The wheel had begun to turn. Nothing could stop it now. Next morning
came a fresh-looking elderly gentleman in grey, who announced himself
as ‘of the Colonial Office.’ He looked about him as if he meant to buy
the place; but modestly, as if for someone else. Mr. Cato received him
in the drawing-room. He hoped the Prince was well. The Colonial Office
had heard of the Prince’s improving fortunes. His business concerned
the Prince, but it could most conveniently be broached to Mr. Cato. He
would see the Prince afterwards.
It had probably struck Mr. Cato that the time had now arrived for the
Prince to set up a separate establishment. The Colonial Office, which
was ultimately responsible for him, felt that Mr. Cato’s kindness must
not be trespassed on. He must not be allowed to monopolise the Prince.
Mr. Cato had probably noticed that native potentates always had, what
you might call, for want of a better word, ‘keepers’ attached to
their persons while they were in England. The actual title varied. As
a rule it was some tall muscular military man who was said to be ‘in
attendance on His Majesty the So-and-so.’ It was this functionary’s
duty to keep him generally out of mischief; for these Oriental fellows
would play the very deuce if left alone. Well, as far as Prince Dwala
was concerned, the Colonial Office had decided that a Private Secretary
would meet the case, and they had in fact selected the man.
‘Who is it?’ asked Mr. Cato, repressing a pang of jealousy.
‘One of the Huxtables--John Huxtable, a son of the Bishop.’
This again smelt of large success. Mr. Cato knew nothing of this
particular John; but he was a Huxtable, and Huxtables are, like
Napoleon, not men but institutions. Nature has such caprices. Out of
many million wild rough briars, one rougher and crabbeder than all the
rest is chosen by her for a fathering stock; whatever is grafted on it
thrives. Another is richer, larger, better-flowered, the pride of the
field--it is wise, courteous, a soldier, a leader of men; it is made
a Duke; it is grafted with the delicatest buds of Paestum. But the
bloom is frail and mean; shelter and fine feeding avail not, it has
a good place in the garden, but it is fragrant only in its name. The
Huxtables came of a rough and crabbed stock. Their great-grandfather
was somebody’s gamekeeper. His sons throve in business. His grandsons
were great men--soldiers, lawyers, priests. His great-grandsons, an
innumerable rising generation, were destined for greater greatness. It
had become an English custom to see large futures before them. They
were big and bony, they played at Lord’s, they abounded in clubs and
country houses; their handsome, strong-toothed sisters married well,
breeding powerful broad-browed babies that frowned and pinched.
This particular Huxtable had tutored a Prince of the blood. He had
been secretary to a philanthropic commission; he would be a Cabinet
Minister, a Viceroy--anything he pleased. For the present he would be
private secretary to Dwala: he would manage him, regulate him, assert
him, protect him, establish him, marry him perhaps, and pass on to
another broad stage in the regal staircase of his career.
As for the mines, the gentleman in grey had no advice to offer. It was
a private affair of Prince Dwala’s; no concern of the Colonial Office.
Why not consult some big financier? Baron Blumenstrauss, for instance.
Mr. Cato made no reply.
‘Well, after all,’ the grey gentleman concluded, ‘it had better be left
to Mr. Huxtable.’