entirely unnecessary batterings for +her sake. "Then for me you've won," she said. "I wish I could give you +a prize." +</P> + +<P> +But what in the nature of a prize for a gutter imp of eleven does a +pocketless young woman attired for the serious business of a school +treat carry upon her person? She laughed in pretty embarrassment. "If I +gave you something quite useless, what would you do with it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I 'u'd hide it safe, so 'ut nobody should see it," said Paul, thinking +of his precious cards. +</P> + +<P> +"Wouldn't you show it to anybody?" +</P> + +<P> +"By Gum!—" he checked himself suddenly. Such, he had learned, was not +Sunday-school language. "I wouldno' show it to a dog," said he. +</P> + +<P> +Maisie Shepherd, aware of romantic foolishness, slipped a cornelian +heart from a thin gold chain round her neck. "It's all I can give you +for a prize, if you will have it." +</P> + +<P> +If he would have it? The Koh-i-Noor' in his clutch (and a knowledge of +its value) could not have given him more thrilling rapture. He was +speechless with amazement; Maisie, thrilled too, realized that a word +spoken would have rung false. The boy gloated over his treasure; but +she did not know—how could she?—what it meant to him. To Paul the +bauble was a bit of the warm wonder that was she. +</P> + +<P> +"How are you going to keep it?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +He hoicked a bit of his shirt-tail from his breeches and proceeded to +knot the cornelian heart secure therein. Maisie fled rapidly on the +verge of hysterics, After that the school treat had but one meaning for +Paul. He fed, it is true, in Pantagruelian fashion on luscious viands, +transcending his imagination of those which lay behind Blinks the +confectioner's window in Bludston: there he succumbed to the animal; +but the sports, the swing-boats, the merry-go-round, offered no +temptation. He hovered around Maisie Shepherd like a little dog-quite +content to keep her in sight. And every two or three minutes he fumbled +about his breeches to see that the knotted treasure was safe. +</P> + +<P> +The day sank into late afternoon. The children had been fed. The weary +elders had their tea. The vicarage party took a few moments' rest in +the shade of a clump of firs some distance away from the marquee. +Behind the screen lay Paul, his eyes on his goddess, his heels in the +air, a buttercup-stalk between his teeth. He felt the comforting knot +beneath his thigh. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he knew +utter happiness. He heard the talk, but did not listen. Suddenly, +however, the sound of his own name caused him to prick his ears. Paul +Kegworthy! They were talking about him. There could be no mistake. He +slithered a foot or two nearer. +</P> + +<P> +"No matter whether his people are drunkards or murderers," said the +beloved voice, "he is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my +life. Have you ever spoken to him, Winifred?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," said the vicar's daughter. "Of course I've noticed him. Every one +does-he is remarkable." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't believe he's a child of these people at all," Maisie declared. +"He's of a different clay. He's as sensitive as-as a sensitive plant. +You ought to keep your eye on him, Mr. Merewether. I believe he's a +poor little prince in a fairy tale." +</P> + +<P> +"A freak—a lusus naturae" said the vicar. +</P> + +<P> +Paul did not know what a lusus naturae was, but it sounded mighty grand. +</P> + +<P> +"He's a fairy prince, and one day he'll come into his kingdom." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear, if you saw his mother!" +</P> + +<P> +"But I'm sure no one but a princess could be Paul Kegworthy's mother," +laughed Maisie. +</P> + +<P> +"And his father?" +</P> + +<P> +"A prince too!" +</P> + +<P> +And Paul listened and drank in his goddess's words greedily. Truth +clear as crystal fell from her lips. A wild wonder racked his little +soul. She had said that his mother was not his mother, and that his +father was a prince. The tidings capped the glory of an effulgent day. +</P> + +<P> +When he sneaked home late Mrs. Button, who had learned how he had +misspent his time, gave him a merciless thrashing. Why should he be +trapesing about with Sunday schools, she asked, with impolite +embroidery, while his poor little brothers and sisters were crying in +the street? She would learn him to Mess about with parsons and +Sunday-school teachers. She was in process of "learning" him when Mr. +Button entered. He swore in a manner which would have turned our armies +in Flanders pallid, and kicked Paul into the scullery. There the boy +remained and went supperless to his bed of sacks, aching and tearless. +Before he slept he put his cornelian heart in his hiding-hole. What +cared he for stripes or kicks or curses with the Vision Splendid +glowing before his eyes? +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER II +</H3> + +<P> +FOR splenetic reasons which none but the Buttons of this world can +appreciate, Paul was forbidden, under pain of ghastly tortures, to go +near the Sunday school again, and, lest he should defy authority, he +was told off on Sunday afternoons to mind the baby, either in the +street or the scullery, according to the weather, while the other +little Buttons were not allowed to approach him. The defection of the +brilliant scholar having been brought to the vicar's notice, he +ventured to call one Saturday afternoon on the Buttons, but such was +the contumely with which he was received that the good man hastily +retreated. In lung power he was outmatched. In repartee he was +singularly outclassed. He then sent the superintendent of the school, a +man of brawn and zeal, to see what muscular Christianity could +accomplish. But muscular Christianity, losing its head, came off with a +black eye. After that the Buttons were left alone, and no friendly hand +drew Paul within the gates of his Sunday Paradise. He thought of it +with aching wistfulness. The only thing that the superintendent could +do was to give him surreptitiously a prayer-book, bidding him perfect +himself in the Catechism in view of future Confirmation. But, as +emulation of his fellows and not religious zeal was the mainspring of +Paul's enthusiasm, the pious behest was disregarded. Paul dived into +the volume occasionally, however, for intellectual entertainment. +</P> + +<P> +As for the fragrant and beautiful goddess, she had disappeared into +thin air. Paul hung for a week or two about the vicarage, in the hope +of seeing her, but in vain. As a matter of fact, Maisie Shepherd had +left for Scotland the morning after the school treat; people don't come +to Bludston for long and happy holidays. So Paul had to feed his ardent +little soul on memories. That she had not been an impalpable creature +of his fancy was proven by the precious cornelian heart. Her words, +too, were written in fine flame across his childish mind. Paul began to +live the life of dreams. +</P> + +<P> +He longed for books. The fragmentary glimpses of history and geography +in the Board school standard whetted without satisfying his +imagination. There was not a book in the house in Budge Street, and he +had never a penny to buy one. Sometimes Button would bring home a dirty +newspaper, which Paul would steal and read in secret, but its contents +seemed to lack continuity. He thirsted for a story. Once a generous +boy, since dead-he was too good to live had given him a handful of +penny dreadfuls, whence he had derived his knowledge of pirates and Red +Indians. Too careless and confident, he had left them about the +kitchen, and his indignant mother had used them to light the fire. The +burning of his library was an enduring tragedy. He realized that it +must be reconstituted; but how? His nimble wit hit on a plan. Vagrant +as an unowned dog, he could roam the streets at pleasure. Why should he +not sell newspapers-in a quarter of the town, be it understood, remote +from both factory and Budge Street? He sold newspapers for three weeks +before he was found out. Then he was chastised and forced to go on +selling newspapers with no profit to himself, for his person was +rigorously searched and coppers confiscated as soon as he came home. +But during the three weeks' traffic on his own account he had amassed a +sufficient hoard of pennies for the purchase of several books in gaudy +paper covers exposed for sale in the little stationer's shop round the +corner. Soon he discovered that if he could batik a copper or two on +his way home his mother would be none the wiser. The stationer became +his banker, and when the amount of the deposit equaled the price of a +book, Paul withdrew his money's worth. So a goodly library of amazing +rubbish was stored by degrees under the scullery slab, until it outgrew +safe accommodation; whereupon Paul transferred the bulk of it to a hole +in a bit of waste ground, a deserted brickfield on the ragged outskirts +of the town. At last misfortune befell him. One dreary afternoon of +rain he dropped his new bundle of papers in the mud of the roadway. To +avoid death he had to spring from the path of a thundering tramcar. A +heavy cart ran over the bundle. While he was ruefully and hastily +gathering the papers together, a band of street children swooped down +and kicked them lustily about the filth. He was battling with one +urchin when a policeman grabbed him. With an elusive twist he escaped +and ran like a terrified hare. Disaster followed, and that was the end +of his career as a newsvendor. +</P> + +<P> +Greater leisure for reading, however, compensated the loss of the +occasional penny. He read dazzling tales of dukes with palaces (like +Chudley Court), and countesses with ropes of diamonds in their hair, +who all bore a resemblance to the fragrant one. And dukes and +countesses lived the most resplendent lives, and spoke such beautiful +language, and had such a way with them! He felt a curious pride in +being able to enter into all their haughty emotions. Then, one day, he +began a story about a poor little outcast boy in a slum. At first he +did not care for it. His soaring spirit disdained boys in slums. It had +its being on higher planes. But he read on, and, reading on, grew +interested, until interest was intensified into absorption. For the +outcast boy in the slums, you must know, was really the kidnapped child +of a prince and a princess, and after the most romantic adventures was +enfolded in his parents' arms, married a duke's beauteous daughter, +whom in his poverty he had worshipped from afar, and drove away with +his bride in a coach-and-six. +</P> + +<P> +To little Paul Kegworthy the clotted nonsense was a revelation from on +high. He was that outcast boy. The memorable pronouncement of the +goddess received confirmation in some kind of holy writ. The Vision +Splendid, hitherto confused, crystallized into focus. He realized +vividly how he differed in feature and form and intellect and character +from the low crowd with whom he was associated. His unpopularity was +derived from envy. His manifest superiority was gall to their base +natures. Yes, he had got to the heart of the mystery. Mrs. Button was +not his mother. For reasons unknown he had been kidnapped. Aware of his +high lineage, she hated him and beat him and despitefully used him. She +never gushed, it is true, over her offspring; but the little Buttons +flourished under genuine motherment. They, inconsiderable brats, were +her veritable children. Whereas he, Paul-it was as plain as daylight. +Somewhere far away in the great world, an august and griefstricken +pair, at that very moment, were mourning the loss of their only son. +There they were, in their marble palace, surrounded by flunkeys all +crimson and gold (men servants were always "gorgeously apparelled +flunkeys" in Paul's books), sitting at a table loaded with pineapples +on golden dishes, and eating out their hearts with longing. He could +hear their talk. +</P> + +<P> +"If only our beloved son were with us," said the princess, wiping away +a tear. +</P> + +<P> +"We must be patient, my sweet Highness," replied the prince, with lofty +resignation stamped on his noble brow. "Let us trust to Heaven to +remove the cankerworm that is gnawing our vitals." +</P> + +<P> +Paul felt very sorry for them, and he, too, wiped away a tear. +</P> + +<P> +For many years he remembered that day. He was alone in his brickfield +on a gusty March morning-the Easter holidays had released him from +school-squatting by his hole under the lee of a mass of earth and +rubbish. It was a mean expanse, blackened by soot and defiled by +refuse. Here and there bramble and stunted gorse struggled for an +existence; but the flora mainly consisted in bits of old boots and foul +raiment protruding grotesquely from the soil, half-buried cans, rusty +bits of iron, and broken bottles. On one side the backs of grimy little +houses, their yards full of fluttering drab underwear, marked the edge +of the hopeless town which rose above them in forbidding buildings, +belching chimney shafts and the spikes of a couple of spires. On the +other sides it was bounded by the brick walls of factories, the +municipal gasworks and the approach to the railway station, indicated +by signal-posts standing out against the sky like gallows, and a +tram-line bordered by a row of skeleton cottages. Golgotha was a grim +garden compared with Paul's brickfield. Sometimes the children of the +town scuttled about it like dingy little rabbits. But more often it was +a desolate solitude. Perhaps all but the lowest of the parents of +Bludston had put the place out of bounds, as gipsies and other dwellers +in vans were allowed to camp there. It also bore an evil name because a +night murder or two had been committed in its murky seclusion. Paul +knew the exact spot, an ugly cavity toward the gasworks end, where a +woman had been "done in," and even he, lord of the brickfield, +preferred to remain at a purifying distance. But it was his own domain. +He felt in it a certain pride of possession. The hollow under the lee +of the rubbish-heap, by the side of the hole where he kept his paper +library, was the most homelike place he knew. +</P> + +<P> +For many years he remembered that day. The light that never was on sea +or land fell upon the brickfield. He had read the story at one stretch. +He had sat there for hours reading, for hours rapt in his Vision. At +last material darkness began to gather round him, and he awoke with a +start to realization that he had been sitting there most of the day. +With a sigh he replaced his book in the hole, which he cunningly masked +with a lump of hard clay, and, feeling stiff and cold, ran, childlike, +homeward. In the silence of the night he took out his cornelian heart +and fondled it. The day had been curiously like, yet utterly unlike, +the day on which she had taken it from her neck. In a dim fashion he +knew that the two days were of infinite significance in his life and +were complementary. He had been waiting, as it were, for nine months +for this day's revelation, this day's confirmation. +</P> + +<P> +Paul rose the next morning, a human being with a fixed idea, an +unquestioned faith in his destiny. His star shone clear. He was born to +great things. In those early years that followed it was not a matter of +an imaginative child's vanity, but the unalterable, serene conviction +of a child's soul. The prince and princess were realities, his future +greatness a magnificent certitude. You must remember this, if you would +understand Paul's after-life. It was built on this radiant knowledge. +In the afternoon he met Billy Goodge and the gang. They were playing at +soldiers, Billy distinguished by a cocked hat made out of newspaper and +a wooden sword. +</P> + +<P> +"Coom on, Susie, wi be going to knock hell out of the boys in Stamford +Street." +</P> + +<P> +Paul folded his arms and looked at him contemptuously, as became one of +his noble blood. "You could no' knock hell out of a bug." +</P> + +<P> +"What's that tha says?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul repeated the insult. +</P> + +<P> +"Say that agen!" blustered the cocked-hatted leader. +</P> + +<P> +Paul said it again and nothing happened, Billy received vociferous and +sanguinary advice couched in sanguinary terms. +</P> + +<P> +"Try and hit me!" said Billy. +</P> + +<P> +The scene was oddly parallel with one in the story of the outcast boy +of the gutter. Paul, conscious of experiment, calmly went up to him and +kicked him. He kicked him hard. The sensation was delicious. Billy +edged away. He knew from past experience that if it came to blows he +was no match for Paul, but hitherto, having shown fight, he had +received the support of the gang. Now, however, there was an +extraordinary quality in Paul's defiance which took the spirit out of +him. Once more he was urged by the ragged brats to deeds of blood. He +did not respond. Paul kicked him again before his followers. If he +could have gone on kicking him for ever and ever what delirium of joy +were eternity! Billy edged farther away. The mongrel game-cock was +beaten. Paul, dramatically conscious of what the unrecognized prince +would do in such a circumstance, advanced, smacked his face, plucked +the cocked hat from his head, the sword from his hand, and invested +himself with these insignia of leadership, Billy melted silently into +the subfusc air of Budge Street. The ragged regiment looked around and +there was no Billy. Paul Kegworthy, the raggedest of them all, with +nothing to recommend him but his ridiculous exotic beauty and the paper +and wooden spolia opima of the vanquished, stood before them, a +tattered Caesar. The gang hung spellbound. They were ready, small band +of heroes, to follow him against the hordes of Stamford Street. They +only awaited his signal. Paul tasted a joy known but to few of the sons +of men-absolute power over, and supreme contempt for, his fellows. He +stood for a moment or two, in the grey, miserable street discordant +with the wailings of babies and the clamour of futile little girls, +who, after the manner of women, had no idea of political crisis, and +the shrill objurgations of slattern mothers and the raucous cries of an +idealist vendor of hyacinths, and, cocked hat on head and wooden sword +in hand, he looked at his fawning army. Then came the touch of genius +that was often to characterize his actions in after years. It was +mimetic, as he had read of such a thing in his paper-covered +textbooks-but it was none the less a touch of genius. He frowned on the +dirty, ignoble little boys. What had he in common with them-he, the son +of a prince? Nothing. He snapped his sword across his knee, tore his +cocked hat in two, and, casting the fragments before them, marched +proudly toward the very last place on the face of the earth that he +desired to visit-his own home. The army remained for a few seconds +bewildered by the dramatic and unexpected, and, leaderless, did what +many a real army has done in similar circumstances, straggled into +disintegration. +</P> + +<P> +Thenceforward, Paul, had he so chosen, could have ruled despotically in +Budge Street. But he did not choose. The games from which he used to be +excluded, or in which he used to be allowed to join on sufferance, no +longer appealed to him. He preferred to let Joey Meakin lead the gang, +vice Billy Goodge deposed, while he himself remained aloof. Now and +then he condescended to arbitrate between disputants or to kick a +little brute of a bully, but he felt that, in doing so, he was +derogating from his high dignity. It was his joy to feel himself a +dark, majestic power overshadowing the street, a kind of Grand Llama +hidden in mystery. Often he would walk through the midst of the +children, seemingly unconscious of their existence, acting strenuously +to himself his part of a high-born prince. +</P> + +<P> +This lasted till a dark and awful day when Mr. Button pitched him into +the factory. These were times before kindly Education Acts and Factory +Acts decreed that no boy under twelve years of age should work in a +factory, and that every boy under fourteen should spend half his time +at the factory and half at school. Paul's education was considered +complete, and he had to plunge into full time at the grim and grinding +place. He had joined the great army of workers. A wide gulf separated +him from the gang of Budge Street. It existed for him no more than did +the little girls and babies. Life changed its aspect entirely. Gone +were the days of vagabondage, the lazy, the delicious even though cold +and hungry hours of dreaming and reading in the brickfield; gone was +the happy freedom of the chartered libertine of the gutter. He was +bound, a little slave, like hundreds of other little slaves and +thousands of big ones, to a relentless machine. He entered the hopeless +factory gate at six in the morning and left it at half-past five in the +evening; and, his rough food swallowed, slunk to his kennel in the +scullery like a little tired dog. And Mr. Button drank, and beat Mrs. +Button, and Mrs. Button beat Paul whenever she felt in the humour and +had anything handy to do it with, and, as a matter of course, +confiscated his wages on Saturday and set him to mind the baby on +Sunday afternoons. In the monotony, weariness and greyness of life the +glory of the Vision began to grow dim. +</P> + +<P> +In the factory he was not thrown into competition with other boys. He +was the skip, the drudge, the carrier and fetcher, the cleaner and +polisher for a work-bench of men devoid of sentiment and blind to his +princely qualities. He tried, indeed, by nimbleness of hand and +intelligence, to impress them with his superiority to his predecessors, +but they were not impressed. At the most he escaped curses. His mind +began to work in the logic of the real. Entrance into his kingdom +implied as a primary condition release from the factory. But how could +such release come, when every morning a remorseless and insensate +hook-just like a certain hook in the machinery whose deadly certainty +of grip fascinated and terrified him, caught him from his morning sleep +every morning of his life, save Sunday, and swung him inexorably into +the factory? He looked around and saw that no one was released, except +through death or illness or incompetence. And the incompetent starved. +Any child in Budge Street with a grain of sense knew that. There was no +release. He, son of a prince, would work for ever and ever in Bludston. +His heart failed him. And there was no one to whom he could tell the +tragic and romantic story of his birth. One or two happy gleams of +brightness, however, lightened his darkness and prevented the Vision +from fading entirely into the greyness of the factory sky. Once the +Owner, an unspeakable god with a bald pink head and a paunch vastly +chained with gold, conducted a party of ladies over the works. One of +the latter, a very grand lady, noticed him at his bench and came-and +spoke kindly to him. Her voice had the same sweet timbre as his +goddess's. After she had left him his quick ears caught her question to +the Owner: "Where did you get your young Apollo? Not out of Lancashire, +surely? He's wonderful." And just before she passed out of sight she +turned and looked at him and smiled. He learned on inquiry that she was +the Marchioness of Chudley. The instant recognition of him by one of +his own aristocratic caste revived his faith. The day would assuredly +come. Suppose it had been his own mother, instead of the Marchioness? +Stranger things happened in the books. The other gleam proceeded from +one of the workmen at his bench, a serious and socialistic person who +occasionally lent him something to read: Foxe's "Book of Martyrs," +"Mill on Liberty," Bellamy's "Looking Backward," at that time at the +height of its popularity. And sometimes he would talk to Paul about +collectivism and the new era that was coming when there would be no +such words as rich and poor, because there would be no such classes as +they denoted. +</P> + +<P> +Paul would say: "Then a prince will be no better than a factory hand?" +</P> + +<P> +"There won't be any princes, I tell thee," his friend would reply, and +launch out into a denunciation of tyrants. +</P> + +<P> +But this did not suit Paul. If there were to be no princes, where, +would he come in? So, while grateful to the evangelist for talking to +him and treating him as a human being, he totally rejected his gospel. +It struck at the very foundations of his visionary destiny. He was +afraid to argue, for his friend was vehement. Also confession of +aristocratic prejudices might turn friendship into enmity. But his +passionate antagonism to the communistic theory, all the more intense +through suppression, strengthened his fantastic faith. Still, the +transient smile of a marchioness and the political economy of a +sour-avised operative are not enough to keep alive the romance of +underfed, ill-clad, overdriven childhood. And after a while he was +deprived even of the latter consolation, his friend being shifted to +another end of the factory. In despair he turned to Ada, the eldest of +the little Buttons, who now had reached years of comparative +discretion, and strove to interest her in his dreams, veiling his +identity under a fictitious name; but Ada, an unimaginative and +practical child with a growing family to look after, either listened +stupidly or consigned him, in the local vernacular, to perdition. +</P> + +<P> +"But suppose 'it was me that was the unknown prince? Supposing it was +me I've been talking about all the time? Supposing it was me that went +away and came back in a gold coach and six horses, with a duke's +daughter all over diamonds by my side, what would tha say?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think tha art nowt but a fool," said the elderly child of ten, "and, +if mother heard thee, she'd lamm the life out of thee." +</P> + +<P> +Paul had the sickening sensation of the man who has confided the high +secrets of his soul to coarsefibred woman. He turned away, darkly +conscious of having magnanimously given Ada a chance to mount with him +into the upper air, which opportunity she, daughter of earth, had, in +her purblind manner, refused. Thenceforward Ada was to him an +unnoticeable item in the cosmos. +</P> + +<P> +One hopeless month succeeded another, until a cloud seemed to close +round Paul's brain, rendering him automatic in his actions, merely +animal in his half-satisfied appetites. Fines and curses were his +portion at the factory; curses and beatings—deserved if Justice held a +hurried scale at home. Paul, who had read of suicide in The Bludston +Herald, turned his thoughts morbidly to death. But his dramatic +imagination always carried him beyond' his own demise to the scene in +the household when his waxlike corpse should be discovered dangling +from a rope fixed to the hook in the kitchen ceiling. He posed +cadaverous before a shocked Budge Street, before a conscience-stricken +factory; and he wept on his sack bed in the scullery because the prince +and the princess, his august parents, would never know that he had +died. A whit less gloomy were his imaginings of the said prince and +princess rushing into the house, in the nick of time, just before life +was extinct, and cutting him down. How they were to find him he did not +know. This side-track exploration of possibilities was a symptom of +sanity. +</P> + +<P> +Yet, Heaven knows what would have happened to Paul, after a year or so +at the factory, if Barney Bill, a grotesque god from the wide and +breezy spaces of the world, had not limped into his life. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill wore the cloth cap and conventional and unpicturesque, +though shapeless and weather-stained, garment of the late nineteenth +century. Neither horns nor goat's feet were visible; nor was the pipe +of reed on which he played. Yet he played, in Paul's ear, the +comforting melody of Pan, and the glory of the Vision once more flooded +Paul's senses, and the factory and Budge Street and the Buttons and the +scullery faded away like an evil dream. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER III +</H3> + +<P> +THE Fates arranged Barney Bill's entrance late on a Saturday afternoon +in August. It was not dramatic. It was merely casual. They laid the +scene in the brickfield. +</P> + +<P> +It had rained all day, and now there was sullen clearance. Paul, who +had been bathing with some factory boys in the not very savoury canal a +mile or so distant, had wandered mechanically to his brickfield +library, which, by means of some scavenging process, he managed to keep +meagrely replenished. Here he had settled himself with a dilapidated +book on his knees for an hour's intellectual enjoyment. It was not a +cheerful evening. The ground was sodden, and rank emanations rose from +the refuse. From where he sat he could see an angry sunset like a +black-winged dragon with belly of flame brooding over the town. The +place wore an especial air of desolation. Paul felt depressed. Bathing +in the pouring wet is a chilly sport, and his midday meal of cold +potatoes had not been invigorating. These he had grabbed, and, having +done them up hastily in newspaper, had bolted with them out of the +house. He had been fined heavily for slackness during the week, and Mr. +Button's inevitable wrath at docked wages he desired to undergo as late +as possible. Then, the sun had blazed furiously during the last six +imprisoned days, and now the long-looked for hours of freedom were +disfigured by rain and blight. He resented the malice of things. He +also resented the invasion of his brickfield by an alien van, a gaudy +vehicle, yellow and red, to the exterior of which clinging wicker +chairs, brooms, brushes and jute mats gave the impression of a +lunatic's idea of decoration. An old horse, hobbled a few feet away, +philosophically cropped the abominable grass. On the front of the van a +man squatted with food and drink. Paul hated him as a trespasser and a +gormandizer. +</P> + +<P> +Presently the man, shading his eyes with his hand, scrutinized the +small, melancholy figure, and then, hopping from his perch, sped toward +him with a nimble and curiously tortuous gait. +</P> + +<P> +He approached, a wiry, almost wizened, little man of fifty, tanned to +gipsy brown. He had a shrewd thin face, with an oddly flattened nose, +and little round moist dark eyes that glittered like diamonds. He wore +cloth cap on the back of his head, showing in front a thick mass of +closely cropped hair. His collarless shirt was open at the neck and his +sleeves were rolled up above the elbow. +</P> + +<P> +"You're Polly Kegworthy's kid, ain't you?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Seen you afore, haven't I?" Then Paul remembered. Three or four times +during his life, at long, long intervals, the van had passed down Budge +Street, stopping at houses here and there. About two years ago, coming +home, he had met it at his own door. His mother and the little man were +talking together. The man had taken him under the chin and twisted his +face up. "Is that the nipper?" he had asked. +</P> + +<P> +His mother had nodded, and, releasing Paul with a clumsy gesture of +simulated affection, had sent him with twopence for a pint of beer to +the public-house at the end of the street. He recalled how the man had +winked his little bright eye at his mother before putting the jug to +his lips. +</P> + +<P> +"I browt th' beer for yo'," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"You did. It was the worst beer, bar none, I've ever had. I can taste +it now." He made a wry face. Then he cocked his head on one side. "I +suppose you're wondering who I am?" said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," said Paul. "Who art tha?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm Barney Bill," replied the man. "Did you never hear of me? I'm +known on the road from Taunton to Newcastle and from Hereford to +Lowestoft. You can tell yer mother that you seed me." +</P> + +<P> +A smile curled round Paul's lips at the comic idea of giving his mother +unsolicited information. "Barney Bill?" said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Yuss," said the man. Then, after a pause, "What are you doing of +there?" +</P> + +<P> +"Reading," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Let's have a look at it." +</P> + +<P> +Paul regarded him suspiciously; but there was kindliness in the +twinkling glance. He handed him the sorry apology for a book. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill turned it over. 'Why, said he, "it ain't got no beginning +and no end. It's all middle. 'Kenilworth.' Do yer like it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay!" said Paul. "It's foine." +</P> + +<P> +"Who do yer think wrote it?" +</P> + +<P> +As both cover and a hundred pages at the beginning, including the +title-page, to say nothing of a hundred pages at the end, were missing, +Paul had no clue to the authorship. +</P> + +<P> +"Dunno," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Sir Walter Scott." +</P> + +<P> +Paul jumped to his feet. Sir Walter Scott, he knew not why or how, was +one of those bright names that starred in his historical darkness, like +Caesar and Napoleon and Ridley and Latimer and W. G. Grace. +</P> + +<P> +"Tha' art sure? Sir Water Scott?" +</P> + +<P> +The shock of meeting Sir Walter in the flesh could not have been +greater. The man nodded. "Think I'd tell yer a lie? I do a bit of +reading myself in the old 'bus there"-he jerked a thumb—"I've got some +books now. Would yer like to see 'em?" +</P> + +<P> +Would a mouse like cheese? Paul started off with his new companion. +</P> + +<P> +"If it wasn't for a book or two, I'd go melancholy mad and bust +myself," the latter remarked. +</P> + +<P> +Paul's spirit leaped toward a spiritual brother. It was precisely his +own case. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll find a lot of chaps that don't hold with books. Dessay you've +met 'em?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul laughed, precipient of irony. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill continued: "I've heard some on 'em say: 'What's the good of +books? Give me nature,' and they goes and asks for it at the +public-'ouse. Most say nothing at all, but just booze." +</P> + +<P> +"Like father," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Eh?" cried his friend sharply. +</P> + +<P> +"Sam Button, what married mother." +</P> + +<P> +"Ali! so he boozes a lot, does he?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul drew an impressionistic and lurid picture of Mr. Button. +</P> + +<P> +"And they fight?" +</P> + +<P> +"Like billy-o," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +They reached the van. Barney Bill, surprisingly agile in spite of his +twisted leg, sprang into the interior. Paul, standing between the +shafts, looked in with curiosity. There was a rough though not unclean +bed running down one side. Beyond, at the stern, so to speak, was a +kind of galley containing cooking stove, kettle and pot. There were +shelves, some filled with stock-in-trade, others with miscellaneous +things, the nature of which he could not distinguish in the gloom. +Barney Bill presently turned and dumped an armful of books on the +footboard an inch or two below Paul's nose. Paul scanned the title +pages. They were: Goldsmith's "Animated Nature," "Enquire Within Upon +Everything," an old bound volume of "Cassell's Family Reader," "The +Remains of Henry Kirke White," and "Martin Chuzzlewit." The owner +looked down upon them proudly. +</P> + +<P> +"I've got some more, but I can't get at 'em." +</P> + +<P> +Paul regarded him with envy. This was a man of great possessions. "How +long are yo' going to stay here?" he asked hopefully. +</P> + +<P> +"Till sunrise to-morrow." +</P> + +<P> +Paul's face fell. He seemed to have no luck nowadays. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill let himself down to a sitting position on the footboard and +reached to the end for a huge pork pie and a clasp knife which lay +beside a tin can. "I'll go on with my supper," said he; then noticing a +wistful, hungry look in the child's eyes, "Have a bit?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +He cut off a mighty hunk and put it into Paul's ready hand. Paul +perched himself beside him, and they both ate for a long while in +silence, dangling their legs. Now and again the host passed the tin of +tea to wash down the food. The flaming dragon died into a smoky red +above the town. A light or two already appeared in the fringe of mean +houses. Twilight fell rapidly. +</P> + +<P> +"Oughtn't you to be getting home?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul, his hunger appeased, grinned. His idea was to sneak into the +scullery just after the public-houses closed, when his mother would be +far too much occupied with Mr. Button to worry about him. Chastisement +would then be postponed till the morning. Artlessly he laid the +situation before his friend, who led him on to relate other amenities +of his domestic life. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I'm jiggered!" said Barney Bill. "She must be a she-devil!" +</P> + +<P> +Paul cordially agreed. He had already imagined the Prince of Darkness +in the guise of Mr. Button; Mrs. Button was in every way fit to be the +latter's diabolical mate. Encouraged by sympathy and shrewd questions, +he sketched in broad detail his short career, glorifying himself as the +prize scholar and the erstwhile Grand Llama of Budge Street, and +drawing a dismal picture of the factory. Barney Bill listened +comprehendingly. Then, smoking a well-blackened clay, he began to utter +maledictions on the suffocating life in towns and to extol his own +manner of living. Having an appreciative audience, he grew eloquent +over his lonely wanderings the length and breadth of the land; over the +joy of country things, the sweetness of the fields, the wayside +flowers, the vaulted highways in the leafy summer, the quiet, sleepy +towns, the fragrant villages, the peace and cleanness of the open air. +</P> + +<P> +The night had fallen, and in the cleared sky the stars shone bright. +Paul, his head against the lintel of the van door, looked up at them, +enthralled by the talk of Barney Bill. The vagabond merchant had the +slight drawling inflection of the Home Counties, which gave a soothing +effect to a naturally soft voice. To Paul it was the pipes of Pan. +</P> + +<P> +"It mightn't suit everybody," said Barney Bill philosophically. "Some +folks prefer gas to laylock. I don't say that they're wrong. But I +likes laylock." +</P> + +<P> +"What's laylock?" asked Paul. +</P> + +<P> +His friend explained. No lilac bloomed in the blighted Springs of +Bludston. +</P> + +<P> +"Does it smell sweet?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yuss. So does the may and the syringa and the new-mown hay and the +seaweed. Never smelt any of 'em?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," sighed Paul, sensuously conscious of new and vague horizons. "I +once smelled summat sweet," he said dreamily. "It wur a lady." +</P> + +<P> +"D'ye mean a woman?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. A lady. Like what yo' read of." +</P> + +<P> +"I've heard as they do smell good; like violets—some on 'em," the +philosopher remarked. +</P> + +<P> +Drawn magnetically to this spiritual brother, Paul said almost without +volition, "She said I were the son of a prince." +</P> + +<P> +"Son of a WOT?" cried Barney Bill, sitting up with a jerk that shook a +volume or two onto the ground. +</P> + +<P> +Paul repeated the startling word. +</P> + +<P> +"Lor' lumme!" exclaimed the other, "don't yer know who yer father was?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul told of his disastrous attempts to pierce the mystery of his birth. +</P> + +<P> +"A frying-pan? Did she now? That's a mother for yer." +</P> + +<P> +Paul disowned her. He disowned her with reprehensible emphasis. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill pulled reflectively at his pipe. Then he laid a bony hand +on the boy's shoulder. "Who do you think yer mother was?" he asked +gravely. "A princess?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay, why not?" said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" echoed Barney Bill. "Why not? You're a blooming lucky kid. I +wish I was a missin' heir. I know what I'd do." +</P> + +<P> +"What?" asked Paul, the ingenuous. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd find my 'igh-born parents." +</P> + +<P> +"How?" asked Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd go through the whole of England, asking all the princes I met. You +don't meet 'em at every village pump, ye know," he added quickly, lest +the boy, detecting the bantering note, should freeze into reserve; +"but, if you keep yer eyes skinned and yer ears standing up, you can +learn where they are. Lor' lumme! I wouldn't be a little nigger slave +in a factory if I was the missin' heir. Not much. I wouldn't be starved +and beaten by Sam and Polly Button. Not me. D'ye think yer aforesaid +'igh-born parents are going to dive down into this stinkin' suburb of +hell to find yer out? Not likely. You've got to find 'em sonny. Yer can +find anybody on the 'ighroad if yer tramps long enough. What d'yer +think?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll find 'em," said Paul, in dizzy contemplation of possibilities. +</P> + +<P> +"When are yer going to start?" asked Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +Paul felt his wages jingle in his pocket. He was a capitalist. The +thrill of independence swept him from head to foot. What time like the +present? "I'll start now," said he. +</P> + +<P> +It was night. Quite dark, save for the stars; the lights already +disappearing in the fringe of mean houses whose outline was merged +against the blackness of the town; the green and red and white disks +along the railway line behind the dim mass of the gasworks; the +occasional streak of conglomerate fireflies that was a tramcar; and the +red, remorseless glow of here and there a furnace that never was +extinct in the memory of man. And, save for the far shriek of trains, +the less remote and more frequent clanging of passing tramcars along +the road edged with the skeleton cottages, and, startlingly near, the +vain munching and dull footfall of the old horse, all was still. +Compared with home and Budge Street, it was the reposeful quiet of the +tomb. Barney Bill smoked for a time in silence, while Paul sat with +clenched fists and a beating heart. The simplicity of the high +adventure dazed him. All he had to do was to walk away—walk and walk, +free as a sparrow. +</P> + +<P> +Presently Barney Bill slid from the footboard. "You stay here, sonny, +till I come back." +</P> + +<P> +He limped away across the dim brickfield and sat down at the edge of +the hollow where the woman had been murdered. He had to think; to +decide a nice point of ethics. A vagrant seller of brooms and jute +mats, even though he does carry about with him "Cassell's Family +Reader" and "The Remains of Henry Kirke White," is distracted by few +psychological problems. Sufficient for the day is the physical thereof. +And when a man like Barney Bill is unencumbered by the continuous +feminine, the ordinary solution of life is simple. But now the man had +to switch his mind back to times before Paul was born, when the eternal +feminine had played the very devil with him, when all sorts of passions +and emotions had whirled his untrained being into dizziness. No +passions or emotions now affected him; but their memory created an +atmosphere of puzzledom. He had to adjust values. He had to deputize +for Destiny. He also had to harmonize the pathetically absurd with the +grimly real. He took off his cap and scratched his cropped head. After +a while he damned something indefinite and hastened in his +dot-and-carry-one fashion to the van. +</P> + +<P> +"Quite made up yer mind to go in search of yer 'ighborn parents?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Like me to give yer a lift, say, as far as London?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul sprang to the ground and opened his mouth to speak. But his knees +grew weak and he quivered all over like one who beholds the god. The +abstract nebulous romance of his pilgrimage had been crystallized, in a +flash, into the concrete. "Ay," he panted. +</P> + +<P> +"Ay!" and he steadied himself with his back and elbows against the +shafts. +</P> + +<P> +"That's all right," said Barney Bill, in a matter-of fact way, calm and +godlike to Paul. "You can make up a bed on the floor of the old 'bus +with some of them there mats inside and we'll turn in and have a sleep, +and start at sunrise." +</P> + +<P> +He clambered into the van, followed by Paul, and lit an oil lamp. In a +few moments Paul's bed was made. He threw himself down. The resilient +surface of the mats was luxury after the sacking on the scullery stone. +Barney Bill performed his summary toilet, blew out the lamp and went to +his couch. +</P> + +<P> +Presently Paul started up, smitten by a pang straight through his +heart. He sprang to his feet. "Mister," he cried in the darkness, not +knowing how else to address his protector. "I mun go whoam." +</P> + +<P> +"Wot?" exclaimed the other. "Thought better of it already? Well, go, +then, yer little 'eathen 'ippocrite!" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll coom back," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Yer afeared, yer little rat," said Barney Bill, out of the blackness. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not," retorted Paul indignantly. "I'm freeten'd of nowt." +</P> + +<P> +"Then what d'yer want to go for? If you've made up yer mind to come +along of me, just stay where you are. If you go home they'll nab you +and whack you for staying out late, and lock you up, and you'll not be +able to get out in time in the morning. And I ain't a-going to wait for +yer, I tell yer straight." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll be back," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't believe it. Good mind not to let yer go." +</P> + +<P> +The touch of genius suddenly brushed the boy's forehead. He drew from +his pockets the handful of silver and copper that was his week's wages, +and, groping in the darkness, poured it over Barney Bill. "Then keep +that for me till I coom back." +</P> + +<P> +He fumbled hurriedly for the latch of the van door, found it, and +leaped out into the waste under the stars, just as the owner of the van +rose with a clatter of coins. To pick up money is a deeply rooted human +instinct. Barney Bill lit his lamp, and, uttering juicy though +innocuous flowers of anathema, searched for the scattered treasure. +When he had retrieved three shillings and sevenpence-halfpenny he +peered out. Paul was far away. Barney Bill put the money on the shelf +and looked at it in a puzzled way. Was it an earnest of the boy's +return, or was it a bribe to let him go? The former hypothesis seemed +untenable, for if he got nabbed his penniless condition would be such +an aggravation of his offence as to call down upon him a more ferocious +punishment than he need have risked. And why in the name of sanity did +he want to go home? To kiss his sainted mother in her sleep? To pack +his blankety portmanteau? Barney Bill's fancy took a satirical turn. On +the latter hypothesis, the boy was in deadly fear, and preferred the +certainty of the ferocious punishment to the terrors of an unknown +future. Barney Bill smoked a reflective pipe, looking at the matter +from the two points of view. Not being able to decide, he put out his +lamp, shut his door and went to sleep. +</P> + +<P> +Dawn awoke him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Paul was not there. He +did not expect him to be there. He felt sorry. The poor little kid had +funked it. He had hoped for better stuff. He rose and stretched +himself, put on socks and boots, lit his cooking stove, set a kettle to +boil and, opening the door, remained for a while breathing the misty +morning air. Then he let himself down and proceeded to the back of the +van, where stood a pail of water and a tin basin, his simple washing +apparatus. Having sluiced head and neck and dried them with something +resembling a towel, he hooked up the pail, stowed the basin in a rack, +unslung a nosebag, which he attached to the head of the old horse, and +went indoors to prepare his own elementary breakfast. That over, he put +the horse into the shafts. Barney Bill was a man of his word. He was +not going to wait for Paul; but he cast a glance round the limited +horizon of the brickfield, hoping, against reason, to see the little +slim figure emerge from some opening and run toward him. +</P> + +<P> +"Darn the boy!" said Barney Bill, taking off his cap and scratching his +wet head. +</P> + +<P> +A low moan broke the dead silence of the Sunday dawn. He started and +looked about him. He listened. There was another. The moans were those +of a sleeper. He bent down and looked under the van. There lay Paul, +huddled up, fast asleep on the bare ground. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I'm jiggered! I'm just jiggered. Here, you—hello!" cried Barney +Bill. +</P> + +<P> +Paul awakened suddenly, half sat up, grinned, grabbed at something on +the ground beside him and wriggled out between the wheels. +</P> + +<P> +"How long you been there?" +</P> + +<P> +"About two hours," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Why didn't yer wake me?" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't like to disturb thee," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Did yer go home?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Into the house?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul nodded and smiled. Now, that it was all over, he could smile. But +only afterwards, when he had greater command of language, could he +describe the awful terror that shook his soul when he opened the front +door, crept twice through the darkness of the sleeping kitchen and +noiselessly closed the door again. +</P> + +<P> +For many months he felt the terror of his dreams. Briefly he told +Barney Bill of his exploit. How he had to lurk in the shadow of the +street during the end of a battle between the Buttons, in which the +lodgers and a policeman had intervened. How he had to +wait—interminable hours—until the house was quiet. How he had +stumbled over things in the drunken disorder of the kitchen floor, +dreading to arouse the four elder little Buttons who slept in the room. +How narrowly he had missed running into the arms of the policeman who +had passed the door some seconds before he opened it. How he had +crouched on the pavement until the policeman turned the corner, and how +he had fled in the opposite direction. +</P> + +<P> +"And if yer mother had caught ye, what would she have done to yer?" +</P> + +<P> +"Half-killed me," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill twisted his head on one side and looked at him out of his +twinkling eyes. Paul thought he resembled a grotesque bird. +</P> + +<P> +"Wot did yer do it for?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"This," said Paul, holding out a grubby palm in which lay the precious +cornelian heart. +</P> + +<P> +His friend blinked at it. "Wot the blazes is the good of that?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's a talisman," replied Paul, who, having come across the word in a +book, had at once applied it to his treasure. +</P> + +<P> +"Lor' lumme!" cried Barney Bill. "And it was for that bit of stuff yer +ran the risk of being flayed alive by yer loving parents?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul was quick to detect a note of admiration underlying the +superficial contemptuousness of the words. "I'd ha' gone through fire +and water for it," he declared theatrically. +</P> + +<P> +"Lor' lumme!" said Barney Bill again. +</P> + +<P> +"I got summat else," said Paul, taking from his pocket his little pack +of Sunday-school cards. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill examined them gravely. "I think you'd better do away with +these." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"They establishes yer identity," said Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"What's that?" +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill explained. Paul was running away from home. The police, +informed of the fact, would raise a hue-and-cry. The cards, if found, +would be evidence. Paul laughed. The constabulary was not popular in +Budge Street. +</P> + +<P> +"Mother ain't going to ha' nowt to do with the police, nor father, +either." +</P> + +<P> +He hinted that the cards might be useful later. His childish vanity +loved the trivial encomiums inscribed thereon. They would impress +beholders who had not the same reasons for preoccupation as Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"You're thinking of your 'igh-born parents," said Barney Bill. "All +right, keep 'em. Only hide 'ern away safe. And now get in and let us +clear out of this place. It smelts like a cheese with an escape of gas +running through it. And you'd better stay inside and not show your face +all day long. I don't want to be had up for kidnapping." +</P> + +<P> +Paul jumped in. Barney Bill clambered onto the footboard and took the +reins. The old horse started and the van jolted its way to the road, on +which as yet no tramcars clattered. As the van turned, Paul, craning +his neck out of the window, obtained the last glimpse of Bludston. He +had no regrets. As far as such a thought could be formulated in his +young mind, he wished that the place could be blotted out from his +memory, as it was now hidden forever from his vision. He stood at the +little window, facing south, gazing toward the unknown region at the +end of which lay London, city of dreams. He was not quite fourteen. His +destiny was before him, and to the fulfilment thereof he saw no +hindrance. No more would the remorseless factory hook catch him from +his sleep and swing him into the relentless machine. Never again, would +he hear his mother's shrewish voice or feel her heavy, greasy hand +about his ears. He was free—free to read, free to sleep, free to talk, +free to drink in the beauty of the lazy hours. Vaguely he was conscious +that one of the wonders that would come would be his own expansion. He +would learn many things which he did not know, things that would fit +him for his high estate. He looked down upon the foreshortened figure +of Barney Bill, his cloth cap, his shoulders, his bare brown arms, a +patch of knee. To the boy, at that moment, he was less a man than an +instrument of Destiny guiding him, not knowing why, to the Promised +Land. +</P> + +<P> +At last on the quiet road Paul saw a bicyclist approaching them. +Mindful of Barney Bill's injunction, he withdrew his head. Presently he +lay down on the couch, and, soothed by the jogging of the van and the +pleasant creaking of the baskets, fell into the deep sleep of tired and +happy childhood. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IV +</H3> + +<P> +IT was a day of dust and blaze. Dust lay thick on the ground, it filled +the air, it silvered the lower branches of the wayside trees, it turned +the old brown horse into a dappled grey, it powdered the black hair of +Barney Bill and of Paul until they looked like vagabond millers. They +sat side by side on the footboard while the old horse jogged on, +whisking flies away with a scanty but persistent tail. +</P> + +<P> +Paul, barefoot and barelegged, hatless, coatless, absorbed blaze and +dust with the animal content of a young lizard. A month's summer +wandering had baked him to gipsy brown. A month's sufficient food and +happiness had filled gaunt hollows in his face and covered all too +visible ribs with flesh. Since his flight from Bludston his life had +been one sensuous trance. His hungry young soul had been gorged with +beauty—the beauty of fields and trees and rolling country, of still, +quivering moons and starlit nights, of exultant freedom, of +never-failing human sympathy. He had a confused memory of everything. +They had passed through many towns as similar to Bludston as one +factory chimney to another, and had plied their trade in many a mean +street, so much the counterpart of Budge Street that he had watched a +certain window or door with involuntary trepidation, until he realized +that it was not Budge Street, that he was a happy alien to its squalor, +that he was a butterfly, a thing of woods and hedgerows fluttering for +an inconsequent moment in the gloom. He came among them, none knew +whence he was going, none knew whither. He was conscious of being a +creature of mystery. He pitied the fettered youth of these begrimed and +joyless towns—slaves, Men with Muckrakes (he had fished up an old +"Pilgrim's Progress" from the lower depths of the van), who obstinately +refused to raise their eyes to the glorious sun in heaven. In his +childish arrogance he would ask Barney Bill, "Why don't they go away +and leave it, like me?" And the wizened little man would reply, with +the flicker of an eyelid unperceived by Paul, "Because they haven't no +'igh-born parents waiting for 'em. They're born to their low estate, +and they knows it." Which to Paul was a solution of peculiar comfort. +</P> + +<P> +Even the blackened lands between the towns had their charm for Paul, in +that he had a gleeful sense of being excluded from the wrath of God, +which fell continuously upon them and the inhabitants thereof. And here +and there a belt of leafy country gave promise, or confirmed Barney +Bill's promise, of the Paradise that would come. Besides, what mattered +the perpetuations of Bludston brickfields when the Land of Beulah +shimmered ahead in the blue distance, when "Martin Chuzzlewit" lay open +on his knees, when the smell of the bit of steak sizzling on the +cooking stove stung his young blood? And now they were in Warwickshire, +county of verdant undulations and deep woods and embowered villages. +Every promise that Barney Bill had made to him of beauty was in process +of fulfilment. There were no more blighted towns, no more factories, no +more chimneys belching forth smoke. This was the Earth, the real +broad-bosomed Mother Earth. What he had left was the Hell upon Earth. +What he was going to might be Paradise, but Paul's imagination rightly +boggled at the conception of a Paradise more perfect. And, as Paul's +prescient wit had conjectured, he was learning many things; the names +of trees and wild flowers, the cries of birds, the habits of wayside +beasts; what was good for a horse to eat and what was bad; which was +the Waggon, and Orion's Belt and the Bunch of Keys in the heavens; how +to fry bacon and sew up rents in his clothing; how to deal with his +fellow-man, or, rather, with his fellow-woman, in a persuasive manner; +how to snare a rabbit or a pheasant and convert it into food, and how, +at the same time, to evade the terrors of the law; the differences +between wheat and oats and barley; the main lines of cleavage between +political parties, hitherto a puzzle to Paul, for Barney Bill was a +politician (on the Conservative side) and read his newspaper and argued +craftily in taverns; and the styles and titles of great landowners by +whose estates they passed; and how to avoid the nets that were +perpetually spread by a predatory sex before the feet of the incautious +male. On the last point Barney Bill was eloquent; but Paul, with +delicious memories sanctifying his young soul, turned a deaf ear to his +misogyny. Barney Bill was very old and crooked and dried up; what +beautiful lady would waste her blandishments on him? Even the low-born +lasses with whom they at times consorted had scarce an eye for Barney +Bill. The grapes were sour. Paul smiled indulgently on the little +foible of his friend. +</P> + +<P> +They jogged along the highroad on this blazing and dusty day. Their +bower of wicker chairs crackled in the heat. It was too hot for +sustained conversation. Once Barney Bill said: "If Bob"-Bob was the old +horse's unimaginative name—"if Bob doesn't have a drink soon his +darned old hide'll crack." +</P> + +<P> +Ten minutes later: "Nothing under a quart'll wash down this dust." +</P> + +<P> +"Have a drink of water," suggested Paul, who had already adopted this +care for drouth, with satisfactory results. +</P> + +<P> +"A grown man's thirst and a boy's thirst is two entirely different +things," said Barney Bill sententiously. "To spoil this grown-up thirst +of mine with water would be a crime." +</P> + +<P> +A mile or so farther on the road he stretched out a lean brown arm and +pointed. "See that there clump of trees? Behind that is the Little Bear +Inn. They gives you cool china pots with blue round the edge. You can +only have 'em if you asks for 'em, Jim Blake, the landlord, being +pertickler-like. And if yer breaks em—" +</P> + +<P> +"What would happen?" asked Paul, who was always very much impressed by +Barney Bill's detailed knowledge of the roads and the inns of England. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill shook his head. "It would break 'is 'eart. Them pots was +being used when William the Conqueror was a boy." +</P> + +<P> +"Ten-sixty-six to ten-eighty-seven," said Paul the scholar. "They mun +be nine hundred years old." +</P> + +<P> +"Not quite," said Barney Bill, with an air of scrupulous desire for +veracity. "But nearly. Lor' lumme!" he exclaimed, after a pause, "it +makes one think, doesn't it? One of them there quart mugs—suppose it +has been filled, say, ten times a day, every day for nine hundred +years—my Gosh! what a Pacific Ocean of beer must have been poured from +it! It makes one come over all of religious-like when one puts it to +one's head." +</P> + +<P> +Paul did not reply, and reverential emotion kept Barney Bill silent +until they reached the clump of trees and the Little Bear Inn. +</P> + +<P> +It was set back from the road, in a kind of dusty courtyard masked off +on one side by a gigantic elm and on the other by the fringe of an +orchard with ruddy apples hanging patiently beneath the foliage. Close +by the orchard stood the post bearing the signboard on which the Little +Bear, an engaging beast, was pictured, and presiding in a ceremonious +way over the horse-trough below. In the shade of the elm stretched a +trestle table and two wooden benches. The old inn, gabled, +half-timbered, its upper story overhanging the doorway, bent and +crippled, though serene, with age, mellow in yellow and russet, +spectacled, as befitted its years, with leaded diamond panes, crowned +deep in secular thatch, smiled with the calm and homely peace of +everlasting things. Its old dignity even covered the perky gilt +inscription over the doorway, telling how James Blake was licensed to +sell a variety of alcoholic beverages. One human figure alone was +visible, as the chairs and mat-laden van slowly turned from the road +toward the horse-trough—that of a young man in straw hat and grey +flannels making a water-colour sketch of the inn. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill slid off the footboard, and, looking neither to right nor +left, bolted like a belated crab into the cool recesses of the bar in +search of ambrosia from the blue-and-white china mug. Paul, also afoot, +led Bob to the trough. Bob drank with the lusty moderation of beasts. +When he had assuaged his thirst Paul backed him into the road and, +slinging over his head a comforting nosebag, left him to his meal. +</P> + +<P> +The young man, sitting on an upturned wooden case, at the extreme edge +of the elm tree's shade, a slender easel before him, a litter of +paraphernalia on the ground by his side, painted assiduously. Paul idly +crept behind him and watched in amazement the smears of wet colour, +after a second or two of apparent irrelevance, take their place in the +essential structure of the drawing. He stood absorbed. He knew that +there were such things as pictures. He knew, too, that they were made +by hands. But he had never seen one in the making. After a while the +artist threw back his head, looked at the inn and looked at his sketch. +There was a hot bit of thatch at the corner near the orchard, and, +below the eaves, bold shadow. The shadow had not come right. He put in +a touch of burnt umber and again considered the effect. +</P> + +<P> +"Confound it! that's all wrong," he muttered. +</P> + +<P> +"It's blue," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +The artist started, twisted his head, and for the first time became +conscious of the ragamuffin's presence. "Oh, you see it blue, do you?" +He smiled ironically. +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," said Paul, with pointing finger. "Look at it. It's not brown, +anyhow. Yon's black inside and blue outside." +</P> + +<P> +The young man shaded his brow and gazed intently. Brilliant sunshine +plays the deuce with tones. "My hat!" cried he, "you're right. It was +this confounded yellow of the side of the house." He put in a few hasty +strokes. "That better?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +The artist laid down his brush, and swung round on his box, clasping +knees. "How the devil did you manage to see that when I didn't?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dun-no!" said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +The young man stretched himself and lit a cigarette. +</P> + +<P> +"What are yo' doing that for, mister?" Paul asked seriously. +</P> + +<P> +"That?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," said Paul. "You mun have a reason." +</P> + +<P> +"You're a queer infant," laughed the artist. "Do you really want to +know?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've asked yo'," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, if you're anxious to know, I'm an architect on a holiday, and +I'm sketching any old thing I come across. I don't pretend to be a +painter, my youthful virtuoso, and that's why I go wrong sometimes on +colour. Do you know what an architect is?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," said Paul, eagerly. "What is it?" +</P> + +<P> +He had been baffled by the meaning of the word, which he had seen all +his life, inscribed on a brass plate in the Bludston High Street: "E. +Thomson, Architect & Surveyor." It had seemed to him odd, cryptically +fascinating. +</P> + +<P> +The young man laughed and explained; Paul listened seriously. Another +mystery was solved. He had often wondered how the bricklayers knew +where to lay the bricks. He grasped the idea that they were but +instruments carrying out the conception of the architect's brain. "I'd +like to be an architect," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Would you?" After a pause the young man continued: "Anyhow, you can +earn a shilling. Just sit down there and let me make a sketch of you." +</P> + +<P> +"What for?" asked Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Because you're a picturesque person. Now, I suppose you'll be asking +me what's the meaning of picturesque?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nay," said Paul. "I know. Yo' see it in books. 'Th' owd grey tower +stood out picturesque against the crimson sky.'" +</P> + +<P> +"Hullo! you're a literary gent," said the young man. +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," replied Paul proudly. He was greatly attracted towards this new +acquaintance, whom, by his speech and dress and ease of manner, he +judged to belong to the same caste as his lost but ever-remembered +goddess. +</P> + +<P> +The young man picked up pencil and sketch-book and posed Paul at the +end of the seat by the trestle table. "Now, then," said he, setting to +work. "Head a little more that way. Capital. Don't move. If you're very +quiet I'll give you a shilling." Presently he asked, "What are you? If +you hadn't been a literary gent I'd have thought you might be a gipsy." +</P> + +<P> +Paul flushed and started. "I'm not a gipsy." +</P> + +<P> +"Steady, steady," exclaimed the artist. "I've just said you couldn't be +one. Italian? You don't look English." +</P> + +<P> +For the first time the idea of exotic parentage entered Paul's head. He +dallied for a moment or two with the thought. "I dunno what I am," he +said romantically. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh? What's your father?" The young man motioned with his head toward +the inn. +</P> + +<P> +"Yon's not my father," said Paul. "It's only Barney Bill." +</P> + +<P> +"Only Barney Bill?" echoed the other, amused. "Well, who is your +father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dunno," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"And your mother?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dunno, either," said Paul, in a mysterious tone. "I dunno if my +parents are living or dead. I think they're living." +</P> + +<P> +"That's interesting. What are you doing with what's-his-name Bill?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm just travelling wi' him to London." +</P> + +<P> +"And what are you going to do in London?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll see when I get there," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"So you're out for adventure?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," said the boy, a gleam of the Vision dancing before his eyes. +"That's it. I'm going on an adventure." +</P> + +<P> +"There, keep like that," cried the artist. "Don't stir. I do believe +I'm getting you. Holy Moses, it will be great! If only I could catch +the expression! There's nothing like adventure, is there? The glorious +uncertainty of it! To wake up in the morning and know that the +unexpected is bound to happen during the day. Exciting, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," said Paul, his face aglow. +</P> + +<P> +The young man worked tense and quick at the luminous eyes. He broke a +long silence by asking, "What's your name?" +</P> + +<P> +"Paul Kegworthy." +</P> + +<P> +"Paul? That's odd." In the sphere of life to which the ragged urchin +belonged Toms and Bills and Jims were as thick as blackberries, but +Pauls were rare. +</P> + +<P> +"What's odd?" said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Your name. How did you get it? It's uncommon." +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose it is," said Paul. "I never thowt of it. I never knew +anybody of that name afore." +</P> + +<P> +Here was another sign and token of romantic origin suddenly revealed. +Paul felt the thrill of it. He resisted a temptation to ask his new +friend whether it was an appellation generally reserved for princes. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here, joking apart," said the artist, putting in the waves of the +thick black hair, "are you really going to be dumped down in London to +seek your fortune? Don't you know anybody there?" +</P> + +<P> +"No," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"How are you going to live?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul dived a hand into his breeches pocket and jingled coins. "I've got +th' brass," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"How much?" +</P> + +<P> +"Three shillings and sevenpence-ha'penny," said Paul, with an opulent +air. "And yo'r shilling will make it four and sevenpence-ha'penny." +</P> + +<P> +"Good God!" said-the young man. He went on drawing for some time in +silence. Then he said: "My brother is a painter—rather a swell—a +Royal Academician. He would love to paint you. So would other fellows. +You could easily earn your living as a model—doing as a business, you +know, what you're doing now for fun, more or less." +</P> + +<P> +"How much could I earn?" +</P> + +<P> +"It all depends. Say a pound to thirty shillings a week." +</P> + +<P> +Paul gasped and sat paralyzed. Artist, dusty road, gaudy van, distant +cornfields and uplands were blotted from his senses. The cool waves of +Pactolus lapped his feet. +</P> + +<P> +"Come and look me up when you get to London," continued the friendly +voice. "My name is Rowlatt-W. W. Rowlatt, 4, Gray's Inn Square. Can you +remember it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Shall I write it down?