Evil breeds evil.
As he considered the gloomy prospect1, new aspects of it rose before him. Not only was he privately2 between these two fires, the sudden madness of the outgoing Warden3, the disappearance4 of his successor, but the retirement5 of Charles Repton had been publicly announced and Dimmy’s nomination6 had appeared alongside with it in the morning papers. The double news was all over England.
Yet another torturing thought suggested itself. How and when should he fill the vacancy7? What was he to do?
Repton was impossible. His disaster was not in the papers, thank God, and could not be, under the decent rules which govern our press. But it was already the chief tittle-tattle of every house that counted in London. There could be no interregnum with Repton still nominally8 filling the place. He[170] might wait as long as he dared, give it to a third man, and then have Demaine turn up smiling and hungry: and if that happened the Prime Minister would earn what he dreaded9 most on earth, the enmity of those who had been his friends; perhaps a breach10 with Mary Smith herself.
He was not fit to do more than survey the misfortune of the moment: he was still in his perplexity, when he heard the bell ringing in the next room, and was told that he himself was personally and urgently wanted upon the telephone.
He put up his hand but the secretary would take no denial; it was something absolutely personal. Who was it from? It was from Lady Repton.
If it can be said of any wealthy and powerful man that he ever betrays in his features or gait a purely11 mental anxiety, then that might be said in some degree of the unfortunate Prime Minister at that moment. He suffered so acutely that his left lung, the sense of which never wholly left him, seemed to oppress him with actual physical pain.
It was a trifle less of a blow than he had expected. All he heard was the agitated13 voice of Lady Repton assuring him that she had waited as long as possible before troubling him, but that she was now really anxious, because Charles had not come home. Had he gone in a taxi or a hansom, or how? It was more[171] than half an hour since the Prime Minister had telephoned her, and Charles was always so regular.
It was perhaps weariness or perhaps a sense that he could do nothing which made the Prime Minister merely answer that he was sure to come in a moment.
“Repton has been very busy to-day,” he said, “and has had a great deal on his mind. He has become a little unhinged: that is the whole truth, Lady Repton: nothing more. But I think he should be carefully nursed. Pray do not be anxious.”
The words faltered15 a little, for he himself was more than anxious. Heaven only knew what Repton might not be capable of, until they had got him safe behind the four walls of his home.... And after that the doctors.
He stopped the conversation a little rudely, by taking advantage of a long pause to ring off. While he was in the act of doing so a servant asked him in the most natural manner in the world whether he would not see Sir Charles Repton who was waiting below.
I grieve to record that the young and popular Prime Minister gave vent16 to the exclamation17 “Good God!” For a moment he thought of refusing to see him; then he heard coming up through the distances of the official house a cheery voice saying:
“Yes, it’s all very well for you, you’re a butler with a regular place; when the Government goes out you[172] don’t. You’re a sort of permanent official. But we...!”
“Show him up,” said the Prime Minister in a qualm, “show him up at once. At once!” he repeated, losing all dignity in his haste, and tempted18 to push the solemn form of the domestic who stalked upon his mission of doom19 as majestically20 as though he were about to announce a foreign Ambassador, or to give notice.
In a moment Charles Repton had entered.
He had bought, during his brief odyssey21, a gigantic Easter Lily in a Bond Street shop which sells such ornaments23. This blossom flourished in the lapel of his coat and pervaded24 the whole room with its perfume.
“My dear fellow,” he shouted, running up to the horrified25 Prime Minister and taking him by both hands, “My dear fellow! Come, no pride; you know as well as I do it’s all bunkum. Why, I could buy and sell you any day of the week. It’s true,” he mused26, “there’s birth of course, but it’s a fair bargain. Birth gives you your place and brains give me mine. Do you mind smoking?”
“Yes,” said the Prime Minister, after which he said, “No,—I don’t know ... I don’t care. Why didn’t you go home?”
“I didn’t go home,” said Sir Charles solemnly, and thinking what the reason was ... “didn’t ... go ... home, because—Oh, I know, because I wanted to talk to you about that peerage.”
“All right then I won’t,” shouted Sir Charles, “though I really don’t see what there is to be ashamed of. You’re going to give me a peerage and I’m going to take one. You know as well as I do that you didn’t think I’d take one and I wasn’t quite sure myself. Mind you, it’s free,” he added coarsely, “gratis, and for nothing.”
“Oh yes, I know, that’s the double-ruff dodge29. You won’t ask for anything, but old Pottle will. And then when I come to you and complain you will say you know nothing about it. Of course I shan’t pay! It’ll be no good asking me; but what I want is not to be pestered30.”
The Prime Minister almost forced him down into the chair from which he had risen, and said again:
“Do talk lower, Repton. Do remember for a moment where you are. No, certainly you shan’t be bothered.”
“What else was there?” continued Sir Charles genially32, interrogating33 the ceiling and twiddling his thumbs. “There was something, I know,” he continued, looking sideways at the carpet.
He got up, walking slowly towards the door, and still murmuring: “There was something else, I know.” He touched his forehead with his hand, stood still a moment as if attempting to remember, then shook his head and said: “No, it’s no use. It[174] was something to do with some concession34 or other, but I’m not fit for business to-day.”
“Repton,” said Dolly in a tone which he rarely used and had never found ineffectual, “don’t say anything as you go out, don’t say anything to anybody. Do get into a cab and go straight home. You promised me you would.”
“I’ll keep my promise,” said Sir Charles with fine candour, “I always do. See if I don’t. Look here, to please you I’ll make him drive across the Parade here under your windows. There!”
And he was true to his word. He did indeed dig the servant in the ribs35 as that functionary36 handed him his hat, his malacca cane37 and his gloves, he also wished to see if the butler could wrestle38, and he winked39 a great wink40 at one of the footmen, but he said no word. He jumped into the cab that was waiting for him, and told the driver to go round by Delahaye Street onto the Parade.
The Prime Minister was cautiously watching from a window to make sure that the new incubus41 upon his life was on its way to incarceration42, when he found himself only too effectually assured: for he saw, leaning out of a hansom which was going at a great pace towards the Mall, a distant figure waving its hat wildly and calling in tones that could be heard over the whole space of the Parade:
“I’m keeping my word, Dolly, I’m keeping my word!”
So went Sir Charles Repton homeward, and a[175] settled darkness gathered and fell upon the Premier’s heart.
Sir Charles did keep his word.
He drove straight to his house, enlivening the way by occasional whoops43 and shouting bits of secret information very valuable to investors44, to sundry45 acquaintances whom he recognised upon the way. At one point (it was during a block at the top of St. James’s Street) he insisted on getting out for a moment, seizing by the hand the dignified46 Lord String who had advised the highest personages in matters of finance, and telling him with a comical grin that if he had bought Meccas that day on behalf of the Great he had been most imprudent, for there was an Arab rising and the big viaduct was cut—the first misfortune that hitherto prosperous line had suffered.
Near the Marble Arch a change came over him. He felt a sudden and violent pain behind the ears, and clapped his hands to the place. He did more: when the spasm47 was over he put up the little door and told the cabby; he made him a confidant; he told him the pain had been very severe.
The driver, who was not sympathetic, replied in an unsuitable manner, and they were in the midst of a violent quarrel when two or three minutes later the cabman, who was handicapped by having to conduct his vehicle through heavy traffic, drove up to the house.
Lady Repton was waiting near the door; she sent[176] out no servant, she came out to the cab herself, silenced the rising vocabulary of the driver with a most unexpected piece of gold, and tripped up again into the house.
Sir Charles was philosophising aloud upon the gold band round his umbrella, letting his domestics thoroughly48 understand the precise advantages and disadvantages of such an ornament22, when she took him by the arm quite gently and began leading him upstairs.
Meanwhile in Downing Street an indispensable secretary of the name of Edward was hearing what he had to do.
Edward had been at King’s, for his father had sent him there. From the Treasury49 which he adorned50 he had been assumed by the Prime Minister, his father’s chief college friend, and given the position of private secretary; admirably did he fill its functions.
He was a silent Welshman, descended51 from a short line of small squires52, and he comprehended, in a manner not wholly natural to a man under thirty, the frailties53 of the human heart. The instructions he received from his chief, however, were of the simplest possible type, and called for the moment upon none of his exceptional powers.
There was to be no writing and no telephoning: he was to call upon Bowker, because Bowker had the largest specialist experience of nervous diseases in London, and therefore in the world.
[177]He was to come as from the Reptons, and to give an appointment at Repton’s house, telling the doctor that he should there find Sir Anthony Poole. He was to go at once to Sir Anthony Poole, whose general reputation stood higher than any other medical man’s, to approach him as from the Reptons, to give him a similar appointment and to inform him that he would meet there Dr. Bowker. He was to tell them the whole sad truth, and beg for a certificate. The unfortunate gentleman could then be given the advantages of a complete rest cure.
