CHAPTER XIX
DAYS of strain followed: days of a thousand engagements, a thousand
interviews, a thousand journeyings, a thousand speeches; days in
which he was reduced to an unresisting automaton, mechanically
uttering the same formulas; days in which the irresistible force of
the campaign swept him along without volition. And day followed day
and not a sign came from the Princess Zobraska either of condonation
or resentment. It was as though she had gathered her skirts around
her and gone disdainfully out of his life for ever. If speaking were
to be done, it was for her to speak. Paul could not plead. It was he
who, in a way, had cast her off. In effect he had issued the
challenge: "I am a child of the gutter, an adventurer masquerading
under an historical name, and you are a royal princess. Will you
marry me now?" She had given her answer, by walking out of the room,
her proud head in the air. It was final, as far as he was concerned.
He could do nothing--not even beg his dearest lady to plead for
him. Besides, rumour had it that the Princess had cancelled her town
engagements and gone to Morebury. So he walked in cold and darkness,
uninspired, and though he worked with feverish energy, the heart and
purpose of his life were gone.
As in his first speech, so in his campaign, he failed. He had been
chosen for his youth, his joyousness, his magnetism, his radiant
promise of great things to come. He went about the constituency an,
anxious, haggard man, working himself to death without being able to
awaken a spark of emotion in the heart of anybody. He lost ground
daily. On the other hand, Silas Finn, with his enthusiasms, and his
aspect of an inspired prophet, made alarming progress. He swept the
multitude. Paul Savelli, the young man of the social moment, had an
army of helpers, members of Parliament making speeches, friends on
the Unionist press writing flamboyant leaders, fair ladies in
automobiles hunting for voters through the slums of Hickney Heath.
Silas Finn had scarcely a personal friend. But hope reigned among
his official supporters, whereas depression began to descend over
Paul's brilliant host.
"They want stirring up a bit," said the Conservative agent
despondently. "I hear old Finn's meetings go with a bang. They
nearly raised the roof off last night. We want some roof-raising on
this side."
"I do my best," said Paul coldly, but the reproach cut deep. He was
a failure. No nervous or intellectual effort could save him now,
though he spent himself to the last heartbeat. He was the sport of a
mocking Will o' the Wisp which he had taken for Destiny.
Once on coming out of his headquarters he met Silas, who was walking
up the street with two or three of his committee-men. In accordance
with the ordinary amenities of English political life, the two
candidates shook hands, and withdrew a pace or two aside to chat for
a while. This was the first time they had come together since the
afternoon of revelation, and there was a moment of constraint during
which Silas tugged at his streaked beard and looked with mournful
wistfulness at his son.
"I wish I were not your opponent, Paul," said he in a low voice, so
as not to be overheard.
"That doesn't matter a bit," Paul replied courteously. "I see you're
putting up an excellent fight."
"It's the Lord's battle. If it weren't, do you think I would not let
you win?"
The same old cry. Through sheer repetition, Paul began almost to
believe in it. He felt very weary. In his father's eyes he
recognized, with a pang, the glow of a faith which he had lost.
Their likeness struck him, and he saw himself, his old self, beneath
the unquestioning though sorrowful eyes.
"That's the advantage of a belief in the Almighty's personal
interest," he answered, with a touch of irony: "whatever happens,
one is not easily disillusioned."
"That is true, my son," said Silas.
"Jane is well?" Paul asked, after an instant's pause, breaking off
the profitless discussion.
"Very well."
"And Barney Bill?"
"He upbraids me bitterly for what I have said."
Paul smiled at the curiously stilted phrase.
"Tell him from me not to do it. My love to them both."
They shook hands again, and Paul drove off in the motor car that had
been placed at his disposal during the election, and Silas continued
his sober walk with his committee-men up the muddy street. Whereupon
Paul conceived a sudden hatred for the car. It was but the final
artistic touch to this comedy of mockery of which he had been the
victim. . . . Perhaps God was on his father's side, after all--on
the side of them who humbly walked and not of them who rode in proud
chariots. But his political creed, his sociological convictions rose
in protest. How could the Almighty be in league with all that was
subversive of social order, all that was destructive to Imperial
cohesion, all that which inevitably tended to England's downfall?