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nay. 'W. W. Rowlatt, 4, Gray's Inn Square.' I'm noan likely to forget +it. I never forget nowt," said Paul, life returning through a vein of +boastfulness. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me all you remember," said Mr. Rowlatt, with a laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"I can say all the Kings of England, with their dates, and the counties +and chief towns of Great Britain and Ireland, and all the weights and +measures, and 'The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold—'" +</P> + +<P> +"Holy Moses!" cried Rowlatt. "Anything else?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay. Lots more," said Paul, anxious to stamp vividly the impression he +saw that he was making. "I know the Plagues of Egypt." +</P> + +<P> +"I bet you don't." +</P> + +<P> +"Rivers of Blood, Frogs, Lice, Flies, Murrain, Boils, Hails, Locusts, +Darkness and Death of Firstborn," said Paul, in a breath. +</P> + +<P> +"Jehosaphat!" cried Rowlatt. "I suppose now you'd have no difficulty in +reciting the Thirty-nine Articles." +</P> + +<P> +Paul puckered his forehead in thought. "D'yo' mean," he asked after a +pause, "the Thirty-nine Articles o' Religion, as is in th' Prayerbuk? I +ha' tried to read 'em, but couldno' understand 'em reet." +</P> + +<P> +Rowlatt, who had not expected his facetious query to be so answered, +stopped his drawing for a moment. "What in the name of goodness +attracted you to the Thirty-nine Articles?" +</P> + +<P> +"I wanted to learn about things," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +The young man looked at him and smiled. "Self-education is a jolly good +thing," said he. "Learn all you can, and you'll be a famous fellow one +of these days. But you must cultivate a sense of humour." +</P> + +<P> +Paul was about to seek enlightenment as to this counsel when Barney +Bill appeared, cool and refreshed, from the inn door, and lifted a +cheery voice. "Let's be getting along, sonny." +</P> + +<P> +Rowlatt held up a detaining hand. "Just a couple of minutes, if you can +spare them. I've nearly finished." +</P> + +<P> +"All right, sir," said Barney Bill, limping across the yard. "Taking a +picture of him?" +</P> + +<P> +The artist nodded. Barney Bill looked over his shoulder. "By Gosh!" he +cried in admiration. "By Gosh!" +</P> + +<P> +"It has come out rather well, hasn't it?" said the artist, complacently. +</P> + +<P> +"It's the living image of 'im," said Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"He tells me he's going up to London to seek his fortune," said +Rowlatt, putting in the finishing touches. +</P> + +<P> +"And his 'igh-born parents," said Barney Bill, winking at Paul. +</P> + +<P> +Paul flushed and wriggled uncomfortably. Instinct deprecated crude +revelation of the mystery of his birth to the man of refinement. He +felt that Barney Bill was betraying confidence. Gutter-bred though he +was, he accused his vagrant protector of a lack of good taste. Of such +a breach he himself, son of princes, could not have been guilty. +Luckily, and, as Paul thought, with admirable tact, Mr. Rowlatt did not +demand explanation. +</P> + +<P> +"A young Japhet in search of a father. Well, I hope he'll find him. +There's nothing like romance. Without it life is flat and dead. It's +what atmosphere is to a picture." +</P> + +<P> +"And onions to a stew," said Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"Quite right," said Rowlatt. "Paul, my boy, I think after all you'd +better stick to Mr.—?" +</P> + +<P> +"Barney Bill, sir, at your service. And, if you want a comfortable +chair, or an elegant mat, or a hearth brush at a ridiculous cheap +price"—he waved toward the van. Rowlatt turned his head and, laughing, +looked into the twinkling black eyes. "I don't for a moment expect you +to buy, sir, but I was only a-satisfying of my artistic conscience." +</P> + +<P> +Rowlatt shut his sketch-book with a snap, and rose. "Let us have a +drink," said he. "Artists should be better acquainted." +</P> + +<P> +He whispered a message to Paul, who sped to the inn and presently +returned with a couple of the famous blue and white mugs frothing +deliciously at the brims. The men, their lips to the bubbles, nodded to +each other. The still beat of the August noon enveloped their bodies, +but a streak of heavenly coolness trickled through their souls. Paul, +looking at them enviously, longed to be grown up. +</P> + +<P> +Then followed a pleasant half-hour of desultory talk. Although the men +did not make him, save for here and there a casual reference, the +subject of their conversation, Paul, with the Vision shimmering before +his eyes, was sensitive enough to perceive in a dim and elusive way +that he was at the back of each man's thoughts and that, for his sake, +each was trying to obtain the measure of the other. At last Barney +Bill, cocking at the sun the skilled eye of the dweller in the +wilderness, called the time for departure. +</P> + +<P> +"Could I see th' picture?" asked Paul. +</P> + +<P> +Rowlatt passed him the sketch-book. The sudden sight of oneself as one +appears in another's eyes is always a shock, even to the most +sophisticated sitter. To Paul it was uncanny. He had often seen his own +reflection and was familiar with his own appearance, but this was the +first time that he had looked at himself impersonally. The sketch was +vivid, the likeness excellent; the motive, the picturesque and romantic. +</P> + +<P> +A proud lift of the chin, an eager glance in the eye, a sensitive curve +of the lip attracted his boyish egotism. The portrait was an ideal, +something to live up to. Involuntarily he composed his features. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill again called time. Paul surrendered the sketch-book +reluctantly. Rowlatt, with a cheery word, handed him the shilling fee. +Paul, than whom none better knew the magic quality of money, hesitated +for a second. The boy in the sketch would have refused. Paul drew +himself up. "Nay, I'll take noan. I liked doing it." +</P> + +<P> +Rowlatt laughed and pocketed the coin. "All right," said he, with a +playful bow. "I'm exceedingly indebted to your courtesy." +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill gave Paul an approving glance. "Good for you, boy. Never +take money you've not earned. Good day to you, sir"—he touched his +cap. "And"—with a motion toward the empty mugs—"thank you kindly." +</P> + +<P> +Rowlatt strolled with them to the van, Barney Bill limping a pace or +two ahead. "Remember what I told you, my young friend," said he in a +low voice. "I don't go back upon my word. I'll help you. But if you're +a wise boy and know what's good for you, you'll stick to Mr. Barney +Bill and the freedom of the high-road and the light heart of the +vagabond. You'll have a devilish sight more happiness in the end." +</P> + +<P> +But Paul, who already looked upon his gipsy self as dead as his +Bludston self, and these dead selves as stepping-stones to higher +things, turned a deaf ear to his new friend's paradoxical philosophy. +"I'll remember," said he. "Mr. W. W. Rowlatt, 4, Gray's Inn Square." +</P> + +<P> +The young architect watched the van with its swinging, creaking +excrescences lumber away down the hot and dusty road, and turned with a +puzzled expression to his easel. Joy in the Little Bear Inn had for the +moment departed. Presently he found himself scribbling a letter in +pencil to his brother, the Royal Academician. +</P> + +<P> +"So you see, my dear fellow," he wrote toward the end of the epistle, +"I am in a quandary. That the little beggar is of startling beauty is +undeniable. That he has got his bill agape, like a young bird, for +whatever food of beauty and emotion and knowledge comes his way is +obvious to any fool. But whether, in what I propose, I'm giving a +helping hand to a kind of wild genius, or whether I'm starting a vain +boy along the primrose path in the direction of everlasting bonfire, +I'm damned if I know." +</P> + +<P> +But Paul jogged along by the side of Barney Bill in no such state of +dubiety. God was in His Heaven, arranging everything for his especial +benefit. All was well with the world where dazzling destinies like his +were bound to be fulfilled. +</P> + +<P> +"I've heard of such things," said Barney Bill with a reflective twist +of his head, when Paul had told him of Mr. Rowlatt's suggestion. "A +cousin of mine married a man who knew a gal who used to stand in her +birthday suit in front of a lot of young painter chaps-and I'm bound to +say he used to declare she was as good a gal as his own wife, +especially seeing as how she supported an old father what had got a +stroke, and a houseful of young brothers and sisters. So I'm not saying +there's any harm in it. And I wouldn't stand in your way, sonny, seeing +as how you want to get to your 'igh-born parents. You might find 'em on +the road, and then again you mightn't. And thirty bob a week at +fourteen-no-it would be flying in the face of Providence to say 'don't +do it! But what licks me is: what the blazes do they want with a little +varmint like you? Why shouldn't they pay thirty bob a week to paint me?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul did not reply, being instinctively averse from wounding +susceptibilities. But in his heart rose a high pity for the common +though kindly clay that was Barney Bill. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER V +</H3> + +<P> +WHEN they reached London in November, after circuitous wanderings, +Barney Bill said to Paul: "You've seed enough of me, matey, to know +that I wish yer good and not harm. I've fed yer and I've housed yer-I +can't say as how I've done much toward clothing yer-and three months on +the road has knocked corners off the swell toggery yer came to me in; +but I ain't beat yer or cussed yer more than yer deserved"—whereat +Paul grinned-"and I've spent a lot of valuable time, when I might have +been profitably doing nothing, a-larning yer of things and, so to +speak, completing yer eddication. Is that the truth, or am I a bloomin' +liar?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul, thus challenged, confirmed the absolute veracity of Barney Bill's +statement. The latter continued, bending forward, his lean brown hand +on the boy's shoulder, and looking at him earnestly: "I took yer away +from your 'appy 'ome because, though the 'ome might have been 'appy in +its own sweet way, you wasn't. I wanted to set yer on the track of yer +'ighborn parents. I wanted to make a man of yer. I want to do the best +for yer now, so I put it to yer straight: If yer likes to come along of +me altogether, I'll pay yer wages on the next round, and when yer gets +a little older I'll take yer into partnership and leave yer the +business when I die. It's a man's life and a free life, and I think yer +likes it, don't yer?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," said Paul, "it's foine." +</P> + +<P> +"On the other hand, as I said afore, I won't stand in yer way, and if +yer thinks you'll get nearer to your 'igh-born parents by hitching up +with Mr. Architect, well—you're old enough to choose. I leave it to +you." +</P> + +<P> +But Paul had already chosen. The Road had its magical fascination, to +which he would have surrendered all his boyish soul, had not the call +of his destiny been more insistent. The Road led nowhither. Princes and +princesses were as rare as hips and haws in summer-time. Their +glittering equipages did not stop the van, nor did they stand at the +emblazoned gateways of great parks waiting patiently for long-lost +sons. He knew that he must seek them in their own social world, and to +this he would surely be raised by his phantasmagorial income of thirty +shillings a week. +</P> + +<P> +"You won't object to my keeping a friendly eye on yer for the next year +or two?" asked Barney Bill, with twisted mouth and a kindly, satirical +glance. +</P> + +<P> +Paul flushed. He had the consciousness of being a selfish, +self-centered little beast, not half enough grateful to Barney Bill for +delivering him out of the House of Bondage and leading him into the +Land of Milk and Honey. He was as much stung by the delicately implied +rebuke as touched by the solicitude as to his future welfare. Romantic +words, such as he had read in the story-books, surged vaguely in his +head, but he could find none to utter. He kept silent for a few +moments, his hand in his breeches pocket. Presently he drew it forth +rather slowly, and held out the precious cornelian heart to his +benefactor. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'ud like to give it thee," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill took it. "Thank 'ee, sonny. I'll remember that you gave it +to me. But I won't keep yer talisman. 'Ere, see—" he made a pretence +to spit on it—"that's for luck. Barney Bill's luck, and good wishes." +</P> + +<P> +So Paul pocketed the heart again, immensely relieved by his friend's +magnanimity, and the little sentimental episode was over. +</P> + +<P> +A month later, when Barney Bill started on his solitary winter +pilgrimage in the South of England, he left behind him a transmogrified +Paul, a Paul, thanks to his munificence, arrayed in decent garments, +including collar and tie (insignia of caste) and an overcoat (symbol of +luxury), for which Paul was to repay him out of his future earnings; a +Paul lodged in a small but comfortable third-floor-back, a bedroom all +to himself, with a real bed, mattress, pillow, sheets, and blankets all +complete, and a looking-glass, and a stand with ewer and basin so +beautiful that, at first, Paul did not dare wash for fear of making the +water dirty; a Paul already engaged for a series of sittings by Mr. +Cyrus Rowlatt, R.A., his head swimming with the wonder of the +fashionable painter's studio; a Paul standing in radiant confidence +upon the brink of life. +</P> + +<P> +"Sonny," said Barney Bill, when he said good-bye, "d'yer see them there +lovely lace-up boots you've got on?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay," said Paul, regarding them complacently. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, they've got to take yer all the way up the hill, like the young +man what's his name?—Excelsure—in the piece of poetry you recite; but +they'll only do it if they continues to fit. Don't get too big for 'em. +At any rate, wait till they're worn out and yer can buy another pair +with yer own money." +</P> + +<P> +Paul grinned, because he did not know what else to do, so as to show +his intellectual appreciation of the parable; but in his heart, for all +his gratitude, he thought Barney bill rather a prosy moralizer. It was +one of the disabilities of advanced old age. Alas! what can bridge the +gulf between fourteen and fifty? +</P> + +<P> +"Anyhow, you've got a friend at the back of yer, sonny, and don't make +no mistake about it. If you're in trouble let me know. I can't say +fairer than that, can I?" +</P> + +<P> +That, for a season, was the end of Barney Bill, and Paul found himself +thrillingly alone in London. At first its labyrinthine vastness +overwhelmed him, causing him to feel an unimportant atom, which may +have been good for his soul, but was not agreeable to his vanity. By +degrees, however, he learned the lay of the great thoroughfares, +especially those leading to the quarters where artists congregate, and, +conscious of purpose and of money jingling in his pocket, he began to +hold his head high in the crowded streets. In the house in Barn Street, +off the Euston Road, where he lodged, he was called "Mr. Paul" by his +landlady, Mrs. Seddon, and her thirteen-year-old daughter, Jane, which +was comforting and stimulating. Jane, a lanky, fair, blue-eyed girl, +who gave promise of good looks, attended to his modest wants with a +zeal somewhat out of proportion to the payment received. Paul had the +novel sensation of finding some one at his beck and call. He beckoned +and called often, for the sheer pleasure of it. So great was the change +in his life that, in these early days, it seemed as if he had already +come into his kingdom. He strutted about, poor child, like the prince +in a fairy tale, and, in spite of Barney Bill's precepts, he outgrew +his boots immediately. Mrs. Seddon, an old friend of Barney Bill, whom +she addressed and spoke as Mr. William, kept a small shop in which she +sold newspapers and twine and penny bottles of ink. In the little +back-parlour Mrs. Seddon and Jane and Paul had their meals, while the +shop boy, an inconsiderable creature with a perpetual cold in his head, +attended to the unexpected customer. To Paul, this boy, with whom a few +months ago he would have joyously changed places, was as the dust +beneath his feet. He sent him on errands in a lordly way, treating him +as, indeed, he had treated the youth of Budge Street after his triumph +over Billy Goodge, and the boy obeyed meekly. Paul believed in himself; +the boy didn't. Almost from the beginning he usurped an ascendancy over +the little household. For all their having lived in the great maelstrom +of London, he found his superficial experience of life larger than that +of mother and daughter. They had never seen machinery at work, did not +know the difference between an elm and a beech and had never read Sir +Walter Scott. Mrs. Seddon, thin, careworn and slackly good-natured, +ever lamented the loss of an astonishingly brilliant husband; Jane was +markedly the more competent of the two. She had character, and, even +while slaving for the romantic youth, made it clear to him that for no +other man alive would she so demean herself. Paul resolved to undertake +her education. +</P> + +<P> +The months slipped by golden with fulfilment. News of the beautiful boy +model went the round of the studios. Those were simpler times (although +not so very long ago) in British art than the present, and the pretty +picture was still in vogue. As Mr. Rowlatt, the young architect, had +foretold, Paul had no difficulty in obtaining work. Indeed, it was +fatally easy. Mr. Cyrus Rowlatt, R.A., had launched him. Being +fabulously paid, he thought his new profession the most aristocratic +calling in the world. In a remarkably short time he was able to repay +Barney Bill. The day when he purchased the postal order was the +proudest in his life. The transaction gave him a princely feeling. He +alone of boys, by special virtue of his origin, was capable of such a +thing. Again, his welcome in the painting world confirmed him in the +belief that he was a personage, born to great things. Posed on the +model throne, the object of the painter's intense scrutiny, he swelled +ingenuously with the conviction of his supreme importance. The lazy +luxury of the model's life appealed to his sensuous temperament. He +loved the warmth, the artistic setting of the studios; the pictures, +the oriental rugs, the bits of armour, the old brocade, the rich +cushions. If he had not been born to it, why had he not remained, like +all 'the youth of Bludston, amid the filth and clatter of the factory? +He loved, too, to hear the studio talk, though at first he comprehended +little of it. The men and women for whom he sat possessed the same +quality as his never-forgotten goddess and Lady Chudley and the young +architect—a quality which he recognized keenly, but for which his +limited vocabulary could find no definition. Afterward he realized that +it was refinement in manner and speech and person. This quality he felt +it essential to acquire. Accordingly he played the young ape to those +who aroused his admiration. +</P> + +<P> +One day when Jane entered the back-parlour he sprang from his seat and +advanced with outstretched hand to meet her: "My dear Lady Jane, how +good of you to come! Do let me clear a chair for you." +</P> + +<P> +"What are you playing at?" asked Jane. +</P> + +<P> +"That's the way to receive a lady when she calls on you. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" said Jane. +</P> + +<P> +He practised on her each newly learned social accomplishment. He minced +his broad Lancashire, when he spoke to her, in such a way as to be +grotesquely unintelligible. By listening to conversations he learned +many amazing social facts; among them that the gentry had a bath every +morning of their lives. This stirred his imagination to such a pitch +that he commanded Jane to bring up the matutinal washtub to his +bedroom. By instinct refined he revelled in the resultant sensation of +cleanliness. He paid great attention to his attire, modelling himself, +as far as he could, on young Rowlatt, the architect, on whom he +occasionally called to report progress. He bought such neckties and +collars as Rowlatt wore and submitted them for Jane's approval. She +thought them vastly genteel. He also entertained her with whatever +jargon of art talk he managed to pick up. Thus, though the urchin gave +himself airs and invested himself with affectations, which rendered him +intolerable to all of his own social status, except the placid Mrs. +Seddon and the adoring Jane, he was under the continuous influence of a +high ambition. It made him ridiculous, but it preserved him from +vicious and vulgar things. If you are conscious of being a prince in +disguise qualifying for butterfly entrance into your kingdom, it +behoves you to behave in a princely manner, not to consort with lewd +fellows and not to neglect opportunities for education. You owe to +yourself all the good that you can extract from the world. Acting from +this point of view, and guided by the practical advice of young +Rowlatt, he attended evening classes, where he gulped down knowledge +hungrily. So, what with sitting and studying and backward and forward +journeying, and educating Jane, and practising the accomplishments of a +prince, and sleeping the long sound sleep of a tired youngster, Paul +had no time to think of evil. He was far too much absorbed in himself. +</P> + +<P> +Meanwhile, of Bludston not a sign. For all that he had heard of search +being made for him, he might have been a runaway kitten. Sometimes he +wondered what steps the Buttons had taken in order to find him. If they +had communicated with the police, surely, at some stage of their +journey, Barney Bill would have been held up and questioned. But had +they even troubled to call in the police? Barney Bill thought not, and +Paul agreed. The police were very unpopular in Budge Street—almost as +unpopular as Paul. In all probability the Buttons were only too glad to +be rid of him. If he found no favour in the eyes of Mrs. Button, in the +eyes of Button he was detestable. Occasionally he spoke of them to +Barney Bill on his rare appearances in London, but for prudential +motives the latter had struck Bludston out of his itinerary and could +give no information. At last Paul ceased altogether to think of them. +They belonged to a far-distant past already becoming blurred in his +memory. +</P> + +<P> +So Paul lived his queer sedulous life, month after month, year after +year, known among the studios as a quaint oddity, drawn out indulgently +by the men, somewhat petted, monkey-fashion, by the women, forgotten by +both when out of their presence, but developing imperceptibly day by +day along the self-centring line. A kindly adviser suggested a +gymnasium to keep him in condition for professional purposes. He took +the advice, and in the course of time became a splendid young animal, a +being so physically perfect as to be what the good vicar of Bludston +had called him in tired jest—a lusus naturae. But though proud of his +body as any finely formed human may honorably be, a far higher +arrogance saved him from Narcissus vanity. It was the inner and +essential Paul and not the outer investiture that was born to great +things. +</P> + +<P> +In his eighteenth year he gradually awoke to consciousness of change. +One of his classmates at the Polytechnic institute, with whom he had +picked a slight acquaintance, said one evening as they were walking +homeward together: "I shan't be coming here after next week. I've got a +good clerkship in the city. What are you doing?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm an artist's model," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +The other, a pale and perky youth, sniffed. His name was Higgins. "Good +Lord! What do you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm a model in the life class of the Royal Academy School," said Paul, +proudly. +</P> + +<P> +"You stand up naked in front of all kinds of people for them to paint +you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"How beastly!" said Higgins. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"Just that," said Higgins. "It's beastly!" +</P> + +<P> +A minute or two afterward he jumped on a passing omnibus, and +thenceforward avoided Paul at the Polytechnic Institute. +</P> + +<P> +This uncompromising pronouncement on the part of Higgins was a shock; +but together with other incidents, chiefly psychological, vague, +intangible phenomena of his spiritual development, it showed Paul the +possibility of another point of view. He took stock of himself. From +the picturesque boy he had grown into the physically perfect man. As a +model he was no longer sought after for subject pieces. He was in +clamorous demand at Life Schools, where he drew a higher rate of pay, +but where he was as impersonal to the intently working students as the +cast of the Greek torso which other students were copying in the next +room. The intimacy of the studio, the warmth and the colour and the +meretricious luxury were gone from his life. On the other hand he was +making money. He had fifty pounds in the Savings Bank, the maximum of +petty thrift which an incomprehensive British Government encourages, +and a fair, though unknown, sum in an iron money-box hidden behind his +washstand. Up to now he had had no time to learn how to spend money. +When he took to smoking cigarettes, which he had done quite recently, +he regarded himself as a man. +</P> + +<P> +Higgins's "How beastly!" rang in his head. Although he could not quite +understand the full meaning of the brutal judgment, it brought him +disquiet and discontent. For one thing, like the high-road, his +profession led nowhither. The thrill of adventure had gone from it. It +was static, and Paul's temperament was dynamic. He had also lost his +boyish sense of importance, of being the central figure in the little +stage. Disillusion began to creep over him. Would he do nothing else +but this all his life? Old Erricone, the patriarchal, white-bearded +Italian, the doyen of the models of London, came before his mind, a +senile posturer, mumbling dreary tales of his inglorious achievements: +how he was the Roman Emperor in this picture and Father Abraham in the +other; how painters could not get on without him; how once he had been +summoned from Rome to London; how Rossetti had shaken hands with him. +Paul shivered at the thought of himself as the Erricone of a future +generation. +</P> + +<P> +The next day was Saturday, and he had no sitting. The morning he spent +in his small bedroom in the soothing throes of literary composition. +Some time ago he had thought it would be a mighty fine thing to be a +poet, and had tried his hand at verse. Finding he possessed some +facility, he decided that he was a poet, and at once started an epic +poem in rhyme on the Life of Nelson, the material being supplied by +Southey. This morning he did the Battle of the Baltic. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + He put the glass to his blind eye,<BR> + And said "No signals do I spy,"<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +wrote Paul. Poetry taken at the gallop like this was a very simple +affair, and Paul covered an amazing amount of ground. +</P> + +<P> +In the afternoon he walked abroad with Jane, who, having lengthened her +skirts and put up her hair, was now a young woman looking older than +her years. She too had developed. Her lank figure had rounded into +pretty curves. Her sharp little Cockney face had filled out. She had a +pleasant smile and a capable brow, and, correcting a tendency to +fluffiness of hair of which she disapproved, and dressing herself +neatly, made herself by no means unattractive. Constant association +with Paul had fired her ambitions. Like him, she might have a destiny, +though not such a majestic one, Accordingly she had studied stenography +and typewriting, with a view to earning her livelihood away from the +little shop, which did not offer the prospect of a dazzling career. At +the back of her girlish mind was the desire to keep pace with Paul in +his upward flight, so that he should not be ashamed of her when he sat +upon the clouds in glory. In awful secrecy she practised the social +accomplishments which Paul brought home. She loved her Saturday and +Sunday excursions with Paul—of late they had gone far afield: the +Tower, Greenwich, Richmond—exploring London and making splendid +discoveries such as Westminster Abbey and a fourpenny tea garden at +Putney. She scarcely knew whether she cared for these things for +themselves; but she saw them through Paul coloured by his vivid +personality. Once on Chelsea Bridge he had pointed out a peculiarly +ugly stretch of low-tide mud, and said: "Look at that." She, by +unprecedented chance, mistaking his tone, had replied: "How lovely!" +And she had thought it lovely, until his stare of rebuke and wonderment +brought disillusion and spurting tears, which for the life of him he +could not understand. It is very foolish, and often suicidal, of men to +correct women for going into rapture over mud flats. On that occasion, +however, the only resultant harm was the conviction in the girl's heart +that the presence of Paul turned mud flats into beds of asphodel. Then, +just as she saw outer things through his eyes, she felt herself +regarded by outer eyes through him. His rare and absurd beauty made him +a cynosure whithersoever he went. London, vast and seething, could +produce no such perfect Apollo. When she caught the admiring glances of +others of her sex, little Jane drew herself up proudly and threw back +insolent glances of triumph. "You would like to be where I am, wouldn't +you?" the glance would say, with the words almost formulated in her +mind. "But you won't. You never will be. I've got him. He's walking out +with me and not with you. I like to see you squirm, you envious little +cat." Jane was not a princess, she was merely a child of the people; +but I am willing to eat my boots if it can be satisfactorily proved +that there is a princess living on the face of the earth who would not +be delighted at seeing another woman cast covetous eyes on the man she +loved, and would not call her a cat (or its homonym) for doing so. +</P> + +<P> +On this mild March afternoon Paul and Jane walked in the Euston Road, +he in a loose blue serge suit, floppy black tie, low collar and black +soft felt hat (this was in the last century, please remember—epoch +almost romantic, so fast does time fly), she in neat black braided +jacket and sailor hat. They looked pathetically young. +</P> + +<P> +"Where shall we go?" asked Jane. +</P> + +<P> +Paul, in no mood for high adventure, suggested Regent's Park. "At least +we can breathe there," said he. +</P> + +<P> +Jane sniffed up the fresh spring air, unconscious of the London taint, +and laughed. "Why, what's the matter with the Euston Road?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's vulgar," said Paul. "In the Park the hyacinths and the daffodils +will be out." +</P> + +<P> +What he meant he scarcely knew. When one is very young and out of tune +with life, one is apt to speak discordantly. +</P> + +<P> +They mounted a westward omnibus. Paul lit a cigarette and smoked almost +in silence until they alighted by the Park gates. As they entered, he +turned to her suddenly. "Look here, Jane, I want to ask you something. +The other night I told a man I was an artist's model, and he said 'How +beastly!' and turned away as if I wasn't fit for him to associate with. +What was he driving at?" +</P> + +<P> +"He was a nasty cad," said Jane promptly. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course he was," said Paul. "But why did he say it? Do you think +there's anything beastly in being a model?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not." She added in modification: "That is if you like it." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, supposing I don't like it?" +</P> + +<P> +She did not reply for a minute or two. Then: "If you really don't like +it, I should be rather glad." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" asked Paul. +</P> + +<P> +She raised a piteous face. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, tell me," he insisted. "Tell me why you agree with that cad +Higgins?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't agree with him." +</P> + +<P> +"You must." +</P> + +<P> +They fenced for a while. At last he pinned her down. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, if you want to know," she declared, with a flushed cheek, "I +don't think it's a man's job." +</P> + +<P> +He bit his lip. He had asked for the truth and he had got it. His own +dark suspicions were confirmed. Jane glanced at him fearful of offence. +When they had walked some yards he spoke. "What would you call a man's +job?" +</P> + +<P> +Jane hesitated for an answer. Her life had been passed in a sphere +where men carpentered or drove horses or sold things in shops. Deeply +impressed by the knowledge of Paul's romantic birth and high destiny +she could not suggest any such lowly avocations, and she did not know +what men's jobs were usually executed by scions of the nobility. A +clerk's work was certainly genteel; but even that would be lowering to +the hero. She glanced at him again, swiftly. No, he was too beautiful +to be penned up in an office from nine to six-thirty every day of his +life. On the other hand her feminine intuition appreciated keenly the +withering criticism of Higgins. Ever since Paul had first told her of +his engagements at the Life Schools she had shrunk from the idea. It +was all very well for the boy; but for the man—and being younger than +he, she regarded him now as a man—there was something in it that +offended her nice sense of human dignity. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," he said. "Tell me, what do you call a man's job?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I don't know," she said in distress; "something you do with your +hands or your brain." +</P> + +<P> +"You think being a model is undignified." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"So do I," said Paul. "But I'm doing things with my brain, too, you +know," he added quickly, anxious to be seen again on his pedestal. "I +am getting on with my epic poem. I've done a lot since you last heard +it. I'll read you the rest when we get home." +</P> + +<P> +"That will be lovely," said Jane, to whom the faculty of rhyming was a +never-ceasing wonder. She would sit bemused by the jingling lines and +wrapt in awe at the minstrel. +</P> + +<P> +They sat on a bench by the flower-beds, gay in their spring charm of +belated crocus and hyacinth and daffodil, with here and there a +precocious tulip. Paul, sensitive to beauty, discoursed on flowers. Max +Field had a studio in St. John's Wood opening out into a garden, which +last summer was a dream of delight. He described it. When he came into +his kingdom he intended to have such a garden. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll let me have a peep at it sometimes, won't you?" said Jane. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +The lack of enthusiasm in his tone chilled the girl's heart. But she +did not protest. In these days, in spite of occasional outspokenness +she was still a humble little girl worshipping her brilliant companion +from afar. +</P> + +<P> +"How often could I come?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"That," said he, in his boyish pashadom, "would depend on how good you +were." +</P> + +<P> +Obedient to the thought processes of her sex, she made a bee line to +the particular. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Paul, I hope you're not angry." +</P> + +<P> +"At what?" +</P> + +<P> +"At what I said about your being a model." +</P> + +<P> +"Not a bit," said he. "If I hadn't wanted to know your opinion, I +wouldn't have asked you." +</P> + +<P> +She brightened. "You really wanted to know what I thought?" +</P> + +<P> +"Naturally," said Paul. "You're the most commonsense girl I've ever +met." +</P> + +<P> +Paul walked soberly home. Jane accompanied him—on wings. +</P> + +<P> +On Monday Paul went to the Life School and stripped with a heavy heart. +Jane was right. It was not a man's job. The fact, too, of his doing it +lowered him in her esteem, and though he had no romantic thoughts +whatever with regard to Jane, he enjoyed being Lord Paramount in her +eyes. He went into the studio and took up his pose; and as he stood on +the model throne, conspicuous, glaring, the one startling central +object, Higgins's "How beastly!" came like a material echo and smote +him in the face. He felt like Adam when he first proceeded to his +primitive tailoring. A wave of shame ran through him. He looked around +the great silent room, at the rows of students, each in front of an +easel, using his naked body for their purposes. A phrase flashed across +his mind—in three years his reading had brought vocabulary—they were +using his physical body for their spiritual purposes. For the moment he +hated them all fiercely. They were a band of vampires. Habit and +discipline alone saved him from breaking his pose and fleeing headlong. +But there he was fixed, like marble, in an athlete's attitude, showing +rippling muscles of neck and chest and arms and thighs all developed by +the gymnasium into the perfection of Greek beauty, and all useless, +more useless even, as far as the world's work was concerned, than the +muscles of a racehorse. There he was fixed, with outstretched limbs and +strained loins, a human being far more alive than the peering, +measuring throng, far more important, called by a destiny infinitely +higher than theirs. And none of them suspected it. For the first time +he saw himself as they saw him. They admired him as a thing, an animal +trained especially for them, a prize bullock. As a human being they +disregarded him. Nay, in the depth of their hearts they despised him. +Not one of them would have stood where he did. He would have considered +it—rightly—as degrading to his manhood. +</P> + +<P> +The head of the school snapped his fingers impatiently and fussed up to +the model-stand. "What's the matter? Tired already? Take it easy for a +minute, if you like." +</P> + +<P> +"No," said Paul, instinctively stiffening himself. "I'm never tired." +</P> + +<P> +It was his boast that he could stand longer in a given pose than any +other model, and thereby he had earned reputation. +</P> + +<P> +"Then don't go to pieces, my boy," said the head of the school, not +unkindly. "You're supposed to be a Greek athlete and not Venus rising +from the sea or a jelly at a children's party." +</P> + +<P> +Paul flushed all over, and insane anger shook him. How dared the man +speak to him like that? He kept the pose, thinking wild thoughts. Every +moment the strain grew less bearable, the consciousness of his +degradation more intense. He longed for something to happen, something +dramatic, something that would show the vampires what manner of man he +was. He was histrionic in his anguish. +</P> + +<P> +A fly settled on his back—a damp, sluggish fly that had survived the +winter—and it crawled horribly up his spine. He bore it for a few +moments, and then his over-excited nerves gave way and he dashed his +hand behind him. Somebody laughed. He raised his clenched fists and +glared at the class. +</P> + +<P> +"Ay, yo' can laugh—you can laugh till yo' bust!" he cried, falling +back into his Lancashire accent. "But yo'll never see me, here agen. +Never, never, never, so help me God!" +</P> + +<P> +He rushed away. The head of the school followed him and, while he was +dressing, reasoned with him. +</P> + +<P> +"Nay," said Paul. "Never agen. Aw'm doan wi' th' whole business." +</P> + +<P> +And as Paul walked home through the hurrying streets, he thought +regretfully of twenty speeches which would have more adequately +signified his indignant retirement from the profession. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VI +</H3> + +<P> +PAUL'S model-self being dead, he regarded it with complacency and set +his foot on it, little doubting that it was another stepping-stone. +</P> + +<P> +He spoke loftily of his independence. +</P> + +<P> +"But how are you going to earn your living?" asked Jane, the practical. +</P> + +<P> +"I shall follow one of the arts," Paul replied. "I think I am a poet, +but I might be a painter or a musician." +</P> + +<P> +"You do sing and play lovely," said Jane. +</P> + +<P> +He had recently purchased from a pawnshop a second-hand mandoline, +which he had mastered by the aid of a sixpenny handbook, and he would +play on it accompaniments to sentimental ballads which he sang in a +high baritone. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll not choose yet awhile," said Paul, disregarding the tribute. +"Something will happen. The 'moving finger' will point—" +</P> + +<P> +"What moving finger?" +</P> + +<P> +"The finger of Destiny," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +And, as the superb youth predicted, something did happen a day or two +afterwards. +</P> + +<P> +They were walking in Regent Street, and stopped, as was their wont, +before a photographer's window where portraits of celebrities were +exposed to view. Paul loved this window, had loved it from the moment +of discovery, a couple of years before. It was a Temple of Fame. The +fact of your portrait being exhibited, with your style and title +printed below, marked you as one of the great ones of the earth. Often +he had said to Jane: "When I am there you'll be proud, won't you?" +</P> + +<P> +And she had looked up to him adoringly and wondered why he was not +there already. +</P> + +<P> +It was Paul's habit to scrutinize the faces of those who had achieved +greatness, Archbishops, Field-Marshals, Cabinet Ministers, and to +speculate on the quality of mind that had raised them to their high +estate; and often he would shift his position, so as to obtain a +glimpse of his own features in the plate-glass window, and compare them +with those of the famous. Thus he would determine that he had the brow +of the divine, the nose of the statesman and the firm lips of the +soldier. It was a stimulating pastime. He was born to great things; but +to what great things he knew not. The sphere in which his glory should +be fulfilled was as yet hidden in the mists of time. +</P> + +<P> +But this morning, instead of roving over the illustrious gallery, his +eye caught and was fascinated by a single portrait. He stood staring at +it for a long time, lost in the thrill of thought. +</P> + +<P> +At last Jane touched his arm. "What are you looking at?" +</P> + +<P> +He pointed. "Do you see that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. It's—" She named an eminent actor, then in the heyday of his +fame, of whom legend hath it that his photographs were bought in +thousands by love-lorn maidens who slept with them beneath their +pillows. +</P> + +<P> +Paul drew her away from the little knot of idlers clustered round the +window. "There's nothing that man can do that I can't do," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"You're twenty times better looking," said Jane. +</P> + +<P> +"I have more intelligence," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," said Jane. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going to be an actor," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" cried Jane in sudden rapture. Then her sturdy common-sense +asserted itself. "But can you act?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure I could, if I tried. You've only got to have the genius to +start with and the rest is easy." +</P> + +<P> +As she did not dare question his genius, she remained silent. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going to be an actor," said he, "and when I'm not acting I shall +be a poet." +</P> + +<P> +In spite of her adoration Jane could not forbear a shaft of raillery. +"You'll leave yourself some time to be a musician, won't you?" +</P> + +<P> +He laughed. His alert and retentive mind had seized, long ago, on +Rowlatt's recommendation at the Little Bear Inn, and he had developed, +perhaps half consciously, a half sense of humour. A whole sense, +however, is not congruous with the fervid beliefs and soaring ambitions +of eighteen. Your sense of humour, that delicate percipience of +proportion, that subrident check on impulse, that touch of the divine +fellowship with human frailty, is a thing of mellower growth. It is a +solvent and not an excitant. It does not stimulate to sublime effort; +but it can cool raging passion. It can take the salt from tears, the +bitterness from judgment, the keenness from despair; but in its +universal manifestation it would effectually stop a naval engagement. +</P> + +<P> +Paul laughed. "You mustn't think I brag too much, Jane," said he. "For +anybody else I know what I say would be ridiculous. But for me it's +different. I'm going to be a great man. I know it. If I'm not going to +be a great actor, I shall be a great something else. God doesn't put +such things into people's heads for nothing. He didn't take me from the +factory in Bludston and set me here with you, walking up Regent Street, +like a gentleman, just to throw me back into the gutter." +</P> + +<P> +"But who said you were going back to the gutter?" asked Jane. +</P> + +<P> +"Nobody. I wanted to get right with myself. But—that getting right +with oneself—do you think it egotistic?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't quite know what that is." +</P> + +<P> +He defined the term. +</P> + +<P> +"No," she said seriously. "I don't think it is. Everybody has got a +self to consider. I don't look on it as ego-what-d'-you-call-it to +strike out for myself instead of going on helping mother to mind the +shop. So why should you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Besides, I owe a duty to my parents, don't I?" he asked eagerly. +</P> + +<P> +But here Jane took her own line. "I can't see that you do, considering +that they've done nothing for you." +</P> + +<P> +"They've done everything for me," he protested vehemently. "They've +made me what I am." +</P> + +<P> +"They didn't take much trouble about it," said Jane. +</P> + +<P> +They squabbled for a while after the manner of boy and girl. At last +she cried: "Don't you see I'm proud of you for yourself and not for +your silly old parents? What have they got to do with me? And besides, +you'll never find them." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think you know what you're talking about," he said loftily. +"It is time we were getting home." +</P> + +<P> +He walked on for some time stiffly, his head in the air, not +condescending to speak. She had uttered blasphemy. He would find his +parents, he vowed to himself, if only to spite Jane. Presently his ear +caught a little sniff, and looking down, saw her dabbing her eyes with +her handkerchief. His heart softened at once. "Never mind," said he. +"You didn't mean it." +</P> + +<P> +"It's only because I love you, Paul," she murmured wretchedly. +</P> + +<P> +"That's all right," he said. "Let us go in here"—they were passing a +confectioner's—"and we'll have some jam-puffs." +</P> + +<P> +Paul went to his friend Rowlatt, who had already heard, through one of +his assistants who had a friend in the Life School, of the dramatic end +of the model's career. +</P> + +<P> +"I quite sympathize with you," Rowlatt laughed. "I've wondered how you +stuck it so long. What are you going to do now?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm going on the stage." +</P> + +<P> +"How are you going to get there?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know," said Paul, "but if I knew an actor, he would be able to +tell me. I thought perhaps you might know an actor." +</P> + +<P> +"I do—one or two," replied Rowlatt; "but they're just ordinary +actors—not managers; and I shouldn't think they'd be able to do +anything for you." +</P> + +<P> +"Except what I say," Paul persisted. "They'll tell me how one sets +about being an actor." +</P> + +<P> +Rowlatt scribbled a couple of introductions on visiting cards, and Paul +went away satisfied. He called on the two actors. The first, in +atrabiliar mood, advised him to sweep crossings, black shoes, break +stones by the roadside, cart manure, sell tripe or stocks and shares, +blow out his brains rather than enter a profession over whose portals +was inscribed the legend, Lasciate ogni speranza—he snapped his finger +and thumb to summon memory as if it were a dog. +</P> + +<P> +"Voi che intrate," continued Paul, delighted at showing off the one +Italian tag he had picked up from his reading. And filled with one of +the purest joys of the young literary life and therefore untouched by +pessimistic counsel, he left the despairing actor. +</P> + +<P> +The second, a brighter and more successful man, talked with Paul for a +long time about all manner of things. Having no notion of his +antecedents, he assumed him to be a friend of Rowlatt and met him on +terms of social equality. Paul expanded like a flower to the sun. It +was the first time he had spoken with an educated man on common +ground—a man to whom the great imaginative English writers were +familiar friends, who ran from Chaucer to Lamb and from Dryden to +Browning with amazing facility. The strong wine of allusive talk +mounted to Paul's brain. Tingling with excitement, he brought out all +his small artillery of scholarship and acquitted himself so well that +his host sent him off with a cordial letter to a manager of his +acquaintance. +</P> + +<P> +The letter opened the difficult door of the theatre. His absurd beauty +of face and figure, a far greater recommendation in the eyes of the +manager who had begun rehearsals for an elaborate romantic production +than a knowledge of The Faerie Queene, obtained for him an immediate +engagement—to walk on as a gilded youth of Italy in two or three +scenes at a salary of thirty shillings a week. Paul went home and +spread himself like a young peacock before Jane, and said: "I am an +actor." +</P> + +<P> +The girl's eyes glowed. "You are wonderful." +</P> + +<P> +"No, not I," replied Paul modestly. "It is my star." +</P> + +<P> +"Have you got a big part?" asked Jane. +</P> + +<P> +He laughed pityingly, sweeping back his black curls. "No, you silly, I +haven't any lines to speak"—he had at once caught up the phrase—"I +must begin at the beginning. Every actor has to do it." +</P> + +<P> +"You'll get mother and me orders to come and see you, won't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"You shall have a box," declared Paul the magnificent. +</P> + +<P> +Thus began a new phase in the career of Paul Kegworthy. After the first +few days of bewilderment on the bare, bleak stage, where oddments of +dilapidated furniture served to indicate thrones and staircases and +palace doors and mossy banks; where men and women in ordinary costume +behaved towards one another in the most ridiculous way and went through +unintelligible actions with phantom properties; where the actor-manager +would pause in the breath of an impassioned utterance and cry out, "Oh, +my God! stop that hammering!" where nothing looked the least bit in the +world like the lovely ordered picture he had been accustomed to delight +in from the shilling gallery—after the first few days he began to +focus this strange world and to suffer its fascination. And he was +proud of the silent part allotted to him, a lazy lute-player in +attendance on the great lady, who lounged about on terrace steps in +picturesque attitudes. He was glad that he was not an unimportant +member of the crowd of courtiers who came on in a bunch and bowed and +nodded and pretended to talk to one another and went off again. He +realized that he would be in sight of the audience all the time. It did +not strike him that the manager was using him merely as a piece of +decoration. +</P> + +<P> +One day, however, at rehearsal the leading lady said: "If my +lute-player could play a few chords here—or the orchestra for him-it +would help me tremendously. I've got all this long cross with nothing +to say." +</P> + +<P> +Paul seized his opportunity. "I can play the mandoline," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, can you?" said the manager, and Paul was handed over to the +musical director, and the next day rehearsed with a real instrument +which he twanged in the manner prescribed. He did not fail to announce +himself to Jane as a musician. +</P> + +<P> +Gradually he found his feet among the heterogeneous band who walk on at +London theatres. Some were frankly vulgar, some were pretentiously +genteel, a good many were young men of gentle birth from the public +schools and universities. Paul's infallible instinct drew him into +timid companionship with the last. He knew little of the things they +talked about, golf and cricket prospects, and the then brain-baffling +Ibsen, but he listened modestly, hoping to learn. He reaped the +advantage of having played "the sedulous ape" to his patrons of the +studios. His tricks were somewhat exaggerated; his sweep of the hat +when ladies passed him at the stage door entrance was lower than custom +deems necessary; he was quicker in courteous gesture than the young men +from the universities; he bowed more deferentially to an interlocutor +than is customary outside Court circles; but they were all the tricks +of good breeding. More than one girl asked if he were of foreign +extraction. He remembered Rowlatt's question of years ago, and, as +then, he felt curiously pleased. He confessed to an exotic strain: to +Italian origin. Italy was romantic. When he obtained a line part and he +appeared on the bill, he took the opportunity of changing a name linked +with unpleasant associations which he did not regard as his own. +Kegworthy was cast into the limbo of common things, and he became Paul +Savelli. But this was later. +</P> + +<P> +He made friends at the theatre. Some of the women, by petting and +flattery, did their best to spoil him; but Paul was too ambitious, too +much absorbed in his dream of greatness and his dilettante literary and +musical pursuits, too much yet of a boy to be greatly affected. What he +prized far more highly than feminine blandishments was the new +comradeship with his own sex. Instinctively he sought them, as a sick +dog seeks grass, unconsciously feeling the need of them in his mental +and moral development. Besides, the attitude of the women reminded him +of that of the women painters in his younger days. He had no intention +of playing the pet monkey again. His masculinity revolted. The young +barbarian clamoured. A hard day on the river he found much more to his +taste than sporting in the shade of a Kensington flat over tea and +sandwiches with no matter how sentimental an Amaryllis. Jane, who had +seen the performance, though not from a box, a couple of upper-circle +seats being all that Paul could obtain from the acting-manager, and had +been vastly impressed by Paul's dominating position in the stage +fairy-world, said to him, with a sniff that choked a sigh: "Now that +you've got all those pretty girls around you, I suppose you soon won't +think of me any longer?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul waved the dreaded houris away as though they were midges. "I'm +sick of girls," he replied in a tone of such sincerity that Jane tossed +her head. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh? Then I suppose you lump me with the rest and are sick of me too?" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't worry a fellow," said Paul. "You're not a girl-not in that +sense, I mean. You're a pal." +</P> + +<P> +"Anyway, they're lots prettier than what I am," she said defiantly. +</P> + +<P> +He looked at her critically, after the brutal manner of obtuse boyhood, +and beheld an object quite agreeable to the sight. Her Londoner's +ordinarily colourless checks were flushed, her blue eyes shone bright, +her little chin was in the air and her parted lips showed a flash of +white teeth. She wore a neat simple blouse and skirt and held her slim, +half-developed figure taut. Paul shook his head. "Jolly few of +them—without grease-paint on." +</P> + +<P> +"But you see them all painted up." +</P> + +<P> +He burst into laughter. "Then they're beastly, near by! You silly kid, +don't you know? We've got to make up, otherwise no one in front would +be able to see our mouths and noses and eyes. From the front we look +lovely; but close to we're horrors." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, how should I know that?" asked Jane. +</P> + +<P> +"You couldn't unless you saw us—or were told. But now you know." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you look beastly too?" +</P> + +<P> +"Vile," he laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad I didn't think of going on the stage,"' she said, childish +yet very feminine unreason combining with atavistic puritanism. "I +shouldn't like to paint my face." +</P> + +<P> +"You get used to it," said Paul, the experienced. +</P> + +<P> +"I think it horrid to paint your face." +</P> + +<P> +He swung to the door—they were in the little parlour behind the +shop—a flash of anger in his eyes. "If you think everything I do +horrid, I can't talk to you." +</P> + +<P> +He marched out. Jane suddenly realized that she had behaved badly. She +whipped herself. She had behaved atrociously. Of course she had been +jealous of the theatre girls; but had he not been proving to her all +the time in what small account he held them? And now he had gone. At +seventeen a beloved gone for an hour is a beloved gone for ever. She +rushed to the foot of the stairs on which his ascending steps still +creaked. +</P> + +<P> +"Paul!" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Come back! Do come back!" +</P> + +<P> +Paul came back and followed her into the parlour. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sorry," she said. +</P> + +<P> +He graciously forgave her, having already arrived at the mature +conclusion that females were unaccountable folk whose excursions into +unreason should be regarded by man with pitying indulgence. And, in +spite of the seriousness with which he took himself, he was a +sunny-tempered youth. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill, putting into the Port of London, so to speak, in order to +take in cargo, also visited the theatre towards the end of the run of +the piece. He waited, by arrangement, for Paul outside the stage door, +and Paul, coming out, linked arms and took him to a blazing bar in +Piccadilly Circus and ministered to his thirst, with a princely air. +</P> + +<P> +"It seems rum," said Bill, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, +after a mighty pull at the pint tankard—"it seems rum that you should +be standing me drinks at a swell place like this. It seems only +yesterday that you was a two-penn'orth of nothing jogging along o' me +in the old 'bus." +</P> + +<P> +"I've moved a bit since then, haven't I?" said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"You have, sonny," said Barney Bill. "But"—he sighed and looked around +the noisy glittering place, at the smart barmaids, the well-clad throng +of loungers, some in evening dress, the half-dozen gorgeous ladies +sitting with men at little tables by the window—"I thinks as how you +gets more real happiness in a quiet village pub, and the beer is +cheaper, and—gorblimey!" +</P> + +<P> +He ran his finger between his stringy neck and the frayed stand-up +collar that would have sawn his head off but for the toughness of his +hide. To do Paul honour he had arrayed himself in his best—a +wondrously cut and heavily-braided morning coat and lavender-coloured +trousers of eccentric shape, and a funny little billycock hat too small +for him, and a thunder-and-lightning necktie, all of which he had +purchased nearly twenty years ago to grace a certain wedding at which +he had been best man. Since then he had worn the Nessus shirt of a +costume not more than half-a-dozen times. The twisted, bright-eyed +little man, so obviously ill at ease in his amazing garb, and the +beautiful youth, debonair in his well-fitting blue serge, formed a +queer contrast. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you never long for the wind of God and the smell of the rain?" +asked Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't the time," said Paul. "I'm busy all day long." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, well," said Barney Bill, "the fellow wasn't far wrong who said +it takes all sorts to make a world. There are some as likes electric +light and some as likes the stars. Gimme the stars." And in his +countryman's way he set the beer in his tankard swirling round and +round before he put it again to his lips. +</P> + +<P> +Paul sipped his beer reflectively. "You may find happiness and peace of +soul under the stars," said he, sagely, "and if I were a free agent I'd +join you tomorrow. But you can't find fame. You can't rise to great +things. I want to—well, I don't quite know what I want to do," he +laughed, "but it's something big." +</P> + +<P> +"Yuss, my boy," said Barney Bill. "I understand. You was always like +that. You haven't come any nearer finding your 'igh-born +parents?"—there was a twinkle in his eyes—"'ave yer?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not going to bother any more about them, whoever they are," said +Paul, lighting a cigarette. "When I was a kid I used to dream that they +would find me and do everything for me. Now I'm a man with experience +of life, I find that I've got to do everything for myself. And by +George!"—he thumped the bar and smiled the radiant smile of the young +Apollo—"I'm going to do it." +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill took off his Luke's iron crown of a billycock hat and +scratched his cropped and grizzled head. "How old are you, sonny?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nearly nineteen," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"By Gosh!" said Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +He put on his hat at a comfortable but rakish angle. He looked like a +music-hall humourist. A couple of the gorgeous ladies giggled. +</P> + +<P> +"Yuss," said he, "you're a man with an experience of life—and nobody +can do nothing for you but yerself. Poor old Barney Bill has been past +helping you this many a year." +</P> + +<P> +"But I owe everything to you!" cried Paul, boyishly. "If it hadn't been +for you, I should still be working in that factory at Bludston." +</P> + +<P> +Bill winked and nodded acquiescence as he finished his tankard. +</P> + +<P> +"I've often wondered—since I've grown up—what induced you to take me +away. What was it?" +</P> + +<P> +Bill cocked his head on one side and regarded him queerly. "Now you're +arsking," said he. +</P> + +<P> +Paul persisted. "You must have had some reason." +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose I was interested in them parents of yours," said Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +And that was all he would say on the subject. +</P> + +<P> +The days went on. The piece had run through the summer and autumn, and +Paul, a favourite with the management, was engaged for the next +production. At rehearsal one day the author put in a couple of lines, +of which he was given one to speak. He now was in very truth an actor. +Jane could no longer taunt him in her naughty moods (invariably +followed by bitter repentance) with playing a dumb part like a trained +dog. He had a real part, typewritten and done up in a brown-paper +cover, which was handed to him, with lack of humour, by the assistant +stage manager. +</P> + +<P> +In view of his own instantaneous success he tried to persuade Jane to +go on the stage; but Jane had no artistic ambitions, to say nothing of +her disinclination to paint her face. She preferred the prosaic reality +of stenography and typewriting. No sphere could be too dazzling for +Paul; he was born to great things, the consciousness of his high +destiny being at once her glory and her despair; but, as regards +herself, her outlook on life was cool and sober. Paul was peacock born; +it was for him to strut about in iridescent plumage. She was a humble +daw and knew her station. It must be said that Paul held out the stage +as a career more on account of the social status that it would give to +Jane than through a belief in her histrionic possibilities. He too, +fond as he was of the girl with whom he had grown up, recognized the +essential difference between them. She was as pretty, as sensible, as +helpful a little daw as ever chattered; but the young peacock never for +an instant forgot her daw-dom. +</P> + +<P> +Jane's profound common-sense reaped its reward the following spring +when she found herself obliged to earn her livelihood. Her mother +died, and the shop was sold, and an aunt in Cricklewood offered Jane a +home, on condition that she paid for her keep. This she was soon able +to do when she obtained a situation with a business firm in the city. +The work was hard and the salary small; but Jane had a brave heart and +held her head high. In her simple philosophy life was work, and +dreaming an occasional luxury. Her mother's death grieved her deeply, +for she was a girl of strong affections, and the breaking up of her +life with Paul seemed an irremediable catastrophe. +</P> + +<P> +"It's just as well," said her aunt, "that there's an end of it, or +you'd be making a fool of yourself over that young actor chap with his +pretty face. I don't hold with any of them." +</P> + +<P> +But Jane was too proud to reply. +</P> + +<P> +On their last night together in the Barn Street house they sat alone in +the little back-parlour as they had done for the last six years—all +their impressionable childish days. It was the only home that Paul had +known, and he felt the tragedy of its dissolution. They sat on the old +horsehair sofa, behind the table, very tearful, very close together in +spirit, holding each other's hands. They talked as the young talk—and +the old, for the matter of that. She trembled at his wants unministered +to in his new lodgings. He waved away prospective discomfort: what did +it matter? He was a man and could rough it. It was she herself whose +loss would be irreparable. She sighed; he would soon forget her. He +vowed undying remembrance by all his gods. Some beautiful creature of +the theatre would carry him off. He laughed at such an absurdity. Jane +would always be his confidante, his intimate. Even though they lived +under different roofs, they would meet and have their long happy jaunts +together. Jane said dolefully that it could only be on Sundays, as +their respective working hours would never correspond—"And you haven't +given me your Sundays for a year," she added. Paul slid from the dark +theme and, to comfort her, spoke glowingly of the future, when he +should have achieved his greatness. He would give her a beautiful house +with carriages and servants, and she would not have to work. +</P> + +<P> +"But if you are not there, what's the good of anything?" she said. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll come to see you, silly dear," he replied ingenuously. +</P> + +<P> +Before they parted for the night she threw her arms round his neck +impulsively. "Don't quite forget me, Paul. It would break my heart. +I've only you left now poor mother's gone." +</P> + +<P> +Paul kissed her and vowed again. He did not vow that he would be a +mother to her, though to the girl's heart it seemed as if he did. The +little girl was aching for a note in his voice that never came. Now, +ninety-nine youths in a hundred who held, at such a sentimental moment, +a comely and not uncared-for maiden in their arms, would have lost +their heads (and their hearts) and vowed in the desired manner. But +Paul was different, and Jane knew it, to her sorrow. He was by no means +temperamentally cold; far from it. But, you see, he lived intensely in +his dream, and only on its outer fringe had Jane her place. In the +heart of it, hidden in amethystine mist, from which only flashed the +diadem on her hair, dwelt the exquisite, the incomparable lady, the +princess who should share his kingdom, while he knelt at her feet and +worshipped her and kissed the rosy tips of her calm fingers. So, as it +never entered his head to kiss the finger tips of poor Jane, it never +entered his head to fancy himself in love with her. Therefore, when she +threw herself into his arms, he hugged her in a very sincere and +brotherly way, but kissed her with a pair of cast lips of Adonis. Of +course he would never forget her. Jane went to bed and sobbed her heart +out. Paul slept but little. The breaking up of the home meant the end +of many precious and gentle things, and without them he knew that his +life would be the poorer. And he vowed once more, to himself, that he +would never prove disloyal to Jane. +</P> + +<P> +While he remained in London he saw what he could of her, sacrificing +many a Sunday's outing with the theatre folk. Jane, instinctively aware +of this, and finding in his demeanour, after examining it with +femininely jealous, microscopic eyes, nothing perfunctory, was duly +grateful, and gave him of her girlish best. She developed very quickly +after her entrance into the world of struggle. Very soon it was the +woman and not the child who listened to the marvellous youth's story of +the wonders that would be. She never again threw herself into his arms, +and he never again called her a "little silly." She was dimly aware of +change, though she knew that the world could hold no other man for her. +But Paul was not. +</P> + +<P> +And then Paul went on tour. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VII +</H3> + +<P> +PAUL had been four years on the stage. Save as a memory they had as +little influence on the colour of his after-life as his years at +Bludston or his years in the studios. He was the man born to be king. +The attainment of his kingdom alone mattered. The intermediary phases +were of no account. It had been a period of struggle, hardship and, as +far as the stage itself was concerned, disillusion. After the first +year or so, the goddess Fortune, more fickle in Theatreland, perhaps, +than anywhere else, passed him by. London had no use for his services, +especially when it learned that he aspired to play parts. It even +refused him the privilege of walking on and understudying. He drifted +into the provinces, where, when he obtained an engagement, he found +more scope for his ambitions. Often he was out, and purchased with his +savings the bread of idleness. He knew the desolation of the agent's +dingy stairs; he knew the heartache of the agent's dingy outer office. +</P> + +<P> +He was familiar, too, with bleak rehearsals, hours of listless waiting +for his little scenes; with his powerlessness to get into his simple +words the particular intonation required by an overdriven producer. +Familiar, too, with long and hungry Sunday railway journeys when pious +refreshment rooms are shut; with little mean towns like Bludston, where +he and three or four of the company shared the same mean theatrical +lodgings; with the dirty, insanitary theatres; with the ceaseless petty +jealousies and bickerings of the ill-paid itinerant troupe. The +discomforts affected Paul but little, he had never had experience of +luxuries, and the life itself was silken ease compared with what it +would have been but for Barney Bill's kidnapping. It never occurred to +him to complain of nubbly bed and ill-cooked steak and crowded and +unventilated dressing rooms; but it always struck him as being absurd +that such should continue to be the lot of one predestined to +greatness. There was some flaw in the working of destiny. It puzzled +him. +</P> + +<P> +Once indeed, being out, but having an engagement ahead, and waiting for +rehearsals to begin, he had found himself sufficiently prosperous to +take a third-class ticket to Paris, where he spent a glorious month. +But the prosperity never returned, and he had to live on his memories +of Paris. +</P> + +<P> +During these years books were, as ever, his joy and his consolation. He +taught himself French and a little German. He read history, philosophy, +a smattering of science, and interested himself in politics. So +aristocratic a personage naturally had passionate Tory sympathies. Now +and again—but not often, for the theatrical profession is generally +Conservative—he came across a furious Radical in the company and +tasted the joy of fierce argument. Now and again too, he came across a +young woman of high modern cultivation, and once or twice narrowly +escaped wrecking his heart on the Scylline rock of her intellect. It +was only when he discovered that she had lost her head over his +romantic looks, and not over his genius and his inherited right to +leadership, that he began to question her intellectual sincerity. And +there is nothing to send love scuttling away with his quiver between +his legs like a note of interrogation of that sort. The only touch of +the morbid in Paul was his resentment at owing anything to his mere +personal appearance. He could not escape the easy chaff of his fellows +on his "fatal beauty." He dreaded the horrible and hackneyed phrase +which every fresh intimacy either with man or woman would inevitably +evoke, and he hated it beyond reason. There was a tour during which he +longed for small-pox or a broken nose or facial paralysis, so that no +woman should ever look at him again and no man accuse him in vulgar +jest. +</P> + +<P> +He played small utility parts and understudied the leading man. On the +rare occasions when he played the lead, he made no great hit. The +company did not, after the generous way of theatre folks, surround him, +when the performance was over, with a chorus of congratulation. The +manager would say, "Quite all' right, my boy, as far as it goes, but +still wooden. You must get more life into it." And Paul, who knew +himself to be a better man in every way than the actor whose part he +was playing, just as in his childhood days he knew himself to be a +better man than Billy Goodge, could not understand the general lack of +appreciation. Then he remembered the early struggles of the great +actors: Edmund Kean, who on the eve of his first appearance at Drury +Lane cried, "If I succeed I shall go mad!"; of Henry Irving (then at +his zenith) and the five hundred parts he had played before he came to +London; he recalled also the failure of Disraeli's first speech in the +House of Commons and his triumphant prophecy. He had dreams of that +manager on his bended knees, imploring him, with prayerful hands and +streaming eyes, to play Hamlet at a salary of a thousand a week and of +himself haughtily snapping his fingers at the paltry fellow. +</P> + +<P> +Well, which one of us who has ever dreamed at all has not had such +dreams at twenty? Let him cast at Paul the first stone. +</P> + +<P> +And then, you must remember, Paul's faith in his vague but glorious +destiny was the dynamic force of his young life. Its essential mystery +kept him alert and buoyant. His keen, self-centred mind realized that +his search on the stage for the true expression of his genius was only +empirical. If he failed there, it was for him to try a hundred other +spheres until he found the right one. But just as in his childish days +he could not understand why he was not supreme in everything, so now he +could not appreciate the charge of wooden inferiority brought against +him by theatrical managers. +</P> + +<P> +He had been on the stage about three years when for the first time in +his emancipated life something like a calamity befell him. He lost +Jane. Like most calamities it happened in a foolishly accidental +manner. He received a letter from Jane during the last three weeks of a +tour—they always kept up an affectionate but desultory +correspondence—giving a new address. The lease of her aunt's house +having fallen in, they were moving to the south side of London. When he +desired to answer the letter, he found he had lost it and could not +remember the suburb, much less the street and number, whither Jane had +migrated. A letter posted to the old address was returned through the +post. The tour over, and he being again in London, he went on an errand +of inquiry to Cricklewood, found the house empty and the neighbours and +tradespeople ignorant. The poorer classes of London in their migrations +seldom leave a trail behind them. Their correspondence being rare, it +is not within their habits of life to fill up post-office forms with a +view to the forwarding of letters. He could not write to Jane because +he did not in the least know where she was. +</P> + +<P> +He reflected with dismay that Jane could, for the same reason, no +longer write to him. Ironic chance had so arranged that the landlady +with whom he usually lodged in town, and whose house he used as a +permanent address, had given up letting lodgings at the beginning of +the tour, and had drifted into the limbo of London. Jane's only guide +to his whereabouts had been the tour card which he had sent her as +usual, giving dates and theatres. And the tour was over. On the chance +that Jane, not hearing from him, should address a letter to the last +theatre on the list, he communicated at once with the local management. +But as local managements of provincial theatres shape their existences +so as to avoid responsibilities of any kind save the maintenance of +their bars and the deduction of their percentages from the box-office +receipts, Paul knew that it was ludicrous to expect it to interest +itself in the correspondence of an obscure member of a fourth-rate +company which had once played to tenth-rate business within its +mildewed walls. Being young, he wrote also to the human envelope +containing the essence of stale beer, tobacco and lethargy that was the +stage doorkeeper. But he might just as well have written to the station +master or the municipal gasworks. As a matter of fact Jane and he were +as much lost to one another as if the whole of England had been +primaeval forest. +</P> + +<P> +It was a calamity which he regarded with dismay. He had many friends of +the easy theatrical sort, who knew him as Paul Savelli, a romantically +visaged, bright-natured, charming, intellectual, and execrably bad +young actor. But there was only one Jane who knew him as little Paul +Kegworthy. No woman he had ever met—and in the theatrical world one is +thrown willy-nilly into close contact with the whole gamut of the +sex—gave him just the same close, intimate, comforting companionship. +From Jane he hid nothing. Before all the others he was conscious of +pose. Jane, with her cockney common-sense, her shrewdness, her +outspoken criticism of follies, her unfailing sympathy in essentials, +was welded into the very structure of his being. Only when he had lost +her did he realize this. Amidst all the artificialities and pretences +and pseudo-emotionalities of his young actor's life, she was the one +thing that was real. She alone knew of Bludston, of Barney Bill, of the +model days the memory of which made him shiver. She alone (save Barney +Bill) knew of his high destiny—for Paul, quick to recognize the +cynical scepticism of an indifferent world, had not revealed the Vision +Splendid to any of his associates. To her he could write; to her, when +he was in London, he could talk; to her he could outpour all the jumble +of faith, vanity, romance, egotism and poetry that was his very self, +without thought of miscomprehension. And of late she had mastered the +silly splenetics of childhood. He had an uncomfortable yet comforting +impression that latterly she had developed an odd, calm wisdom, just as +she had developed a calm, generous personality. The last time he had +seen her, his quick sensitiveness had noted the growth from girl to +woman. She was large, full-bosomed, wide-browed, clear-eyed. She had +not worried him about other girls. She had reproved him for confessed +follies in just the way that man loves to be reproved. She had mildly +soared with him into the empyrean of his dreams. She had enjoyed +whole-heartedly, from the back row of the dress-circle, the play to +which he had taken her—as a member of the profession he had, in Jane's +eyes, princely privileges—and on the top of the Cricklewood omnibus +she had eaten, with the laughter and gusto of her twenty years, the +exotic sandwiches he had bought at the delicatessen shop in Leicester +Square. She was the ideal sister. +</P> + +<P> +And now she was gone, like a snow-flake on a river. For a long while it +seemed absurd, incredible. He went on all sorts of preposterous +adventures to find her. He walked through the city day after day at the +hours when girls and men pour out of their honeycombs of offices into +the streets. She had never told him where she was employed, thinking +the matter of little interest; and he, in his careless way, had never +inquired. Once he had suggested calling for her at her office, and she +had abruptly vetoed the suggestion. Paul was too remarkable a young man +to escape the notice of her associates; her feelings towards him were +too fine to be scratched by jocular allusion. After a time, having +failed to meet her in the human torrents of Cheapside and Cannon +Street, Paul gave up the search. Jane was lost, absolutely lost—and, +with her, Barney Bill. He went on tour again, heavy-hearted. He felt +that, in losing these two, he had committed an act of base ingratitude. +</P> + +<P> +He had been four years on the stage and had grown from youth into +manhood. But one day at three-and-twenty he found himself as poor in +pence, though as rich in dreams, as at thirteen. +</P> + +<P> +Necessity had compelled him to take what he could get. This time it was +a leading part; but a leading part in a crude melodrama in a fit-up +company. They had played in halls and concert rooms, on pier pavilions, +in wretched little towns. It was glorious July Weather and business was +bad—so bad that the manager abruptly closed the treasury and +disappeared, leaving the company stranded a hundred and fifty miles +from London, with a couple of weeks' salary unpaid. +</P> + +<P> +Paul was packing his clothes in the portmanteau that lay on the narrow +bed in his tiny back bedroom, watched disconsolately by a sallow, +careworn man who sat astride the one cane chair, his hat on the back of +his head, the discoloured end of a cigarette between his lips. +</P> + +<P> +"It's all very well for you to take it cheerfully," said the latter. +"You're young. You're strong. You're rich. You've no one but yourself. +You haven't a wife and kids depending on you." +</P> + +<P> +"I know it makes a devil of a difference," replied Paul, disregarding +the allusion to his wealth. As the leading man, he was the most highly +paid member of the disastrous company, and he had acquired sufficient +worldly wisdom to know that to him who has but a penny the possessor of +a shilling appears arrogantly opulent. "But still," said he, "what can +we do? We must get back to London and try again." +</P> + +<P> +"If there was justice in this country that son of a thief would get +fifteen years for it. I never trusted the skunk. A fortnight's salary +gone and no railway fare to London. I wish to God I had never taken it +on. I could have gone with Garbutt in The White Woman—he's straight +enough—only this was a joint engagement. Oh, the swine!" +</P> + +<P> +He rose with a clatter, threw his cigarette on the floor and stamped on +it violently. +</P> + +<P> +"He's a pretty bad wrong 'un," said Paul. "We hadn't been going a +fortnight before he asked me to accept half salary, swearing he would +make it up, with a rise, as soon as business got better. Like an idiot, +I consented." +</P> + +<P> +His friend sat down again hopelessly. "I don't know what's going to +become of us. The missus has pawned everything she has got, poor old +girl! Oh, it's damned hard! We had been out six months." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor old chap!" said Paul, sitting on the bed beside his portmanteau. +"How does Mrs. Wilmer take it?" +</P> + +<P> +"She's knocked endways. You see," cried Wilmer desperately, "we've had +to send home everything we could scrape together to keep the +kids—there's five of them; and now—and now there's nothing left. I'm +wrong. There's that." He fished three or four coppers from his pocket +and held them out with a harsh laugh. "There's that after twenty years' +work in this profession." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor old chap!" said Paul again. He liked Wilmer, a sober, earnest, +ineffectual man, and his haggard, kindly-natured wife. They had put on +a brave face all through the tour, letting no one suspect their +straits, and doing both him and other members of the company many +little acts of kindness and simple hospitality. In the lower submerged +world of the theatrical profession in which Paul found himself he had +met with many such instances of awful poverty. He had brushed elbows +with Need himself. That morning he had given, out of his scanty +resources, her railway fare to a tearful and despairing girl who played +the low-comedy part. But he had not yet come across any position quite +so untenable as that of Wilmer. Forty odd years old, a wife, five +children, all his life given honestly to his calling—and threepence +half-penny to his fortune. +</P> + +<P> +"But, good God!" said he, after a pause, "your kiddies? If you have +nothing—what will happen to them?" +</P> + +<P> +"Lord knows," groaned Wilmer, staring in front of him, his elbows on +the back of the chair and his head between his fists. +</P> + +<P> +"And Mrs. Wilmer and yourself have got to get back to London." +</P> + +<P> +"I've got the dress suit I wear in the last act. It's fairly new. I can +get enough on it." +</P> + +<P> +"But that's part of your outfit—your line of business; you'll want it +again," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +Wilmer had played butlers up and down the land for many years. Now and +again, when the part did not need any special characterization, he +obtained London engagements. He was one of the known stage butlers. +</P> + +<P> +"I can hire if I'm pushed," said he. "It's hell, isn't it? Something +told me not to go out with a fit-up. We'd never come down to it before. +And I mistrusted Larkins—but we were out six months. Paul, my boy, +chuck it. You're young; you're clever; you've had a swell education; +you come of gentlefolk—my father kept a small hardware shop in +Leicester—you have"—the smitten and generally inarticulate man +hesitated—"well, you have extraordinary personal beauty; you have +charm; you could do anything you like in the world, save act—and you +can't act for toffee. Why the blazes do you stick to it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've got to earn my living just like you," said Paul, greatly +flattered by the artless tribute to his aristocratic personality and +not offended by the professional censure which he knew to be just. +"I've tried all sorts of other things-music, painting, poetry, +novel-writing—but none of them has come off." +</P> + +<P> +"Your people don't make you an allowance?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've no people living," said Paul, with a smile—and when Paul smiled +it was as if Eros's feathers had brushed the cheek of a Praxitelean +Hermes; and then with an outburst half sincere, half braggart—"I've +been on my own ever since I was thirteen." +</P> + +<P> +Wilmer regarded him wearily. "The missus and I have always thought you +were born with a silver spoon in your mouth." +</P> + +<P> +"So I was," Paul declared from his innermost conviction. "But," he +laughed, "I lost it before my teeth came and I could get a grip on it." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mean to say," exclaimed Wilmer, "that you're not doing this for +fun?" +</P> + +<P> +"Fun?" cried Paul. "Fun? Do you call this comic?" He waved his hand +comprehensively, indicating the decayed pink-and-purple wall-paper, the +ragged oil-cloth on the floor, the dingy window with its dingier +outlook, the rickety deal wash-stand with the paint peeling off, a +horrible clothless tray on a horrible splotchy chest of drawers, +containing the horrible scraggy remains of a meal. "Do you think I +would have this if I could command silken sloth? I long like hell, old +chap, for silken sloth, and if I could get it, you wouldn't see me +here." +</P> + +<P> +Wilmer rose and stretched out his hand. "I'm sorry, dear boy," said he. +"The wife and I thought it didn't very much matter to you. We always +thought you were a kind of young swell doing it for amusement and +experience—and because you never put on side, we liked you." +</P> + +<P> +Paul rose from the bed and put his hand on Wilmer's shoulder. "And now +you're disappointed?" +</P> + +<P> +He laughed and his eyes twinkled humorously. His vagabond life had +taught him some worldly wisdom. The sallow and ineffectual man looked +confused. His misery was beyond the relief of smiles. +</P> + +<P> +"We're all in the same boat, old chap," said Paul, "except that I'm +alone and haven't got wife and kids to look after." +</P> + +<P> +"Good-bye, my boy," said Wilmer. "Better luck next time. But chuck it, +if you can." +</P> + +<P> +Paul held his hand for a while. Then his left hand dived into his +waistcoat pocket and, taking the place of his right, thrust three +sovereigns into Wilmer's palm. "For the kiddies," said he. +</P> + +<P> +Wilmer looked at the coins in his palm, and then at Paul, and the tears +spurted. "I can't, my boy. You must be as broke as any of us—you—half +salary—no, my boy, I can't. I'm old enough to be your father. It's +damned good of you—but it's my one pride left—the pride of both of +us—the missus and me—that we've never borrowed money—" +</P> + +<P> +"But it isn't borrowed, you silly ass," cried Paul cheerfully. "It's +just your share of the spoils, such as they are. I wish to God it was +more." With both hands he clasped the thin, ineffectual fingers over +the coins and pushed the man' with his young strength out of the door. +"It's for the kiddies. Give them my love," he cried, and slammed the +door and locked it from the inside. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor old chap!" said he. +</P> + +<P> +Then he went through his pockets and laid the contents on the narrow +mantel-piece. These were a gold watch and chain, a cornelian heart +fixed to the free end of the chain, a silver cigarette case, a couple +of keys, one sovereign, four shillings, three pennies and two +half-pennies. A trunk already fastened and filled with books and +clothes, and the portmanteau on the bed, contained the rest of his +possessions. In current coin his whole fortune amounted to one pound, +four shillings and fourpence. Luckily he had paid his landlady. One +pound four and fourpence to begin again at three-and-twenty the battle +of life on which he had entered at thirteen. He laughed because he was +young and strong, and knew that such reverses were foreordained +chapters in the lives of those born to a glorious destiny. They were +also preordained chapters in the lives of those born to failure, like +poor old Wilmer. He was conscious of the wide difference between Wilmer +and himself. Good Heavens! To face the world at forty-three, with wife +and children and threepence-halfpenny, and the once attendant hope +replaced by black-vestured doom! Poor Wilmer! He felt certain that +Wilmer had not been able to pay his landlady, and he felt that he had +been mean in keeping back the other sovereign. +</P> + +<P> +The sudden loss, however, of three-fourths of his fortune brought him +up against practical considerations. The more he had in his pocket when +he arrived in London, the longer could he subsist. That was important, +because theatrical engagements are not picked up in a hurry. Now; the +railway fare would swallow a goodly number of shillings. Obviously it +was advisable to save the railway fare; and the only way to do this was +to walk to London. His young blood thrilled at the notion. It was +romantic. It was also inspiring of health and joy. He had been rather +run down lately, and, fearful of the catastrophe which had in fact +occurred, he had lived this last week very sparingly—-chiefly on +herrings and tea. A hundred and fifty miles' tramp along the summer +roads, with bread and cheese and an occasional glass of beer to keep +him going, would be just the thing to set him up again. He looked in +the glass. Yes, his face was a bit pinched and his eyes were rather too +bright. A glorious tramp to London, thirty or forty miles a day in the +blazing and beautiful sunshine, was exactly what he needed. +</P> + +<P> +Joyously he unpacked his trunk and took from it a Norfolk jacket suit +and stockings, changed, and, leaving his luggage with his landlady, who +was to obey further instructions as to its disposal, marched buoyantly +away through the sun-filled streets of the little town, stick in hand, +gripsack on shoulder, and the unquenchable fire of youth and hope in +his heart. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VIII +</H3> + +<P> +MISS URSULA WINWOOD, hatless, but with a cotton sunshade swinging over +her shoulder, and with a lean, shiny, mahogany-coloured Sussex spaniel +trailing behind, walked in her calm, deliberate way down the long +carriage drive of Drane's Court. She was stout and florid, and had no +scruples as to the avowal of her age, which was forty-three. She had +clear blue eyes which looked steadily upon a complicated world of +affairs, and a square, heavy chin which showed her capacity for dealing +with it. Miss Ursula Winwood knew herself to be a notable person, and +the knowledge did not make her vain or crotchety or imperious. She took +her notability for granted, as she took her mature good looks and her +independent fortune. For some years she had kept house for her widowed +brother, Colonel Winwood, Conservative Member for the Division of the +county in which they resided, and helped him efficiently in his +political work. The little township of Morebury—half a mile from the +great gates of Drane's Court—felt Miss Winwood's control in diverse +ways. Another town, a little further off, with five or six millions of +inhabitants, was also, through its newspapers, aware of Miss Winwood. +Many leagues, societies, associations, claimed her as President, +Vice-President, or Member of Council. She had sat on Royal Commissions. +Her name under an appeal for charity guaranteed the deserts of the +beneficiaries. What she did not know about housing problems, factory +acts, female prisons, hospitals, asylums for the blind, decayed +gentlewomen, sweated trades, dogs' homes and Friendly Societies could +not be considered in the light of knowledge. She sat on platforms with +Royal princesses, Archbishops welcomed her as a colleague, and Cabinet +Ministers sought her counsel. +</P> + +<P> +For some distance from the porch of the red-brick, creeper-covered +Queen-Anne house the gravel drive between the lawns blazed in the +afternoon sun. For this reason, the sunshade. But after a while came an +avenue of beech and plane and oak casting delectable shade on the drive +and its double edging of grass, and the far-stretching riot of flowers +beneath the trees, foxgloves and canterbury bells and campanulas and +delphiniums, all blues and purples and whites, with here and there the +pink of dog-roses and gorgeous yellow splashes of celandine. On +entering the stately coolness, Miss Winwood closed her sunshade and +looked at her watch, a solid timepiece harboured in her belt. A knitted +brow betrayed mathematical calculation. It would take her five minutes +to reach the lodge gate. The train bringing her venerable uncle, +Archdeacon Winwood, for a week's visit would not arrive at the station +for another three minutes, and the two fat horses would take ten +minutes to drag from the station the landau which she had sent to meet +him. She had, therefore, eight minutes to spare. A rustic bench invited +repose. Graciously she accepted the invitation. +</P> + +<P> +Now, it must be observed that it was not Miss Winwood's habit to waste +time. Her appointments were kept to the minute, and her appointment +(self-made on this occasion) was the welcoming of her uncle, the +Archdeacon, on the threshold of Drane's Court. But Miss Winwood was +making holiday and allowed herself certain relaxations. Her brother's +health having broken down, he had paired for the rest of the session +and gone to Contrexeville for a cure. She had therefore shut up her +London house in Portland Place, Colonel Winwood's home while Parliament +sat, and had come to her brother's house, Drane's Court, her home when +her presence was not needed in London. She was tired; Drane's Court, +where she had been born and had lived all her girlhood's life, was +restful; and the seat in the shade of the great beech was cunningly +curved. The shiny, mahogany-coloured spaniel, prescient of siesta, +leaped to her side and lay down with his chin on her lap and blinked +his yellow eyes. +</P> + +<P> +She lay back on the seat, her hand on the dog's head, looking +contentedly at the opposite wilderness of bloom and the glimpses, +through the screen of trees and shrubs, of the sunlit stretches of park +beyond. She loved Drane's Court. Save for the three years of her +brother's short married life, it had been part of herself. A Winwood, a +very younger son of the Family—the Family being that of which the Earl +of Harpenden is Head (these things can only be written of in capital +letters)—had acquired wealth in the dark political days of Queen Anne, +and had bought the land and built the house, and the property had never +passed into alien hands. As for the name, he had used that of his wife, +Viscountess Drane in her own right,—a notorious beauty of whom, so +History recounts, he was senilely enamoured and on whose naughty +account he was eventually run through the body by a young Mohawk of a +paramour. They fought one spring dawn in the park—the traditional spot +could be seen from where Ursula Winwood was sitting. +</P> + +<P> +Ursula and her brother were proud of the romantic episode, and would +relate it to guests and point out the scene of the duel. Happy and +illusory days of Romance now dead and gone! It is not conceivable that, +generations hence, the head of a family will exhibit with pride the +stained newspaper cuttings containing the unsavoury details of the +divorce case of his great-great-grandmother. +</P> + +<P> +This aspect of family history seldom presented itself to Ursula +Winwood. It did not do so this mellow and contented afternoon. +Starlings mindful of a second brood chattered in the old walnut trees +far away on the lawn; thrushes sang their deep-throated bugle-calls; +finches twittered. A light breeze creeping up the avenue rustled the +full foliage languorously. Ursula Winwood closed her eyes. A bumble-bee +droned between visits to foxglove bells near by. She loved bumble-bees. +They reminded her of a summer long ago when she sat, not on this +seat—as a matter of fact it was in the old walled garden a quarter of +a mile away—with a gallant young fellow's arms about her and her head +on his shoulder. A bumble-bee had droned round her while they kissed. +She could never hear a bumble-bee without thinking of it. But the +gallant young fellow had been killed in the Soudan in eighteen +eighty-five, and Ursula Winwood's heart had been buried in his sandy +grave. That was the beginning and end of her sentimental history. She +had recovered from the pain of it all and now she loved the bumble-bee +for invoking the exquisite memory. The lithe Sussex spaniel crept +farther on her lap and her hand caressed his polished coat. Drowsiness +disintegrated the exquisite memories. Miss Ursula Winwood fell asleep. +</P> + +<P> +The sudden plunging of strong young paws into her body and a series of +sharp barks and growls awakened her with a start, and, for a second, +still dazed by the drowsy invocation of the bumble-bee, she saw +approaching her the gallant fellow who had been pierced through the +heart by a Soudanese spear in eighteen eighty-five. He was dark and +handsome, and, by a trick of coincidence, was dressed in loose +knickerbocker suit, just as he was when he had walked up that very +avenue to say his last good-bye. She remained for a moment tense, +passively awaiting co-ordination of her faculties. Then clear awake, +and sending scudding the dear ghosts of the past, she sat up, and +catching the indignant spaniel by the collar, looked with a queer, +sudden interest at the newcomer. He was young, extraordinarily +beautiful; but he staggered and reeled like a drunken man. The spaniel +barked his respectable disapproval. In his long life of eighteen months +he had seen many people, postmen and butcher boys and casual diggers in +kitchen gardens, whose apparent permit to exist in Drane's Court had +been an insoluble puzzle; but never had he seen so outrageous a +trespasser. With unparalleled moral courage he told him exactly what he +thought of him. But the trespasser did not hear. He kept on advancing. +Miss Winwood rose, disgusted, and drew herself up. The young man threw +out his hands towards her, tripped over the three-inch-high border of +grass, and fell in a sprawling heap at her feet. +</P> + +<P> +He lay very still. Ursula Winwood looked down upon him. The shiny brown +spaniel took up a strategic position three yards away and growled, his +chin between his paws. But the more Miss Winwood looked, and her blue +eyes were trained to penetrate, the more was she convinced that both +she and the dog were wrong in their diagnosis. The young man's face was +deadly white, his cheeks gaunt. It was evidently a grave matter. For a +moment or so she had a qualm of fear lest he might be dead. She bent +down, took him in her capable grip and composed his inert body +decently, and placed the knapsack he was wearing beneath his head. The +faintly beating heart proved him to be alive, but her touch on his brow +discovered fever. Kneeling by his side, she wiped his lips with her +handkerchief, and gave herself up to the fraction of a minute's +contemplation of the most beautiful youth she had ever seen. So there +he lay, a new Endymion, while the most modern of Dianas hung over him, +stricken with great wonderment at his perfection. +</P> + +<P> +In this romantic attitude was she surprised, first by the coachman of +the landau and pair as he swung round the bend of the drive, and then +by the Archdeacon, who leaned over the door of the carriage. Miss +Winwood sprang to her feet; the coachman pulled up, and the Archdeacon +alighted. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Uncle Edward"—she wrung his hand—"I'm so glad to see you. Do +help me grapple with an extraordinary situation." +</P> + +<P> +The Archdeacon smiled humorously. He was a spare man of seventy, with +thin, pointed, clean-shaven face, and clear blue eyes like Miss +Winwood's. "If there's a situation, my dear Ursula, with which you +can't grapple," said he, "it must indeed be extraordinary." +</P> + +<P> +She narrated what had occurred, and together they bent over the +unconscious youth. "I would suggest," said she, "that we put him into +the carriage, drive him up to the house, and send for Dr. Fuller." +</P> + +<P> +"I can only support your suggestion," said the Archdeacon. +</P> + +<P> +So the coachman came down from his box and helped them to lift the +young man into the landau; and his body swayed helplessly between Miss +Winwood and the Archdeacon, whose breeches and gaiters were smeared +with dust from his heavy boots. A few moments afterwards he was carried +into the library and laid upon a sofa, and Miss Winwood administered +restoratives. The deep stupor seemed to pass, and he began to moan. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Winwood and the housekeeper stood by his side. The Archdeacon, his +hands behind his back, paced the noiseless Turkey carpet. "I hope," +said he, "your doctor will not be long in coming." +</P> + +<P> +"It looks like a sunstroke," the housekeeper remarked, as her mistress +scrutinized the clinical thermometer. +</P> + +<P> +"It doesn't," said Miss Winwood bluntly. "In sunstroke the face is +either congested or clammy. I know that much. He has a temperature of +103." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor fellow!" said the Archdeacon. +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder who he is," said Miss Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps this may tell us," said the Archdeacon. +</P> + +<P> +From the knapsack, carelessly handled by the servant who had brought it +in, had escaped a book, and the servant had laid the book on the top of +the knapsack. The Archdeacon took it up. +</P> + +<P> +"Sir Thomas Browne's Religio Medici and Urn Burial. On the flyleaf, +'Paul Savelli.' An undergraduate, I should say, on a walking tour." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Winwood took the book from his hands—a little cheap reprint. "I'm +glad," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, my dear Ursula?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm very fond of Sir Thomas Browne, myself," she replied. +</P> + +<P> +Presently the doctor came and made his examination. He shook a grave +head. "Pneumonia. And he has got it bad. Perhaps a touch of the sun as +well." The housekeeper smiled discreetly. "Looks half-starved, too. +I'll send up the ambulance at once and get him to the cottage hospital." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Winwood, a practical woman, was aware that the doctor gave wise +counsel. But she looked at Paul and hesitated. Paul's destiny, though +none knew it, hung in the balance. "I disapprove altogether of the +cottage hospital," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Eh?" said the doctor. +</P> + +<P> +The Archdeacon raised his eyebrows. "My dear Ursula, I thought you had +made the Morebury Cottage Hospital the model of its kind." +</P> + +<P> +"Its kind is not for people who carry about Sir Thomas Browne in their +pocket," retorted the disingenuous lady. "If I turned him out of my +house, doctor, and anything happened to him, I should have to reckon +with his people. He stays here. You'll kindly arrange for nurses. The +red room, Wilkins,—no, the green—the one with the small oak bed. You +can't nurse people properly in four-posters. It has a south-east +aspect"—she turned to the doctor—"and so gets the sun most of the +day. That's quite right, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ideal. But I warn you, Miss Winwood, you may be letting yourself in +for a perfectly avoidable lot of trouble." +</P> + +<P> +"I like trouble," said Miss Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"You're certainly looking for it," replied the doctor glancing at Paul +and stuffing his stethoscope into his pocket. "And in this case, I can +promise you worry beyond dreams of anxiety." +</P> + +<P> +The word of Ursula Winwood was law for miles around. Dr. Fuller, rosy, +fat and fifty, obeyed, like everyone else; but during the process of +law-making he had often, before now, played the part of an urbane and +gently satirical leader of the opposition. +</P> + +<P> +She flashed round on him, with a foolish pain through her heart that +caused her to catch her breath. "Is he as bad as that?" she asked +quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"As bad as that," said the doctor, with grave significance. "How he +managed to get here is a mystery!" Within a quarter-of-an-hour the +unconscious Paul, clad in a suit of Colonel Winwood's silk pyjamas, lay +in a fragrant room, hung with green and furnished in old, black oak. +Never once, in all his life, had Paul Kegworthy lain in such a room. +And for him a great house was in commotion. Messages went forth for +nurses and medicines and the paraphernalia of a luxurious sick-chamber, +and-the lady of the house being absurdly anxious—for a great London +specialist, whose fee, in Dr. Fuller's quiet eyes, would be amusingly +fantastic. +</P> + +<P> +"It seems horrible to search the poor boy's pockets," said Miss +Winwood, when, after these excursions and alarms the Archdeacon and +herself had returned to the library; "but we must try to find out who +he is and communicate with his people. Savelli. I've never heard of +them. I wonder who they are." +</P> + +<P> +"There is an historical Italian family of that name," said the +Archdeacon. +</P> + +<P> +"I was sure of it," said Miss Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"Of what?" +</P> + +<P> +"That his people—are—well—all right." +</P> + +<P> +"Why are you sure?" +</P> + +<P> +Ursula was very fond of her uncle. He represented to her the fine +flower of the Church of England—a gentleman, a scholar, an ideal +physical type of the Anglican dignitary, a man of unquestionable piety +and Christian charity, a personage who would be recognized for what he +was by Hottentots or Esquimaux or attendants of wagon-lits trains or +millionaires of the Middle West of America or Parisian Apaches. In him +the branch of the family tree had burgeoned into the perfect cleric. +Yet sometimes, the play of light beneath the surface of those blue +eyes, so like her own, and the delicately intoned challenges of his +courtly voice, exasperated her beyond measure. "It's obvious to any +idiot, my dear," she replied testily. "Just look at him. It speaks for +itself." +</P> + +<P> +The Archdeacon put his thin hand on her plump shoulder, and smiled. The +old man had a very sunny smile. "I'm sorry to carry on a conversation +so Socratically," said he. "But what is 'it'?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've never seen anything so physically beautiful, save the statues in +the Vatican, in all my life. If he's not an aristocrat to the finger +tips, I'll give up all my work, turn Catholic, and go into a +nunnery—which will distress you exceedingly. And then"—she waved a +plump hand—"and then, as I've mentioned before, he reads the Religio +Medici. The commonplace, vulgar young man of to-day no more reads Sir +Thomas Browne than he reads Tertullian or the Upanishads." +</P> + +<P> +"He also reads," said the Archdeacon, stuffing his hand into Paul's +knapsack, against whose canvas the stiff outline of a book revealed +itself—"he also reads"—he held up a little fat duodecimo—"the +Chansons de Beranger." +</P> + +<P> +"That proves it," cried Miss Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"Proves what?" +</P> + +<P> +His blue eyes twinkled. Having a sense of humour, she laughed and flung +her great arm round his frail shoulders. "It proves, my venerable and +otherwise distinguished dear, that I am right and you are wrong." +</P> + +<P> +"My good Ursula," said he, disengaging himself, "I have not advanced +one argument either in favour of, or in opposition to, one single +proposition the whole of this afternoon." +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head at him pityingly. +</P> + +<P> +The housekeeper entered carrying a double handful of odds and ends +which she laid on the library table—a watch and chain and cornelian +heart, a cigarette case bearing the initials "P.S.," some keys, a very +soiled handkerchief, a sovereign, a shilling and a penny. Dr. Fuller +had sent them down with his compliments; they were the entire contents +of the young gentleman's pockets. +</P> + +<P> +"Not a card, not a scrap of paper with a name and address on it?" cried +Miss Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"Not a scrap, miss. The doctor and I searched most thoroughly." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps the knapsack will tell us more," said the Archdeacon. +</P> + +<P> +The knapsack, however, revealed nothing but a few toilet necessaries, a +hunk of stale bread and a depressing morsel of cheese, and a pair of +stockings and a shirt declared by the housekeeper to be wet through. As +the Beranger, like the Sir Thomas Browne, was inscribed "Paul Savelli," +which corresponded with the initials on the cigarette case, they were +fairly certain of the young man's name. But that was all they could +discover regarding him. +</P> + +<P> +"We'll have to wait until he can tell us himself," said Miss Winwood +later to the doctor. +</P> + +<P> +"We'll have to wait a long time," said he. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IX +</H3> + +<P> +THE London physician arrived, sat up with Paul most of the night, and +went away the next morning saying that he was a dead man. Dr. Fuller, +however, advanced the uncontrovertible opinion that a man was not dead +till he died; and Paul was not dead yet. As a matter of fact, Paul did +not die. If he had done so, there would have been an end of him and +this history would never have been written. He lay for many days at the +gates of Death, and Miss Winwood, terribly fearful lest they should +open and the mysterious, unconscious shape of beauty and youth should +pass through, had all the trouble promised her by the doctor. But the +gates remained shut. When Paul took a turn for the better, the London +physician came down again and declared that he was living in defiance +of all the laws of pathology, and with a graceful compliment left the +case in the hands of Dr. Fuller. When his life was out of danger, Dr. +Fuller attributed the miracle to the nurses; Ursula Winwood attributed +it to Dr. Fuller; the London physician to Paul's superb constitution; +and Paul himself, perhaps the most wisely, to the pleasant-faced, +masterful lady who had concentrated on his illness all the resources of +womanly tenderness. +</P> + +<P> +But it was a long time before Paul was capable of formulating such an +opinion. It was a long time before he could formulate any opinion at +all. When not delirious or comatose, he had the devil of pleurisy +tearing at the wall of his lung like a wild cat. Only gradually did he +begin to observe and to question. That noiseless woman in coot blue and +white was a nurse. He knew that. So he must be in hospital. But the +room was much smaller than a hospital ward; and where were the other +patients? The question worried him for a whole morning. Then there was +a pink-faced man in gold spectacles, Obviously the doctor. Then there +was a sort of nurse whom he liked very much, but she was not in +uniform. Who could she be? He realized that he was ill, as weak as a +butterfly; and the pain when he coughed was agonizing. It was all very +odd. How had he come here? He remembered walking along a dusty road in +the blazing sun, his head bursting, every limb a moving ache. He also +vaguely remembered being awakened at night by a thunder storm as he lay +snugly asleep beneath a hedge. The German Ocean had fallen down upon +him. He was quite sure it was the German Ocean, because he had fixed it +in his head by repeating "the North Sea or German Ocean." Mixing up +delirious dream with fact, he clearly remembered the green waves +rearing themselves up first, an immeasurable wall, then spreading a +translucent canopy beneath the firmament and then descending in awful +deluge. He had a confused memory of morning sunshine, of a cottage, of +a hard-featured woman, of sitting before a fire with a blanket round +his shoulders, of a toddling child smeared to the eyebrows with dirt +and treacle whom he had wanted to wash. Over and over again, lately, he +had wanted to wash that child, but it had always eluded his efforts. +Once he had thought of scraping it with a bit of hoof-iron, but it had +turned into a Stilton cheese. It was all very puzzling. Then he had +gone on tramping along the high road. What was that about bacon and +eggs? The horrible smell offended his nostrils. It must have been a +wayside inn; and a woman twenty feet high with a face like a +cauliflower—or was it spinach?—or Brussels sprouts?—silly not to +remember—one of the three, certainly—desired to murder him with a +thousand eggs bubbling up against rank reefs of bacon. He had escaped +from her somehow, and he had been very lucky. His star had saved him. +It had also saved him from a devil on a red-hot bicycle. He had stood +quite still, calm and undismayed, in the awful path of the straddling +Apollyon whose head was girt around with yellow fire, and had seen him +swerve madly and fall off the machine. And when the devil had picked +himself up, he had tried to blast him with the Great Curse of the +Underworld; but Paul had shown him his cornelian heart, his talisman, +and the devil had remounted his glowing vehicle and had ridden away in +a spume of flame. The Father of Lies had tried to pass himself off as a +postman. The memory of the shallow pretence tickled Paul so that he +laughed; and then he half fainted in pleuritic agony. +</P> + +<P> +After the interlude with the devil he could recollect little. He was +going up to London to make his fortune. A princess was waiting for him +at the golden gate of London, with a fortune piled up in a +coach-and-six. But being very sick and dizzy, he thought he would sit +down and rest in a great green cathedral whose doors stood invitingly +open ... and now he found himself in the hospital ward. Sometimes he +felt a desire to question the blue-and-white nurse, but it seemed too +much trouble to move his lips. Then in a flash came the solution of the +puzzle, and he chuckled to himself over his cunning. Of course it was a +dream. The nurse was a dream-nurse, who wanted to make him believe that +she was real. But she was not clever enough. The best way to pay her +out for her deception was to take no notice of her whatsoever. So +comforted, he would go to sleep. +</P> + +<P> +At last one morning he woke, a miserably weak but perfectly sane man, +and he turned his head from side to side and looked wonderingly at the +fresh and exquisite room. A bowl of Morning Glow roses stood by his +bedside, gracious things for fevered eyes to rest upon. A few large +photographs of famous pictures hung on the walls. In front of him was +the Santa Barbara of Palma Vecchio, which he recognized with a smile. +He had read about it, and knew that the original was in Venice. +Knowledge of things like that was comforting. +</P> + +<P> +The nurse, noticing the change, came up to him and spoke in a soothing +voice. "Are you feeling better?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think so," said Paul. "I suppose I've been very ill." +</P> + +<P> +"Very ill," said the nurse. +</P> + +<P> +"This can't be a hospital?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no. It's the house of some very kind, good friends. You don't know +them," she added quickly, seeing him knit a perplexed brow. "You +stumbled into their garden and fainted. And they're very anxious for +you to get well and strong." +</P> + +<P> +"Who are they?" asked Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Colonel and Miss Winwood. They will be so glad to see you better—at +least Miss Winwood will; the Colonel's not at home." +</P> + +<P> +She lifted his head gently and smoothed his pillows, and ordained +silence. Presently the doctor came, and spoke kindly. "You've had a +narrow shave, my friend, and you're not out of the wood yet," said he. +"And you'll have to go slow and take things for granted for some time." +</P> + +<P> +Then came Miss Winwood, whom he recognized as the puzzling but pleasant +nurse out of uniform. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know how to thank you for taking me in, a stranger, like +this," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +She smiled. "It's Providence, not me, that you must thank. You might +have been taken ill by the roadside far away from anybody. Providence +guided you here." +</P> + +<P> +"Providence or Destiny," murmured Paul, closing his eyes. It was absurd +to feel so weak. +</P> + +<P> +"That's a theological question on which we won't enter," laughed Miss +Winwood. "Anyhow, thank God, you're better." +</P> + +<P> +A little later she came to him again. "I've been so anxious about your +people—you see, we've had no means of communicating with them." +</P> + +<P> +"My people?" asked Paul, surprised. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. They must be wondering what has become of you." +</P> + +<P> +"I have no people," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"No people? What do you mean?" she asked sharply, for the moment +forgetful of the sick room. She herself had hundreds of relations. The +branches of her family tree were common to half the country families of +England. "Have you no parents—brothers or sisters—?" +</P> + +<P> +"None that I know of," said Paul. "I'm quite alone in the world." +</P> + +<P> +"Have you no friends to whom I could write about you?" +</P> + +<P> +He shook his head, and his great eyes, all the greater and more +lustrous through illness, smiled into hers. "No. None that count. At +least—there are two friends, but I've lost sight of them for years. +No—there's nobody who would be in the least interested to know. Please +don't trouble. I shall be all right." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Winwood put her cool hand on his forehead and bent over him. "You? +You, alone like that? My poor boy!" +</P> + +<P> +She turned away. It was almost incredible. It was monstrously pathetic. +The phenomenon baffled her. Tears came into her eyes. She had imagined +him the darling of mother and sisters; the gay centre of troops of +friends. And he was alone on the earth. Who was he? She turned again. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you tell me your name?" +</P> + +<P> +"Savelli. Paul Savelli." +</P> + +<P> +"I thought so. It was in the two books in your knapsack. A historical +Italian name." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Paul. "Noble. All dead." +</P> + +<P> +He lay back, exhausted. Suddenly a thought smote him. He beckoned. She +approached. "My heart—is it safe?" he whispered. +</P> + +<P> +"Your heart?" +</P> + +<P> +"At the end of my watch-chain." +</P> + +<P> +"Quite safe." +</P> + +<P> +"Could I have it near me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course." +</P> + +<P> +Paul closed his eyes contentedly. With his talisman in his hand, all +would be well. For the present he need take thought of nothing. His +presence in the beautiful room being explained, there was an end of the +perplexity of his semi-delirium. Of payment for evident devoted service +there could be no question. Time enough when he grew well and able to +fare forth again, to consider the immediate future. He was too weak to +lift his head, and something inside him hurt like the devil when he +moved. Why worry about outer and unimportant matters? The long days of +pain and illness slipped gradually away. Miss Winwood sat by his +bedside and talked; but not until he was much stronger did she question +him as to his antecedents. The Archdeacon had gone away after a week's +visit without being able to hold any converse with Paul; Colonel +Winwood was still at Contrexeville, whence he wrote sceptically of the +rare bird whom Ursula had discovered; and Ursula was alone in the +house, save for a girl friend who had no traffic with the sick-chamber. +She had, therefore, much leisure to devote to Paul. Her brother's +scepticism most naturally strengthened her belief in him. He was her +discovery. He grew almost to be her invention. Just consider. Here was +a young Greek god—everyone who had a bowing acquaintance with ancient +sculpture immediately likened Paul to a Greek god, and Ursula was not +so far different from her cultured fellow mortals as to liken him to +anything else—here was a young Phoebus Apollo, all the more Olympian +because of his freedom from earthly ties, fallen straight from the +clouds. He had fallen at her feet. His beauty had stirred her. His +starlike loneliness had touched her heart. His swift intelligence, +growing more manifest each day as he grew stronger, moved her +admiration. He had, too, she realized, a sunny and sensuous nature, +alive to beauty—even the beauty of the trivial things in his sickroom. +He had an odd, poetical trick of phrase. He was a paragon of young +Greek gods. She had discovered him; and women don't discover even +mortal paragons every day in the week. Also, she was a woman of +forty-three, which, after all, is not wrinkled and withered eld; and +she was not a soured woman; she radiated health and sweetness; she had +loved once in her life, very dearly. Romance touched her with his +golden feather and, in the most sensible and the most unreprehensible +way in the world, she fell in love with Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder what made you put that Santa Barbara of Palma Vecchio just +opposite the bed," he said one day. He had advanced so far toward +recovery as to be able to sit up against his pillows. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you like it?" She turned in her chair by his bedside. +</P> + +<P> +"I worship it. Do you know, she has a strange look of you? When I was +half off my head I used to mix you up together. She has such a generous +and holy bigness—the generosity of the All-woman." +</P> + +<P> +Ursula flushed at the personal tribute, but let it pass without +comment. "It's not a bad photograph; but the original—that is too +lovely." +</P> + +<P> +"It's in the Church of Santa Maria Formosa in Venice," said Paul +quickly. +</P> + +<P> +He had passed through a period of wild enthusiasm for Italian painting, +and had haunted the National Gallery, and knew by heart Sir Charles +Eastlake's edition of Kugler's unique textbook. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, you know it?" said Ursula. +</P> + +<P> +"I've never been to Venice," replied Paul, with a sigh. "It's the dream +of my life to go there." +</P> + +<P> +She straightened herself on her chair. "How do you know the name of the +church?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul smiled and looked round the walls, and reflected for a moment. +"Yes," said he in answer to his own questioning, "I think I can tell +you where all these pictures are, though I've never seen them, except +one. The two angels by Melozzo da Forli are in St. Peter's at Rome. The +Sposalia of Raphael is in the Breza, Milan. The Andrea del Sarto is in +the Louvre. That's the one I've seen. That little child of Heaven, +playing the lute, is in the predella of an altar-piece by Vittore +Carpaccio in the—in the—please don't tell me—in the Academia of +Venice. Am I right?" +</P> + +<P> +"Absolutely right," said Miss Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +He laughed, delighted. At three and twenty, one—thank goodness!—is +very young. One hungers for recognition of the wonder-inspiring self +that lies hidden beneath the commonplace mask of clay. "And that," said +he—"the Madonna being crowned—the Botticelli—is in the Uffizi at +Florence. Walter Pater talks about it—you know—in his +'Renaissance'—the pen dropping from her hand—'the high, cold words +that have no meaning for her—the intolerable honour'! Oh, it's +enormous, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid I've not read my Pater as I ought," said Miss Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"But, you must!" cried Paul, with the gloriously audacious faith of +youth which has just discovered a true apostle. "Pater puts you on to +the inner meaning of everything—in art, I mean. He doesn't wander +about in the air like Ruskin, though, of course, if you get your mental +winnowing machine in proper working order you can get the good grain +out of Ruskin. 'The Stones of Venice' and 'The Seven Lamps' have taught +me a lot. But you always have to be saying to yourself, 'Is this +gorgeous nonsense or isn't it?' whereas in Pater there's no nonsense at +all. You're simply carried along on a full stream of Beauty straight +into the open Sea of Truth." +</P> + +<P> +And Ursula Winwood, to whom Archbishops had been deferential and +Cabinet Ministers had come for, guidance, meekly promised to send at +once for Pater's 'Renaissance' and so fill in a most lamentable gap in +her education. +</P> + +<P> +"My uncle, the Archdeacon," she said, after a while, "reminded me that +the great Savelli was a Venetian general—of Roman family; and, +strangely enough, his name, too, was Paul. Perhaps that's how you got +the name." +</P> + +<P> +"That must be how," said Paul dreamily. He had not heard of the great +general. He had seen the name of Savelli somewhere—also that of +Torelli—and had hesitated between the two. Thinking it no great harm, +he wove into words the clamour of his cherished romance. "My parents +died when I was quite young—a baby—and then I was brought to England. +So you see"—he smiled in his winning way—"I'm absolutely English." +</P> + +<P> +"But you've kept your Italian love of beauty." +</P> + +<P> +"I hope so," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I suppose you were brought up by guardians," said Ursula. +</P> + +<P> +"A guardian," said Paul, anxious to cut down to a minimum the mythical +personages that might be connected with his career. "But I seldom saw +him. He lived in Paris chiefly. He's dead now." +</P> + +<P> +"What a poor little uncared-for waif you must have been." +</P> + +<P> +Paul laughed. "Oh, don't pity me. I've had to think for myself a good +deal, it is true. But it has done me good. Don't you find it's the +things one learns for oneself—whether they are about life or old +china—that are the most valuable?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," said Miss Winwood. But she sighed, womanlike, at the +thought of the little Paul—(how beautiful he must have been as a +child!)—being brought up by servants and hirelings in a lonely house, +his very guardian taking no concern in his welfare. +</P> + +<P> +Thus it came about that, from the exiguous material supplied by Paul, +Miss Winwood, not doubting his gentle birth and breeding, constructed +for him a wholly fictitious set of antecedents. Paul invented as little +as possible and gratefully accepted her suggestions. They worked +together unconsciously. Paul had to give some account of himself. He +had blotted Bludston and his modeldom out of his existence. The +passionate belief in his high and romantic birth was part of his being, +and Miss Winwood's recognition was a splendid confirmation of his +faith. It was rather the suppressio veri of which he was guilty than +the propositio falsi. So between them his childhood was invested with a +vague semblance of reality in which the fact of his isolation stood out +most prominent. +</P> + +<P> +They had many talks together, not only on books and art, but on the +social subjects in which Ursula was so deeply interested. She found him +well informed, with a curiously detailed knowledge of the everyday +lives of the poor. It did not occur to her that this knowledge came +from his personal experience. She attributed it to the many-sided +genius of her paragon. +</P> + +<P> +"When you get well you must help us. There's an infinite amount to be +done." +</P> + +<P> +"I shall be delighted," said Paul politely. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll find I'm a terrible person to deal with when once I've laid my +hands on anybody," she said with a smile. "I drag in all kinds of +people, and they can't escape. I sent young Harry Gostling—Lord +Ruthmere's son, you know—to look into a working girls' club in the +Isle of Dogs that was going wrong. He hated it at first, but now he's +as keen as possible. And you'll be keen too." +</P> + +<P> +It was flattering to be classified with leisured and opulent young +Guardsmen; but what, Paul reflected with a qualm, would the kind lady +say if she learned the real state of his present fortunes? He thought +of the guinea that lay between him and starvation, and was amused by +the irony of her proposition. Miss Winwood evidently took it for +granted that he was in easy circumstances, living on the patrimony +administered during his boyhood by a careless guardian. He shrank from +undeceiving her. His dream was beginning to come true. He was accepted +by one of the high caste as belonging to the world where princes and +princesses dwelt serene. If only he could put the theatre behind him, +as he had put the rest, and make a stepping-stone of his dead actor +self! But that was impossible, or at least the question would have to +be fought out between himself and fortune after he had left Drane's +Court. In the meanwhile he glowed with the ambition to leave it in his +newly acquired splendour, drums beating, banners flying, the young +prince returning to his romantic and mysterious solitude. +</P> + +<P> +The time was approaching when he should get up. He sent for his +luggage. The battered trunk and portmanteau plastered with the labels +of queer provincial towns did not betray great wealth. Nor did the +contents, taken out by the man-servant and arranged in drawers by the +nurse. His toilet paraphernalia was of the simplest and scantiest. His +stock of frayed linen and darned underclothes made rather a poor little +heap on the chair. He watched the unpacking somewhat wistfully from his +bed; and, like many another poor man, inwardly resented his poverty +being laid bare to the eyes of the servants of the rich. +</P> + +<P> +The only thing that the man seemed to handle respectfully—as a +recognized totem of a superior caste—was a brown canvas case of golf +clubs, which he stood up in a conspicuous corner of the room. Paul had +taken to the Ancient and Royal game when first he went on tour, and it +had been a health-giving resource during the listless days when there +was no rehearsal or no matinee—hundreds of provincial actors, to say +nothing of retired colonels and such-like derelicts, owe their +salvation of body and soul to the absurd but hygienic pastime—and with +a naturally true eye and a harmonious body trained to all demands on +its suppleness in the gymnasium, proficiency had come with little +trouble. He was a born golfer; for the physically perfect human is a +born anything physical you please. But he had not played for a long +time. Half-crowns had been very scarce on this last disastrous tour, +and comrades who included golf in their horizon of human possibilities +had been rarer. When would he play again? Heaven knew! So he looked +wistfully, too, at his set of golf clubs. He remembered how he had +bought them—one by one. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you want this on the dressing table?" The nurse held up a little +oblong case. +</P> + +<P> +It was his make-up box, luckily tied round with string. +</P> + +<P> +"Good heavens, no!" he exclaimed. He wished he could have told her to +burn it. He felt happier when all his belongings were stowed away out +of sight and the old trunk and portmanteau hauled out of the room. +</P> + +<P> +Colonel Winwood came home and asked his sister pertinent questions. He +was a bald, sad-looking man with a long grizzling moustache that +drooped despondently. But he had a square, obstinate chin, and his +eyes, though they seldom smiled, were keen and direct, like Miss +Winwood's. Romance had passed him by long since. He did not believe in +paragons. +</P> + +<P> +"I gather, my dear Ursula," said he in a dry voice, "that our guest is +an orphan, of good Italian family, brought up in England by a guardian +now dead who lived in France. Also that he is of prepossessing +exterior, of agreeable manners, of considerable cultivation, and +apparently of no acquaintance. But what I can't make out is: what he +does for a living, how he came to be half-starved on his walking +tour—the doctor said so, you remember—where he was going from and +where he is going to when he leaves our house. In fact, he seems to be +a very vague and mysterious person, of whom, for a woman of your +character and peculiar training, you know singularly little." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Winwood replied that she could not pry into the lad's private +affairs. Her brother retorted that a youth, in his physically helpless +condition, who was really ingenuous, would have poured out his life's +history into the ears of so sympathetic a woman, and have bored her to +tears with the inner secrets of his soul. +</P> + +<P> +"He has high aspirations. He has told me of them. But he hasn't bored +me a bit," said Ursula. +</P> + +<P> +"What does he aspire to?" +</P> + +<P> +"What does any brilliant young fellow of two or three and twenty aspire +to? Anything, everything. He has only to find his path." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but what is his path?" +</P> + +<P> +"I wish you weren't so much like Uncle Edward, James," said Ursula. +</P> + +<P> +"He's a damned clever old man," said Colonel Winwood, "and I wish he +had stayed here long enough to be able to put our young friend through +a searching cross-examination." +</P> + +<P> +Ursula lifted her finger-bowl an inch from the doiley and carefully put +it down again. It was the evening of Colonel Winwood's arrival, and +they were lingering over coffee in the great, picture-hung and softly +lighted dining room. Having fixed the bowl in the exact centre of the +doiley, she flashed round on her brother. "My dear James, do you think +I'm an idiot?" +</P> + +<P> +He took his cigar from his lips and looked at her with not unhumorous +dryness. "When the world was very young, my dear," said he, "I've no +doubt I called you so. But not since." +</P> + +<P> +She stretched out her hand and tapped his. She was very fond of him. +"You can't help being a man, my poor boy, and thinking manly thoughts +of me, a woman. But I'm not an idiot. Our young friend, as you call +him, is as poor as a church mouse. I know it. No, don't say, 'How?' +like Uncle Edward. He hasn't told me, but Nurse has—a heart-breaking +history of socks and things. There's the doctor's diagnosis, too. I +haven't forgotten. But the boy is too proud to cry poverty among +strangers. He keeps his end up like a man. To hear him talk, one would +think he not only hadn't a care in the world, but that he commanded the +earth. How can one help admiring the boy's pluck and—that's where my +reticence comes in—respecting the boy's reserve?" +</P> + +<P> +"H'm!" said Colonel Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"But, good gracious, Jim, dear, supposing you—or any of us—men, I +mean—had been in this boy's extraordinary position—would you have +acted differently? You would have died rather than give your poverty +away to absolute strangers to whom you were indebted, in the way this +boy is indebted to us. Good God, Jim"—she sent her dessert knife +skimming across the table—"don't you see? Any reference to poverty +would be an invitation—a veiled request for further help. To a +gentleman like Paul Savelli, the thing's unthinkable." +</P> + +<P> +Colonel Winwood selected a fresh cigar, clipped off the end, and lit it +from a silver spirit lamp by his side. He blew out the first exquisite +puff—the smoker's paradise would be the one first full and fragrant, +virginal puff of an infinite succession of perfect cigars—looked +anxiously at the glowing point to see that it was exactly lighted, and +leaned back in his chair. +</P> + +<P> +"What you say, dear," said he, "is plausible. Plausible almost to the +point of conviction. But there's a hole somewhere in your argument, I'm +sure, and I'm too tired after my journey to find it." +</P> + +<P> +Thus, as the stars in their courses fought against Sisera, so did they +fight for Paul; and in both cases they used a woman as their instrument. +</P> + +<P> +Colonel Winwood, in spite of a masculine air of superiority, joined +with the Archbishops and Cabinet Ministers above referred to in their +appreciation of his sister's judgment. After all, what business of his +were the private affairs of his involuntary guest? He paid him a visit +the next day, and found him lying on a couch by the sunny window, clad +in dressing gown and slippers. Paul rose politely, though he winced +with pain. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't get up, please. I'm Colonel Winwood." +</P> + +<P> +They shook hands. Paul began to wheel an armchair from the bedside, but +Colonel Winwood insisted on his lying down again and drew up the chair +himself. "I'm afraid," said Paul, "I've been a sad trespasser on your +hospitality. Miss Winwood must have told you it has scarcely been my +fault; but I don't know how to express my thanks." +</P> + +<P> +As Paul made it, the little speech could not have been better. Colonel +Winwood, who (like the seniors of every age) deplored the lack of +manners of the rising generation, was pleased by the ever so little +elaborate courtesy. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm only too glad we've pulled you round. You've had a bad time, I +hear." +</P> + +<P> +Paul smiled. "Pretty bad. If it hadn't been for Miss Winwood and all +she has done for me, I should have pegged out." +</P> + +<P> +"My sister's a notable woman," said the Colonel. "When she sets out to +do a thing she does it thoroughly." +</P> + +<P> +"I owe her my life," said Paul simply. +</P> + +<P> +There was a pause. The two men, both bright-eyed, looked at each other +for the fraction of a second. One, the aristocrat secure of his wealth, +of his position, of himself, with no illusion left him save pride of +birth, no dream save that of an England mighty and prosperous under +continuous centuries of Tory rule, no memories but of stainless +honour—he had fought gallantly for his Queen, he had lived like a +noble gentleman, he had done his country disinterested service—no +ambition but to keep himself on the level of the ideal which he had +long since attained; the other the creation of nothing but of dreams, +the child of the gutter, the adventurer, the vagabond, with no address, +not even a back room over a sweetstuff shop in wide England, the +possessor of a few suits of old clothes and one pound, one shilling and +a penny, with nothing in front of him but the vast blankness of 'life, +nothing behind him save memories of sordid struggle, with nothing to +guide him, nothing to set him on his way with thrilling pulse and +quivering fibres save the Vision Splendid, the glorious Hope, the +unconquerable Faith. In the older man's eyes Paul read the calm, stern +certainty of things both born to and achieved; and Colonel Winwood saw +in the young man's eyes, as in a glass darkly, the reflection of the +Vision. +</P> + +<P> +"And yours is a very young life," said he. "Gad! it must be wonderful +to be twenty. 'Rich in the glory of my rising sun.' You know your +Thackeray?" +</P> + +<P> +"'Riche de ma jeunesse,'" laughed Paul. "Thackeray went one better than +Beranger, that time." +</P> + +<P> +"I forgot," said Colonel Winwood. "My sister told me. You go about with +Beranger as a sort of pocket Bible." +</P> + +<P> +Paul laughed again. "When one is on the tramp one's choice of books is +limited by their cubical content. One couldn't take Gibbon, for +instance, or a complete Balzac." +</P> + +<P> +Colonel Winwood tugged at his drooping moustache and again scrutinized +the frank and exceedingly attractive youth. His astonishing perfection +of feature was obvious to anybody. Yet any inconsiderable human—a +peasant of the Campagna, a Venetian gondolier, a swaggering brigand of +Macedonia—could be astonishingly beautiful. And, being astonishingly +beautiful, that was the beginning and end of him. But behind this +merely physical attractiveness of his guest glowed a lambent +intelligence, quick as lightning. There was humorous challenge in those +laughing and lucent dark eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know your Balzac?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder if you do," said Colonel Winwood. "I'm rather a Balzacian +myself." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't say I've read all Balzac. That's a colossal order," said Paul, +rather excited-for, in his limited acquaintance with cultivated folk, +Colonel Winwood was the only human being who could claim acquaintance +with one of the literary gods of his idolatry—"but I know him pretty +well. I can't stand his 'Theatre'—that's footle—but the big +things—'Le Pere Goriot,' 'La Cousine Bette,' 'Cesar Birotteau'—what a +great book 'Cesar Birotteau' is!