CHAPTER XVIII
IN the tense silence of the few moments of waiting Paul passed from
the boy to whom the earth had been a fairyland to the man grappling
with great realities. In those few moments he lived through his past
life and faced an adumbration of the future.
The door was thrown open and the Princess appeared, smiling, happy,
a black ostrich feather in her hat and a sable stole hanging loose
from her shoulders; a great and radiant lady. Behind her came the
Colonel and Ursula Winwood. Paul bent over the Princess's,
outstretched hand.
"A thousand pardons for keeping you waiting. I did not know you had
come. I was engaged with my friends. May I have the honour of
presenting them? Princess, this is Mr. Silas Finn, the managing
director of Fish Palaces Limited. These are two very dear friends,
Miss Seddon--Mr. Simmons. Miss Winwood--Colonel Winwood, may I?"
He waved an introductory hand. The Princess: bowed; then, struck by
their unsmiling faces and by Paul's strange manner, turned to him
quickly.
"'Qu'est ce qu'il y a?"
"Je vais vous le dire."
He pushed a chair. She sat down. Ursula Winwood sat in Paul's
writing chair. The others remained standing.
"Mr. Finn called to inform me that he has been adopted as the
Liberal candidate for Hickney Heath."' "My felicitations," said the
Princess.
Silas bowed to her gravely and addressed Colonel Winwood.
"We have been, sir--Mr. Savelli and I--for some time on terms of
personal friendship in the constituency."
"I see, I see," replied the Colonel, though he was somewhat puzzled.
"Very polite and friendly, I'm sure."
"Mr. Finn also urges me to withdraw my candidature," said Paul.
The Princess gave a little incredulous laugh. Ursula Winwood rose
and, with a quick protective step, drew nearer Paul. Colonel Winwood
frowned.
"Withdraw? In Heaven's name why?"
Silas Finn tugged at his black-and-white-streaked beard and looked
at his son.
"Need we go into it again? There are religious reasons, which
perhaps, Madam"--Silas addressed the Princess--"you might
misunderstand. Mr. Savelli possibly thinks I am a fanatic. I can't
help it. I have warned him. That is enough. Good-bye, Mr. Savelli."
He held out his hand; but Paul did not take it. "You forget, Mr.
Finn, that I asked you to stay." He clutched the sides of his jacket
till his knuckles grew white, and he set his teeth. "Mr. Finn has
another reason for wishing me not to oppose him--"
"That reason you need never give," cried Silas in a loud voice, and
starting forward. "You know that I make no claims whatsoever."
"I know that," said Paul, coldly; "but I am going to give it all the
same." He paused, held up his hand and looked at the Princess. "Mr.
Silas Finn happens to be my father."
"Good God!" gasped the Colonel, after a flash of silence.
The Princess caught a quick breath and sat erect in her chair.
"Votre Pere, Paul?"
"Yes, Princess. Until half an hour ago I did not know it. Never in
my life did I know that I had a father living. My friends there can
bear witness that what I say is true."
"But, Paul dear," said Miss Winwood, laying her kind fingers on his
arm and searching his face, "you told us that your parents were dead
and that they were Italians."
"I lied," replied Paul calmly. "But I honestly believed the woman
who was my mother not to be my mother, and I had never heard of my
father. I had to account for myself to you. Your delicacy, Miss
Winwood, enabled me to invent as little as possible."
"But your name--Savelli?"
"I took it when I went on the stage--I had a few years' obscure
and unsuccessful struggle. You will remember I came to you starving
and penniless."
The Princess grew white and her delicate nostrils quivered.
"Et monsieur votre pere--" she checked herself. "And your
father, what do you say he is?"
Paul motioned to Silas to speak.
"I, Madam," said the latter, "am a self-made man, and by the
establishment of fried-fish shops all over London and the great
provincial towns, have, by the grace of God, amassed a considerable
fortune."
