CYNTHIA ON THE HOUSE
On the morning after Parliament had risen the newspapers announced the
marriage of Cynthia Daventry to Harry Rames. The ceremony had taken
place by special license early one morning at a little church in
Mayfair, with a girl friend of Cynthia's, and a member of Parliament
named Robert Brook, as witnesses. A good many people were surprised;
still more, however, declared that they had foreseen the marriage all
along, and that of course it couldn't last; while Lord Helmsdale's
mother simply remarked in accents of pity: "Poor thing! Double her
age, isn't he? And she was so pretty, too, a few months ago."
On the other hand, however, a good many honest telegrams of
congratulations reached the couple honeymooning in the woods of
Fontainebleau; and when Harry and Cynthia returned to London, there
were fresher incidents than their marriage for people to discuss. They
settled down in Curzon Street to keep their bargain loyally.
If Cynthia's heart ached at times, as it had done amongst the trees of
Fontainebleau, for a life struck to fire by passion, she gave no
outward sign of her pain. She was to help forward the great career,
and to the best of her powers she did. She threw open her house to her
husband's party; she entertained; she attended social gatherings; she
walked abroad in Ludsey with a good memory for faces; she spent many
hours on the train. Harry, on his side, was assiduous at Westminster.
He sat upon committees in the morning, and on one of the green benches
below the gangway during the afternoon and evening, with an occasional
rush home at a quarter to eight to take his wife out to dinner.
"Be there!" was one of Henry Smale's maxims which he had taken to
heart. "Sit in the House. Never mind the library or the smoking-room,
or the lobby, or the terrace. Sit in the House! However dull the
debate, and however inviting the sunlight streaming through the high
windows, sit in the House. All the great Parliamentarians have done
it. The lawyers can't do it, of course. But you haven't their excuse.
You can. It may seem a waste of time. You'll find that it isn't."
So Harry Rames sat in the House, and Cynthia, when she had no other
engagement to detain her, came down to Westminster, dined with him
there, and spent an hour afterward in the ladies' gallery. She became
acquainted with many men of different calibre, and amongst them with
Mr. Devenish, the Secretary for Agriculture, who was just beginning to
do a little more than make a vociferous noise in the world. Mr.
Devenish happened to pass through the dining-room when Harry and his
wife were finishing dinner, and catching sight of them he turned off
toward their table.
He was a brisk, smallish man, and Cynthia was astonished by his
aspect. She had seen him often enough upon the floor of the House of
Commons, and had taken him for a person of a commanding height. But it
was not the first time she had made this mistake. The House of
Commons, like the theatre, magnifies men to the galleries. Mr.
Devenish dropped his hand upon Rames's shoulder.
"I want a word with you to-night, Rames," he said
"Why not now?" asked Rames. "This is my wife, Mr. Devenish."
Mr. Devenish bowed to her.
"I knew that very well," he said.
Cynthia disbelieved him. Also she had formed a dislike of him. There
was something too acrid in his speeches. She thought of him as a man
going about with a phial of vitriol hidden in the palm of his hand.
"I am not famous," she said coldly. "How should you know, Mr.
Devenish?"
"I saw you in the lobby, and--I asked;" he smiled as he spoke, and she
found his smile singularly disarming; it was so friendly and genuine a
thing. Mr. Devenish turned again to Harry Rames.
"We want you to help us. A vote on account for the navy is coming up
on Thursday. There will be a motion for the reduction of armaments. We
want you to speak."
Harry Rames shook his head.
"I rather propose to leave those questions alone. I don't want to get
the reputation of being a service member."
"I appreciate that," said Mr. Devenish. "But you are asked to speak in
this debate by the government."
"On the general question?" asked Rames.
"Not so much on that. The point is the economy of the big ship. You
can speak from practical experience. You know. You are here in
Parliament to contribute your knowledge." Mr. Devenish turned to
Cynthia, and again his smile illumined his face. "Persuade him, Mrs.
Rames."
It occurred to Cynthia that Mr. Devenish did not trouble to inquire
whether Harry Rames believed the big ship to be an economical thing.
Harry was to support the government. The rest of his argument she
agreed with. It was Harry's duty, since he was in Parliament, to
contribute of his knowledge.
"Very well," said Captain Rames. "Of course if the government wishes
it, I shall be proud to take part in the debate. Won't you sit down
and have some coffee?"
"Yes, do!" said Cynthia cordially, and she was not altogether engaged
in helping her husband on when she spoke. Mr. Devenish now puzzled
her. She had begun by disliking him. He had spoken very few words to
her, and yet she no longer disliked him. There was a charm in his
manner of which he seemed quite unaware. At close quarters he lost the
narrowness, which she had thought the mark of him. He seemed broadly
human, comprehensively sympathetic. Yet he obviously wore no mask. He
was simple, and he gave a pleasant impression of being a good fighter.
Mr. Devenish drew up a chair and sat down.
