Complete Works of a E W Mason

by A. E. W. Mason

  Cynthia was silenced, but not convinced. There must be hundreds of instances to confute him, only for the moment she could not remember any of them. And one quality in Captain Rames impressed her.

  “You speak as if you had thought all these things out,” she said.

  “I have had to,” he replied.

  “I wonder that you went into the navy at all.”

  “My father put me there,” he answered.

  Cynthia looked him over again, noting the strong, square face, the direct, the practical, common-sense, uninspired look of him. He would get on without a doubt. There was a great deal of force to push him on, and no great delicacy of character to hold him back. Scruples would not trouble him, and he would not fail of friends. He was of the type which makes friends easily. Even she herself was attracted. He would get on probably by trampling upon others, but he would do it good-humoredly, and with no desire to cause unnecessary pain. There are men, after all, who put nails in their boots to do the trampling.

  “I wonder, with your views,” she said, upon an impulse, “that you didn’t leave the navy long ago and go into the city.”

  Harry Rames looked at her quickly.

  “It’s rather curious that you should have said that; for, a few years ago, I was actually thinking of the city, and wondering whether I could make a fortune quickly there.”

  Cynthia laughed suddenly. Her suggestion had been uttered in sarcasm. Youth is disinclined to rate the making of money high in its standard of careers. Captain Ramos would never have passed the turnstile had she spoken with him when the turnstile was.

  “What held me back,” he continued, quite unconscious that he was toppling off a hero’s perch, — and indeed he would have been totally indifferent had he known,— “what held me back was the knowledge that I should be beginning too old. One has so very little time,” he exclaimed with a touch of passion in his voice. “I would like to go on living and living and living for a century. As it is, one begins at twenty at the earliest, and then with luck one may have fifty-five years — that’s all,” and the prospect of the disintegration of his powers at the early age of seventy-five affected him with so much melancholy that Cynthia laughed again, but this time with a clear and joyous ring of amusement.

  “Never mind, Captain Rames, I am sure you will live every day of your fifty-five years, and that is more than all can say.”

  “They are only thirty-five now,” he grumbled. “However,” — he was not to be diverted from the pleasant business of unfolding his character,— “I might still have gone into the city, when one morning in June, as I was walking round the corner of Buckingham Palace to Constitution Hill, I saw on the other side of the road the president of the Geographical Society. I knew him slightly. I had read of the expedition; I was aware that he was organizing it. It came upon me in a flash, ‘By George, here’s my chance at last,’ and I ran across the road and applied for the command.”

  Cynthia nodded her head.

  “So that’s how you became connected with the expedition — a pure piece of chance,” she said slowly. “If you hadn’t turned round that corner to Constitution Hill — —”

  “Oh, I should have dropped across something else, no doubt,” said Rames.

  “And now you are going into Parliament.”

  Cynthia was endeavoring to readjust her forecasts with the facts.

  “If I get elected,” said Rames.

  “Oh, you will get elected,” replied Cynthia confidently, but there was no admiration in her confidence. It was almost disdainful. “They will call you ‘Breezy Harry Rames,’ and they will elect you by an immense majority.”

  “I am very glad you think that,” Rames returned imperturbably; and he leaned forward with his elbow on his knees and spoke to her upon an altogether different note; so that the disdain died out of her face. He told her how in answer to Henry Smale’s invitation he had gone down to Westminster in the afternoon, had sent in his card, had waited by the rails in the great round of St. George’s Hall. Smale had come out from the House, and had fetched him down the stone passage into the lobby. A great man was speaking, and the lobby was nearly empty. But he finished his speech in a few moments, and the doors burst open and there was an eruption of members from the Chamber. Some stood in groups talking eagerly, others hurried to the libraries and the smoking-room, and barristers walked up and down in pairs, talking over their cases for the morrow. There was not a thing in that lobby, from the round clock above the doors of the House to the post-office and the whip’s rooms which had not impressed itself vividly upon Rames’s mind. Every now and then the doors would swing open as a member passed into the Chamber, and just for a moment Rames had a glimpse of the green benches, saw the great mace gleam upon the table, the books and the three clerks gowned and wigged behind it, and behind the clerks the dim figure of the Speaker under the canopy of his chair.

  Of what he saw on that afternoon Rames spoke with an enthusiasm and a modesty which quite took Cynthia by surprise. He saw dignity in every detail, was prepared to magnify with great meanings the simplest ceremony and form. He could not but impress her with his picture, so greatly impressed was he himself, so keenly had he longed to walk unchallenged down that forbidden way between the rails and to pass through the swing doors over the matting to his place on the green benches. People in the streets might sneer, or go about their business unconcerned. The cynics might talk of the Ins and Outs, and speak of Parliament as the most expensive game in which a race of players of games indulges, but there in that small room, with the soft light pouring down from the roof, and very often the morning light streaming in through the clerestory windows, the great decisions were ratified which might hamper or advance the future of forty millions.

  Henry Smale had paced the lobby for half an hour with Rames, setting before him clearly the risks which he would run.

  “I don’t want to advise you one way or the other,” said Smale, “but it is not as if you had no career, and you should come to your decision with your eyes open. I speak to you as to one of the ambitious. If you go in, I take it, you go in with an eye on the Treasury bench. Well, I can tell you this: the House of Commons makes a few, but it breaks a few, and if it advances some, it mars a good many. Poverty is a serious hindrance, for it means that you cannot give the time to the House of Commons which it now claims.”

  “There are the barristers,” objected Rames.

  “The House of Commons is in their line of business,” returned Henry Smale. “The highest offices of the law are reached through the House of Commons. Moreover, the questions which arise for debate here have often been the subject already of suits in the law courts. They have acquired, too, the knack of extracting rapidly the essential things out of a paper or a bill. Thus, the barristers come especially equipped. Yet, even so, very often they do not make their mark. And here is a point for you, Captain Rames.” Henry Smale turned with a warning finger upraised and stopped in his walk. “The most distinguished men enter this House and never get the ear of it. The House of Commons is not ungenerous, but for eight hours a day through a long portion of the year people are talking in that Chamber there, and it will not provide an audience unless, first, the speaker has something of his own to contribute, and, secondly, can express his contribution. It does not, on the one hand, ask for oratory; it is not, on the other, content even with exhaustive knowledge; it demands character, personality, the power of coining out of your knowledge some judgments of your own, the power of explaining your judgment in clear and intelligible phrases sufficiently vivid to arrest its attention. I admit at once that if you succeed, success here is sweeter than anywhere else; its recognition is so immediate. But, on the other hand, here disappointment is more bitter. To come in with ambition, and to be left behind in the race — there is no destiny more galling.”

  “Yes,” said Rames quietly, “I have thought over these things. There is that risk. I am prepared to take it.”

  “Very well,” returned Sm
ale, and once more he turned on the stone pavement, and with Rames at his side retraced his steps. “Let us suppose that you have got the ear of the House, that the benches fill up when you rise, and men stand at the bar to listen to you. Well, even so, you may lose your seat, and you may not yet have established yourself firmly enough to make your party find you another. There you are — out, your dreams dissolved, your ambitions stopped, yourself miserable, and your presence in this lobby an insignificance. Where you walked by right, you come as a guest; you have been, and you are not; you must turn to something else, while your thoughts are here, and very likely you are already too old to turn to something else.”

  “You put the worst side of it all in front of me, Mr. Smale.”

  “No,” replied Mr. Smale. “Visit the political clubs a couple of months after a general election, talk to the defeated candidates who two months back were members, you will know I am talking the truth. The place enmeshes you. And mind, not because of the sensations. The sensations happily are rare. It is a humdrum assembly. I remember once taking a foreigner into the strangers’ gallery at the time of a European crisis. An indiscreet letter had been sent. The foreigner was elated. He said to me, ‘This will be very interesting. The Commons will discuss the letter which has so convulsed Europe.’ But it was doing nothing of the kind. It was discussing whether the Tyne, Durham, and Hartlepool Railway paid its employees sufficiently well to justify Parliament in allowing it to build a bridge across a stream of which you have never heard.”

