Sir Charles Repton strode up Whitehall. His day’s work had been heavy,
in the hours since that morning conversation, and he was suffering.
It was no spiritual suffering which affected that strong character:
his life was fixed; the decision he had taken was final. Nay, every
circumstance surrounding that decision delighted him. The peerage had
been offered at precisely the right moment; he himself could have
chosen no better. It was the moment when he particularly desired to
be at once more powerful, if that could be, and yet free; more fixed
in his political tenure, yet more at large to catch the hand of
opportunity. For all his strategy was centred upon the Company which he
was determined to save.
That from which he now suffered was physical; he suffered that pain at
the back of the head: it had a novel intensity about it; it was not
exactly a headache, it was a sort of weight, an oppression, and as he
went on northward the pressure got worse and more concentrated just
behind either ear.
He would not relax his pace. He saw a taxi which had just discharged
a fare at Cox’s Bank; in spite of the trouble in his head which was
rapidly increasing, he was clear enough to note that the little flag
was up, that the man was free and was about to go away. He signalled to
him and got in, and gave the address of his house, bidding him call at
the Club on his way.
He remembered, though the bother was getting worse, that there was a
big dinner that evening; he tried to remember the names, then quite
suddenly a stab of pain behind the right ear almost made him cry out.
But Repton was indomitable and he stifled the cry. Hardly had he so
conquered himself when he felt another similar violent agony behind
the left ear: a man less master of himself would have fainted. It was
over in a moment, but he was white and actually uncertain of his steps
when he got out at the Club and went up to the porter’s box to ask for
letters and messages. There were none.
“Are you certain there are none?” he asked in a weak voice.
That query was so unusual from the man that the porter looked up
surprised.
“Don’t look at me as though I was stuffed,” said Sir Charles sharply,
“don’t you know what your place is worth?”
The man grumbled a little.
With the most unworthy ferocity, but perhaps the pain must excuse him,
Sir Charles bent his head in to the little window in the glass and
hissed: “This kind of thing has happened before. Just you bally well
sort the papers in front of you and make sure.”
His hands were trembling with constricted rage the porter ran through
the bundle, and found a card.
“What did I tell you, you b----y snipe!” darted the now uncontrollable
Baronet. Then recovering himself he said with no shame but in a little
confusion: “I’ve had enough of this.” He looked at the card: it was an
advertisement inviting him to spend a week for eleven guineas in lovely
Lucerne, and there was a picture of the Rigi Kulm. He tore the card up
savagely, threw it into the waste-paper basket, hurriedly went down the
steps of his Club, bolted into the taxi and slammed the door behind him.
The driver had let the engine stop. Sir Charles sat tapping either
foot, his eyes alight, and his hands working nervously. The man was
working the barrel organ in front of the machine; the piston started
once or twice vigorously, then died down again. Sir Charles got out.
“If you can’t make your damn kettle go,” he said,--then he suddenly
smiled. “What a good-natured face you have,” he remarked with an abrupt
transition of tone. “It’s a brutal thing for men like me with enormous
incomes to bully people who have to be out in all weathers, though I
must say you taxi-men are a privileged lot! You’ve always got a herd
of poor fellows round you, running messages for you and what not. You
know,” he went on still more familiarly, “if you didn’t look so jolly
good-natured I wouldn’t get into the cab again: but I will now. I will
now,” he nodded reassuringly to show there was no ill-feeling, and he
climbed again into the taxi, which at last started off upon its journey.
Sir Charles, within that vehicle, preserved for some moments the
expression of strong silence which was at least one-half of his
fortune. Suddenly that expression broke down; something tickled him
hugely. Such a merry look came into his eyes as had perhaps not visited
them since he was a child--if then. It occurred to him to look out of
the window. The fact that the window was up in no way incommoded him.
He butted his head through it and then very cautiously drew it in again.
“That’s dangerous,” he muttered, “might have cut myself.”
The driver of the taxi heard nothing. Sir Charles looked through the
star of broken glass for a moment, then cautiously lowered the sash. He
put his head out again, smiling almost to the point of laughter, and
asked the driver whether he had noticed the absurd pomposity of the
two sentries and the policemen outside Marlborough House. The taxi man
simply said “Yes sir,” and went on driving.
For a few minutes Sir Charles was silent, ruminating and smiling
within. Then he put his head out again.
“Yes, but did you?” he asked.
And just at that point the traffic was stopped to allow a cross current
from another street to pass.