He was next to go to Lady Repton’s at once, and ask her leave to call upon Dr. Bowker and Sir Anthony Poole. She would give it: the Prime Minister had no doubt of that. He was to suggest to her the hour he had already named to those eminent54 men. That very evening Sir Charles would be certified55 a lunatic, and one load at least would be off the Premier’s mind; and a load off his mind, remember, was a load off his lung, and consequently an extension of lease granted to a life invaluable56 to the State.
Within three-quarters of an hour Edward Evans had done all these things. He had even cut matters so fine that the physicians were to call at seven, and Lady Repton would telephone the result—she dared trust no other agency.
So far as a man in acute anxiety can be satisfied, the young and popular Prime Minister was satisfied, but his left lung was at least one-half of his being as he went back again on his weary round to the House[178] of Commons, and the other half of his being was fixed57 upon a contemplation of his fifty-fifth year.
At the door of Sir Charles Repton’s house was drawn58 up an exceedingly neat brougham, and Dr. Bowker had entered.
A few moments later there walked up to it the tall strong frame of a man a trifle over-dressed but redeeming59 such extravagances by a splendidly strong old face, and he was Sir Anthony Poole.
Two things dominated the conceptions of Sir Anthony: the first the antiquity60 of his family, which was considerable; the second a healthy contempt for the vagaries61 of the modern physical science.
He was himself as learned in his profession as any man would care to be, but his common sense, he flattered himself, was far superior to his learning,—and he flattered himself with justice. He was a devout62 Christian63 of some Anglican persuasion64; his family numbered thirteen sons and one daughter. His income was enormous. I should add that a knowledge of the world had taught him what real value lay behind men like Sir Charles Repton, who had stood the strain of public life and had found it possible to do such great service to their country.
The mind of Dr. Bowker was dominated also by two considerations: the first a permanent irritation65 against the survival of those social forms which permitted men an advantage purely hereditary66; the second a conviction, or rather a certitude, drawn[179] from clear thinking, that organisation67 and method could deal with the cloudy blunders of mere14 general knowledge as a machine can deal with dead matter, or as an army can deal with civilians68.
Dr. Bowker’s birth was reputable and sound; his father had been a doctor before him in a country town, and an earnest preacher in the local chapel69; his grandfather a sturdy miner, his great-grandfather a turnkey in Nottingham Gaol70.
He was therefore of the middle rank of society; but after all, his social gospel such as it was weighed upon him less than his scientific creed71. He did not think: he knew. What he did not know he did not pretend to know. For the rest he was always a little nervous and awkward in society, and preferred the communion of his books and an occasional spin upon a bicycle to the conversation of the rich.
I should add that he revered73 Sir Charles Repton not only as all men of the world must revere72 a great statesman who has found it possible for many years of the strain of public life to be of service to his country, but also as a man of inestimable value in proving that the solid Nonconformist stock could do in administration, when it chose to enter that sphere, what it had so triumphantly74 shown it could do in commerce.
The two men were shown into an enormous room on the ground floor where it was the custom of Sir Charles (in happier days!) to receive those whom he[180] feared or would inveigle75. Lady Repton at once joined them.
She was agitated; it was even distressing76 to watch her agitation77. She described to them the violent pain which her husband had suffered twice, first the yesterday evening just before dinner, next at this moment on driving up to his house in a cab. She described as best she could the situation of these spasms78 of suffering, and she more than hinted that she connected with them a novel and very astonishing demeanour on her husband’s part which (here she almost broke down) she hoped would justify79 them in ordering him if necessary with their fullest authority, to take a rest cure. She warned them that she had told him nothing; she had always heard it was wise in such cases. He thought they had come merely as advisers80 upon the pains he had felt behind the ear, but a few words of his conversation would be enough to convince them of that much graver matter.
She left them for a moment together, and went to prepare her husband. She was a woman of heroic endurance. Her father had been in his time a God-fearing man, and had accumulated a small competence81 in the jute line.
Dr. Bowker, let it be remembered, was a specialist in nervous diseases. Sir Anthony Poole, let it also be remembered, was not, but he was something infinitely82 better in his own estimation: he was a man[181] who had attended more distinguished83 people and with greater success than any other physician in London. Dr. Bowker’s word as a specialist could not be doubted. Sir Anthony Poole had only to express an opinion upon a man’s health in any particular and that opinion became positive gospel to all who heard it.