"You come to many of our debates," he said to Cynthia. "What do you
think of us?" and with an unaffected interest in the views of a pretty
woman, he led her on to express her opinion.
"Well," she said frankly, "I think most of your debates are very
dull."
"That's quite true," Mr. Devenish replied with a laugh at the little
spurt of complaint in her voice. "Nine out of ten are dull, and if you
were in the government you would wish the tenth was too. The debate
which sparkles and amuses you in the gallery means keen opposition on
the floor of the House. The debate which is dull means that the
government gets its bill. And the government is there to get its
bills."
"Yes, I suppose that's true," said Cynthia, and then Harry Rames
intervened.
"It's curious," he said, "but I no longer find any debate dull. I used
to be bored, I admit it, but I can sit through anything now and find
it interesting."
"Yes," said Cynthia, nodding her head; "I have noticed that, Harry,
from the gallery, and--I think it's a bad sign."
"The sign of the true Parliamentarian," said Mr. Devenish.
"Perhaps," said Cynthia stubbornly. "Still a bad one."
"Now why?" asked Mr. Devenish indulgently. Cynthia was certainly a
very pretty woman. Let her talk! Cynthia colored and replied hotly:
"Because it means that the four walls of that little chamber are
closing in on you. The game inside, with its pauses, its coups, its
man[oe]uvres, is becoming more important than the great interests and
issues outside which you are there to decide. It means that in your
thoughts the country and the constituency are growing smaller, and the
green leather benches on which you sit becoming more and more
important. If you don't find any debates dull, you are growing aloof
from the country. You are becoming, as you say, a Parliamentarian.
That means Parliament first, the country a bad second."
Cynthia stopped abruptly. She had allowed herself to be betrayed into
delivering a lecture upon politics to a past-master in the art, a man
who, out of his forty-five years, had spent twenty in the House of
Commons. She flushed. "But you must think me a fool," she cried.
"I don't," Mr. Devenish exclaimed. "Yours is a definite point of
view." He was not speaking seriously. For he was eager to learn so
long as the learning came to him by word of mouth, and not from the
printed page. "Tell me some more."
He was considering no longer the prettiness of the woman, the changing
lights upon her face. He was conceding respect to her judgment.
Cynthia was mollified. She continued:
"And here's something which to me makes many of the debates tedious
and unreal. You all behave as if your ideal of a member of the House
of Commons were a fossil on a shelf."
Mr. Devenish laughed.
"Why do you say that, Mrs. Rames?"
"Because if a man changes his opinions ever so little during a course
of years, he at once has the reports of his old speeches flung at his
head in scathing accents, as though he had committed the meanest of
crimes."
"It's a party score," said Mr. Devenish.
"Yes, but why?" Cynthia insisted. "You must all know that a man who is
any use at all does change his opinions as his experience widens.
Surely that's true. What's the use of thought at all if it leaves you
precisely where you were?"
"Mrs. Rames," said Mr. Devenish, "I cannot dispute it."
Cynthia had long been puzzled by this extraordinary childishness on
the part of men of reputed intelligence. She was determined if she
could to get at the truth. "Then why?" she asked. "Why, when one of
the opposition proves that a member of the government has changed his
view, does all the opposition shout with derision, and why do all on
the government side look glum? Why must the minister labor to show
that he really hasn't changed any views? Why does he rise so quickly
to do it? And why, when he has risen, doesn't he say: 'Of course I
have changed my views. I am a better man than I was two years ago.'"
"Well, upon my word, I can't tell you why," said Mr. Devenish
honestly. "I suppose we haven't the courage. Don't you approve of us
at all?"
"Oh, yes, I do," said Cynthia quickly; "and much more than I expected
to do." She was induced to give her impression of the body of members.
"I had got an idea that everybody was in here to get something." She
grew suddenly red, and in a flurry, which Mr. Devenish did not
understand. She continued, "I suppose I got the idea from newspapers.
I made a wrong inference. They are here, of course--the rich men who
want honors to put a crown upon their wealth, the office-hunters, the
speculator, and the financier, who use their membership to help their
city business--But there are others one is apt to overlook, the silent
people, who make no mark, and don't want to make one. You see them in
the lobby, rather disconsolately busy about nothing. They are probably
not particularly intelligent. Some of them, no doubt, are quite
stupid. But one rather respects them, because membership of the House
of Commons means to them a real daily loss. They would be more
prosperous if they devoted the time they spend here to their business.
But they seem to be here because they believe that some things want
doing, some definite things, and that they can help to get them done
by their votes. There is a lot of them. Then there are the country
gentlemen who would be happier on their estates, and would be there
but for their conviction that the solid judgment of the country
gentleman is absolutely necessary in the council of the nation." She
spoke with pomposity and a friendly mimicry of the class she
described. "But I like them. I think they are of value because to
them, too, membership here means a real loss."
"Well, I agree," said Mr. Devenish.
"You! You do?" asked Cynthia in surprise. "I thought that--" and she
stopped.
"Well, what?" Mr. Devenish pressed for her opinion with a laugh.
"Never mind," said Cynthia. "There's another class, too, which
attracts me. The failures. The ambitious men who just don't succeed,
and fail by so very little, but fail completely."
"Yes," Mr. Devenish agreed, "their lot is not attractive. They can't
bring themselves to admit failure. They drift along here until the
time is past for them to do anything else. The four walls, as you say,
have closed about them. They sit here, eating out their hearts,
jealous of the others who succeed, and making a bitter pretence of
contentment."
"They are the prisoners of the House of Commons," said Cynthia, and
the phrase struck pleasantly upon Mr. Devenish's ears so used to the
slipshod metaphors of the average speaker.
"Yes," he said with a quick look of interest. "Yes, that's a true
saying. How did you think of it, Mrs. Rames?"
"I have sympathy with failures," she replied.
"Ah," said Mr. Devenish. "But it's easy to have that when one is
married to success," and he turned genially to Captain Rames.
A junior whip hurried up to the table.
"You are wanted, Mr. Devenish, in the House," he said.
Devenish looked at his watch and sprang up. "I have stayed longer than
I ought to. We can count upon you then, Rames, for Thursday," and he
hurried away. Cynthia followed him with her eyes. He attracted her and
he left with her an impression of power, which made his interest in
her, obviously expressed, a subtle flattery. She turned back to her
husband.
"I was mistaken in that man," she said, and as Harry Rames did not
answer her, she continued: "You see, Harry, I am doing my best to help
you on."
"You are indeed," said Harry Rames sulkily. Cynthia stared at him. The
sulkiness in his voice set her blood tingling. He could be jealous
then! She laughed out loud suddenly, with a girl's joyousness, and, as
Harry lifted inquiring eyes to her, the blood mantled into her cheeks,
and she sat in a pretty confusion. For a moment both of them were
embarrassed, and neither could have told why. Cynthia broke through
the embarrassment with the first words which occurred to her:
"I can't reconcile Mr. Devenish with his speeches," she said.
"Yet there's a continuity," replied Harry. "He is one of your
instances of men big enough to widen out. But he's an enthusiast, and
he has done in his day a deal of platform work so that the old phrases
come trippingly to his tongue. He says, when he's carried away, more
than he thinks now, but less than he used to think ten years ago. I
fancy that's the explanation."
Cynthia looked toward the door through which Mr. Devenish had
disappeared.
"Tell me about him, Harry," she said.
"I will, certainly," said Rames. His ill-humor had passed. He leaned
toward his wife with a smile upon his face. It seemed to Cynthia that
the moment of embarrassment so quickly gone had brought now as its
consequence another moment quite as inexplicable--a moment during
which she and Harry were nearer to one another than as yet they had
been.
"The one thing I think to remember about Devenish is this," Rames
continued. "As a boy he had always to walk in the road and he has not
forgotten it."
The division bell began to ring before he could say another word to
elaborate his sketch of the man. He led Cynthia out through the arches
to the door where her carriage waited, and he left her to drive home
puzzled by his phrase.
He spoke, as he had promised to do, on the following Thursday. Cynthia
heard the speech from the ladies' gallery, not siding with it at all,
nor against it, but simply attentive to its effect. He rose in a full
House, which did not diminish as he spoke, and the space behind the
bar grew crowded. He was brief; he worked his own intimate knowledge
of the mechanism of a modern ship of war into the scheme of his
speech. He was nervous, Cynthia knew, but he gave no outward sign of
nervousness; he spoke with a quiet resonance of voice, as though he
had the measure of that assembly; and he brought into play that
remarkable gift of counterfeiting sincerity, which always astonished,
and sometimes frightened her. It was difficult even for her to realize
that he had no real opinion about the value of the big ship, one way
or the other, and that he had merely crammed his subject diligently
with her help during the last few days. He spoke, indeed, with telling
effect. There were friends of Cynthia in the gallery who were quick to
congratulate her. She herself was filled with admiration, but it was
the admiration for the fine performance of an actor; and when she went
down in the lift to join him after the debate was over, the cry was
loud in her heart: "If only he believed one word of it!"
He met her at the gate of the lift, and she caught his arm and pressed
it against her side.
"Thank you," said Harry. "That's better than words."
"It wasn't a congratulation," she replied. "It was an appeal."
Harry Rames spoke once more during that session, late at night, in a
thin House, and to try himself in unprepared debate, rather than with
any intention to arrest notice. But the moment was well chosen, for a
speaker on the government side was needed; and when the House rose for
the autumn, he took down with him to Warwickshire the reputation of a
rising man. He had kept his bargain, Cynthia gratefully acknowledged
it, and the fears which Isaac Benoliel had aroused in her began for a
time to lose their substance.