Читать книгу The Moon Endureth - John Buchan - Страница 10

Table of Contents

When I opened my paper next morning I read two startling pieces of news. Lord Mulross had been knocked down by a taxi-cab on his way home the night before, and was now in bed suffering from a bad shock and a bruised ankle. There was no cause for anxiety, said the report, but his lordship must keep his room for a week or two.

The second item, which filled leading articles and overflowed into “Political Notes,” was Mr. Vennard’s speech. The Secretary for India had gone down about eleven o’clock to the House, where an Indian debate was dragging out its slow length. He sat himself on the Treasury Bench and took notes, and the House soon filled in anticipation of his reply. His “tail”—progressive young men like himself—were there in full strength, ready to cheer every syllable which fell from their idol. Somewhere about half-past twelve he rose to wind up the debate, and the House was treated to an unparalleled sensation. He began with his critics, notably the unfortunate Simpson, and, pretty much in Westbury’s language to the herald, called them silly old men who did not understand their silly old business. But it was the reasons he gave for this abuse which left his followers aghast. He attacked his critics not for being satraps and reactionaries, but because they had dared to talk second-rate Western politics in connection with India. “Have you lived for forty years with your eyes shut,” he cried, “that you cannot see the difference between a Bengali, married at fifteen and worshipping a pantheon of savage gods, and the university-extension Young Radical at home? There is a thousand years between them, and you dream of annihilating the centuries with a little dubious popular science!” Then he turned to the other critics of Indian administration—his quondam supporters. He analysed the character of these “members for India” with a vigour and acumen which deprived them of speech. The East, he said, had had its revenge upon the West by making certain Englishmen babus. His honourable friends had the same slipshod minds, and they talked the same pigeon-English, as the patriots of Bengal. Then his mood changed, and he delivered a solemn warning against what he called “the treason begotten of restless vanity and proved incompetence.” He sat down, leaving a House deeply impressed and horribly mystified.

The Times did not know what to make of it at all. In a weighty leader it welcomed Mr. Vennard’s conversion, but hinted that with a convert’s zeal he had slightly overstated his case. The Daily Chronicle talked of “nervous breakdown,” and suggested “kindly forgetfulness” as the best treatment. The Daily News, in a spirited article called “The Great Betrayal,” washed its hands of Mr. Vennard unless he donned the white sheet of the penitent. Later in the day I got The Westminster Gazette, and found an ingenious leader which proved that the speech in no way conflicted with Liberal principles, and was capable of a quite ordinary explanation. Then I went to see Lady Caerlaverock.

I found my aunt almost in tears.

“What has happened?” she cried. “What have we done that we should be punished in this awful way? And to think that the blow fell in this house? Caerlaverock—we all—thought Mr. Vennard so strange last night, and Lady Lavinia told me that Mr. Cargill was perfectly horrible. I suppose it must be the heat and the strain of the session. And that poor Lord Mulross, who was always so wise, should be stricken down at this crisis!”

I did not say that I thought Mulross’s accident a merciful dispensation. I was far more afraid of him than of all the others, for if with his reputation for sanity he chose to run amok, he would be taken seriously. He was better in bed than affixing a flea to Von Kladow’s ear.

“Caerlaverock was with the Prime Minister this morning,” my aunt went on. “He is going to make a statement in the Lords to-morrow to try to cover Mr. Vennard’s folly. They are very anxious about what Mr. Cargill will do to-day. He is addressing the National Convention of Young Liberals at Oldham this afternoon, and though they have sent him a dozen telegrams they can get no answer. Caerlaverock went to Downing Street an hour ago to get news.”

There was the sound of an electric brougham stopping in the square below, and we both listened with a premonition of disaster. A minute later Caerlaverock entered the room, and with him the Prime Minister. The cheerful, eupeptic countenance of the latter was clouded with care. He shook hands dismally with my aunt, nodded to me, and flung himself down on a sofa.

“The worst has happened,” Caerlaverock boomed solemnly. “Cargill has been incredibly and infamously silly.” He tossed me an evening paper.

One glance convinced me that the Convention of Young Liberals had had a waking-up. Cargill had addressed them on what he called the true view of citizenship. He had dismissed manhood suffrage as an obsolete folly. The franchise, he maintained, should be narrowed and given only to citizens, and his definition of citizenship was military training combined with a fairly high standard of rates and taxes. I do not know how the Young Liberals received his creed, but it had no sort of success with the Prime Minister.

“We must disavow him,” said Caerlaverock.

“He is too valuable a man to lose,” said the Prime Minister. “We must hope that it is only a temporary aberration. I simply cannot spare him in the House.”

“But this is flat treason.”

“I know, I know. It is all too horrible, and utterly unexpected. But the situation wants delicate handling, my dear Caerlaverock. I see nothing for it but to give out that he was ill.”

“Or drunk?” I suggested.

The Prime Minister shook his head sadly. “I fear it will be the same thing. What we call illness the ordinary man will interpret as intoxication. It is a most regrettable necessity, but we must face it.”

The harassed leader rose, seized the evening paper, and departed as swiftly as he had come. “Remember, illness,” were his parting words. “An old heart trouble, which is apt to affect his brain. His friends have always known about it.”

I walked home, and looked in at the Club on my way. There I found Deloraine devouring a hearty tea and looking the picture of virtuous happiness.

“Well, this is tremendous news,” I said, as I sat down beside him.

“What news?” he asked with a start.

“This row about Vennard and Cargill.”

“Oh, that! I haven’t seen the papers to-day. What’s it all about?” His tone was devoid of interest.

Then I knew that something of great private moment had happened to Tommy.

“I hope I may congratulate you,” I said.

Deloraine beamed on me affectionately. “Thanks very much, old man. Things came all right, quite suddenly, you know. We spent most of the time at the Alvanleys together, and this morning in the Park she accepted me. It will be in the papers next week, but we mean to keep it quiet for a day or two. However, it was your right to be told—and, besides, you guessed.”

I remember wondering, as I finished my walk home, whether there could not be some connection between the stroke of Providence which had driven three Cabinet Ministers demented and that gentler touch which had restored Miss Claudia Barriton to good sense and a reasonable marriage.