"Fried fish?" said the Princess in a queer voice.
Silas looked at her out of his melancholy and unhumorous eyes.
"Yes, Madam."
"I have also learned," said Paul, "that my grandmother was a
Sicilian who played a street-organ. Hence my Italian blood."
Jane, standing by the door with Barney Bill, most agonized of old
men, wholly nervous, twisting with gnarled fingers the broken rim of
his hard felt hat, turned aside so that no one but Bill should see a
sudden gush of tears. For she had realized how drab and unimportant
she was in the presence of the great and radiant lady; also how the
great and radiant lady was the God-sent mate for Paul, never so
great a man as now when he was cutting out his heart for truth's
sake.
"I should like to tell you what my life has been," continued Paul,
"in the presence of those who know it already. That's why I asked
them to stay. Until an hour ago I lived in dreams. In my own fashion
I was an honest man. But now I've got this knowledge of my origin,
the dreams are swept away and I stand naked to myself. If I left
you, Miss Winwood, and Colonel Winwood, who have been so good to
me--and Her Highness, who has deigned to honour me with her
friendship--in a moment's doubt as to my antecedents I should be
an impostor."
"No, no, my boy," said Colonel Winwood, who was standing with hands
deep in trouser pockets and his head bent, staring at the carpet.
"No words like that in this house. Besides, why should we want to go
into all this?"
He had the Englishman's detestation of unpleasant explanations.
Ursula Winwood supported him.
"Yes, why?" she asked.
"But it would be very interesting," said the Princess slowly,
cutting her words.
Paul met her eyes, which she had hardened, and saw beneath them pain
and anger and wounded pride and repulsion. For a second he allowed
an agonized appeal to flash through his. He knew that he was
deliberately killing the love in her heart. He felt the monstrous
cruelty of it. A momentary doubt shook him. Was he justified? A
short while ago she had entered the room her face alight with love;
now her face was as stern and cold as his own. . Had he the right to
use the knife like this? Then certainty came. It had to be. The
swifter the better. She of all human beings must no longer be
deceived. Before her, at supreme cost, he must stand clean.
"It's not very interesting," said he. "And it's soon told. I was a
ragged boy in a slum in a Lancashire town. I slept on sacking in a
scullery, and very seldom had enough to eat. The woman whom I didn't
think was my mother ill-treated me. I gather now that she hated me
because she hated my father. She deserted him when I was a year old
and disappeared; she never spoke of him. I don't know exactly how
old I am. I chose a birthday at random. As a child I worked in a
factory. You know what child-labour in factories was some years ago.
I might have been there still, if my dear old friend there hadn't
helped me when I was thirteen to run away. He used to go through the
country in a van selling mats and chairs. He brought me to London,
and found me a lodging with Miss Seddon's mother. So, Miss Seddon
and I were children together. I became an artist's model. When I
grew too old for that to be a dignified ocupation, I went on the
stage. Then one day, starving and delirious, I stumbled through the
gates of Drane's Court and fell at Miss Winwood's feet. That's all."
"Since we've begun, we may as well finish and get it over," said
Colonel Winwood, still with bent head, but looking at Paul from
beneath his eyebrows. "When and how did you come across this
gentleman who you say is your father?"
Paul told the story in a few words.
"And now that you have heard everything," said he, would you think
me justified in withdrawing my candidature?"
"Certainly not," said the Colonel. "You've got your duty to the
Party."
"And you, Miss Winwood?"
"Can you ask? You have your duty to the country."
"And you, Princess?"
She met his challenging eyes and rose in a stately fashion.
"I am not equal to these complications of English politics, Mr.
Savelli," she said. She held herself very erect, but her lips
trembled and tears were very near her eyes. She turned to Miss
Winwood and held out her hand. "I am afraid we must postpone our
discussion of the Forlorn Widows. It is getting late. Au revoir,
Colonel Winwood--"
"I will see you to your carriage."