—" +</P> + +<P> +"You're right," said Colonel Winwood, forgetful of any possible +barriers between himself and the young enthusiast. "It's one of the +four or five great books, and very few people recognize it." +</P> + +<P> +"'Le Lys dans la Vallee,'" said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"There's another—" +</P> + +<P> +And they talked for half an hour of the Baron Nucingen, and Rastignac, +and Hulot, and Bixiou, and Lousteau, and Gobsec, and Gaudissart, and +Vautrin, and many another vivid personage in the human comedy. +</P> + +<P> +"That man could have gone on writing for a hundred years," cried Paul, +"and he could have exhausted all the possibilities of human life." +</P> + +<P> +Colonel Winwood smiled courteously. "We have a bond in Balzac," said +he. "But I must go. My sister said I mustn't tire you." He rose. "We're +having a lot of people down here this week for the shooting. There'll +be good sport. Pity you're not well enough to join us." +</P> + +<P> +Paul smiled. He had one of his flashes of tact, "I'm afraid," said he +modestly, "that I've never fired off a gun in my life." +</P> + +<P> +"What?" cried the Colonel. +</P> + +<P> +"It's true." +</P> + +<P> +Colonel Winwood looked at him once more. "It's not many young men," +said he, "who would dare to make such a confession." +</P> + +<P> +"But what is the good of lying?" asked Paul, with the eyes of a cherub. +</P> + +<P> +"None that I know of," replied the Colonel. He returned to his chair +and rested his hand on the back. "You play golf, anyhow," said he, +pointing to the brown canvas bag in the corner. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Any good?" +</P> + +<P> +"Fair to middling." +</P> + +<P> +"What's your handicap?" asked the Colonel, an enthusiastic though +inglorious practitioner of the game. +</P> + +<P> +"One," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"The deuce it is!" cried the Colonel. "Mine is fifteen. You must give +me a lesson or two when you pull round. We've a capital course here." +</P> + +<P> +"That's very kind of you," said Paul, "but I'm afraid I shall be well +enough for ordinary purposes long before I'm able to handle a golf +club." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +"This silly pleurisy. It will hang about for ages!" +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll have to go my ways from here long before I can play." +</P> + +<P> +"Any great hurry?" +</P> + +<P> +"I can't go on accepting your wonderful hospitality indefinitely," said +Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"That's nonsense. Stay as long as ever you like." +</P> + +<P> +"If I did that," said Paul, "I would stay on forever." +</P> + +<P> +The Colonel smiled and shook hands with him. In the ordinary way of +social life this was quite an unnecessary thing to do. But he acted +according to the impulses common to a thousand of his type—and a fine +type—in England. Setting aside the mere romantic exterior of a +Macedonian brigand, here was a young man of the period with +astonishingly courteous manners, of—and this was of secondary +consideration—of frank and winning charm, with a free-and-easy +intimacy with Balzac, of fearless truthfulness regarding his +deficiencies, and with a golf handicap of one. The Colonel's hand and +heart went out in instinctive coordination. The Colonel Winwoods of +this country are not gods; they are very humanly fallible; but of such +is the Kingdom of England. +</P> + +<P> +"At any rate," said he, "you mustn't dream of leaving us yet." +</P> + +<P> +He went downstairs and met his sister in the hall. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" she asked, with just a gleam of quizzicality in her eyes, for +she knew whence he had come. +</P> + +<P> +"One of these days I'll take him out and teach him to shoot," said the +Colonel. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER X +</H3> + +<P> +THE shooting party came, and Paul, able to leave his room and sit in +the sunshine and crawl about the lawn and come down to dinner, though +early retirement was prescribed, went among the strange men and women +of the aristocratic caste like one in a dream of bliss. Much of their +talk, sport and personalities, was unintelligible; every man seemed to +have killed everything everywhere and every woman seemed to know +everybody and everybody's intimate secrets. So when conversation was +general, Paul, who had killed nothing and knew nobody, listened in +silent perplexity. But even the perplexity was a happiness. It was all +so new, so fascinating. For was not this world of aristocrats—there +were lords and ladies and great personages whose names he had read in +the newspapers—his rightful inheritance, the sphere to which he had +been born? And they did not always talk of things which he did not +understand. They received him among them with kind welcome and +courtesy. No one asked him whence he came and whither he was going. +They took him for granted, as a guest of the Winwoods. Of course if +Paul had seen himself on the way to rival the famous actor whose +photograph in the window of the London Stereoscopic Company had +inspired him with histrionic ambitions, he would have been at no pains +to hide his profession. But between the darling of the London stage and +a seedy member of a fit-up company lies a great gulf. He shrank from +being associated with Mr. Vincent Crummles. One thing, however, of +invaluable use he had brought with him from Theatreland—the dress suit +which formed part of his stage wardrobe. There were other things, too, +which he did not appreciate—ease of manner, victory over the lingering +Lancastrian burr, and a knowledge of what to do with his feet and hands. +</P> + +<P> +One day he had a great shock. The house party were assembling in the +drawing-room, when in sailed the great lady, the ever-memorable great +lady, the Marchioness of Chudley, who had spoken to him and smiled on +him in the Bludston factory. Fear laid a cold grip on his heart. He +thought of pleading weakness and running away to the safe obscurity of +his room. But it was too late. The procession was formed immediately, +and he found himself in his place with his partner on his arm. Dinner +was torture. What he said to his neighbours he knew not. He dared not +look up the table where Lady Chudley sat in full view. Every moment he +expected—ridiculous apprehension of an accusing conscience—Colonel +Winwood to come and tap him on the shoulder and bid him begone. But +nothing happened. Afterwards, in the drawing-room, Fate drove him into +a corner near Lady Chudley, whose eyes he met clear upon him. He turned +away hurriedly and plunged into conversation with a young soldier +standing by. Presently he heard Miss Winwood's voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Savelli, I want to introduce you to Lady Chudley." +</P> + +<P> +The fear gripped him harder and colder. How could he explain that he +was occupying his rightful place in that drawing-room? But he held +himself up and resolved to face the peril like a man. Lady Chudley +smiled on him graciously—how well he remembered her smile!—and made +him sit by her side. She was a dark, stately woman of forty, giving the +impression that she could look confoundedly cold and majestic when she +chose. She wore diamonds in her hair and a broad diamond clasp to the +black velvet round her throat. +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Winwood has been telling me what an awful time you've had, Mr. +Savelli," she said pleasantly. "Now, whenever I hear of people having +had pneumonia I always want to talk to them and sympathize with them." +</P> + +<P> +"That's very kind of you, Lady Chudley," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Only a fellow-feeling. I nearly died of it once myself. I hope you're +getting strong." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm feeling my strength returning every day. It's a queer new joy." +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +They discussed the exhilaration of convalescence. It was a 'wonderful +springtide. They reverted to the preceding misery. +</P> + +<P> +"You're far luckier than I was," she remarked. "You've had a comfy +English house to be ill in. I was in a stone-cold palazzo in +Florence—in winter. Ugh! Shall I ever forget it? I don't want to speak +evil of Italy to an Italian—" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm only Italian by descent," exclaimed Paul, with a laugh, his first +frank laugh during the whole of that gloomy evening. And he laughed +louder than was necessary, for, as it suddenly dawned upon him that he +did not in the least recall to her mind the grimy little Bludston boy, +the cold hand of fear was dissolved in a warm gush of exultation. "You +can abuse Italy or any country but England as much as you like." +</P> + +<P> +"Why mustn't I abuse England?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because it's the noblest country in the world," he cried; and, seeing +approval in her eyes, he yielded to an odd temptation. "If one could +only do something great for her!" +</P> + +<P> +"What would you like to do?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Anything. Sing for her. Work for her. Die for her. It makes one so +impatient to sit down and do nothing. If one could only stir her up to +a sense of her nationality!" he went on, less lyrically, though with +the same fine enthusiasm. "She seems to be losing it, letting the +smaller nations assert theirs to such an extent that she is running the +risk of becoming a mere geographical expression. She has merged herself +in the Imperial Ideal. That's magnificent; but the Empire ought to +realize her as the great Motherheart. If England could only wake up as +England again, what a wonderful thing it would be!" +</P> + +<P> +"It would," said Lady Chudley. "And you would like to be the awakener?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay!" said Paul—"what a dream!" +</P> + +<P> +"There was never a dream worth calling a dream that did not come true." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you believe that, too?" he asked delightedly. "I've held to it all +my life." +</P> + +<P> +Colonel Winwood, who had been moving hostwise from group to group in +the great drawing-room, where already a couple of bridge tables had +been arranged, approached slowly. Lady Chudley gave him a laughing +glance of dismissal. Paul's spacious Elizabethan patriotism, rare—at +least in expression—among the young men of the day, interested and +amused her. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you dreamed all your life of being the Awakener of England?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have dreamed of being so many things," he said, anxious not to +commit himself. For, truth to say, this new ambition was but a couple +of minutes old. +</P> + +<P> +It had sprung into life, however, like Pallas Athene, all armed and +equipped. +</P> + +<P> +"And they have all come true?" +</P> + +<P> +His great eyes laughed and his curly head bent ever so slightly. "Those +worth calling dreams," said he. +</P> + +<P> +A little later in the evening, when on retiring to an early bed he was +wishing Miss Winwood good night, she said, "You're a lucky young man." +</P> + +<P> +"I know—but—" He looked smiling inquiry. +</P> + +<P> +"Lady Chudley's the most valuable woman in England for a young man to +get on the right side of." +</P> + +<P> +Paul went to bed dazed. The great lady who had recognized the divine +fire in the factory boy had again recognized it in the grown man. She +had all but said that, if he chose, he could be the Awakener of +England. The Awakener of England! The watchword of his new-born +ambition rang in his brain until he fell asleep. +</P> + +<P> +The time soon came when the prospective Awakener of England awoke to +the fact that he must fare forth into the sleeping land with but a +guinea in his pocket. The future did not dismay him, for he knew now +that his dreams came true. But he was terribly anxious, more anxious +than ever, to leave Drane's Court with all the prestige of the +prospective Awakener. Now, this final scene of the production could not +be worked for a guinea. There were golden tips to servants, there was +the first-class railway fare. Once in London—he could pawn things to +keep him going, and a Bloomsbury landlady with whom he had lodged, +since the loss of Jane, would give him a fortnight or three weeks' +credit. But he had to get to London-to get there gloriously; so that +when the turn of Fortune's wheel enabled him to seek again these +wonderful friends in the aristocratic sphere to which he belonged, he +could come among them untarnished, the conquering prince. But that +miserable guinea! He racked his brains. There was his gold watch and +chain, a symbol, to his young mind, of high estate. When he had bought +it there crossed his mind the silly thought of its signification of the +infinite leagues that lay between him and Billy Goodge. He could pawn +it for ten pounds—it would be like pawning his heart's blood—but +where? Not in Morebury, even supposing there was a pawnbroker's in the +place. He had many friends in his profession, scattered up and down the +land. But he had created round himself the atmosphere of the young +magnifico. It was he who had lent, others who had borrowed. Rothschild +or Rockefeller inviting any of them to lend him money would have +produced less jaw-dropping amazement. Even if he sent his pride flying +and appealed to the most friendly and generous, he shrank from the +sacrifice he would call upon the poor devil to make. There was only his +beautiful and symbolic watch and chain. The nearest great town where he +could be sure of finding a pawnbroker was distant an hour's train +journey. +</P> + +<P> +So on the day before that for which, in spite of hospitable +protestations on the part of Colonel and Miss Winwood, he had fixed his +departure, he set forth on the plea of private business, and returned +with a heavier pocket and a heavier heart. He had been so proud, poor +boy, of the gold insignia across his stomach. He had had a habit of +fingering it lovingly. Now it was gone. He felt naked—in a curious way +dishonoured. There only remained his cornelian talisman. He got back in +time for tea and kept his jacket closely buttoned. But in the evening +he had perforce to appear stark and ungirt—in those days Fashion had +not yet decreed, as it does now, the absence of watchchain on evening +dress—and Paul shambled into the drawing-room like a guest without a +wedding garment. There were still a few people staying in the +house—the shooting party proper, and Lady Chudley, had long since +gone—but enough remained to be a social microcosm for Paul. Every eye +was upon him. In spite of himself, his accusing hand went fingering the +inanity of his waistcoat front. He also fingered, with a horrible +fascination, the dirty piece of card that took the place of his watch +in his pocket. +</P> + +<P> +One must be twenty to realize the tragedy of it. Dans un grenier qu'on +est bien a vingt ans! To be twenty, in a garret, with the freedom and +the joy of it! Yes; the dear poet was right. In those "brave days" the +poignancy of life comes not in the garret, but in the palace. +</P> + +<P> +To-morrow, with his jacket buttoned, he could make his exit from +Drane's Court in the desired splendour—scattering largesse to menials +and showing to hosts the reflected glow of the golden prospects before +him; but for this evening the glory had departed. Besides, it was his +last evening there, and London's welcome tomorrow would be none too +exuberant. +</P> + +<P> +The little party was breaking up, the ladies retiring for the night, +and the men about to accompany Colonel Winwood to the library for a +final drink and cigarette. Paul shook hands with Miss Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"Good night—and good-bye," she said, "if you take the early train. But +must you really go to-morrow?" +</P> + +<P> +"I must," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope we'll very soon be seeing you again. Give me your address." She +moved to a bridge table and caught up the marking block, which she +brought to him. "Now I've forgotten the pencil." +</P> + +<P> +"I've got one," said Paul, and impulsively thrusting his fingers into +his waistcoat pocket, flicked them out with the pencil. But he also +flicked out the mean-looking card of which he had been hatefully +conscious all the evening. The Imp of Mischance arranged that as Miss +Winwood stood close by his side, it should fall, unperceived by him, on +the folds of her grey velvet train. He wrote the Bloomsbury address and +handed her the leaf torn from the pad. She folded it up, moved away, +turning back to smile. As she turned she happened to look downward; +then she stooped and picked the card from her dress. A conjecture of +horror smote Paul. He made a step forward and stretched out his hand; +but not before she had instinctively glanced first at the writing and +then at his barren waistcoat. She repressed a slight gasp, regarding +him with steady, searching eyes. +</P> + +<P> +His dark face flushed crimson as he took the accursed thing, desiring +no greater boon from Heaven than instant death. He felt sick with +humiliation. The brightly lit room grew black. It was in a stupor of +despair that he heard her say, "Wait a bit here, till I've got rid of +these people." +</P> + +<P> +He stumbled away and stood on the bearskin rug before the fireplace, +while she joined the lingering group by the door. The two or three +minutes were an eternity of agony to Paul. He had lost his great game. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Winwood shut the door and came swiftly to him and laid her hand on +his arm. Paul hung his head and looked into the fire. "My poor boy!" +she said very tenderly. "What are you going to do with yourself?" +</P> + +<P> +If it had not been for the diabolical irony of the mishap he would have +answered with his gay flourish. But now he could not so answer. Boyish, +hateful tears stood in his eyes and, in spite of anguished effort of +will, threatened to fall. He continued to look into the fire, so that +she should not see them. "I shall go on as I always have done," he said +as stoutly as he could. +</P> + +<P> +"Your prospects are not very bright, I fear." +</P> + +<P> +"I shall keep my head above water," said Paul. "Oh, please don't!" he +cried, shivering. "You have been so good to me. I can't bear you to +have seen that thing. I can't stand it." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear boy," she said, coming a little nearer, "I don't think the +worse of you for that. On the contrary, I admire your pluck and your +brave attitude towards life. Indeed I do. I respect you for it. Do you +remember the old Italian story of Ser Federigo and his falcon? How he +hid his poverty like a knightly gentleman? You see what I mean, don't +you? You mustn't be angry with me!" +</P> + +<P> +Her words were Gilead balm of instantaneous healing. +</P> + +<P> +"Angry?" +</P> + +<P> +His voice quavered. In a revulsion of emotion he turned blindly, seized +her hand and kissed it. It was all he could do. +</P> + +<P> +"If I have found it out—not just now," she quickly interjected, seeing +him wince, "but long ago—it was not your fault. You've made a gallant +gentleman's show to the end—until I come, in a perfectly brutal way, +and try to upset it. Tell me—I'm old enough to be your mother, and you +must know by this time that I'm your friend—have you any resources at +all—beyond—?" She made ever so slight a motion of her hand toward the +hidden pawn ticket. +</P> + +<P> +"No," said Paul, with his sure tact and swiftly working imagination. "I +had just come to an end of them. It's a silly story of losses and +what-not—I needn't bother you with it. I thought I would walk to +London, with the traditional half-crown in my pocket"—he flashed a +wistful smile—"and seek my fortune. But I fell ill at your gates." +</P> + +<P> +"And now that you're restored to health, you propose in the same +debonair fashion to—well—to resume the search?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," said Paul, all the fighting and aristocratic instincts +returning. "Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +There were no tears in his eyes now, and they looked with luminous +fearlessness at Miss Winwood. He drew a chair to the edge of the +bearskin. "Won't you sit down, Miss Winwood?" +</P> + +<P> +She accepted the seat. He sat down too. Before replying she played with +her fan rather roughly—more or less as a man might have played with +it. "What do you think of doing?" +</P> + +<P> +"Journalism," said Paul. He had indeed thought of it. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you any opening?" +</P> + +<P> +"None," he laughed. "But that's the oyster I'm going to open." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Winwood took a cigarette from a silver box near by. Paul sprang to +light it. She inhaled in silence half a dozen puffs. "I'm going to ask +you an outrageous question," she said, at last. "In the first place, +I'm a severely business woman, and in the next I've got an uncle and a +brother with cross-examining instincts, and, though I loathe them—the +instincts, I mean—I can't get away from them. We're down on the +bedrock of things, you and I. Will you tell me, straight, why you went +away to-day to—to"—she hesitated—"to pawn your watch and chain, +instead of waiting till you got to London?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul threw out his arms in a wide gesture. "Why—your servants—" +</P> + +<P> +She cast the just lighted cigarette into the fire, rose and clapped her +hands on his shoulders, her face aflame. "Forgive me—I knew it—there +are doubting Thomases everywhere—and I'm a woman who deals with facts, +so that I can use them to the confusion of enemies. Now I have them. +Ser Federigo's watch and chain. Nicht wahr?" +</P> + +<P> +Remember, you who judge this sensible woman of forty-three, that she +had fallen in love with Paul in the most unreprehensible way in the +world; and if a woman of that age cannot fall in love with a boy +sweetly motherwise, what is the good of her? She longed to prove that +her polyhedral crystal of a paragon radiated pure light from every one +of his innumerable facets. It was a matter of intense joy to turn him +round and find each facet pure. There was also much pity in her heart, +such as a woman might feel for a wounded bird which she had picked up +and nursed in her bosom and healed. Ursula was loath to let her bird +fly forth into the bleak winter. +</P> + +<P> +"My brother and I have been talking about you—he is your friend, too," +she said, resuming her seat. "How would it suit you to stay with us +altogether?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul started bolt upright in his chair. "What do you mean?" he asked +breathlessly, for the heavens had opened with dazzling unexpectedness. +</P> + +<P> +"In some such position as confidential secretary—at a decent salary, +of course. We've not been able to find a suitable man since Mr. +Kinghorne left us in the spring. He got into Parliament, you know, for +Reddington at the by-election—and we've been muddling along with +honorary secretaries and typists. I shouldn't suggest it to you," she +went on, so as to give him time to think, for he sat staring at her, +openmouthed, bewildered, his breath coming quickly—"I shouldn't +suggest it to you if there were no chances for you in it. You would be +in the thick of public affairs, and an ambitious man might find a path +in them that would lead him anywhere. I've had the idea in my head," +she smiled, "for-some time. But I've only spoken to my brother about it +this afternoon—he has been so busy, you see—and I intended to have +another talk with him, so as to crystallize things—duties, money, and +so forth—before making you any proposal. I was going to write to you +with everything cut and dried. But"—she hesitated delicately—"I'm +glad I didn't. It's so much more simple and friendly to talk. Now, what +do you say?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul rose and gripped his hands together and looked again into the +fire. "What can I say? I could only go on my knees to you—and that—" +</P> + +<P> +"That would be beautifully romantic and entirely absurd," she laughed. +"Anyhow, it's settled. Tomorrow we can discuss details." She rose and +put out her hand. "Good night, Paul." +</P> + +<P> +He bowed low. "My dearest lady," said he in a low voice, and went and +held the door open for her to pass out. +</P> + +<P> +Then he flung up his arms wildly and laughed aloud and strode about the +room in exultation. All he had hoped for and worked for was an exit of +fantastic and barren glory. After which, the Deluge—anything. He had +never dreamed of this sudden blaze of Fortune. Now, indeed, did the +Great Things to which he was born lie to his hand. Queerly but surely +Destiny was guiding him upward. In every way Chance had worked for him. +His poverty had been a cloak of honour; the thrice-blessed pawn ticket +a patent of nobility. His kingdom lay before him, its purple mountains +looming through the mists of dawn. And he would enter into it as the +Awakener of England. He stood thrilled. The ambition was no longer the +wild dream of yesterday. From the heart of the great affairs in which +he would have his being he could pluck his awakening instrument. The +world seemed suddenly to become real. And in the midst of it was this +wonderful, beautiful, dearest lady with her keen insight, her delicate +sympathy, her warm humanity. With some extravagance he consecrated +himself to her service. +</P> + +<P> +After a while he sat down soberly and took from his pocket the +cornelian heart which his first goddess had given him twelve years ago. +What had become of her? He did not even know her name. But what +happiness, he thought, to meet her in the plenitude of his greatness +and show her the heart, and say, "I owe it all to you!" To her alone of +mortals would he reveal himself. +</P> + +<P> +And then he thought of Barney Bill, who had helped him on his way; of +Rowlatt, good fellow, who was dead; and of Jane, whom he had lost. He +wished he could write to Jane and tell her the wonderful news. She +would understand.... Well, well! It was time for bed. He rose and +switched off the lights and went to his room. But as he walked through +the great, noiseless house, he felt, in spite of Fortune's bounty, a +loneliness of soul; also irritation at having lost Jane. What a letter +he could have written to her! He could not say the things with which +his heart was bursting to anyone on earth but Jane. Why had he lost +Jane? The prospective Awakener of England wanted Jane. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XI +</H3> + +<P> +ONE morning Paul, with a clump of papers in his hand, entered his +pleasant private room at Drane's Court, stepped briskly to the long +Cromwellian table placed in the window bay, and sat down to his +correspondence. +</P> + +<P> +It was gusty outside, as could be perceived by the shower of yellow +beech leaves that slanted across the view; but indoors a great fire +flaming up the chimney, a Turkey carpet fading into beauty, rich +eighteenth century mezzotints on the walls, reposeful leather-covered +chairs and a comfortable bookcase gave an atmosphere of warmth and +coziness. Paul lit a cigarette and attacked a pile of unopened letters. +At last he came to an envelope, thick and faintly scented, bearing a +crown on the flap. He opened it and read: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +DEAR MR. SAVELLI: +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +Will you dine on Saturday and help me entertain an eminent +Egyptologist? I know nothing of Egypt save Shepheard's Hotel, and that +I'm afraid wouldn't interest him. Do come to my rescue. Yours, SOPHIE +ZOBRASKA. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Paul leaned back in his chair, twiddling the letter between his +fingers, and looked smilingly out on the grey autumn rack of clouds. +There was a pleasant and flattering intimacy in the invitation: +pleasant because it came from a pretty woman; flattering because the +woman was a princess, widow of a younger son of a Royal Balkan house. +She lived at Chetwood Park, on the other side of Morebury, and was one +of the great ones of those latitudes. A real princess. +</P> + +<P> +Paul's glance, travelling back from the sky, fell upon the brass date +indicator on the table. It marked the 2nd of October. On that day five +years ago he had entered on his duties at Drane's Court. He laughed +softly. Five years ago he was a homeless wanderer. Now princesses were +begging him to rescue them from Egyptologists. With glorious sureness +all his dreams were coming true. +</P> + +<P> +Thus we see our Fortunate Youth at eight-and-twenty in the heyday of +success. If he had strutted about under Jane's admiring eyes, like a +peacock among daws, he now walked serene, a peacock among peacocks. He +wore the raiment, frequented the clubs, ate the dinners of the +undeservingly rich and the deservingly great. His charm and his +self-confidence, which a genius of tact saved from self-assertion, +carried him pleasantly through the social world; his sympathetic +intelligence dealt largely and strongly with the public affairs under +his control. He loved organizing, persuading, casting skilful nets. His +appeal for subscriptions was irresistible. He had the magical gift of +wringing a hundred pounds from a plutocrat with the air of conferring a +graceful favour. In aid of the Mission to Convert the Jews he could +have fleeced a synagogue. The societies and institutions in which the +Colonel and Ursula Winwood were interested flourished amazingly beneath +his touch. The Girls' Club in the Isle of Dogs, long since abandoned in +despair by the young Guardsman, grew into a popular and sweetly +mannered nunnery. The Central London Home for the Indigent Blind, which +had been languishing for support, in spite of Miss Winwood's efforts, +found itself now in a position to build a much-needed wing. There was +also, most wonderful and, important thing of all, the Young England +League, which was covering him with steadily increasing glory. Of this +much hereafter. But it must be remembered. Ursula complained that he +left her nothing to do save attend dreary committee meetings; and even +for these Paul saved her all the trouble in hunting up information. She +was a mere figurehead. +</P> + +<P> +"Dearest lady," Paul would say, "if you send me about my business, +you'll write me a character, won't you, saying that you're dismissing +me for incorrigible efficiency?" +</P> + +<P> +"You know perfectly well," she would sigh, "that I would be a lost, +lone woman without you." +</P> + +<P> +Whereat Paul would laugh his gay laugh. At this period of his life he +had not a care in the world. +</P> + +<P> +The game of politics also fascinated him. A year or so after he joined +the Winwoods there was a General Election. The Liberals, desiring to +drive the old Tory from his lair, sent down a strong candidate to +Morebury. There was a fierce battle, into which Paul threw himself, +heart and soul. He discovered he could speak. When he first found +himself holding a couple of hundred villagers in the grip of his +impassioned utterance he felt that the awakening of England had begun. +It was a delicious moment. As a canvasser he performed prodigies of +cajolery. Extensive paper mills, a hotbed of raging Socialism, +according to Colonel Winwood, defaced (in the Colonel's eyes) the +outskirts of the little town. +</P> + +<P> +"They're wrong 'uns to a man," said the Colonel, despondently. +</P> + +<P> +Paul came back from among them with a notebook full of promises. +</P> + +<P> +"How did you manage it?" asked the Colonel. +</P> + +<P> +"I think I got on to the poetical side of politics," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"What the deuce is that?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul smiled. "An appeal to the imagination," said he. +</P> + +<P> +When Colonel Winwood got in by an increased majority, in spite of the +wave of Liberalism that spread over the land, he gave Paul a gold +cigarette case; and thenceforward admitted him into his political +confidence. So Paul became familiar with the Lobby of the House of +Commons and with the subjects before the Committees on which Colonel +Winwood sat, and with the delicate arts of wire-pulling and intrigue, +which appeared to him a monstrously fine diversion. There was also the +matter of Colonel Winwood's speeches, which the methodical warrior +wrote out laboriously beforehand and learned by heart. They were sound, +weighty pronouncements, to which the House listened with respect; but +they lacked the flashes which lit enthusiasm. One day he threw the +bundle of typescript across to Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"See what you think of that." +</P> + +<P> +Paul saw and made daring pencilled amendments, and took it to the +Colonel. +</P> + +<P> +"It's all very funny," said the latter, tugging his drooping moustache, +"but I can't say things like that in the House." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" asked Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"If they heard me make an epigram, they would have a fit." +</P> + +<P> +"Our side wouldn't. The Government might. The Government ought to have +fits all the time until it expires in convulsions." +</P> + +<P> +"But this is a mere dull agricultural question. The Board of +Agriculture have brought it in, and it's such pernicious nonsense that +I, as a county gentleman, have to speak against it." +</P> + +<P> +"But couldn't you stick in my little joke about the pigs?" asked Paul +pleadingly. +</P> + +<P> +"What's that?" Colonel Winwood found the place in the script. "I say +that the danger of swine fever arising from this clause in the Bill +will affect every farmer in England." +</P> + +<P> +"And I say," cried Paul eagerly, pointing to his note, "if this clause +becomes law, swine fever will rage through the land like a demoniacal +possession. The myriad pigs of Great Britain, possessed of the devils +of Socialism, will be turned into Gadarene swine hurtling down to +destruction. You can show how they hurtle, like this—" He flickered +his hands. "Do try it." +</P> + +<P> +"H'm!" said Colonel Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +Sorely against his will, he tried it. To his astonishment it was a +success. The House of Commons, like Mr. Peter Magnus's friend, is +easily amused. The exaggeration gave a cannon-ball's weight to his +sound argument. The Government dropped the clause—it was only a +trivial part of a wide-reaching measure—the President of the Board of +Agriculture saying gracefully that in the miracle he hoped to bring +about he had unfortunately forgotten the effect it might have on the +pigs. There was "renewed laughter," but Colonel Winwood remained the +hero of the half-hour and received the ecstatic congratulations of +unhumorous friends. He might have defeated the Government altogether. +In the daily round of political life nothing is so remarkable as the +lack of sense of proportion. +</P> + +<P> +"It was the Gadarene swine that did it," they said. +</P> + +<P> +"And that," said Colonel Winwood honestly, "was my young devil of a +secretary." +</P> + +<P> +Thenceforward the young wit and the fresh fancy of Paul played like a +fountain over Colonel Winwood's speeches. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here, young man," said he one day, "I don't like it. Sometimes I +take your confounded suggestions, because they happen to fit in; but +I'm actually getting the reputation of a light political comedian, and +it won't do." +</P> + +<P> +Whereupon Paul, with his swift intuition, saw that in the case of a +proud, earnest gentleman like Colonel Winwood the tempting emendations +of typescript would not do. In what Miss Winwood called his subtle +Italian way, he induced his patron to discuss the speeches before the +process of composition. These discussions, involving the swift rapier +play of intelligences, Colonel Winwood enjoyed. They stimulated him +magically. He sat down and wrote his speeches, delightfully unconscious +of what in them was Paul and what was himself; and when he delivered +them he was proud of the impression he had made upon the House. +</P> + +<P> +And so, as the years passed, Paul gained influence not only in the +little circle of Drane's Court and Portland Place, but also in the +outer world. He was a young man of some note. His name appeared +occasionally in the newspapers, both in connection with the Winwood +charities and with the political machine of the Unionist party. He was +welcomed at London dinner tables and in country houses. He was a young +man who would go far. For the rest, he had learned to ride and shoot, +and not to make mistakes about the genealogical relationships of +important families. He had travelled about Europe, sometimes with the +Winwoods, sometimes by himself. He was a young man of cultivation and +accomplishment. +</P> + +<P> +On this fifth anniversary he sat gazing unseeingly at the autumn rack, +the Princess's letter in his hand, and letting his thoughts wander down +the years. He marvelled how valiantly the stars in their courses had +fought for him. Even against recognition his life was charmed. Once, +indeed, he met at the house in Portland Place a painter to whom he had +posed. The painter looked at him keenly. +</P> + +<P> +"Surely we have met before?" +</P> + +<P> +"We have," said Paul with daring frankness. "I remember it gratefully. +But if you would forget it I should be still more grateful." +</P> + +<P> +The painter shook hands with him and smiled. "You may be sure I haven't +the least idea what you're talking about." +</P> + +<P> +As for Theatreland, the lower walks in the profession to which Paul had +belonged do not cross the paths of high political society. It lay +behind him far and forgotten. His position was secure. Here and there +an anxious mother may have been worried as to his precise antecedents; +but Paul was too astute to give mothers over-much cause for anxiety. He +lived under the fascination of the Great Game. When he came into his +kingdom he could choose; not before. His destiny was drawing him nearer +and nearer to it, he thought, with slow and irresistible force. In a +few years there would be Parliament, office, power, the awaking from +stupor of an England hypnotized by malign influences. He saw himself at +the table in the now familiar House of green benches, thundering out an +Empire's salvation. If he thought more of the awakener than the +awakening, it was because he was the same little Paul Kegworthy to whom +the cornelian heart had brought the Vision Splendid in the scullery of +the Bludston slum. The cornelian heart still lay in his waistcoat +pocket at the end of his watch chain. He also held a real princess's +letter in his hand. +</P> + +<P> +A tap at the door aroused him from his day-dream. +</P> + +<P> +There entered a self-effacing young woman with pencil and notebook. +"Are you ready for me, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not quite. Sit down for a minute, Miss Smithers. Or, come up to the +table if you don't mind, and help me open these envelopes." +</P> + +<P> +Paul, you see, was a great man, who commanded the services of a +shorthand typist. +</P> + +<P> +To the mass of correspondence then opened and read he added that which +he had brought in from Colonel and Miss Winwood. From this he sorted +the few letters which it would be necessary to answer in his own +handwriting, and laid them aside; then taking the great bulk, he +planted himself on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire, and, +cigarette in mouth, dictated to the self-effacing young woman. She took +down his words with anxious humility, for she looked upon him as a god +sphered on Olympian heights—and what socially insecure young woman of +lower-middle-class England could do otherwise in the presence of a +torturingly beautiful youth, immaculately raimented, who commanded in +the great house with a smile more royal and debonair than that of the +master thereof, Member of Parliament though he was, and Justice of the +Peace and Lord of the Manor? And Paul, fresh from his retrospect, +looked at the girl's thin shoulders and sharp, intent profile, and +wondered a little, somewhat ironically. He knew that she regarded him +as a kind of god, for reasons of caste. Yet she was the daughter of a +Morebury piano tuner, of unblemished parentage for generations. She had +never known hunger and cold and the real sting of poverty. Miss Winwood +herself knew more of drunken squalor. He saw himself a ragged and +unwashed urchin, his appalling breeches supported by one brace, +addressing her in familiar terms; and he saw her transfigured air of +lofty disgust; whereupon he laughed aloud in the middle of a most +unhumorous sentence, much to Miss Smithers' astonishment. +</P> + +<P> +When he had finished his dictation he dismissed her and sat down to his +writing. After a while Miss Winwood came in. The five years had treated +her lightly. A whitening of the hair about her brows, which really +enhanced the comeliness of her florid complexion, a few more lines at +corners of eyes and lips, were the only evidences of the touch of +Time's fingers. As she entered Paul swung round from his writing chair +and started to his feet. "Oh, Paul, I said the 20th for the Disabled +Soldiers and Sailors, didn't I? I made a mistake. I'm engaged that +afternoon." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think so, dearest lady," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"I am." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you've told me nothing about it," said Paul the infallible. +</P> + +<P> +"I know," she said meekly. "It's all my fault. I never told you. I've +asked the Bishop of Frome to lunch, and I can't turn him out at a +quarter-past two, can I? What date is there free?" +</P> + +<P> +Together they bent over the engagement book, and after a little +discussion the new date was fixed. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm rather keen on dates to-day," said Paul, pointing to the brass +calendar. +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's exactly five years since I entered your dear service," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"We've worked you like a galley slave, and so I love your saying 'dear +service,'" she replied gently. +</P> + +<P> +Paul, half sitting on the edge of the Cromwellian table in the bay of +the window, laughed. "I could say infinitely more, dearest lady, if I +were to let myself go." +</P> + +<P> +She sat on the arm of a great leathern chair. Their respective +attitudes signified a happy intimacy. "So long as you're contented, my +dear boy—-" she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Contented? Good heavens!" He waved a protesting hand. +</P> + +<P> +"You're ambitious." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," said he. "What would be the good of me if I wasn't?" +</P> + +<P> +"One of these days you'll be wanting to leave the nest and—what shall +we say?—soar upwards." +</P> + +<P> +Paul, too acute to deny the truth of this prophecy said: "I probably +shall. But I'll be the rarissima avis, to whom the abandoned nest will +always be the prime object of his life's consideration." +</P> + +<P> +"Pretty,"' said Miss Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"It's true." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sure of it," she said pleasantly. "Besides, if you didn't leave +the nest and make a name for yourself, you wouldn't be able to carry on +our work. My brother and I, you see, are of the older generation—you +of the younger." +</P> + +<P> +"You're the youngest woman I know," Paul declared. +</P> + +<P> +"I shan't be in a few years, and my brother is a good deal older than +I." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I can't get into Parliament right away," said Paul. "For one +thing, I couldn't afford it." +</P> + +<P> +"We must find you a nice girl with plenty of money," she said, half in +jest. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, please don't. I should detest the sight of her. By the way, shall +you want me on Saturday evening?" +</P> + +<P> +"No—unless it would be to take Miss Durning in to dinner." +</P> + +<P> +Now Miss Durning being an elderly, ugly heiress, it pleased Miss +Winwood to be quizzical. He looked at her in mock reproof. "Dearest +lady that you are, I don't feel safe in your hands just now. I shall +dine with the Princess on Saturday." +</P> + +<P> +An enigmatic smile flitted across Ursula Winwood's clear eyes. "What +does she want you for?" +</P> + +<P> +"To entertain an Egyptologist," assured Paul. He waved his hand toward +the letter on the table. "There it is in black and white." +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose for the next few days you'll be cramming hard." +</P> + +<P> +"It would be the polite thing to do, wouldn't it?" said Paul blandly. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Winwood shook her head and went away, and Paul happily resumed his +work. In very truth she was to him the dearest of ladies. +</P> + +<P> +The Princess Zobraska was standing alone by the fireplace at the end of +the long drawing-room when Paul was announced on Saturday evening. She +was a distinguished-looking woman in the late twenties brown-haired, +fresh-complexioned, strongly and at the same time delicately featured. +Her dark blue eyes, veiled by lashes, smiled on him lazily as he +approached; and lazily, too, her left arm stretched out, the palm of +the hand downward, and she did not move. He kissed her knuckles, in +orthodox fashion. +</P> + +<P> +"It is very good of you to come, Mr. Savelli," she said in a sweetly +foreign accent, "and leave your interesting company at Drane's Court." +</P> + +<P> +"Any company without you, Princess, is chaos," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Grand flatteur, va,—' said she. +</P> + +<P> +"C'est que vous etes irresistible, Princesse, surlout dans ce +costume-la." +</P> + +<P> +She touched his arm with an ostrich feather fan. "When it comes to +massacring languages, Mr. Savelli, let me be the assassin." +</P> + +<P> +"I laid the tribute of my heart at your feet in the most irreproachable +grammar," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"But with the accent of John Bull. That's the only thing of John Bull +you have about you. For the sake of my ears I must give you some +lessons." +</P> + +<P> +"You'll find me such a pupil as never teacher had in the world before. +When shall we begin?" +</P> + +<P> +"Aux Kalendes Grecques." +</P> + +<P> +"Ah que vous etes femme!" +</P> + +<P> +She put her hands to her ears. "Listen. Que-vous-etes-femme" she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Que-vous-etes-femme," Paul repeated parrotwise. "Is that better?" +</P> + +<P> +"A little." +</P> + +<P> +"I see the Greek Kalends have begun," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Mechant, you have caught me in a trap," said she. +</P> + +<P> +And they both laughed. +</P> + +<P> +From which entirely foolish conversation it may be gathered that +between our Fortunate Youth and the Princess some genial sun had melted +the icy barriers of formality. He had known her for eighteen months, +ever since she had bought Chetwood Park and settled down as the great +personage of the countryside. He had met her many times, both in London +and in Morebury; he had dined in state at her house; he had shot her +partridges; he had danced with her; he had sat out dances with her, +notably on one recent June night, in a London garden, where they lost +themselves for an hour in the discussion of the relative parts that +love played in a woman's life and in a man's. The Princess was French, +ancien regime, of the blood of the Coligny, and she had married, in the +French practical way, the Prince Zobraska, in whose career the only +satisfactory incident history has to relate is the mere fact of his +early demise. The details are less exhilarating. The poor little +Princess, happily widowed at one-and-twenty, had shivered the idea of +love out of her system for some years. Then, as is the way of woman, +she regained her curiosities. Great lady, of enormous fortune, she +could have satisfied them, had she so chosen, with the large cynicism +of a Catherine of Russia. She could also, had she so chosen, have +married one of a hundred sighing and decorous gentlemen; but with none +of them had she fallen ever so little in love, and without love she +determined to try no more experiments; her determination, however, did +not involve surrender of interest in the subject. Hence the notable +discussion on the June night. Hence, perhaps, after a few other +meetings of a formal character, the prettily intimate invitation she +had sent to Paul. +</P> + +<P> +They were still laughing at the turn of the foolish conversation when +the other guests began to enter the drawing-room. First came Edward +Doon, the Egyptologist, a good-looking man of forty, having the air of +a spruce don, with a pretty young wife, Lady Angela Doon; then Count +Lavretsky, of the Russian Embassy, and Countess Lavretsky; Lord Bantry, +a young Irish peer with literary ambitions; and a Mademoiselle de +Cressy, a convent intimate of the Princess and her paid companion, +completed the small party. +</P> + +<P> +Dinner was served at a round table, and Paul found himself between Lady +Angela Doon, whom he took in, and the Countess Lavretsky. Talk was +general and amusing. As Doon did not make, and apparently did not +expect anyone to make any reference to King Qa or Amenhotep or +Rameses—names vaguely floating in Paul's brain—but talked in a +sprightly way about the French stage and the beauty of Norwegian +fiords, Paul perceived that the Princess's alleged reason for her +invitation was but a shallow pretext. Doon did not need any +entertainment at all. Lady Angela, however, spoke of her dismay at the +prospect of another winter in the desert; and drew a graphic little +sketch of the personal discomforts to which Egyptologists were +subjected. +</P> + +<P> +"I always thought Egyptologists and suchlike learned folk were stuffy +and snuffy with goggles and ragged old beards," laughed Paul. "Your +husband is a revelation." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, he's quite human, isn't he?" she said with an affectionate glance +across the table. "He's dead keen on his work, but he realizes—as many +of his stuffy and snuffy confreres don't—that there's a jolly, +vibrating, fascinating, modern world in which one lives." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad to hear you say that about the modern world," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"What is Lady Angela saying about the modern world?" asked the +Princess, separated from Paul's partner only by Count Lavretsky. +</P> + +<P> +"Singing paeans in praise of it," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"What is there in it so much to rejoice at?" asked the diplomatist, in +a harsh voice. He was a man prematurely old, and looked at the world +from beneath heavy, lizard-like eyelids. +</P> + +<P> +"Not only is it the best world we've got, but it's the best world we've +ever had," cried Paul. "I don't know any historical world which would +equal the modern, and as for the prehistoric—well, Professor Doon can +tell us—" +</P> + +<P> +"As a sphere of amenable existence," said Doon with a smile, "give me +Chetwood Park and Piccadilly." +</P> + +<P> +"That is mere hedonism," said Count Lavretsky. "You happen, like us all +here, to command the creature comforts of modern wealthy conditions, +which I grant are exceedingly superior to those commanded by the great +Emperors of ancient times. But we are in a small minority. And even if +we were not—is that all?" +</P> + +<P> +"We have a finer appreciation of our individualities," said the +Princess. "We lead a wider intellectual life. We are in instant touch, +practically, with the thought of the habitable globe." +</P> + +<P> +"And with the emotive force of mankind," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"What is that?" asked Lady Angela. +</P> + +<P> +Why Paul, after the first glance of courtesy at the speaker, should +exchange a quick glance with the Princess would be difficult to say. It +was instinctive; as instinctive as the reciprocal flash of mutual +understanding. +</P> + +<P> +"I think I know, but tell us," she said. +</P> + +<P> +Paul, challenged, defined it as the swift wave of sympathy that surged +over the earth. A famine in India, a devastating earthquake in Mexico, +a bid for freedom on the part of an oppressed population, a deed of +heroism at sea—each was felt within practically a few moments, +emotionally, in an English, French or German village. Our hearts were +throbbing continuously at the end of telegraph wires. +</P> + +<P> +"And you call that pleasure?" asked Count Lavretsky. +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't hedonism, at any rate," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"I call it life," said the Princess. "Don't you?"—she turned to Doon. +</P> + +<P> +"I think what Mr. Savelli calls the emotive force of mankind helps to +balance our own personal emotions," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Or isn't it rather a wear and tear on the nervous system?" laughed his +wife. +</P> + +<P> +"It seems so to me," said Count Lavretsky. "Perhaps, being a Russian, I +am more primitive and envy a nobleman of the time of Pharaoh who never +heard of devastations in Mexico, did not feel his heart called upon to +pulsate at anything beyond his own concerns. But he in his wisdom at +his little world was vanity and was depressed. We moderns, with our +infinitely bigger world and our infinitely greater knowledge, have no +more wisdom than the Egyptian, and we see that the world is all the +more vanity and are all the more overwhelmed with despair." +</P> + +<P> +"But—" said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"But—" cried the Princess. +</P> + +<P> +Both laughed, and paused. Paul bowed with a slight gesture. +</P> + +<P> +"I am not overwhelmed with despair," the Princess continued. +</P> + +<P> +"Neither am I," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"I am keeping my end up wonderfully," said Lady Angela. +</P> + +<P> +"I am in a nest of optimists," Count Lavretsky groaned. "But was it not +you, Lady Angela, who talked of wear and tear. +</P> + +<P> +"That was only to contradict my husband." +</P> + +<P> +"What is all this about?" asked the Countess Lavretsky, who had been +discussing opera with Lord Bantry and Mademoiselle de Cressy. +</P> + +<P> +Doon scientifically crystallized the argument. It held the octette, +while men-servants in powder and gold-laced livery offered poires +Zobraska, a subtle creation of the chef. Lord Bantry envied the +contemplative calm which unexciting circumstances allowed the literary +ancient. Mademoiselle de Cressy advanced the feminist view in favour of +the modern world. The talk became the light and dancing interplay of +opinion and paradox common to thousands of twentieth-century +dinner-tables. +</P> + +<P> +"All the same," said Count Lavretsky, "they wear you out, these emotive +forces. Nobody is young nowadays. Youth is a lost art." +</P> + +<P> +"On the contrary," cried Mademoiselle de Cressy in French. "Everybody +is young to-day. This pulsation of the heart keeps you young. It is the +day of the young woman of forty-five." +</P> + +<P> +Count Lavretsky, who was fifty-nine, twirled a grey moustache. "I am +one of the few people in the world who do not regret their youth. I do +not regret mine, with its immaturity, its follies and subsequent +headaches. I would sooner be the scornful philosopher of sixty than the +credulous lover of twenty." +</P> + +<P> +"He always talks like that," said the Countess to Paul; "but when he +met me first he was thirty-five—and"—she laughed—"and now voila—for +him there is no difference between twenty and sixty. Expliquez-moi ca." +</P> + +<P> +"It's very simple," declared Paul. "In this century the thirties, +forties, and fifties don't exist. You're either twenty or sixty." +</P> + +<P> +"I hope I shall always be twenty," said the Princess lightly. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you find your youth so precious, then?" asked Count Lavretsky. +</P> + +<P> +"More than I ever did!" She laughed and again met Paul's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +This time she flushed faintly as she held them for a fraction of a +second. He had time to catch a veiled soft gleam intimate and +disquieting. For some time he did not look again in her direction; when +he did, he met in her eyes only the lazy smile with which she regarded +all and sundry. +</P> + +<P> +Later in the evening she said to him: "I'm glad you opposed Lavretsky. +He makes me shiver. He was born old and wrinkled. He has never had a +thrill in his life." +</P> + +<P> +"And if you don't have thrills when you're young, you can't expect to +have them when you're old," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"He would ask what was the good of thrills." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't expect me to answer, Princess." +</P> + +<P> +"We know because we're young." +</P> + +<P> +They stood laughing in the joy of their full youth, a splendid couple, +some distance away from the others, ostensibly inspecting a luminous +little Cima on the wall. The Princess loved it as the bright jewel of +her collection, and Paul, with his sense of beauty and knowledge of +art, loved it too. Yet, instead of talking of the picture, they talked +of Lavretsky, who was looking at them sardonically from beneath his +heavy eyelids. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XII +</H3> + +<P> +A FEW days afterwards you might have seen Paul dashing through the +quiet main street of Morebury in a high dog-cart, on his way to call on +the Princess. A less Fortunate Youth might have had to walk, risking +boots impolitely muddy, or to hire a funereal cab from the local +job-master; but Paul had only to give an order, and the cart and showy +chestnut were brought round to the front door of Drane's Court. He +loved to drive the showy chestnut, whose manifold depravities were the +terror of Miss Winwood's life. Why didn't he take the cob? It was so +much safer. Whereupon he would reply gaily that in the first place he +found no amusement in driving woolly lambs, and in the second that if +he did not take some of the devil out of the chestnut it would become +the flaming terror of the countryside. So Paul, spruce in hard felt hat +and box-cloth overcoat, clattered joyously through the Morebury +streets, returning the salutations of the little notabilities of the +town with the air of the owner not only of horse and cart, but of half +the hearts in the place. He was proud of his popularity, and it +scarcely entered his head that he was not the proprietor of his +equipage. Besides, he was going to call on the Princess. He hoped that +she would be alone: not that he had anything particular to say to her, +or had any defined idea of love-making; but he was eight-and-twenty, an +age at which desire has not yet failed and there is not the sign of a +burdensome grasshopper anywhere about. +</P> + +<P> +But the Princess was not alone. He found Mademoiselle de Cressy in +charge of the tea-table and the conversation. Like many Frenchwomen, +she had a high-pitched voice; she also had definite opinions on +matter-of-fact subjects. Now when you have come to talk gossamer with +an attractive and sympathetic woman, it is irritating to have to +discuss Tariff Reform and the position of the working classes in +Germany with somebody else, especially when the attractive and pretty +woman does not give you in any way to understand that she would prefer +gossamer to such arid topics. The Princess was as gracious as you +please. She made him feel that he was welcome in her cosy boudoir; but +there was no further exchange of mutually understanding glances. If a +great lady entertaining a penniless young man can be demure, then +demure was the Princess Sophie Zobraska. Paul, who prided himself on +his knowledge of feminine subtlety, was at fault; but who was he to +appreciate the repressive influence of a practical-minded convent +friend, quickly formative and loudly assertive of opinions, on an +impressionable lady awakening to curiosities? He was just a dunderhead, +like any one of us—just as much as the most eminent feminine +psychologist alive—which is saying a good deal. So he drove away +disappointed, the sobriety of the chestnut's return trot through +Morebury contrasting oddly with the dashing clatter of the former +journey. +</P> + +<P> +It was some time before he met the Princess again, for an autumn +session of Parliament required migration to Portland Place. The +Princess, indeed, came to London, shortly afterwards, to her great +house in Berkeley Square; but it was not till late November that he was +fortunate enough to see her. Then it was only a kiss of the hand and a +hurried remark or two, at a large dinner-party at the Winwoods'. You +see, there are such forces as rank and precedence at London +dinner-parties, to which even princesses and fortunate youths have to +yield. +</P> + +<P> +On this occasion, as he bent over her hand, he murmured: "May I say how +beautiful you are to-night, Princess?" +</P> + +<P> +She wore a costume of silver and deep blue, and the blue intensified +the blue depths of her eyes. "I am delighted to please monsieur," she +said in French. +</P> + +<P> +And that was their meeting. On parting she said again in French: "When +are you coming to see me, fickle one?" +</P> + +<P> +"Whenever you ask me. I have called in vain." +</P> + +<P> +"You have a card for my reception next Tuesday?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have replied that I do myself the honour of accepting the Princess's +gracious invitation." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't like London, do you?" she asked, allowing a touch of +wistfulness to inflect her voice. +</P> + +<P> +"It has its charms. A row on the Serpentine, for instance, or a bicycle +ride in Battersea Park." +</P> + +<P> +"How lovely it would be," she said, between laugh and sigh, "if only it +could be kept out of the newspapers! I see it from here under the +Fashionable Intelligence. 'The beautiful Princess Zobraska was observed +in a boat on the ornamental water in Regent's Park with the +well-known—tiens—what are you?—politician, say—with the well-known +young politician, Mr. Paul Savelli.' Quel scandale, hein?" +</P> + +<P> +"I must content myself with kissing your finger tips at your +reception," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +She smiled. "We will find a means," she said. +</P> + +<P> +At her reception, an assemblage glittering with the diamonds and orders +of the great ones of the earth, she found only time to say: "Come +to-morrow at five. I shall be alone." +</P> + +<P> +Darkness descended on Paul as he replied: "Impossible, Princess. +Colonel Winwood wants me at the House." +</P> + +<P> +The next morning, greatly daring, he rang her up; for a telephone stood +on the Fortunate Youth's table in his private sitting-room in Portland +Place. +</P> + +<P> +"It is I, Princess, Paul Savelli." +</P> + +<P> +"What have you to say for yourself, Paul Savelli?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am at your feet." +</P> + +<P> +"Why can't you come to-day?" +</P> + +<P> +He explained. +</P> + +<P> +"But tell Colonel Winwood that I want you"—the voice was imperious. +</P> + +<P> +"Would that be wise, Princess?" +</P> + +<P> +"Wise?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Don't you see?" +</P> + +<P> +He waited for an answer. There was blank electric current whirring +faintly on his ear. He thought she had rung off—rung off not only this +conversation, but all converse in the future. At last, after the +waiting of despair, came the voice, curiously meek. "Can you come +Friday?" +</P> + +<P> +"With joy and delight." The words gushed out tempestuously. +</P> + +<P> +"Good. At five o'clock. And leave your John Bull wisdom on the +doorstep." +</P> + +<P> +She rang off abruptly, and Paul stood ruminating puzzlewise on the +audacious behest. +</P> + +<P> +On Friday he presented himself at her house in Berkeley Square. He +found her gracious, but ironical in attitude, very much on the +defensive. She received him in the Empire drawing room—very stiff and +stately in its appointments. It had the charm (and the intrinsic value) +of a museum; it was as cosy as a room (under present arrangements) at +Versailles. The great wood fire alone redeemed it from artistic +bleakness. Tea was brought in by portentous, powdered footmen in +scarlet and gold. She was very much the princess; the princess in her +state apartments, a different personage from the pretty woman in a +boudoir. Paul, sensitive as far as it is given man to be, saw that if +he had obeyed her and left his John Bull wisdom on the doorstep, he +would have regretted it. Obviously she was punishing him; perhaps +herself; perhaps both of them. She kept a wary, appraising eye on him, +as they talked their commonplaces. Paul's attitude had the correctness +of a young diplomatist paying a first formal call. It was only when he +rose to go that her glance softened. She laughed a queer little laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"I hear that you are going to address a meeting in the North of London +next week." +</P> + +<P> +"That is so," said Paul; "but how can my unimportant engagements have +come to the ears of Your Highness?" +</P> + +<P> +"I read my newspapers like everybody else. Did you not know that there +were announcements?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul laughed. "I put them in myself. You see," he explained, "we want +our Young England League to be as widely known as possible. The more +lambs we can get into the fold, the better." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps if you asked me very prettily," she said, "I might come and +hear you speak." +</P> + +<P> +"Princess!" His olive cheek flushed with pleasure and his eyes +sparkled. "It would be an undreamed-of honour. It is such things that +angels do." +</P> + +<P> +"Eh bien, je viendrai. You ought to speak well. Couldn't you persuade +them to give the place a better name? Hickney Heath! It hurts the roof +of one's mouth. Tiens—would it help the Young England League if you +announced my name in the newspapers?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dear Princess, you overwhelm me. But—" +</P> + +<P> +"Now, don't ask me if it is wise." She smiled in mockery. "You print +the names of other people who are supporting you. Mr. John Felton, +M.P., who will take the chair, Colonel Winwood, M.P., and Miss Winwood, +the Dean of Halifax and Lady Harbury, et cetera, et cetera. Why not +poor Princess Sophie Zobraska?" +</P> + +<P> +"You have a good memory, Princess." +</P> + +<P> +She regarded him lazily. "Sometimes. When does the meeting begin?" +</P> + +<P> +"At eight. Oh, I forget." His face fell. "How can you manage it? You'll +have to dine at an unearthly hour." +</P> + +<P> +"What does it matter even if one doesn't dine—in a good cause?" +</P> + +<P> +"You are everything that is perfect," said Paul fervently. +</P> + +<P> +She dismissed a blissful youth. The Princess Zobraska cared as much for +the Young England League as for an Anti-Nose-Ring Society in Central +Africa. Would it help the Young England League, indeed! He laughed +aloud on the lamp-lit pavement of decorous Berkeley Square. For what +other man in the world would she dine at six and spend the evening in a +stuffy hall in North London? He felt fired to great achievement. He +would make her proud of him, his Princess, his own beautiful, stately, +royal Princess. The dream had come true. He loved a Princess; and +she—? If she cared naught for him, why was she cheerfully +contemplating a six-o'clock dinner? And why did she do a thousand other +things which crowded on his memory? Was he loved? The thought thrilled +him. Here was no beautiful seductress of suspect title such as he had +heard of during his sojourn in the Gotha Almanack world, but the lineal +descendant of a princely house, the widow of a genuinely royal, though +deboshed personage. Perhaps you may say that the hero of a fairy-tale +never thinks of the mere rank of his beloved princess. If you do, you +are committing all sorts of fallacies in your premises. For one thing, +who said that Paul was a hero? For another, who said this was a +fairy-tale? For yet another, I am not so sure that the swineherd is not +impressed by the rank of his beloved. You must remember the insistent, +lifelong dream of the ragged urchin. You must also reflect that the +heart of any high-born youth in the land might well have been fluttered +by signs of peculiar favour from Princess Sophie Zobraska. Why, then, +should Paul be blamed for walking on air instead of greasy pavement on +the way from Berkeley Square to Portland Place? Moreover, as sanity +returned to him, his quick sense recognized in his Princess's offer to +support him, a lovely indiscretion. Foreign ladies of high position +must be chary of their public appearances. Between the row-boat on the +Serpentine and the platform in the drill hall, Hickney Heath, the +difference was but one of degree. And for him alone was this +indiscretion about to be committed. His exultation was tempered by +tender solicitude. +</P> + +<P> +At dinner that evening—he was dining alone with the Winwoods—he said: +"I've persuaded the Princess to come to our meeting on Friday. Isn't it +good of her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Very good," replied Colonel Winwood. "But what interest can she take +in the lower walks of English politics?" +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't English politics," said Paul. "It's world politics. The +Princess is an aristocrat and is tremendously keen on the Conservative +principle. She thinks our scheme for keeping the youth of the nation +free from the taint of Socialism is magnificent." +</P> + +<P> +"H'm!" said the Colonel. +</P> + +<P> +"And I thought Miss Winwood would be pleased if I inveigled Her +Highness on to the platform," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, of course it's a good thing," assented the Colonel. "But how the +deuce did you get her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, how?" asked Miss Winwood, with a smile in her straight blue eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"How does one get anything one wants in this world," said Paul, "except +by going at it, hammer and tongs?" +</P> + +<P> +A little later, when Paul opened the dining-room for her to pass out, +she touched his shoulder affectionately and laughed. "Hammer and tongs +to Sophie Zobraska! Oh, Paul, aren't you a bit of a humbug?" +</P> + +<P> +Perhaps he was. But he was ingenuous in his desire to shield his +Princess's action from vain conjecture. It were better that he should +be supposed, in vulgar phrase, to have roped her in, as he had roped in +a hundred other celebrities in his time. For there the matter ended. On +the other hand, if he proclaimed the lady's spontaneous offer, it might +be subjected to heaven knew how many interpretations. Paul owed much of +his success in the world to such instinctive delicacies. He worked far +into the night, composing his speech on England's greatness to the +beautiful eyes of his French Princess. +</P> + +<P> +The Young England League was his pet political interest. It had been +inaugurated some years before he joined the Winwoods. Its objects were +the training of the youth, the future electorate of England, in the +doctrines of Imperialism, Constitutionalism and sound civicism, as +understood by the intellectual Conservatives. Its mechanical aims were +to establish lodges throughout the country. Every town and rural +district should have its lodge, in connection wherewith should be not +only addresses on political and social subjects, but also football and +cricket clubs, entertainments for both sexes such as dances, +whist-drives, excursions of archaeological and educational interest, +and lantern (and, later, cinematographic) lectures on the wide aspects +of Imperial Britain. Its appeal was to the young, the recruit in the +battle of life, who in a year or two would qualify for a vote and, +except for blind passion and prejudice, not know what the deuce to do +with it. The octogenarian Earl of Watford was President; Colonel +Winwood was one of a long list of Vice-Presidents; Miss Winwood was on +the Council; a General Hankin, a fussy, incompetent person past his +prime, was Honorary Secretary. +</P> + +<P> +Paul worked with his employers for a year on the League thinking little +of its effectiveness. One day, when they spoke despairingly of +progress, he said, not in so many words, but in effect: "Don't you see +what's wrong? This thing is run for young people, and you've got old +fossils like Lord Watford and General Hankin running it. Let me be +Assistant Secretary to Hankin' and I'll make things hum." +</P> + +<P> +And thinking the words of the youth were wise, they used their +influence with the Council, and Paul became Assistant Secretary, and +after a year or two things began to hum so disconcertingly that General +Hankin resigned in order to take the Presidency of the Wellingtonian +Defence Association, and almost automatically Paul slipped into his +place. With the instinct of the man of affairs he persuaded the Council +to change his title. An Honorary Secretary is but a dilettante, an +amateur carrying no weight, whereas an Organizing Secretary is a devil +of a fellow professedly dynamic. So Paul became Organizing Secretary of +the Young England League, and made things hum all the louder. He put +fresh life into local Committees and local Secretaries by a paternal +interest in their doings, making them feel the pulsations of the +throbbing heart of headquarters. If a local lodge was in need of +speakers, he exercised his arts of persuasion and sent them down in +trainloads. He visited personally as many lodges as his other work +permitted. In fact, he was raising the League from a jejune experiment +into a flourishing organization. To his secret delight, old Lord +Watford resigned the chairmanship owing to the infirmities of old age, +and Lord Harbury, a young and energetic peer whom Paul had recently +driven into the ranks of the Vice-Presidents, was elected in his stead. +Paul felt the future of the League was assured. +</P> + +<P> +With a real Member of Parliament to preside, a real dean to propose +the vote of thanks, another Member of Parliament and two ex-mayors of +the borough to add silent dignity to the proceedings, well-known +ladies, including, now, a real Princess to grace the assembly, this +meeting of the Hickney Heath Lodge was the most important occasion on +which Paul had appeared in public. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope you won't be nervous," said Miss Winwood, on the morning of the +meeting. +</P> + +<P> +"I nervous?" He laughed. "What is there to be nervous about?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've had over twenty years' experience of public speaking, and I'm +always nervous when I get UP." +</P> + +<P> +"It's only because you persistently refuse to realize what a wonderful +woman you are," he said affectionately. +</P> + +<P> +"And you," she teased, "are you always realizing what a wonderful man +you are?" +</P> + +<P> +He cried with his sunny boldness: "Why not? It's faith in oneself and +one's destiny that gets things done." +</P> + +<P> +The drill hall was full. Party feeling ran high in those days at +Hickney Heath, for a Liberal had ousted a Unionist from a safe seat at +the last General Election, and the stalwarts of the defeated party, +thirsting for revenge, supported the new movement. If a child was not +born a Conservative, he should be made one. That was the watchword of +the League. They were also prepared to welcome the new star that had +arisen to guide the younger generation out of the darkness. When, +therefore, the Chairman, Mr. John Felton, M.P., who had held minor +office in the last administration, had concluded his opening remarks, +having sketched briefly the history of the League and introduced Mr. +Paul Savelli, in the usual eulogistic terms, as their irresistible +Organizing Secretary, and Paul in his radiant young manhood sprang up +before them, the audience greeted him with enthusiastic applause. They +had expected, as an audience does expect in an unknown speaker, any one +of the usual types of ordinary looking politicians—perhaps bald, +perhaps grey headed, perhaps pink and fat—it did not matter; but they +did not expect the magnetic personality of this young man of +astonishing beauty, with his perfect features, wavy black hair, +athletic build and laughing eyes, who seemed the embodiment of youth +and joy and purpose and victory. +</P> + +<P> +Before he spoke a word, he knew that he had them under his control, and +he felt the great thrill of it. Physically he had the consciousness of +a blaze of light, of a bare barn of an ungalleried place, of +thickly-set row upon row of faces, and a vast confused flutter of +beating hands. The applause subsided. He turned with his "Mr. Chairman, +Your Highness, Ladies and Gentlemen," to the circle behind him, caught +Miss Winwood, his dearest lady's smile, caught and held for a hundredth +part of a second the deep blue eyes of the Princess—she wore a great +hat with a grey feather and a chinchilla coat thrown open, and looked +the incarnation of all the beauty and all the desires of all his +dreams—and with a flash of gladness faced the audience and plunged +into his speech. +</P> + +<P> +It began with a denunciation of the Little Englander. At that period +one heard, perhaps, more of the Little Englander than one does +nowadays—which to some people's way of thinking is a pity. The Little +Englander (according to Paul) was a purblind creature, with political +vision ice-bound by the economic condition of the labouring classes in +Great Britain. The Little Englander had no sense of patriotism. The +Little Englander had no sense of Empire. He had no sense of India, +Australia, Canada. He had no sense of foreign nations' jealousy of +England's secular supremacy. He had a distinct idea, however, of three +nationalities; those of Ireland, Scotland and Wales. The inhabitants of +those three small nations took peculiar pains to hammer that idea into +his head. But of England he had no conception save as a mere +geographical expression, a little bit of red on a map of Europe, a +vague place where certain sections of the population clamoured for-much +pay and little work. His dream was a parochial Utopia where the Irish +peasant, the Welsh farmer and the Scottish crofter should live in +luxury, and when these were satisfied, the English operative should +live in moderate comfort. The Little Englander, in his insensate +altruism, dreamed of these three nations entirely independent of +England, except in the trivial matter of financial support. He wanted +Australia, Canada, South Africa, to sever their links from him and take +up with America, Germany, Switzerland—anybody so long as they did not +interfere with his gigantic scheme for providing tramps in Cromarty +with motor cars and dissolute Welsh shepherds with champagne. As for +India, why not give it up to a benign native government which would +depend upon the notorious brotherly love between Hindoo and Mussulman? +If Russia, foolish, unawakened Russia, took possession of it, what +would it matter to the miner of Merthyr Tydvil? As for England, +provided such a country existed, she would be perfectly happy. The rich +would provide for the poor—and what did anyone want further? Paul took +up the Little Englander in his arms and tossed him in the air, threw +him on the ground and jumped upon him. He cast his mutilated fragments +with rare picturesqueness upon a Guy Fawkes bonfire. The audience +applauded vociferously. He waited with a gay smile for silence, +scanning them closely for the first time; and suddenly the smile faded +from his face. In the very centre of the third row sat two people who +did not applaud. They were Barney Bill and Jane. +</P> + +<P> +He looked at them fascinated. There could be no mistake. Barney Bill's +cropped, shoe-brush hair was white as the driven snow; but the wry, +bright-eyed face was unchanged. And Jane, quietly and decently dressed, +her calm eyes fixed on him, was—Jane. These two curiously detached +themselves against the human background. It was only the sudden +stillness of the exhausted applause that brought him to consciousness +of his environment; that, and a heaven-sent fellow at the back of the +audience who shouted: "Go on, sonny!" +</P> + +<P> +Whereupon he plucked himself together with a swift toss of the head, +and laughed his gay laugh. "Of course I'm going on, if you will let me. +This is only the beginning of what I've got to tell you of the +Englishman who fouls the nest of England—who fouls the nest of all +that matters in the future history of mankind." +</P> + +<P> +There was more applause. It was the orator's appeal to the mass. It set +Paul back into the stream of his argument. He forgot Barney Bill and +Jane, and went on with his speech, pointedly addressing the young, +telling them what England was, what England is, what Englishmen, if +they are true to England, shall be. It was for the young, those who +came fresh to life with the glories of England fresh in their memories, +from Crecy to the Armada, from the Armada to Waterloo, to keep the +banner of England flying over their topmost roofs. +</P> + +<P> +It was a fighting, enthusiastic, hyperbolic speech, glowing, as did the +young face of the speaker, with the divine fire of youth. It ended +triumphantly. He sat down to an ovation. Smiles and handshakes and +words of praise surrounded him on the platform. Miss Winwood pressed +his hand and said, "Well done." The Princess regarded him with flushed +cheeks and starry eyes. It was only when silence fell on the opening +words of the Dean of Halifax that he searched the rows in front for +Barney Bill and Jane. They were still there. Impulsively he scribbled a +few lines on a scrap of paper torn from his rough notes: "I must see +you. Wait outside the side entrance for me after the meeting is over. +Love to you both. Paul." A glance round showed him an attendant of the +hall lurking at the back of the platform. He slipped quietly from his +seat by the Chairman's side and gave the man the paper with directions +as to its destination. Then he returned. Just before the Dean ended, he +saw the note delivered. Jane read it, whispered its contents to Bill +and seemed to nod acquiescence. It was fitting that these two dear +ghosts of the past should appear for the first time in his hour of +triumph. He longed to have speech with them, The Dean of Halifax was +brief, the concluding ceremonies briefer. The audience gave Paul a +parting cheer and dispersed, while Paul, the hero of the evening, +received the congratulations of his friends. +</P> + +<P> +"Those are things that needed saying, but we're too cautious to say +them," remarked the Chairman. +</P> + +<P> +"We've got to be," said Colonel Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"The glory of irresponsibility," smiled the Dean. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't often get this kind of audience," Paul answered with a +laugh. "A political infants' school. One has to treat things in broad +splashes." +</P> + +<P> +"You almost persuade me to be an Englishwoman," said the Princess. +</P> + +<P> +Paul bowed. "But what more beautiful thing can there be than a +Frenchwoman with England in her heart? Je ne demande pas mieux." +</P> + +<P> +And the Princess did not put her hands to her ears. +</P> + +<P> +The group passed slowly from the platform through a sort of committee +room at the back, and reached the side entrance, Here they lingered, +exchanging farewells. The light streamed dimly through the door on the +strip of pavement between two hedges of spectators, and on the +panelling and brass-work of an automobile by the curb. A chauffeur, +with rug on arm, stepped forward and touched his cap, as the Princess +appeared, and opened the door of the car. Paul, bare-headed, +accompanied her across the pavement. Half way she stopped for a second +to adjust a slipping fur. He aided her quickly and received a bright +smile of thanks. She entered the car—held out her hand for, his kiss. +</P> + +<P> +"Come and see me soon. I'll write or telephone." +</P> + +<P> +The car rolled away. The Winwoods' carriage drove up. +</P> + +<P> +It was a fighting, enthusiastic, hyperbolic speech, glowing with the +divine fire of youth. +</P> + +<P> +"Can we give you a lift home, Paul?" asked Miss Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"No thanks, dearest lady. There are one or two little things I must do +before I go." +</P> + +<P> +"Good night." +</P> + +<P> +"Good night, Paul," said Colonel Winwood, shaking hands. "A thundering +good speech." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap13"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIII +</H3> + +<P> +PAUL looked from side to side at the palely lit faces of the +spectators, trying to distinguish Barney Bill and Jane. But he did not +see them. He was disappointed and depressed, seized with a curious +yearning for his own people. Vehicle after vehicle drew up and carried +away the remainder of the platform group, and Paul was left in the +doorway with the President and Honorary Secretary of the local lodge. +The little crowd began to melt away. Suddenly his heart leaped and, +after a hasty good night to the two officials, he sprang forward and, +to their astonishment, gripped the hand of a bent and wizened old man. +</P> + +<P> +"Barney Bill! This is good. Where is Jane?" +</P> + +<P> +"Close by," said Bill. +</P> + +<P> +The President and Honorary Secretary waved farewells and marched away. +Out of the gloom came Jane, somewhat shyly. He took both her hands and +looked upon her, and laughed. "My dear Jane! What ages since we lost +each other!" +</P> + +<P> +"Seven years, Mr. Savelli." +</P> + +<P> +"'Mr. Savelli!' Rubbish! Paul." +</P> + +<P> +"Begging your pardon," said Barney Bill, "but I've got a pal 'ere what +I've knowed long before you was born, and he'd like to tell yer how he +enjoyed your speech." +</P> + +<P> +A tall man, lean and bearded, and apparently very well dressed, came +forward. +</P> + +<P> +"This is my old pal, Silas Finn," said Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Finn," said Paul, shaking hands. +</P> + +<P> +"I too," said the man gravely. +</P> + +<P> +"Silas Finn's a Councillor of the Borough," said Bill proudly. +</P> + +<P> +"You should have been on the platform," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"I attended in my private capacity," replied Mr. Finn. +</P> + +<P> +He effaced himself. Paul found himself laughing into Barney Bill's +twinkling eyes. "Dear old Bill," he cried, clapping his old friend on +the shoulder. "How are things going? How's the caravan? I've looked out +for it on so many country roads." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm thinking of retiring," said Bill. "I can only do a few summer +months now—and things isn't what they was." +</P> + +<P> +"And Jane?" He turned to her. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm Mr. Finn's secretary." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," said Paul. Mr. Finn, then, was an important person. +</P> + +<P> +The drill hall attendant shut the door, and save for the street lamps +they were in gloom. There was an embarrassed little silence. Paul broke +it by saying: "We must exchange addresses, and fix up a meeting for a +nice long talk." +</P> + +<P> +"If you would like to have a talk with your old friends now, my house +is at your disposal," said Mr. Finn, in a soft, melancholy voice. "It +is not far from here." +</P> + +<P> +"That's very kind of you—but I couldn't trespass on your hospitality." +</P> + +<P> +"Gor bless you," exclaimed Barney Bill. "Nothing of the kind. Didn't I +tell yer I've knowed him since we was lads together? And Jane lives +there." +</P> + +<P> +Paul laughed. "In that case—" +</P> + +<P> +"You'll be most welcome," said Mr. Finn. "This way." +</P> + +<P> +He went ahead with Barney Bill, whose queer side limp awoke poignant +memories of the Bludston brickfield. Paul followed with Jane. +</P> + +<P> +"And what have you been doing?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Typewriting. Then Bill came across Mr. Finn, whom he hadn't seen for +years, and got me the position of secretary. Otherwise I've been doing +nothing particular." +</P> + +<P> +"If you knew what a hunt I had years ago to find you," he said, and +began to explain the set of foolish circumstances when they turned the +corner of the drill hall and found a four-wheeled cab waiting. +</P> + +<P> +"I had already engaged it for my friends and myself," Mr. Finn +explained. "Will you get in?" +</P> + +<P> +Jane and Paul and Mr. Finn entered the cab. Barney Bill, who liked air +and for whom the raw November night was filled apparently with balmy +zephyrs, clambered in his crablike way next the driver. They started. +</P> + +<P> +"What induced you to come to-night?" Paul asked. +</P> + +<P> +"We saw the announcement in the newspapers," replied Jane. "Barney Bill +said the Mr. Paul Savelli could be no one else but you. I said it +couldn't." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" he asked sharply. +</P> + +<P> +"There are heaps of people of the same name." +</P> + +<P> +"But you didn't think I was equal to it?" +</P> + +<P> +She laughed a short laugh. "That's just how you used to talk. You +haven't changed much." +</P> + +<P> +"I hope I haven't," replied Paul earnestly. "And I don't think you've +changed either." +</P> + +<P> +"Very little has happened to change me," said Jane. +</P> + +<P> +The cab lumbered on through dull, dimly lit, residential roads. Only by +the swinging gleam of an occasional street lamp could Paul distinguish +the faces of his companions. "I hope you're on our side, Mr. Finn," he +said politely to his host, who sat on the small back seat. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't disagree with much that you said to-night. But you are on the +side of wealth and aristocracy. I am on the side of the downtrodden and +oppressed." +</P> + +<P> +"But so am I," cried Paul. "The work of every day of my life tends to +help them." +</P> + +<P> +"You're a Conservative and I'm a Radical." +</P> + +<P> +"What do labels matter? We're both attacking the same problem, only +from different angles." +</P> + +<P> +"Very likely, Mr. Savelli; but you'll pardon me if, according to my +political creed, I regard your angle as an obtuse one." +</P> + +<P> +Paul wondered greatly who he could be, this grave, intelligent friend +of Barney Bill's, who spoke with such dignity and courtesy. In his +speech was a trace of rough accent; but his words were chosen with +precision. +</P> + +<P> +"You think we glance off, whereas your attack is more direct," laughed +Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"That is so. I hope you don't mind my saying it. You were the +challenger." +</P> + +<P> +"I was. But anyhow we're not going to be enemies." +</P> + +<P> +"God forbid," said Mr. Finn. +</P> + +<P> +Presently the cab stopped before a fairly large detached house standing +back from the road. A name which Paul could not decipher was painted on +the top bar of the gate. They trooped through and up some steps to the +front door, which Mr. Finn opened with his latchkey. The first +impression that Paul had on entering a wide vestibule was a blaze of +gilt frames containing masses of bright, fresh paint. A parlour-maid +appeared, and helped with hats and coats. +</P> + +<P> +"We are having a very simple supper, Mr. Savelli. Will you join us?" +said Mr. Finn. +</P> + +<P> +"With the greatest pleasure," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +The host threw open the dining-room door on the right. Jane and Paul +entered; were alone for a few moments, during which Paul heard Barney +Bill say in a hoarse whisper: "Let me have my hunk of bread and beef in +the kitchen, Silas. You know as how I hates a fork and I likes to eat +in my shirt sleeves." +</P> + +<P> +Paul seized Jane by the arms and regarded her luminously. He murmured: +"Did you hear? The dear old chap!" +</P> + +<P> +She raised clear, calm eyes. "Aren't you shocked?" +</P> + +<P> +He shook her. "What do you take me for?" +</P> + +<P> +Jane was rebellious. "For what girls in my position generally call a +'toff.' You—-" +</P> + +<P> +"You're horrid," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"The word's horrid, not me. You're away up above us." +</P> + +<P> +"'Us' seems to be very prosperous, anyhow," said Paul, looking round +him. Jane watched him jealously and saw his face change. The dining +room, spaciously proportioned, was, like the vestibule, a mass of gilt +frames and staring paint. Not an inch of wall above the oak dado was +visible. Crude landscapes, wooden portraits, sea studies with waves of +corrugated iron, subject pictures of childishly sentimental appeal, +blinded the eyes. It looked as if a kindergarten had been the selecting +committee for an exhibition of the Royal Academy. It looked also as if +the kindergarten had replaced the hanging committee also. It was a +conglomerate massacre. It was pictorial anarchy. It was individualism +baresark, amok, crazily frantic. And an execrably vile, +nerve-destroying individualism at that. +</P> + +<P> +Paul released Jane, who kept cool, defiant eyes on him. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you think of it?" +</P> + +<P> +He smiled. "A bit disconcerting." +</P> + +<P> +"The whole house is like this." +</P> + +<P> +"It's so new," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +He looked about him again. The long table was plainly laid for three at +the far end. The fare consisted of a joint of cold beef, a cold tart +suggestive of apple, a bit of Cheshire cheese, and celery in a glass +vase. Of table decoration of any kind there was no sign. A great walnut +monstrosity meagrely equipped performed the functions of a sideboard. +The chairs, ten straight-backed, and two easy by the fireplace, of +which one was armless, were upholstered in saddlebag, yellow and green. +In the bay of the red-curtained window was a huge terra-cotta bust of +an ivy-crowned and inane Austrian female. There was a great fireplace +in which a huge fire blazed cheerily, and on the broad, deep hearth +stood little coloured plaster figures of stags, of gnomes, of rabbits, +one ear dropping, the other ear cocked, of galloping hounds unknown to +the fancy, scenting and pursuing an invisible foe. +</P> + +<P> +She watched him as he scanned the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Who is Mr. Finn?" he asked in a low voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Many years ago he was 'Finn's Fried Fish.' Now he's 'Fish Palaces, +Limited.' They're all over London. You can't help seeing them even from +a motor car." +</P> + +<P> +"I've seen them," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +The argument outside the door having ended in a victory for the host, +he entered the room, pushing Barney Bill gently in front of him. For +the first time Paul saw him in the full light. He beheld a man sharply +featured, with hair and beard, once raven-black, irregularly streaked +with white—there seemed to be no intermediary shades of grey—and deep +melancholy eyes. There hung about him the atmosphere of infinite, +sorrowful patience that might mark a Polish patriot. As the runner of a +successful fried fish concern he was an incongruity. As well, thought +Paul, picture the late Cardinal Newman sharpening knife on steel +outside a butcher's shop, and crying, "buy, buy," in lusty invitation. +Then Paul noticed that he was oddly apparelled. He wore the black +frock-coat suit of a Methodist preacher at the same time as the rainbow +tie, diamond tie-pin, heavy gold watch-chain, diamond ring and natty +spats of a professional bookmaker. The latter oddities, however, did +not detract from the quiet, mournful dignity of his face and manner. +Paul felt himself in the presence of an original personality. +</P> + +<P> +The maid came in and laid a fourth place. Mr. Finn waved Paul to a seat +on his right, Barney Bill to one next Paul; Jane sat on his left. +</P> + +<P> +"I will ask a blessing," said Mr. Finn. +</P> + +<P> +He asked one for two minutes in the old-fashioned Evangelical way, +bringing his guest into his address to the Almighty with an almost +pathetic courtesy. "I am afraid, Mr. Savelli," said he, when he sat +down and began to carve the beef, "I have neither wine nor spirits to +offer you. I am a strict teetotaller; and so is Miss Seddon. But as I +knew my old friend Simmons would be unhappy without his accustomed +glass of beer—" +</P> + +<P> +"That's me," said Barney Bill, nudging Paul with his elbow. "Simmons. +You never knowed that afore, did yer? Beg pardon, guv'nor, for +interrupting." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, there's a jug of beer—and that is all at this hour, except +water, that I can put before you." +</P> + +<P> +Paul declared that beer was delicious and peculiarly acceptable after +public speaking, and demonstrated his appreciation by draining the +glass which the maid poured out. +</P> + +<P> +"You wanted that badly, sonny," said Barney Bill. "The next thing to +drinking oneself is to see another chap what enjoys swallering it." +</P> + +<P> +"Bill!" said Jane reprovingly. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill cocked his white poll across the table with the perkiness +of a quaint bird—Paul saw that the years had brought a striation of +tiny red filaments to his weather-beaten face—and fixed her with his +little glittering eyes. "Bill what? You think I'm 'urting his +feelings?" He jerked a thumb towards his host. "I ain't. He thinks good +drink's bad because bad has come of it to him—not that he ever took a +drop too much, mind yer—but bad has come of it to him, and I think +good drink's good because nothing but good has come of it to me. And +we've agreed to differ. Ain't we, Silas?" +</P> + +<P> +"If every man were as moderate as you, and I am sure as Mr. Savelli, I +should have nothing to say against it. Why should I? But the working +man, unhappily, is not moderate." +</P> + +<P> +"I see," said Paul. "You preach, or advocate—I think you preach—total +abstinence, and so feel it your duty to abstain yourself." +</P> + +<P> +"That is so," said Mr. Finn, helping himself to mustard. "I don't wish +to bore you with my concerns; but I'm a fairly large employer of +labour. Now I have found that by employing only pledged abstainers I +get extraordinary results. I exact a very high rate of insurance, +towards a fund—I need not go into details—to which I myself +contribute a percentage—a far higher rate than would be possible if +they spent their earnings on drink. I invest the whole lot in my +business—their stoppages from wages and my contributions. I guarantee +them 3 per cent.; I give them, actually, the dividends that accrue to +the holders of ordinary stock in my company. They also have the general +advantages of insurance—sickness, burial, maternity, and so +forth—that they would get from an ordinary benefit society." +</P> + +<P> +"But that's enormous," cried Paul, with keen interest. "On the face of +it, it seems impossible. It seems entirely uneconomic. Co-operative +trading is one thing; private insurance another. But how can you +combine the two?" +</P> + +<P> +"The whole secret lies in the marvellously increased efficiency of the +employee." He developed his point. +</P> + +<P> +Paul listened attentively. "But," said he, when his host concluded, +"isn't it rather risky? Supposing, for the sake of argument, your +business failed." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Finn held up the lean, brown hand on which the diamond sparkled. +"My business cannot fail." +</P> + +<P> +Paul started. The assertion had a strange solemnity. "Without +impertinence," said he, "why can't it fail?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because God is guiding it," said Silas Finn. +</P> + +<P> +The fanatic spoke. Paul regarded him with renewed interest. The black +hair streaked with white, banging over the temples on the side away +from the parting, the queerly streaked beard, the clear-cut ascetic +features, the deep, mournful eyes in whose depths glowed a soul on +fire, gave him the appearance of a mad but sanctified apostle. Barney +Bill, who profoundly distrusted all professional drinkers of water, +such as Mr. Finn's employees, ate his cold beef silently, in the happy +surmise that no one was paying the least attention to his +misperformances with knife, fork and fingers. Jane looked steadily from +Paul to Silas and from Silas to Paul. +</P> + +<P> +Paul said: "How do you know God is guiding it?" +</P> + +<P> +At the back of his mind was an impulse of mirth—there was a touch of +humorous blasphemy in the conception of the Almighty as managing +director of "Fish Palaces, Limited"—but the nominal earthly managing +director saw not the slightest humour in the proposition. +</P> + +<P> +"Who is guiding you in your brilliant career?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +Paul threw out his hands, in the once practised and now natural foreign +gesture. "I'm not an atheist. Of course I believe in God, and I thank +Him for all His mercies—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes," said his host. "That I shouldn't question. But a successful +man's thanks to God are most often merely conventional. Don't think I +wish to be offensive. I only want to get at the root of things. You are +a young man, eight-and-twenty—" +</P> + +<P> +"How do you know that?" laughed Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, your friends have told me. You are young. You have a brilliant +position. You have a brilliant future. Were you born to it?" +</P> + +<P> +There was Jane on the opposite side of the table, entirely uninterested +in her food, looking at him in her calm, clear way. She was so +wholesome, so sane, in her young yet mature English lower-class beauty. +She had broad brows. Her mass of dark brown hair was rather too +flawlessly arranged. He felt a second's irritation at not catching any +playfully straying strand. She was still the Jane of his boyhood, but a +Jane developed, a Jane from whom no secrets were hid, a searching, +questioning and quietly disturbing Jane. +</P> + +<P> +"A man is born to his destiny, whatever destiny may be," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"That is Mohammedan fatalism," said Mr. Finn, "unless one means by +destiny the guiding hand of the Almighty. Do you believe that you're +under the peculiar care of God?" +</P> + +<P> +"Do you, Mr. Finn?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have said so. I ask you. Do you?" +</P> + +<P> +"In a general way, yes," said Paul. "In your particular sense, no. You +question me frankly and I answer frankly. You would not like me to +answer otherwise." +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not," said his host. +</P> + +<P> +"Then," Paul continued, with a smile, "I must say that from my +childhood I have been fired with a curious certainty that I would +succeed in life. Chance has helped me. How far a divine hand has been +specially responsible, it isn't for me to conjecture. But I know that +if I hadn't believed in myself I shouldn't have had my small measure of +success." +</P> + +<P> +"You believe in yourself?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. And I believe in making others believe in me." +</P> + +<P> +"That is strange—very strange." Mr. Finn fixed him with his deep, +sorrowful eyes. "You believe that you're predestined to a great +position. You believe that you have in you all that is needful to +attain it. That has carried you through. Strange!" He put his hand to +his temple, elbow on table, and still regarded Paul. "But there's God +behind it all. Mr. Savelli," he said earnestly, after a slight pause, +"you are twenty-eight; I am fifty-eight; so I'm more than old enough to +be your father. You'll forgive my taking up the attitude of the older +man. I have lived a life such as your friends on the platform +to-night—honorable, clean, sweet people—I've nothing to say against +them—have no conception. I am English, of course—London born. My +father was an Englishman; but my mother was a Sicilian. She used to go +about with a barrel-organ—my father ran away with her. I have that +violent South in my blood, and I've lived nearly all my days in London. +I've had to pay dearly for my blood. The only compensation it has given +me is a passion for art"—he waved his lean, bediamonded hand towards +the horrific walls. "That is external—in a way—mere money has enabled +me to gratify my tastes; but, as I was saying, I have lived a life of +strange struggle, material, physical, and"—he brought down his free +hand with a bang on the table—"it is only by the grace of God and the +never-ceasing presence of Our Lord Jesus Christ by my side, that—that +I am able to offer you my modest hospitality this evening." +</P> + +<P> +Paul felt greatly drawn to the man. He was beyond doubt sincere. He +wore the air of one who had lived fiercely, who had suffered, who had +conquered; but the air of one whose victory was barren, who was looking +into the void for the things unconquerable yet essential to salvation. +Paul made a little gesture of attention. He could find no words to +reply. A man's deep profession of faith is unanswerable. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah," said Barney Bill, "you ought to have come along o' me, Silas, +years ago in the old 'bus. You mightn't have got all these bright +pictures, but you wouldn't have had these 'ere gloomy ideas. I don't +say as how I don't hold with Gawd," he explained, with uplifted +forefinger and cocked head; "but if ever I thinks of Him, I like to +feel that He's in the wind or in the crickle-crackle of the earth, just +near and friendly like, but not a-worrying of a chap, listening for +every cuss-word as he uses to his old horse, and measuring every +half-pint he pours down his dusty throat. No. That ain't my idea of +Gawd. But then I ain't got religion." +</P> + +<P> +"Still the same old pagan," laughed Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"No, not the same, sonny," said Barney Bill, holding up his knife, +which supported a morsel of cheese. "Old. Rheumaticky. Got to live in a +'ouse when it rains—me who never keered whether I was baked to a +cinder or wet through! I ain't a pagan no more. I'm a crock." +</P> + +<P> +Jane smiled affectionately at the old man, and her face was lit with +rare sweetness when she smiled. "He really is just the same," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"He hasn't changed much in forty years," said Mr. Finn. +</P> + +<P> +"I was a good Conservative then, as I am now," said Bill. "That's one +thing, anyhow. So was you, Silas. But you had Radical leanings." +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill's remark set the talk on political lines. Paul learned that +his host had sat for a year or more as a Progressive on the Hickney +Heath Borough Council and aspired to a seat in Parliament. +</P> + +<P> +"The Kingdom of Heaven," said he, not unctuously or hypocritically, but +in his grave tone of conviction, "is not adequately represented in the +House." +</P> + +<P> +Paul pointed out that in the House of Lords one had the whole bench of +Bishops. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not a member of the Established Church, Mr. Savelli," replied Mr. +Finn. "I'm a Dissenter—a Free Zionist." +</P> + +<P> +"I've heard him conduc' the service," said Barney Bill. "He built the +Meeting House close by, yer know. I goes sometimes to try and get +converted. But I'm too old and stiff in the j'ints. No longer a pagan, +but a crock, sonny. But I likes to listen to him. Gorbli—bless me, +it's a real bean feast—that's what it is. He talks straight from the +shoulder, he does, just as you talked to-night. Lets 'em 'ave it +bing-bang in the eye. Don't he, Jane?" +</P> + +<P> +"Bill means," she explained, with the shadow of a smile, for Paul's +benefit, "that Mr. Finn is an eloquent preacher." +</P> + +<P> +"D'yer suppose he didn't understand what I meant?" he exclaimed, +setting down the beer glass which he was about to raise to his lips. +"Him, what I discovered reading Sir Walter Scott with the cover off +when he was a nipper with no clothes on? You understood, sonny." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course I did." He laughed gaily and turned to his host, who had +suffered Barney Bill's queer eulogy with melancholy indulgence. "One of +these days I should like to come and hear you preach." +</P> + +<P> +"Any Sunday, at ten and six. You would be more than welcome." +</P> + +<P> +The meal was over. Barney Bill pulled a blackened clay pipe from his +waistcoat pocket and a paper of tobacco. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm a non-smoker," said Mr. Finn to Paul, "and I'm sorry I've nothing +to offer you—I see little company, so I don't keep cigars in the +house—but if you would care to smoke—-" he waved a courteous and +inviting hand. +</P> + +<P> +Paul whipped out his cigarette case. It was of gold—a present last +Christmas from the Winwood fitting part of the equipment of a Fortunate +Youth. He opened it, offered a cigarette to Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"Garn!" said the old man. "I smokes terbakker," and he filled his pipe +with shag. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Finn rose from the table. "Will you excuse me, Mr. Savelli, if I +leave you? I get up early to attend to my business. I must be at +Billingsgate at half-past five to buy my fish. Besides, I have been +preventing your talk with our friends. So pray don't go. Good-night, +Mr. Savelli." +</P> + +<P> +As he shook hands Paul met the sorrowful liquid eyes fixed on him with +strange earnestness. "I must thank you for your charming hospitality. I +hope you'll allow me to come and see you again." +</P> + +<P> +"My house is yours." +</P> + +<P> +It was a phrase—a phrase of Castilian politeness—oddly out of place +in the mouth of a Free Zionist purveyor of fried fish. But it seemed to +have more than a Castilian, more than a Free Zionist significance. He +was still pondering over it when Mr. Finn, having bidden Jane and +Barney Bill good-night, disappeared. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah!" said Barney Bill, lifting up the beer jug in order to refill his +glass, and checked whimsically by the fact of its emptiness. "Ah," said +he, setting down the jug and limping round the table, "let us hear as +how you've been getting on, sonny." +</P> + +<P> +They drew their chairs about the great hearth, in which the idiotic +little Viennese plaster animals sported in movement eternally arrested, +and talked of the years that had passed. Paul explained once more his +loss of Jane and his fruitless efforts to find her. +</P> + +<P> +"We didn't know," said Jane. "We thought that either you were dead or +had forgotten us—or had grown too big a man for us." +</P> + +<P> +"Axing your pardon," said Barney Bill, taking his blackened clay from +his lips and holding it between his gnarled fingers, "you said so. I +didn't. I always held that, if he wasn't dead, the time would come +when, as it was to-night, the three of us would be sitting round +together. I maintained," he added solemnly after a puff or two, "that +his heart was in the right place. I'm a broken-down old crock, no +longer a pagan; but I'm right. Ain't I, sonny?" He thrust an arm into +the ribs of Paul, who was sitting between them. +</P> + +<P> +Paul looked at Jane. "I think this proves it." +</P> + +<P> +She returned his look steadily. "I own I was wrong. But a woman only +proves herself to be right by always insisting that she is wrong." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Jane," cried Paul. "Since when have you become so +psychological?" +</P> + +<P> +"Gorblime," said Barney Bill, "what in thunder's that?" +</P> + +<P> +"I know," said Jane. "You"—to Paul—"were good enough to begin my +education. I've tried since to go on with it." +</P> + +<P> +"It's nothing to do with edication," said Barney Bill. "It's fac's. +Let's have fac's. Jane and I have been tramping the same old high-road, +but you've been climbing mountains—yer and yer gold cigarette cases. +Let's hear about it." +</P> + +<P> +So Paul told his story, and as he told it, it seemed to him, in its +improbability, more like a fairy-tale than the sober happenings of real +life. +</P> + +<P> +"You've said nothing about the princess," Jane remarked, when he had +ended. +</P> + +<P> +"The princess?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Where does she come in?" +</P> + +<P> +"The Princess Zobraska is a friend of my employers." +</P> + +<P> +"But you and she are great friends," Jane persisted quietly. "That's +obvious to anybody. I was standing quite close when you helped her into +the motor car." +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't see you." +</P> + +<P> +"I took care you didn't. She looks charming." +</P> + +<P> +"Most princesses are charming—when they've no particular reason to be +otherwise," said Paul. "It is their metier—their profession." +</P> + +<P> +There was a little silence. Jane, cheek on hand, looked thoughtfully +into the fire. Barney Bill knocked' the ashes out of his pipe and +thrust it in his pocket. "It's getting late, sonny." +</P> + +<P> +Paul looked at his watch. It was past one o'clock. He jumped up. "I +hope to goodness you haven't to begin work at half-past five," he said +to Jane. +</P> + +<P> +"No. At eight." She rose as he stretched out his hand. "You don't know +what it is to see you again, Paul. I can't tell you. Some things are +upsetting. But I'm glad. Oh, yes, I'm glad, Paul dear. Don't think I'm +not." +</P> + +<P> +Her voice broke a little. They were the first gentle words she had +given him all the evening. Paul smiled and kissed her hand as he had +kissed that of the princess, and, still holding it, said: "Don't I know +you of old? And if you suppose I haven't thought of you and felt the +need of you, you're very much mistaken. Now I've found you, I'm not +going to let you go again." +</P> + +<P> +She turned her head aside and looked down; there was the slightest +movement of her plump shoulders. "What's the good? I can't do anything +for you now, and you can't do anything for me. You're on the way to +becoming a great man. To me, you're a great man already. Don't you see?" +</P> + +<P> +"My dear, I was an embryonic Shelley, Raphael, Garrick, and Napoleon +when you first met me," he said jestingly. +</P> + +<P> +"But then you didn't belong to their—to their sphere. Now you do. Your +friends are lords and ladies and—and princesses—" +</P> + +<P> +"My friends," cried Paul, "are people with great true hearts—like the +Winwoods—and the princess, if you like—and you, and Barney Bill." +</P> + +<P> +"That's a sentiment as does you credit," said the old man. "Great true +hearts! Now if you ain't satisfied, my dear, you're a damn criss-cross +female. And yer ain't, are yer?' She laughed and Paul laughed. The +little spell of intensity was broken. There were pleasant leave-takings. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll set you on your road a bit," said Barney Bill. "I live in the +neighbourhood. Good-bye, Jane." +</P> + +<P> +She went with them to the front door, and stood in the gusty air +watching them until they melted into the darkness. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap14"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIV +</H3> + +<P> +BETWEEN the young man of immaculate vesture, of impeccable manners, of +undeniable culture, of instinctive sympathy with the great world where +great things are done, of unerring tact, of mythological beauty and +charm, of boundless ambition, of resistless energy, of incalculable +promise, in outer semblance and in avowed creed the fine flower of +aristocratic England, professing the divine right of the House of Lords +and the utilitarian sanctity of the Church of England—between Paul, +that is to say, and the Radical, progressive councillor of Hickney +Heath, the Free Zionist dissenter (not even Congregationalist or +Baptist or Wesleyan, or any powerfully organized Non-conformist whose +conscience archbishops consult with astute patronage), the purveyor of +fried fish, the man of crude, uncultivated taste, there should have +been a gulf fixed as wide as the Pacific Ocean. As a matter of fact, +whatever gulf lay between them was narrow enough to be bridged +comfortably over by mutual esteem. Paul took to visiting Mr. Finn. +Accustomed to the somewhat tired or conventional creeds of his +political world, he found refreshment in the man's intense faith. He +also found pathetic attraction in the man's efforts towards +self-expression. Mr. Finn, who lived a life of great +loneliness—scarcely a soul, said Jane, crossed his threshold from +month's end to month's end—seemed delighted to have a sympathetic +visitor to whom he could display his painted treasures. When he was +among them the haunting pain vanished from his eyes, as sometimes one +has seen it vanish from those of an unhappy woman among her flowers. He +loved to take Paul through his collection and point out the beauties +and claim his admiration. He had converted a conservatory running along +one side of the house into a picture gallery, and this was filled with +his masterpieces of pictorial villainy. Here Paul was at first +astonished at recognizing replicas of pictures which hung in other +rooms. Mr. Finn explained. +</P> + +<P> +"These," said he, "are the originals." +</P> + +<P> +Paul pondered over the dark saying for a moment or two until he came +upon a half-finished canvas on an easel. It was the copy of a landscape +on the wall. He turned questioningly to his host. The latter smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm a bit of an artist myself," he said. "But as I've never had time +for lessons in painting, I teach myself by copying good pictures. It's +a Saunders"—a name unknown to Paul—"and a very good example. It's +called Noontide. The cow is particularly good, isn't it? But it's +exceedingly difficult. That fore-shortening—I can't get it quite right +yet. But I go on and on till I succeed. The only way." +</P> + +<P> +Paul acquiesced and asked him where he had picked up his Saunders. +Indeed, where had he picked up all the others? Not an exhibition in +London would have admitted one of them. This "Saunders" represented a +wooden cow out of drawing lying in the shade of a conventional tree. It +was peculiarly bad. +</P> + +<P> +"I bought it direct from the artist," replied Mr. Finn. "He's an +unrecognized genius, and now he's getting old, poor fellow. Years ago +he offended the Royal Academy, and they never forgot it. He says +they've kept him under all his life. I have a great many of his +pictures." He looked admiringly at the cow for a while, and added: "I +gave him four pounds ten for this one." +</P> + +<P> +Paul could not forbear saying, though his tone betrayed no irony: "A +good price." +</P> + +<P> +"I think so," replied Mr. Finn. "That's what he asked. I could never +haggle with an artist. His work is of the spirit, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +And Paul marvelled at the childlike simplicity of the man, the son of +the Sicilian woman who went about with a barrel-organ, who, starting in +the race on a level with Barney Bill, had made a fortune in the +exploitation of fried fish. To disturb his faith in the genius of +Saunders were a crime—as base a crime as proving to a child the +non-existence of fairies. For Paul saw that Silas Finn found in this +land of artistic illusion a refuge from many things; not only from the +sordid cares of a large business, but perhaps also from the fierce +intensity of his religion, from his driving and compelling deity. Here +God entered gently. +</P> + +<P> +There was another reason, which Paul scarcely confessed to himself, for +the pleasure he found in the older man's company. The veil which he had +thrown so adroitly over his past history, which needed continuous +adroitness to maintain, was useless in this house. Both Barney Bill and +Jane had spoken of him freely. Silas Finn knew of Bludston, of his +modeldom, of his inglorious career on the stage. He could talk openly +once more, without the never-absent subconscious sense of reserve. He +was still, in his own, eyes, the prince out of the fairy-tale; but +Silas Finn and the two others alone of his friends shared the knowledge +of the days when he herded swine. Now a prince out of a fairy-tale who +has herded swine is a romantic figure. Paul did not doubt that he was +one. Even Jane, in spite of her direct common sense, admitted it. +Barney Bill proclaimed it openly, slapping him on the back and taking +much credit to himself for helping the prince on the way to his +kingdom. And Mr. Finn, even in the heat of political discussion or +theological asseveration, treated him with a curious and pathetic +deference. +</P> + +<P> +Meanwhile Paul pursued his own career of glory. The occasional visits +to Hickney Heath were, after all, but rare, though distinct, episodes +in his busy life. He had his parliamentary work for Colonel Winwood, +his work for Miss Winwood, his work for the Young England League. He +had his social engagements. He had the Princess Zobraska. He also began +to write, in picturesque advocacy of his views, for serious weekly and +monthly publications. Then Christmas came and he found himself at +Drane's Court, somewhat gasping for breath. A large houseparty, +however, including Lord Francis Ayres, the chief Opposition Whip, +threatened to keep him busy. +</P> + +<P> +The Princess drove over from Chetwood Park for dinner on Christmas Day. +He had to worship from afar; for a long spell of the evening to worship +with horrible jealousy. Lord Francis Ayres, a bachelor and a man of +winning charm, as men must be whose function it is to keep Members of +Parliament good and pleased with themselves and sheeplike, held the +Princess captive, in a remote corner, with his honeyed tongue. She +looked at him seductively out of her great, slumberous blue eyes, even +as she had looked, on occasion, at him, Paul. He hated Lord Francis, +set himself up against him, as of old he had set himself up against +Billy Goodge. He was a better man than Frank Ayres. Frank Ayres was +only a popinjay. Beneath the tails of his coat he snapped his fingers +at Frank Ayres, while he listened, with his own agreeable smile, to +Mademoiselle de Cressy's devilled gossip. +</P> + +<P> +He was very frigid and courtly when he bade the Princess good night at +the door of her limousine. +</P> + +<P> +"Ah, que vous etes bete!" she laughed. +</P> + +<P> +He went to bed very angry. She had told him to his face that he was a +silly fool. And so he was. He thought of all the brilliantly dignified +things he might have said, if the relentless engine had not whirred her +away down the drive. But the next morning Lord Francis met him in the +wintry garden and smiled and held out a winning hand. Paul hid his +hatred beneath the mask of courtesy. They talked for a few moments of +indifferent matters. Then Frank Ayres suddenly said: "Have you ever +thought of standing for Parliament?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul, who had been sauntering between flowerless beds with his +companion, stood stock still. The Chief Whip of a political party is a +devil of a fellow. To the aspiring young politician he is much more a +devil of a fellow than the Prime Minister or any Secretary of State. If +a Chief Whip breathes the suggestion that a man might possibly stand +for election as a Member of Parliament, it means that at any suitable +vacancy, or at a general election, he will, with utter certainty, have +his chance as a candidate with the whole force of his party behind him. +It is part of the business of Chief Whips to find candidates. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," said Paul, rather stupidly. "Eventually. One of these +days." +</P> + +<P> +"But soon?" +</P> + +<P> +"Soon?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul's head reeled. What did he mean by soon? "Well," Lord Francis +laughed, "not to-morrow. But pretty soon. Look here, Savelli. I'm going +to speak frankly. The party's in for a long period out of office. +That's obvious. Look at the majority against us. We want the young +blood—not the old hacks—so that when we come in again we shall have a +band of trained men in the heyday of their powers. Of course I +know—it's my business to know—what generally you have done for the +Young England League, but I missed your speech at Flickney Heath in the +autumn. You had an immense success, hadn't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"They seemed pleased with what I had to say," replied Paul modestly. +"When did you hear about it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Last night." +</P> + +<P> +"The Winwoods are the dearest people in the world," said Paul, walking +warily, "but they are prejudiced in my favour." +</P> + +<P> +"It wasn't the Winwoods." +</P> + +<P> +The beautiful truth flashed upon Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Then it was the Princess Zobraska." +</P> + +<P> +The other laughed. "Never mind. I know all about it. It isn't often one +has to listen to speeches at second-hand. The question is: Would you +care to stand when the time comes?" +</P> + +<P> +"I should just think I would," cried Paul boyishly. +</P> + +<P> +All his jealous resentment had given place to exultation. It was the +Princess who had told Frank Ayres. If she had been laying him under the +spell of her seduction it was on his, Paul's, account. She had had the +splendid audacity to recite his speech to the Chief Whip. Frank Ayres +was suddenly transformed from a popinjay into an admirable fellow. The +Princess herself sat enthroned more adorable than ever. +</P> + +<P> +"The only difficulty," said Paul, "is that I have to earn my living." +</P> + +<P> +"That might be arranged," said Lord Francis. +</P> + +<P> +So Paul, as soon as he found an opportunity, danced over to Chetwood +Park and told his Princess all about it, and called her a tutelary +goddess and an angel and all manner of pretty names. And the Princess, +who was alone, poured for him her priceless Russian tea into egg-shell +China tea-cups and fed him on English crumpets, and, in her French and +feminine way, gave him the outer fringe of her heart to play with—a +very dangerous game. She had received him, not as once before in the +state drawing room, but in the intimacy of her own boudoir, a place all +soft lights and cushions and tapestries and gleaming bits of sculpture. +After tea and crumpets had been consumed, the dangerous game proceeded +far enough for Paul to confess his unjust dislike of Frank Ayres. +</P> + +<P> +"Gros jaloux," said the Princess. +</P> + +<P> +"That was why you said que vous etes bete," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Partly." +</P> + +<P> +"What were the other reasons?" +</P> + +<P> +"Any woman has a thousand reasons for calling any man stupid." +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me some of them at any rate." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, isn't it stupid of a man to try to quarrel with his best friend +when he won't be seeing her again for three or four months?" +</P> + +<P> +"You're not going away soon?" +</P> + +<P> +"Next week." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I go to Paris, then to my villa at Mont Boron. I have the +nostalgia of my own country, you see. Then to Venice at Easter." +</P> + +<P> +Paul looked at her wistfully, for life seemed suddenly very blank and +dismal. "What shall I do all that time without my best friend?" +</P> + +<P> +"You will probably find another and forget her." +</P> + +<P> +She was lying back among cushions, pink and terra-cotta, and a round +black cushion framed her delicate head. +</P> + +<P> +Paul said in a low voice, bending forward: "Do you think you are a +woman whom men forget?" +</P> + +<P> +Their eyes met. The game had grown very perilous. "Men may remember the +princess," she replied, "but forget the woman." +</P> + +<P> +"If it weren't for the woman inside the princess; what reason should I +have for remembering?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +She fenced. "But, as it is, you don't see me very often." +</P> + +<P> +"I know. But you are here—to be seen—not when I want you, for that +would be every hour of the day—but, at least, in times of emergency. +You are here, all the same, in the atmosphere of my life." +</P> + +<P> +"And if I go abroad I shall no longer be in that atmosphere? Did I not +say you would forget?" +</P> + +<P> +She laughed. Then quickly started forward, and, elbow on knee and chin +on palm, regarded him brightly. "We are talking like a couple of people +out of Mademoiselle de Scudery," she said before he had time to reply. +"And we are in the twentieth century, mon pauvre ami. We must be +sensible. I know that you will miss me. And I will miss you too. Mais +que voulez-vous? We have to obey the laws of the world we live in." +</P> + +<P> +"Need we?" asked Paul daringly. "Why need we?" +</P> + +<P> +"We must. I must go away to my own country. You must stay in yours and +work and fulfill your ambitions." She paused. "I want you to be a great +man," she said, with a strange tenderness in her voice. +</P> + +<P> +"With you by my side," said he, "I feel I could conquer the earth." +</P> + +<P> +"As your good friend I shall always be by your side. Vous voyez, mon +cher Paul," she went on quickly in French. "I am not quite as people +see me. I am a woman who is lonely and not too happy, who has had +disillusions which have embittered her life. You know my history. It is +public property. But I am young. And my heart is healed—and it craves +faith and tenderness and—and friendship. I have many to flatter me. I +am not too ugly. Many men pay their court to me, but they do not touch +my heart. None of them even interest me. I don't know why. And then I +have my rank, which imposes on me its obligations. Sometimes I wish I +were a little woman of nothing at all, so that I could do as I like. +Mais enfin, I do what I can. You have come, Paul Savelli, with your +youth and your faith and your genius, and you pay your court to me like +the others. Yes, it is true—and as long as it was amusing, I let it go +on. But now that you interest me, it is different. I want your success. +I want it with all my heart. It is a little something in my life—I +confess it—quelque chose de tres joli—and I will not spoil it. So let +us be good friends, frank and loyal—without any Scudery." She looked +at him with eyes that had lost their languor—a sweet woman's eyes, a +little moist, very true. "And now," she said, "will you be so kind as +to put a log on the fire." +</P> + +<P> +Paul rose and threw a log on the glowing embers, and stood by her side. +He was deeply moved. Never before had she so spoken. Never before had +she afforded a glimpse of the real woman. Her phrases, so natural, so +sincere, in her own tongue, and so caressive, stirred the best in him. +The glamour passed from the royal lady; only the sweet and beautiful +woman remained. +</P> + +<P> +"I will be what you will, my Princess," he said. +</P> + +<P> +At that moment he could not say more. For the first time in his life he +was mute in a woman's presence; and the reason was that for the first +time in his life love for a woman had gripped his heart. +</P> + +<P> +She rose and smiled at him. "Bons amis, francs et loyaux?" +</P> + +<P> +"Francs et loyaux." +</P> + +<P> +She gave him her hand in friendship; but she gave him her eyes in love. +It is the foolish way of women. +</P> + +<P> +"May a frank and loyal friend write to you sometimes?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, yes. And a frank and loyal friend will answer." +</P> + +<P> +"And when shall I see you again?" +</P> + +<P> +"Did I not tell you," she said, moving to the bell, for this was +leave-taking—"that I shall be in Venice at Easter?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul went out into the frosty air, and the bright wintry stars shone +down on him. Often on such nights he had looked up, wondering which was +his star, the star that guided his destiny. But to-night no such fancy +crossed his mind. He did not think of the stars. He did not think of +his destiny. His mind and soul were drenched in thought of one woman. +It had come at last, the great passion, the infinite desire. It had +come in a moment, wakened into quivering being by the caressive notes +of the dear French voice—"mais je suis jeune, et mon coeur est gueri, +et il lui manque affreusement de la foi, de la tendresse, +de—de"—adorable catch of emotion—"de l'amitie." Friendship, indeed! +For amitie all but her lips said amour. He walked beneath the wintry +stars, a man in a perfect dream. +</P> + +<P> +Till then she had been but his Princess, the exquisite lady whom it had +amused to wander with him into the pays du tendre. She had been as far +above him as the now disregarded stars. She had come down with a +carnival domino over her sidereal raiment, and had met him on carnival +equality. He beau masque! He, knowing her, had fallen beneath her +starry spell. He was Paul Kegworthy, Paul Savelli, what you like; Paul +the adventurer, Paul the man born to great things. She was a beautiful +woman, bearing the title of Princess, the title that had haunted his +life since first the Vision Splendid dawned upon him as he lay on his +stomach eavesdropping and heard the words of the divinely-smelling +goddess who had given him his talisman, the cornelian heart. To "rank +himself with princes" had been the intense meaning of his life since +ragged and fiercely imaginative childhood. Odd circumstances had ranked +him with Sophie Zobraska. The mere romance of it had carried him off +his feet. She was a princess. She was charming. She frankly liked his +society. She seemed interested in his adventurous career. She was +romantic. He too. She was his Egeria. He had worshipped her +romantically, in a mediaeval, Italian way, and she had accepted the +homage. It had all been deliciously artificial. It had all been +Mademoiselle de Scudery. But to-day the real woman, casting off her +carnival domino, casting off too the sidereal raiment, had spoken, for +the first time, in simple womanhood, and her betraying eyes had told +things that they had told to no other man living or dead. And all that +was artificial, all that was fantastic, all that was glamour, was +stripped away from Paul in the instant of her self-revelation. He loved +her as man loves woman. He laughed aloud as his young feet struck the +frozen road. She knew and was not angry. She, in her wonder, gave him +leave to love her. It was obvious that she loved him to love her. Dear +God! He could go on loving her like this for the rest of his life. What +more did he want? To the clean man of nine-and-twenty, sufficient for +the day is the beauty thereof. +</P> + +<P> +An inspired youth took his place at the Winwoods' dinner table that +evening. The elderly, ugly heiress, Miss Durning, concerning whom Miss +Winwood had, with gentle malice, twitted him some months before, sat by +his side. He sang her songs of Araby and tales of far Cashmere—places +which in the commonplace way of travel he had never visited. What +really happened in the drawing room between the departure of the ladies +and the entrance of the men no one knows. But before the ladies went to +bed Miss Winwood took Paul aside. +</P> + +<P> +"Paul dear," she said, "you're never going to marry an old woman for +money, are you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Good God, no! Dearest lady, what do you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +His cry was so sincere that she laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"But you must mean something." He threw out his hands. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you aware that you've been flirting disgracefully with Lizzle +Durning?" +</P> + +<P> +"I?" said Paul, clapping a hand to his shirt-front. +</P> + +<P> +"You." +</P> + +<P> +He smiled his sunny smile into the clear, direct eyes of his dearest +lady—all the more dear because of the premature white of her hair. "I +would flirt to-night with Xantippe, or Kerenhappuch, or Queen +Victoria," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +He laughed, and although none of the standing and lingering company had +overheard them, he gently led her to the curtained embrasure of the +drawing-room window. +</P> + +<P> +"This is perhaps the biggest day of my life. I've not had an +opportunity of telling you. This morning Frank Ayres offered me a seat +in Parliament." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad," said Ursula Winwood; but her eyes hardened. "And so—Lizzie +Durning—" +</P> + +<P> +He took both her elbows in his hands—only a Fortunate Youth, with his +laughing charm, would have dared to grip Ursula Winwood's elbows and +cut her short. "Dearest lady," said he, "to-day there are but two women +in the world for me. You are one. The other—well—it isn't Miss +Durning." +</P> + +<P> +She searched him through and through, "This afternoon?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Paul!" She withdrew from his grasp. In her voice was a touch of +reproach. +</P> + +<P> +"Dearest lady," said he, "I would die rather than marry a rich woman, +ugly or beautiful, if I could not bring her something big in +return—something worth living for." +</P> + +<P> +"You've told me either too much or too little. Am I not entitled to +know how things stand?" +</P> + +<P> +"You're entitled to know the innermost secrets of my heart," he cried; +and he told thereof as far as his love for the Princess was concerned. +</P> + +<P> +"But, my poor boy," said Ursula tenderly, "how is it all going to end?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's never going to end," cried Paul. +</P> + +<P> +Ursula Winwood smiled on him and sighed a little; for she remembered +the gallant young fellow who had been killed in the Soudan in eighteen +eighty-five. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap15"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XV +</H3> + +<P> +IT would never end. Why should it? Could a Great Wonder be merely a +transient thrill? Absurd. Dawn followed night, day after day, and the +wonder had not faded. It would never fade. Letter followed letter, each +more precious than the last. +</P> + +<P> +She began with "Mon cher Paul." Then "Mon cher," then sometimes "Paul." +She set the tone of the frank and loyal friendship in a style very +graceful, very elusive, a word of tenderness melting away in a laugh; +she took the friendship, pulled it to pieces and reconstructed it in +ideal form; then she tied blue ribbon round its neck, and showed him +how beautiful it was. She sat on the veranda of her villa and looked +out on the moonlit Mediterranean and wanted to cry—"J'avais envie de +Pleurer"—because she was all alone, having entertained at dinner a +heap of dull and ugly people. She had spent a day on the yacht of a +Russian Grand-Duke. "Il m'a fait une cour effrenee"—Paul thirsted +immediately for the blood of this Grand-Duke, who had dared to make +violent love to her. But when, a few lines farther on, he found that +she had guessed his jealousy and laughed at it, he laughed too. "Don't +be afraid. I have had enough of these people." She wanted une ame +sincere et candide; and Paul laid the flattering unction to his own +sincere and candid soul. Then she spoke prettily of his career. He was +to be the flambeau eveilleur, the awakening torch in the darkness +before the daybreak. But he musn't overwork. His health was precious. +There was a blot and erasure in the sentence. He took the letter to the +light, lover-wise, and looked at it through a magnifying glass—and his +pulses thrilled when it told him that she had originally written, +"Votre sante m'est precieuse," and had scrabbled out the "m." "Your +health is precious to me." That is what her heart had said. Did lover +ever have a dearer mistress? He kissed the blot, and the thick French +ink coming off on his lips was nectar. +</P> + +<P> +And he began his letters with "My dear Princess;" then it was "Dearest +Princess;" then "My Princess." Then she rallied him on the matter. It +came to "Mais enfin j'ai un petit nom comme tout le monde." In common +with the rest of humanity she had a Christian name—and she was +accustomed to be called by it by her frank and loyal friends. "And they +are so few." Paul heard the delicate little sigh and saw the delicate +rise and fall of the white bosom. And again he fed on purple ink. So he +began his next letter with "Dear Sophie." But he could not pour the +same emotion into "Dear Sophie" as he could into "My Princess"—and "My +Sophie" was a step beyond the bounds of frank and loyal friendship. So +it came to his apostrophizing her as "Dear" and scattering "Sophies" +deliciously through the text. And so the frank and loyal friendship +went on its appointed course, as every frank and loyal friendship +between two young and ardent souls who love each other has proceeded +since the beginning of a sophisticated world. +</P> + +<P> +The first three months of that year were a period of enchantment. He +lived supremely. The daily round of work was trivial play. He rose at +seven, went to bed at two, crowded the nineteen hours of wakefulness +with glorious endeavour. He went all over the country with his flambeau +eveilleur, awakening the Youth of England, finding at last the great +artistic gift the gods had given him, the gift of oratory. One day he +reminded Jane of a talk long ago when he had fled from the studios: +"You asked me how I was going to earn my living. I said I was going to +follow one of the Arts." +</P> + +<P> +"I remember," said Jane, regarding him full-eyed. "You said you thought +you were a poet—but you might be a musician or painter. Finally you +decided you were an actor." +</P> + +<P> +He laughed his gay laugh. "I was an infernally bad actor," he +acknowledged. +</P> + +<P> +Then he explained his failure on the stage. He was impatient of other +people's inventions, wanting to play not Hamlet or Tom or Dick or Romeo +or Harry, but himself. Now he could play himself. It was acting in a +way. Anyhow it was an Art; so his boyish prophecy had come true. He had +been struggling from childhood for a means of self-expression. He had +tried most of them save this. Here he had found it. He loved to play +upon a crowd as if they were so many notes of a vast organ. +</P> + +<P> +On this occasion Jane said: "And my means of self-expression is to play +on the keys of a typewriter." +</P> + +<P> +"Your time hasn't come," he replied. "When you have found your means +you will express yourself all the more greatly." +</P> + +<P> +Which was ingenious on the part of Paul, but ironically consoling to +Jane. +</P> + +<P> +One week-end during the session he spent at the Marchioness of +Chudley's place in Lancashire. He drove in a luxurious automobile +through the stately park, which once he had traversed in the brakeful +of urchins, the raggedest of them all, and his heart swelled with +pardonable exultation. He had passed through Bludston and he had caught +a glimpse of what had once been his brickfield, now the site of more +rows of mean little houses, and he had seen the grim factory chimneys +still smoking, smoking.... The little Buttons, having grown up into big +Buttons, were toiling away their lives in those factories. And Button +himself, the unspeakable Button? Was he yet alive? And Mrs. Button, who +had been Polly Kegworthy and called herself his mother? It was +astonishing how seldom he thought of her.... He had run away a +scarecrow boy in a gipsy van. He came back a formative force in the +land, the lover of a princess, the honoured guest of the great palace +of the countryside. He slipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket and +felt the cornelian heart. +</P> + +<P> +Yes, in the great palace he found himself an honoured guest. His name +was known independently of his work for the Winwoods. He was doing good +service to his party. The word had gone abroad—perhaps Frank Ayres had +kindly spoken it—that he was the coming man. Lady Chudley said: "I +wonder if you remember what we talked about when I first met you." +</P> + +<P> +Paul laughed, for she did not refer to the first meeting of all. "I'm +afraid I was very young and fatuous," said he. "It was years ago. I +hadn't grown up." +</P> + +<P> +"Never mind. We talked about waking the country from its sleep." +</P> + +<P> +"And you gave me a phrase, Lady Chudley—'the Awakener of England.' It +stuck. It crystallized all sorts of vague ambitions. I've never +forgotten it for five consecutive minutes. But how can you remember a +casual act of graciousness to an unimportant boy?" +</P> + +<P> +"No boy who dreams of England's greatness is unimportant," she said. +"You've proved me to be right. Your dreams are coming true—see, I +don't forget!" +</P> + +<P> +"I owe you far more than you could possibly imagine," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"No, no. Don't. Don't exaggerate. A laughing phrase—that's nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"It is something. Even a great deal. But it's not all," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"What else is there?" +</P> + +<P> +"You were one of the two or three," he said earnestly, thinking of the +Bludston factory, "who opened new horizons for me." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm a proud woman," said Lady Chudley. +</P> + +<P> +The next day, Sunday, old Lord Chudley dragged him into his own private +den. He had a very red, battered, clean-shaven face and very red hair +and side whiskers; and he was a very honest gentleman, believing +implicitly in God and the King and the House of Lords, and Foxes, and +the Dutch School of Painting, and his responsibility as a great +landowner toward the two or three thousand human beings with whom he +had business relations. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here, Savelli. I've looked into your League. It's a damned good +thing. About the only thing that has been invented which can stem the +tide of Socialism. Catch 'em young. That's the way. But you want the +sinews of war. You get subscriptions, but not enough; I've seen your +last balance sheet. You want a little army of—what the devil shall we +call 'em?" +</P> + +<P> +"Big Englanders," Paul suggested at a venture. +</P> + +<P> +"Good. We want an army of 'em to devote their whole time to the work. +Open a special fund. You and Ursula Winwood will know how to work it. +What Ursula Winwood doesn't know in this sort of business isn't worth +knowing—and here's something to head the list with." +</P> + +<P> +And he handed Paul a cheque, which after a dazed second or two he +realized to be one for five thousand pounds. +</P> + +<P> +That was the beginning of the financial prosperity and the real +political importance of the Young England League. Paul organized a +great public dinner with the Leader of the Opposition in the chair and +an amazing band of notables around the tables. Speeches were made, the +Marquis of Chudley's patriotism extolled, and subscription lists filled +up and handed to a triumphant organizing secretary. +</P> + +<P> +A powerful daily newspaper took up the cause and made strong appeal. +The Lodges made simultaneous efforts in their respective districts. +Money flowed into the League's coffers. +</P> + +<P> +When Parliament rose for the Easter recess Paul, the most tired, yet +the most blissful, youth among the Fortunate, flew straight to Venice, +where a happy-eyed princess welcomed him. She was living in a Palazzo +on the Grand Canal, lent to her—that is the graceful Italian way of +putting it—by some Venetian friends; and there, with Mademoiselle de +Cressy to keep off the importunate, she received such acquaintance as +floated from the ends of the earth through the enchanted city. +</P> + +<P> +"I have started by seeing as few people as I can," she said. "That's +all on account of you, monsieur." +</P> + +<P> +He pressed her hand. "I hope we don't see a single soul we know as long +as I'm here," he declared. +</P> + +<P> +His hope was gratified, not completely, but enough to remove grounds +for lover's fretfulness. He passed idyllic days in halcyon weather. +Often she would send her gondola to fetch him from the Grand Hotel, +where he was staying. Now and then, most graciously audacious of +princesses, she would come herself. On such occasions he would sit +awaiting her with beating heart, juvenis fortunatus nimium, on the +narrow veranda of the hotel, regardless of the domed white pile of +Santa Maria della Salute opposite, or the ceaseless life on the water, +or the sunshine, or anything else in Venice, his gaze fixed on the bend +of the canal; and then at last would appear the tall curved prow, and +then the white-clad, red-sashed Giacomo bending to his oar, and then +the white tenda with the dear form beneath, vaguely visible, and then +Felipe, clad like Giacomo and bending, too, rhythmically with the +foremost figure. Slowly, all too slowly, the gondola would near the +steps, and beneath the tenda would smile the dearest face in the world, +and the cheeks would be delicately flushed and the eyes tender and +somewhat shy. And Paul would stand, smiling too, a conquering young +figure with green Marienbad hat tilted with ever so tiny a shade of +jauntiness, the object of frankly admiring and curious glances from a +lone woman or two on the veranda, until the gondola was brought up to +the wave-washed steps, and the hotel porter had fixed the bridge of +plank. Then, with Giacomo supporting his elbow, he would board the +black craft and would creep under the tenda and sink on the low seat by +her side with a sense of daring and delicious intimacy, and the gondola +would glide away into fairyland. +</P> + +<P> +"Let us be real tourists and do Venice thoroughly," she had said. "I +have never seen it properly." +</P> + +<P> +"But you've been here many times before." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But—" +</P> + +<P> +She hesitated. +</P> + +<P> +"Eh bien?" +</P> + +<P> +"Je ne peux pas le dire. Il faut deviner." +</P> + +<P> +"Will you forgive me if I guess right? Our great Shakespeare says: +'Love lends a precious seeing to the eye.'" +</P> + +<P> +"That—that's very pretty," said the Princess in French. "I love much +your Shakespeare." +</P> + +<P> +Whereupon Paul recognized her admission of the correctness of his +conjecture; and so, with the precious vision they had borrowed, they +went about tourist-wise to familiar churches and palaces, and +everything they saw was lit with exceeding loveliness. And they saw the +great pictures of the world, and Paul, with his expert knowledge, +pointed out beauties she had not dreamed of hitherto, and told her +tales of the painters and discoursed picturesquely on Venetian history, +and she marvelled at his insight and learning and thought him the most +wonderful man that had ever dropped, ready-made, from heaven. And he, +in the flush of his new love, was thrilled by her touch and the low +tones of her voice when she plucked him by the sleeve and murmured: +"Ah, Paul, regardez-moi ca. It is so beautiful one wants to weep with +joy." +</P> + +<P> +They spoke now half in French, half in English, and she no longer +protested against his murderous accent, which, however, he strove to +improve. Love must have lent its precious hearing too, for she vowed +she loved to hear him speak her language. +</P> + +<P> +In the great Council Chamber of the Ducal Palace they looked at the +seventy-six portraits of the illustrious succession of Doges—with the +one tragic vacant space, the missing portrait of Marino Faliero, the +Rienzi of Venice, the man before his time. +</P> + +<P> +"It seizes one's heart, doesn't it?" said the Princess, with her +impulsive touch on his sleeve. "All these men were kings—sovereigns of +a mighty nation. And how like they are to one another—in this +essential quality one would say they were brothers of a great family." +</P> + +<P> +"Why, yes," he cried, scanning the rows of severe and subtle faces. +"It's true. Illuminatingly true." +</P> + +<P> +He slid up his wrist quickly so that his hand met hers; he held it. +"How swift your perception is! And what is that quality—that quality +common to them all—that quality of leadership? Let us try to find it." +</P> + +<P> +Unconsciously he gripped her hand, and she returned his pressure; and +they stood, as chance willed it, alone, free from circumambulant +tourists, in the vast chamber, vivid with Paul Veronese's colour on +wall and ceilings, with Tintoretto and Bassano' with the arrogant +splendour of the battles and the pomp and circumstance of victorious +armies of the proud and conquering republic, and their eyes were drawn +from all this painted and riotous wonder by the long arresting frieze +of portraits of serene, masterful and subtle faces. +</P> + +<P> +"The common factor—that's what we want, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she breathed. +</P> + +<P> +And as they stood, hand in hand, the unspoken thought vibrating between +them, the memory came to him of a day long ago when he had stood with +another woman—a girl then—before the photographs in the window of the +London Stereoscopic Company in Regent Street, and he had scanned faces +of successful men. He laughed—he could not help it—and drew his +Princess closer to him. Between the analogous then and the wonderful +now, how immense a difference! As he laughed she looked swiftly up into +his face. +</P> + +<P> +"I know why you laugh." +</P> + +<P> +"No, my Princess. Impossible." +</P> + +<P> +"Mais oui. Tell me. All these great princes"—she swept her little +gloved hand toward the frieze. "What is their common factor?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul, forgetful of his mirth, looked round. "'Indomitable will," said +he seriously. "Unconquerable ambition, illimitable faith. They all seem +to be saying their creed. 'I believe in myself almighty, and in Venice +under my control, and in God who made us both, and in the inferiority +of the remnant of the habitable globe.' Or else: 'In the beginning God +created Venice. Then He created the rest of the world. Then He created +Me. Then He retired and left me to deal with the situation.' Or else: +'I am an earthly Trinity. I am myself. I am Venice. I am God.'" +</P> + +<P> +"It is magnificent!" she cried. "How you understand them! How you +understand the true aristocratic spirit! They are all, what you call, +leaders of men. I did not expect an analysis so swift and so true. But, +Paul"—her voice sank adorably—"all these men lack +something—something that you have. And that is why I thought you +laughed." +</P> + +<P> +He smiled down on her. "Do you think I was measuring myself with these +men?" +</P> + +<P> +"Naturally. Why should you not?" she asked proudly. +</P> + +<P> +"And what have I got that they lack?" +</P> + +<P> +"Happiness," said the Princess. +</P> + +<P> +Paul was silent for a while, as they moved slowly away to the balcony +which overlooks the lagoon and San Giorgio Maggiore glowing warm in the +sunshine, and then he said: "Yet most of those men loved passionately +in their time, and were loved by beautiful women." +</P> + +<P> +"Their love was a thing of the passions, not of the spirit. You cannot +see a woman, that is to say happiness, behind any of their faces." +</P> + +<P> +He whispered: "Can you see a woman behind mine." +</P> + +<P> +"If you look like that," she replied, with a contented little laugh, +"the whole world can see it." And so their talk drifted far away from +Doges, just as their souls were drifting far from the Golden Calf of +the Frank and Loyal Friendship which Sophie the Princess had set up. +</P> + +<P> +How could they help it—and in Venice of all places in the world? If +she had determined on maintaining the friendship calm and austere, why +in Minerva's name had she bidden him hither? Sophie Zobraska passed for +a woman of sense. None knew better than she the perils of moonlit +canals and the sensuous splash of water against a gondola, and the sad +and dreamy beauty which sets the lonely heart aching for love. Why had +she done it? Some such questions must Mademoiselle de Cressy have +asked, for the Princess told him that Stephanie had lectured her +severely for going about so much in public alone with a beau jeune +homme. +</P> + +<P> +"But we don't always want Stephanie with us," she argued, "and she is +not sympathetic in Venice. She likes restaurants and people. Besides, +she is always with her friends at Danielli's, so if it weren't for you +I should be doing nothing all by myself in the lonely palazzo. +Forcement we go about together." +</P> + +<P> +Which was all sophistical and nonsensical; and she knew it, for there +was a mischievous little gleam in her eye as she spoke. But none the +less, shutting her ears to the unsympathetic Stephanie, did she +continue to show herself alone in public with the beautiful youth. She +had thrown her crown over the windmills for a few happy days; for a few +happy days she was feeding her starved nature, drinking in her fill of +beauty and colour and the joy of life. And the pair, thus forcibly +thrown together, drifted through the narrow canals beneath the old +crumbling palaces, side by side, and hand in hand while Giacomo and +Felipe, disregarded automata, bent to their oars. +</P> + +<P> +One afternoon, one mellow and memorable afternoon, they were returning +from Murano. Not a breath of wind ruffled the lagoon. The islands in +their spring verdure slumbered peacefully. Far away the shipping in the +bacino lay still like enchanted craft. Only a steamer or two, and here +and there the black line of a gondola with its standing, solitary +rower, broke the immobility of things. And Venice, russet and rose and +grey, brooded in the sunset, a city of dreams. They murmured words of +wonder and regret. Instinctively they drew near and their shoulders +touched. Their clasp of fingers tightened and their breath came +quickly, and for a long time they were silent. Then at last he +whispered her name, in the old foolish and inevitable way. And she +turned her face to him, and met his eyes and said "Paul," and her lips +as she said it seemed to speak a kiss. And all the earth was wrapped in +glory too overwhelming for speech. +</P> + +<P> +It was only when they entered the Grand Canal and drew up by the +striped posts of the palazzo that she said: "I have those Roman people +and the Heatherfields coming to dinner. I wish I hadn't." She sighed. +"Would you care to come?" +</P> + +<P> +He smiled into her eyes. "No, my Princess, not to-night. I should do +silly things. To-night I will go and talk to the moon. To-morrow, when +can I come?" +</P> + +<P> +"Early. As early as you like." +</P> + +<P> +And Paul went away and talked to the moon, and the next morning, his +heart tumultuous, presented himself at the palazzo. He was shown into +the stiff Italian drawing-room, with its great Venetian glass +chandelier, its heavy picture-hung walls, its Empire furniture covered +in yellow silk. Presently the door opened and she entered, girlish in +blouse and skirt, fresh as the morning. "Bon jour, Paul. I've not had +time to put on my hat, but—" +</P> + +<P> +She did not end, for he strode toward her and with a little laugh of +triumph took her in his arms and kissed her. And so what had to be came +to pass. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap16"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVI +</H3> + +<P> +"I LOVE you too much, my Sophie, to be called the Princess Zobraska's +husband." +</P> + +<P> +"And I love you too much, dear, to wish to be called anything else than +Paul Savelli's wife." +</P> + +<P> +That was their position, perfectly defined, perfectly understood. They +had arrived at it after many arguments and kisses and lovers' +protestations. +</P> + +<P> +"Such as I am I am," cried Paul. "A waif and stray, an unknown figure +coming out of the darkness. I have nothing to give you but my love." +</P> + +<P> +"Are there titles or riches on earth of equal value?" +</P> + +<P> +"But I must give you more. The name Paul Savelli itself must be a title +of honour." +</P> + +<P> +"It is becoming that," said the Princess. "And we can wait a little, +Paul, can't we? We are so happy like this. Ah!" she sighed. "I have +never been so happy in my life." +</P> + +<P> +"Nor I," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"And am I really the first?" +</P> + +<P> +"The first. Believe it or not as you like. But it's a fact. I've told +you my life's dream. I never sank below it; and that is why perhaps it +has come true." +</P> + +<P> +For once the assertion was not the eternal lie. Paul came fresh-hearted +to his Princess. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish I were a young girl, Paul." +</P> + +<P> +"You are a star turned woman. The Star of my Destiny in which I always +believed. The great things will soon come." +</P> + +<P> +They descended to more commonplace themes. Until the great things came, +what should be their mutual attitude before Society? +</P> + +<P> +"Until I can claim you, let it be our dear and beautiful secret," said +Paul. "I would not have it vulgarized by the chattering world for +anything in life." +</P> + +<P> +Then Paul proved himself to be a proud and delicate lover, and when +London with its season and its duties and its pleasures absorbed them, +he had his reward. For it was sweet to see her in great assemblies, +shining like a queen and like a queen surrounded by homage, and to know +that he alone of mortals was enthroned in her heart. It was sweet to +meet her laughing glance, dear fellow-conspirator. It was sweet every +morning and night to have the intimate little talk through the +telephone. And it was sweetest of all to snatch a precious hour with +her alone. Of such vain and foolish things is made all that is most +beautiful in life. +</P> + +<P> +He took his dearest lady—though Miss Winwood, now disclaimed the +title—into his confidence. So did the Princess. It was very comforting +to range Miss Winwood on their side; and to feel themselves in close +touch with her wisdom and sympathy. And her sympathy manifested itself +in practical ways—those of the woman confidante of every love affair +since the world began. Why should the Princess Zobraska not interest +herself in some of the philanthropic schemes of which the house in +Portland Place was the headquarters? There was one, a Forlorn Widows' +Fund, the presidency of which she would be willing to resign in favour +of the Princess. The work was trivial: it consisted chiefly in +consultation with Mr. Savelli and in signing letters. The Princess +threw her arms round her neck, laughing and blushing and calling her +delicieuse. You see it was obvious that Mr. Savelli could not be +consulted in his official capacity or official letters signed elsewhere +than in official precincts. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll do what I can for the pair of you," said Miss Winwood to Paul. +"But it's the most delightfully mad and impossible thing I've ever put +my hand to." +</P> + +<P> +Accepting the fact of their romance, however, she could not but approve +Paul's attitude. It was the proud attitude of the boy who nearly six +years ago was going, without a word, penniless and debonair out of her +house. All the woman in her glowed over him. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not going to be called an adventurer," he had declared. "I shall +not submit Sophie to the indignity of trailing a despised husband after +her. I'm not going to use her rank and wealth as a stepping-stone to my +ambitions. Let me first attain an unassailable position. I shall have +owed it to you, to myself, to anybody you like—but not to my marriage. +I shall be somebody. The rest won't matter. The marriage will then be a +romantic affair, and romantic affairs are not unpopular dans le monde +ou l'on s'ennuie." +</P> + +<P> +This declaration was all very well; the former part all very noble, the +latter exhibiting a knowledge of the world rather shrewd for one so +young. But when would he be able to attain his unassailable position? +Some years hence. Would Sophie Zobraska, who was only a few months +younger than he, be content to sacrifice these splendid and +irretrievable years of her youth? Ursula Winwood looked into the +immediate future, and did not see it rosy. The first step toward an +unassailable position was flight from the nest. This presupposed an +income. If the party had been in power it would not have been difficult +to find him a post. She worried herself exceedingly, for in her sweet +and unreprehensible way she was more than ever in love with Paul. +Meeting Frank Ayres one night at a large reception, she sought his +advice. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mind a wrench?" he asked. "No? Well, then—you and Colonel +Winwood send him about his business and get another secretary. Let +Savelli give all his time to his Young England League. Making him mug +up material for Winwood's speeches and write letters to constituents +about football clubs is using a razor to cut butter. His League's the +thing. It can surely afford to pay him a decent salary. If it can't +I'll see to a guarantee." +</P> + +<P> +"The last thing we see, my dear Frank," she said after she had thanked +him, "is that which is right under our noses." +</P> + +<P> +The next day she went to Paul full of the scheme. Had he ever thought +of it? He took her hands and smiled in his gay, irresistible way. "Of +course, dearest lady," he said frankly. "But I would have cut out my +tongue sooner than suggest it." +</P> + +<P> +"I know that, my dear boy." +</P> + +<P> +"And yet," said he, "I can't bear the idea of tearing myself away from +you. It seems like black ingratitude." +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't. You forget that James and I have our little ambitions +too—the ambition of a master for a favourite pupil. If you were a +failure we should both be bitterly disappointed. Don't you see? And as +for leaving us—why need you? We should miss you horribly. You've never +been quite our paid servant. And now you're something like our son." +Tears started in the sweet lady's clear eyes. "Even if you did go to +your own chambers, I shouldn't let our new secretary have this +room"—they were in what the household called "the office"—really +Paul's luxuriously furnished private sitting room, which contained his +own little treasures of books and pictures and bits of china and glass +accumulated during the six years of easeful life—"He will have the +print room, which nobody uses from one year's end to another, and which +is far more convenient for the street door. And the same at Drane's +Court. So when you no longer work for us, my dear boy, our home will be +yours, as long as you're content to stay, just because we love you." +</P> + +<P> +Her hand was on his shoulder and his head was bent. "God grant," said +he, "that I may be worthy of your love." +</P> + +<P> +He looked up and met her eyes. Her hand was still on his shoulder. Then +very simply he bent down and kissed her on the cheek. +</P> + +<P> +He told his Princess all about it. She listened with dewy eyes. "Ah, +Paul," she said. "That 'precious seeing' of love—I never had it till +you came. I was blind. I never knew that there were such beautiful +souls as Ursula Winwood in the world." +</P> + +<P> +"Dear, how I love you for saying that!" cried Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"But it's true." +</P> + +<P> +"That is why," said he. +</P> + +<P> +So the happiest young man in London worked and danced through the +season, knowing that the day of emancipation was at hand. His +transference from the Winwoods to the League was fixed for October 1. +He made great plans for an extension of the League's, activities, +dreamed of a palace for headquarters with the banner of St. George +flying proudly over it, an object-lesson for the nation. One day in +July while he was waiting for Colonel Winwood in the lobby of the House +of Commons, Frank Ayres stopped in the middle of a busy rush and shook +hands. +</P> + +<P> +"Been down to Hickney Heath again? I would if I were you. Rouse 'em up." +</P> + +<P> +As the words of a Chief Whip are apt to be significant, Paul closeted +himself with the President of the Hickney Heath Lodge, who called the +Secretary of the local Conservative Association to the interview. The +result was that Paul was invited to speak at an anti-Budget meeting +convened by the Association. He spoke, and repeated his success. The +Conservative newspapers the next morning gave a resume of his speech. +His Sophie, coming to sign letters in her presidential capacity, +brought him the cuttings, a proceeding which he thought adorable. The +season ended triumphantly. +</P> + +<P> +For a while he lost his Princess. She went to Cowes, then to stay with +French relations in a chateau in the Dordogne. Paul went off yachting +with the Chudleys and returned for the shooting to Drane's Court. In +the middle of September the Winwoods' new secretary arrived and +received instruction in his duties. Then came the Princess to Morebury +Park. "Dearest," she said, in his arms, "I never want to leave you +again. France is no longer France for me since I have England in my +heart." +</P> + +<P> +"You remember that? My wonderful Princess!" +</P> + +<P> +He found her more woman, more expansive, more bewitchingly caressing. +Absence had but brought her nearer. When she laid her head on his +shoulder and murmured in the deep and subtle tones of her own language: +"My Paul, it seems such a waste of time to be apart," it took all his +pride and will to withstand the maddening temptation. He vowed that the +time would soon come when he could claim her, and went away in feverish +search for worlds to conquer. +</P> + +<P> +Then came October and London once more. +</P> + +<HR ALIGN="center" WIDTH="60%"> + +<P> +Paul was dressing for dinner one evening when a reply-paid telegram was +brought to him. +</P> + +<P> +"If selected by local committee will you stand for Hickney Heath? +Ayres." +</P> + +<P> +He sat on his bed, white and trembling, and stared at the simple +question. The man-servant stood imperturbable, silver tray in hand. +Seeing the reply-paid form, he waited for a few moments. +</P> + +<P> +"Is there an answer, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul nodded, asked for a pencil, and with a shaky hand wrote the reply. +"Yes," was all he said. +</P> + +<P> +Then with reaction came the thrill of mighty exultation, and, throwing +on his clothes, he rushed to the telephone in his sitting room. Who +first to hear the wondrous news but his Princess? That there was a +vacancy in Hickney Heath he knew, as all Great Britain knew; for +Ponting, the Radical Member, had died suddenly the day before. But it +had never entered his head that he could be chosen as a candidate. +</P> + +<P> +"Mais j'y ai bien pense, moi," came the voice through the telephone. +"Why did Lord Francis tell you to go to Hickney Heath last July?" +</P> + +<P> +How a woman leaps at things! With all his ambition, his astuteness, +his political intuition, he had not seen the opportunity. But it had +come. Verily the stars in their courses were fighting for him. Other +names, he was aware, were before the Committee of the Local +Association, perhaps a great name suggested by the Central Unionist +Organization; there was also that of the former Tory member, who, +smarting under defeat at the General Election, had taken but a lukewarm +interest in the constituency and was now wandering in the Far East. But +Paul, confident in his destiny, did not doubt that he would be +selected. And then, within the next fortnight—for bye-elections during +a Parliamentary session are matters of sweeping swiftness—would come +the great battle, the great decisive battle of his life, and he would +win. He must win. His kingdom was at stake—the dream kingdom of his +life into which he would enter with his loved and won Princess on his +arm. He poured splendid foolishness through the telephone into an +enraptured ear. +</P> + +<P> +The lack of a sense of proportion is a charge often brought against +women; but how often do men (as they should) thank God for it? Here was +Sophie Zobraska, reared from childhood in the atmosphere of great +affairs, mixing daily with folk who guided the destiny of nations, +having two years before refused in marriage one of those who held the +peace of Europe in his hands, moved to tense excitement of heart and +brain and soul by the news that an obscure young man might possibly be +chosen to contest a London Borough for election to the British +Parliament, and thrillingly convinced that now was imminent the great +momentous crisis in the history of mankind. +</P> + +<P> +With a lack of the same sense of proportion, equal in kind, though +perhaps not so passionate in degree, did Miss Winwood receive the +world-shaking tidings. She wept, and, thinking Paul a phoenix, called +Frank Ayres an angel. Colonel Winwood tugged his long, drooping +moustache and said very little; but he committed the astounding +indiscretion of allowing his glass to be filled with champagne; +whereupon he lifted it, and said, "Here's luck, my dear boy," and +somewhat recklessly gulped down the gout-compelling liquid. And after +dinner, when Miss Winwood had left them together, he lighted a long +Corona instead of his usual stumpy Bock, and discussed with Paul +electioneering ways and means. +</P> + +<P> +For the next day or two Paul lived in a whirl of telephones, telegrams, +letters, scurryings across London, interviews, brain-racking +questionings and reiterated declarations of political creed. But his +selection was a foregone conclusion. His youth, his absurd beauty, his +fire and eloquence, his unswerving definiteness of aim, his magic that +had inspired so many with a belief in him and had made him the +Fortunate Youth, captivated the imagination of the essentially +unimaginative. Before a committee of wits and poets, Paul perhaps would +not have had a dog's chance. But he appealed to the hard-headed +merchants and professional men who chose him very much as the hero of +melodrama appeals to a pit and gallery audience. He symbolized to them +hope and force and predestined triumph. One or two at first sniffed +suspiciously at his lofty ideals; but as there was no mistaking his +political soundness, they let the ideals pass, as a natural and +evanescent aroma. +</P> + +<P> +So, in his thirtieth year, Paul was nominated as Unionist candidate for +the Borough of Hickney Heath, and he saw himself on the actual +threshold of the great things to which he was born. He wrote a little +note to Jane telling her the news. He also wrote to Barney Bill: "You +dear old Tory—did you ever dream that ragamuffin little Paul was going +to represent you in Parliament? Get out the dear old 'bus and paint it +blue, with 'Paul Savelli forever' in gold letters, and, instead of +chairs and mats, hang it with literature, telling what a wonderful +fellow P. S. is. And go through the streets of Hickney Heath with it, +and say if you like: 'I knew him when' he was a nipper—that high.' And +if you like to be mysterious and romantic you can say: 'I, Barney Bill, +gave him his first chance,' as you did, my dear old friend, and Paul's +not the man to forget it. Oh, Barney, it's too wonderful"—his heart +went out to the old man. "If I get in I will tell you something that +will knock you flat. It will be the realization of all the silly +rubbish I talked in the old brickfield at Bludston. But, dear old +friend, it was you and the open road that first set me on the patriotic +lay, and there's not a voter in Hickney Heath who can vote as you +can—for his own private and particular trained candidate." +</P> + +<P> +Jane, for reasons unconjectured, did not reply. But from Barney Bill, +who, it must be remembered, had leanings toward literature, he received +a postcard with the following inscription: "Paul, Hif I can help you +konker the Beastes of Effesus I will. Bill." +</P> + +<P> +And then began the furious existence of an electioneering campaign. His +side had a clear start of the Radicals, who found some hitch in the +choice of their candidate. The Young England League leaped into +practical enthusiasm over their champion. Seldom has young candidate +had so glad a welcome. And behind him stood his Sophie, an inspiring +goddess. +</P> + +<P> +It so happened that for a date a few days hence had been fixed the +Annual General Meeting of the Forlorn Widows' Fund, when Report and +Balance Sheet were presented to the society. The control of this +organization Paul had not allowed to pass into the alien hands of +Townsend, the Winwoods' new secretary. Had not his Princess, for the +most delicious reasons in the world, been made President? He scorned +Ursula Winwood's suggestion that for this year he would allow Townsend +to manage affairs. "What!" cried he, "leave my Princess in the lurch on +her first appearance? Never!" By telephone he arranged an hour for the +next day, when they could all consult together over this important +matter. +</P> + +<P> +"But, my dear boy," said Miss Winwood, "your time is not your own. +Suppose you're detained at Hickney Heath?" +</P> + +<P> +"The Conqueror," he cried, with a gay laugh, "belongs to the +Detainers—not the Detained." +</P> + +<P> +She looked at him out of her clear eyes, and shook an indulgent head. +</P> + +<P> +"I know," said he, meeting her glance shrewdly. "He has got to use his +detaining faculty with discretion. I've made a study of the little ways +of conquerors. Ali! Dearest lady!" he burst out suddenly, in his +impetuous way, "I'm talking nonsense; but I'm so uncannily happy!" +</P> + +<P> +"It does me good to look at you," she said. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap17"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVII +</H3> + +<P> +PAUL leaned back in his leather writing chair, smoking a cigarette and +focussing the electioneering situation. Beside a sheet of foolscap on +which he had been jotting down notes lay in neat piles the typewritten +Report of the Forlorn Widows' Fund, the account book and the banker's +pass book. He had sat up till three o'clock in the morning preparing +for his Princess. Nothing now remained but the formal "examined and +found correct" report of the auditors. For the moment the Forlorn +Widows stood leagues away from Paul's thoughts. He had passed a +strenuous day at Hickney Heath, lunching in the committee room on +sandwiches and whisky and soda obtained from the nearest tavern, +talking, inventing, dictating, writing, playing upon dull minds the +flashes of his organizing genius. His committee was held up for the +while by a dark rift in the Radical camp. They had not yet chosen their +man. Nothing was known, save that a certain John Questerhayes, K. C., +an eminent Chancery barrister, who had of late made himself conspicuous +in the constituency, had been turned down on the ground that he was not +sufficiently progressive. Now for comfort to the Radical the term +"Progressive" licks the blessed word Mesopotamia into a cocked hat. +Under the Progressive's sad-coloured cloak he need not wear the red tie +of the socialist. Apparently Mr. Questerhayes objected to the +sad-coloured cloak, the mantle of Elijah, M. P., the late member for +Hickney Heath. "Wanted: an Elisha," seemed to be the cry of the Radical +Committee. +</P> + +<P> +Paul leaned back, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his finger tips +together, a cigarette between his lips, lost in thought. The early +November twilight deepened in the room. He was to address a meeting +that night. In order to get ready for his speech he had not allowed +himself to be detained, and had come home early. His speech had been +prepared; but the Radical delay was a new factor of which he might take +triumphant advantage. Hence the pencil notes on the sheet of foolscap, +before him. +</P> + +<P> +A man-servant came in, turned on the electric light, pulled the +curtains together and saw to the fire. +</P> + +<P> +"Tea's in the drawing-room, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"Bring me some here in a breakfast cup—nothing to eat," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +Even his dearest lady could not help him in his meditated attack on the +enemy whom the Lord was delivering into his hands. +</P> + +<P> +The man-servant went away. Presently Paul heard him reenter the room; +the door was at his back. He threw out an impatient hand behind him. +"Put it down anywhere, Wilton, I'll have it when I want it." +</P> + +<P> +"I beg pardon, sir," said the man, coming forward, "but it's not the +tea. There's a gentleman and a lady and another person would like to +see you. I said that you were busy, sir, but—" +</P> + +<P> +He put the silver salver, with its card, in front of Paul. Printed on +the card was, "Mr. Silas Finn." In pencil was written: "Miss Seddon, +Mr. William Simmons." +</P> + +<P> +Paul looked at the card in some bewilderment. What in the name of +politics or friendship were they doing in Portland Place? Not to +receive them, however, was unthinkable. +</P> + +<P> +"Show them in," said he. +</P> + +<P> +Silas Finn, Jane and Barney Bill! It was odd. He laughed and took out +his watch. Yes, he could easily give them half an hour or so. But why +had they come? He had found time to call once at the house in Hickney +Heath since his return to town, and then he had seen Jane and Silas +Finn together and they had talked, as far as he could remember, of the +Disestablishment of the Anglican Church and the elevating influence of +landscape painting on the human soul. Why had they come? It could not +be to offer their services during the election, for Silas Finn in +politics was a fanatical enemy. The visit stirred a lively curiosity. +</P> + +<P> +They entered: Mr. Finn in his usual black with many-coloured tie and +diamond ring, looking more mournfully grave than ever; Jane wearing an +expression half of anxiety and half of defiance; Barney Bill, very +uncomfortable in his well-preserved best suit, very restless and +nervous. They gave the impression of a deputation coming to announce +the death of a near relative. Paul received them cordially. But why in +the world, thought he, were they all so solemn? He pushed forward +chairs. +</P> + +<P> +"I got your postcard, Bill. Thanks so much for it." +</P> + +<P> +Bill grunted and embraced his hard felt hat. +</P> + +<P> +"I ought to have written to you," said Jane—"but—-" +</P> + +<P> +"She felt restrained by her duty towards me," said Mr. Finn. "I hope +you did not think it was discourteous on her part." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear sir," Paul laughed, seating himself in his writing chair, +which he twisted away from the table, "Jane and I are too old friends +for that. In her heart I know she wishes me luck. And I hope you do +too, Mr. Finn," he added pleasantly—"although I know you're on the +other side." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm afraid my principles will not allow me to wish you luck in this +election, Mr. Savelli." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, well," said Paul. "It doesn't matter. If you vote against me +I'll not bear malice." +</P> + +<P> +"I am not going to vote against you, Mr. Savelli," said Mr. Finn, +looking at him with melancholy eyes. "I am going to stand against you." +</P> + +<P> +Paul sprang forward in his chair. Here was fantastic news indeed! +"Stand against me? You? You're the Radical candidate?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +Paul laughed boyishly. "Why, it's capital! I'm awfully glad." +</P> + +<P> +"I was asked this morning," said Mr. Finn gravely. "I prayed God for +guidance. He answered, and I felt it my duty to come to you at once, +with our two friends." +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill cocked his head on one side. "I did my best to persuade him +not to, sonny." +</P> + +<P> +"But why shouldn't he?" cried Paul courteously—though why he should +puzzled him exceedingly. "It's very good of you, Mr. Finn. I'm sure +your side," he went on, "could not have chosen a better man. You're +well known in the constituency—I am jolly lucky to have a man like you +as an opponent." +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Savelli," said Mr. Finn, "it was precisely so that we should not +be opponents that I have taken this unusual step." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't quite understand," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Finn wants you to retire in favour of some other Conservative +candidate," said Jane calmly. +</P> + +<P> +"Retire? I retire?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul looked at her, then at Barney Bill, who nodded his white head, +then at Mr. Finn, whose deep eyes met his with a curious tragical +mournfulness. The proposal took his breath away. It was crazily +preposterous. But for their long faces he would have burst into +laughter. "Why on earth do you want me to retire?" he asked +good-humouredly. +</P> + +<P> +"I will tell you," said Mr. Finn. "Because you will have God against +you." +</P> + +<P> +Paul saw a gleam of light in the dark mystery of the visit. "You may +believe it, Mr. Finn, but I don't. I believe that my war cry, 'God for +England, Savelli and Saint George,' is quite as acceptable to, the +Almighty as yours." +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Finn stretched out two hands in earnest deprecation. "Forgive me if +I say it; but you don't know what you're talking about. God has not +revealed Himself to you. He has to me. When my fellow-citizens asked me +to stand as the Liberal candidate, I thought it was because they knew +me to be an upright man, who had worked hard on their council, an +active apostle in the cause of religion, temperance and the suppression +of vice. I thought I had merely deserved well in their opinion. When I +fell on my knees and prayed the glory of the Lord spread about me and I +knew that they had been divinely inspired. It was revealed to me that +this was a Divine Call to represent the Truth in the Parliament of the +nation." +</P> + +<P> +"I remember your saying, when I first had the pleasure of meeting you," +Paul remarked, with unwonted dryness, "that the Kingdom of Heaven was +not adequately represented in the House of Commons." +</P> + +<P> +"I have not changed my opinion, Mr Savelli. The hand of God has guided +my business. The hand of God is placing me in the House of Commons to +work His will. You cannot oppose God's purpose, Paul Savelli—and that +is why I beg you not to stand against me." +</P> + +<P> +"You see, he likes yer," interjected Barney Bill, with anxiety in his +glittering eyes. "That's why he's a-doing of it. He says to hisself, +says he, 'ere's a young chap what I likes with his first great chance +in front of him, with the eyes of the country sot on him—now if I +comes in and smashes him, as I can't help myself from doing, it'll be +all u-p with that young chap's glorious career. But if I warns him in +time, then he can retire—find an honourable retreat—that's what he +wants yer to have—an honourable retreat. Isn't that it, Silas?" +</P> + +<P> +"Those are the feelings by which I am actuated," said Mr. Finn. +</P> + +<P> +Paul stretched himself out in his chair, his ankles crossed, and +surveyed his guests. "What do you think of it, Jane?" said he, not +without a touch of irony. +</P> + +<P> +She had been looking into the fire, her face in profile. Addressed, she +turned. "Mr. Finn has your interests very deep at heart," she answered +tonelessly. +</P> + +<P> +Paul jumped to his feet and laughed his fresh laugh. It was all so +comic, so incredible, so mad. Yet none of them appeared to see any +humour in the situation. There sat Jane and Barney Bill cowering under +the influence of their crazy fishmongering apostle; and there, +regarding him with a world of appeal in his sorrowful eyes, sat the +apostle himself, bolt upright in his chair, an odd figure with his +streaked black and white hair, ascetic face and Methodistico-Tattersall +raiment. And they all seemed to expect him to obey this quaint person's +fanatical whimsy. +</P> + +<P> +"It's very kind indeed of you, Mr. Finn, to consult my interests in +this manner," said he. "And I'm most indebted to you for your +consideration. But, as I said before, I've as much reason for believing +God to be on my side as you have. And I honestly believe I'm going to +win this election. So I certainly won't withdraw." +</P> + +<P> +"I implore you to do so. I will go on my knees and beseech you," said +Mr. Finn, with hands clasped in front of him. +</P> + +<P> +Paul looked round. "I'm afraid, Bill," said he, "that this is getting +rather painful." +</P> + +<P> +"It is painful. It's more than painful. It's horrible! It's ghastly!" +cried Mr. Finn, in sudden shrill crescendo, leaping to his feet. In an +instant the man's demeanour had changed. The mournful apostle had +become a wild, vibrating creature with flashing eyes and fingers. +</P> + +<P> +"Easy, now, Silas. Whoa! Steady!" said Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +Silas Finn advanced on Paul and clapped his hands on his shoulders and +shouted hoarsely: "For the love of God—don't thwart me in this. You +can't thwart me. You daren't thwart me. You daren't thwart God." +</P> + +<P> +Paul disengaged himself impatiently. The humour had passed from the +situation. The man was a lunatic, a religious maniac. Again he +addressed Barney Bill. "As I can't convince Mr. Finn of the absurdity +of his request, I must ask you to do so for me." +</P> + +<P> +"Young man," cried Silas, quivering with passion, "do not speak to +God's appointed in your vanity and your arrogance. You—you—of all +human beings—" +</P> + +<P> +Both Jane and Barney Bill closed round him. Jane clutched his arm. +"Come away. Do come away." +</P> + +<P> +"Steady now, Silas," implored Barney Bill. "You see it's no use. I told +you so. Come along." +</P> + +<P> +"Leave me alone," shouted Finn, casting them off. "What have I to do +with you? It is that young man there who defies God and me." +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Finn," said Paul, very erect, "if I have hurt your feelings I am +sorry. But I fight this election. That's final. The choice no longer +rests with me. I'm the instrument of my party. I desire to be courteous +in every way, but you must see that it would be useless to prolong this +discussion." And he moved to the door. +</P> + +<P> +"Come away now, for Heaven's sake. Can't you realize it's no good?" +said Jane, white to the lips. +</P> + +<P> +Silas Finn again cast her off and railed and raved at her. "I will not +go away," he cried in wild passion. "I will not allow my own son to +raise an impious hand against the Almighty." +</P> + +<P> +"Lor' lumme!" gasped Barney Bill, dropping his hat. "He's done it." +</P> + +<P> +There was a silence. Silas Finn stood shaking in the middle of the +room, the sweat streaming down his forehead. +</P> + +<P> +Paul turned at the door and walked slowly up to him. "Your son? What do +you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +Jane, with wringing hands and tense, uplifted face, said in a queer +cracked voice: "He promised us not to speak. He has broken his promise." +</P> + +<P> +"You broke your sacred word," said Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +The man's face grew haggard. His passion left him as suddenly as it had +seized him. He collapsed, a piteous wreck, looked wide of the three, +and threw out his hands helplessly. "I broke my promise. May God +forgive me!" +</P> + +<P> +"That's neither here nor there," said Paul, standing over him. "You +must answer my question. What do you mean?" +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill limped a step or two toward him and cleared his throat. +"He's quite correct, sonny. Silas Kegworthy's your father right enough." +</P> + +<P> +"Kegworthy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Changed his name for business—and other reasons." +</P> + +<P> +"He?" said Paul, half dazed for the moment and pointing at Silas Finn. +"His name is Kegworthy and he is my father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sonny. 'Tain't my fault, or Jane's. He took his Bible oath he +wouldn't tell yer. We was afraid, so we come with him." +</P> + +<P> +"Then?" queried Paul, jerking a thumb toward Lancashire. +</P> + +<P> +"Polly Kegworthy? Yes. She was yer mother." +</P> + +<P> +Paul set his teeth and drew a deep breath—not of air, but of a million +sword points, Jane watched him out of frightened eyes. She alone, with +her all but life-long knowledge of him, and with her woman's intuition, +realized the death-blow that he had received. And when she saw him take +it unflinching and stand proud and stern, her heart leaped toward him, +though she knew that the woman in the great chased silver photograph +frame on the mantelpiece, the great and radiant lady, the high and +mighty and beautiful and unapproachable Princess, was the woman he +loved. Paul touched his father on the wrist, and motioned to a chair. +</P> + +<P> +"Please sit down. You too, please,"—he waved a hand, and himself +resumed his seat in his writing chair. He turned it so that he could +rest his elbow on his table and his forehead in his palm. "You claim to +be my father," said he. "Barney Bill, in whom I have implicit +confidence, confirms it. He says that Mrs. Button is my mother—" +</P> + +<P> +"She has been dead these six years," said Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't think it would interest yer, sonny," replied Barney Bill, in +great distress. "Yer see, we conspirated together for yer never to know +nothing at all about all this. Anyway, she's dead and won't worry yer +any more." +</P> + +<P> +"She was a bad mother to me. She is a memory of terror. I don't pretend +to be grieved," said Paul; "any more than I pretend to be overcome by +filial emotion at the present moment. But, if you are my father, I +should be glad to know—in fact, I think I'm entitled to know—why +you've taken thirty years to reveal yourself, and why"—a sudden fury +swept him—"why you've come now to play hell with my life." +</P> + +<P> +"It is the will of God," said Silas Finn, in deep dejection. +</P> + +<P> +Paul snapped three or four fingers. "Bah!" he cried. "Talk sense. Talk +facts. Leave God out of the question for a while. It's blasphemy to +connect Him with a sordid business like this. Tell me about myself—my +parentage—let me know where I am." +</P> + +<P> +"You're with three people as loves yer, sonny," said Barney Bill. "What +passes in this room will never be known to another soul on earth." +</P> + +<P> +"That I swear," said Silas Finn. +</P> + +<P> +"You can publish it broadcast in every newspaper in England," said +Paul. "I'm making no bargains. Good God! I'm asking for nothing but the +truth. What use I make of it is my affair. You can do—the three of +you—what you like. Let the world know. It doesn't matter. It's I that +matter—my life and my conscience and my soul that matter." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be too hard upon me," Silas besought him very humbly. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me about myself," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +Silas Finn wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and covered his +eyes with his hand. "That can only mean telling you about myself," he +said. "It's raking up a past which I had hoped, with God's help, to +bury. But I have sinned to-night, and it is my punishment to tell you. +And you have a right to know. My father was a porter in Covent Garden +Market. My mother—I've already mentioned—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—the Sicilian and the barrel organ—I remember," said Paul, with a +shiver. +</P> + +<P> +"I had a hard boyhood. But I rose a little above my class. I educated +myself more or less. At last I became assistant in a fishmonger's shop. +Our friend Simmons here and I were boys together. We fell in love with +the same girl. I married her. Not long afterward she gave way to drink. +I found that in all kinds of ways I had mistaken her character. I can't +describe your own mother to you. She had a violent temper. So had I. My +life was a hell upon earth. One day she goaded me beyond my endurance +and I struck at her with a knife. I meant at the bloodred instant to +kill her. But I didn't. I nearly killed her. I went to prison for three +years. When I came out she had vanished, taking you with her. In prison +I found the Grace of God and I vowed it should be my guide through +life. As soon as I was free from police supervision I changed my +name—I believe it's a good old Devonshire name; my father came from +there—the prison taint hung about it. Then, when I found I could +extend a miserable little business I had got together, I changed it +again to suit my trade. That's about all." +</P> + +<P> +There was a spell of dead silence. The shrunken man, stricken with a +sense of his sin of oath-breaking, had Spoken without change of +attitude, his hand over his eyes. Paul, too, sat motionless, and +neither Jane nor Barney Bill spoke. Presently Silas Finn continued: +</P> + +<P> +"For many years I tried to find my wife and son—but it was not God's +will. I have lived with the stain of murder on my soul"—his voice +sank—"and it has never been washed away. Perhaps it will be in God's +good time.... And I had condemned my son to a horrible existence—for I +knew my wife was not capable of bringing you up in the way of clean +living. I was right. Simmons has since told me—and I was crushed +beneath the burden of my sins." +</P> + +<P> +After a pause he raised a drawn face and went on to tell of his +meeting, the year before, with Barney Bill, of whom he had lost track +when the prison doors had closed behind him. It had been in one of his +Fish Palaces where Bill was eating. They recognized each other. Barney +Bill told his tale: how he had run across Polly Kegworthy after a dozen +years' wandering; how, for love of his old friend, he had taken Paul, +child of astonishing promise, away from Bludston— +</P> + +<P> +"Do you remember, sonny, when I left you alone that night and went to +the other side of the brickfield? It was to think it out," said Bill. +"To think out my duty as a man." +</P> + +<P> +Paul nodded. He was listening, with death in his heart. The whole +fantastic substructure of his life had been suddenly kicked away, and +his life was an inchoate ruin. Gone was the glamour of romance in which +since the day of the cornelian heart he had had his essential being. Up +to an hour ago he had never doubted his mysterious birth. No real +mother could have pursued an innocent child with Polly Kegworthy's +implacable hatred. His passionate repudiation of her had been a +cardinal article of his faith. On the other hand, the prince and +princess theory he had long ago consigned to the limbo of childish +things; but the romance of his birth, the romance of his high destiny, +remained a vital part of his spiritual equipment. His looks, his +talents, his temperament, his instincts, his dreams had been +irrefutable confirmations. His mere honesty, his mere integrity, had +been based on this fervent and unshakable creed. And now it had gone. +No more romance. No more glamour. No more Vision Splendid now faded +into the light of common and sordid day. Outwardly listening, his gay, +mobile face turned to iron, he lived in a molten intensity of thought, +his acute brain swiftly coordinating the ironical scraps of history. He +was the son of Polly Kegworthy. So far he was unclean; but hitherto her +blood had not manifested itself in him. He was the son of this violent +and pathetic fanatic, this ex-convict; he had his eyes, his refined +face; perhaps he inherited from him the artistic temperament—he +recalled grimly the daubs on the man's walls, and his purblind gropings +toward artistic self-expression; and all this—the Southern +handsomeness, and Southern love of colour, had come from his Sicilian +grandmother, the nameless drab, with bright yellow handkerchief over +swarthy brows, turning the handle of a barrel organ in the London +streets. Instinct had been right in its promptings to assume an Italian +name; but the irony of it was of the quality that makes for humour in +hell. And his very Christian name—Paul—the exotic name which Polly +Kegworthy would not have given to a brat of hers—was but a natural one +for a Silas to give his son, a Silas born of generations of evangelical +peasants. His eyes rested on the photograph of his Princess. She, first +of all, was gone with the Vision. An adventurer he had possibly been; +but an adventurer of romance, carried high by his splendid faith, and +regarding his marriage with the Princess but as a crowning of his +romantic destiny. But now he beheld himself only as a base-born +impostor. His Princess was gone from his life. Death was in his heart. +</P> + +<P> +He saw his familiar, luxurious room as in a dream, and Jane, +anxious-eyed, looking into the fire, and Barney Bill a little way off, +clutching his hard felt hat against his body; but his eyes were fixed +on the strange, many-passioned, unbalanced man who claimed to be—nay, +who was—his father. +</P> + +<P> +"When I first met you that night my heart went out to you," he was +saying. "It overflowed in thankfulness to God that He had delivered you +out of the power of the Dog, and in His inscrutable mercy had condoned +that part of my sin as a father and had set you in high places." +</P> + +<P> +With the fringe of his brain Paul recognized, for the first time, how +he brought into ordinary talk the habits of speech acquired in +addressing a Free Zionist congregation. +</P> + +<P> +"It was only the self-restraint," Silas continued, "taught me by bitter +years of agony and a message from God that it was part of my punishment +not to acknowledge you as my son—" +</P> + +<P> +"And what I told you, and what Jane told you about him," said Barney +Bill. "Remember that, Silas." +</P> + +<P> +"I remember it—it was these influences that kept me silent. But we +were drawn together, Paul." He bent forward in his chair. "You liked +me. In spite of all our differences of caste and creed—you liked me." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I was drawn to you," said Paul, and a strange, unknown note in +his voice caused Jane to glance at him swiftly. "You seemed to be a man +of many sorrows and deep enthusiasms—and I admit I was in close +sympathy with you." He paused, not moving from his rigid attitude, and +then went on: "What you have told me of your sufferings—and I know, +with awful knowledge, the woman who was my mother—has made me +sympathize with you all the more. But to express that sympathy in any +way you must give me time. I said you had played hell with my life. +It's true. One of these days I may be able to explain. Not now. There's +no time. We're caught up in the wheels of an inexorable political +machine. I address my party in the constituency to-night." It was a +cold intelligence that spoke, and once more Jane flashed a +half-frightened glance at him. "What I shall say to them, in view of +all this, I don't quite know. I must have half an hour to think." +</P> + +<P> +"I know I oughtn't to interfere, Paul," said Jane, "but you mustn't +blame Mr. Finn too much. Although he differs from you in politics and +so on, he loves you and is proud of you—as we all are—and looks +forward to your great career—I know it only too well. And now he has +this deep conviction that he has a call from on High to ruin your +career at the very beginning. Do understand, Paul, that he feels +himself in a very terrible position." +</P> + +<P> +"I do," said Mr. Finn. "God knows that if it weren't for His command, I +should myself withdraw." +</P> + +<P> +"I appreciate your position, perfectly," replied Paul, "but that +doesn't relieve me of my responsibilities." +</P> + +<P> +Silas Finn rose and locked the fingers of both hands together and stood +before Paul, with appealing eyes. "My son, after what I have said, you +are not going to stand against me?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul rose too. A sudden craze of passion swept him. "My country has +been my country for thirty years. You have been my father for five +minutes. I stand by my country." +</P> + +<P> +Silas Finn turned away and waved a haphazard hand. "And I must stand by +my God." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well. That brings us to our original argument. 'Political foes. +Private friends.'" +</P> + +<P> +Silas turned again and looked into the young man's eyes. "But father +and son, Paul." +</P> + +<P> +"All the more honourable. There'll be no mud-throwing. The cleanest +election of the century." +</P> + +<P> +The elder man again covered his face with both hands, and his black and +white streaked hair fell over his fingers and the great diamond in his +ring flashed oddly, and he rocked his head for a while to and fro. +</P> + +<P> +"I had a call," he wailed. "I had a call. I had a call from God. It was +clear. It was absolute. But you don't understand these things. His will +must prevail. It was terrible to think of crushing your career—my only +son's career. I brought these two friends to help me persuade you not +to oppose me. I did my best, Paul. I promised them not to resort to the +last argument. But flesh is weak. For the first time since—you +know—the knife—your mother—I lost self-control. I shall have to +answer for it to my God—" He stretched out his arms and looked +haggardly at Paul. "But it is God's will. It is God's will that I +should voice His message to the Empire. Paul, Paul, my beloved son—you +cannot flout Almighty God." +</P> + +<P> +"Your God doesn't happen to be my God," said Paul, once more +suspicious—and now hideously so—of religious mania. "And possibly the +real God is somebody else's God altogether. Anyway, England's the only +God I've got left, and I'm going to fight for her." +</P> + +<P> +The door opened and Wilton, the man-servant, appeared. He looked round. +"I beg your pardon, sir." +</P> + +<P> +Paul crossed the room. "What is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Her Highness, sir," he said in his well-trained, low voice, "and the +Colonel and Miss Winwood. I told them you were engaged. But they've +been waiting for over half-an-hour, sir." +</P> + +<P> +Paul drew himself up. "Why did you not tell me before? Her Highness is +not to be kept waiting. Present my respectful compliments to Her +Highness, and ask her and Colonel and Miss Winwood to have the kindness +to come upstairs." +</P> + +<P> +"We had better go," cried Jane in sudden fear. +</P> + +<P> +"No," said he. "I want you all to stay." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap18"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVIII +</H3> + +<P> +IN the tense silence of the few moments of waiting Paul passed from the +boy to whom the earth had been a fairyland to the man grappling with +great realities. In those few moments he lived through his past life +and faced an adumbration of the future. +</P> + +<P> +The door was thrown open and the Princess appeared, smiling, happy, a +black ostrich feather in her hat and a sable stole hanging loose from +her shoulders; a great and radiant lady. Behind her came the Colonel +and Ursula Winwood. Paul bent over the Princess's, outstretched hand. +</P> + +<P> +"A thousand pardons for keeping you waiting. I did not know you had +come. I was engaged with my friends. May I have the honour of +presenting them? Princess, this is Mr. Silas Finn, the managing +director of Fish Palaces Limited. These are two very dear friends, Miss +Seddon—Mr. Simmons. Miss Winwood—Colonel Winwood, may I?" +</P> + +<P> +He waved an introductory hand. The Princess: bowed; then, struck by +their unsmiling faces and by Paul's strange manner, turned to him +quickly. +</P> + +<P> +"'Qu'est ce qu'il y a?" +</P> + +<P> +"Je vais vous le dire." +</P> + +<P> +He pushed a chair. She sat down. Ursula Winwood sat in Paul's writing +chair. The others remained standing. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Finn called to inform me that he has been adopted as the Liberal +candidate for Hickney Heath."' "My felicitations," said the Princess. +</P> + +<P> +Silas bowed to her gravely and addressed Colonel Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"We have been, sir—Mr. Savelli and I—for some time on terms of +personal friendship in the constituency." +</P> + +<P> +"I see, I see," replied the Colonel, though he was somewhat puzzled. +"Very polite and friendly, I'm sure." +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Finn also urges me to withdraw my candidature," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +The Princess gave a little incredulous laugh. Ursula Winwood rose and, +with a quick protective step, drew nearer Paul. Colonel Winwood frowned. +</P> + +<P> +"Withdraw? In Heaven's name why?" +</P> + +<P> +Silas Finn tugged at his black-and-white-streaked beard and looked at +his son. +</P> + +<P> +"Need we go into it again? There are religious reasons, which perhaps, +Madam"—Silas addressed the Princess—"you might misunderstand. Mr. +Savelli possibly thinks I am a fanatic. I can't help it. I have warned +him. That is enough. Good-bye, Mr. Savelli." +</P> + +<P> +He held out his hand; but Paul did not take it. "You forget, Mr. Finn, +that I asked you to stay." He clutched the sides of his jacket till his +knuckles grew white, and he set his teeth. "Mr. Finn has another reason +for wishing me not to oppose him—" +</P> + +<P> +"That reason you need never give," cried Silas in a loud voice, and +starting forward. "You know that I make no claims whatsoever." +</P> + +<P> +"I know that," said Paul, coldly; "but I am going to give it all the +same." He paused, held up his hand and looked at the Princess. "Mr. +Silas Finn happens to be my father." +</P> + +<P> +"Good God!" gasped the Colonel, after a flash of silence. +</P> + +<P> +The Princess caught a quick breath and sat erect in her chair. +</P> + +<P> +"Votre Pere, Paul?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Princess. Until half an hour ago I did not know it. Never in my +life did I know that I had a father living. My friends there can bear +witness that what I say is true." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Paul dear," said Miss Winwood, laying her kind fingers on his arm +and searching his face, "you told us that your parents were dead and +that they were Italians." +</P> + +<P> +"I lied," replied Paul calmly. "But I honestly believed the woman who +was my mother not to be my mother, and I had never heard of my father. +I had to account for myself to you. Your delicacy, Miss Winwood, +enabled me to invent as little as possible." +</P> + +<P> +"But your name—Savelli?" +</P> + +<P> +"I took it when I went on the stage—I had a few years' obscure and +unsuccessful struggle. You will remember I came to you starving and +penniless." +</P> + +<P> +The Princess grew white and her delicate nostrils quivered. +</P> + +<P> +"Et monsieur votre pere—" she checked herself. "And your father, what +do you say he is?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul motioned to Silas to speak. +</P> + +<P> +"I, Madam," said the latter, "am a self-made man, and by the +establishment of fried-fish shops all over London and the great +provincial towns, have, by the grace of God, amassed a considerable +fortune." +</P> + +<P> +"Fried fish?" said the Princess in a queer voice. +</P> + +<P> +Silas looked at her out of his melancholy and unhumorous eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Madam." +</P> + +<P> +"I have also learned," said Paul, "that my grandmother was a Sicilian +who played a street-organ. Hence my Italian blood." +</P> + +<P> +Jane, standing by the door with Barney Bill, most agonized of old men, +wholly nervous, twisting with gnarled fingers the broken rim of his +hard felt hat, turned aside so that no one but Bill should see a sudden +gush of tears. For she had realized how drab and unimportant she was in +the presence of the great and radiant lady; also how the great and +radiant lady was the God-sent mate for Paul, never so great a man as +now when he was cutting out his heart for truth's sake. +</P> + +<P> +"I should like to tell you what my life has been," continued Paul, "in +the presence of those who know it already. That's why I asked them to +stay. Until an hour ago I lived in dreams. In my own fashion I was an +honest man. But now I've got this knowledge of my origin, the dreams +are swept away and I stand naked to myself. If I left you, Miss +Winwood, and Colonel Winwood, who have been so good to me—and Her +Highness, who has deigned to honour me with her friendship—in a +moment's doubt as to my antecedents I should be an impostor." +</P> + +<P> +"No, no, my boy," said Colonel Winwood, who was standing with hands +deep in trouser pockets and his head bent, staring at the carpet. "No +words like that in this house. Besides, why should we want to go into +all this?" +</P> + +<P> +He had the Englishman's detestation of unpleasant explanations. Ursula +Winwood supported him. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, why?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"But it would be very interesting," said the Princess slowly, cutting +her words. +</P> + +<P> +Paul met her eyes, which she had hardened, and saw beneath them pain +and anger and wounded pride and repulsion. For a second he allowed an +agonized appeal to flash through his. He knew that he was deliberately +killing the love in her heart. He felt the monstrous cruelty of it. A +momentary doubt shook him. Was he justified? A short while ago she had +entered the room her face alight with love; now her face was as stern +and cold as his own. Had he the right to use the knife like this? Then +certainty came. It had to be. The swifter the better. She of all human +beings must no longer be deceived. Before her, at supreme cost, he must +stand clean. +</P> + +<P> +"It's not very interesting," said he. "And it's soon told. I was a +ragged boy in a slum in a Lancashire town. I slept on sacking in a +scullery, and very seldom had enough to eat. The woman whom I didn't +think was my mother ill-treated me. I gather now that she hated me +because she hated my father. She deserted him when I was a year old and +disappeared; she never spoke of him. I don't know exactly how old I am. +I chose a birthday at random. As a child I worked in a factory. You +know what child-labour in factories was some years ago. I might have +been there still, if my dear old friend there hadn't helped me when I +was thirteen to run away. He used to go through the country in a van +selling mats and chairs. He brought me to London, and found me a +lodging with Miss Seddon's mother. So, Miss Seddon and I were children +together. I became an artist's model. When I grew too old for that to +be a dignified occupation, I went on the stage. Then one day, starving +and delirious, I stumbled through the gates of Drane's Court and fell +at Miss Winwood's feet. That's all." +</P> + +<P> +"Since we've begun, we may as well finish and get it over," said +Colonel Winwood, still with bent head, but looking at Paul from beneath +his eyebrows. "When and how did you come across this gentleman who you +say is your father?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul told the story in a few words. +</P> + +<P> +"And now that you have heard everything," said he, "would you think me +justified in withdrawing my candidature?