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.
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.
"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."
"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.
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.
"I wish I were not your opponent, Paul," said he in a low voice, so as
not to be overheard.
"That doesn't matter a bit," Paul replied courteously. "I see you're
putting up an excellent fight."
"It's the Lord's battle. If it weren't, do you think I would not let
you win?"
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.
"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."
"That is true, my son," said Silas.
"Jane is well?" Paul asked, after an instant's pause, breaking off the
profitless discussion.
"Very well."
"And Barney Bill?"
"He upbraids me bitterly for what I have said."
Paul smiled at the curiously stilted phrase.
"Tell him from me not to do it. My love to them both."
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?
He turned suddenly to his companion, the Conservative agent.
"Do you think God has got common sense?"
The agent, not being versed in speculations regarding the attributes of
the Deity, stared; then, disinclined to commit himself, took refuge in
platitude.
"God moves in a mysterious way, Mr. Savelli."
"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?"
"Certainly not," said the agent, fervently.
"Then if God supported it, it wouldn't be common sense on His part. It
would be merely mysterious?"
"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?"
"Tartuffe."
"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."
"But I don't like," said Paul. "I happen to know that Mr. Finn is
sincere in his convictions."
"But, my dear sir, what does his supposed sincerity matter in political
contest?"
"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."
"With all due deference to you, Mr. Savelli, you were called only the
day before yesterday 'the spoiled darling of Duchesses' boudoirs.'"
"It wasn't with Mr. Finn's cognizance. I've found that out."
"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."
"If it does," said Paul, "it will be associated with the immediate
retirement of the Conservative candidate."
"Do you really mean that?"
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."
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:
"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."
"Well, has He or not?"
"Of course," said Wilson.
"Then we're going to win this election," said Paul.
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.
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.
The servant who woke him brought a newspaper to the bedside.
"Something to interest you, sir."
Paul looked at the headline indicated by the man.
"Hickney Heath Election. Liberal Candidate's Confession. Extraordinary
Scene."
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.
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.
"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."
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?"
"That's all," said the man.
"It is for you, electors of Hickney Heath, to judge me."
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.
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.
"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?"
"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."
"Dastardly. Do you know who it was?"
"No. Don't you?"
"I? Does either of you think that I--?"
"No, no," came the voice, now curiously tearful. "I didn't mean that. I
forgot you've not had time to find out."
"Who does he think it was?"
"Some old fellow prisoner who had a grudge against him."
"Were you at the meeting?"
"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."
"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."
He rang off. Almost immediately Wilson was announced. He came into the
room radiant.
"You were right about the divine common-sensicality," said he. "The
Lord has delivered our adversary into our hands with a vengeance."
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.
"I would give anything for it not to have happened," he said.
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."
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."
"If you take it that way," said Wilson, "there's no more to be done."
"There's nothing to be done, except to find out who put up the man to
make the announcement."
"He did it on his own," Wilson replied warmly. "None of our people
would resort to a dirty trick like that."
"And yet you want me to take advantage of it now it's done."
"That's quite a different matter."
"I can't see much difference," said Paul.
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.
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.
"You see what has happened. I knew all the time. I didn't tell you. You
must forgive me."
"I don't blame you, my boy," said Colonel Winwood. "It was your
father's secret. You had no right to tell us."
"We're very grieved, dear, for both your sakes," Ursula added. "James
has taken the liberty of sending round a message of sympathy."
As ever, these two had gone a point beyond his anticipation of their
loyalty. He thanked them simply.
"It's hateful," said he, "to think I may win the election on account of
this. It's loathsome." He shuddered.
"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."
"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."
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.