The Patrician

He approached slowly, reading a blue paper, with his level grey eyes divided by a little uncharacteristic frown. He had a tanned yet ruddy, decisively shaped face, with crisp hair and moustache beginning to go iron-grey – the face of a man who knows his own mind and is contented with that knowledge. His figure too, well-braced and upright, with the back of the head carried like a soldier’s, confirmed the impression, not so much of self-sufficiency, as of the sufficiency of his habits of life and thought. And there was apparent about all his movements that peculiar unconsciousness of his surroundings which comes to those who live a great deal in the public eye, have the material machinery of existence placed exactly to their hands, and never need to consider what others think of them. Taking his seat, and still perusing the paper, he at once began to eat what was put before him; then noticing that his eldest daughter had come in and was sitting down beside him, he said:

“Bore having to go up in such weather!”

“Is it a Cabinet meeting?”

“Yes. This confounded business of the balloons.” But the rather anxious dark eyes of Agatha’s delicate narrow face were taking in the details of a tray for keeping dishes warm on a sideboard, and she was thinking: “I believe that would be better than the ones I’ve got, after all. If William would only say whether he really likes these large trays better than single hot-water dishes!” She contrived how-ever to ask in her gentle voice – for all her words and movements were gentle, even a little timid, till anything appeared to threaten the welfare of her husband or children:

“Do you think this war scare good for Eustace’s prospects, Father?”

But her father did not answer; he was greeting a new-comer, a tall, fine-looking young man, with dark hair and a fair moustache, between whom and himself there was no relationship, yet a certain negative resemblance. Claud Fresnay, Viscount Harbinger, was indeed also a little of what is called the ‘Norman’ type – having a certain firm regularity of feature, and a slight aquilinity of nose high up on the bridge – but that which in the elder man seemed to indicate only an unconscious acceptance of self as a standard, in the younger man gave an impression at once more assertive and more uneasy, as though he were a little afraid of not chaffing something all the time.

Behind him had come in a tall woman, of full figure and fine presence, with hair still brown – Lady Valleys herself. Though her eldest son was thirty, she was, herself, still little more than fifty. From her voice, manner, and whole personality, one might suspect that she had been an acknowledged beauty; but there was now more than a suspicion of maturity about her almost jovial face, with its full grey-blue eyes; and coarsened complexion. Good comrade, and essentially ‘woman of the world,’ was written on every line of her, and in every tone of her voice. She was indeed a figure suggestive of open air and generous living, endowed with abundant energy, and not devoid of humour. It was she who answered Agatha’s remark.

“Of course, my dear, the very best thing possible.”

Lord Harbinger chimed in:

“By the way, Brabrook’s going to speak on it. Did you ever hear him, Lady Agatha? ‘Mr. Speaker, Sir, I rise – and with me rises the democratic principle – ‘”

But Agatha only smiled, for she was thinking:

“If I let Ann go as far as the gate, she’ll only make it a stepping-stone to something else to-morrow.” Taking no interest in public affairs, her inherited craving for command had resorted for expression to a meticulous ordering of household matters. It was indeed a cult with her, a passion – as though she felt herself a sort of figurehead to national domesticity; the leader of a patriotic movement.

Lord Valleys, having finished what seemed necessary, arose.

“Any message to your mother, Gertrude?”

“No, I wrote last night.”

“Tell Miltoun to keep – an eye on that Mr. Courtier. I heard him speak one day – he’s rather good.”

Lady Valleys, who had not yet sat down, accompanied her husband to the door.

“By the way, I’ve told Mother about this woman, Geoff.”

“Was it necessary?”

“Well, I think so; I’m uneasy – after all, Mother has some influence with Miltoun.”

Lord Valleys shrugged his shoulders, and slightly squeezing his wife’s arm, went out.

Though himself vaguely uneasy on that very subject, he was a man who did not go to meet disturbance. He had the nerves which seem to be no nerves at all – especially found in those of his class who have much to do with horses. He temperamentally regarded the evil of the day as quite sufficient to it. Moreover, his eldest son was a riddle that he had long given up, so far as women were concerned.

Emerging into the outer hall, he lingered a moment, remembering that he had not seen his younger and favourite daughter.

“Lady Barbara down yet?” Hearing that she was not, he slipped into the motor coat held for him by Simmons, and stepped out under the white portico, decorated by the Caradoc hawks in stone.

The voice of little Ann reached him, clear and high above the smothered whirring of the car.

“Come on, Grandpapa!”

Lord Valleys grimaced beneath his crisp moustache – the word grandpapa always fell queerly on the ears of one who was but fifty-six, and by no means felt it – and jerking his gloved hand towards Ann, he said:

“Send down to the lodge gate for this.”

The voice of little Ann answered loudly:

“No; I’m coming back by myself.”

The car starting, drowned discussion.

Lord Valleys, motoring, somewhat pathetically illustrated the invasion of institutions by their destroyer, Science. A supporter of the turf, and not long since Master of Foxhounds, most of whose soul (outside politics) was in horses, he had been, as it were, compelled by common sense, not only to tolerate, but to take up and even press forward the cause of their supplanters. His instinct of self-preservation was secretly at work, hurrying him to his own destruction; forcing him to persuade himself that science and her successive victories over brute nature could be wooed into the service of a prestige which rested on a crystallized and stationary base. All this keeping pace with the times, this immersion in the results of modern discoveries, this speeding-up of existence so that it was all surface and little root – the increasing volatility, cosmopolitanism, and even commercialism of his life, on which he rather prided himself as a man of the world – was, with a secrecy too deep for his perception, cutting at the aloofness logically demanded of one in his position. Stubborn, and not spiritually subtle, though by no means dull in practical matters, he was resolutely letting the waters bear him on, holding the tiller firmly, without perceiving that he was in the vortex of a whirlpool. Indeed, his common sense continually impelled him, against the sort of reactionaryism of which his son Miltoun had so much, to that easier reactionaryism, which, living on its spiritual capital, makes what material capital it can out of its enemy, Progress.