He turned suddenly to his companion, the Conservative agent.
"Do you think God has got common sense?"
The agent, not being versed in speculations regarding the attributes
of the Deity, stared; then, disinclined to commit himself, took
refuge in platitude.
"God moves in a mysterious way, Mr. Savelli."
"That's rot," said Paul. "If there's an Almighty, He must move in a
common-sense way; otherwise the whole of this planet would have
busted up long ago. Do you think it's common sense to support the
present Government?"
"Certainly not," said the agent, fervently.
"Then if God supported it, it wouldn't be common sense on His part.
It would be merely mysterious?"
"I see what you're driving at," said the agent. "Our opponent
undoubtedly has been making free with the name of the Almighty in
his speeches. As a matter of fact he's rather crazy on the subject.
I don't think it would be a bad move to make a special reference to
it. It's all damned hypocrisy. There's a chap in the old French
play--what's his name?"
"Tartuffe."
"That's it. Well, there you are. That speech of his yesterday--now
why don't you take it and wring religiosity and hypocrisy and
Tartuffism out of it? You know how to do that sort of thing. You can
score tremendously. I never thought of it before. By George! you can
get him in the neck if you like."
"But I don't like," said Paul. "I happen to know that Mr. Finn is
sincere in his convictions."
"But, my dear sir, what does his supposed sincerity matter in
political contest?"
"It's the difference between dirt and cleanliness," said Paul.
"Besides, as I told you at the outset, Mr. Finn and I are close
personal friends, and I have the highest regard for his character.
He has seen that his side has scrupulously refrained from
personalities with regard to me, and I insist on the same observance
with regard to him."
"With all due deference to you, Mr. Savelli, you were called only
the day before yesterday 'the spoiled darling of Duchesses'
boudoirs.'"
"It wasn't with Mr. Finn's cognizance. I've found that out."
"Well," said the agent, leaning back-in the luxurious limousine, "I
don't see why somebody, without your cognizance, shouldn't call Mr.
Finn the spoiled minion of the Almighty's ante-chamber. That's a
devilish good catch-phrase," he added, starting forward in the joy
of his newborn epigram: "Devilish good. 'The spoiled minion of the
Almighty's ante-chamber.' It'll become historical."
"If it does," said Paul, "it will be associated with the immediate
retirement of the Conservative candidate."
"Do you really mean that?"
It was Paul's turn to start forward. "My dear Wilson," said he, "if
you or anybody else thinks I'm a man to talk through his hat, I'll
retire at once. I don't care a damn about myself. Not a little
tuppenny damn. What the devil does it matter to me whether I get
into Parliament or not? Nothing. Not a tuppenny damn. You can't
understand. It's the party and the country. For myself, personally,
the whole thing can go to blazes. I'm in earnest, dead earnest," he
continued, with a vehemence incomprehensible to Wilson. "If anybody
doesn't think so, I'll clear out at once"--he snapped his fingers.
"But while I'm candidate everything I say I mean. I mean it
intensely--with all my soul. And I say that if there's a single
insulting reference to Mr. Finn during this election, you'll be up
against the wreck of your own political career."
The agent watched the workings of his candidate's dark clear-cut
face. He was very proud of his candidate, and found it difficult to
realize that there were presumably sane people who would not vote
for him on sight. A lingering memory of grammar school days flashed
on him when he told his wife later of the conversation, and he
likened Paul to a wrathful Apollo. Anxious to appease the god, he
said humbly:
"It was the merest of suggestions, Mr. Savelli. Heaven knows we
don't want to descend to personalities, and your retirement would be
an unqualifiable disaster. But--you'll pardon my mentioning it--
you began this discussion by asking me whether the Almighty had
common sense."
