But by the time the speeches were in progress he was uplifted high once
more into the joy of life. He had been welcomed by acquaintances and by
strangers with a deferential warmth that positively startled him. He
realised, as never before, that the town esteemed him as a successful
man. His place was not many removes from the chair. Osmond Orgreave
was on his right, and Albert Benbow on his left. He had introduced an
impressed Albert to his friend Mr Orgreave, recently made a Justice of
the Peace.
And down the long littered tables stretched the authority and the wealth
of the town-aldermen, councillors, members of the school board,
guardians of the poor, magistrates, solid tradesmen, and solid
manufacturers, together with higher officials of the borough and some
members of the learned professions. Here was the oligarchy which,
behind the appearances of democratic government, effectively managed,
directed, and controlled the town. Here was the handful of people who
settled between them whether rates should go up or down, and to whom it
did not seriously matter whether rates went up or down, provided that
the interests of the common people were not too sharply set in
antagonism to their own interests. Here were the privileged, who did
what they liked on the condition of not offending each other. Here the
populace was honestly and cynically and openly regarded as a restless
child, to be humoured and to be flattered, but also to be ruled firmly,
to be kept in its place, to be ignored when advisable, and to be made to
pay.
For the feast, the court-room had been transformed into a banqueting
hall, and the magistrates' bench, where habitual criminals were created
and families ruined and order maintained, was hidden in flowers. Osmond
Orgreave was dryly facetious about that bench. He exchanged comments
with other magistrates, and they all agreed, with the same dry
facetiousness, that most of the law was futile and some of it
mischievous; and they all said, `But what can you do?' and by their tone
indicated that you could do nothing. According to Osmond Orgreave's
wit, the only real use of a magistrate was to sign the necessary papers
for persons who had lost pawn-tickets. It appeared that such persons in
distress came to Mr Orgreave every day for the august signature. "I
had an old woman come to me this morning at my office," he said. "I
asked her how it was they were always losing their pawn-tickets. I told
her I never lost mine." Osmond Orgreave was encircled with laughter.
Edwin laughed heartily. It was a good joke. And even mediocre jokes
would convulse the room.
Jos Curtenty, the renowned card, a jolly old gentleman of sixty, was in
the chair, and therefore jollity was assured in advance. Rising to
inaugurate the oratorical section of the night, he took an enormous red
flower from a bouquet behind him, and sticking it with a studiously
absent air in his button-hole, said blandly, "Gentlemen, no politics,
please!" The uproarious effect was one of his very best. He knew his
audience. He could have taught Edwin a thing or two. For Edwin in his
simplicity was astonished to find the audience almost all of one colour,
frankly and joyously and optimistically Tory. There were not ten
Liberals in the place, and there was not one who was vocal. The cream
of the town, of its brains, its success, its respectability, was
assembled together, and the Liberal party was practically unrepresented.
It seemed as if there was no Liberal party. It seemed impossible that
a Labour candidate could achieve anything but complete disaster at the
polls. It seemed incredible that in the past a Liberal candidate had
ever been returned. Edwin began, even in the privacy of his own heart,
to be apologetic for his Liberalism. All these excellent fellows could
not be wrong. The moral force of numbers intimidated him. He suspected
that there was, after all, more to be said for Conservatism than he had
hitherto allowed himself to suppose.
------------------------------------------------------------------------