Part 6

What they could have to say to one another in the window-seat, no one could imagine. They were neither of them great talkers; everybody knew that. Yet there was Prince Dwala, with his grave face tilted to one side, eagerly drinking in her words, answering rapidly, decisively; and Lady Wyse giggling like a school-girl, blinking away tears of laughter from her violet eyes. Such a thing had never been seen. How long had they known one another? Never met till this evening. Nonsense; he’s there every afternoon.

* * * * *

Whatever the subject of the duologue may have been, the effect of it on Lady Wyse was of the happiest kind. She was metamorphosed; radiant, and, for her, gracious; transfused with life, she seemed taller and larger than before.

The Huxtable’s grim face was wreathed, in spite of him, in smiles; a flush of pleasure peeped out from under his bristling hair as Lady Wyse stopped Dwala before him and demanded an introduction.

‘I’ve heard of you so often, Mr. Huxtable. My father knew your uncle the Judge. I hope you’ll come to some of my Thursdays.’

The scent of her new mood spread abroad like the scent of honey, and the flies came clustering round her. Chief among them Lord Glendover, the Cabinet Minister, who had made four remarks in the course of the evening--all of them foolish. Tall, lean, hairy, brown and grizzled, he was one of those men who, though neither wise, clever, strong, nor careful, convey a sense of largeness and deserved success. He would have been important, even as a gardener; he would have ruined the flower-beds, but could never have been dismissed. His only assessable claim to greatness lay in the merit of inheriting a big name and estate. He was, in point of fact, quite stupid; but his opinions, launched from such a dock, went out to sea with all the impressiveness of Atlantic liners, and the smaller craft made way respectfully.

Sir Benet Smyth winged after him, buoyant with the grave flightiness of diplomacy, and luminous with the coming glory of his tour of the Courts. For the Government, despairing of reforms in the army, was meditating a wholesale purchase of foreign goodwill, a cheap scheme of national defence, founded on the precept, _les petits cadeaux font l’amitié_. The details were not yet made known, but rumour had it for certain that the Spanish Infanta was to get the Colonelcy of the Irish Guards, the Mad Mullah was to get the Garter, and President Roosevelt was to get Jamaica. It was also said by some that the Government was going to strike out a new line in honorary titles by making the Sultan of Turkey Bishop of Birmingham: but this was not certain.

Sir Benet and Lord Glendover sat down with Dwala, the General, the Biologist, the Baron, and Huxtable, in a semi-circle centring on Lady Wyse.

‘We’ve been wondering, dear Lady Wyse,’ said the Biologist, ‘what was the subject of your engrossing conversation with the Prince.’

‘I can guess de sopchect,’ said Baron Blumenstrauss. ‘It was loff ... or beesness.’

‘You were so animated, both of you.’

‘Den it was bote. De Breence would nod be animated by beesness, and de laty would nod be animated by loff!’

‘Ha, ha!’ said Lord Glendover, vaguely discerning the outline of an epigram; ‘that’s a right-and-lefter.’

‘You’re quite right, Baron,’ said Lady Wyse: ‘it was both. We’ve been making a compact, I think you call it. The Prince puts himself unreservedly into my hands. I’m to do whatever I like with him.’

‘Gompacts ...’ began the Baron, and broke off.

The Biologist looked as if he would like to kick him, but lacked the physical courage.

‘I’ve been telling the Prince he’s too modest,’ said Lady Wyse.

‘P’r’aps you didn’t lead him on enough,’ suggested the diplomat; at which the Biologist vented a sickly grin, and Lady Wyse hit him very hard with her fan.

‘Too modest about himself, I was going to say, if I had a chance of ending my sentences with all you wags about. A man of his talents oughtn’t to be contented to loaf about doing nothing. He might be anything with his intellect--a great writer, or a scientist, or a diplomat, or a financier.’

‘Or a tinker or a tailor, or a soldier or a sailor,’ said the Biologist.

‘Do you think that I’m joking, you idiot?’ said Lady Wyse, emitting a cold shaft of light that went to his backbone.

‘No, of course not, dear Lady Wyse! I was only thinking....’

‘Soldier or sailor--confound you, sir!’ said the little General fiercely. ‘There’s no need to drag in the services.’

‘No, no,’ said Lady Wyse: ‘we were talking of intellect.’

‘One isn’t a scientist by wishing it,’ said the Biologist. ‘One has to go through the mill. Besides....’

‘Well, a diplomat, then. He’d look sweet in a cocked hat.’

‘Ah, no really, Lady Wyse, I pro-test,’ said Sir Benet; ‘you don’t know what a grind one has.... Besides....’

‘Ah! I forgot,’ said Lady Wyse, playing with her fan. ‘Prince Dwala’s a black. Isn’t he what’s called a black, Sir Benet?’

‘Well, really, Lady Wyse!’

‘Don’t mind me,’ said Dwala.

‘No, no!’ interposed the Biologist: ‘it’s quite a misuse of terms I assure you. The word is applied loosely to Africans; but it is a mistake to use it in speaking of the Archipelago. The Soochings, as I understand, belong to the Malayan family, with a considerable infusion, no doubt, of Aryan blood. “Dwa-la,” “Two Names,” is practically Aryan. So that the Prince belongs, in point of fact, to the same stock as ourselves. In fact, Lady Ballantyne mistook him for an Englishman....’

‘She’s as blind as a bat,’ said Lady Wyse. ‘Still, black or white, he belongs to a very old family.’

‘One of the oldest in the world,’ said Dwala.

‘Well, never mind. Shall we make a writer of him? I’m sure that doesn’t require any preparation.’

‘Ha, ha, that’s good!’ bellowed Lord Glendover. ‘Here, Howland-Bowser’--he beckoned the journalist, who was hovering near the group. ‘Lady Wyse says any fool can be a writer.’ He gripped him by the biceps, presenting him.

‘You know Captain Howland-Bowser, don’t you, Lady Wyse, our great literary man?’

‘No,’ said Lady Wyse, looking calmly at her fan: ‘never heard of him.’

‘Aha, Bowser!’ said the Baron, with a nod.

The Captain withdrew in good order, discomfited but dignified.

‘You’re very discouraging, all of you,’ pursued the great lady. ‘I suppose the Baron is now going to tell me that you have to study for twenty years before you can set up as a money-lender.’

‘Dere is only one brofession,’ said the Baron thoughtfully, ‘where one can be great man widout knowing anysing; bot it is de most eenfluential of all.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Bolitics.’

‘Capital!’ said Lady Wyse. ‘We’ll put Prince Dwala in the Cabinet.’

Lord Glendover rose from his chair at this, in what might almost be called a ‘huff.’ His gaunt, important face hung over the group like the top of an old Scotch fir.

‘I don’t know whether this sort of thing is thought funny,’ he said, putting up his large mouth to one side to help support the eye-glass which he was busy placing. ‘But if you imagine, Baron Blumenstrauss, that men are entrusted with responsibility for the welfare of thirty-eight millions of human beings without the most careful process of selection, you are most confoundedly mistaken. I never heard such a statement! You’d like to have an entrance examination instituted for Cabinet Ministers, I suppose?’

‘Excellent ideea!’ said the Baron.

‘Sit down,’ said Lady Wyse.

‘Then all I can say is ... you’re an Anarchist! I’ve served my country for forty years,’ he pursued, in a voice broken with emotion, resuming his seat. ‘When I came down, a bright young boy, from Oxford, instead of running about amusing myself, as I might have done, I slaved away for years in an Under-Secretaryship....’

‘This is all in “Who’s Who,”’ said Lady Wyse. ‘We’re talking about Prince Dwala now.’

It was embarrassing and even painful to the smaller quantities of the group to see that great noble child, Lord Glendover, being shaken up and dumped down in this unceremonious way. The diplomat played with his hat, while Huxtable and the Biologist kept very still, with their eyes on the ground. Dwala himself might have been looking on at a game of spillikins for all the interest he showed.

‘Cabinet Meenister is beeg to begeen?’ propounded the Baron tentatively.

‘It’s impossible!’ murmured Lord Glendover.

‘I don’t know whether you clearly understood what I said about a “compact” just now,’ said Lady Wyse, sitting back, beautifully inert, with her hands in her lap. ‘It’s meant to be taken quite literally. The Prince and I have entered into an offensive and defensive alliance. Whatever we do, we do in common. We have decided that he is to be a Cabinet Minister. You see? If it’s impossible, make it possible. You understand me now, no doubt? I’m pretty clear. You’ll have to exert yourselves, all of you.’ Her eyes travelled slowly from face to face, looking in turn at Lord Glendover, the Diplomat, the Baron, the Biologist, and Huxtable.

‘Yes, you too, Mr. Huxtable.’

Then she suddenly yawned a cat-like yawn, and sauntered forth to where Lady Lillico stood.

‘Good-bye; I’ve had a charming evening. Is this your boy?’

‘Yes, this is Pendred.’

‘He looks very presentable.’ She nodded and passed on.

Lord Glendover and the Diplomat still sat in their places when the little group dispersed. Lord Glendover rubbed his knees. Their eyes met at last, with the sly surprise of two naughty boys who have just had their ears boxed; smiling defiance, altruistically--each for the other; inwardly resolving to incur no graver danger.

Lord Glendover had only one tiny grain of hope left; he was uneasy till it was shaken out of the sack. He caught Lady Wyse near the door.

‘Do you know that Prince Dwala isn’t a British subject even?’

‘Isn’t he? Make him one.’

‘How am I to make him one?’

‘Oh, the usual way, whatever it is. Find out.’

In the next room she was stopped again. The Biologist came writhing through the grass.

‘I’ve thought of a little plan, dear Lady Wyse, for starting Prince Dwala on his political career.’

‘Have you? I hope it’s a good one.’

‘First rate. Our member, Crayshaw--he sits for London University, you know....’

‘Hang the details! Ah, there he is!’

Prince Dwala, with his henchman at his side, was lying in wait for Lady Wyse by the second door.

‘Take the ugly duckling away,’ said Lady Wyse; ‘I want to talk to the Prince.’

The Biologist buttonholed poor Huxtable and walked him off. Dwala and Lady Wyse stood face to face again.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘Well?’ he answered.

They remained for some time in a large, light, comfortable silence.

‘I’d been looking forward to another talk with you,’ said Lady Wyse.

‘Had you?’

‘But I see that we really have nothing to say to one another.’

‘Absolutely nothing.’

‘And never shall,’ she added. ‘It wouldn’t matter if we never met again.’

‘Not a bit.’

They stood looking brightly at one another for a minute or two.

‘What fun it is!’

‘Grand!’ said Dwala.

She nodded and went home.

XIX

Hitherto, Dwala had been great, but great only in the relative sense, in comparison with you and me and the Man in the Street; great to the capacity of a vast austerely-fronted house in Park Lane; overwhelming for us on the pavement who fancy him within, infusing that big block with a huge cubic soul; who catch glimpses of him whirling out of the big gates to take tea, no doubt, with Ambassadors and Duchesses, and whirling in again with some real live Royalty--so rumours the little crowd outside as the stout policeman touches his helmet. Not immeasurable, however, to the big-calibred folk who eat with him, talk with him, see him starting on routes of acquaintance which they have long since travelled: even to Huxtable, mere man, a calculable quantity.

But a new movement was beginning, an upheaval; volcanic forces were at work; the throes of earthquake, striking premonitory awe into the hearts of men, presaged a rearrangement of geography. And slowly the Great World became aware that a new mountain was rising in its midst.

The Dwala Naturalisation Bill, introduced in the Lords, had run a calm and rapid course, and Dwala was an Englishman. The journals recorded it without exultation: it was placed among the ‘Items of Interest’ in the ‘Daily Mail.’ But soon there followed articles on his scientific interests: it appeared that he was already an eminent philatelist; Huxtable had bought big stamp-collections for him at the sales--Huxtable had innocent tastes which he was now able to enjoy by proxy. The Prince was interested in Antarctic Exploration--at least, he had signed a cheque for a thousand pounds for the Relief Expedition; in astronomy, too, for he had promised a new telescope to the Greenwich Observatory. His claims to represent Science in Parliament--since he had decided to go into politics--were indisputable; and there was ground for the rumour that London University had settled upon him for their representative, provided that one or two stipulations were fulfilled. If not, the Government had a safe seat for him in Cornwall.

His private life became a matter of public interest. He had bought Wynfield Castle in Yorkshire; he was fitting it with lifts and electric light; the Saharan Emperor had promised to come over for the shooting next autumn; Sir Benet Smyth, who had arranged the visit, would be there. There was no truth in the rumour of his engagement to Lady Alice Minnifer, Lord Glendover’s daughter; the rumour was at any rate premature.

Politicians began to frequent his ways: he was not destined to be an ordinary humdrum Member, paying a heavy price to be driven in and out of lobbies by a sheep-dog; he was going to be a power. Of what nature, nobody knew exactly; his opinions could only be guessed. That mattered very little. All the public has to do is to get the big man and plant him in office; party discipline will do the rest. There were fifteen parties in Parliament, and only two lobbies for them to vote in; leaders with opinions were a drug in the market; better the large unifying vagueness of a mind with none. Why he was to be great no one clearly knew; the fiat had gone forth from some hidden chamber of the citadel; or it had descended inscrutably from heaven, or risen on the breath of the sweating multitude: anyhow, there was a general agreement of unknown origin to magnify the name of Dwala. These things are mysterious, and the responsibility cannot be fixed till the time of recrimination comes.

Huxtable was happy. Well he might be, lucky dog! His uncles smiled and slapped him on the back in public in their big successful way. Lady Glendover remembered his face; Pendred Lillico went about boasting that young Huxtable had been his fag at Eton. These things were pleasant to the Huxtable mind; pleasant also the graciousness of Lady Wyse, who distinguished him at her Thursdays above his betters in the social hierarchy.

Yet there were things in Park Lane that he could have wished different. Of course he had done what he could to the right human furnishing of the big house; he had secured his patron the necessary atmosphere of awestruck service, silent efficiency and unassuming pomp. There was the stout butler, who looked like a conscientious low-church Bishop left over from a dinner-party, eager to please but uneasy at finding himself still there. He went about the house silently in flat slippers, seeking a clue to his identity, and looking out of window from time to time, as if he meditated escaping in search of his See. Tall scarlet footmen, with white legs, borrowed from some giant balustrade: stately animals, ‘incedingly upborne,’ like Vashti in ‘Villette’--alert but always perpendicular, eager as midshipmen to the domestic call, blighting visitors at the entry with the frigid consciousness of social difference. For the rest of the economy, invisible hands and watchful eyes; she-brownies that came and went unseen; bells that rang in distant corridors, summoning punctual feet to unknown observances; green-baize doors that swung and hid the minor mysteries of the great life.

These things were good. But what of Hartopp and the little girl?

XX

Huxtable’s advertisement in the ‘Morning Post’ had brought applications from 130 valets. It brought also a letter from a country clergyman, beseeking another chance for Prosser--ex-burglar, son of a country poacher, a reformed character--lately returned to his father’s humble home in penitence from Portland, after five years of penal servitude. The blameless, colourless remainder had no chance against him. Dwala was delighted. Prosser came--a little pale man, trim and finicking, with shining eyes; nothing of the brutal house-breaker in him; a man of patient, orderly mind, who had gone to Burglary as another man might go to the Bar, because he had ‘influence,’ and no aptitude for any other calling. With his father to back him, he had a connection ready-made among the ‘fences,’ or receivers of stolen goods. He had not thought himself justified in throwing away such chances with a wife and child to keep. He studied the arts of valeting and butlering; entered gentlemen’s houses with a good character from a friendly ‘fence,’ and left them with the jewellery and plate, till he was lagged over a wretched little job in the suburbs, and taken to Portland Bill, where one of his mates--a fraudulent low-church company-promoter--converted him and showed him the wickedness of what he had been doing in all its coarse enormity.

His wife had gone to the bad during his absence, and the little girl had been adopted and cared for by another friendly ‘fence’--an afflicted villain of the name of Hartopp. So much he had heard; but he had not enough the courage of his new innocence to go into that dangerous neighbourhood to find her.

Dwala elicited these facts in cross-examination. He was deeply interested in this new side of life; and we must, perforce, follow him into it, though it has little apparent relevance to the present course of the story.

For Dwala’s political eminence is a ‘set piece’ which took some time in the preparing; and in order to give the stage carpenters time to get through with their work, it is convenient at this point to get done with one or two necessary ‘flats.’ Besides, the social heights to which Fate brought him are giddy places for those who have not strong and accustomed heads, and it is safer to descend now and then and amble in the plain, among the greasy multitude that crawls so irrelevantly below--despicable to the mountaineers, who look down and mark the wind-borne cheers, risking their heroic lives at every step among the precipices, yet asking nothing more of the valley than a distant awe, and a handful of guides and porters, with baskets of meat, well-filled, and topped with bottles of good champagne.

Prosser passed under the trees to Hyde Park Corner, bound on his daily walk. His eyes were bright, and the world swam by as unimportant as a dream; for Prosser, in the respectable seclusion of his room, had taken to drinking--steady drinking day by day, without resistance or remorse. Life, to which he returned from jail with such hungry imagination, had suddenly revealed itself to him in its ugly arid nakedness: his conversion and good resolutions had stripped it of all its meaning; now it was an old worn billiard-table, with no balls or cues to it; cumbering the room, importunately present, grim and terrible in its powers of insistent boredom. To hide from it--to crouch and hide with his head between his hands, against the dirty floor--that was the only resource since he had renounced the game and sent the balls away. He drank and was happy; not actively happy, but deviating this way and that into dreamy vacancy and strong disgust, escaping the awful middle way of boredom. He felt his control going, and he smiled triumphantly at the coming of his hideous mistress. Often he thought of walking into the servants’ hall and boasting of his secret. But the coarse activity of real life dispelled the longing as soon as he neared his audience. He remained trim, upright, and serenely deferent, with shining eyes and pursed dry lips.

At Hyde Park Corner a little crowd was gathered about a musician--an old man, with a leg and a half and a crutch, and a placard ‘BLIND’ on his chest. He had just finished a last shrill _bravura_ on the penny whistle. A respectable wet-eyed girl in black went round with a bag and collected money.

‘_Pity_ the poor blind!’ shouted the musician in a sudden angry imperative.

Prosser wagged his head in a soliloquy of recognition; and gazed giddily at the little girl.

‘Nobody got a penny for the poor blind?’ asked the angry voice.

‘’Ark at ’im,’ said a woman. ‘Why, the gal’s got a nole ’at full!’

‘What girl?’ said the old man sharply.

At that moment the girl dodged through the little crowd and disappeared, bag and all, down Piccadilly.

‘Stop her! stop her!’ cried one or two ineffective voices.

The old man dashed his penny whistle angrily on the ground, buried his face in his hands, turned to the wall, and broke into shoulder-shaking sobs.

‘What, ain’t that your gal?’ asked a compassionate stout man in black, with a worn leather bag, touching him gently on the heaving shoulder--a dentist from the slums, one might guess him at.

‘Small girl in black, was it?’ asked the blind man.

‘Yes, I think so. I didn’t exactly notice.’

‘Sort of orphan-looking girl, very quiet?’

‘Yes, that’s her.’

‘That girl’s a----little blood-sucker!’ said the old man. ‘Wherever I go, there’s that girl comes and collects the coppers kind people mean for me. Leave me alone, all of you! Clear out! I’ve broke my whistle now, and haven’t a copper to get another, let alone a crust of bread these three days.’

‘What a shime!’ commented the crowd. ‘Call ’erself a gal! I’d gal ’er! A reg’lar little Bulgarian, that’s what she is!’

‘Now, then, move on there,’ commanded a big policeman, bearing down on the crowd, confident in his own broad momentum, like a punt among the reeds. ‘What’s all this?’

‘They’ve been robbin’ a pore blind man, that’s what it is,’ said the benevolent dentist; at which the policeman rounded on him sharply with extended, directing arm.

‘Now then, _you_ move on there!’ And the dentist retired submissively in the direction indicated, hovering in safety.

A benevolent, bent old gentleman, lately helped by the porter down the steps of one of the big bow-windowed clubs, came hobbling up on three legs, and stopped and asked questions. The policeman saluted. The little crowd closed round them; the black helmet in the midst leaned this way and that, arbitrating between misfortune and benevolence. Judgment and award were soon achieved; the black helmet heaved and turned about, and the crowd scattered obediently east and west.

‘What a nice old gentleman!’ said one of many voices passing Prosser.

‘Give ’im a sovring, did he?’

‘Don’t you wish _you_ was blind, Miss ’Ankin?’

‘Lot of sov’rings _you’d_ give me!’

‘Gow on!’

‘What did they take ’im up for then?’

‘On’y takin’ ’im over the road, stoopid.’

Prosser stood and watched the old man cross in the constable’s grip; saw him loosed into Grosvenor Place; followed, and watched him as he clumped his way along the blank brick wall, leaning forward from the crutch, grotesquely and terribly, towards his extended arm, which beat the pavement with a stick before him, driving pedestrians to right and left, crying furiously as he went ‘_Pity_ the poor blind!’ and stopping now and then to mumble the sovereign and chuckle to himself.

Near Victoria Station he stopped, and thrashed the kerb. A girl slipped out from somewhere and took his arm; the same girl who had so lately robbed him.

‘That you, Joey?’ said the blind man.

‘What luck, Toppin?’

The old man grinned.

‘Got a plunk, Joey; benevolent gent.’

‘My, what a soft!’

‘Just take me over to Victoria Street. Wait at the Monico; ain’t safe here.’