“What a fool a man can make of himself,” said Sir Charles suddenly
to nobody, communing half aloud with his own soul. “It’s an amazing
thing! I can’t conceive why I should put my head out of a window like
that to tell him the way.... I suppose I was telling him the way ...
but my head is so bad!... What a fool a man can make of himself!” The
sternness of his expression returned. He remembered that the taxi-man
knew his address and he bethought him how to escape from humiliation.
When they had driven up to his house he would pretend it was the wrong
number and drive somewhere else.
Yet again his mood changed and he burst into an explosion of laughter
as he remembered the sentries. Then the name over a shop which recalled
to him certain mortgages tickled his fancy. He almost stopped the taxi
to get out and have a bout of fun with the proprietors of that shop but
he was going swiftly through the streets and he preferred his ease.
Long before they reached the Marble Arch he had forgotten all about
his intention of secrecy. Nay, he had forgotten about his dinner; he
only knew he was going home. And when he got out he saw upon the little
machine the notice “1/10.”
“The register marks one and tenpence,” he said slowly and gravely
to the driver, upon whose honest and happy face the tendency to
astonishment was hardly controlled. “Now I don’t think these machines
are infallible--far from it--but it isn’t worth my while, you
understand, to argue it. So there’s one and tenpence.” He laboriously
counted out the money. “Wait a moment,” he said, “give me back three
coppers.”
The man hesitated.
“Give me back three coppers,” snapped Sir Charles testily, “I want to
get rid of a thruppeny-bit,” and he handed over the offensive coin.
“Now wait a minute, wait a minute,” he added, “don’t be in a hurry. I
always give a tip to taxi drivers--I really don’t know why,” he said
with a sudden change of expression, “there’s no particular favour, and
they earn lots of money. But one’s got to--I suppose if one didn’t,”
he continued in a ruminative tone, “they’d mark one in some way, same
way they do the boxes in hotels, and your watch, me boy, when you pawn
it,” he ended with an explosion of mirth, digging the man sharply in
the ribs. “Eh?” He pulled out two pence, added another penny, and then
another, took out a sixpence, put it back again, finally put the three
pence into the man’s hand, and went up to his door.
The taxi-man as he was driving off nodded familiarly to a policeman,
and, by drawing up all one side of his face while he left the other in
repose, gave it to be understood that he had grave doubts of the mental
balance of the gentleman whom he had just conveyed to his residence.
Alas, for simple men! The policeman strode up to him, rated him
soundly, asked what he meant by it, and in general gave him to
understand that he was dealing with no ordinary household. And the
taxi-man, who was but recently landed from the sea, went off pondering,
as far as the congested traffic would allow him, upon the mysteries of
London.
The policeman solemnly returned to his duty, which was that of guarding
the residence of so great a citizen, and Sir Charles, putting his hat
upon the table in the hall, went past the two servants upon whose
presence in that vestibule he insisted, and walked majestically up the
staircase, as though the last half-hour had not been.
But he felt during this progress unaccountable desires. Before he was
half-way up they were too strong for him. He stopped, leaned over the
bannisters, looked at the two well-trained domestics who stood like
statues below him, and said: “Henry!”
Henry, with a perfect turn of the head, answered, “Yes, Sir Charles?”
“William!”
William, with a precisely similar change of attitude, said, “Yes, Sir
Charles?”
“What does it feel like to stand like that when another man, who simply
happens to be richer than you, is going by?”
The well-trained domestics made no reply.
“Are you dumb?” he shouted angrily. “What’s it feel like, I say?...
Blasted fools!” he muttered, when he had endured for a few seconds
their continued silence. He went on up the stairs, saying half to
himself and half to them: “Catch _me_ doing it. Why, there’s more money
in a whelk stall!”
He found his wife reading. She put down her book and asked him timidly
what had been going on in the House.
His only answer was to put his hand to his head and say that he was
suffering.
And so he was, for the pain, though less violent, had returned. She
suggested, though very hesitatingly, that he should lie down. He made
no reply. He put his hand before his eyes and waited with set teeth
until the first violence of the pang had passed, and then said to her
gently: “I beg your pardon, dear, what did you say?”
It was nearly twenty years since she had heard that tone from him. She
was frightened.
“Did you ask what was going on in the House?” he sighed. “Well, I can
tell you.” He put his hands on the chimneypiece and looked down at
the fender. “There’s going on there,” he said decidedly, “as crass,
imbecile and hypocritical a piece of futility as God permits: as
Almighty God permits!”
“Oh Charles!” she cried, “Charles! Is there any trouble?”
“No,” he said, looking round at her with mild surprise, “just the
usual thing. Nobody has the slightest idea what they’re talking about,
and nobody cares.”
“Charles!” she said, feeling the gravity of the moment, for he was
evidently suffering in some mysterious way. “Have you left it all right
in your room? Haven’t you any appointments or anything?”
“I never thought of that,” he answered. His eyes had in them an
expression quite childlike and he said suddenly: “One can still see
what you were like when I married you, Maria. Turn your face round a
little.”
She did so, with her face full of colour.
“Yes,” he said, “they keep their profiles best. You can remember them
by their profiles.”
“Charles darling,” said Lady Repton getting up, her white hair shining
against the flush of her forehead. “Let me look after you.” She had not
used such a tone nor dreamed of such an endearment for many many years.
“I don’t mind, old girl,” he said, “I don’t mind,” and the innocence of
his eyes continued. Then as though something else were battling within
him he began abruptly: “Maria, have you got a full list of the people
who are coming to-night? I thought not. I’m sorry to have to speak of
it again, I told you when we first came to town, and I’ve told you
fifty times since, that I can do nothing without such a list.”
“But I’ve got it,” she said, in great suffering, “I’ve got it,
Charles.”
His eyes changed again. “You’ve got what?”
“The list of the people who are coming, Charles.”
“Oh ... I didn’t understand. The list of the people who are coming,” he
repeated slowly. “Well, show it to me in a moment.” He moved towards
the door.
“I’ll come with you,” she said.
For the first time since her husband had decided to enter Parliament
and had entered it, twenty years before, while their child was still
alive, Lady Repton had to take a decision of importance. She decided in
favour of the dinner. It was too late to change it, and she must trust
to chance, but evidently some terrible thing had befallen the Warden of
the Court of Dowry.
As he was dressing she heard him now and then humming a chance tune
(a thing which in his normal self he would no more have dreamed of
doing than of walking the streets without his hat) and now and then
commenting upon the character and attributes of the opera singer
whom he had last heard sing it. She heard him launch out into a long
monologue, describing the exact career of the new soprano at Covent
Garden, the name of her father and her mother, the name of the Russian
Grand Duke, the name of a wealthy English lady who had asked her (and
him) to supper, and then, oh horror! the name of an English statesman.
There was a burst of laughter which Lady Repton could hardly bear: and
then a silence.
When they met again and their guests had begun to come he seemed right
enough, except that now and then he would say things which every one
in the room knew well enough to be true, but which were by no means
suitable to the occasion.
It was thought eccentric in him, especially by those who knew him best,
that he should comment somewhat upon what man was paired off with what
woman in the procession, and it was thought exceedingly coarse by his
partner that he should explain a strong itching upon his right ankle to
be due, not to a flea, for his man was most careful, but to some little
skin trouble.
The noise of talking during the dinner covered any other indiscretions,
and when the men were alone with him over the wine, he sat gloomily
enough, evidently changed but guilty of nothing more exceptional than a
complete ignorance of where the wine came from or what it was.
There were the beginnings of a quarrel with a pompous and little-known
fellow-member of his own Party who attempted to talk learnedly on wine.
Repton had begun, “What on earth d’you know about wine? Why, your old
father wouldn’t allow you swipes when you went to fetch the supper
beer!” He had begun thus, I say, to recall the humble origins of the
politician, when he added: “But there, what’s the good of quarreling?
You’re all the same herd,”--his evident illness excused him. He
led them back to the women, a gloomy troupe; they began to leave
uncommonly early.
The one who lingered last was a very honest man, stupid,
straightforward and rich. He was fond of Charles Repton, simply because
Repton had once done him a very cheap good turn in the matter of a
legal dispute; he had stopped a lawsuit. And this man ever, since--it
was now five years ago,--was ready to serve that household. His name, I
should add, was Withers, and he was a Commoner; he sat for Ashington.
He had not only this loyal feeling for Charles Repton, which he was
perhaps the only man in London to feel; he had also a simple admiration
for him, for his career, for his speeches, for his power of introducing
impromptu such words as “well,” and “now” and “I will beg the House to
observe” into his careful arguments. Lady Repton trusted him, and she
was glad to see him remaining alone after the others had left. Charles
Repton was sitting at the end of the room, staring at nothingness.
Withers whispered to Lady Repton a rapid query as to what had happened.
She could tell him nothing, but her eyes filled with tears.
“Wouldn’t it be better,” said Withers hurriedly, in a low tone, “if I
got him back to vote to-night? There’ll be three divisions at eleven.
There’s bound to be a scandal if he doesn’t turn up.”
“Yes--no--very well,” said Lady Repton. “I don’t understand it. I don’t
understand anything.” She almost broke down.
“Repton,” said Withers, “won’t you come along with me? It’s half-past
ten, there’ll be three divisions.”
