CHAPTER XVII
PAUL leaned back in his leather writing chair, smoking a cigarette
and focussing the electioneering situation. Beside a sheet of
foolscap on which he had been jotting down notes lay in neat piles
the typewritten Report of the Forlorn Widows' Fund, the account book
and the banker's pass book. He had sat up till three o'clock in the
morning preparing for his Princess. Nothing now remained but the
formal "examined and found correct" report of the auditors. For the
moment the Forlorn Widows stood leagues away from Paul's thoughts.
He had passed a strenuous day at Hickney Heath, lunching in the
committee room on sandwiches and whisky and soda obtained from the
nearest tavern, talking, inventing, dictating, writing, playing upon
dull minds the flashes of his organizing genius. His committee was
held up for the while by a dark rift in the Radical camp. They had
not yet chosen their man. Nothing was known, save that a certain
John Questerhayes, K. C., an eminent Chancery barrister, who had of
late made himself conspicuous in the constituency, had been turned
down on the ground that he was not sufficiently progressive. Now for
comfort to the Radical the term "Progressive" licks the blessed word
Mesopotamia into a cocked hat. Under the Progressive's sad-coloured
cloak he need not wear the red tie of the socialist. Apparently Mr.
Questerhayes objected to the sad-coloured cloak, the mantle of
Elijah, M. P., the late member for Hickney Heath. "Wanted: an
Elisha," seemed to be the cry of the Radical Committee.
Paul leaned back, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his finger
tips together, a cigarette between his lips, lost in thought. The
early November twilight deepened in the room. He was to address a
meeting that night. In order to get ready for his speech he had not
allowed himself to be detained, and had come home early. His speech
had been prepared; but the Radical delay was a new factor of which
he might take triumphant advantage. Hence the pencil notes on the
sheet of foolscap, before him.
A man-servant came in, turned on the electric light, pulled the
curtains together and saw to the fire.
"Tea's in the drawing-room, sir."
"Bring me some here in a breakfast cup--nothing to eat," said
Paul.
Even his dearest lady could not help him in his meditated attack on
the enemy whom the Lord was delivering into his hands.
The man-servant went away. Presently Paul heard him reenter the
room; the door was at his back. He threw out an impatient hand
behind him. "Put it down anywhere, Wilton, I'll have it when I want
it."
"I beg pardon, sir," said the man, coming forward, "but it's not the
tea. There's a gentleman and a lady and another person would like to
see you. I said that you were busy, sir, but--"
He put the silver salver, with its card, in front of Paul. Printed
on the card was, "Mr. Silas Finn." In pencil was written: "Miss
Seddon, Mr. William Simmons."
Paul looked at the card in some bewilderment. What in the name of
politics or friendship were they doing in Portland Place? Not to
receive them, however, was unthinkable.
"Show them in," said he.
Silas Finn, Jane and Barney Bill! It was odd. He laughed and took
out his watch. Yes, he could easily give them half an hour or so.
But why had they come? He had found time to call once at the house
in Hickney Heath since his return to town, and then he had seen Jane
and Silas Finn together and they had talked, as far as he could
remember, of the Disestablishment of the Anglican Church and the
elevating influence of landscape painting on the human soul. Why had
they come? It could not be to offer their services during the
election, for Silas Finn in politics was a fanatical enemy. The
visit stirred a lively curiosity.
They entered: Mr. Finn in his usual black with many-coloured tie and
diamond ring, looking more mournfully grave than ever; Jane wearing
an expression half of anxiety and half of defiance; Barney Bill,
very uncomfortable in his well-preserved best suit, very restless
and nervous. They gave the impression of a deputation coming to
announce the death of a near relative. Paul received them cordially.
But why in the world, thought he, were they all so solemn? He pushed
forward chairs.
"I got your postcard, Bill. Thanks so much for it."
Bill grunted and embraced his hard felt hat.
"I ought to have written to you," said Jane--"but---"
"She felt restrained by her duty towards me," said Mr. Finn. "I hope
you did not think it was discourteous on her part."