  Captain Rames smiled.

  “I see a good many men in this lobby,” he rejoined. “I do not notice that any of them are bored. Indeed, for the most part, they seem very busy.”

  “That is one of the tragedies of the House of Commons,” Smale replied. “There are so many men in who during the whole of each session are extremely busy doing nothing; they haven’t a moment to spare, they do nothing with so much energy and persistence. One moment they are in the library writing to a constituent who wants to know why the medal which his father earned in the Crimea has not yet arrived; the next moment they rush into the House because the famous Irishman with the witty tongue is up; they are off again to the outer lobby to tell a visitor that he can’t see the Prime-Minister— ‘Industry without work, idleness without rest,’ that is how this House was once described, and, believe me, the description is not inapt.”

  Thus said Henry Smale, but Harry Rames was not to be turned aside.

  “I will take all these risks very willingly, Mr. Smale,” he cried, “I want to be in here.”

  Henry Smale smiled, ceased from his arguments, and clapped Rames in a kindly fashion on the shoulder. “I have done my duty,” he said. “Come!”

  He led Rames through a little doorway at the side of which sat three or four messengers, and at the end of a narrow passage tapped upon a door.

  “Come in,” said a voice, and as Smale ushered in Harry Rames a man of pleasant address and an exquisite suit of clothes arose and welcomed them.

  “Hamlin,” said Henry Smale, “this is Captain Rames.”

  Mr. Hamlin shook hands cordially with Rames and invited him to a chair.

  “We shall be very glad to have you in the House,” he said. He beamed. He seemed to have been waiting for Captain Rames to complete his happiness. “I think Ludsey was suggested.”

  “Benoliel suggested it,” said Smale. “He’s a good judge too.”

  “There is no candidate arranged yet. I will write to Ludsey at once.”

  Smale and Rames left the room together.

  “I should think you might consider that settled,” said Smale.

  Rames thanked him and referred to Hamlin’s charm of manner. Smale’s small eyes twinkled.

  “That’s why he sits in that room. He’s the chief Whip.” And shaking hands with Rames Mr. Smale abruptly returned to the House.

  The gist of the conversation with Smale Rames told to Cynthia in the reception-room at the Admiralty, and she listened with a growing interest. Then once more his note changed. He spoke with a boyish enthusiasm of his aims. To force an entrance into that arena; the entrance gained, to fight himself into the station of a great man; ultimately to govern and exercise authority — the note of personal ambition rose to a pitch of exultation in his voice. Of principles he obviously had no care, theories of politics were to him of no account. He was the political adventurer pure and simple. Cynthia sat with her eyes of dark blue clouded, and a real disappointment at her heart. She raised her face to his, and a little smile trembled upon her lips, and even her voice shook ever so slightly.

  “You have been very honest to me about it all,” she said. “I thank you for that.”

  Captain Rames was a trifle bewildered. He could not see that he had anything to conceal.

  “Good-night,” she said as she rose, “I see my friend Mrs. Royle waiting for me.”

  She gave him her hand and moved away for a few steps and then stopped. Harry Rames was at her side before she had stopped. She turned to him timidly with the blood mounting very prettily into her cheeks.

  “I suppose,” she said, “that your journey to the South really counts now for very little in your thoughts. Yet you must have had a great many wishes for your success sent to you from all parts of the world before you started. I wonder you can forget them all, and leave that work unfinished.”

  It seemed to Captain Rames that she had hit upon a rather far-fetched argument to persuade him to a second journey to the South.

  “Well, I am getting a good many wishes for my success now, and I hear them spoken,” he said with a smile. “It is true that I got all sorts of messages and telegrams before I sailed to the South. But to tell you the truth I was rather too busy to read them. I have got them all tied up somewhere in a brown-paper parcel.”

  Cynthia seemed actually to flinch. She turned away abruptly.

  “I wanted to ask of you a favor,” said Rames. “Mr. Benoliel said that you lived near Ludsey. You could do a great deal if you would help me. Will you?”

  Cynthia turned back to him, her eyes shone angrily, the blood came into her cheeks in a rush.

  “No,” she said decisively, and without another word she walked away.

  “I might have struck her,” thought Captain Rames. He knew nothing of a telegram from the Daventry estancia which lay forgotten in that brown-paper parcel.

  None the less he walked home across the Mall treading upon air. Great people had moved out of their way to make his acquaintance; Cabinet ministers had promised to speak for him; important ladies had smiled their friendliest. He looked back upon the days of his insignificance, and his heart was buoyant within him. Certainly one girl with dark-blue eyes and a face like a rose-leaf had presumed to disapprove of him. But there! Girls! You never knew what odd notions nested in their pretty heads. If a man on the make steered his course by a girl’s favor, he would soon shipwreck on a snag. However, this girl must be soothed down. Harry Rames could not afford to have an enemy at Ludsey. But he had no doubt that he could soothe her down. He walked home, softly whistling under his breath.

  Cynthia for her part went home in a different mood. She had lost another illusion to-night.

  CHAPTER XII

  LUNGATINE

  THE THREATENED DISSOLUTION was, after all, postponed, and through the autumn months Captain Rames went busily up and down between London and Ludsey. He made his head-quarters at an hotel on a climbing street in the thick of the town, and spent his days in the public view and his nights at meetings and at local festivities.

  Cynthia Daventry, five miles away, heard stories of his indefatigable energy and once or twice she met him in the streets; and once or twice he snatched an afternoon and swept over in a motor-car to see her. She welcomed him with a pleasure which she rather resented, and not for worlds would she have asked him how his campaign was faring. She did not, however, have to ask. For either Diana Royle was present and eagerly questioned him, or if Cynthia were alone he plunged into th
e subject himself. Captain Rames was at some pains to amuse her and he succeeded. Little incidents of the campaign, whether they told against himself or not; sketches of queer characters whom he came across; an anecdote now and then, drawn from the ancient history of the City — he poured them out to her, making it quite clear with an apparently ingenuous frankness that he had deliberately stored them in his memory purely for her amusement. He was engaged in the work of soothing her down. Diana Royle would rhapsodize after he had whirled away in a cloud of dust.

  “What a wonderful man! How energetic! How clever!”

  “And how complacent!” said Cynthia.

  “What high principle!” Diana gushed lyrically. “What character!”

  “And what cunning!” added Cynthia, with a droop of her lips.

  Diana tapped the floor with an irritable foot.

  “Very well, darling. Look for an angel, by all means. You will be very glad of a man later on.” Then she laughed pleasantly. “But I am not deceived. You talk lightly of him when he is gone, but when he is here you fix your big eyes on him, and, though you say nothing, every movement of you asks for more.”

  Cynthia was startled.

  “Well, perhaps I do,” she admitted. “I suppose that I have a kind of hope that I will hear, not more, but something different from what I am hearing.”

  “That’s so like you, my dear,” Diana rejoined; she was all sugar and vinegar. “If Julius Cæsar came back to earth, you would want him different. But that’s the way with romantic people. They look for heroes all day and never see them when they knock at the front door.”

  Cynthia laughed good-humoredly. There was this much of truth in Diana Royle’s attack. She had been searching through the words of Harry Rames all the while when he was uttering them for a glimpse of some other being beside the man on the make. Certain qualities she recognized. Enthusiasm, for instance. But it was enthusiasm for the arena, not for any cause to be won there. A shrewd foresight again was evident. But it was foresight to pluck the personal advantage. Here, it seemed to her, was the conscience of the country stirring on all sides to the recognition of great and unnecessary evils in its midst, and Harry Rames was alone unaffected. Yet in a measure she was impressed. He had so closely laid his plans. He gave her yet more evidence when he came again.