The medical judgment84 of no two men given concurrently85 could carry greater weight. By an accident not infrequent in all professions, these two great men, though their rivalry86 was not strictly87 in the same field, each undervalued the scientific aptitude88 of the other. Each would have gone to the stake for the corporate89 value of that small ring to which both belonged, but neither would admit the claim of the other to a special if undefined precedence.
On the rare occasions when they met, however, they observed all the courtesies of life, and on this occasion in the large ground-floor room of Sir Charles Repton’s house, they sat, when Lady Repton had gone out, exchanging platitudes90 of a very attenuated91, refined sort, in a tone worthy92 of their correct grooming93 and distinguished appearance. By a singular inadvertence they were summoned together.
“Sir Anthony,” said Dr. Bowker, bowing, smiling and making a motion with his hand towards the door.
“Dr. Bowker,” said Sir Anthony, copying the courteous94 inclination95, and thus it was that Sir[182] Anthony Poole had precedence, and first interrogated96 Sir Charles Repton alone.
The conversation was brief. When Sir Charles had answered the first questions very simply, that he had two or three times in the last twenty-four hours felt shooting pains behind the ear, he began to speak in an animated97 way upon a number of things, and described a humorous incident he had recently witnessed in the Strand98 with a vigour99 highly suspicious to so experienced a physician as Sir Anthony Poole.
Sir Anthony asked him what he ate and drank, received very commonplace answers, and was twice assured by the Baronet, whose wife had used that simple method to deceive him, that he had not for weeks felt any return of his old complaint, and that he only regretted that Lady Repton should have put Sir Anthony to the trouble of calling. He understood also that Dr. Bowker had been sent for.
“Yes,” said Sir Anthony a little uneasily. “I really imagined that the matter would be rather worse than it seems to be. You know it is our custom sometimes to call in another....”
“Yes I know,” said Repton, with a slight smile, “it’s a pity you called in old Bowker. I know he’s very good at nerves or aches or something, but he’s such an intolerable old stick. The fact is, Sir Anthony,” he said, fixing that eminent scientist with a keen look and slightly lowering his voice, “the fact is, Dr. Bowker isn’t quite a gentleman.”
[183]“You’re a little severe,” said Sir Anthony, smiling, “you’re a little severe, Sir Charles!”
“Mind you,” added Repton, “I don’t say anything against him in his professional capacity.”
“Certainly not,” said Sir Anthony.
“But there are cases when a man’s manners do make a difference,—especially in your profession.”
Sir Anthony beamed. “Well, Sir Charles,” he said, “I’m very glad to hear it’s no worse,”—and as Sir Anthony went out he muttered to himself: “No more mad than I am; but he mustn’t go talking like that about other people.” And the physician chuckled100 heartily101.
Dr. Bowker’s introduction to, and private stay with, the patient was briefer even than had been Sir Anthony’s. He chose for his gambit the remark: “Sir Anthony Poole has just seen you I believe, Sir Charles?”
“Yes he has,” answered Charles Repton in a pleasant and genial31 tone, “yes he has, Dr. Bowker, though why,” he added, with a happy laugh, “I can’t conceive. After all, if I wanted a doctor for any reason I should naturally send to a specialist.”
When Sir Charles had answered the next few questions very simply, that he had two or three times in the last twenty-four hours felt shooting pains behind the ear, he then reverted102 to his praise of the specialist.
“If I had any nervous trouble, for instance, Dr. Bowker, I should send for you. If I had trouble with my tibia, I should send for Felton.”
[184]Dr. Bowker nodded the most vigorous approval. It was evident that Sir Charles Repton’s considerable if superficial learning was standing103 him in good stead.
“If I had trouble with my aural104 ducts I should send for Durand, or,” he continued, in the tone of one who continues to illustrate105 a little pompously106, “if my greater lymphatics were giving me trouble, Pigge is the first name that would suggest itself.”
Dr. Bowker’s enthusiasm knew no bounds. “You are quite right, Sir Charles,” he said, “you are quite right.” He almost took the Baronet’s hand in the warmth of his agreement. “If more men—I will not say of your distinction and position, but if more people—er—of what I may call the—er—directing brain of the nation, were of your opinion, it would be a good day for Medicine.”
“Now a man like Poole,” went on Charles Repton nonchalantly, “what does he know, what can he know, about any particular trouble? And mind you, an educated man always knows in more or less general terms what his particular trouble is. Why Poole—well....” Here Sir Charles ended with a pitying little smile.
“At any rate,” said Dr. Bowker, bursting with assent107, “I understand the old trouble has not returned. And if it had, as you very well said, it would be Felton’s job rather than mine. Of course it has a nervous aspect; everything has, but every specialist has his own field.”
[185]And Dr. Bowker went out, communing with himself and deciding that the foolish anxiety of wives might be an excellent thing for the profession, but was hardly fair upon the purses of their husbands.
“Well, Sir Anthony?” said Dr. Bowker as he entered the ground-floor room.
“Well, Dr. Bowker?” said Sir Anthony with a responsive smile.
“I really don’t see why they sent for us,” said Dr. Bowker.
“I thoroughly agree,” said Sir Anthony Poole.
“There’s nothing more to be done, I think?” said Dr. Bowker.
“Nothing,” said Sir Anthony Poole.
“Shall we speak to Lady Repton?” said Dr. Bowker.
“We’ll write her,” said Sir Anthony Poole.
They took leave of Lady Repton in a solemn and sympathetic manner, assuring her that it was better to give their impression in writing, and that she should receive it in the course of that evening. And having so fulfilled their mission, these two eminent men went off together with a better feeling between them than either would have thought possible an hour before.
“He is a singularly intelligent man,” said Sir Anthony Poole as they parted at the door of Dr. Bowker’s Club, “a singularly intelligent man. Of course one would have expected it from his position,[186] but I did not know until to-day how really remarkably108 intelligent and cultivated he was.”
“I thoroughly agree with you,” said Dr. Bowker, taking his leave, “he is what I call....” He sought a moment for a word.... “He is what I call a really cultivated and intelligent man.”
That evening Lady Repton received a short but perfectly109 clear opinion signed by both these first-class authorities, that her husband was in the full possession of his faculties110, and that it would be the height of imprudence to set down any extravagance of temper or momentary111 zeal112 upon any particular question to mental derangement113 or to connect it with a slight accidental headache.
Lady Repton in her grievous anxiety (for at the very moment she read the message she heard Sir Charles talking to a policeman out of a window, and telling him that it was ridiculous to try and look dignified in such a uniform), Lady Repton I say, at her wits’ end for advice, was bold enough to ring up the Prime Minister whom she hardly knew, and to tell him all: There was no chance of a certificate; what, oh what should she do?
The Prime Minister was not sympathetic. He did not desire further acquaintance with the lady.
The Premier’s cup was full. His Warden of the Court of Dowry had resigned: the new Warden was appointed. The Warden who had resigned had gone mad; the Warden whom he had appointed had fled. At least—at least he might have been[187] spared the madman! But no, he was not granted even this! the madman was still loose over London like a roaring lion, capable of doing infinite things within the next twenty-four hours. What was a peerage to a madman? What was a Wardenship115 of the Court of Dowry to a man who was not? The crumb116 of comfort that would have been afforded him by locking up the wretched lunatic who was the root of half his troubles was snatched from him.
It was enough to make a man cut his throat.
So ended that dreadful Tuesday in Downing Street, and all night long between his fits of tortured and horror-stricken sleep wherein his left lung and his fifty-fifth year were the baleful demons117 of his dreams, the young and popular Prime Minister would wake in a cold sweat and imagine some new horror proceeding118 from Repton let loose.
The summer night is short. Wednesday most gloriously dawned, and after two hours of attempted slumber119 under the newly risen light, the Prime Minister arose, a haggard man.
The lines on either side of the young Prime Minister’s mouth had grown heavier during the suffering of the night.
Had he been married and had his wife felt for him that affection which his character would surely have called forth120 she would have been anxious to observe the change. But such is the strain of political life and such the ambitions it arouses, that his suffering[188] passed unnoticed with the majority, and with the rest was a subject for secret congratulation.
He was down very early. Before he had eaten he went rapidly and nervously121 into his secretary’s room and said:
“Any news, Edward?”
“Yes,” said his secretary, looking if possible more nervous than his chief, “I’m sorry to say there is. The Herald122 is advertising123 an interview with Repton.”
“The Herald!” said the Prime Minister between his set teeth.
“Yes, the Herald,” answered the secretary, “it really doesn’t much matter,” he continued wearily, (he had been up most of the night) “if it wasn’t the Herald it would be somebody else.”
“We must pot ’em as they come,” answered the Premier grimly, “and the Herald won’t publish that interview at any rate.”
“Yes, let them publish it,” said the secretary.... “I’ll write it if you like.”
“That’s what I mean,” said the Prime Minister. “I mean they won’t publish what people think they will.”
“No,” said Evans, “they won’t.... He’s been shouting out of a window,” the secretary went on by way of news.