On the threshold she turned, included Paul in a vague bow to the
company, and passed through the door which Colonel Winwood held
open. Paul watched her until she disappeared--disappeared
haughtily out of his life, taking his living heart with her, leaving
him with a stone very heavy, very cold, dead. And he was smitten as
with a great darkness. He remained quite still for a few moments
after the door had closed, then with a sudden jerk he drew himself
up.
"Mr. Finn," said he, "as I've told you, I address my first meeting
to-night. I am going to make public the fact that I'm your son."
Silas put his hand to his head and looked at him wildly.
"No, no," he muttered hoarsely--"no."
"I see no reason," said Miss Winwood gently.
"I see every reason," said Paul. "I must live in the light now. The
truth or nothing."
"Then obey your conscience, Paul," she answered.
But Silas came forward with his outstretched hands.
"You can't do it. You can't do it, I tell you. It's impossible."
"Why?"
He replied in an odd voice, and with a glance at Miss Winwood. "I
must tell you afterwards."
"I will leave you," she said.
"Mr. Finn"--she shook hands with him--"I hope you're proud of
your son." And then she shook hands with Jane and Barney Bill. "I'm
glad to meet such old friends of Paul." And to Paul, as he held the
door open, she said, her clear kind eyes full on him, "Remember, we
want men in England."
"Thank God, we've got women," said he' with lips from which he could
not keep a sudden quiver.
He closed the door and came up to his father standing on the
hearthrug.
"And now' why shouldn't I speak? Why shouldn't I be an honest man
instead of an impostor?"
"Out of pity for me, my son."
"Pity? Why, what harm would it do you? There's nothing dishonourable
in father and son fighting an election." He laughed without much
mirth. "It's what some people would call sporting. As for me,
personally, I don't see why you should be ashamed of owning me. My
record is clean enough."
"But mine isn't, Paul," said Silas mournfully.
For the first time Paul bowed his head. "I'm sorry," said he. "I
forgot." Then he raised it again. "But that's all over and buried in
the past."
"It may be unburied."
"How?"
"Don't you see?" cried Jane. "Even I can. If you spring your
relationship upon the public, it will create an enormous sensation--it
will set the place on fire with curiosity. They'll dig up
everything they can about you--everything they can about him. Oh,
Paul, don't you see.
"It's up agin a man, sonny," said Barney Bill, limping towards them,
"it's up agin a candidate, you understand, him not being a Fenian or
a Irish patriot, that he's been in gaol. Penal servitude ain't a
nice state of life to be reminded of, sonny. Whereas if you leaves
things as they is, nobody's going to ask no questions."
"That's my point," said Silas Finn.
Paul looked from one to the other, darkly. In a kind of dull fierce
passion he had made up his mind to clear himself before the world,
to rend to tatters his garments of romance, to snap his fingers at
the stars and destiny and such-like deluding toys, to stand a young
Ajax defying the thunderbolts. Here came the first check.
"If they found out as how he'd done time, they'd find out for why,"
said Bill, cocking his head earnestly.
As Paul, engaged in sombre thought, made no reply, Silas turned
away, his hands uplifted in supplication, and prayed aloud. He had
sinned in giving way to his anger. He prostrated himself before the
divine vengeance. If this was his apportioned punishment, might God
give him meekness and strength to bear it. The tremulous, crying
voice, the rapt, fanatical face, and the beseeching attitude struck
a bizarre note in the comfortable and worldly room. Supported on
either side by Jane, helpless and anxious, and Barney Bill, crooked,
wrinkled, with his close-cropped white hair and little liquid
diamond eyes, still nervously tearing his hat-brim, he looked almost
grotesque. To Paul he seemed less a man than a creation of another
planet, with unknown and incalculable instincts and impulses, who
had come to earth and with foolish hand had wiped out the meaning of
existence. Yet he felt no resentment, but rather a weary pity for
the stranger blundering through an unsympathetic world. As soon as
there came a pause in the prayer, he said not ungently:
"The Almighty is not going to use me as an instrument to punish you,
if I can help it. I quite appreciate your point. I'll say nothing."
Barney Bill jerked his thumb towards the chair where the Princess
had been sitting:
"She won't give it away?"
Paul smiled sadly. "No, old man. She'll keep it to herself."
That marked the end of the interview. Paul accompanied the three
downstairs.
"I meant to act for the best, Paul," said Silas piteously, on
parting. "Tell me that I haven't made you my enemy."
"God forbid," said Paul.
He went slowly up to his room again and threw himself in his writing
chair. His eye fell upon the notes on the sheet of foolscap. The
Radical candidate having been chosen, they were no longer relevant
to his speech. He crumpled up the paper and threw it into the
waste-paper basket. His speech! He held his head in both hands. A
couple of hours hence he would be addressing a vast audience, the
centre of the hopes of thousands of his fellow countrymen. The
thought beat upon his brain. He had had the common nightmare of
standing with conductor's baton in front of a mighty orchestra and
being paralyzed by sense of impotence. No less a nightmare was his
present position. A couple of hours ago he was athrill with
confidence and joy of battle. But then he was a different man. The
morning stars, the stars of his destiny, sang together in the
ever-deepening glamour of the Vision Splendid. He was entering into
the lists of Camelot to fight for his Princess. He was the
Mysterious Knight, parented in fairy-far Avilion, the Fortunate
Youth, the Awakener of England. Now he was but a base-born young man
who had attained a high position by false pretences; an ordinary
adventurer with a glib tongue; a self-educated, self-seeking,
commonplace fellow. At least, so he saw himself in his Princess's
eyes. And he had meant that she should thus behold him. No longer
was he entering lists to fight for her. For what hopeless purpose
was he entering them? To awaken England? The awakener must have his
heart full of dreams and visions and glamour and joy and throbbing
life; and in his heart there was death.
He drew out the little cornelian talisman at the end of his
watch-chain and looked at it bitterly. It was but a mocking symbol
of illusion. He unhooked it and laid it on the table. He would carry
it about with him no longer. He would throw it away.
Ursula Winwood quietly entered the room.
"You must come down and have something to cat before the meeting."
Paul rose. "I don't want anything, thank you, Miss Winwood."
"But James and I do. So come and join us."
"Are you coming to the meeting?" he asked in surprise.
"Of course." She lifted her eyebrows. "Why not?"
"After what you have heard?"
"All the more reason for us to go." She smiled as she had smiled on
that memorable evening six years ago when she had stood with the
horrible pawn-ticket in her hand. "James has to support the Party. I
have to support you. James will do the same as I in a day or two.
Just give him time. His mind doesn't work very quickly, not as
quickly as a woman's. Come," she said. "When we have a breathing
space you can tell me all about it. But in the meantime I'm pretty
sure I understand."
"How can you?" he asked wearily. "You have other traditions."
"I don't know about traditions; but I don't give my love and take it
away again. I set rather too much value on it. I understand because
I love you."
"Others with the same traditions can't understand."
"I'm not proposing to marry you," she said bluntly. "That makes a
difference."
"It does," said he, meeting her eyes unflinchingly.
"If you weren't a brave man, I shouldn't say such a thing to you.
Anyhow I understand you're the last man in the world who should take
me for a fool."
"My God!" said Paul in a choky voice. "What can I do to thank you?"
"Win the election."
"You are still my dearest lady--my very very dearest lady," said
he.
Her shrewd eyes fell upon the cornelian heart. She picked it tip and
held it out to him on her plump palm.
"Why have you taken this off your watch-chain?"
"It's a little false god," said he.
"It's the first thing yon asked for when you recovered from your
illness. You said you had kept it since you were a tiny boy. See? I
remember. You set great value on it then?"
"I believed in it," said Paul.
"And now you don't? But a woman gave it to you."
"Yes," said Paul, wondering, in his masculine way, how the deuce she
knew that. "I was a brat of eleven."
"Then keep it. Put it on your chain again. I'm sure it's a true
little god. Take it back to please me."
As there was nothing, from lapping up Eisel to killing a crocodile,
that Paul would not have done, in the fulness of his wondering
gratitude, for his dearest lady, he meekly attached the heart to his
chain and put it in his pocket.
"I must tell you," said he, "that the lady--she seemed a goddess
to me then--chose me as her champion in a race, a race of urchins
at a Sunday school treat, and I didn't win. But she gave me the
cornelian heart as a prize."
"But as my champion you will win," said Miss Winwood. "My dear boy,"
she said, and her eyes grew very tender as she laid her hand on the
young man's arm, "believe what an old woman is telling you is true.
Don't throw away any little shred of beauty you've ever had in your
life. The beautiful things are really the true ones, though they may
seem to be illusions. Without the trinket or what it stood for,
would you be here now?"
"I don't know," replied Paul. "I might have taken a more honest road
to get here."
"We took you to ourselves as a bright human being, Paul--not for
what you might or might not have been. By the way, what have you
decided as regards making public the fact of your relationship?"
"My father, for his own reasons, has urged me not to do so."
Miss Winwood drew a long breath.
"I'm glad to hear it," she said.
So Paul, comforted by one woman's amazing loyalty, went out that
evening and addressed his great meeting. But the roar of applause
that welcomed him echoed through void spaces of his being. He felt
neither thrill nor fear. The speech prepared by the Fortunate Youth
was delivered by a stranger to it, glowing and dancing eloquence.
The words came trippingly enough, but the informing Spirit was gone.
Those in the audience familiar with the magic of his smile were
disappointed. The soundness of his policy satisfied the hard-
headed, but he made no appeal to the imaginative. If his speech did
not fall flat, it was not the clarion voice that his supporters had
anticipated. They whispered together with depressed headshakings.
Their man was not in form. He was nervous. What he said was right
enough, but his utterance lacked fire. It carried conviction to
those already convinced; but it could make no proselytes. Had they
been mistaken in their choice? Too young a man, hadn't lie bitten
off a hunk greater than he could chew? So the inner ring of local
politicians. An election audience, however, brings its own
enthusiasms, and it must be a very dull dog indeed who damps their
ardour. They cheered prodigiously when Paul sat down, and a crowd of
zealots waiting outside the building cheered him again as he drove
off. But Paul knew that he had been a failure. He had delivered
another man's speech. To-morrow and the day after and the day after
that, and ever afterwards, if he held to the political game, he
would have to speak in his own new person. What kind of a person
would the new Paul be?
He drove back almost in silence with the Colonel and Miss Winwood,
vainly seeking to solve the problem. The foundations of his life had
been swept away. His foot rested on nothing solid save his own
manhood. That no shock should break down. He would fight. He would
win the election. He set his lips in grim determination. If life
held no higher meaning, it at least offered this immediate object
for existence. Besides he owed the most strenuous effort of his soul
to the devoted and loyal woman whose face he saw dimly opposite.
Afterwards come what might. The Truth at any rate. Magna est veritas
et praevalebit.
These were "prave 'orts" and valorous protestations.
But when their light supper was over and Colonel Winwood had
retired, Ursula Winwood lingered in the dining room, her heart
aching for the boy who looked so stern and haggard. She came behind
him and touched his hair.
"Poor boy," she murmured.
Then Paul--he was very young, barely thirty--broke down, as
perhaps she meant that he should, and, elbows sprawling amid the
disarray of the meal, poured out all the desolation of his soul, and
for the first time cried out in anguish for the woman he had lost.
So, as love lay a-bleeding mortally pierced, Ursula Win wood wept
unaccustomed tears and with tender fingers strove to staunch the
wound.