"My dear sir," Paul laughed, seating himself in his writing chair,
which he twisted away from the table, "Jane and I are too old
friends for that. In her heart I know she wishes me luck. And I hope
you do too, Mr. Finn," he added pleasantly--"although I know
you're on the other side."
"I'm afraid my principles will not allow me to wish you luck in this
election, Mr. Savelli."
"Well, well," said Paul. "It doesn't matter. If you vote against me
I'll not bear malice."
"I am not going to vote against you, Mr. Savelli," said Mr. Finn,
looking at him with melancholy eyes. "I am going to stand against
you."
Paul sprang forward in his chair. Here was fantastic news indeed!
"Stand against me? You? You're the Radical candidate?"
"Yes."
Paul laughed boyishly. "Why, it's capital! I'm awfully glad."
"I was asked this morning," said Mr. Finn gravely. "I prayed God for
guidance. He answered, and I felt it my duty to come to you at once,
with our two friends."
Barney Bill cocked his head on one side. "I did my best to persuade
him not to, sonny."
"But why shouldn't he?" cried Paul courteously--though why he
should puzzled him exceedingly. "It's very good of you, Mr. Finn.
I'm sure your side," he went on, "could not have chosen a better
man. You're well known in the constituency--I am jolly lucky to
have a man like you as an opponent."
"Mr. Savelli," said Mr. Finn, "it was precisely so that we should
not be opponents that I have taken this unusual step."
"I don't quite understand," said Paul.
"Mr. Finn wants you to retire in favour of some other Conservative
candidate," said Jane calmly.
"Retire? I retire?"
Paul looked at her, then at Barney Bill, who nodded his white head,
then at Mr. Finn, whose deep eyes met his with a curious tragical
mournfulness. The proposal took his breath away. It was crazily
preposterous. But for their long faces he would have burst into
laughter. "Why on earth do you want me to retire?" he asked
good-humouredly.
"I will tell you," said Mr. Finn. "Because you will have God against
you."
Paul saw a gleam of light in the dark mystery of the visit. "You may
believe it, Mr. Finn, but I don't. I believe that my war cry, 'God
for England, Savelli and Saint George,' is quite as acceptable to,
the Almighty as yours."
Mr. Finn stretched out two hands in earnest deprecation. "Forgive me
if I say it; but you don't know what you're talking about. God has
not revealed Himself to you. He has to me. When my fellow-citizens
asked me to stand as the Liberal candidate, I thought it was because
they knew me to be an upright man, who had worked hard on their
council, an active apostle in the cause of religion, temperance and
the suppression of vice. I thought I had merely deserved well in
their opinion. When I fell on my knees and prayed the glory of the
Lord spread about me and I knew that they had been divinely
inspired. It was revealed to me that this was a Divine Call to
represent the Truth in the Parliament of the nation."
"I remember your saying, when I first had the pleasure of meeting
you," Paul remarked, with unwonted dryness, "that the Kingdom of
Heaven was not adequately represented in the House of Commons."
"I have not changed my opinion, Mr Savelli. The hand of God has
guided my business. The hand of God is placing me in the House of
Commons to work His will. You cannot oppose God's purpose, Paul
Savelli--and that is why I beg you not to stand against me."
"You see, he likes yer," interjected Barney Bill, with anxiety in
his glittering eyes. "That's why he's a-doing of it. He says to
hisself, says he, 'ere's a young chap what I likes with his first
great chance in front of him, with the eyes of the country sot on
him--now if I comes in and smashes him, as I can't help myself
from doing, it'll be all u-p with that young chap's glorious career.
But if I warns him in time, then he can retire--find an honourable
retreat--that's what he wants yer to have--an honourable
retreat. Isn't that it, Silas?"
"Those are the feelings by which I am actuated," said Mr. Finn.
Paul stretched himself out in his chair, his ankles crossed, and
surveyed his guests. "What do you think of it, Jane?" said he, not
without a touch of irony.
She had been looking into the fire, her face in profile. Addressed,
she turned. "Mr. Finn has your interests very deep at heart," she
answered tonelessly.
Paul jumped to his feet and laughed his fresh laugh. It was all so
comic, so incredible, so mad. Yet none of them appeared to see any
humour in the situation. There sat Jane and Barney Bill cowering
under the influence of their crazy fishmongering apostle; and there,
regarding him with a world of appeal in his sorrowful eyes, sat the
apostle himself, bolt upright in his chair, an odd figure with his
streaked black and white hair, ascetic face and
Methodistico-Tattersall raiment. And they all seemed to expect him
to obey this quaint person's fanatical whimsy.
"It's very kind indeed of you, Mr. Finn, to consult my interests in
this manner," said he. "And I'm most indebted to you for your
consideration. But, as I said before, I've as much reason for
believing God to be on my side as you have. And I honestly believe
I'm going to win this election. So I certainly won't withdraw."
"I implore you to do so. I will go on my knees and beseech you,"
said Mr. Finn, with hands clasped in front of him.
Paul looked round. "I'm afraid, Bill," said he, "that this is
getting rather painful."
"It is painful. It's more than painful. It's horrible! It's
ghastly!" cried Mr. Finn, in sudden shrill crescendo, leaping to his
feet. In an instant the man's demeanour had changed. The mournful
apostle had become a wild, vibrating creature with flashing eyes and
fingers.
"Easy, now, Silas. Whoa! Steady!" said Barney Bill.
Silas Finn advanced on Paul and clapped his hands on his shoulders
and shouted hoarsely: "For the love of God--don't thwart me in
this. You can't thwart me. You daren't thwart me. You daren't thwart
God."
Paul disengaged himself impatiently. The humour had passed from the
situation. The man was a lunatic, a religious maniac. Again he
addressed Barney Bill. "As I can't convince Mr. Finn of the
absurdity of his request, I must ask you to do so for me."
"Young man," cried Silas, quivering with passion, "do not speak to
God's appointed in your vanity and your arrogance. You--you--of
all human beings--"
Both Jane and Barney Bill closed round him. Jane clutched his arm.
"Come away. Do come away."
"Steady now, Silas," implored Barney Bill. "You see it's no use. I
told you so. Come along."
"Leave me alone," shouted Finn, casting them off. "What have I to do
with you? It is that young man there who defies God and me."
"Mr. Finn," said Paul, very erect, "if I have hurt your feelings I
am sorry. But I fight this election. That's final. The choice no
longer rests with me. I'm the instrument of my party. I desire to be
courteous in every way, but you must see that it would be useless to
prolong this discussion." And he moved to the door.
"Come away now, for Heaven's sake. Can't you realize it's no good?"
said Jane, white to the lips.
Silas Finn again cast her off and railed and raved at her. "I will
not go away," he cried in wild passion. "I will not allow my own son
to raise an impious hand against the Almighty."
"Lor' lumme!" gasped Barney Bill, dropping his hat. "He's done it."
There was a silence. Silas Finn stood shaking in the middle of the
room, the sweat streaming down his forehead.
Paul turned at the door and walked slowly up to him. "Your son? What
do you mean?"
Jane, with wringing hands and tense, uplifted face, said in a queer
cracked voice: "He promised us not to speak. He has broken his
promise."
"You broke your sacred word," said Barney Bill.
The man's face grew haggard. His passion left him as suddenly as it
had seized him. He collapsed, a piteous wreck, looked wide of the
three, and threw out his hands helplessly. "I broke my promise. May
God forgive me!"
"That's neither here nor there," said Paul, standing over him. "You
must answer my question. What do you mean?"
Barney Bill limped a step or two toward him and cleared his throat.
"He's quite correct, sonny. Silas Kegworthy's your father right
enough."
"Kegworthy?"
"Yes. Changed his name for business--and other reasons."
"He?" said Paul, half dazed for the moment and pointing at Silas
Finn. "His name is Kegworthy and he is my father?"
"Yes, sonny. 'Tain't my fault, or Jane's. He took his Bible oath he
wouldn't tell yer. We was afraid, so we come with him."
"Then?" queried Paul, jerking a thumb toward Lancashire.
"Polly Kegworthy? Yes. She was yer mother."
Paul set his teeth and drew a deep breath--not of air, but of a
million sword points, Jane watched him out of frightened eyes. She
alone, with her all but life-long knowledge of him, and with her
woman's intuition, realized the death-blow that he had received. And
when she saw him take it unflinching and stand proud and stern, her
heart leaped toward him, though she knew that the woman in the great
chased silver photograph frame on the mantelpiece, the great and
radiant lady, the high and mighty and beautiful and unapproachable
Princess, was the woman he loved. Paul touched his father on the
wrist, and motioned to a chair.
"Please sit down. You too, please,"--he waved a hand, and himself
resumed his seat in his writing chair. He turned it so that he could
rest his elbow on his table and his forehead in his palm. "You claim
to be my father," said he. "Barney Bill, in whom I have implicit
confidence, confirms it. He says that Mrs. Button is my mother--"
"She has been dead these six years," said Barney Bill.
"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Paul.
"I didn't think it would interest yer, sonny," replied Barney Bill,
in great distress. "Yer see, we conspirated together for yer never
to know nothing at all about all this. Anyway, she's dead and won't
worry yer any more."
"She was a bad mother to me. She is a memory of terror. I don't
pretend to be grieved," said Paul; "any more than I pretend to be
overcome by filial emotion at the present moment. But, if you are my
father, I should be glad to know--in fact, I think I'm entitled to
know--why you've taken thirty years to reveal yourself, and why"--a
sudden fury swept him--"why you've come now to play hell with
my life."
"It is the will of God," said Silas Finn, in deep dejection.
Paul snapped three or four fingers. "Bah!" he cried. "Talk sense.
Talk facts. Leave God out of the question for a while. It's
blasphemy to connect Him with a sordid business like this. Tell me
about myself--my parentage--let me know where I am."
"You're with three people as loves yer, sonny," said Barney Bill.
"What passes in this room will never be known to another soul on
earth."
"That I swear," said Silas Finn.
"You can publish it broadcast in every newspaper in England," said
Paul. "I'm making no bargains. Good God! I'm asking for nothing but
the truth. What use I make of it is my affair. You can do--the
three of you--what you like. Let the world know. It doesn't
matter. It's I that matter--my life and my conscience and my soul
that matter."
"Don't be too hard upon me," Silas besought him very humbly.
"Tell me about myself," said Paul.
Silas Finn wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and covered his
eyes with his hand. "That can only mean telling you about myself,"
he said. "It's raking up a past which I had hoped, with God's help,
to bury. But I have sinned to-night, and it is my punishment to tell
you. And you have a right to know. My father was a porter in Covent
Garden Market. My mother--I've already mentioned--"
"Yes--the Sicilian and the barrel organ--I remember," said Paul,
with a shiver.
"I had a hard boyhood. But I rose a little above my class. I
educated myself more or less. At last I became assistant in a
fishmonger's shop. Our friend Simmons here and I were boys together.
We fell in love with the same girl. I married her. Not long
afterward she gave way to drink. I found that in all kinds of ways I
had mistaken her character. I can't describe your own mother to you.
She had a violent temper. So had I. My life was a hell upon earth.
One day she goaded me beyond my endurance and I struck at her with a
knife. I meant at the bloodred instant to kill her. But I didn't. I
nearly killed her. I went to prison for three years. When I came out
she had vanished, taking you with her. In prison I found the Grace
of God and I vowed it should be my guide through life. As soon as I
was free from police supervision I changed my name--I believe it's
a good old Devonshire name; my father came from there--the prison
taint hung about it. Then, when I found I could extend a miserable
little business I had got together, I changed it again to suit my
trade. That's about all."
There was a spell of dead silence. The shrunken man, stricken with a
sense of his sin of oath-breaking, had Spoken without change of
attitude, his hand over his eyes. Paul, too, sat motionless, and
neither Jane nor Barney Bill spoke. Presently Silas Finn continued:
"For many years I tried to find my wife and son--but it was not
God's will. I have lived with the stain of murder on my soul"--his
voice sank--"and it has never been washed away. Perhaps it will be
in God's good time. . . . And I had condemned my son to a horrible
existence--for I knew my wife was not capable of bringing you up
in the way of clean living. I was right. Simmons has since told
me--and I was crushed beneath the burden of my sins."
After a pause he raised a drawn face and went on to tell of his
meeting, the year before, with Barney Bill, of whom he had lost
track when the prison doors had closed behind him. It had been in
one of his Fish Palaces where Bill was eating. They recognized each
other. Barney Bill told his tale: how he had run across Polly
Kegworthy after a dozen years' wandering; how, for love of his old
friend, he had taken Paul, child of astonishing promise, away from
Bludston--
"Do you remember, sonny, when I left you alone that night and went
to the other side of the brickfield? It was to think it out," said
Bill. "To think out my duty as a man."
Paul nodded. He was listening, with death in his heart. The whole
fantastic substructure of his life had been suddenly kicked away,
and his life was an inchoate ruin. Gone was the glamour of romance
in which since the day of the cornelian heart he had had his
essential being. Up to an hour ago he had never doubted his
mysterious birth. No real mother could have pursued an innocent
child with Polly Kegworthy's implacable hatred. His passionate
repudiation of her had been a cardinal article of his faith. On the
other hand, the prince and princess theory he had long ago consigned
to the limbo of childish things; but the romance of his birth, the
romance of his high destiny, remained a vital part of his spiritual
equipment. His looks, his talents, his temperament, his instincts,
his dreams had been irrefutable confirmations. His mere honesty, his
mere integrity, had been based on this fervent and unshakable creed.
And now it had gone. No more romance. No more glamour. No more
Vision Splendid now faded into the light of common and sordid day.
Outwardly listening, his gay, mobile face turned to iron, he lived
in a molten intensity of thought, his acute brain swiftly
coordinating the ironical scraps of history. He was the son of Polly
Kegworthy. So far he was unclean; but hitherto her blood had not
manifested itself in him. He was the son of this violent and
pathetic fanatic, this ex-convict; he had his eyes, his refined
face; perhaps he inherited from him the artistic temperament--he
recalled grimly the daubs on the man's walls, and his purblind
gropings toward artistic self-expression; and all this--the
Southern handsomeness, and Southern love of colour, had come from
his Sicilian grandmother, the nameless drab, with bright yellow
handkerchief over swarthy brows, turning the handle of a barrel
organ in the London streets. Instinct had been right in its
promptings to assume an Italian name; but the irony of it was of the
quality that makes for humour in hell. And his very Christian
name--Paul--the exotic name which Polly Kegworthy would not have
given to a brat of hers--was but a natural one for a Silas to give
his son, a Silas born of generations of evangelical peasants. His
eyes rested on the photograph of his Princess. She, first of all,
was gone with the Vision. An adventurer he had possibly been; but an
adventurer of romance, carried high by his splendid faith, and
regarding his marriage with the Princess but as a crowning of his
romantic destiny. But now he beheld himself only as a base-born
impostor. His Princess was gone from his life. Death was in his
heart.
He saw his familiar, luxurious room as in a dream, and Jane,
anxious-eyed, looking into the fire, and Barney Bill a little way
off, clutching his hard felt hat against his body; but his eyes were
fixed on the strange, many-passioned, unbalanced man who claimed to
be--nay, who was--his father.
"When I first met you that night my heart went out to you," he was
saying. "It overflowed in thankfulness to God that He had delivered
you out of the power of the Dog, and in His inscrutable mercy had
condoned that part of my sin as a father and had set you in high
places."
With the fringe of his brain Paul recognized, for the first time,
how he brought into ordinary talk the habits of speech acquired in
addressing a Free Zionist congregation.
"It was only the self-restraint," Silas continued, "taught me by
bitter years of agony and a message from God that it was part of my
punishment not to acknowledge you as my son--"
"And what I told you, and what Jane told you about him," said Barney
Bill. "Remember that, Silas."
"I remember it--it was these influences that kept me silent. But
we were drawn together, Paul." He bent forward in his chair. "You
liked me. In spite of all our differences of caste and creed--you
liked me."
"Yes, I was drawn to you," said Paul, and a strange, unknown note in
his voice caused Jane to glance at him swiftly. "You seemed to be a
man of many sorrows and deep enthusiasms--and I admit I was in
close sympathy with you." He paused, not moving from his rigid
attitude, and then went on: "What you have told me of your
sufferings--and I know, with awful knowledge, the woman who was my
mother--has made me sympathize with you all the more. But to
express that sympathy in any way you must give me time. I said you
had played hell with my life. It's true. One of these days I may be
able to explain. Not now. There's no time. We're caught up in the
wheels of an inexorable political machine. I address my party in the
constituency to-night." It was a cold intelligence that spoke, and
once more Jane flashed a half-frightened glance at him. "What I
shall say to them, in view of all this, I don't quite know. I must
have half an hour to think."
"I know I oughtn't to interfere, Paul," said Jane, "but you mustn't
blame Mr. Finn too much. Although he differs from you in politics
and so on, he loves you and is proud of you--as we all are--and
looks forward to your great career--I know it only too well. And
now he has this deep conviction that he has a call from on High to
ruin your career at the very beginning. Do understand, Paul, that he
feels himself in a very terrible position."
"I do," said Mr. Finn. "God knows that if it weren't for His
command, I should myself withdraw."
"I appreciate your position, perfectly," replied Paul, "but that
doesn't relieve me of my responsibilities."
Silas Finn rose and locked the fingers of both hands together and
stood before Paul, with appealing eyes. "My son, after what I have
said, you are not going to stand against me?"
Paul rose too. A sudden craze of passion swept him. "My country has
been my country for thirty years. You have been my father for five
minutes. I stand by my country."
Silas Finn turned away and waved a haphazard hand. "And I must stand
by my God."
"Very well. That bring; us to our original argument. 'Political
foes. Private friends.'"
Silas turned again and looked into the young man's eyes. "But father
and son, Paul."
"All the more honourable. There'll be no mud-throwing. The cleanest
election of the century."
The elder man again covered his face with both hands, and his black
and white streaked hair fell over his fingers and the great diamond
in his ring flashed oddly, and he rocked his head for a while to and
fro.
"I had a call," he wailed. "I had a call. I had a call from God. It
was clear. It was absolute. But you don't understand these things.
His will must prevail. It was terrible to think of crushing your
career--my only son's career. I brought these two friends to help
me persuade you not to oppose me. I did my best, Paul. I promised
them not to resort to the last argument. But flesh is weak. For the
first time since--you know--the knife--your mother--I lost
self-control. I shall have to answer for it to my God--" He
stretched out his arms and looked haggardly at Paul. "But it is
God's will. It is God's will that I should voice His message to the
Empire. Paul, Paul, my beloved son--you cannot flout Almighty
God."
"Your God doesn't happen to be my God," said Paul, once more
suspicious--and now hideously so--of religious mania. "And
possibly the real God is somebody else's God altogether. Anyway,
England's the only God I've got left, and I'm going to fight for
her."
The door opened and Wilton, the man-servant, appeared. He looked
round. "I beg your pardon, sir."
Paul crossed the room. "What is it?"
"Her Highness, sir," he said in his well-trained, low voice, "and
the Colonel and Miss Winwood. I told them you were engaged. But
they've been waiting for over half-an-hour, sir."
Paul drew himself up. "Why did you not tell me before? Her Highness
is not to be kept waiting. Present my respectful compliments to Her
Highness, and ask her and Colonel and Miss Winwood to have the
kindness to come upstairs."
"We had better go," cried Jane in sudden fear.
"No," said lie. "I want you all to stay."