“Oh just insults, nothing important, but the police[189] have complained. And late last night he pointed114 out Betswick, who was a little buffy, stumbling down the pavement—sitting down, some say—. He shouted from his window to a lot of people in the street that it was Betswick. And now Betswick is afraid of going to open the Nurses’ Home this afternoon.... It’s a damned shame!” ended the secretary, exploding. “What the devil are you to do with a man ... it’s like—it’s like—it’s like an anarchist126 with little packets of dynamite127.”
“Have you looked at the papers yet, Edward?” asked the Prime Minister.
“Some of ’em,” answered his secretary gloomily.
“Nothing in the Times?”
“Oh no,” said Edward, “nothing in any of the eleven London papers on the official list.”
“Do you think the others count?”
“Well,” answered the secretary thoughtfully, “there are the two evening papers that have been making such a fuss about the Concessions128 in Burmah.”
“Edward,” said the Prime Minister, “it’s a desperate remedy, but take the paper you have here, write out a note and get them to lunch. Not with me—with you. They’ll come.”
“Lunch is no good,” said Edward.
“Why not?”
“Evening papers go to press in the morning.”
“Do they indeed?” said the Prime Minister, with the first lively glance he had delivered since the beginning of this terrible debacle. “That’s really[190] worth knowing! I never knew that.” He gazed into space, then suddenly waking up he said: “Why then, Edward, there’s no time to lose! Go and see them at once. Go and see them yourself, Edward.”
“It isn’t much good,” said Edward. “I know one of them, and the other’s dotty.”
“Never mind,” said the Prime Minister, “never mind. Do it somehow. Kill ’em if you must,” he added jocosely129, and his secretary went.
The Premier left his secretary’s room and mournfully approached his breakfast.
Upon his table a time-honoured device constructed of brass130 and wood was designed to hold the newspaper while the tenant131 of that historic house might be at meals. Upon this was propped132 up, open at the leading page, a copy of the Times. The leaders were discreet133. He found no word from beginning to end, save a little note in small type to the effect that Sir Charles Repton would be unable to speak at the great Wycliffite Congress, he was confined to the house with influenza134; a similar note he was assured had appeared in all the eleven newspapers upon the official list, and through them would be distributed to the provincial135 press; the only thing left to the discretion136 of their editorial departments being the disease from which the distinguished patient might be suffering, which appeared in one as phlebitis, in another as tracheotomy, and in a third as a severe cold.
Of Demaine not a word.
[191]Dolly thanked Heaven for the discipline which makes the Press of London the most powerful instrument of Government in the world.
His thanks were premature137; and the gentle, somewhat mournful atheism138 which was his only creed received excellent support when he saw among certain items of news which were laid upon his table every morning, two cuttings from foreign papers which told at great length and in the plainest details the whole story of the dreadful episode in the City, and connected it in so many words with the scandalous scene in the House of Commons. He could only comfort himself by reflecting that news which leaked out abroad was rarely if ever permitted to enter the Island. He reflected that time is a remedy for all evils, and he made ready for the duties of the day.
Meanwhile his secretary, Edward,—to give him his full title, Teddy Evans—had come to the first of the two offices which it was his business to visit. It was not yet nine o’clock and there was still time to cut on the machine.
At the Treasury Evans had written regularly for a large evening paper,—he knew his way about such an organism. He betrayed no undue139 haste, well knowing the subtle delight the menials would have before such a display of retarding140 his every effort, and when the fat man, Mr. Cerberus, who keeps the door of the Capon offices, had pushed to him a dirty scrap141 of paper on which he was to write his name and[192] business, he quietly asked for an envelope as well. It was given him with some grumbling142.
He wrote his message: “If you have begun machining, stop. I’ve been sent up here urgently.—E. E.”
He closed it, gummed it down, and waited. He had not ten seconds to wait. A young man who looked and was underfed, a gaunt tall young man with hair as long and as dank as the waving weeds of the sea, received him with immense solemnity. It was not often that affairs of State came his way. One such had come earlier in that very year. It had been the occasion of his lunching with the exalted143 individual who now sat before him, and he had never forgotten it.
“Mr. Evans,” he said rather pompously, lifting his left hand and fixing two large burning, feverish144 eyes upon the secretary, “this place is the confessional. Anything you say shall be sacred ... absolutely sacred!”
But Evans was cheery enough.
“It’s nothing of any importance,” he said, “but, well, I’m a great friend of the Reptons.”
“I know,” said the editor sympathetically, which was odd, for Evans only just knew the Reptons’ address from having to write them letters, and the Reptons only just knew the look of Evans’ face from having once had to ask him to a dinner of an official sort.
“Well,” went on Evans unblushingly (how valuable are men of this kind!), “I am a great friend, especially[193] of dear old Lady Repton—through my mother,” he added in an explanatory tone, “but I won’t go into that. The point is this: the whole family are really dreadfully concerned.”
“I know, I know,” said the editor of the Capon, still most sympathetic, and most grave.
“Well,” said Evans with affected145 ill-ease, “the fact is we don’t want anything said about it at all—nothing. That’s the simplest way, after all. It’s a great trouble. You really would do me a personal service, and they would be so grateful.”
“By all means,” said the editor of the Capon. He turned to a speaking-tube upon his right and was about to pull out the whistle, when a violent blast blew that instrument at the end of its chain into his face. The editor expressed disgust, and when this expression was over, asked for the statement. The statement was brought.
“They’re waiting for the machine, sir.”
The editor ran his blue pencil down the list, made a little X against one item, and said: “Bring me a proof of that, will you?”
A slip of proof came up: it was to the effect that Sir Charles Repton was to speak at the Wycliffite Congress and from his candid146 and vigorous action of the day before, both in the House and outside it, it was hoped that his address would act as a clarion147 call in the present crisis of religion. (“And it would!” thought Edward, all goose-flesh at the thought).
[194]“There’s no harm in that,” he said. Then with sudden thought: “What’s the leader about?”
“The Concessions,” said the editor of the Capon, smiling.
“Well,” said Evans, “we don’t agree about that, do we?” And he smiled back.
“Shall I leave general orders about Repton items during the day?” said the editor.
“Why yes,” said Evans, and then remembering his little subterfuge148 he added: “Don’t print anything unless it’s directly from the family. You understand me?”
“I understand,” said the editor. “Riggles, the sub-editor will be in charge after this. I’m going home.”
He wrote in a large hand upon a large sheet of paper: “No Repton items, not even Press Agency, except from the house itself. F. D.”—for his name was Francis Davis. “Take that to Mr. Riggles,” he said to the devil, and the two men went out together.
Well knowing that Davis’ house lay in the extreme of the suburbs, and that he himself was going into the heart of Fleet Street, Evans offered to give his companion a lift. To his disgust it was accepted, and he was constrained149 to drive the editor of the Capon to St. Paul’s Station; it lost him ten minutes, and those ten minutes were nearly fatal. For when he had got back at full speed to the offices of the Moon, the paper had gone to press. The machines[195] were shaking and thundering away in the basement, and mile after mile of diffused150 culture was pouring out in a cataract151 to feed the divine thirst for knowledge.
It seemed too late, but Evans went boldly through it all the same. The editor was gone, but to the sub-editor he sent in his card and wrote upon it “From the Prime Minister.” It was a time needing heroic measures.
He asked to see an advance copy. The leader was Repton—Repton—Repton, nothing but Repton.... Repton had given away the wickedness of modern finance; Repton for purposes of his own was prepared to expose the mockery of our politics; Repton would tell them the truth about the Concessions; they had a promise of an interview with Repton. What motives152 might have caused Repton to act as he had done they could not determine. It was sufficient for them that Repton, etc....
The leader had a title, and the title of the leader was Repton. It had coined a new word: the word was “to Reptonise,” upon the model of “to peptonise.” The Moon threatened to reptonise the whole of our public life.
Evans spent about thirty seconds looking at the floor.
“Can they stop the machines, Mr. Price?” he asked, for Price was the sub-editor’s name.
“Yes,” said the sub-editor, “Why?”
Evans walked to the window and looked out[196] into the City street and said without showing his face:
“Mr. Price, your proprietor153 is a very valued member of our party.”
At the word “proprietor,” Mr. Price changed colour. Yet Evans had not meant the proprietor of Mr. Price, he had merely meant the proprietor of the Moon.
“Mr. Price, I will tell you all” (and he told him more than all!). “Your proprietor left for Canada during the Easter Recess154; he was taken ill in Montreal; he is on his way back, and he will be home next week.”
Mr. Price nodded and at the same time inwardly admired the omniscience155 of the Government.
“Now, Mr. Price,” continued Edward, still gazing at the street opposite, “there is the promise of a peerage. These things are hardly ever mentioned, and I tell it to you quite frankly156. If that leader appears,”—turning round sharply—“the peerage will not be conferred, and your proprietor shall be told that that leader was the cause of it.”
