The Patrician. Galsworthy John
looked in the direction of her small finger. There was the wreck of a little house, which stood close to a stone man who had obviously possessed that hill before there were men of flesh. Over one corner of the sorry ruin, a single patch of roof still clung, but the rest was open.
“He was a silly man to build it, wasn’t he, Ann? That’s why they call it Ashman’s Folly.”
“Is he alive?”
“Not quite – it’s just a hundred years ago.”
“What made him build it here?”
“He hated women, and – the roof fell in on him.”
“Why did he hate women?”
“He was a crank.”
“What is a crank?”
“Ask Mr. Courtier.”
Under this girl’s calm quizzical glance, Courtier endeavoured to find an answer to that question.
“A crank,” he said slowly, “is a man like me.”
He heard a little laugh, and became acutely conscious of Ann’s dispassionate examining eyes.
“Is Uncle Eustace a crank?”
“You know now, Mr. Courtier, what Ann thinks of you. You think a good deal of Uncle Eustace, don’t you, Ann?”
“Yes,” said Ann, and fixed her eyes before her. But Courtier gazed sideways – over her hatless head.
His exhilaration was increasing every moment. This girl reminded him of a two-year-old filly he had once seen, stepping out of Ascot paddock for her first race, with the sun glistening on her satin chestnut skin, her neck held high, her eyes all fire – as sure to win, as that grass was green. It was difficult to believe her Miltoun’s sister. It was difficult to believe any of those four young Caradocs related. The grave ascetic Miltoun, wrapped in the garment of his spirit; mild, domestic, strait-laced Agatha; Bertie, muffled, shrewd, and steely; and this frank, joyful conquering Barbara – the range was wide.
But the car had left the moor, and, down a steep hill, was passing the small villas and little grey workmen’s houses outside the town of Bucklandbury.
“Ann and I have to go on to Miltoun’s headquarters. Shall I drop you at the enemy’s, Mr. Courtier? Stop, please, Frith.”
And before Courtier could assent, they had pulled up at a house on which was inscribed with extraordinary vigour: “Chilcox for Bucklandbury.”
Hobbling into the Committee-room of Mr. Humphrey Chilcox, which smelled of paint, Courtier took with him the scented memory of youth, and ambergris, and Harris tweed.
In that room three men were assembled round a table; the eldest of whom, endowed with little grey eyes, a stubbly beard, and that mysterious something only found in those who have been mayors, rose at once and came towards him.
“Mr. Courtier, I believe,” he said bluffly. “Glad to see you, sir. Most distressed to hear of this outrage. Though in a way, it’s done us good. Yes, really. Grossly against fair play. Shouldn’t be surprised if it turned a couple of hundred votes. You carry the effects of it about with you, I see.”
A thin, refined man, with wiry hair, also came up, holding a newspaper in his hand.
“It has had one rather embarrassing effect,” he said. “Read this
Courtier read a paragraph.
The man with the little eyes broke the ominous silence which ensued.
“One of our side must have seen the whole thing, jumped on his bicycle and brought in the account before they went to press. They make no imputation on the lady – simply state the facts. Quite enough,” he added with impersonal grimness; “I think he’s done for himself, sir.”
The man with the refined face added nervously:
“We couldn’t help it, Mr. Courtier; I really don’t know what we can do. I don’t like it a bit.”
“Has your candidate seen this?” Courtier asked.
“Can’t have,” struck in the third Committee-man; “we hadn’t seen it ourselves until an hour ago.”
“I should never have permitted it,” said the man with the refined face; “I blame the editor greatly.”
“Come to that – ” said the little-eyed man, “it’s a plain piece of news. If it makes a stir, that’s not our fault. The paper imputes nothing, it states. Position of the lady happens to do the rest. Can’t help it, and moreover, sir, speaking for self, don’t want to. We’ll have no loose morals in public life down here, please God!” There was real feeling in his words; then, catching sight of Courtier’s face, he added: “Do you know this lady?”
“Ever since she was a child. Anyone who speaks evil of her, has to reckon with me.”
The man with the refined face said earnestly:
“Believe me, Mr. Courtier, I entirely sympathize. We had nothing to do with the paragraph. It’s one of those incidents where one benefits against one’s will. Most unfortunate that she came out on to the green with Lord Miltoun; you know what people are.”
“It’s the head-line that does it;” said the third Committee-man; “they’ve put what will attract the public.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” said the little-eyed man stubbornly; “if Lord Miltoun will spend his evenings with lonely ladies, he can’t blame anybody but himself.”
Courtier looked from face to face.
“This closes my connection with the campaign,” he said: “What’s the address of this paper?” And without waiting for an answer, he took up the journal and hobbled from the room. He stood a minute outside finding the address, then made his way down the street.
CHAPTER VIII
By the side of little Ann, Barbara sat leaning back amongst the cushions of the car. In spite of being already launched into high-caste life which brings with it an early knowledge of the world, she had still some of the eagerness in her face which makes children lovable. Yet she looked negligently enough at the citizens of Bucklandbury, being already a little conscious of the strange mixture of sentiment peculiar to her countrymen in presence of herself – that curious expression on their faces resulting from the continual attempt to look down their noses while slanting their eyes upwards. Yes, she was already alive to that mysterious glance which had built the national house and insured it afterwards – foe to cynicism, pessimism, and anything French or Russian; parent of all the national virtues, and all the national vices; of idealism and muddle-headedness, of independence and servility; fosterer of conduct, murderer of speculation; looking up, and looking down, but never straight at anything; most high, most deep, most queer; and ever bubbling-up from the essential Well of Emulation.
Surrounded by that glance, waiting for Courtier, Barbara, not less British than her neighbours, was secretly slanting her own eyes up and down over the absent figure of her new acquaintance. She too wanted something she could look up to, and at the same time see damned first. And in this knight-errant it seemed to her that she had got it.
He was a creature from another world. She had met many men, but not as yet one quite of this sort. It was rather nice to be with a clever man, who had none the less done so many outdoor things, been through so many bodily adventures. The mere writers, or even the ‘Bohemians,’ whom she occasionally met, were after all only ‘chaplains to the Court,’ necessary to keep aristocracy in touch with the latest developments of literature and art. But this Mr. Courtier was a man of action; he could not be looked on with the amused, admiring toleration suited to men remarkable only for ideas, and the way they put them into paint or ink. He had used, and could use, the sword, even in the cause of Peace. He could love, had loved, or so they said: If Barbara had been a girl of twenty in another class, she would probably never have heard of this, and if she had heard, it might very