He drove the car himself, shrewd and self-contained, sitting easily, with his cap well drawn over those steady eyes; and though this unexpected meeting of the Cabinet in the Whitsuntide recess was not only a nuisance, but gave food for anxiety, he was fully able to enjoy the swift smooth movement through the summer air, which met him with such friendly sweetness under the great trees of the long avenue. Beside him, little Ann was silent, with her legs stuck out rather wide apart. Motoring was a new excitement, for at home it was forbidden; and a meditative rapture shone in her wide eyes above her sudden little nose. Only once she spoke, when close to the lodge the car slowed down, and they passed the lodge-keeper’s little daughter.

“Hallo, Susie!”

There was no answer, but the look on Susie’s small pale face was so humble and adoring that Lord Valleys, not a very observant man, noticed it with a sort of satisfaction. “Yes,” he thought, somewhat irrelevantly, “the country is sound at heart!”

CHAPTER II

At Ravensham House on the borders of Richmond Park, suburban seat of the Casterley family, ever since it became usual to have a residence within easy driving distance of Westminster – in a large conservatory adjoining the hall, Lady Casterley stood in front of some Japanese lilies. She was a slender, short old woman, with an ivory-coloured face, a thin nose, and keen eyes half-veiled by delicate wrinkled lids. Very still, in her grey dress, and with grey hair, she gave the impression of a little figure carved out of fine, worn steel. Her firm, spidery hand held a letter written in free somewhat sprawling style:

MONKLAND COURT, “DEVON. “MY DEAR, MOTHER,

“Geoffrey is motoring up to-morrow. He’ll look in on you on the way if he can. This new war scare has taken him up. I shan’t be in Town myself till Miltoun’s election is over. The fact is, I daren’t leave him down here alone. He sees his ‘Anonyma’ every day. That Mr. Courtier, who wrote the book against War – rather cool for a man who’s been a soldier of fortune, don’t you think? – is staying at the inn, working for the Radical. He knows her, too – and, one can only hope, for Miltoun’s sake, too well – an attractive person, with red moustaches, rather nice and mad. Bertie has just come down; I must get him to have a talk with Miltoun, and see if he cant find out how the land lies. One can trust Bertie – he’s really very astute. I must say, that she’s quite a sweet-looking woman; but absolutely nothing’s known of her here except that she divorced her husband. How does one find out about people? Miltoun’s being so extraordinarily strait-laced makes it all the more awkward. The earnestness of this rising generation is most remarkable. I don’t remember taking such a serious view of life in my youth.”

Lady Casterley lowered the coronetted sheet of paper. The ghost of a grimace haunted her face – she had not forgotten her daughter’s youth. Raising the letter again, she read on:

“I’m sure Geoffrey and I feel years younger than either Miltoun or Agatha, though we did produce them. One doesn’t feel it with Bertie or Babs, luckily. The war scare is having an excellent effect on Miltoun’s candidature. Claud Harbinger is with us, too, working for Miltoun; but, as a matter of fact, I think he’s after Babs. It’s rather melancholy, when you think that Babs isn’t quite twenty – still, one can’t expect anything else, I suppose, with her looks; and Claud is rather a fine specimen. They talk of him a lot now; he’s quite coming to the fore among the young Tories.”

Lady Casterley again lowered the letter, and stood listening. A prolonged, muffled sound as of distant cheering and groans had penetrated the great conservatory, vibrating among the pale petals of the lilies and setting free their scent in short waves of perfume. She passed into the hall; where, stood an old man with sallow face and long white whiskers.

“What was that noise, Clifton?”

“A posse of Socialists, my lady, on their way to Putney to hold a demonstration; the people are hooting them. They’ve got blocked just outside the gates.”

“Are they making speeches?”

“They are talking some kind of rant, my lady.”

“I’ll go and hear them. Give me my black stick.”

Above the velvet-dark, flat-toughed cedar trees, which rose like pagodas of ebony on either side of the drive, the sky hung lowering in one great purple cloud, endowed with sinister life by a single white beam striking up into it from the horizon. Beneath this canopy of cloud a small phalanx of dusty, dishevelled-looking men and women were drawn up in the road, guarding, and encouraging with cheers, a tall, black-coated orator. Before and behind this phalanx, a little mob of men and boys kept up an accompaniment of groans and jeering.

Lady Casterley and her ‘major-domo’ stood six paces inside the scrolled iron gates, and watched. The slight, steel-coloured figure with steel-coloured hair, was more arresting in its immobility than all the vociferations and gestures of the mob. Her eyes alone moved under their half-drooped lids; her right hand clutched tightly the handle of her stick. The speaker’s voice rose in shrill protest against the exploitation of ‘the people’; it sank in ironical comment on Christianity; it demanded passionately to be free from the continuous burden of ‘this insensate militarist taxation’; it threatened that the people would take things info their own hands.

Lady Casterley turned her head: