Complete Works of Ford Madox Ford, page 441
Mr. Reginald again pulled out his watch.
“I’m going to the west gallery now,” he said, and he went out into the hall. His footsteps in the long uncarpeted corridors could be heard moving far away. There would be the echoing rattle of shutters being closed to, then more footsteps, then another rattle. Into the silent house came the drilling sound of the approach of a motor car, and, after many more noises echoing and reverberating through the immense pile of Corbury, Lennards, the butler, came to the open door and said that Mr. Drupe would like to speak to Mr. Blood. Mr. Blood said:
“Drupe? Oh! Let him come in.”
Mr. Drupe, the political agent of Mr. Fleight, was introduced. He was a blonde man with a face tanned to the colour of brick dust, little hair upon his head and none upon his cheeks and lips. He was dressed in a long, light brown mackintosh and he was striking his motor gloves together to knock the dust out of them.
“Where’s the candidate?” Mr. Blood said.
“That’s just what I was going to ask you,” Mr. Drupe ejaculated. He began groping in his pocket delicately as if he disliked the feeling of the dust with which he was covered.
“He never turned up last night,” Mr. Blood commented.
“I didn’t suppose he would,” Mr. Drupe answered. “I had a telegram — if you don’t mind I won’t produce it, my pockets are too beastly to put my hands into — it says, however: ‘Detained by urgent private business. Do the best you can alone or resign my candidature.’”
“Where was it sent from?” Mr. Blood asked.
“It was sent,” Mr. Drupe answered, “from the West Strand Post Office at twenty-seven minutes past ten last night.”
“Then that’s no clue,” Mr. Blood said. “He might be in Hampstead and have sent a messenger with it. That Post Office is open all night. Or he might be anywhere else. I’m afraid you’ll have either to go on by yourself or resign for him.”
“How am I to go on by myself?” Mr. Drupe asked. “Well, you’ve got all those front bench speakers coming down to speak for him,” Mr. Blood said. “You could put up a fight.”
“Ah! but consider my reputation,” Mr. Drupe said. “I’ve never had a thing like this happen to me in all the course of my career.”
“But don’t you see, Mr. Drupe,” Mr. Blood pointed out, “if you could get him in the face of such adverse circumstances what an immense score it would be for you?”
“But I can’t!” Mr. Drupe said. “It’s absolutely impossible! Can’t you find him? What’s his confounded business?”
“It’s probably not any business at all,” Mr. Blood said. “It’s probably some woman.”
Mr. Drupe said: “Ah!” and then he added, “that’s the devil! That’s the very devil that all we agents have to contend with, that and thirst. If there’s ever any woman connected with a candidate you can bet your hat she’ll make a burst out just four days before the polling. They never consider the mess it gets us into, and we’ve got wives and families dependent on us like other persons. I’ve got three children myself, but no one ever thinks of the political agent as a citizen and father. What am I to do?”
Your feelings do you infinite credit, Mr. Drupe,” Mr. Blood said, “but their expression at this moment interrupts my thoughts. Just tell me this: Was your principal seen talking to any woman particularly yesterday?”
“He talked to a hundred and twenty,” Mr. Drupe said grimly, “I saw to that. Wives of voters. And he shook hands with every one of them.”
“But any woman particularly?” Mr. Blood asked.
“No,” the agent answered, “he behaved like the pink of propriety. He spoke at a meeting at Bolsover Cross Roads at seven. At twenty minutes past seven he visited every cottage in Bolsover. At a quarter past eight he motored back and addressed a mass meeting in the Market Hall. And then I saw him giving two women, a mother and a daughter, a lift home. And a very proper proceeding it was. I’ve told him that whenever he sees a mother and daughter on the road anywhere he’s always to offer them a lift. It produces no end of good feeling in the constituency.”
“What did they look like?” Mr. Blood asked.
“Oh! cheaply dressed,” Mr. Drupe answered; “you needn’t be alarmed. The mother might be a farm labourer’s wife and the daughter an assistant in one of the large drapers’ shops in the market place.”
“It’s my belief, then,” Mr. Blood said, “that he’s broken away. I’ve always expected that he’d break away. In fact, I felt it was coming when he stuck that passage about a small shop into his speech yesterday afternoon. I hadn’t sanctioned those words.”
“And very foolish they were, too,” Mr. Drupe said.
“No, they weren’t,” Mr. Blood answered. “Did you speak to any of the audience afterwards?”
“Only to about a dozen,” Mr. Drupe said.
“And weren’t they all small shopkeepers?” Mr. Blood asked; “and wasn’t every one of them as pleased as Punch?”
“Well, I’m not saying that they weren’t,” Mr. Drupe answered.
“Then what more do you want?” Mr. Blood questioned.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Drupe answered dejectedly. “I only know it’s unconventional. I don’t like it. I don’t like your candidate, and I don’t like his ways. I don’t believe he’s got a future, and for two pins I’d resign.”
“Now, look here, Drupe,” Mr. Blood said. “If you’ll take my advice you won’t. I believe Mr. Fleight is going to have the longest career of any man you’ve ever handled. I believe it and I know it, and if my head isn’t longer than yours I’ll give you leave to boil it and eat it with parsley sauce.”
“A lot of good that would do me,” Mr. Drupe said. “The point is, are you going to find my candidate and bring him back?”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Blood answered. “I don’t believe it matters. I’ll ask Reginald.”
Reginald was indeed at that moment coming back from the west door. He came in, exclaiming:
“I can give myself three-quarters of an hour, now!”
“The point is,” Mr. Blood said to his brother, “ought we to find Mr. Drupe’s candidate or ought we not? He appears to have gone off with some woman. Of course, you understand that he will come back.”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Reginald said; “what’s the chap aiming at?”
“Oh, he wants a long career and a safe seat,” Mr. Blood said. “He’s a sticker.”
“Then the position is pretty simple,” Mr. Reginald answered. “It doesn’t much matter whether he wins the first election or whether he loses it. In some ways it would be safer afterwards if he lost it. I’ll tell you why. If he wins it he’ll have to devote the greater part of his time to work in the House. But what’s wanted to make a safe seat is work in the constituency — long work and hard work. So that if he wins this election there’s always a chance that he might lose the next, whereas if he wins his second fight with the ground prepared, all he’s got to do is to go on ladling money into the institutions and the football clubs and all the other beanfeasts and he may hold the seat for ever and ever. What’s his chance of winning anyhow, supposing you have him on the ground all right?” Mr. Reginald asked of Mr. Drupe. “About even?”
“About even,” Mr. Drupe answered.
“Let me see if I’ve got the position about right,” Mr. Reginald remarked. “Byefleet for the last twenty years has been pretty safe for the Government. We’re Opposition, aren’t we? The Government party organisation in the constituency is weak, isn’t it? That’s to say, it’s grown negligent because the seat has always been considered safe. On the other hand, the late Government member’s friends are working all that they decently can against the present Government candidate. I understand they are disgusted because, after twenty years’ faithful political service, the best job they’ve been able to find for him is that of Consul in Jutland or Finland, or something of that sort. There aren’t, I believe, any disturbing factors — I mean that neither the Government nor the Opposition has got any political programme that the constituency or any constituency in the world cares twopence about. It’s just a straight party fight. Of course, the Government is slightly unpopular, because Governments always are. There are two auctioneers in Byefleet who are disgusted because they haven’t been given jobs as official surveyors. They’ve always been strong supporters of the Government hitherto, now they’re working as hard as they can against the party. On the other hand the two auctioneers who have got the jobs don’t like’em so much now they’ve got’em, and, anyhow, they’re too busy to do much for the party.”
“How did you know that?” Mr. Drupe asked sharply.
“Oh, I just guessed it,” Mr. Reginald answered. “It’s the sort of thing that always happens. They call it the swing of the pendulum, but that’s what it really is. Now, let’s sum up the position. I’m an engineer and I see things pretty well always as a matter of strains — one strain opposing another, and so on. Let’s see, then, what we’ve got. Put down one for the fact that Byefleet has always been a Government seat. That’s one. Put against it — 33 per cent, for the fact that the party organisation is rotten, -33 per cent, for the fact that the former member is secretly working against the present candidate, and’33 per cent, for the swing of the pendulum. That gives you one against the Government. So we’re all even and there’s no bothering politics. Now we’ve got to consider the candidate. There’s Mr. Gregory — the other fellow. He’s a stick, isn’t he? What have they put him up for? Just money? I thought so. He’s cotton; our man’s soap. There’s nothing to choose between those two commodities. Now what about our man’s personality? It’s good, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Drupe said. “Frankly I don’t know. The rank and file like him because he’s such an oddity. The leaders of the party here can’t stand him because he’s an atrocious little Jew. I’m blest if I know how to handle him. So, to tell the honest truth, I let him handle me. One of the great points about an election is the question of personalities. The other side has decided to go in for them thick and strong. They’ve got placards out showing Mr. Rothweil as a gentleman with a nose about two feet long stirring up a soap vat labelled ‘Filthy Lucre,’ and the inscription is ‘Englishmen vote for Englishmen and not for Jew sweaters.’ They’ve got another placard representing Mr. Rothweil with enormous drops of sweat pouring all off him. They’re putting it about the constituency in private that Mr. Rothweil’s father wasn’t really his father but that he’s illegitimate.”
“Well, that’s all right!” Mr. Blood said. “What about the personalities against the other chap?”
“That’s just the vexing part of it,” Mr. Drupe said, and he wiped his forehead with his dusty pocket handkerchief. “Mr. Rothweil absolutely won’t let us use a single one. Yet we’ve got some pretty splendid things against Mr. Gregory. He keeps pigs in his drawing room!”
“Don’t use them,” Mr. Reginald said. “It’s always a great pull not to have used personalities.” He turned upon his elder brother. “Now I’ll tell you what to do,” he said. “You’d better go and find your man. The chances are ten to one that he’s gone off with some woman, and it’ll be just your job to tell from the feel of things whether it’s the sort of woman to make a nasty scandal between now and the next general election or whether it isn’t. If it is, you’ll have to yank Mr. Rothweil straight here and he’ll get in with a majority of 130 or so. If it isn’t — if it’s quite a decent sort of woman — you’ll let him stop with her and the other chap will get in with a majority of something between one and ten. Because I’ll tell you a thing you haven’t noticed, Mr. Drupe, a matter that this time I know from personal observation amongst our own tenants. Mr. Gregory wears gloves when he shakes hands with the voters. That’s sufficient to dish him altogether. He has a new pair of gloves every day, and that’s been noticed, too — particularly amongst the railway workers in West Byefleet and the Purbeck suburbs.”
Mr. Drupe said, “By Jove! that’s enough to dish anybody. And to think I never noticed it!”
A deep depression settled down upon Mr. Drupe. “I never thought,” he said, “that I should come to be taught my trade.”
“Oh, don’t you mind being taught anything by Reginald!” Mr. Blood said. “He’s a perfect devil! He could teach anybody anything.” He stretched lazily and reluctantly. “I suppose,” he said, “it means my having out that beastly sixty horse-power. Unless you think I could do it by train.”
“You certainly can’t,” Mr. Reginald answered. “The best train you can get up to town now will take you four hours to do the thirty miles and then it’ll only land you at Charing Cross, whereas you can be in Hampstead in an hour and a half if you go over by the Tilbury Ferry.”
Mr. Blood looked at his brother with a sort of enquiring submissiveness.
“Hampstead?” he asked.
“Certainly, Hampstead!” Mr. Reginald answered, and Mr. Blood stood up with the air of a little boy who has been told what his job is.
“You’d better,” Mr. Reginald said to Mr. Drupe, “go into the dining-room and get Lennards to give you some cider and a sandwich. I want to say one word to my brother.”
And as Mr. Drupe’s heavy boots echoed through the noontide silence of the great house, Mr. Reginald turned gloomily upon Mr. Blood.
“The wicked thing,” he said, “that you’ve got up your sleeve, that you’ve been thinking of for the whole of this atrocious morning is that you mean to put me up as Government candidate against Mr. Rothweil at the next general election!”
“Oh you Derfect devil!” Mr. Blood said. “How did you guess that?” He didn’t, however, wait for an answer because he knew perfectly well how his brother’s powers of deduction worked, tranquilly and with certitude, to the exact end, and he added: “Of course, I shan’t put you to the strain unless it’s absolutely necessary. But you know what my views of you are, and you know I don’t stick at anything. Besides, the Chancellor of the Exchequer desires it.”
PART II
CHAPTER I
IT was about a quarter to two when Mr. Blood reached the shining façade of Palatial Hall, Hampstead. The famous and ornate mansion stood immensely high, its views embracing to the blue distances parts of the counties of Middlesex, Bucks, Herts and Oxfordshire. It was built from floor to roof of shining green and yellow tiles. The water-spouts were all of gilt lead and the windows, leaded eccentrically, were set with glasses of the brightest and richest colours and even in places with the matrices of precious stones. A long colonnade of marble pillars supporting a pitched roof of green tiles ran from the steep road up towards the front door. And this mansion had been the plaything of Mr. Aaron Rothweil, senior.
Mr. Blood climbed up the steep path of the colonnade and thundered on the door with sounds that reverberated into far distant courts. The manservant who opened the door Mr. Blood recognised as having been formerly in the service of his friend the Marquis of Abergeldie, and this relieved him of a dilemma. He was anxious to see the mistress of this mansion at as early an opportunity as might be possible.
“Dixon,” he said, “you know who I am” — and he made no effort to conceal the fact that he was hurried and in earnest. “Just tell me if Mr. Rothweil or Mr. Fleight, whichever it is, is at home, and just tell me, if he isn’t, where he is.”
“Everybody knows you, Mr. Blood,” the servant said.
“But I’m afraid we can’t help you much. The address that I’m forwarding his letters to is under cover of Mr. A. Rothweil and care of yourself at Corbury.”
“Yes, I know,” Mr. Blood said with some exasperation “But the point is that he’s disappeared.”
“Then you’d better, sir,” the servant said, “see her ladyship.”
“Who the devil’s her ladyship?” Mr. Blood asked.
“Her ladyship would be Mrs. Fleight,” the servant answered, “if it wasn’t that she was the Baroness di Sonnino — a Portuguese title, as I understand, sir.”
“Do you suppose she’d see me?” Mr. Blood asked.
“I can’t imagine,” Dixon answered, “any reason whatever why her ladyship should refuse to see you.”
“Then ask her,” Mr. Blood retorted.
The butler’s feet brushed, echoing, over the polished marble flooring. The whole of the large hall was of white marble inlaid with leaf decorations of ivory. The ceiling was supported by the famous twisted pillars of porphyry, and elevated upon the easel that stood upon the black skin of a bear, there was the famous Rembrandt. It faced exactly the front door and partly concealed the entrance into the next hall. It represented an old, yellow, and mournful Jew with a large black beard, who gazed pathetically at Mr. Blood. The butler returned and remarked: “Will you come this way, sir?” and Mr. Blood followed him round the famous Rembrandt.
He found himself descending steps of white alabaster into a dining hall that was all white. The walls were of alabaster, too, carved with low reliefs representing the King Assur-Bani-Pal in his war chariot, discharging arrows from a bow at gazelles, lions and partridges.
The eight pillars that supported the roof of this apartment were also of alabaster, and round them, in low relief, there marched processions of maneless lions. There were no windows to this hall and the light fell from above. In the centre of it was the square basin of a fountain. Beside the fountain there was set a small table with shining napery at which there sat a fair creature devouring a lobster. She held a cracked claw between two delicate fingers. Her features were very pink and white. Her figure was very long and clothed in a very tight dress of broderie Anglaise with a tight collar that went up behind her ears, and she continued to nibble the pink flesh that came from the scarlet shell. Upon the white tablecloth in front of her there stood a green Venetian glass vase filled with sprays of pink godetias, a green bottle, a tall glass containing sparkling water and a lump of ice, a small bottle of Beaune, the dish which contained the remainder of the lobster and a plate with much of its scarlet shell. Mr. Blood came to the side of the table and the fair creature looked up at him with unemotional curiosity. She nibbled a little more of the lobster and then she remarked in an agreeable voice:
