AFTER-DINNER SPEECHES
After that Susiebelle went back to her accustomed life, and behaved as a
young lady who had been presented to the Emperor _should_ behave.
The great night of the dinner had arrived; the following day was to be
the great election, and the two most popular and powerful candidates
were, to even the inexperienced eye, Golden Priest Alphonso and his
brother Phillipus.
Now, since the death of the Great High Priest it was very plain the
latter had come into more favour. Why, it would be hard to say. A little
whisper here, a little whisper there. “He is ambitious”—deadliest sin in
a path of life that fosters ambition. And Golden Priest Alphonso, with
his far-reaching, numerous feelers, like the octopus, must have been
conscious of it. Yet the poor were his upholders. One night a week, at
his own board, they were his guests, and he was seen sitting down with
them. _This_ man ambitious? The people’s friend Alphonso! That means so
little and so much, just as in the days of our own French Revolution.
But now the night had come, and everything was a buzz of simmering
excitement.
Thanks to tickets sent from Mr. Barringcourt, probably through Golden
Priest Alphonso, Sir John, Miss Crokerly, and Rosalie were enabled to
go. The Sebberens only got one ticket, as happened in most houses, and
that at a side table, still a place of honour, where the wealthiest sat,
and were content to sit.
The Golden Priests, robed in their flowing vestments of richest satin
and cloth of gold, sat interspersed amongst their guests, at the two
principal tables. The great hall was crowded, and so constructed that
all speakers, from one end to the other, could be distinctly heard when
there was silence.
It was an off-shoot of the great temple, and was called the Golden Hall
because its ceiling, walls, and other adornments were overlaid with
gold. Men were there in the preponderance, but there were women also
from the more influential houses. People were heard lamenting the
absence of Lady Flamington. Somehow or other to-night, even in that
tumultuous world, her presence was missed.
Rosalie was there. Rosalie, in shimmering grey, like frozen shining
_crêpe_, only soft and clinging. She was as one in half mourning among
that brilliant throng. On her shoulder was the shining frog, shining in
green and white, and for some reason or other her face was very pale,
and her eyes big and bright.
On the opposite side, a little farther up the table, Mr. Barringcourt
sat. He wore the curious gleaming jewelled pin she had seen before, and
the persistent red light it cast was nothing short of wonderful. On the
side lower down sat Golden Priest Alphonso. Still farther off sat
Phillipus. To-morrow the race and the fight would be decided.
Now on this great occasion the Golden Priests themselves did not speak.
Naturally, a man cannot speak on his own behalf. The only thing he can
speak for is a Cause.
But when dinner was over (and it was finished in a remarkably short
time, being, as it were, but the trumpet sound calling to greater
things), the friends and upholders of each candidate spoke in turn. No
names were mentioned—views only were put forward, facts also. Each
speaker was allowed fifteen minutes and no more.
The speeches began in earnest, and they revolved round the two chief men
of those chosen—for and against.
Now it was plain that the unfortunate episode of the lost handkerchief,
or rather _found_ one, still rankled deeply in people’s minds. A debt of
gratitude was still due to the man who discovered and made known this
scandalous piece of information. Affairs in the temple had for centuries
been kept too close. A Great High Priest was needed whose actions would
be as light as day, and character above reproach.
So on the speeches went, all interesting and conclusive, because they
all pivoted on one concrete thing, a handkerchief with a rose in the
corner. The thing itself was never mentioned, for that would scarce have
been diplomacy. Like the Serpent, the handkerchief was hidden out of
sight.
And so on one little lie, or piece of misunderstanding, one man was
gaining a position which clearly was too good for him. So at least
thought Rosalie. She studied the faces of the two candidates, and took a
sudden fancy to that of Phillipus. He came from a line of uncrowned
kings. The speeches were going against him; he bore it with dignity and
polite attention to every speaker.
At last one speaker, bold with champagne, ran full tilt at the red rag,
rose, or whatever else it can be called. He spoke of it openly, and the
result was—fatal.
