Hitherto, Dwala had been great, but great only in the relative sense,
in comparison with you and me and the Man in the Street; great to the
capacity of a vast austerely-fronted house in Park Lane; overwhelming
for us on the pavement who fancy him within, infusing that big block
with a huge cubic soul; who catch glimpses of him whirling out of
the big gates to take tea, no doubt, with Ambassadors and Duchesses,
and whirling in again with some real live Royalty--so rumours the
little crowd outside as the stout policeman touches his helmet. Not
immeasurable, however, to the big-calibred folk who eat with him,
talk with him, see him starting on routes of acquaintance which they
have long since travelled: even to Huxtable, mere man, a calculable
quantity.
But a new movement was beginning, an upheaval; volcanic forces were
at work; the throes of earthquake, striking premonitory awe into the
hearts of men, presaged a rearrangement of geography. And slowly the
Great World became aware that a new mountain was rising in its midst.
The Dwala Naturalisation Bill, introduced in the Lords, had run a
calm and rapid course, and Dwala was an Englishman. The journals
recorded it without exultation: it was placed among the ‘Items of
Interest’ in the ‘Daily Mail.’ But soon there followed articles on
his scientific interests: it appeared that he was already an eminent
philatelist; Huxtable had bought big stamp-collections for him at the
sales--Huxtable had innocent tastes which he was now able to enjoy by
proxy. The Prince was interested in Antarctic Exploration--at least, he
had signed a cheque for a thousand pounds for the Relief Expedition; in
astronomy, too, for he had promised a new telescope to the Greenwich
Observatory. His claims to represent Science in Parliament--since he
had decided to go into politics--were indisputable; and there was
ground for the rumour that London University had settled upon him
for their representative, provided that one or two stipulations were
fulfilled. If not, the Government had a safe seat for him in Cornwall.
His private life became a matter of public interest. He had bought
Wynfield Castle in Yorkshire; he was fitting it with lifts and electric
light; the Saharan Emperor had promised to come over for the shooting
next autumn; Sir Benet Smyth, who had arranged the visit, would be
there. There was no truth in the rumour of his engagement to Lady
Alice Minnifer, Lord Glendover’s daughter; the rumour was at any rate
premature.
Politicians began to frequent his ways: he was not destined to be an
ordinary humdrum Member, paying a heavy price to be driven in and
out of lobbies by a sheep-dog; he was going to be a power. Of what
nature, nobody knew exactly; his opinions could only be guessed.
That mattered very little. All the public has to do is to get the big
man and plant him in office; party discipline will do the rest. There
were fifteen parties in Parliament, and only two lobbies for them to
vote in; leaders with opinions were a drug in the market; better the
large unifying vagueness of a mind with none. Why he was to be great
no one clearly knew; the fiat had gone forth from some hidden chamber
of the citadel; or it had descended inscrutably from heaven, or risen
on the breath of the sweating multitude: anyhow, there was a general
agreement of unknown origin to magnify the name of Dwala. These things
are mysterious, and the responsibility cannot be fixed till the time of
recrimination comes.
Huxtable was happy. Well he might be, lucky dog! His uncles smiled and
slapped him on the back in public in their big successful way. Lady
Glendover remembered his face; Pendred Lillico went about boasting that
young Huxtable had been his fag at Eton. These things were pleasant to
the Huxtable mind; pleasant also the graciousness of Lady Wyse, who
distinguished him at her Thursdays above his betters in the social
hierarchy.
Yet there were things in Park Lane that he could have wished different.
Of course he had done what he could to the right human furnishing of
the big house; he had secured his patron the necessary atmosphere of
awestruck service, silent efficiency and unassuming pomp. There was
the stout butler, who looked like a conscientious low-church Bishop
left over from a dinner-party, eager to please but uneasy at finding
himself still there. He went about the house silently in flat slippers,
seeking a clue to his identity, and looking out of window from time to
time, as if he meditated escaping in search of his See. Tall scarlet
footmen, with white legs, borrowed from some giant balustrade: stately
animals, ‘incedingly upborne,’ like Vashti in ‘Villette’--alert but
always perpendicular, eager as midshipmen to the domestic call,
blighting visitors at the entry with the frigid consciousness of social
difference. For the rest of the economy, invisible hands and watchful
eyes; she-brownies that came and went unseen; bells that rang in
distant corridors, summoning punctual feet to unknown observances;
green-baize doors that swung and hid the minor mysteries of the great
life.
These things were good. But what of Hartopp and the little girl?