"Well, has He or not?"
"Of course," said Wilson.
"Then we're going to win this election," said Paul.
If he could have met enthusiasm with enthusiasm, all would have been
well. The awakener of England could have captivated hearts by
glowing pictures of a great and glorious future. It would have been
a counter-blaze to that lit by his opponent, which flamed in all the
effulgence of a reckless reformer's promise, revealing a Utopia in
which there would be no drunkenness, no crime, no poverty, and in
which the rich, apparently, would have to work very hard in order to
support the poor in comfortable idleness. But beyond proving
fallacies, Paul could do nothing--and even then, has there ever
been a mob since the world began susceptible to logical argument?
So, all through the wintry days of the campaign, Silas Finn carried
his fiery cross through the constituency, winning frenzied
adherents, while Paul found it hard to rally the faithful round the
drooping standard of St. George.
The days went on. Paul addressed his last meeting on the eve of the
poll. By a supreme effort he regained some of his former fire and
eloquence. He drove home exhausted, and going straight to bed slept
like a dog till morning.
The servant who woke him brought a newspaper to the bedside.
"Something to interest you, sir."
Paul looked at the headline indicated by the man.
"Hickney Heath Election. Liberal Candidate's Confession.
Extraordinary Scene."
He glanced hurriedly down the column and read with amazement and
stabbing pain the matter that was of interest. The worst had
happened--the thing which during all his later life Silas Finn had
feared. The spectre of the prison had risen up against him.
Towards the end of Silas Finn's speech, at his last great meeting, a
man, sitting in the body of the hall near the platform, got up and
interrupted him. "What about your own past life? What about your
three years' penal servitude?" All eyes were turned from the man--
a common looking, evil man--to the candidate, who staggered as if
he had been shot, caught at the table behind him for support and
stared in greyfaced terror. There was an angry tumult, and the
interrupter would have fared badly, but for Silas Finn holding up
his hand and imploring silence.
"I challenge the candidate to deny," said the man, as soon as he
could be heard, "that his real name is Silas Kegworthy, and that he
underwent three years' penal servitude for murderously assaulting
his wife."
Then the candidate braced himself and said: "The bare facts are
true. But I have lived stainlessly in the fear of God and in the
service of humanity for thirty years. I have sought absolution for a
moment of mad anger under awful provocation in unremitting prayer
and in trying to save the souls and raise the fortunes of my
fellow-men. Is that all you have against me?"
"That's all," said the man.
"It is for you, electors of Hickney Heath, to judge me."
He sat down amid tumultuous cheers, and the man who had interrupted
him, after some rough handling, managed to make his escape. The
chairman then put a vote of confidence in the candidate, which was
carried by acclamation, and the meeting broke up.
Such were the essential facts in the somewhat highly coloured
newspaper story which Paul read in stupefied horror. He dressed
quickly and went to his sitting-room, where he rang tip his father's
house on the telephone. Jane's voice met his ear.
"It's Paul speaking," he replied. "I've just this moment read of
last night. I'm shaken to my soul. How is my father?"
"He's greatly upset," came the voice. "He didn't sleep all night,
and he's not at all well this morning. Oh, it was a cruel, cowardly
blow."
"Dastardly. Do you know who it was?"
"No. Don't you?"
"I? Does either of you think that I--?"
"No, no," came the voice, now curiously tearful. "I didn't mean
that. I forgot you've not had time to find out."
"Who does he think it was?"
"Some old fellow prisoner who had a grudge against him."
"Were you at the meeting?"
"Yes. Oh, Paul, it was splendid to see him face the audience. He
spoke so simply and with such sorrowful dignity. He had their
sympathy at once. But it has broken him. I'm afraid he'll never be
the same man again. After all these years it's dreadful."
"It's all that's damnable. It's tragic. Give him my love and tell
him that words can't express my sorrow and indignation."
He rang off. Almost immediately Wilson was announced. He carne into
the room radiant.