For suddenly the frog said to Rosalie, “Speak!” and being obedient, she
spoke.
She rose to her feet with one deep spot of colour flaming into either
cheek, the rest white as snow. A curious silence fell on the room, which
had been silent before.
“I think there has been a little misunderstanding about the
handkerchief,” she said, in a voice that ceased to tremble. “It belongs
to me. I never saw the Great High Priest in my life, but I did go into
the most sacred place three years ago, with—with a petition, and by
mistake I left it there.”
Now there was a certain purity in Rosalie’s voice and simplicity in the
words that carried conviction.
For half a minute silence followed, then Golden Priest Alphonso broke
the silent spell.
“What right had you going there? You! A woman.”
“I—I was very much in earnest.”
“Then,” said he harshly and pitilessly, “you are to blame for all the
events of the past three years.” Then his voice altered, and he said:
“Truth is pleasant. It is a relief to find the late High Priest was
better than one thought. But you, what excuse is there for you, to keep
silence so long, and let a man go to his grave misunderstood? Fear, I
presume, of being found out.”
“I knew nothing,” said Rosalie, in a kind of self-defence, for the
expression in his eyes under the hypocritical sternness was very
sinister. And then someone hissed at the far end of the room, and then
someone else. Truly the Serpent was alive, and no golden image either.
But hissing was contrary to the dictates of good manners in such an
assembly, and the chairman called to order. Rosalie sat down trembling,
all colour gone from her face, though she had sufficient strength of
will to keep her from giving any further signs of the ordeal she had
passed through. Her eyes travelled magnetically from the face of the
Golden Priest to that of Mr. Barringcourt.
He was leaning forward, his elbow on the table, looking at her. In his
eyes shone the old mocking, laughing light, that said in so many silent
words, “Now you’ve put your foot into it.” They showed no sympathy.
Then a man, seizing the opportunity, got up and spoke in favour of
Phillipus; another, then another. The tide seemed turning—was turning.
Rosalie sat as an icicle. Every now and again she felt the sinister eyes
from below, the laughing ones from above, fixed on her.
Who would have thought the popularity of a man hung on such a little
thing as a handkerchief?
Then at last Mr. Barringcourt got up. In the midst of passion and
eloquence, he was passionless. In spite of his height, in spite of his
deep, unfathomable eyes, in spite of his firm mouth and certain lines
upon his face, he seemed to be by far the youngest who had spoken, in
manner, in voice, in a certain confident easiness. People settled in
their places, smiled when he smiled, and became suddenly more
good-natured, for at times he had a very bewitching smile.
Rosalie looked at him. She recognised that in Lucifram she had never
seen so handsome a man, or one with so much grace. A dull pain and a
sharp pain struck at her heart together.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said he, for on these occasions titles were
disregarded by the speaker, “the record speech of the evening has been
delivered by a lady with a style and simplicity it would be impossible
for us to beat.” (Popular opinion fluctuated. Was Rosalie so bad as five
minutes before they had imagined? The speaker spoke so easily, he made
them feel more easy. Wonderful gift of oratory!) “Now I agree with my
friend, the Golden Priest Alphonso, the lady should have spoken earlier,
when things could have been righted. But her silence no doubt sprang
from the best intentions.”
“That’s all very well,” called a voice. “But what about going into the
sacred place against orders?”
“When one is in earnest, one goes much farther than one intends. It’s an
unconscious action. The lady said she was in earnest; she has accounted
for what she did.”
“She’s liable to severe punishment.”
“So then are all the women who looked at the Serpent when the curtain
fell. I remember hearing a conversation between two sisters who were
present at that—that unfortunate service. One fainted, the other
retained presence of mind. Since then they have scarcely spoken—one was
enabled to see so much more than the other. It is generally acknowledged
that all women worthy the name did what was natural.”
Whether Mr. Barringcourt were laughing or no, there were few there who
took him anything but seriously. They considered this the acme of
perfection in simplicity of reasoning, for the time, at any rate.
“But,” continued he, “to return to the general subject, the choice of a
Great High Priest. It seems to me the greatest fault in the past has
been the age of the chosen candidate. What one wants at the head of such
a great organisation as the Church is younger men—younger blood—younger
principles and ideas.”
Dissentient voices.
“You don’t agree with me. But lately I was travelling in Lucifram in a
country of world-wide respect and renown. It surprised me at first to
find all the places of importance filled by comparatively young
men—State, Church, professions, even trades. In the centre of their
chief city I saw a famous statue in marble of a man, and underneath in
letters of gold was carved ‘Aged sixty-five.’ There was no mistaking it;
the smallest child could read and understand it. On seeing this I made
inquiries, and was told his history by the High Sheriff, himself a man
of about fifty-five.
“His name was Hugo de Bretton, and as a lad he had been an errand boy,
and in that capacity acquired an unfailing stock of good manners and
alertness, the necessary adjuncts to all successful men who are not
boors. From thence he travelled the ordinary roads of success till, in
due course, he became a great banker. His own fortune was enormous—his
power equalled it. This at fifty. At sixty his wealth was increased. At
sixty-five he seemed in the very zenith of his glory—physically and
mentally of astounding strength. His name a magic spell in speculations.
Then suddenly he resigned from public life.” Here a shrewd little smile,
almost imperceptible, wrinkled Mr. Barringcourt’s face.
“Now, you know,” continued he, “that a man who amasses a fortune, a very
great fortune, I will not say how great, does the greater part of it by
stepping on other people’s corns—not intentionally, but he does step all
the same. And with increasing gold his feet at times become so heavy
they do more than crush corns—they crush life unconsciously.
“This man was no fool. The past had been very profitable years to him;
so should the future be. How great a sacrifice his self-resignation was
it would be hard to say, but it was done with little ostentation.
“He lived for a period of fifteen years longer, and, I venture to say,
in that time he did more practical good than any statesman or soldier of
his time. He gave of the accumulated experience of life, generously and
widely. He invested large sums for the aid of respected and aged poor, a
thing which hitherto had been thought to be the work of the poorhouses.
He spent the last years of his life a philosopher and philanthropist,
respected and beloved—leaving the outward battle of life for those who
had still to win their spurs. So great was the impression left by his
conduct that others, lesser men or equal, followed suit. And gradually
the law came in that all at sixty-five resigned their office, not as
unfit for work, but as having done their full share of labour in the
field—ready to give advice when sought, and ready to turn a life’s
experience into a profitable channel for the good of the community. And
with such critics standing by, capable of judging, and unsparingly, it
acted as a spur to the generation following.
“And so it is that age is there the most respected. Generation of
workers follows generation in perfect order. In State, in Church, in
every division of labour there is vigour and freshness. For why is the
Church to be excluded? On the plea of sacred exemption? A most sacred
fallacy that is so ticklish it won’t bear touching, and holds together
pretty much as the old crimson curtain in the temple held, till the hand
of God, through the agency of moths, tore it down from the rings of
gold.”
“There’s many a man young at sixty-five,” one argued.
“Have I not given you a notable example of one who turned his mind from
business to philanthropy, and gave his mind and energy and wealth to
it.”
“There’s many a man has died soon after giving up the business of his
life, if it’s compulsory.”
Mr. Barringcourt laughed.
“He’s either narrow-minded, with no interest outside his own affairs, or
he worships his work above the Serpent. He should be careful.”
“Many of our finest clergy are over the age you mention.”
“They push out or keep down the younger men who are just as fine. If
they wish to remain in office after age, let them work for the love of
the thing—for nothing.”
Then he sat down. And not long afterwards the guests departed.
“What a curious speech that was of Mr. Barringcourt’s,” said Miss
Crokerly to her brother, as they drove home.
“Yes. He’d argue black was white when in a mood to do so. But I’ll call
on him to-morrow. According to his verdict, there’s only three years
good work left in me now.”
“He didn’t say that,” put in Rosalie from her corner, where she had been
sitting mutely. “Just think, Sir John! Under certain conditions you
might paint the best picture you ever did in your life after sixty-five,
and what a great thing it would be if you gave the proceeds to some
great scheme of general improvement, that had too much genuine good to
have any of the sentimentalism of charity in it. I think it would be a
splendid thing, and economise resources.”
“Under the new _régime_ we’ll have to become Spartans,” said he, not
unkindly. “But tell me, Rosalie, is it true that the lost handkerchief
belonged to you?”
“Yes,” she answered, breathing quickly and leaning forward. “I went
there one day, nay, twice, when I was in terrible distress. I never
mentioned it before; I didn’t quite know how to. But some day I’ll tell
you all, but at present I would rather not. Has it made any difference
to you? I had to speak to-night. It has weighed so long on my mind. And
I couldn’t bear to hear them bringing that up as a blot on the late High
Priest’s life. If it had not been so cruel, it would have been
ridiculous.”
“We wish to know no more than you care to tell us,” he answered kindly.
“And it has made no difference. The time was awkward, certainly, but you
had not been here long enough to know how things were going,”
“Oh! but it’s Mr. Barringcourt,” she continued quickly, with a queer
ring of pain in her voice. “He knew, and has known all along, and could
have spoken and set all things right. It was cruel, cruel! I can’t
understand that anyone who spoke as he spoke to-night could act as he
has done.”
“Did he know about the handkerchief?” said Miss Crokerly.
“He must have done. He—he—he was at the temple the same time as I. If
only he had spoken sincerely! But it was simply to further the schemes
of an ambitious man.”
When they got home Miss Crokerly went up with Rosalie to bed. A fire was
burning brightly in the bedroom.
“Rosalie, did you ever know Mr. Barringcourt before you met him at the
Sebberens’?”
“Yes, indeed. I stayed in his house nearly a week. I met him first in
the sacred place of the temple.”
“Why were you staying at his house?”
Rosalie looked at her with the look of fear and pain in her eyes that
had haunted them half the night.
“If I tell you, you’ll never repeat it, even to your brother?”
“No.”
“Well, I was born dumb, and I remained dumb till I was twenty-two, and
then he cured me completely, just as I am now.”
Miss Crokerly would have doubted, but Rosalie’s tone carried conviction
as before.
“And it took a week for the cure to be completed?”
“No. Afterwards he kept me as a prisoner. I ran away, or something led
me away. I don’t know which.”
“It’s a curious tale. Almost unbelievable.”
“I know. That’s why I never repeat it. I should have gone to be an
inmate of Todbrook’s Home, but I couldn’t bear the thought of it,
somehow or other.”
Then Miss Crokerly went away. She saw that Rosalie was overwrought and
tired, and recommended her to think about nothing till morning, and go
to sleep.
When the door was closed, Rosalie flung herself down in a chair before
the fire, and the frog hopped on to the mantelpiece.
“Why did you tell me to speak?” she cried. “I did no good. Only incurred
cold glances and hisses and hatred.”
“Flea bites,” said the frog.
“Bred out of serpent’s poison, anyway. If I’d followed Mr.
Barringcourt’s advice I’d have said nothing.”
“He always goes by the rule of contrary.”
“It’s a rule I never learnt.”
“It’s answerable for a great deal that happens in this world. Why do you
take things so much to heart?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m a lonely, lonely woman.”
“I’m a lonely, lonely frog.”
She laughed. “You make light of my misfortunes.”
“I think you are much more fortunate than you think. I bear a charmed
life, and yours is the next best thing. We’ll struggle on together,
anyhow. Remember, we’re in search of six white horses and a capable
driver. That’s all we’ve got to mind.”
“Of course,” said Rosalie. “Life’s more like a dream than reality.”
Here the frog yawned, and Rosalie, much soothed, was soon asleep.