Sir John Corbett rushed back to his chair and shouted "Ordah!" and the
back rows, the ranks of Hitchin's men, stood up and shouted, "We won't
sign!" "We won't sign!" "We won't sign!"
And then young Horace did an unsuspected thing, a thing that surprised
himself. He leaped on to the front bench and faced the insurgent back
rows. His face was red with excitement, and with the shame and anger and
resentment inspired by his father's eloquence. But he was shouting in
his hoarse, breaking, adolescent voice:
"Look here, you blackguards there at the back. If you don't stop that
row this minute, I'll jolly well chuck you all out."
Only one voice, the voice of Mr. Hitchin's biggest and brawniest
quarryman, replied: "Come on, sir!"
Young Horace vaulted lightly over the bench, followed by Ralph, and the
two were steeplechasing down the hall when Mr. Hitchin made another of
his mysterious signals and the men filed out, obediently, one by one.
Ralph and Horace found themselves in the middle of the empty benches
laughing into each other's faces. Colonel Grainger and Mr. Hitchin stood
beside them, smiling with intolerable benevolence.
Mr. Hitchin was saying: "The men are all right, Mr. Bevan. They don't
mean any harm. They just got a bit out of hand."
Horace saw that they were being magnanimous, and the thought maddened
him. "I don't blame the men," he said, "and I don't blame you, Hitchin.
You don't know any better. But Colonel Grainger ought to be damned well
ashamed of himself, and I hope he is."
Colonel Grainger laughed. So did Mr. Hitchin, throwing himself back and
swaying from side to side as his mirth shook him.
"Look here, Mr. Hitchin--"
"That'll do, Horry," said Ralph. He led him gently down a side aisle
and through a swing door into the concealed corridor beside the
platform. There they waited.
"Don't imagine for one moment," said young Horry, "that I agree with all
that tosh he talked. But, after all, he's got a perfect right to make a
fool of himself if he chooses. And he's _my_ father."
"I know. From first to last, Horry, you behaved beautifully."
"Well, what would _you_ do if your father made an unholy ass of himself
in public?"
"My father doesn't."
"No, but if he did?"
"I'd do what you did. Sit tight and try and look as if he didn't."
"Then," said Horace, "you look as big a fool yourself."
"Not quite. You don't say anything. Besides, your father isn't as big a
fool as those London Leaguers who started the silly show. Sir Maurice
Gedge and all that crowd. He didn't invent the beastly thing."
"No," said Horace mournfully, "he hasn't even the merit of originality."
He meditated, still mournful.
"Look here, Ralph, what did that blackguard Hitchin mean?"
"He isn't a blackguard. He's a ripping good sort. I can tell you, if
every employer in this confounded commercial country was as honest as
old Hitchin, there wouldn't be any labour question worth talking about."
"Damn his honesty. What did he _mean_? Was it true what he said?"
"Was what true?"
"Why, that my father turned the Ballingers out?"
"Yes; I'm afraid it was."
"I say, how disgusting of him. You know I always thought he was a bit of
a fool, my father; but I didn't know he was that beastly kind of fool."
"He isn't," said Ralph. "He's just--a fool."
"I know. Did you ever hear such putrid rot as he talked?"
"I don't know. For the kind of silly thing it was, his speech wasn't
half bad."
"What? About going over the top? Oh, Lord! And after turning the
Ballingers out, too."
Ralph was silent.
"What's happened to him? He didn't use to be like that. He must be mad,
or something."
Ralph thought of Mrs. Levitt.
"He's getting old and he doesn't like it. That's what's the matter with
him."
"But hang it all, Ralph, that's no excuse. It really isn't."
"I believe Ballinger gave him some provocation."
"I don't care what he gave him. He'd no earthly business to take
advantage of it. Not with that sort of person. Besides, it wouldn't
matter about Ballinger so much, but there's old Susan and the
kiddies.... He doesn't see how perfectly sickening it is for _me_."
"It isn't very nice for your mother."
"No; it's jolly hard on the poor mater.... Well, I can't stick it much
longer. I'm just about fed up with Horatio Bysshe. I shall clear out
first thing in the morning before he's down. I don't care if I never see
him or speak to him again."
"I say, I say, how about the midsummer holidays?"
"Oh, damn the midsummer holidays!"
"Isn't it rather rotten to take a line you can't possibly keep up?"
"That's all right. Whatever I may do in the future," said young Horace
magnificently, "I've got to give him his punishment _now_."
Ralph laughed. Young Horace was as big an egoist as his father, but with
these differences: his blood was hot instead of cold, he had his
mother's humour, and he was not a fool. Ralph wondered how he would
have felt if he had realized Mrs. Levitt's part in the Ballinger
affair.
3
Mr. Waddington remained standing on his platform. They were coming round
him now, grasping him by the hand, congratulating him: Sir John Corbett,
the Rector, Major Markham of Wyck Wold and Mr. Hawtrey of Medlicott.
"Capital speech, Waddington, capital."