Repton startled them both nearly out of their skins. “Divisions?” he
shrieked, jumping up. “Go down and maunder past those green boxes in
a great stifling pack for nothing at all? Not if I know it! Why I can
guess you the majority from here. And if there wasn’t any majority
I should blasted well like to know the difference it would make!
Divisions! Oh chase me!” And he snorted and sat down again.
Withers did not know whether to stay or to go, but before he could
reply Charles Repton in the most ordinary of tones went on: “I can’t
understand a man like you, Withers, putting up with it. You’re rich,
you’re a gentleman born, which I’m not; you’d be just as big a man in
Buckinghamshire, especially nowadays when the county’s crawling with
Jews, if you were out of the House. You’d be infinitely freer. You know
perfectly well the country’ll stagger along without the silly tom-fool
business or with it, and that neither it nor anything else can prevent
the smash. Why don’t you go and live your life of a squire like a
sensible chap? And make one prayer that you may die before the whole
bag of tricks comes to an end?”
“Come along, Charles,” said Withers smoothly, “do come along.”
“Not I!” said Repton, “I’m going to bed. I’m tired, and my head hurts
me!” And he went out like a boor.
“Lady Repton,” said Withers very gently when he had gone, “what has
Charles got to do to-morrow?”
“He never tells me,” said the wretched lady. “I suppose he will go into
the City as usual.”
“It’s very unwise,” said Withers, “and yet I don’t know after all. It
might help him to be in harness, and you’ll have him out of the house
while you’re making your plans. I’ll do what I can, Lady Repton, I’ll
do what I can. Isn’t to-morrow the meeting of the Van Diemens Company?”
“I can’t tell,” said Lady Repton despairingly. She was impatient to
be seeing to her husband. She had grown terrified during the last few
hours when he was out of her sight.
“Yes, it is,” said Withers. “Oh that’ll be all right. It’ll do him all
the good in the world: I’m sure it will. Good-night.”
He came back again. He remembered something: “Of course,” he said a
little awkwardly, “ I don’t know anything about these things, but I
read in the paper that he was down to speak at the big Wycliffite
meeting. Don’t let him go there, Lady Repton, until you’re quite
certain, will you?”
“Oh no,” she said with the terrified look coming back again upon her
face.
“It’s not like business,” said Withers. “There’d be excitement, you
know. Good-night.” And he went out.
* * * * *
Those of Charles Repton’s guests who were Members of the House of
Commons had returned to it. One or two of them had hinted that things
were a little queer with Repton, but Withers when he got back just in
time for the divisions, found no rumours as yet, and was profoundly
grateful. One man only who had been present at the dinner, took him
aside in the Lobby and asked him whether Charles Repton had had any
trouble.
Withers laughed the question away, and explained that he had known
Repton for many years and that now and then he did give way to these
silly fits of temper. It was digestion, he said; perhaps the guest had
noticed there were no onions.
The House had something better to gossip about, for after the divisions
Demaine was seen going arm in arm with the Prime Minister into his room
for a moment. There had been plenty of talk of Demaine lately: that
visit increased it.
* * * * *
Certain members more curious or fussy than the rest scoured the
journalists in the lobbies: they had news.
It was all settled. The paragraphs had been sent round to the papers.
The Lobby correspondents had each of them quite special and peculiar
means of knowing that Certain Changes were expected in the Cabinet in
the near future; that the House of Lords was to be strengthened by the
addition of talents which were universally respected; several names had
been mentioned for the vacancy; perhaps Mr. Demaine, with his special
training and the experience drawn from his travels would, on the
whole, form the most popular appointment.
Thus had the announcement been given in its vaguest form by the Prime
Minister’s secretary; two or three favoured journals had been permitted
to say without doubt that Charles Repton had resigned; the exact title
under which he would accept a peerage was suggested, and Demaine was
put down in black and white as being certainly his successor.
All this Demaine was told meanwhile that evening in the Prime
Minister’s room.
His interview with Sorrel had been exceedingly satisfactory, and
never in his life, not in the moments when he could spend most of his
father-in-law’s money, had Demaine experienced so complete a respect
and so eager a service. He felt himself already Warden, and what was
better, he felt himself perfectly capable of the Wardenship. His mood
rose and rose. He forgot Sudie; he had not even told her when he would
be home. He shook his cousin’s hand as warmly as might a provincial,
and went out by the entry under Big Ben, to calm down the exuberance of
his joy with breaths of the fresh night air along the Embankment. It
was nearly twelve o’clock.
So ended for George Mulross Demaine that Monday, June 1st, 1915.