“But, Mr. Evans,” began the sub-editor blankly.
Evans was suddenly determined157. It was astonishing to see the change in the man. His conduct and attitude would have seemed remarkable158 to the most indifferent observer: to one who knew that the proprietor of the Moon had never been, until that moment, within five hundred miles of a peerage, it would have seemed amazing.
[197]“Mr. Price,” said Evans rapidly and very clearly, “you are in a cleft159 stick. If you don’t print your present issue, if you must delay it, it will cost your proprietor a heavy sum directly and indirectly160. I know that. But if you do print it will cost him no money, but....”
Mr. Price thought of the little home at Peckham; of the three young Prices, of Mrs. Price and of sundry affections that grow up in the most arid161 and most unexpected soils: he was in an agony as to which course would least destroy him: he made one last appeal:
“May I have it in writing?”
“Certainly not!” said Evans.
“Very well, Mr. Evans,” said the sub-editor humbly162, “I’ll stop the machines,” and with a heavy heart he rang the bell.
Thus it was that the Moon came out an hour later than usual, and that the leader dealt at so singular a moment with the pestilent vices163 of the King of Bohemia, and with his gross maladministration of Spitzbergen which it summoned to the bar of European opinion.
Those who have wondered why Edward, without previous training so soon after this incident was made a partner of the great bank he now adorns164, would wonder less if they had been present at that interview.
The press was safe.
That the agencies were safe went of course without[198] saying. Block A (as a group of eight papers owned by one man is familiarly called by permanent officials) had been squared, the day before. Block B, another group of six owned by a friend of his, was for private reasons unable to publish news of this kind. The Evening German wouldn’t dare, and the Bird of Freedom wouldn’t know. The Press was safe so far as Repton was concerned.
But what about Demaine?
The Herald had been informed pretty sharply that it was compelled for unavoidable reasons to postpone165 its interview with Sir Charles Repton. The very paragraph had been written out by Edward, and the Herald had swallowed the pill.
But what about Demaine?
That had got ahead of them, and there was nothing to do but to wait until Demaine should be found. The very moment that he was found they could act and an explanation should be given that would soon cause the mystery to be forgotten. But a silence still surrounded that unlucky name.
Nothing had been heard in the Lobbies, nothing from Scotland Yard. Finally, and more important, Mary Smith herself could tell Dolly nothing, and if she could not, certainly no one else in London could.
She was really fond of her cousin, and for his sake she comforted, and, what was more important, restrained the imprudent Sudie.
As for Ole Man Benson, beyond a natural regret[199] that such an asset as a son-in-law in the Cabinet was still held over as a contingent166 and that he could not for the moment close upon the option, he took the matter in a calm and philosophical167 spirit.
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1
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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6
nomination
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| n.提名，任命，提名权 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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9
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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10
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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11
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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14
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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16
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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17
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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18
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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19
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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21
odyssey
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| n.长途冒险旅行；一连串的冒险 | |
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22
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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23
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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24
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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26
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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27
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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28
premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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29
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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30
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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33
interrogating
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| n.询问技术v.询问( interrogate的现在分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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34
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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35
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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36
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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37
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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38
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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39
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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40
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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41
incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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42
incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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43
whoops
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| int.呼喊声 | |
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44
investors
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| n.投资者，出资者( investor的名词复数 ) | |
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45
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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46
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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47
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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48
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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50
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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51
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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52
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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53
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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54
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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55
certified
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| a.经证明合格的；具有证明文件的 | |
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56
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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57
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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58
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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59
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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60
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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61
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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62
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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63
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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64
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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65
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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66
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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67
organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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68
civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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69
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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70
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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71
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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72
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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73
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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75
inveigle
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| v.诱骗 | |
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76
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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77
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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78
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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79
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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80
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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81
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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82
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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83
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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84
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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85
concurrently
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| adv.同时地 | |
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86
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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87
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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88
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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89
corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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90
platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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91
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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92
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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93
grooming
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| n. 修饰, 美容，（动物）梳理毛发 | |
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94
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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95
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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96
interrogated
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| v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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97
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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98
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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99
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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100
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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102
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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103
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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104
aural
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| adj.听觉的，听力的 | |
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illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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derangement
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| n.精神错乱 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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wardenship
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| n.warden之职权（或职务） | |
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crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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retarding
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| 使减速( retard的现在分词 )； 妨碍； 阻止； 推迟 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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152
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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153
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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154
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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omniscience
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| n.全知，全知者，上帝 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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163
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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166
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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