"Best speech made in the Town Hall since they built it."
"Splendid. You landed them one every time."
"No wonder you drew them down on to you."
"That was a disgraceful business," said Sir John. "Disgraceful."
"Nothing of the sort ever happened in Wyck before," said the Rector.
"Nobody ever made a speech like Waddington's before," said Major Markham
of Wyck Wold.
"Oh, you always get a row if you drag in politics," Mr. Hawtrey said.
"I don't know," said Sir John. "That was a put-up job between Hitchin
and Grainger."
"Struck me it had every appearance of a spontaneous outburst," Major
Markham said.
"I've no doubt the rowdy element was brought in from the outside," said
the Rector. "Hardly one of Hitchin's workpeople is a Wyck man. Otherwise
I should have to apologize to Waddington for my parishioners."
"You needn't. There was nothing personal to me in it. Nothing personal
at all. Even Hitchin wouldn't have had the impudence to oppose me on my
own platform. It was the League they were going for. Bit too big for
'em. If you come out with a large, important thing like that there's
sure to be some opposition just at first till it gets hold of 'em."
"Glad you can see it that way," said Sir John.
"My dear fellow, that's the way to see it. It's the right way; the big
impersonal way."
"You've taken it in the proper spirit, Waddington," said the Rector.
"None of those fellows meant any real harm. All good fellows.... By the
way, is it true that the Ballingers have moved to Lower Wyck?"
"I believe so."
"Dear me, what on earth possessed them?"
"Some fad of Ballinger's, I fancy."
"That reminds me, I must go and see Mrs. Ballinger."
"You won't find them there, sir. They've moved again to her father's at
Medlicott."
"You don't say so. I wonder now what they've done that for."
"They complained of the house being damp for one thing. If it was, that
was Hitchin's fault, not mine."
Was everybody in a plot to badger him about those wretched Ballingers?
He was getting sick of it. And he wanted to speak a word to Mrs. Levitt.
Mrs. Levitt had come up in the tail of the procession. She had given in
her name and her subscription to Barbara Madden; but she lingered,
waiting no doubt for a word with him. If only Corbett and the rest of
them would go.
"Of course. Of course it was Hitchin's fault," said the Rector, with
imperishable geniality. "Well.... Good night, Waddington, and thank you
for a most--a most stimulating evening."
They had gone now, all but Sir John and Lady Corbett. (He could hear her
talking to Fanny at the back of the platform.) Mrs. Levitt was gathering
her scarf round her; in another minute she would be gone. And Corbett
wouldn't go.
"I say, Waddington, that's a splendid young cub of yours. See him go
over the top? He'd have taken them all on. Licked 'em, too, I shouldn't
wonder."
Mr. Waddington resented this diversion of the stream of admiration. And
he was acutely aware of Mrs. Levitt standing there, detached but
waiting.
"Was I really all right, Corbett?" He wasn't satisfied with his speech.
If only he could remember what he had left out of it.
"Absolutely, my dear chap. Absolutely top-hole. You ought to make that
boy a soldier."
He wished that young Horace could be a soldier at that moment, stationed
in a remote part of the Empire, without any likelihood of leave for the
next five years. He wanted--he wanted intolerably to speak to Mrs.
Levitt, to spread himself voluptuously in her rejuvenating smile.
Sir John retreated before his manifest indifference. He could hear him
at the back of the platform, congratulating Fanny.
Mrs. Levitt advanced towards him.
"At last," she said, "I may add my congratulations. That speech was
magnificent."
"Nothing, my dear lady, nothing but a little necessary plain speaking."
"Oh, but you were wonderful. You carried us off our feet."
"I hope," he said, "we've enrolled you as a member?" (He knew they had.)
"Of course I'm enrolled. And I've paid in my poor little guinea to that
delightful Miss Madden."
"Ah, that is _too_ good of you."
It was. The amount of the subscription was purely a matter of individual
fancy.
"It's the least I could do in such a splendid cause."
"Well, dear Mrs. Levitt, we're delighted to have you with us.
Delighted."
There was a pause. He was looking down at her from the height of his six
feet. The faint, sweet scent of orris root rose up from her warm skin.
She was very attractive, dressed in a low-necked gown of that dull,
satiny stuff women were wearing now. A thin band of white net was
stretched across the top of her breasts; through it he could see the
shadowy, arrow-headed groove between; her pendant--pearl bistre and
paste--pointed, pointed down to it.
He was wrong about Elise and jewellery. That was a throat for pearls and
for diamonds. Emeralds. She would be all black and white and sparkling
green. A necklace, he thought, wouldn't hang on her; it would be laid
out, exposed on that white breast as on a cushion. You could never tell
what a woman was really like till you'd seen her in a low-necked gown.
It made Mrs. Levitt ten times more alluring. He smiled at her, a tender,
brooding, rather fatuous smile.
Mrs. Levitt saw that her moment had come. It would be now or never. She
must risk it.
"I wish," she said, "you'd introduce me to your wife."
It was a shock, a horrid blow. It showed plainly that Elise had
interests beyond him, that she was not, like him, all for the secret,
solitary adventure.
Yet perhaps--perhaps--she had planned it; she thought it would be safer
for them, more discreet.
She looked up at him with the old, irrefutable smile.
"Will you?" she pleaded.
"Well--I'm not sure that I know where my wife _is_. She was here a
minute ago, talking to Lady Corbett."
He looked round. A wide screen guarded the door on to the platform. He
could see Lady Corbett and Fanny disappearing behind it.
"I--I'll go and look for her," he said. He meditated treachery.
Treachery to poor Elise.
He followed them through the door and down the steps into the concealed
corridor. He found Ralph Bevan there. Horace had gone.
"I say, Ralph, I wish you'd take Fanny home. She's tired. Get her out of
this. I shall be here quite half an hour longer; settling up accounts.
You might tell Kimber to come back for me and Miss Madden."
Now to get to the entrance you had to pass through the swing door into
the hall and down the side aisle to the bottom, so that Mrs. Levitt
witnessed Mrs. Waddington's exit with Ralph Bevan. Mr. Waddington.
waited till the hall doors had closed on them before he returned.
"I can't find my wife anywhere," he said. "She wasn't in the cloak-room,
so I think she must have gone back with Horace."
Mrs. Levitt would think that Fanny had disappeared while he was looking
for her, honourably, in the cloak-room.
"I saw her go out," said Mrs. Levitt coldly, "with Mr. Bevan."
"I suppose he's taking her home," he said vaguely. His best policy was
vagueness. "And now, my dear lady, I wish I could take _you_ home. But I
shall be detained here some little time. Still, if you don't mind
waiting a minute or two till Kimber comes back with the car, he shall
drive you."
"Thank you, Mr. Waddington, I'm afraid I've waited quite long enough. It
isn't worth while troubling Kimber to drive me a hundred yards."
It gave her pleasure to inflict that snub on Mr. Waddington in return
for his manoeuvre. As the meeting had now broken up, and there wouldn't
be anybody to witness her departure in the Waddingtons' car, Mrs.
Levitt calculated that she could afford that little gratification of her
feelings. They were intensified by Mr. Waddington's very evident
distress. He would have walked home with her the hundred yards to Sheep
Street, but she wouldn't hear of it. She was perfectly capable of seeing
herself home. Miss Madden was waiting for him. Good night.
4
Eleven o'clock. In the library where Mr. Waddington was drinking his
whisky and water, Fanny had been crying. Horry had stalked off to his
bedroom without saying good night to anybody. Barbara had retired
discreetly. Ralph Bevan had gone. And when Fanny thought of the lavender
bags Susan-Nanna sent every year at Christmas, she had cried.
"How could you _do_ it, Horatio? How _could_ you?"
"There was nothing else to be done. You can't expect me to take your
sentimental, view of Ballinger."
"It isn't Ballinger. It's poor Susan-Nanna and the babies, and the
lavender bags."
Mr. Waddington swayed placably up and down on the tips of his toes. "It
serves poor Susan-Nanna right for marrying Ballinger."
"Oh--I suppose it serves _me_ right, too--"
Though she clenched her hands tight, tight, she couldn't keep back that
little spurt of anger.
He was smiling his peculiar, voluptuous smile. "Serves you right? For
spoiling everybody in the village? It does indeed."
"You don't in the least see what I mean," said Fanny.
But, after all, she was glad he hadn't seen it.
He hadn't seen anything. He hadn't seen that she had been crying. It had
never dawned on him that she might care about Susan-Nanna, or that the
Ballingers might love their home, their garden and their lavender
bushes. He was like that. He didn't see things, and he didn't care.
He was back in his triumph of the evening, going over the compliments
and congratulations, again and again--"Best speech ever made in the Town
Hall--" But there was something--something he had left out.
"Did it never dawn on you--" said Fanny.
Ah, _now_ he had it.
"There!" he said. "I knew I'd forgotten something. I never put in that
bit about the darkest hour before dawn."
Fanny's mind had wandered from what she had been going to say. "Did you
see what Horry did?" she said instead.
"Everybody could see it. It was most unnecessary."
"I don't care. Think, Horatio. Think of his sticking up for you like
that. He was going to fight them, the dear thing, all those great rough
men. To fight them for _you_. He said he'd behave better than anybody
else, and he did."
"Yes, yes. He behaved very well." Now that she put it to him that way he
was touched by Horace's behaviour. He could always be touched by the
thought of anything you did for _him_.
But Ralph Bevan could have told Fanny she was mistaken. Young Horace
didn't do it altogether for his father; he did it for himself, for an
ideal of conduct, an ideal of honour that he had, to let off steam, to
make a sensation in the Town Hall, to feel himself magnificent and
brave; because he, too, was an egoist, though a delightful one.
Mr. Waddington returned to his speech. "I can't think what made me leave
out that bit about the dawn."
"Oh, bother your old dawn," said Fanny. "I'm going to bed."