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not," said the Colonel. "You've got your duty to the Party." +</P> + +<P> +"And you, Miss Winwood?" +</P> + +<P> +"Can you ask? You have your duty to the country." +</P> + +<P> +"And you, Princess?" +</P> + +<P> +She met his challenging eyes and rose in a stately fashion. +</P> + +<P> +"I am not equal to these complications of English politics, Mr. +Savelli," she said. She held herself very erect, but her lips trembled +and tears were very near her eyes. She turned to Miss Winwood and held +out her hand. "I am afraid we must postpone our discussion of the +Forlorn Widows. It is getting late. Au revoir, Colonel Winwood—" +</P> + +<P> +"I will see you to your carriage." +</P> + +<P> +On the threshold she turned, included Paul in a vague bow to the +company, and passed through the door which Colonel Winwood held open. +Paul watched her until she disappeared—disappeared haughtily out of +his life, taking his living heart with her, leaving him with a stone +very heavy, very cold, dead. And he was smitten as with a great +darkness. He remained quite still for a few moments after the door had +closed, then with a sudden jerk he drew himself up. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Finn," said he, "as I've told you, I address my first meeting +to-night. I am going to make public the fact that I'm your son." +</P> + +<P> +Silas put his hand to his head and looked at him wildly. +</P> + +<P> +"No, no," he muttered hoarsely—"no." +</P> + +<P> +"I see no reason," said Miss Winwood gently. +</P> + +<P> +"I see every reason," said Paul. "I must live in the light now. The +truth or nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"Then obey your conscience, Paul," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +But Silas came forward with his outstretched hands. +</P> + +<P> +"You can't do it. You can't do it, I tell you. It's impossible." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +He replied in an odd voice, and with a glance at Miss Winwood. "I must +tell you afterwards." +</P> + +<P> +"I will leave you," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Finn"—she shook hands with him—"I hope you're proud of your +son." And then she shook hands with Jane and Barney Bill. "I'm glad to +meet such old friends of Paul." And to Paul, as he held the door open, +she said, her clear kind eyes full on him, "Remember, we want men in +England." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank God, we've got women," said he, with lips from which he could +not keep a sudden quiver. +</P> + +<P> +He closed the door and came up to his father standing on the hearthrug. +</P> + +<P> +"And now, why shouldn't I speak? Why shouldn't I be an honest man +instead of an impostor?" +</P> + +<P> +"Out of pity for me, my son." +</P> + +<P> +"Pity? Why, what harm would it do you? There's nothing dishonourable in +father and son fighting an election." He laughed without much mirth. +"It's what some people would call sporting. As for me, personally, I +don't see why you should be ashamed of owning me. My record is clean +enough." +</P> + +<P> +"But mine isn't, Paul," said Silas mournfully. +</P> + +<P> +For the first time Paul bowed his head. "I'm sorry," said he. "I +forgot." Then he raised it again. "But that's all over and buried in +the past." +</P> + +<P> +"It may be unburied." +</P> + +<P> +"How?" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you see?" cried Jane. "Even I can. If you spring your +relationship upon the public, it will create an enormous sensation—it +will set the place on fire with curiosity. They'll dig up everything +they can about you—everything they can about him. Oh, Paul, don't you +see. +</P> + +<P> +"It's up agin a man, sonny," said Barney Bill, limping towards them, +"it's up agin a candidate, you understand, him not being a Fenian or a +Irish patriot, that he's been in gaol. Penal servitude ain't a nice +state of life to be reminded of, sonny. Whereas if you leaves things as +they is, nobody's going to ask no questions." +</P> + +<P> +"That's my point," said Silas Finn. +</P> + +<P> +Paul looked from one to the other, darkly. In a kind of dull fierce +passion he had made up his mind to clear himself before the world, to +rend to tatters his garments of romance, to snap his fingers at the +stars and destiny and such-like deluding toys, to stand a young Ajax +defying the thunderbolts. Here came the first check. +</P> + +<P> +"If they found out as how he'd done time, they'd find out for why," +said Bill, cocking his head earnestly. +</P> + +<P> +As Paul, engaged in sombre thought, made no reply, Silas turned away, +his hands uplifted in supplication, and prayed aloud. He had sinned in +giving way to his anger. He prostrated himself before the divine +vengeance. If this was his apportioned punishment, might God give him +meekness and strength to bear it. The tremulous, crying voice, the +rapt, fanatical face, and the beseeching attitude struck a bizarre note +in the comfortable and worldly room. Supported on either side by Jane, +helpless and anxious, and Barney Bill, crooked, wrinkled, with his +close-cropped white hair and little liquid diamond eyes, still +nervously tearing his hat-brim, he looked almost grotesque. To Paul he +seemed less a man than a creation of another planet, with unknown and +incalculable instincts and impulses, who had come to earth and with +foolish hand had wiped out the meaning of existence. Yet he felt no +resentment, but rather a weary pity for the stranger blundering through +an unsympathetic world. As soon as there came a pause in the prayer, he +said not ungently: +</P> + +<P> +"The Almighty is not going to use me as an instrument to punish you, if +I can help it. I quite appreciate your point. I'll say nothing." +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill jerked his thumb towards the chair where the Princess had +been sitting: +</P> + +<P> +"She won't give it away?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul smiled sadly. "No, old man. She'll keep it to herself." +</P> + +<P> +That marked the end of the interview. Paul accompanied the three +downstairs. +</P> + +<P> +"I meant to act for the best, Paul," said Silas piteously, on parting. +"Tell me that I haven't made you my enemy." +</P> + +<P> +"God forbid," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +He went slowly up to his room again and threw himself in his writing +chair. His eye fell upon the notes on the sheet of foolscap. The +Radical candidate having been chosen, they were no longer relevant to +his speech. He crumpled up the paper and threw it into the waste-paper +basket. His speech! He held his head in both hands. A couple of hours +hence he would be addressing a vast audience, the centre of the hopes +of thousands of his fellow countrymen. The thought beat upon his brain. +He had had the common nightmare of standing with conductor's baton in +front of a mighty orchestra and being paralyzed by sense of impotence. +No less a nightmare was his present position. A couple of hours ago he +was athrill with confidence and joy of battle. But then he was a +different man. The morning stars, the stars of his destiny, sang +together in the ever-deepening glamour of the Vision Splendid. He was +entering into the lists of Camelot to fight for his Princess. He was +the Mysterious Knight, parented in fairy-far Avilion, the Fortunate +Youth, the Awakener of England. Now he was but a base-born young man +who had attained a high position by false pretences; an ordinary +adventurer with a glib tongue; a self-educated, self-seeking, +commonplace fellow. At least, so he saw himself in his Princess's eyes. +And he had meant that she should thus behold him. No longer was he +entering lists to fight for her. For what hopeless purpose was he +entering them? To awaken England? The awakener must have his heart full +of dreams and visions and glamour and joy and throbbing life; and in +his heart there was death. +</P> + +<P> +He drew out the little cornelian talisman at the end of his watch-chain +and looked at it bitterly. It was but a mocking symbol of illusion. He +unhooked it and laid it on the table. He would carry it about with him +no longer. He would throw it away. +</P> + +<P> +Ursula Winwood quietly entered the room. +</P> + +<P> +"You must come down and have something to eat before the meeting." +</P> + +<P> +Paul rose. "I don't want anything, thank you, Miss Winwood." +</P> + +<P> +"But James and I do. So come and join us." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you coming to the meeting?" he asked in surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course." She lifted her eyebrows. "Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"After what you have heard?" +</P> + +<P> +"All the more reason for us to go." She smiled as she had smiled on +that memorable evening six years ago when she had stood with the +horrible pawn-ticket in her hand. "James has to support the Party. I +have to support you. James will do the same as I in a day or two. Just +give him time. His mind doesn't work very quickly, not as quickly as a +woman's. Come," she said. "When we have a breathing space you can tell +me all about it. But in the meantime I'm pretty sure I understand." +</P> + +<P> +"How can you?" he asked wearily. "You have other traditions." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know about traditions; but I don't give my love and take it +away again. I set rather too much value on it. I understand because I +love you." +</P> + +<P> +"Others with the same traditions can't understand." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not proposing to marry you," she said bluntly. "That makes a +difference." +</P> + +<P> +"It does," said he, meeting her eyes unflinchingly. +</P> + +<P> +"If you weren't a brave man, I shouldn't say such a thing to you. +Anyhow I understand you're the last man in the world who should take me +for a fool." +</P> + +<P> +"My God!" said Paul in a choky voice. "What can I do to thank you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Win the election." +</P> + +<P> +"You are still my dearest lady—my very very dearest lady," said he. +</P> + +<P> +Her shrewd eyes fell upon the cornelian heart. She picked it up and +held it out to him on her plump palm. +</P> + +<P> +"Why have you taken this off your watch-chain?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's a little false god," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"It's the first thing yon asked for when you recovered from your +illness. You said you had kept it since you were a tiny boy. See? I +remember. You set great value on it then?" +</P> + +<P> +"I believed in it," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"And now you don't? But a woman gave it to you." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Paul, wondering, in his masculine way, how the deuce she +knew that. "I was a brat of eleven." +</P> + +<P> +"Then keep it. Put it on your chain again. I'm sure it's a true little +god. Take it back to please me." +</P> + +<P> +As there was nothing, from lapping up Eisel to killing a crocodile, +that Paul would not have done, in the fulness of his wondering +gratitude, for his dearest lady, he meekly attached the heart to his +chain and put it in his pocket. +</P> + +<P> +"I must tell you," said he, "that the lady—she seemed a goddess to me +then—chose me as her champion in a race, a race of urchins at a Sunday +school treat, and I didn't win. But she gave me the cornelian heart as +a prize." +</P> + +<P> +"But as my champion you will win," said Miss Winwood. "My dear boy," +she said, and her eyes grew very tender as she laid her hand on the +young man's arm, "believe what an old woman is telling you is true. +Don't throw away any little shred of beauty you've ever had in your +life. The beautiful things are really the true ones, though they may +seem to be illusions. Without the trinket or what it stood for, would +you be here now?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know," replied Paul. "I might have taken a more honest road to +get here." +</P> + +<P> +"We took you to ourselves as a bright human being, Paul—not for what +you might or might not have been. By the way, what have you decided as +regards making public the fact of your relationship?" +</P> + +<P> +"My father, for his own reasons, has urged me not to do so." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Winwood drew a long breath. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad to hear it," she said. +</P> + +<P> +So Paul, comforted by one woman's amazing loyalty, went out that +evening and addressed his great meeting. But the roar of applause that +welcomed him echoed through void spaces of his being. He felt neither +thrill nor fear. The speech prepared by the Fortunate Youth was +delivered by a stranger to it, glowing and dancing eloquence. The words +came trippingly enough, but the informing Spirit was gone. +</P> + +<P> +Those in the audience familiar with the magic of his smile were +disappointed. The soundness of his policy satisfied the hard-headed, +but he made no appeal to the imaginative. If his speech did not fall +flat, it was not the clarion voice that his supporters had anticipated. +They whispered together with depressed headshakings. Their man was not +in form. He was nervous. What he said was right enough, but his +utterance lacked fire. It carried conviction to those already +convinced; but it could make no proselytes. Had they been mistaken in +their choice? Too young a man, hadn't he bitten off a hunk greater +than he could chew? So the inner ring of local politicians. An election +audience, however, brings its own enthusiasms, and it must be a very +dull dog indeed who damps their ardour. They cheered prodigiously when +Paul sat down, and a crowd of zealots waiting outside the building +cheered him again as he drove off. But Paul knew that he had been a +failure. He had delivered another man's speech. To-morrow and the day +after and the day after that, and ever afterwards, if he held to the +political game, he would have to speak in his own new person. What kind +of a person would the new Paul be? +</P> + +<P> +He drove back almost in silence with the Colonel and Miss Winwood, +vainly seeking to solve the problem. The foundations of his life had +been swept away. His foot rested on nothing solid save his own manhood. +That no shock should break down. He would fight. He would win the +election. He set his lips in grim determination. If life held no higher +meaning, it at least offered this immediate object for existence. +Besides he owed the most strenuous effort of his soul to the devoted +and loyal woman whose face he saw dimly opposite. Afterwards come what +might. The Truth at any rate. Magna est veritas et praevalebit. +</P> + +<P> +These were "prave 'orts" and valorous protestations. +</P> + +<P> +But when their light supper was over and Colonel Winwood had retired, +Ursula Winwood lingered in the dining room, her heart aching for the +boy who looked so stern and haggard. She came behind him and touched +his hair. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor boy," she murmured. +</P> + +<P> +Then Paul—he was very young, barely thirty—broke down, as perhaps she +meant that he should, and, elbows sprawling amid the disarray of the +meal, poured out all the desolation of his soul, and for the first time +cried out in anguish for the woman he had lost. So, as love lay +a-bleeding mortally pierced, Ursula Winwood wept unaccustomed tears +and with tender fingers strove to staunch the wound. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap19"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIX +</H3> + +<P> +DAYS of strain followed: days of a thousand engagements, a thousand +interviews, a thousand journeyings, a thousand speeches; days in which +he was reduced to an unresisting automaton, mechanically uttering the +same formulas; days in which the irresistible force of the campaign +swept him along without volition. And day followed day and not a sign +came from the Princess Zobraska either of condonation or resentment. It +was as though she had gathered her skirts around her and gone +disdainfully out of his life for ever. If speaking were to be done, it +was for her to speak. Paul could not plead. It was he who, in a way, +had cast her off. In effect he had issued the challenge: "I am a child +of the gutter, an adventurer masquerading under an historical name, and +you are a royal princess. Will you marry me now?" She had given her +answer, by walking out of the room, her proud head in the air. It was +final, as far as he was concerned. He could do nothing—not even beg +his dearest lady to plead for him. Besides, rumour had it that the +Princess had cancelled her town engagements and gone to Morebury. So he +walked in cold and darkness, uninspired, and though he worked with +feverish energy, the heart and purpose of his life were gone. +</P> + +<P> +As in his first speech, so in his campaign, he failed. He had been +chosen for his youth, his joyousness, his magnetism, his radiant +promise of great things to come. He went about the constituency an +anxious, haggard man, working himself to death without being able to +awaken a spark of emotion in the heart of anybody. He lost ground +daily. On the other hand, Silas Finn, with his enthusiasms, and his +aspect of an inspired prophet, made alarming progress. He swept the +multitude. Paul Savelli, the young man of the social moment, had an +army of helpers, members of Parliament making speeches, friends on the +Unionist press writing flamboyant leaders, fair ladies in automobiles +hunting for voters through the slums of Hickney Heath. Silas Finn had +scarcely a personal friend. But hope reigned among his official +supporters, whereas depression began to descend over Paul's brilliant +host. +</P> + +<P> +"They want stirring up a bit," said the Conservative agent +despondently. "I hear old Finn's meetings go with a bang. They nearly +raised the roof off last night. We want some roof-raising on this side." +</P> + +<P> +"I do my best," said Paul coldly, but the reproach cut deep. He was a +failure. No nervous or intellectual effort could save him now, though +he spent himself to the last heartbeat. He was the sport of a mocking +Will o' the Wisp which he had taken for Destiny. +</P> + +<P> +Once on coming out of his headquarters he met Silas, who was walking up +the street with two or three of his committee-men. In accordance with +the ordinary amenities of English political life, the two candidates +shook hands, and withdrew a pace or two aside to chat for a while. This +was the first time they had come together since the afternoon of +revelation, and there was a moment of constraint during which Silas +tugged at his streaked beard and looked with mournful wistfulness at +his son. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish I were not your opponent, Paul," said he in a low voice, so as +not to be overheard. +</P> + +<P> +"That doesn't matter a bit," Paul replied courteously. "I see you're +putting up an excellent fight." +</P> + +<P> +"It's the Lord's battle. If it weren't, do you think I would not let +you win?" +</P> + +<P> +The same old cry. Through sheer repetition, Paul began almost to +believe in it. He felt very weary. In his father's eyes he recognized, +with a pang, the glow of a faith which he had lost. Their likeness +struck him, and he saw himself, his old self, beneath the unquestioning +though sorrowful eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"That's the advantage of a belief in the Almighty's personal interest," +he answered, with a touch of irony: "whatever happens, one is not +easily disillusioned." +</P> + +<P> +"That is true, my son," said Silas. +</P> + +<P> +"Jane is well?" Paul asked, after an instant's pause, breaking off the +profitless discussion. +</P> + +<P> +"Very well." +</P> + +<P> +"And Barney Bill?" +</P> + +<P> +"He upbraids me bitterly for what I have said." +</P> + +<P> +Paul smiled at the curiously stilted phrase. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell him from me not to do it. My love to them both." +</P> + +<P> +They shook hands again, and Paul drove off in the motor car that had +been placed at his disposal during the election, and Silas continued +his sober walk with his committee-men up the muddy street. Whereupon +Paul conceived a sudden hatred for the car. It was but the final +artistic touch to this comedy of mockery of which he had been the +victim.... Perhaps God was on his father's side, after all—on the side +of them who humbly walked and not of them who rode in proud chariots. +But his political creed, his sociological convictions rose in protest. +How could the Almighty be in league with all that was subversive of +social order, all that was destructive to Imperial cohesion, all that +which inevitably tended to England's downfall? +</P> + +<P> +He turned suddenly to his companion, the Conservative agent. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think God has got common sense?" +</P> + +<P> +The agent, not being versed in speculations regarding the attributes of +the Deity, stared; then, disinclined to commit himself, took refuge in +platitude. +</P> + +<P> +"God moves in a mysterious way, Mr. Savelli." +</P> + +<P> +"That's rot," said Paul. "If there's an Almighty, He must move in a +common-sense way; otherwise the whole of this planet would have busted +up long ago. Do you think it's common sense to support the present +Government?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not," said the agent, fervently. +</P> + +<P> +"Then if God supported it, it wouldn't be common sense on His part. It +would be merely mysterious?" +</P> + +<P> +"I see what you're driving at," said the agent. "Our opponent +undoubtedly has been making free with the name of the Almighty in his +speeches. As a matter of fact he's rather crazy on the subject. I don't +think it would be a bad move to make a special reference to it. It's +all damned hypocrisy. There's a chap in the old French play—what's his +name?" +</P> + +<P> +"Tartuffe." +</P> + +<P> +"That's it. Well, there you are. That speech of his yesterday—now why +don't you take it and wring religiosity and hypocrisy and Tartuffism +out of it? You know how to do that sort of thing. You can score +tremendously. I never thought of it before. By George! you can get him +in the neck if you like." +</P> + +<P> +"But I don't like," said Paul. "I happen to know that Mr. Finn is +sincere in his convictions." +</P> + +<P> +"But, my dear sir, what does his supposed sincerity matter in political +contest?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's the difference between dirt and cleanliness," said Paul. +"Besides, as I told you at the outset, Mr. Finn and I are close +personal friends, and I have the highest regard for his character. He +has seen that his side has scrupulously refrained from personalities +with regard to me, and I insist on the same observance with regard to +him." +</P> + +<P> +"With all due deference to you, Mr. Savelli, you were called only the +day before yesterday 'the spoiled darling of Duchesses' boudoirs.'" +</P> + +<P> +"It wasn't with Mr. Finn's cognizance. I've found that out." +</P> + +<P> +"Well," said the agent, leaning back-in the luxurious limousine, "I +don't see why somebody, without your cognizance, shouldn't call Mr. +Finn the spoiled minion of the Almighty's ante-chamber. That's a +devilish good catch-phrase," he added, starting forward in the joy of +his newborn epigram: "Devilish good. 'The spoiled minion of the +Almighty's ante-chamber.' It'll become historical." +</P> + +<P> +"If it does," said Paul, "it will be associated with the immediate +retirement of the Conservative candidate." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you really mean that?" +</P> + +<P> +It was Paul's turn to start forward. "My dear Wilson," said he, "if you +or anybody else thinks I'm a man to talk through his hat, I'll retire +at once. I don't care a damn about myself. Not a little tuppenny damn. +What the devil does it matter to me whether I get into Parliament or +not? Nothing. Not a tuppenny damn. You can't understand. It's the party +and the country. For myself, personally, the whole thing can go to +blazes. I'm in earnest, dead earnest," he continued, with a vehemence +incomprehensible to Wilson. "If anybody doesn't think so, I'll clear +out at once"—he snapped his fingers. "But while I'm candidate +everything I say I mean. I mean it intensely—with all my soul. And I +say that if there's a single insulting reference to Mr. Finn during +this election, you'll be up against the wreck of your own political +career." +</P> + +<P> +The agent watched the workings of his candidate's dark clear-cut face. +He was very proud of his candidate, and found it difficult to realize +that there were presumably sane people who would not vote for him on +sight. A lingering memory of grammar school days flashed on him when he +told his wife later of the conversation, and he likened Paul to a +wrathful Apollo. Anxious to appease the god, he said humbly: +</P> + +<P> +"It was the merest of suggestions, Mr. Savelli. Heaven knows we don't +want to descend to personalities, and your retirement would be an +unqualifiable disaster. But—you'll pardon my mentioning it—you began +this discussion by asking me whether the Almighty had common sense." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, has He or not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," said Wilson. +</P> + +<P> +"Then we're going to win this election," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +If he could have met enthusiasm with enthusiasm, all would have been +well. The awakener of England could have captivated hearts by glowing +pictures of a great and glorious future. It would have been a +counter-blaze to that lit by his opponent, which flamed in all the +effulgence of a reckless reformer's promise, revealing a Utopia in +which there would be no drunkenness, no crime, no poverty, and in which +the rich, apparently, would have to work very hard in order to support +the poor in comfortable idleness. But beyond proving fallacies, Paul +could do nothing—and even then, has there ever been a mob since the +world began susceptible to logical argument? So, all through the wintry +days of the campaign, Silas Finn carried his fiery cross through the +constituency, winning frenzied adherents, while Paul found it hard to +rally the faithful round the drooping standard of St. George. +</P> + +<P> +The days went on. Paul addressed his last meeting on the eve of the +poll. By a supreme effort he regained some of his former fire and +eloquence. He drove home exhausted, and going straight to bed slept +like a dog till morning. +</P> + +<P> +The servant who woke him brought a newspaper to the bedside. +</P> + +<P> +"Something to interest you, sir." +</P> + +<P> +Paul looked at the headline indicated by the man. +</P> + +<P> +"Hickney Heath Election. Liberal Candidate's Confession. Extraordinary +Scene." +</P> + +<P> +He glanced hurriedly down the column and read with amazement and +stabbing pain the matter that was of interest. The worst had +happened—the thing which during all his later life Silas Finn had +feared. The spectre of the prison had risen up against him. +</P> + +<P> +Towards the end of Silas Finn's speech, at his last great meeting, a +man, sitting in the body of the hall near the platform, got up and +interrupted him. "What about your own past life? What about your three +years' penal servitude?" All eyes were turned from the man—a common +looking, evil man—to the candidate, who staggered as if he had been +shot, caught at the table behind him for support and stared in +greyfaced terror. There was an angry tumult, and the interrupter would +have fared badly, but for Silas Finn holding up his hand and imploring +silence. +</P> + +<P> +"I challenge the candidate to deny," said the man, as soon as he could +be heard, "that his real name is Silas Kegworthy, and that he underwent +three years' penal servitude for murderously assaulting his wife." +</P> + +<P> +Then the candidate braced himself and said: "The bare facts are true. +But I have lived stainlessly in the fear of God and in the service of +humanity for thirty years. I have sought absolution for a moment of mad +anger under awful provocation in unremitting prayer and in trying to +save the souls and raise the fortunes of my fellow-men. Is that all you +have against me?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's all," said the man. +</P> + +<P> +"It is for you, electors of Hickney Heath, to judge me." +</P> + +<P> +He sat down amid tumultuous cheers, and the man who had interrupted +him, after some rough handling, managed to make his escape. The +chairman then put a vote of confidence in the candidate, which was +carried by acclamation, and the meeting broke up. +</P> + +<P> +Such were the essential facts in the somewhat highly coloured newspaper +story which Paul read in stupefied horror. He dressed quickly and went +to his sitting-room, where he rang up his father's house on the +telephone. Jane's voice met his ear. +</P> + +<P> +"It's Paul speaking," he replied. "I've just this moment read of last +night. I'm shaken to my soul. How is my father?" +</P> + +<P> +"He's greatly upset," came the voice. "He didn't sleep all night, and +he's not at all well this morning. Oh, it was a cruel, cowardly blow." +</P> + +<P> +"Dastardly. Do you know who it was?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. Don't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I? Does either of you think that I—?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, no," came the voice, now curiously tearful. "I didn't mean that. I +forgot you've not had time to find out." +</P> + +<P> +"Who does he think it was?" +</P> + +<P> +"Some old fellow prisoner who had a grudge against him." +</P> + +<P> +"Were you at the meeting?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Oh, Paul, it was splendid to see him face the audience. He spoke +so simply and with such sorrowful dignity. He had their sympathy at +once. But it has broken him. I'm afraid he'll never be the same man +again. After all these years it's dreadful." +</P> + +<P> +"It's all that's damnable. It's tragic. Give him my love and tell him +that words can't express my sorrow and indignation." +</P> + +<P> +He rang off. Almost immediately Wilson was announced. He came into the +room radiant. +</P> + +<P> +"You were right about the divine common-sensicality," said he. "The +Lord has delivered our adversary into our hands with a vengeance." +</P> + +<P> +He was a chubby little man of forty, with coarse black hair and scrubby +moustache, not of the type that readily appreciates the delicacies of a +situation. Paul conceived a sudden loathing for him. +</P> + +<P> +"I would give anything for it not to have happened," he said. +</P> + +<P> +Wilson opened his eyes. "Why? It's our salvation. An ex-convict—it's +enough to damn any candidate. But we want to make sure. Now I've got an +idea." +</P> + +<P> +Paul turned on him angrily. "I'll have no capital made out of it +whatsoever. It's a foul thing to bring such an accusation up against a +man who has lived a spotless life for thirty years. Everything in me +goes out in sympathy with him, and I'll let it be known all through the +constituency." +</P> + +<P> +"If you take it that way," said Wilson, "there's no more to be done." +</P> + +<P> +"There's nothing to be done, except to find out who put up the man to +make the announcement." +</P> + +<P> +"He did it on his own," Wilson replied warmly. "None of our people +would resort to a dirty trick like that." +</P> + +<P> +"And yet you want me to take advantage of it now it's done." +</P> + +<P> +"That's quite a different matter." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't see much difference," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +So Wilson, seeing that his candidate was more unmanageable than ever, +presently departed, and Paul sat down to breakfast. But he could not +eat. He was both stricken with shame and moved to the depths by immense +pity. Far removed from him as Silas Finn was in mode of life and +ideals, he found much in common with his father. Each had made his way +from the slum, each had been guided by an inner light—was Silas Finn's +fantastic belief less of an ignis fatuus than his own?—each had sought +to get away from a past, each was a child of Ishmael, each, in his own +way, had lived romantically. Whatever resentment against his father +lingered in his heart now melted away. He was very near him. The shame +of the prison struck him as it had struck the old man. He saw him bowed +down under the blow, and he clenched his hands in a torture of anger +and indignation. And to crown all, came the intolerable conviction, in +the formation of which Wilson's triumphant words had not been +necessary, that if he won the election it would be due to this public +dishonouring of his own father. He walked about the room in despair, +and at last halted before the mantelpiece on which still stood the +photograph of the Princess in its silver frame. Suddenly he remembered +that he had not told her of this incident in his family history. She +too would be reading her newspaper this morning. He saw her proud lips +curl. The son of a gaol-bird! He tore the photograph from its frame and +threw it into the fire and watched it burn. As the paper writhed under +the heat, the lips seemed to twist into sad reproach. He turned away +impatiently. That romantic madness was over and done with. He had far +sterner things to do than shriek his heart out over a woman in an alien +star. He had his life to reconstruct in the darkness threatening and +mocking; but at last he had truth for a foundation; on that he would +build in defiance of the world. +</P> + +<P> +In the midst of these fine thoughts it occurred to him that he had +hidden the prison episode in his father's career from the Winwoods as +well as from the Princess. His cheeks flushed; it was one more strain +on the loyalty of these dear devoted friends. He went downstairs, and +found the Colonel and Miss Winwood in the dining-room. Their faces were +grave. He came to them with outstretched arms—a familiar gesture, one +doubtless inherited from his Sicilian ancestry. +</P> + +<P> +"You see what has happened. I knew all the time. I didn't tell you. You +must forgive me." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't blame you, my boy," said Colonel Winwood. "It was your +father's secret. You had no right to tell us." +</P> + +<P> +"We're very grieved, dear, for both your sakes," Ursula added. "James +has taken the liberty of sending round a message of sympathy." +</P> + +<P> +As ever, these two had gone a point beyond his anticipation of their +loyalty. He thanked them simply. +</P> + +<P> +"It's hateful," said he, "to think I may win the election on account of +this. It's loathsome." He shuddered. +</P> + +<P> +"I quite agree with you," said the Colonel. "But in politics one has +often to put up with hateful things in order to serve one's country. +That's the sacrifice a high-minded man is called upon to make." +</P> + +<P> +"Besides," said Miss Winwood, "let us hope it won't affect votes. All +the papers say that the vote of confidence was passed amid scenes of +enthusiasm." +</P> + +<P> +Paul smiled. They understood. A little while later they drove off with +him to his committee room in the motor car gay with his colours. There +was still much to be done that day. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap20"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XX +</H3> + +<P> +HICKNEY HEATH blazed with excitement. It is not every day that a thrill +runs through a dull London borough, not even every election day. For a +London borough, unlike a country town, has very little corporate life +of its own. You cannot get up as much enthusiasm for Kilburn, say, as a +social or historical entity, as you can for Winchester or Canterbury. +You may perform civic duties, if you are public-spirited enough, with +business-like zeal, and if you are borough councillor you may be proud +of the nice new public baths which you have been instrumental in +presenting to the community. But the ordinary man in the street no more +cares for Kilburn than he does for Highgate. He would move from one to +the other without a pang. For neither's glory would he shed a drop of +his blood. Only at election times does it occur to him that he is one +of a special brotherhood, isolated from the rest of London; and even +then he regards the constituency as a convention defining geographical +limits for the momentary range of his political passions. So that the +day when an electric thrill ran through the whole of Hickney Heath was +a rare one in its uninspiring annals. +</P> + +<P> +The dramatic had happened, touching the most sluggish imaginations. The +Liberal candidate for Parliament, a respected Borough Councillor, a +notorious Evangelical preacher, had publicly confessed himself an +ex-convict. Every newspaper in London—and for the matter of that, +every newspaper in Great Britain—rang with the story, and every man, +woman and child in Hickney Heath read feverishly every newspaper, +morning and evening, they could lay their hands on. Also, every man, +woman and child in Hickney Heath asked his neighbour for further +details. All who could leave desk and shop or factory poured into the +streets to learn the latest, tidings. Around the various polling +stations the crowd was thickest. Those electors who had been present at +Silas Finn's meeting, the night before, told the story at first-hand to +eager groups. Rumours of every sort spread through the mob. The man who +had put the famous question was an agent of the Tories. It was a smart +party move. Silas Finn had all the time been leading a double life. +Depravities without number were laid to his charge. Even now the police +were inquiring into his connection with certain burglaries that had +taken place in the neighbourhood. And where was he that day? Who had +seen him? He was at home drunk. He had committed suicide. Even if he +hadn't, and was elected, he would not be allowed to take his seat in +Parliament. +</P> + +<P> +On the other hand, those in whose Radical bosoms burned fierce hatred +for the Tories, spoke loud in condemnation of their cowardly tactics. +There was considerable free-fighting in the ordinarily dismal and +decorous streets of Hickney Heath. Noisy acclamations hailed the +automobiles, carriages and waggonettes bringing voters of both parties +to the polls. Paul, driving in his gaily-decked car about the +constituency, shared all these demonstrations and heard these rumours. +The latter he denied and caused to be denied, as far as lay in his +power. In the broad High Street, thronged with folk, and dissonant with +tram cars and motor 'buses, he came upon a quarrelsome crowd looking up +at a window above a poulterer's shop, from which hung something white, +like a strip of wall paper. +</P> + +<P> +Approaching, he perceived that it bore a crude drawing of a convict and +"Good old Dartmoor" for legend. White with anger, he stopped the car, +leaped out on to the curb, and pushing his way through the crowd, +entered the shop. He seized one of the white-coated assistants by the +arm. "Show me the way to that first-floor room," he cried fiercely. +</P> + +<P> +The assistant, half-dragged, half-leading, and wholly astonished, took +him through the shop and pointed to the staircase. Paul sprang up and +dashed through the door into the room, which appeared to be some +business office. Three or four young men, who turned grinning from the +window, he thrust aside, and plucking the offending strip from the +drawing-pins which secured it to the sill, he tore it across and across. +</P> + +<P> +"You cads! You brutes!" he shouted, trampling on the fragments. "Can't +you fight like Englishmen?" +</P> + +<P> +The young men, realizing the identity of the wrathful apparition, +stared open-mouthed, turned red, and said nothing. Paul strode out, +looking very fierce, and drove off in his car amid the cheers of the +crowd, to which he paid no notice. +</P> + +<P> +"It makes me sick!" he cried passionately to Wilson, who was with him. +"I hope to God he wins in spite, of it!" +</P> + +<P> +"What about the party?" asked Wilson. +</P> + +<P> +Paul damned the party. He was in the overwrought mood in which a man +damns everything. Quagmire and bramble and the derision of Olympus-that +was the end of his vanity of an existence. Suppose he was elected—what +then? He would be a failure-the high gods in their mirth would see to +that—a puppet in Frank Ayres' hands until the next general election, +when he would have ignominiously to retire. Awakener of England indeed! +He could not even awaken Hickney Heath. As he dashed through the +streets in his triumphal car, he hated Hickney Heath, hated the wild +"hoorays" of waggon-loads of his supporters on their way to the polls, +hated the smug smiles of his committee-men at polling stations. He +forgot that he did not hate England. A little black disk an inch or two +in diameter if cunningly focussed can obscure the sun in heaven from +human eye. There was England still behind the little black disk, though +Paul for the moment saw it not. +</P> + +<P> +Wilson pulled his scrubby moustache and made no retort to Paul's +anathema. To him Paul was one of the fine flower of the Upper Classes +to which lower middle-class England still, with considerable +justification, believes to be imbued with incomprehensible and +unalterable principles of conduct. The grand old name of gentleman +still has its magic in this country—and is, by the way, not without +its influence in one or two mighty republics wherein the equality of +man is very loudly proclaimed. Wilson, therefore, gladly suffered +Paul's lunatic Quixotry. For himself he approved hugely of the cartoon. +If he could have had his way, Hickney Heath would have flamed with +poster reproductions of it. But he had a dim appreciation of, and a +sneaking admiration for, the aristocrat's point of view, and, being a +practical man, evaded a discussion on the ethics of the situation. +</P> + +<P> +The situation was rendered more extraordinary because the Liberal +candidate made no appearance in the constituency. Paul inquired +anxiously. No one had seen him. After lunch he drove alone to his +father's house. The parlour-maid showed him into the hideously +furnished and daub-hung dining-room. The Viennese horrors of plaster +stags, gnomes and rabbits stared fatuously on the hearth. No fire was +in the grate. Very soon Jane entered, tidy, almost matronly in buxom +primness, her hair as faultless as if it had come out of a convoluted +mould, her grave eyes full of light. She gave him her capable hand. +</P> + +<P> +"It's like you to come, Paul." +</P> + +<P> +"It's only decent. My father hasn't shown up. What's the matter with +him?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's a bit of a nervous breakdown," she said, looking at him steadily. +"Nothing serious. But the doctor—I sent for him—says he had better +rest—and his committee people thought it wiser for him not to show +himself." +</P> + +<P> +"Can I see him?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not." A look of alarm came into her face. "You're both too +excited. What would you say to him?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'd tell him what I feel about the whole matter." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. You would fling your arms about, and he would talk about God, and +a precious lot of good it would do to anybody. No, thank you. I'm in +charge of Mr. Finn's health." +</P> + +<P> +It was the old Jane, so familiar. "I wish," said he, with a smile—"I +wish I had had your common sense to guide me all these years." +</P> + +<P> +"If you had, you would now be a clerk in the City earning thirty +shillings a week." +</P> + +<P> +"And perhaps a happier man." +</P> + +<P> +"Bosh, my dear Paul!" she said, shaking her head slowly. "Rot! Rubbish! +I know you too well. You adding up figures at thirty shillings a week, +with a common sense wife for I suppose you mean that—mending your +socks and rocking the cradle in a second-floor back in Hickney Heath! +No, my dear"—she paused for a second or two and her lips twitched +oddly—"common sense would have been the death of you." +</P> + +<P> +He laughed in spite of himself. It was so true. +</P> + +<P> +Common sense might have screwed him to a thirty shillings-a-week desk: +the fantastic had brought him to that very house, a candidate for +Parliament, in a thousand-guinea motor car. On the other hand—and his +laughter faded from his eyes—the fantastic in his life was dead. +Henceforward common sense would hold him in her cold and unstimulating +clasp. He said something of the sort to Jane. Once more she ejaculated +"Rot, rubbish and bosh!" and they quarrelled as they had done in their +childhood. +</P> + +<P> +"You talk as if I didn't know you inside out, my dear Paul," she said +in her clear, unsmiling way. "Listen. All men are donkeys, aren't they?" +</P> + +<P> +"For the sake of argument, I agree." +</P> + +<P> +"Well—there are two kinds of donkeys. One kind is meek and mild and +will go wherever it is driven. The other, in order to get along, must +always have a bunch of carrots dangling before its eyes. That's you." +</P> + +<P> +"But confound it all!" he cried, "I've lost my carrots—can't you see? +I'll never have any carrots again. That's the whole damned tragedy." +</P> + +<P> +For the first time she smiled—the smile of the woman wiser in certain +subtle things than the man. "My dear," she said, "carrots are cheap." +She paused for an instant and added, "Thank God!" +</P> + +<P> +Paul squeezed her arms affectionately and they moved apart. He sighed. +"They're the most precious things in the world," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"The most precious things in the world are those which you can get for +nothing," said Jane. +</P> + +<P> +"You're a dear," said he, "and a comfort." +</P> + +<P> +Presently he left her and returned to his weary round of the +constituency, feeling of stouter heart, with a greater faith in the +decent ordering of mundane things. A world containing such women as +Jane and Ursula Winwood possessed elements of sanity. Outside one of +the polling stations he found Barney Bill holding forth excitedly to a +knot of working-men. He ceased as the car drove up, and cast back a +broad proud smile at the candidate's warm greeting. +</P> + +<P> +"I got up the old 'bus so nice and proper, with all your colours and +posters, and it would have been a spectacular Diorama for these 'ere +poor people; but you know for why I didn't bring it out to-day, don't +you, sonny?" +</P> + +<P> +"I know, dear old friend," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'adn't the 'cart to." +</P> + +<P> +"What were you speechifying about when I turned up?" +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill jerked a backward thumb. "I was telling this pack of +cowardly Radicals that though I've been a Tory born and bred for sixty +odd years, and though I've voted for you, Silas Finn, for all he was in +prison while most of them were sucking wickedness and Radicalism out of +Nature's founts, is just as good a man as what you are. They was +saying, yer see, they was Radicals, but on account of Silas being blown +upon, they was going to vote for you. So I tells 'em, I says, 'Mr. +Savelli would scorn your dirty votes. If yer feel low and Radical, vote +Radical. Mr. Savelli wants to play fair. I know both of 'em,' I says, +'both of 'em intimately.' And they begins to laugh, as if I was talking +through my hat. Anyway, they see now I know you, sonny." +</P> + +<P> +Paul laughed and clapped the loyal old man on the shoulder. Then he +turned to the silent but interested group. "Gentlemen," said he, "I +don't want to inquire on which side you are; but you can take it from +me that whatever my old friend Mr. Simmons says about Mr. Finn and +myself is the absolute truth. If you're on Mr. Finn's side in politics, +in God's name vote for him. He's a noble, high-souled man and I'm proud +of his private friendship." +</P> + +<P> +He drew Barney Bill apart. "You're the only Tory in the place who can +try to persuade people not to vote for me. I wish you would keep on +doing it." +</P> + +<P> +"I've been a-doing of it ever since the polls opened this morning," +said Barney Bill. Then he cocked his head on one side and his little +eyes twinkled: "It's an upside-down way of fighting an election to +persuade people not to vote for you, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Everything is topsy-turvy with me, these days," Paul replied: "so +we've just got to stand on our heads and make the best of it." +</P> + +<P> +And he drove off in the gathering dusk. +</P> + +<P> +Night found him in the great chamber of the Town Hall, with his agent +and members of his committee. Present too were the Liberal Agent and +the members of the Liberal Committee. At one end of the room sat the +Mayor of the Borough in robe and chain of office, presiding over the +proceedings. The Returning Officer and his staff sat behind long +tables, on which were deposited the sealed ballot boxes brought in from +the various polling stations; and these were emptied and the votes were +counted, the voting papers for each candidate being done up in bundles +of fifty. Knots of committee-men of both parties stood chatting in low +voices. In an ordinary election both candidates would have chatted +together, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred about golf, and would +have made an engagement to meet again in milder conflict that day week. +But here Paul was the only candidate to appear, and he sat in a +cane-bottomed chair apart from the lounging politicians, feeling +curiously an interloper in this vast, solemn and scantily-filled hall. +He was very tired, too tired in body, mind and soul to join in the +small-talk of Wilson and his bodyguard. Besides, they all wore the air +of anticipated victory, and for that he held them in detestation. He +had detested them the whole day long. The faces that yesterday had been +long and anxious to-day had been wreathed in smirks. Wherever he had +gone he had found promise of victory in his father's disgrace. +Passionately the young man, fronting vital issues, longed for his own +defeat. +</P> + +<P> +But for the ironical interposition of the high gods, it might have been +so different. Any other candidate against him, he himself buoyed up +with his own old glorious faith, his Princess, dazzling meteor +illuminating the murky streets—dear God! what would not have been the +joy of battle during the past week, what would not have been the +intense thrill, the living of a thousand lives in these few hours of +suspense now so dull with dreariness and pain! He sat apart, his legs +crossed, a hand over his eyes. Wilson and his men, puzzled by his +apparent apathy, left him alone. It is not much use addressing a mute +and wooden idol, no matter how physically prepossessing. +</P> + +<P> +The counting went on slowly, relentlessly, and the bundles of fifty on +each side grew in bulk, and Paul's side bulked larger than Silas Finn's. +</P> + +<P> +At last Wilson could stand it no longer. He left the group with which +he was talking, and came to Paul. "We're far ahead already," he cried +excitedly. "I told you last night would do the trick." +</P> + +<P> +"Last night," said Paul, rising and stuffing his hands in his jacket +pockets, "my opponent's supporters passed a vote of confidence in him +in a scene of tumultuous enthusiasm." +</P> + +<P> +"Quite so," replied Wilson. "A crowd is generous and easily swayed. A +theatrical audience of scalliwags and thieves will howl applause at the +triumph of virtue and the downfall of the villain; and each separate +member will go out into the street and begin to practise villainy and +say 'to hell with virtue.' If last night's meeting could have polled on +the spot, they would have been as one man. To-day they're scattered and +each individual revises his excited opinion. Your hard-bitten Radical +would sooner have a self-made man than an aristocrat to represent him +in Parliament; but, damn it all, he'd sooner have an aristocrat than an +ex-convict." +</P> + +<P> +"But who the devil told you I'm an aristocrat?" cried Paul. +</P> + +<P> +Wilson laughed. "Who wants to be told such an obvious thing? Anyhow, +you've only got to look and you'll see how the votes are piling up." +</P> + +<P> +Paul looked and saw that Wilson spoke truly. Then he reflected that +Wilson and the others who had worked so strenuously for him had no part +in his own personal depression. They deserved a manifestation of +interest, also expressions of gratitude. So Paul pulled himself +together and went amongst them and was responsive to their prophecies +of victory. +</P> + +<P> +Then just as the last votes were being counted, an official attendant +came in with a letter for Paul. It had been brought by messenger. The +writing on the envelope was Jane's. He tore it open and read. +</P> + +<P> +Mr. Finn is dying. He has had a stroke. The doctor says he can't live +through the night. Come as soon as you can. JANE. +</P> + +<P> +Outside the Town Hall the wide street was packed with people. Men +surged up to the hollow square of police guarding the approach to the +flight of steps and the great entrance door. Men swarmed about the +electric standards above the heads of their fellows. Men rose in a long +tier with their backs to the shop-fronts on the opposite side of the +road. In spite of the raw night the windows were open and the arc +lights revealed a ghostly array of faces looking down on the mass +below, whose faces in their turn were lit up by the more yellow glare +streaming from the doors and uncurtained windows of the Town Hall. In +the lobby behind the glass doors could be seen a few figures going and +coming, committee-men, journalists, officials. A fine rain began to +fall, but the crowd did not heed it. The mackintosh capes of the +policemen glistened. It was an orderly crowd, held together by tense +excitement: all eyes fixed on the silent illuminated building whence +the news would come. Across one window on the second floor was a large +white patch, blank and sphinx-like. At right angles to one end of the +block ran the High Street and the tall, blazing trams passed up and +down and all eyes in the trams strained for a transient glimpse of the +patch, hoping that it would flare out into message. +</P> + +<P> +Presently a man was seen to dash from the interior of the hall into the +lobby, casting words at the waiting figures, who clamoured eagerly and +disappeared within, just as the man broke through the folding doors and +appeared at the top of the steps beneath the portico. The great crowd +surged and groaned, and the word was quickly passed from rank to rank. +</P> + +<P> +"Savelli. Thirteen hundred and seventy majority." And then there burst +out wild cheers and the crowd broke into a myriad little waves like a +choppy sea. Men danced and shouted and clapped each other on the back, +and the tall facade of the street opposite the hall was a-flutter. +Suddenly the white patch leaped into an illumination proclaiming the +figures. +</P> + +<P> +Savelli—6,135. +</P> + +<P> +Finn—4,765. +</P> + +<P> +Again the wild cheering rose, and then the great double windows in the +centre of the first floor of the Town Hall were flung open and Paul, +surrounded by the mayor and officials, appeared. +</P> + +<P> +Paul gripped the iron hand-rail and looked down upon the tumultuous +scene, his ears deafened by the roar, his eyes dazed by the conflicting +lights and the million swift reflections from moving faces and arms and +hats and handkerchiefs. The man is not born who can receive unmoved a +frenzied public ovation. A lump rose in his throat. After all, this +delirium of joy was sincere. He stood for the moment the idol of the +populace. For him this vast concourse of human beings had waited in +rain and mud and now became a deafening, seething welter of human +passion. He gripped the rail tighter and closed his eyes. He heard as +in a dream the voice of the mayor behind him: "Say a few words. They +won't hear you—but that doesn't matter." +</P> + +<P> +Then Paul drew himself up, facing the whirling scene. He sought in his +pockets and suddenly shot up his hand, holding a letter, and awaited a +lull in the uproar. He was master of himself now. He had indeed words +to say, deliberately prepared, and he knew that if he could get a +hearing he would say them as deliberately. At last came comparative +calm. +</P> + +<P> +"Gentlemen," said he, with a motion of the letter, "my opponent is +dying." +</P> + +<P> +He paused. The words, so unexpected, so strangely different from the +usual exordium, seemed to pass from line to line through the crowd. +</P> + +<P> +"I am speaking in the presence of death," said Paul, and paused again. +</P> + +<P> +And a hush spread like a long wave across the street, and the thronged +windows, last of all, grew still and silent. +</P> + +<P> +"I will ask you to hear me out, for I have something very grave to +say." And his voice rang loud and clear. "Last night my opponent was +forced to admit that nearly thirty years ago he suffered a term of +penal servitude. The shock, after years of reparation, of spotless +life, spent in the service of God and his fellow-creatures, has killed +him. I desire publicly to proclaim that I, as his opponent, had no +share in the dastardly blow that has struck him down. And I desire to +proclaim the reason. He is my own father; I, Paul Savelli, am my +opponent, Silas Finn's son." +</P> + +<P> +A great gasp and murmur rose from the wonder-stricken throng, but only +momentarily, for the spell of drama was on them. Paul continued. +</P> + +<P> +"I will make public later on the reasons for our respective changes of +name. For the present it is enough to state the fact of our +relationship and of our mutual affection and respect. That I thank you +for electing me goes without saying; and I will do everything in my +power to advance the great cause you have enabled me to represent. I +regret I cannot address you in another place to-night, as I had +intended. I must ask you of your kindness to let me go quietly where my +duty and my heart call me to my father's death-bed." +</P> + +<P> +He bowed and waved a dignified gesture of farewell, and turning into +the hall met the assemblage of long, astounded faces. From outside came +the dull rumbling of the dispersing crowd. The mayor, the first to +break the silence, murmured a platitude. +</P> + +<P> +Paul thanked him gravely. Then he went to Wilson. "Forgive me," said +he, "for all that has been amiss with me to-day. It has been a strain +of a very peculiar kind." +</P> + +<P> +"I can well imagine it," said Wilson. +</P> + +<P> +"You see I'm not an aristocrat, after all," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +Wilson looked the young man in the face and saw the steel beneath the +dark eyes, and the Proud setting of the lips. With a sudden impulse he +wrung his hand. "I don't care a damn!" said he. "You are." +</P> + +<P> +Paul said, unsmiling: "I can face the music. That's all." He drew a +note from his pocket. "Will you do me a final service? Go round to the +Conservative Club at once, and tell the meeting what has happened, and +give this to Colonel Winwood." +</P> + +<P> +"With pleasure," said Wilson. +</P> + +<P> +Then Paul shook hands with all his fellow-workers and thanked them in +his courtly way, and, pleading for solitude, went through the door of +the great chamber and, guided by an attendant, reached the exit in a +side street where his car awaited him. A large concourse of people +stood drawn up in line on each side of the street, marshalled by +policemen. A familiar crooked figure limped from the shadow of the +door, holding a hard felt hat, his white poll gleaming in the shaft of +light. "God bless you, sonny," he said in a hoarse whisper. +</P> + +<P> +Paul took the old man by the arm and drew him across the pavement to +the car. "Get in," said he. +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill hung back. "No, sonny; no." +</P> + +<P> +"It's not the first time we've driven together. Get in. I want you." +</P> + +<P> +So Barney Bill allowed himself to be thrust into the luxurious car, and +Paul followed. And perhaps for the first time in the history of great +elections the successful candidate drove away from the place where the +poll was declared in dead silence, attended only by the humblest of his +constituents. But every man in the throng bared his head. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap21"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXI +</H3> + +<P> +"HE had the stroke in the night," said Barney Bill suddenly. +</P> + +<P> +Paul turned sharply on him. "Why wasn't I told?" +</P> + +<P> +"Could you have cured him?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course not." +</P> + +<P> +"Could you have done him any good?" +</P> + +<P> +"I ought to have been told." +</P> + +<P> +"You had enough of worries before you for one day, sonny." +</P> + +<P> +"That was my business," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Jane and I, being as it were responsible parties, took the liberty, so +to speak, of thinking it our business too." +</P> + +<P> +Paul drummed impatiently on his knees. +</P> + +<P> +"Yer ain't angry, are you, sonny?" the old man asked plaintively. +</P> + +<P> +"No—not angry—with you and Jane—certainly not. I know you acted for +the best, out of love for me. But you shouldn't have deceived me. I +thought it was a mere nervous breakdown—the strain and shock. You +never said a word about it, and Jane, when I talked to her this +morning, never gave me to dream there was anything serious amiss. So I +say you two have deceived me." +</P> + +<P> +"But I'm a telling of yer, sonny—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes, I know. I don't reproach you. But don't you see? I'm sick of +lies. Dead sick. I've been up to my neck in a bog of falsehood ever +since I was a child and I'm making a hell of a struggle to get on to +solid ground. The Truth for me now. By God! nothing but the Truth!" +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill, sitting forward, hunched up, on the seat of the car, just +as he used to sit on the footboard of his van, twisted his head round. +"I'm not an eddicated person," said he, "although if I hadn't done a +bit of reading in my time I'd have gone dotty all by my lones in the +old 'bus, but I've come to one or two conclusions in my, so to speak, +variegated career, and one is that if you go on in that 'ere mad way +for Truth in Parliament, you'll be a bull in a china shop, and they'll +get sticks and dawgs to hustle you out. Sir Robert Peel, old Gladstone, +Dizzy, the whole lot of the old Yuns was up against it. They had to +compromise. It's compromise"—the old man dwelt lovingly, as usual, on +the literary word—"it's compromise you must have in Parliament." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll see Parliament damned first!" cried Paul, his nerves on edge. +</P> + +<P> +"You'll have to wait a long time, sonny," said Barney Bill, wagging a +sage head. "Parliament takes a lot of damning." +</P> + +<P> +"Anyhow," said Paul, not eager to continue the argument, but +unconsciously caught in the drift of Barney Bill's philosophy, "my +private life isn't politics, and there's not going to be another lie in +my private life as long as I live." +</P> + +<P> +The old man broke a short silence with a dry chuckle. "How it takes one +back!" he said reflectively. "Lor lumme! I can hear yer speaking +now—just in the same tone—the night what yer run away with me. Yer +hadn't a seat to yer breeches then, and now you've a seat in +Parliament." He chuckled again at his joke. "But"—he gripped the young +man's knee in his bony clasp—"you're just the same Paul, sonny, God +bless yer—and you'll come out straight all right. Here we are." +</P> + +<P> +The car drew up before Silas Finn's house. They entered. Jane, +summoned, came down at once and met them in the dreadful dining-room, +where a simple meal was spread. +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't heard—" she said. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm in." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad." +</P> + +<P> +"My father—?" he asked curtly. +</P> + +<P> +She looked at him wide-eyed for a second or two as he stood, his +fur-lined coat with astrachan collar thrown open, his hand holding a +soft felt hat on his hip, his absurdly beautiful head thrown back, to +casual glance the Fortunate Youth of a month or two ago. But to Jane's +jealous eye he was not even the man she had seen that afternoon. He +looked many years older. She confessed afterwards to surprise at not +finding his hair grey at the temples, thus manifesting her ordered +sense of the harmonious. She confessed, too, that she was +frightened—Jane who, for any other reason than the mere saving of her +own skin, would have stolidly faced Hyrcanean tigers—at the stern eyes +beneath the contracted brows. He was a different Paul altogether. And +here we have the divergence between the masculine and the feminine +point of view. Jane saw a new avatar; Barney Bill the ragged urchin of +the Bludston brick-fields. She shifted her glance to the old man. He, +standing crookedly, cocked his head and nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"He knows all about it." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, yes," said Paul. "How is my father?" +</P> + +<P> +Jane threw out her hands in the Englishwoman's insignificant gesture. +"He's unconscious—has been for hours—the nurse is up with him—the +end may come any moment. I hid it from you till the last for your own +sake. Would you care to go upstairs?" +</P> + +<P> +She moved to the door. Paul threw off his overcoat and, followed by +Barney Bill, accompanied her. On the landing they were met by the nurse. +</P> + +<P> +"It is all over," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"I will go in for a moment," said Paul. "I should like to be alone." +</P> + +<P> +In a room hung like the rest of the house with gaudy pictures he stood +for a short while looking at the marble face of the strange-souled, +passionate being that had been his father. The lids had closed for ever +over the burning, sorrowful eyes; the mobile lips were for ever mute. +In his close sympathy with the man Paul knew what had struck him down. +It was not the blow of the nameless enemy, but the stunning realization +that he was not, after all, the irresistible nominee of the Almighty. +His great faith had not suffered; for the rigid face was serene, as +though he had accepted this final chastisement and purification before +entrance into the Eternal Kingdom; but his high pride, the mainspring +of his fanatical life, had been broken and the workings of the physical +organism had been arrested. In those few moments of intense feeling, in +the presence of death, it was given to Paul to tread across the +threshold of the mystery of his birth. Here lay stiff and cold no base +clay such as that of which Polly Kegworthy had been formed. It had been +the tenement of a spirit beautiful and swift. No matter to what things +he himself had been born—he had put that foolishness behind him—at +all events his dream had come partly true. His father had been one of +the great ones, one of the conquerors, one of the high princes of men. +Multitudes of kings had not been so parented. Outwardly a successful +business man and a fanatical Dissenter—there were thousands like Silas +Finn. But Paul knew his inner greatness, the terrific struggle of his +soul, the warrings between fierce blood and iron will, the fervent +purpose, the lofty aspirations and the unwavering conduct of his life +of charity and sorrow. He stretched out his hand and with his finger +tips lightly touched the dead man's forehead. "I'm proud to be your +son," he murmured. +</P> + +<P> +Then the nurse came in and Paul went downstairs. Barney Bill waylaid +him in the hall, and led him into the dining-room. "Have a little food +and drink, sonny. You look as if yer need it—especially drink. 'Ere." +He seized a decanter of whisky—since Paul's first visit, Silas had +always kept it in the house for his son's comforting—and would have +filled the tumbler had not Paul restrained him. He squirted in the +soda. "Drink it down and you'll feel better." +</P> + +<P> +Paul swallowed a great gulp. "Yes," he agreed. "There are times when it +does help a man." +</P> + +<P> +"Liquor is like a dawg," said Bill. "Keep it in subjection, so to +speak, and it's yer faithful friend." +</P> + +<P> +"Where's Jane?" Paul asked. +</P> + +<P> +"She's busy. Half the borough seem to be calling, or telephoning"—and +even at that moment Paul could hear the maid tripping across the hall +and opening the front door—"I've told her what occurred. She seemed +half skeered. She's had a dreadful day, pore gal." +</P> + +<P> +"She has indeed," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +He threw himself into a chair, dead beat, at the end of emotional +strain, and remained talking with the old man of he scarce knew what. +But these two—Jane and the old man—were linked to him by imperishable +ties, and he could not leave them yet awhile in the house of death. +Barney Bill stirred the fire, which blazed up, making the perky animals +on the hearth cast faint and fantastic shadows. +</P> + +<P> +"It's funny how he loved those darned little beasts, isn't it now? I +remember of him telling me as how they transported him into magic +something—or the other—medi—he had a word for it—I dunno—" +</P> + +<P> +"Mediaeval?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's it, sonny. Mediaeval forests. It means back of old times, don't +it? King Arthur and his Round Table—I done a bit of reading, yer +know." The old man took out pouch and pipe. "That's what drew us +together, sonny, our taste for literature. Remember?" +</P> + +<P> +"Can I ever forget?" said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, he was like that too. He had lots of po'try in him—not the +stuff that rhymes, yer know, like 'The Psalm of Life' and so forth, but +real po'try. I wish I could tell yer what I mean—" His face was +puckered into a thousand wrinkles with the intellectual effort, and his +little diamond eyes gleamed. "He could take a trumpery common thing +like that there mug-faced, lop-eared hare and make it stand for the +medi-what-you-call-it-forest. I've said to him, 'Come out with me on +the old 'bus if you want green and loneliness and nature.' And he has +said—I recollect one talk in particular—he said, 'I'd love to hear' +something about a pipe—I'm getting old, sonny—" +</P> + +<P> +"The Pipes of Pan?" Paul suggested. +</P> + +<P> +"The very words. Lor lumme! how did you guess it?" He paused, his +fingers holding the lighted match, which went out before he could apply +it to his tobacco. "Yus. 'The Pipes of Pan.' I don't know what it +means. Anyway, he said he'd love to hear them in the real forest, but +duty kept him to bricks and mortar and so he had to hear them in +imagination. He said that all them footling little beasts were +a-listening to 'em, and they told him all about it. I remember he told +me more about the woods than I know myself—and I reckon I could teach +his business to any gamekeeper or poacher in England. I don't say as +how he knew the difference between a stoat and a weasel—he didn't. A +cock-pheasant and a hen-partridge would have been the same to him. But +the spirit of it—the meaning of it—he fair raised my hair off—he +knew it a darned sight better nor I. And that's what I set out for to +say, sonny. He had po'try in him. And all this"—he swept an +all-inclusive hand—"all this meant to him something that you and I +can't tumble to, sonny. It meant something different to what it looked +like—ah!" and impatient at his impotence to express philosophic +thought, he cast another lighted match angrily into the fire. +</P> + +<P> +Paul, high product of modern culture, sat in wonder at the common old +fellow's clarity of vision. Tears rolled down his cheek. "I know, dear +old Bill, what you're trying to say. Only one man has ever been able to +say it. A mad poet called Blake. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> + 'To see a world in a grain of sand,<BR> + And a heaven in a wild flower;<BR> + Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,<BR> + And eternity in an hour'."<BR> +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill started forward in his chair and clapped his hand on the +young man's knee. "By gum! you've got it. That's what I was a-driving +at. That's Silas. I call to mind when he was a boy—pretty dirty and +ragged he was too—as he used to lean over the parapet of Blackfriars +Bridge and watch the current sort of swirling round the piers, and he +used to say as how he could hear what the river was saying. I used to +think him loony. But it was po'try, sonny, all the time." +</P> + +<P> +The old man, thus started on reminiscence, continued, somewhat +garrulous, and Paul, sunk in the armchair by the fire, listened +indulgently, waiting for Jane. She, meanwhile, was occupied upstairs +and in the library answering telephone messages and sending word out to +callers by the maid. For, on the heels of Paul, as Barney Bill had +said, many had come on errand of inquiry and condolence and all the +news agencies and newspapers of London seemed to be on the telephone. +Some of the latter tried for speech with the newly elected candidate +whom they understood to be in the house, but Jane denied them firmly. +She had had some training as a politician's private secretary. At last +the clanging bell ceased ringing, and the maid ceased running to and +from the street door, and the doctor had come and given his certificate +and gone, and Jane joined the pair in the dining-room. She brought in +from the hall a tray of visiting cards and set it on the table. "I +suppose it was kind of them all to come," she said. +</P> + +<P> +She sat down listlessly in a straight-backed chair, and then, at a +momentary end of her fine strength suddenly broke into tears and sobs +and buried her head on her arms. Paul rose, bent over her and clasped +her shoulders comfortingly. Presently she turned and blindly sought his +embrace. He raised her to her feet, and they stood as they had done +years ago, when, boy and girl, they had come to the parting of their +ways. She cried silently for a while, and then she said miserably: +"I've only you left, dear." +</P> + +<P> +In this hour of spent effort and lassitude it was a queer physical +comfort, very pure and sweet, to feel the close contact of her young, +strong body. She, too, out of the wreck, was all that he had left. His +clasp tightened, and he murmured soothing words. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, my dear, I am so tired," she said, giving herself up, for her part +also, to the foolish solace of his arms. "I wish I could stay here +always, Paul." +</P> + +<P> +He whispered: "Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +Indeed, why not? Instinct spoke. His people were her people and her +people his. And she had proved herself a brave, true woman. Before him +no longer gleamed the will-o'-the-wisp leading him a fantastic dance +through life. Before him lay only darkness. Jane and he, hand in hand, +could walk through it fearless and undismayed. And her own great love, +shown unashamed in the abandonment of this moment of intense emotion' +made his pulses throb. He whispered again: "Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +For answer she nestled closer. "If only you could love me a little, +little bit?" +</P> + +<P> +"But I do," said Paul hoarsely. +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head and sobbed afresh, and they stood in close embrace +at the end of the room by the door, regardless of the presence of the +old man who sat, his back to them, smoking his pipe and looking, with +his birdlike crook of the neck, meditatively into the fire. "No, no," +said Jane, at last. "It's silly of me. Forgive me. We mustn't talk of +such things. Neither of us is fit to—and to-night it's not becoming. I +have lost my father and you are only my brother, Paul dear." +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill broke in suddenly; and at the sound of his voice they moved +apart. "Think over it, sonny. Don't go and do anything rash." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you think it would be wise for Jane to marry me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ay—for Jane." +</P> + +<P> +"Not for me?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's only wise for a man to marry a woman what he loves," said Barney +Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" +</P> + +<P> +"You said, when we was a-driving here, as you are going to live for the +Truth and nothing but the Truth. I only mention it," added the old man +drily. +</P> + +<P> +Jane recovered herself, with a gulp in the throat, and before Paul +could answer said: "We too had a talk to-day, Paul. Remember," her +voice quavered a little—"about carrots." +</P> + +<P> +"You were right in essence," said Paul, looking at her gravely. "But I +should have my incentive. I know my own mind. My affection for you is +of the deepest. That is Truth—I needn't tell you. We could lead a +happy and noble life together." +</P> + +<P> +"We belong to two different social classes, Paul," she said gently, +again sitting in the straight-backed chair by the table. +</P> + +<P> +"We don't," he replied. "I repudiated my claims to the other class this +evening. I was admitted into what is called high society, partly +because people took it for granted that I was a man of good birth. Now +that I've publicly proclaimed that I'm not—and the newspapers will +pretty soon find out all about me now—I'll drop out of that same high +society. I shan't seek readmittance." +</P> + +<P> +"People will seek you." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't know the world," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"It must be mean and horrid." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no. It's very just and honourable. I shan't blame it a bit for not +wanting me. Why should I? I don't belong to it." +</P> + +<P> +"But you do, dear Paul," she cried earnestly. "Even if you could get +rid of your training and mode of thought, you can't get rid of your +essential self. You've always been an aristocrat, and I've always been +a small shop-keeper's daughter and shall continue to be one." +</P> + +<P> +"And I say," Paul retorted, "that we've both sprung from the people, +and are of the people. You've raised yourself above the small +shop-keeping class just as much as I have. Don't let us have any sham +humility about it. Whatever happens you'll always associate with folk +of good-breeding and education. You couldn't go back to Barn Street. It +would be idiotic for me to contemplate such a thing for my part. But +between Barn Street and Mayfair there's a refined and intellectual land +where you and I can meet on equal ground and make our social position. +What do you say?" +</P> + +<P> +She did not look at him, but fingered idly the cards on the tray. +"To-morrow you will think differently. To-night you're all on the +strain." +</P> + +<P> +"And, axing yer pardon, sonny, for chipping in," said the old man, +holding up his pipe in his gnarled fingers, "you haven't told her as +how you loves her—not as how a young woman axed in marriage ought to +be told." +</P> + +<P> +"I've spoken the Truth, dear old friend," said Paul. "I've got down to +bed-rock to-night. I have a deep and loyal affection for Jane. I shan't +waver in it all my life long. I'll soon find my carrot, as she calls +it—it will be England's greatness. She is the woman that will help me +on my path. I've finished with illusions for ever and ever. Jane is the +bravest and grandest of realities. To-night's work has taught me that. +For me, Jane stands for the Truth. Jane—" +</P> + +<P> +He turned to her, but she had risen from her chair, staring at a card +which she held in her hand. Her clear eyes met his for an instant as +she threw the card on the table before him. "No, dear. For you, that's +the Truth." +</P> + +<P> +He took it up and looked at it stupidly. It bore a crown and the +inscription: "The Princess Sophie Zobraska," and a pencilled line, in +her handwriting: "With anxious inquiries." He reeled, as if someone had +dealt him a heavy blow on the head. He recovered to see Jane regarding +him with her serene gravity. "Did you know about this?" he asked dully. +</P> + +<P> +"No. I've just seen the card. I found it at the bottom of the pile." +</P> + +<P> +"How did it come?" +</P> + +<P> +Jane rang the bell. "I don't know. If Annie's still up, we can find +out. As it was at the bottom, it must have been one of the first." +</P> + +<P> +"How could the news have travelled so fast?" said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +The maid came in. Questioned, she said that just after Paul had gone +upstairs, and while Jane was at the telephone, a chauffeur had +presented the card. He belonged to a great lighted limousine in which +sat a lady in hat and dark veil. According to her orders, she had said +that Mr. Finn was dead, and the chauffeur had gone away and she had +shut the door. +</P> + +<P> +The maid was dismissed. Paul stood on the hearthrug with bent brows, +his hands in his jacket pockets. "I can't understand it," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"She must ha' come straight from the Town Hall," said Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"But she wasn't there," cried Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Sonny," said the old fellow, "if you're always dead sure of where a +woman is and where a woman isn't, you're a wiser man than Solomon with +all his wives and other domestic afflictions." +</P> + +<P> +Paul threw the card into the fire. "It doesn't matter where she was," +said he. "It was a very polite—even a gracious act to send in her card +on her way home. But it makes no difference to what I was talking +about. What have I got to do with princesses? They're out of my sphere. +So are Naiads and Dryads and Houris and Valkyrie and other fabulous +ladies. The Princess Zobraska has nothing to do with the question." +</P> + +<P> +He made a step towards Jane and, his hand on her shoulder, looked at +her in his new, masterful way. "I come in the most solemn hour and in +the crisis of my life to ask you to marry me. My father, whom I've only +learned to love and revere to-night, is lying dead upstairs. To-night I +have cut away all bridges behind me. I go into the unknown. We'll have +to fight, but we'll fight together. You have courage, and I at least +have that. There's a seat in Parliament which I'll have to fight for +afterwards like a dog for a bone, and an official position which brings +in enough bread and-butter—" +</P> + +<P> +"And there's a fortune remarked Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean?" Paul swung round sharply. +</P> + +<P> +"Yer father's fortune, sonny. Who do yer suppose he was a-going to +leave it to? 'Omes for lost 'orses or Free Zionists? I don't know as +'ow I oughter talk of it, him not buried yet—but I seed his will when +he made it a month or two ago, and barring certain legacies to Free +Zionists and such-like lunatic folk, not to speak of Jane ere being +left comfortably off, you're the residuary legatee, sonny—with +something like a hundred thousand pounds. There's no talk of earning +bread-and-butter, sonny." +</P> + +<P> +"It never entered my head," said Paul, rather dazed. "I suppose a +father would leave his money to his son. I didn't realize it." He +passed his hand over his eyes. "So many things have happened to-night. +Anyhow," he said, smiling queerly, in his effort to still a whirling +brain, "if there are no anxieties as to ways and means, so much the +better for Jane and me. I am all the more justified in asking you to +marry me. Will you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Before I answer you, Paul dear," she replied steadily, "you must +answer me. I've known about the will, just like Bill, all the time—" +</P> + +<P> +"She has that," confirmed the old man. +</P> + +<P> +"So this isn't news to me, dear, and can't alter anything from me to +you." +</P> + +<P> +"Why should it?" asked Paul. "But it makes my claim a little stronger." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no," she replied, shaking her head. "It only—only confuses +issues. Money has nothing to do with what I'm going to ask you. You +said to-night you were going to live for the Truth—the real naked +Truth. Now, Paul dear, I want the real, naked Truth. Do you love that +woman?" +</P> + +<P> +At her question she seemed to have grown from the common sense, +clear-eyed Jane into a great and commanding presence. She had drawn +herself to her full height. Her chin was in the air, her generous bust +thrown forward, her figure imperious, her eyes intense. And Paul too +drew himself up and looked at her in his new manhood. And they stood +thus for a while, beloved enemies. +</P> + +<P> +"If you want the Truth—yes, I do love her," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Then how dare you ask me to be your wife?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because the one is nonsensical and illusory and the other is real and +practical." +</P> + +<P> +She flashed out angrily: "Do you suppose I can live my woman's life on +the real and practical? What kind of woman do you take me for? An +Amelia, a Patient Griselda, a tabby cat?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul said: "You know very well; I take you for one of the +greatest-hearted of women. I've already said it to-night." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think I'm a greater-hearted woman than she? Wait, I've not +finished," she cried in a loud voice. "Your Princess—you cut her heart +into bits the other day, when you proclaimed yourself a low-born +impostor. She thought you a high-born gentleman, and you told her of +the gutter up north and the fried-fish shop and the Sicilian +organ-grinding woman. She, royalty—you of the scum! She left you. This +morning she learned worse. She learned that you were the son of a +convict. What does she do? She comes somehow—I don't know how—to +Hickney Heath and hears you publicly give yourself away—and she drives +straight here with a message for you. It's for you, the message. Who +else?" She stood before Paul, a flashing Jane unknown. "Would a woman +who didn't love you come to this house to-night? She wouldn't, Paul. +You know it! Dear old Bill here, who hasn't moved in royal circles, +knows it. No, my dear man," she said regally, "I've given you all my +love—everything that is in me—since I was a child of thirteen. You +will always have it. It's my great joy that you'll always have it. But, +by God, Paul, I'm not going to exchange it for anything less. Can you +give me the same?" +</P> + +<P> +"You know I can't," said Paul. "But I can give you that which would +make our marriage a happy one. I believe the experience of the world +has shown it to be the securest basis." +</P> + +<P> +She was on the point of breaking out, but turned away, with clenched +hands, and, controlling herself, faced him again. "You're an honourable +and loyal man, Paul, and you're saying this to save your face. I know +that you would marry me. I know that you would be faithful to me in +thought and word and act. I know that you would be good and kind and +never give me a moment's cause for complaint. But your heart would be +with the other woman. Whether she's out of your sphere or not—what +does it matter to me? You love her and she loves you. I know it. I +should always know it. You'd be living in hell and so should I. I +should prefer to remain in purgatory, which, after all, is quite +bearable—I'm used to it—and I love you enough to wish to see you in +paradise." +</P> + +<P> +She turned away with a wide gesture and an upward inflexion of her +voice. Barney Bill refilled his pipe and fixed Paul with his twinkling +diamond eyes. "It's a pity, sonny—a dodgasted pity!" +</P> + +<P> +"We're up against the Truth, old man, the unashamed and naked truth," +said Paul, with a sigh. +</P> + +<P> +Jane caught Paul's fur-lined coat and hat from the chair on which he +had thrown it and came to him. "It's time for you to go and rest, dear. +We're all of us exhausted." +</P> + +<P> +She helped him on with the heavy coat, and for farewell put both her +hands on his shoulders. "You must forget a lot of things I've said +to-night." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't help remembering them." +</P> + +<P> +"No, dear. Forget them." She drew his face down and kissed him on the +lips. Then she led him out to the front door and accompanied him down +the steps to the kerb where the car with its weary chauffeur was +waiting. The night had cleared and the stars shone bright in the sky. +She pointed to one, haphazard. "Your star, Paul. Believe in it still." +</P> + +<P> +He drove off. She entered the house, and, flinging herself on the floor +by Barney Bill, buried her head on the old man's knees and sobbed her +brave heart out. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap22"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXII +</H3> + +<P> +THE next morning amazement fluttered over a million breakfast tables +and throbbed in a million railway carriages. For all the fierceness of +political passions, parliamentary elections are but sombre occurrences +to the general public. Rarely are they attended by the picturesque, the +dramatic, the tragic. But already the dramatic had touched the election +of Hickney Heath, stimulating interest in the result. Thousands, +usually apathetic as to political matters, opened their newspapers to +see how the ex-convict candidate had fared. They read, with a gasp, +that he was dead; that his successful opponent had proclaimed himself +to be his son. They had the dramatic value of cumulative effect. If +Paul had ever sought notoriety he had it now. His name rang through the +length and breadth of the land. The early editions of the London +afternoon papers swelled the chorus of amazed comment and conjecture. +Some had even routed out a fact or two, Heaven knows whence, concerning +father and son. According to party they meted out praise or blame. +Some, unversed in the law, declared the election invalid. The point was +discussed in a hundred clubs. +</P> + +<P> +There was consternation in the social world. The Duchesses' boudoirs +with which Paul had been taunted hummed with indignation. They had +entertained an adventurer unawares. They had entrusted the sacred ark +of their political hopes to a charlatan. Their daughters had danced +with the offspring of gaol and gutter. He must be cast out from the +midst of them. So did those that were foolish furiously rage together +and imagine many a vain thing. The Winwoods came in for pity. They had +been villainously imposed upon. And the Young England League to which +they had all subscribed so handsomely—where were its funds? Was it +safe to leave them at the disposal of so unprincipled a fellow? Then +germs of stories crept in from the studios and the stage and grew +perversely in the overheated atmosphere. Paul's reputation began to +assume a pretty colour. On the other hand, there were those who, while +deploring the deception, were impressed by the tragedy and by Paul's +attitude. He had his defenders. Among the latter first sprang forward +Lord Francis Ayres, the Chief Whip, officially bound to protect his own +pet candidate. +</P> + +<P> +He called early at the house in Portland Place, a distressed and +anxious man. The door was besieged by reporters from newspapers, vainly +trying to gain, entrance. His arrival created a sensation. At any rate +there was a headline "Opposition Whip calls on Savelli." One or two +attempted to interview him on the doorstep. He excused himself +courteously. As-yet he knew as much or as little as they. The door +opened. The butler snatched him in hurriedly. He asked to see the +Winwoods. He found them in the library. +</P> + +<P> +"Here's an awful mess," said he, throwing up his hands. "I thought I'd +have a word or two with you before I tackle Savelli. Have you seen him +this morning?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what do you think about it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think," said Ursula, "that the best thing I can do is to take him +away with me for a rest as soon as possible. He's at the end of his +tether." +</P> + +<P> +"You seem to take it pretty calmly." +</P> + +<P> +"How do you expect us to take it, my dear Frank?" she asked. "We always +expected Paul to do the right thing when the time came, and we consider +that he has done it." +</P> + +<P> +The Chief Whip smoothed a perplexed brow. "I don't quite follow. Were +you, vulgarly speaking, in the know all the time?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sit down, and I'll tell you." +</P> + +<P> +So he sat down and Miss Winwood quietly told him all she knew about +Paul and what had happened during the past few weeks, while the Colonel +sat by his desk and tugged his long moustache and here and there +supplemented her narrative. +</P> + +<P> +"That's all very interesting," Ayres remarked when she had finished, +"and you two have acted like bricks. I also see that he must have had a +devil of a time of it. But I've got to look at things from an official +point of view." +</P> + +<P> +"There's no question of invalidity, is there?" asked Colonel Winwood. +</P> + +<P> +"No. He was known as Paul Savelli, nominated as Paul Savelli, and +elected as Paul Savelli by the electors of Hickney Heath. So he'll sit +as Paul Savelli. That's all right. But how is the House going to +receive him when he is introduced? How will it take him afterwards? +What use will he be to the party? We only ran him because he seemed to +be the most brilliant of the young outsiders. We hoped great things of +him. Hasn't he smashed up himself socially? Hasn't he smashed up his +career at the very beginning? All that is what I want to know." +</P> + +<P> +"So do I," groaned Colonel Winwood. "I didn't have a wink of sleep last +night." +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't either," said Ursula, "but I don't think it will matter a row +of pins to Paul in his career." +</P> + +<P> +"It will always be up against him," said Ayres. +</P> + +<P> +"Because he has acted like a man?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's the touch of Ruy Blas that I'm afraid of." +</P> + +<P> +"You must remember that he wasn't aware of his relation to the dead man +until the eve of the election." +</P> + +<P> +"But he was aware that he wasn't a descendant of a historical Italian +family, which everyone thought him to be. I don't speak for myself," +said Ayres. "I'm fond of the chap. One can't help it. He has the charm +of the great gentleman, confound him, and it's all natural. The cloven +hoof has never appeared, because I personally believe there's no cloven +hoof. The beggar was born well bred, and, as to performance—well—he +has been a young meteor across the political sky. Until this election. +Then he was a disappointment. I frankly confess it. I didn't know what +he was playing at. Now I do. Poor chap. I personally am sympathetic. +But what about the cold-blooded other people, who don't know what +you've told me? To them he's the son of an ex-convict—a vendor of +fried fish—I put it brutally from their point of view—who has been +masquerading as a young St. George on horseback. Will he ever be +forgiven? Officially, have I any use for him? You see, I'm responsible +to the party." +</P> + +<P> +"Any party," said Ursula, "would be a congregation of imbeciles who +didn't do their best to develop the genius of Paul Savelli." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm fond of Paul," said Colonel Winwood, in his tired way, "but I +don't know that I would go as far as that." +</P> + +<P> +"It's only because you're a limited male, my dear James. I suppose +Caesar was the only man who really crossed the Rubicon. And the fuss he +made about it! Women jump across with the utmost certainty. My dear +Frank, we're behind Paul, whatever happens. He has been fighting for +his own hand ever since he was a child, it is true. But he has fought +gallantly." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Miss Winwood," said Frank Ayres, "if there's a man to be +envied, it's the one who has you for his champion!" +</P> + +<P> +"Anyone, my dear Frank, is to be envied," she retorted, "who is +championed by common-sense." +</P> + +<P> +"All these fireworks illuminate nothing," said Colonel Winwood. "I +think we had better ask Paul to come down and see Frank. Would you like +to see him alone?" +</P> + +<P> +"I had rather you stayed," said Frank Ayres. +</P> + +<P> +A message was sent to Paul, and presently he appeared, very pale and +haggard. +</P> + +<P> +Frank Ayres met him with outstretched hand, spoke a courteous word of +sympathy, apologized for coming in the hour of tragic bereavement. +</P> + +<P> +Paul thanked him with equal courtesy. "I was about to write to you, +Lord Francis," he continued, "a sort of statement in explanation of +what happened last night—" +</P> + +<P> +"Our friends have told me all, I think, that you may have to say." +</P> + +<P> +"I shall still write it," said Paul, "so that you can have it in black +and white. At present, I've given the press nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"Quite right," said Frank Ayres. "For God's sake, let us work together +as far as the press is concerned. That's one of the reasons why I've +forced myself upon you. It's horrible, my dear fellow, to intrude at +such a time. I hate it, as you can well imagine. But it's my duty." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course it is," said Paul. There was a span of awkward silence. +"Well," said he, with a wan smile, "we're facing, not a political, but +a very unimportant party situation. Don't suppose I haven't a sense of +proportion. I have. What for me is the end of the world is the +unruffled continuance of the cosmic scheme for the rest of mankind. But +there are relative things to consider. You have to consider the party. +I'm sort of fly-blown. Am I any use? Let us talk straight. Am I or am I +not?" +</P> + +<P> +"My dear chap," said Frank Ayres, with perplexed knitting of the brows, +"I don't quite know what to say. You yourself have invited me to talk +straight. Well! Forgive me if I do. There may be a suggestion in +political quarters that you have won this election under false +pretences." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you want me to resign my seat?" +</P> + +<P> +The two men looked deep into each other's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"A Unionist in is a Liberal out," said Frank Ayres, "and counts two on +division. That's one way of looking at it. We want all we can get from +the enemy. On the other hand, you'd come in for a lot of criticism and +hostility. You'd have to start not only from the beginning, but with a +handicap. Are you strong enough to face it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not going to run away from anything," said Paul. "But I'll tell +you what I'm prepared to do. I'll resign and fight the constituency +again, under my real name of Kegworthy, provided, of course, the local +people are willing to adopt me—on the understanding, however, that the +party support me, or, at least, don't put forward another candidate. +I'm not going to turn berserk." +</P> + +<P> +"That's a sporting offer, at any rate. But, pardon me—we're talking +business—where is the money for another election to come from?" +</P> + +<P> +"My poor father's death makes me a wealthy man," replied Paul. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Winwood started forward in her chair. "My dear, you never told us." +</P> + +<P> +"There were so many other things to talk about this morning," he said +gently; "but of course I would have told you later. I only mention it +now"—he turned to the Chief Whip—"in answer to your direct and very +pertinent question." +</P> + +<P> +Now between a political free-lance adopting a parliamentary career in +order to fight for his own hand, as all Paul's supporters were frankly +aware that he was doing, and a wealthy, independent and brilliant young +politician lies a wide gulf. The last man on earth, in his private +capacity, to find his estimate of his friends influenced by their +personal possessions was the fine aristocrat Lord Francis Ayres. But he +was a man of the world, the very responsible head of the executive of a +great political party. As that executive head he was compelled to +regard Paul from a different angle. The millions of South Africa or the +Middle West might vainly knock at his own front door till the crack of +doom, while Paul the penniless sauntered in an honoured guest. But in +his official room in the House of Commons more stern and worldly +considerations had to prevail. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course I can't give you an answer now," said he. "I'll have to +discuss the whole matter with the powers that be. But a seat's a seat, +and though I appreciate your Quixotic offer, I don't see why we should +risk it. It's up to you to make good. It's more in your own interest +that I'm speaking now. Can you go through with it?" +</P> + +<P> +Paul, with his unconquerable instinct for the dramatic, hauled out the +little cornelian heart at the end of his watch-chain. "My dear fellow," +said he. "Do you see that? It was given to me for failing to win a race +at a Sunday-school treat, when I was a very little boy. I didn't +possess coat or stockings, and my toes came out through the ends of my +boots, and in order to keep the thing safe I knotted it up in the tail +of my shirt, which waggled out of the seat of my breeches. It was given +to me by a beautiful lady, who, I remember, smelled like all the +perfumes of Araby. She awakened my aesthetic sense by the divine and +intoxicating odour that emanated from her. Since then I have never met +woman so—so like a scented garden of all the innocences. To me she was +a goddess. I overheard her prophesy things about me. My life began from +that moment. I kept the cornelian heart all my life, as a talisman. It +has brought me through all kinds of things. Once I was going to throw +it away and Miss Winwood would not let me. I kept it, somewhat against +my will, for I thought it was a lying talisman. It had told me, in the +sweet-scented lady's words, that I was the son of a prince. Give me +half an hour to-morrow or the day after," he said, seeing a puzzled +look in Frank Ayres's face, "and I'll tell you a true psychological +fairy tale—the apologia pro vita mea. I say, anyhow, that lately, +until last night, I thought this little cornelian heart was a lying +talisman. Then I knew it didn't lie. I was the son of a prince, a +prince of men, although he had been in gaol and spent his days +afterwards in running emotional Christianity and fried-fish shops. His +name was Silas. Mine is Paul. Something significant about it, isn't +there? Anyhow"—he balanced the heart in the palm of his hand—"this +hasn't lied. It has carried me through all my life. When I thought it +failed, I found it at the purest truth of its prophecy. It's not going +to fail me now. If it's right for me to take my seat I'll take +it—whether I make good politically, or not, is on the knees of the +gods. But you may take it from me that there's nothing in this wide +world that I won't face or go through with, if I've set my mind to it." +</P> + +<P> +So the child who had kicked Billy Goodge and taken the spolia opima of +paper cocked hat and wooden sword spoke through the man. As then, in a +queer way, he found himself commanding a situation; and as then, +commanding it rightfully, through sheer personal force. Again, at a +sign, he would have broken the sword across his knee. But the sign did +not come. +</P> + +<P> +"Speaking quite unofficially," said Frank Ayres, "I think, if you feel +like that, you would be a fool to give up your seat." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well," said Paul, "I thank you. And now, perhaps, it would be +wise to draw up that statement for the press, if you can spare the +time." +</P> + +<P> +So Paul made a draft and Frank Ayres revised it, and it was sent +upstairs to be typed. When the typescript came down, Paul signed and +dispatched it and gave the Chief Whip a duplicate. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," said the latter, shaking hands, "the best of good luck!" +</P> + +<P> +Whereupon he went home feeling that though there would be the deuce to +pay, Paul Savelli would find himself perfectly solvent; and meeting the +somewhat dubious Leader of the Opposition later in the day he said: +"Anyhow, this 'far too gentlemanly party' has got someone picturesque, +at last, to touch the popular imagination." +</P> + +<P> +"A new young Disraeli?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +The Leader made a faint gesture of philosophic doubt. "The mould is +broken," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"We'll see," said Frank Ayres, confidently. +</P> + +<P> +Meanwhile, Paul returned to his room and wrote a letter, three words of +which he had put on paper—"My dear Princess"—when the summons to meet +the Chief Whip had come. The unblotted ink had dried hard. He took +another sheet. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear Princess," he began. +</P> + +<P> +He held his head in his hand. What could he say? Ordinary courtesy +demanded an acknowledgment of the Princess's message of inquiry. But to +write to her whom he had held close in his arms, whose lips had clung +maddeningly to his, in terms of polite convention seemed impossible. +What had she meant by her message? If she had gone scornfully out of +his life, she had gone, and there was an end on't. Her coming back +could bear only one interpretation—that of Jane's passionate +statement. In spite of all, she loved him. But now, stripped and naked +and at war with the world, for all his desire, he would have none of +her love. Not he.... At last he wrote: +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +PRINCESS,—A thousand grateful thanks for last night's gracious +act—the act of the very great lady that I have the privilege of +knowing you to be. +<BR><BR> +PAUL SAVELLI. +</P> + +<P> +He rang for a servant and ordered the note to be sent by hand, and then +went out to Hickney Heath to see to the burying of his dead. On his +return he found a familiar envelope with the crown on the flap awaiting +him. It contained but few words: +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +PAUL, come and see me. I will stay at home all day. +<BR><BR> +SOPHIE. +</P> + +<P> +His pulses throbbed. Her readiness to await his pleasure proved a +humility of spirit rare in Princess Sophie Zobraska. Her hands were +held out towards him. But he hardened his heart. The fairy-tale was +over. Nothing but realities lay before him. The interview was perilous; +but he was not one to shirk danger. He went out, took a cab and drove +to Berkeley Square. +</P> + +<P> +She rose shyly as he entered and advanced to meet him. He kissed her +hand, but when he sought to release it he found his held in her warm +clasp. "Mon Dieu! How ill you are looking!" she said, and her lips +quivered. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm only tired." +</P> + +<P> +"You look so old. Ah!" She moved away from him with a sigh. "Sit down. +I suppose you can guess why I've asked you to come," she continued +after a pause. "But it is a little hard to say. I want you to forgive +me." +</P> + +<P> +"There is nothing to forgive," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be ungenerous; you know there is. I left you to bear everything +alone." +</P> + +<P> +"You were more than justified. You found me an impostor. You were +wounded in everything you held sacred. I wounded you deliberately. You +could do nothing else but go away. Heaven forbid that I should have +thought of blaming you. I didn't. I understood." +</P> + +<P> +"But it was I who did not understand," she said, looking at the rings +on her fingers. "Yes. You are right. I was wounded—like an animal, I +hid myself in the country, and I hoped you would write, which was +foolish, for I knew you wouldn't. Then I felt that if I had loved you +as I ought, I should never have gone away." +</P> + +<P> +"I thought it best to kill your love outright," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +She lay back on her cushions, very fair, very alluring, very sad. From +where he sat he saw her face in its delicate profile, and he had a +mighty temptation to throw himself on his knees by her side. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought, too, you had killed it," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Still think so," said Paul, in a low voice. +</P> + +<P> +She raised herself, bent forward, and he met the blue depths of her +gaze. "And you? Your love?" +</P> + +<P> +"I never did anything to kill it." +</P> + +<P> +"But I did." +</P> + +<P> +"No, you couldn't. I shall love you to the hour of my death." He saw +the light leap into her eyes. "I only say it," he added somewhat +coldly, "because I will lie to you no longer. But it's a matter that +concerns me alone." +</P> + +<P> +"How you alone? Am not I to be considered?" +</P> + +<P> +He rose and stood on the hearthrug, facing her. "I consider you all the +time," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Listen, mon cher ami," she said, looking up at him. "Let us understand +one another. Is there anything about you, your birth or your life that +I still don't know—I mean, anything essential?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing that matters," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Then let us speak once and for all, soul to soul. You and I are of +those who can do it. Eh bien. I am a woman of old family, princely rank +and fortune—you—" +</P> + +<P> +"By my father's death," said Paul, for the second time that day, "I am +a rich man. We can leave out the question of fortune—except that the +money I inherit was made out of a fried-fish shop business. That +business was conducted by my father on lines of peculiar idealism. It +will be my duty to carry on his work—at least"—he inwardly and +conscientiously repudiated the idea of buying fish at Billingsgate at +five o'clock in the morning—"as far as the maintenance of his +principles is concerned." +</P> + +<P> +"Soit," said the Princess, "we leave out the question of fortune. You +are then a man of humble birth, and the rank you have gained for +yourself." +</P> + +<P> +"I am a man of no name and of tarnished reputation. Good God!" he +blazed out suddenly, losing control. "What is the good of torturing +ourselves like this? If I wouldn't marry you—before—until I had done +something in the front of the world to make you proud of me, what do +you think I'll do now, lying in the gutter for every one to kick me? +Would it be to the happiness of either of us for me to sneak through +society behind your rank? It would be the death of me and you would +come to hate me as a mean hound." +</P> + +<P> +"You? A mean hound?" Her voice broke and the tears welled up in her +eyes. "You have done nothing for me to be proud of? You? You who did +what you did last night? Yes, I was there. I saw and heard. Listen!" +She rose to her feet and stood opposite to him, her eyes all stars, her +figure trembling and her hands moving in her Frenchwoman's passionate +gestures. "When I saw in the newspapers about your father, my heart was +wrung for you. I knew what it meant. I knew how you must suffer. I came +up straight to town. I wanted to be near you. I did not know how. I did +not want you to see me. I called in my steward. 'How can I see the +election?' We talked a little. He went and hired a room opposite the +Town Hall. I waited there in the darkness. I thought it would last +forever. And then came the result and the crowd cheered and I thought I +should choke. I sobbed, I sobbed, I sobbed—and then you came. And I +heard, and then I held out my arms to you alone in the dark room—like +this—and cried: 'Paul, Paul!"' Woman conquered. Madness surged through +him and he flung his arms about her and they kissed long and +passionately. +</P> + +<P> +"Whether you do me the honour of marrying me or not," she said a while +later' flushed and triumphant, "our lives are joined together." +</P> + +<P> +And Paul, still shaken by the intoxication of her lips and hair and +clinging pressure of her body, looked at her intensely with the eyes of +a man's longing. But he said: "Nothing can alter what I said a few +minutes ago—not all the passion and love in the world. You and I are +not of the stuff, thank God, to cut ourselves adrift and bury ourselves +in some romantic island and give up our lives to a dream. We're young. +We're strong. We both know that life is a different sort of thing +altogether from that. We're not of the sort that shirks its +responsibilities. We've got to live in the world, you and I, and do the +world's work." +</P> + +<P> +"Parfaitement, mon bien aime." She smiled at him serenely. "I would not +bury myself with you in an Ionian island for more than two months in a +year for anything on earth. On my part, it would be the unforgivable +sin. No woman has the right, however much she loves him, to ruin a man, +any more than a man has the right to ruin a woman. But if you won't +marry me, I'm perfectly willing to spend two months a year in an Ionian +island with you," and she looked at him, very proud and fearless. +</P> + +<P> +Paul took her by the shoulders and shook her, more roughly than he +realized. "Sophie, don't tempt me to a madness that we should both +regret." +</P> + +<P> +She laughed, wincing yet thrilled, under the rude handling, and freed +herself. "But what more can a woman offer the man who loves her—that +is to say if he does love her?" +</P> + +<P> +"I not love you?" He threw up his hands—"Dear God!" +</P> + +<P> +She waved him away and retreated a step or two, still laughing, as he +advanced. "Then why won't you marry me? You're afraid." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he cried. "It's the only thing on this earth that I'm afraid of." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"The sneers. First you'd hate them. Then you'd hate and despise me." +</P> + +<P> +She grew serious. "Calme-toi, my dearest. Just consider things +practically. Who is going to sneer at a great man?" +</P> + +<P> +"I the first," replied Paul bitterly, his self-judgment warped by the +new knowledge of the vanities and unsubstantialities on which his life +had been founded. "I a great man, indeed!" +</P> + +<P> +"A very great man. A brilliant man I knew long ago. A brave man I have +known, in spite of my pride, these last two or three awful weeks. But +last night I knew you were a great man—a very great man. Ah, mon Paul. +La canaille, whether it lives in Whitechapel or Park Lane, what does it +matter to us?" +</P> + +<P> +"The riff-raff, unfortunately," said Paul, "forms the general judgment +of society." +</P> + +<P> +The Princess drew herself up in all her aristocratic dignity. "My Paul +well-beloved," said she, "you have still one or two things to learn. +People of greatness and rank march with their peers, and they can spit +upon the canaille. There is canaille in your House of Lords, upon +which, the day after to-morrow, you can spit, and it will take off its +coronet and thank you—and now," she said, resuming her seat on the +sofa, among the cushions, "let us stop arguing. If there is any more +arguing to be done, let us put it off to another occasion. Let us +dismiss the questions of marriage and Ionian islands altogether, and +let us talk pleasantly like dear friends who are reconciled." +</P> + +<P> +And with the wit of the woman who loves and the subtlety of the woman +of the world she took Paul in her delicate hands and held him before +her smiling eyes and made him tell her of all the things she wanted to +know. And so Paul told her of all his life, of Bludston, of Barney +Bill, of the model days, of the theatre, of Jane, of his father; and he +showed her the cornelian heart and expounded its significance; and he +talked of his dearest lady, Miss Winwood, and his work on the Young +England League, and his failure to grip in this disastrous election, +and he went back to the brickfield and his flight from the Life School, +and his obsessing dream of romantic parentage and the pawning of his +watch at Drane's Court; and in the full tide of it all a perturbed +butler appeared at the door. +</P> + +<P> +"Can I speak a word to Your Highness?" +</P> + +<P> +She rose. The butler spoke the word. She burst out laughing. "My dear," +she cried, "it's past nine o'clock. The household is in a state of +agitation about dinner. We'll have it at once, Wilkins." +</P> + +<P> +The butler bowed and retired. +</P> + +<P> +The Princess laughed again. "Of course you'll stay. I left Stephanie at +Morebury." +</P> + +<P> +And Paul stayed to dinner, and though, observing the flimsy compact, +they dismissed the questions of Ionian islands and marriage, they +talked till midnight of matters exceedingly pleasant. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap23"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXIII +</H3> + +<P> +SO the lovers were reconciled, although the question of marriage was +farther off than ever, and the Princess and Miss Winwood wept on each +other's shoulders after the way of good women, and Paul declared that +he needed no rest, and was eager to grapple with the world. He had much +to do. First, he buried his dead, the Princess sending a great wreath +and her carriage, after having had a queer interview with Jane, of +which neither woman would afterwards speak a word; but it was evident +that they had parted on terms of mutual respect and admiration. Then +Paul went through the task of settling his father's affairs. Jane +having expressed a desire to take over the management of a certain +department of the business, he gladly entrusted it to her capable +hands. He gave her the house at Hickney Heath, and Barney Bill took up +his residence there as a kind of old watch-dog. Meanwhile, introduced +by Frank Ayres and Colonel Winwood, he faced the ordeal of a chill +reception by the House of Commons and took his seat. After that the +nine-days' wonder of the scandal came to an end; the newspapers ceased +talking of it and the general public forgot all about him. He only had +to reckon with his fellow-members and with social forces. His own house +too he had to put in order. He resigned his salary and position as +Organizing Secretary of the Young England League, but as Honorary +Secretary he retained control. To assure his position he applied for +Royal Letters Patent and legalized his name of Savelli, Finally, he +plunged into the affairs of Fish Palaces Limited, and learned the many +mysteries connected with that outwardly unromantic undertaking. +</P> + +<P> +These are facts in Paul's career which his chronicler is bound to +mention. But on Paul's development they exercised but little influence. +He walked now, with open eyes, in a world of real things. The path was +difficult, but he was strong. Darkness lay ahead, but he neither feared +it nor dreamed dreams of brightness beyond. The Vision Splendid had +crystallized into an unconquerable purpose of which he felt the thrill. +Without Sophie Zobraska's love he would have walked on doggedly, +obstinately, with set teeth. He had proved himself fearless, scornful +of the world's verdict. But he would have walked in wintry gloom with a +young heart frozen dead. Now his path was lit by warm sunshine and the +burgeon of spring was in his heart. He could laugh again in his old +joyous way; yet the laughter was no longer that of the boy, but of the +man who knew the place that laughter should hold in a man's life. +</P> + +<P> +On the day when he, as chairman, had first presided over a meeting of +the Board of Directors of Fish Palaces Limited, he went to the Princess +and said: "If I bring with me 'an ancient and fish-like smell, a kind +of, not of the newest, Poor-John,' send me about my business." +</P> + +<P> +She bade him not talk foolishly. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm talking sense," said he. "I'm going through with it. I'm in trade. +I know to the fraction of a penny how much fat ought to be used to a +pound of hake, and I'm concentrating all my intellect on that fraction +of a penny of fat." +</P> + +<P> +"Tu as raison," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"N'est-ce-pas? It's funny, isn't it? I've often told you I once thought +myself the man born to be king. My dreams have come true. I am a king. +The fried-fish king." +</P> + +<P> +Sophie looked at him from beneath her long lashes. "And I am a +princess. We meet at last on equal terms." +</P> + +<P> +Paul sprang forward impulsively and seized her hands. "Oh, you dear, +wonderful woman! Doesn't it matter to you that I'm running fried-fish +shops?" +</P> + +<P> +"I know why you're doing it," she said. "I wouldn't have you do +otherwise. You are you, Paul. I should love to see you at it. Do you +wait at table and hand little dishes to coster-mongers, ancien regime, +en emigre?" +</P> + +<P> +She laughed deliciously. Suddenly she paused, regarded him wide-eyed, +with a smile on her lips. +</P> + +<P> +"Tiens! I have an idea. But a wonderful ideal Why should I not be the +fried-fish queen? Issue new shares. I buy them all up. We establish +fish palaces all over the world? But why not? I am in trade already. +Only yesterday my homme d'affaires sent me for signature a dirty piece +of blue paper all covered with execrable writing and imitation red +seals all the way down, and when I signed it I saw I was interested in +Messrs. Jarrods Limited, and was engaged in selling hams and petticoats +and notepaper and furniture and butter and—remark this—and fish. But +raw fish. Now what the difference is between selling raw fish and fried +fish, I do not know. Moi, je suis deja marchande de poissons, voila!" +</P> + +<P> +She laughed and Paul laughed too. They postponed, however, to an +indefinite date, consideration of the business proposal. +</P> + +<P> +As Paul had foreseen, Society manifested no eagerness to receive him. +Invitations no longer fell upon him in embarrassing showers. Nor did he +make any attempt to pass through the once familiar doors. For one +thing, he was proud: for another he was too busy. When the Christmas +recess came he took a holiday, went off by himself to Algiers. He +returned bronzed and strong, to the joy of his Sophie. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear," said Miss Winwood one day to the curiously patient lady, +"what is to come of it all? You can't go on like this for ever and +ever." +</P> + +<P> +"We don't intend to," smiled the Princess. "Paul is born to great +things. He cannot help it. It is his destiny, I believe in Paul." +</P> + +<P> +"So do I," replied Ursula. "But it's obvious that it will take him a +good many years to achieve them. You surely aren't going to wait until +he's a Cabinet Minister." +</P> + +<P> +The Princess lay back among her cushions and laughed. "Mais non. It +will all come in woman's good time. Laissez-moi faire. He will soon +begin to believe in himself again." +</P> + +<P> +At last Paul's opportunity arrived. The Whips had given him his chance +to speak. His luck attended him, in so far that when his turn came he +found a full House. It was on a matter of no vital importance; but he +had prepared his speech carefully. He stood up for the first time in +that strangely nerve-shaking assembly in which he had been received so +coldly and in which he was still friendless, and saw the beginning of +the familiar exodus into the lobbies. A sudden wave of anger swept +through him and he tore the notes of his speech across and across, and +again he metaphorically kicked Billy Goodge. He plunged into his +speech, forgetful of what he had written, with a passion queerly +hyperbolic in view of the subject. At the arresting tones of his voice +many of the withdrawing members stopped at the bar and listened, then +as he proceeded they gradually slipped back into their places. +Curiosity gave place to interest. Paul had found his gift again, and +his anger soon lost itself completely in the joy of the artist. The +House is always generous to performance. There was something novel in +the spectacle of this young man, who had come there under a cloud, +standing like a fearless young Hermes before them, in the ring of his +beautiful voice, in the instinctive picturesqueness of phrase, in the +winning charm of his personality. It was but a little point in a +Government Bill that he had to deal with, and he dealt with it shortly. +But he dealt with it in an unexpected, dramatic way, and he sat down +amid comforting applause and circumambient smiles and nods. The old +government hand who rose to reply complimented him gracefully and +proceeded of course to tear his argument to tatters. Then an +ill-conditioned Socialist Member got up, and, blundering and +unconscious agent of Destiny in a fast-emptying House, began a personal +attack on Paul. Whereupon there were cries of "Shame!" and "Sit down!" +and the Speaker, in caustic tones, counselled relevancy, and the +sympathy of the House went out to the Fortunate Youth; so that when he +went soon afterwards into the outer lobby—it was the dinner hour—he +found himself surrounded by encouraging friends. He did not wait long +among them, for up in the Ladies' Gallery was his Princess. He tore up +the stairs and met her outside. Her face was pale with anger. +</P> + +<P> +"The brute!" she whispered. "The cowardly brute!" +</P> + +<P> +He snapped his fingers. "Canaille, canaille! He counts for nothing. But +I've got them!" he cried exultingly, holding out clenched fists. "By +God, darling, I've got them! They'll listen to me now!" +</P> + +<P> +She looked at him and the sudden tears came. "Thank God," she said, "I +can hear you talk like that at last." +</P> + +<P> +He escorted her down the stone stairs and through the lobby to her car, +and they were objects of many admiring eyes. When they reached it she +said, with a humorous curl of the lip, "Veux-tu m'epouser maintenant?" +</P> + +<P> +"Wait, only wait," said he. "These are only fireworks. Very soon we'll +get to the real thing." +</P> + +<P> +"We shall, I promise you," she replied enigmatically; and she drove off. +</P> + +<P> +One morning, a fortnight later, she rang him up. "You're coming to dine +with me on Friday, as usual, aren't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," said he. "Why do you ask?" +</P> + +<P> +"Just to make sure. And yes—also—to tell you not to come till +half-past eight." +</P> + +<P> +She rang off. Paul thought no more of the matter. Ever since he had +taken his seat in the House he had dined with her alone every Friday +evening. It was their undisturbed hour of intimacy and gladness in the +busy week. Otherwise they rarely met, for Paul was a pariah in her +social world. +</P> + +<P> +On the Friday in question his taxi drew up before an unusual-looking +house in Berkeley Square. An awning projected from the front door and a +strip of carpet ran across the pavement. At the sound of the taxi, the +door opened and revealed the familiar figures of the Princess's footmen +in their state livery. He entered, somewhat dazed. +</P> + +<P> +"Her Highness has a party?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir. A very large dinner party." +</P> + +<P> +Paul passed his hand over his forehead. What did it mean? "This is +Friday, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course, sir." +</P> + +<P> +Paul grew angry. It was a woman's trap to force him on society. For a +moment he struggled with the temptation to walk away after telling the +servant that it was a mistake and that he had not been invited. At +once, however, came realization of social outrage. He surrendered hat +and coat and let himself be announced. The noise of thirty voices +struck his ear as he entered the great drawing-room. He was confusedly +aware of a glitter of jewels, and bare arms and shoulders and the black +and white of men. But radiant in the middle of the room stood his +Princess, with a tiara of diamonds on her head, and beside her stood a +youngish man whose face seemed oddly familiar. +</P> + +<P> +Paul advanced, kissed her hand. +</P> + +<P> +She laughed gaily. "You are late, Paul." +</P> + +<P> +"You said half-past, Princess. I am here to the minute." +</P> + +<P> +"Je te dirai apres," she said, and the daring of the intimate speech +took his breath away. +</P> + +<P> +"Your Royal Highness," she turned to the young man beside her—and then +Paul suddenly recognized a prince of the blood royal of England—"may I +present Mr. Savelli." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm very pleased to meet you," said the Prince graciously. "Your Young +England League has interested me greatly. We must have a talk about it +one of these days, if you can spare the time. And I must congratulate +you on your speech the other night." +</P> + +<P> +"You are far too kind, sir," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +They chatted for a minute or two. Then the Princess said: "You'll take +in the Countess of Danesborough. I don't think you've met her; but +you'll find she's an old friend." +</P> + +<P> +"Old friend?" echoed Paul. +</P> + +<P> +She smiled and turned to a pretty and buxom woman of forty standing +near. "My dear Lady Danesborough. Here is Mr. Savelli, whom you are so +anxious to meet." +</P> + +<P> +Paul bowed politely. His head being full of his Princess, he was +vaguely puzzled as to the reasons for which Lady Danesborough desired +his acquaintance. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't remember me," she said. +</P> + +<P> +He looked at her squarely for the first time; then started back. "Good +God!" he cried involuntarily. "Good God! I've been wanting to find you +all my life. I never knew your name. But here's the proof." +</P> + +<P> +And he whipped out the cornelian heart from his waistcoat pocket. She +took it in her hand, examined it, handed it back to him with a smile, a +very sweet and womanly smile, with just the suspicion of mist veiling +her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"I know. The Princess has told me." +</P> + +<P> +"But how did she find you out—I mean as my first patroness?" +</P> + +<P> +"She wrote to the vicar, Mr. Merewether—he is still at +Bludston—asking who his visitor was that year and what had become of +her. So she found out it was I. I've known her off and on ever since my +marriage." +</P> + +<P> +"You were wonderfully good to me," said Paul. "I must have been a funny +little wretch." +</P> + +<P> +"You've travelled far since then." +</P> + +<P> +"It was you that gave me my inspiration," said he. +</P> + +<P> +The announcement of dinner broke the thread of the talk. Paul looked +around him and saw that the room was filled with very great people +indeed. There were chiefs of his party and other exalted personages. +There was Lord Francis Ayres. Also the Winwoods. The procession was +formed. +</P> + +<P> +"I've often wondered about you," said Lady Danesborough, as they were +walking down the wide staircase. "Several things happened to mark that +day. For one, I had spilled a bottle of awful scent all over my dress +and I was in a state of odoriferous misery." +</P> + +<P> +Paul laughed boyishly. "The mystery of my life is solved at last." He +explained, to her frank delight. "You've not changed a bit," said he. +"And oh! I can't tell you how good it is to meet you after all these +years." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm very, very glad you feel so," she said significantly. "More than +glad. I was wondering ... but our dear Princess was right." +</P> + +<P> +"It seems to me that the Princess has been playing conspirator," said +Paul. +</P> + +<P> +They entered the great dining-room, very majestic with its long, +glittering table, its service of plate, its stately pictures, its +double row of powdered and liveried footmen, and Paul learned, to his +amazement, that in violation of protocols and tables of precedence, his +seat was on the right hand of the Princess. Conspiracy again. Hitherto +at her parties he had occupied his proper place. Never before had she +publicly given him especial mark of her favour. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think she's right in doing this?" he murmured to Lady +Danesborough. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed so natural that he should ask her—as though she were fully +aware of all his secrets. +</P> + +<P> +"I think so," she smiled—as though she too were in the conspiracy. +</P> + +<P> +They halted at their places, and there, at the centre of the long +table, on the right of the young Prince stood the Princess, with +flushed face and shining eyes, looking very beautiful and radiantly +defiant. +</P> + +<P> +"Mechante," Paul whispered, as they sat down. "This is a trap." +</P> + +<P> +"Je le sais. Tu est bien prise, petite souris." +</P> + +<P> +It pleased her to be gay. She confessed unblushingly. Her little mouse +was well caught. The little mouse grew rather stern, and when the great +company had settled down, and the hum of talk arisen, he deliberately +scanned the table. He met some friendly glances—a Cabinet Minister +nodded pleasantly. He also met some that were hostile. His Sophie had +tried a dangerous experiment. In Lady Danesborough, the Maisie Shepherd +of his urchindom, whose name he had never known, she had assured him a +sympathetic and influential partner. Also, although he had tactfully +not taken up that lady's remark, he felt proud of his Princess's +glorious certainty that he would have no false and contemptible shame +in the encounter. She had known that it would be a joy to him; and it +was. The truest of the man was stirred. They talked and laughed about +the far-off day. Incidents flaming in his mind had faded from hers. He +recalled forgotten things. Now and then she said: "Yes, I know that. +The Princess has told me." Evidently his Sophie was a conspirator of +deepest dye. +</P> + +<P> +"And now you're the great Paul Savelli," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"Great?" He laughed. "In what way?" +</P> + +<P> +"Before this election you were a personage. I've never run across you +because we've been abroad so much, you know—my husband has a depraved +taste for governing places—but a year or two ago we were asked to the +Chudleys, and you were held out as an inducement." +</P> + +<P> +"Good Lord!" said Paul, astonished. +</P> + +<P> +"And now, of course, you're the most-discussed young man in London. Is +he damned or isn't he? You know what I refer to." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, am I?' he asked pleasantly. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad to see you take it like that. It's not the way of the little +people. Personally, I've stuck up for you, not knowing in the least who +you were. I thought you did the big, spacious thing. It gave me a +thrill when I read about it. Your speech in the House has helped you a +lot. Altogether—and now considering our early acquaintance—I think +I'm justified in calling you 'the great Paul Savelli.'" +</P> + +<P> +Then came the shifting of talk. The Prince turned to his left-hand +neighbour; Lady Danesborough to her right. Paul and the Princess had +their conventional opportunity for conversation. She spoke in French, +daringly using the intimate "tu"; but of all sorts of things—books, +theatres, picture shows. Then tactfully she drew the Prince and his +neighbour and Lady Danesborough into their circle, and, pulling the +strings, she at last brought Paul and the Prince into a discussion over +the pictures of the Doges in the Ducal Palace in Venice. The young +Prince was gracious. Paul, encouraged to talk and stimulated by +precious memories, grew interesting. The Princess managed to secure a +set of listeners at the opposite side of the table. Suddenly, as if +carrying on the theme, she said in a deliberately loud voice, +compelling attention: "Your Royal Highness, I am in a dilemma." +</P> + +<P> +"What is it?" +</P> + +<P> +She paused, looked round and widened her circle. "For the past year I +have been wanting Mr. Savelli to ask me to marry him, and he +obstinately refuses to do so. Will you tell me, sir, what a poor woman +is to do?" +</P> + +<P> +She addressed herself exclusively to the young Prince; but her voice, +with its adorable French intonation, rang high and clear. Paul, +suddenly white and rigid, clenched the hand of the Princess which +happened to lie within immediate reach. A wave of curiosity, arresting +talk, spread swiftly down. There was an uncanny, dead silence, broken +only by a raucous voice proceeding from a very fat Lord of Appeal some +distance away: +</P> + +<P> +"After my bath I always lie flat on my back and bring my knees up to my +chin." +</P> + +<P> +There was a convulsive, shrill gasp of laughter, which would have +instantly developed into an hysterical roar, had not the young Prince, +with quick, tactful disregard of British convention, sprung to his +feet, and with one hand holding champagne glass, and the other +uplifted, commanded silence. So did the stars in their courses still +fight for Paul. "My lords, ladies and gentlemen," said the Prince, "I +have the pleasure to announce the engagement of Her Highness the +Princess Sophie Zobraska and Mr. Paul Savelli. I ask you to drink to +their health and wish them every happiness." +</P> + +<P> +He bowed to the couple, lifted his glass, and standing, swept a quick +glance round the company, and at the royal command the table rose, +dukes and duchesses and Cabinet Ministers, the fine flowers of England, +and drank to Paul and his Princess. +</P> + +<P> +"Attrape!" she whispered, as they got up together, hand in hand. And as +they stood, in their superb promise of fulfilment, they conquered. The +Princess said: "Mais dis quelque chose, toi." +</P> + +<P> +And Paul met the flash in her eyes, and he smiled. "Your Royal +Highness, my lords, ladies and gentlemen," said he, while all the +company were racking their brains to recall a precedent for such +proceedings at a more than formal London dinner party; "the Princess +and myself thank you from our hearts. For me this might almost seem the +end of the fairy-tale of my life, in which—when I was eleven years +old—her ladyship the Countess of Danesborough" (he bowed to the Maisie +of years ago), "whom I have not seen from that day to this, played the +part of Fairy Godmother. She gave me a talisman then to help me in my +way through the world. I have it still." He held up the cornelian +heart. "It guided my steps to my dearest lady, Miss Winwood, in whose +beloved service I lived so long. It has brought me to the feet of my +Fairy Princess. But now the fairy-tale is over. I begin where the +fairy-tales end"—he laughed into his Sophie's eyes—"I begin in the +certain promise of living happy ever afterwards." +</P> + +<P> +In this supreme hour of his destiny there spoke the old, essential +Paul, the believer in the Vision Splendid. The instinctive appeal to +the romantic ringing so true and so sincere awoke responsive chords in +hearts which, after all, as is the simple way of hearts of men and +women, were very human. +</P> + +<P> +He sat down a made man, amid pleasant laughter and bowings and lifting +of glasses, the length of the long table. +</P> + +<P> +Lady Danesborough said gently: "It was charming of you to bring me in. +But I shall be besieged with questions. What on earth shall I tell +them?" +</P> + +<P> +"The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth," he replied. +"What do the Princess and I care?" +</P> + +<P> +Later in the evening he managed to find himself alone for a moment with +the Princess. "My wonderful Sophie, what can I say to you?" +</P> + +<P> +She smiled victoriously. "Cry quits. Confess that you have not the +monopoly of the grand manner. You have worked in your man's way—I in +my woman's way." +</P> + +<P> +"You took a great risk," said he. +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes softened adorably. "Non, mon Paul, cheri. C'etait tout +arrange. It was a certainty." +</P> + +<P> +And then, Paul's dearest lady came up and pressed both their hands. "I +am so glad. Oh, so glad." The tears started. "But it is something like +a fairy-tale, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +Well, as far as his chronicler can say at present, that is the end of +the Fortunate Youth. But it is really only a beginning. Although his +party is still in opposition, he is still young; his sun is rising and +he is rich in the glory thereof. A worldful of great life lies before +him and his Princess. What limit can we set to their achievement? Of +course he was the Fortunate Youth. Of that there is no gainsaying. He +had his beauty, his charm, his temperament, his quick southern +intelligence—all his Sicilian heritage—and a freakish chance had +favoured him from the day that, vagabond urchin, he attended his first +and only Sunday-school treat. But personal gifts and favouring chance +are not everything in this world. +</P> + +<P> +On the day before his wedding he had a long talk with Barney Bill. +</P> + +<P> +"Sonny," said the old man, scratching his white poll, "when yer used to +talk about princes and princesses, I used to larf—larf fit to bust +myself. I never let yer seen me do it, sonny, for all the time you was +so dead serious. And now it has come true. And d'yer know why it's come +true, sonny?" He cocked his head on one side, his little diamond eyes +glittering, and laid a hand on Paul's knee. "D'yer know why? Because +yer believed in it. I ain't had much religion, not having, so to speak, +much time for it, also being an old crock of a pagan—but I do remember +as what Christ said about faith—just a mustard seed of it moving +mountains. That's it, sonny. I've observed lots of things going round +in the old 'bus. Most folks believe in nothing. What's the good of 'em? +Move mountains? They're paralytic in front of a dunghill. I know what +I'm talking about, bless yer. Now you come along believing in yer +'igh-born parents. I larfed, knowing as who yer parents were. But you +believed, and I had to let you believe. And you believed in your +princes and princesses, and your being born to great things. And I +couldn't sort of help believing in it too." +</P> + +<P> +Paul laughed. "Things happen to have come out all right, but God knows +why." +</P> + +<P> +"He does," said Barney Bill very seriously. "That's just what He does +know. He knows you had faith." +</P> + +<P> +"And you, dear old man?" asked Paul, "what have you believed in?" +</P> + +<P> +"My honesty, sonny," replied Barney Bill, fixing him with his bright +eyes. "'Tain't much. 'Tain't very ambitious-like. But I've had my +temptations. I never drove a crooked bargain in my life." +</P> + +<P> +Paul rose and walked a step or two. +</P> + +<P> +"You're a better man than I am, Bill." +</P> + +<P> +Barney Bill rose too, rheumatically, and laid both hands on the young +man's shoulders. "Have you ever been false to what you really believed +to be true?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not essentially," said Paul. +</P> + +<P> +"Then it's all right, sonny," said the old man very earnestly, his +bent, ill-clad figure, his old face wizened by years of exposure to +suns and frosts, contrasting oddly with the young favourite of fortune. +"It's all right. Your father believed in one thing. I believe in +another. You believe in something else. But it doesn't matter a +tuppenny damn what one believes in, so long as it's worth believing in. +It's faith, sonny, that does it. Faith and purpose." +</P> + +<P> +"You're right," said Paul. "Faith and purpose." +</P> + +<P> +"I believed in yer from the very first, when you were sitting down +reading Sir Walter with the bead and tail off. And I believed in yer +when yer used to tell about being 'born to great things!" +</P> + +<P> +Paul laughed. "That was all childish rubbish," said he. +</P> + +<P> +"Rubbish?" cried the old man, his head more crooked, his eyes more +bright, his gaunt old figure more twisted than ever. "Haven't yer got +the great things yer believed yer were born to? Ain't yer rich? Ain't +yer famous? Ain't yer a Member of Parliament? Ain't yer going to marry +a Royal Princess? Good God Almighty! what more d'yer want?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing in the wide, wide world!" laughed Paul. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 4379 ***</div> +</body> + +</HTML> + + + |