"You were right about the divine common-sensicality," said he. "The
Lord has delivered our adversary into our hands with a vengeance."
He was a chubby little man of forty, with coarse black hair and
scrubby moustache, not of the type that readily appreciates the
delicacies of a situation. Paul conceived a sudden loathing for him.
"I would give anything for it not to have happened," he said.
Wilson opened his eyes. "Why? It's our salvation. An ex-convict--
it's enough to damn any candidate. But we want to make sure. Now
I've got an idea."
Paul turned on him angrily. "I'll have no capital made out of it
whatsoever. It's a foul thing to bring such an accusation up against
a man who has lived a spotless life for thirty years. Everything in
me goes out in sympathy with him, and I'll let it be known all
through the constituency."
"If you take it that way," said Wilson, "there's no more to be
done."
"There's nothing to be done, except to find out who put up the man
to make the announcement."
"He did it on his own," Wilson replied warmly. "None of our people
would resort to a dirty trick like that."
"And yet you want me to take advantage of it now it's done."
"That's quite a different matter."
"I can't see much difference," said Paul.
So Wilson, seeing that his candidate was more unmanageable than
ever, presently departed, and Paul sat down to breakfast. But he
could not eat. He was both stricken with shame and moved to the
depths by immense pity. Far removed from him as Silas Finn was in
mode of life and ideals, he found much in common with his father.
Each had made his way from the slum, each had been guided by an
inner light--was Silas Finn's fantastic belief less of an ignis
fatuus than his own?--each had sought to get away from a past,
each was a child of Ishmael, each, in his own way, had lived
romantically. Whatever resentment against his father lingered in his
heart now melted away. He was very near him. The shame of the prison
struck him as it had struck the old man. He saw him bowed down under
the blow, and he clenched his hands in a torture of anger and
indignation. And to crown all, came the intolerable conviction, in
the formation of which Wilson's triumphant words had not been
necessary, that if he won the election it would be due to this
public dishonouring of his own father. He walked about the room in
despair, and at last halted before the mantelpiece on which still
stood the photograph of the Princess in its silver frame. Suddenly
he remembered that he had not told her of this incident in his
family history. She too would be reading her newspaper this morning.
He saw her proud lips curl. The son of a gaol-bird! He tore the
photograph from its frame and threw it into the fire and watched it
burn. As the paper writhed under the heat, the lips seemed to twist
into sad reproach. He turned away impatiently. That romantic madness
was over and done with. He had far sterner things to do than shriek
his heart out over a woman in an alien star. He had his life to
reconstruct in the darkness threatening and mocking; but at last he
had truth for a foundation; on that he would build in defiance of
the world.
In the midst of these fine thoughts it occurred to him that he had
hidden the prison episode in his father's career from the Winwoods
as well as from the Princess. His checks flushed; it was one more
strain on the loyalty of these dear devoted friends. He went
downstairs, and found the Colonel and Miss Winwood in the
dining-room. Their faces were grave. He came to them with
outstretched arms--a familiar gesture, one doubtless inherited
from his Sicilian ancestry.
"You see what has happened. I knew all the time. I didn't tell you.
You must forgive me."
"I don't blame you, my boy," said Colonel Winwood. "It was your
father's secret. You had no right to tell us."
"We're very grieved, dear, for both your sakes," Ursula added.
"James has taken the liberty of sending round a message of
sympathy."
As ever, these two had gone a point beyond his anticipation of their
loyalty. He thanked them simply.
"It's hateful," said he, "to think I may win the election on account
of this. It's loathsome." He shuddered.
"I quite agree with you," said the Colonel. "But in politics one has
often to put up with hateful things in order to serve one's country.
That's the sacrifice a high-minded man is called upon to make."
"Besides," said Miss Winwood, "let us hope it won't affect votes.
All the papers say that the vote of confidence was passed amid
scenes of enthusiasm."
Paul smiled. They understood. A little while later they drove off
with him to his committee room in the motor car gay with his
colours. There was still much to be done that day.
