Home > Authors Index > Anthony Hope > Half a Hero: A Novel > This page
Half a Hero: A Novel, a novel by Anthony Hope |
||
Chapter 16. A Leaky Vessel |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XVI. A LEAKY VESSEL It was the afternoon of the next day--the Friday--and Kirton was in some stir of bustle and excitement. Groups of working-men gathered and discussed the coming meeting; carts had already passed by on their way to the Park carrying materials for platforms, and had been cheered by some of the more eager spirits. The tradesmen were divided in feeling, some foreseeing a brisk demand for things to eat and drink in the next few days, the more timid not denying this but doubting whether payment might not be dispensed with, and nervously enlarging on the cost of plate glass. Organisers ran busily to and fro, displaying already, some of them, rosettes of office, and all of them as much hurry as though the great event were fixed for a short hour ahead. Norburn was about the streets, looking more cheerful than he had done for a long while--the scent of battle was in his nostrils--and enjoying the luxury of prevailing on his friends not to hiss Mr. Puttock when that worthy stepped across from his warehouse to the Club about five o'clock. Inside the Club, also, excitement was not lacking. The Houses of Parliament were deserted for this more central spot, and many members anxiously discussed their principles and their prospects, and the relation between the two. Medland's followers were not there in much force, being for the most part employed elsewhere, and indeed at no time much given to club-life, or suited for it, but there were many of Perry's, and still more of those who had followed Puttock, or were reported to be about to follow Coxon, and among them the members for several divisions in and near Kirton. These last, feeling that all the stir was largely for their benefit and on their account, were in a fluster of self-consciousness and apprehension, and very loud in their condemnation of the Premier's unscrupulous tactics. "Surely the Governor can't approve of this sort of thing," said one. "Is it _legal_, Sir John?" asked another of the Chief Justice, who had come in from court and was taking a cup of tea. "It's mere bullying," exclaimed a third, catching Kilshaw's sympathetic eye. "We'll not be bullied," answered that gentleman. "Every right-feeling and respectable man is with us, from the Governor----" "The Governor? How do you know?" burst from half-a-dozen mouths. "I do know. He's furious with Medland, partly for doing the thing at all, partly for not telling him sooner. He thinks Medland took advantage of his civility yesterday and paraded him in the Park as on his side, while all the time he never said a word about this move of his." "Ah!" said everybody, and Coxon, who knew nothing about the matter, endorsed Kilshaw's account with a significant nod. "It's a gambler's last throw," declared Puttock. "Honestly, I'm ashamed to have been so long in finding out his real character." Some one here weakly defended the Premier. "After all," he said, "there's nothing wrong in a public meeting, and perhaps that's all----" Puttock overbore him with a solemnly emphasised reiteration-- "A discredited gambler's last throw." "It's Jimmy Medland's last throw, anyhow," added Kilshaw. "I'll see to that." "Look! There he is!" called a man in the bow-window, and the company crowded round to look. Medland was walking down the street side by side with a short, thick-set man, whose close-cut, stiff, black hair, bright black eyes, and bristly chin-tip gave him a foreign look. The man seemed to be giving explanations or detailing arrangements, and Medland from time to time nodded assent. "Who's that with him?" asked Puttock. The desired information came from a young fellow in the Government service. "I know him," he said, "because he applied to me for a certificate of naturalisation a month or two ago. Francois Gaspard he calls himself--heaven knows if it's his real name. He's a Frenchman, anyhow, and, I rather fancy, not a voluntary exile." "Ah!" exclaimed Kilshaw, "what makes you think that?" "Oh, I had a little talk with him, and he said he'd been kept too long out of his country to care about going back now, although the door had been opened at last." "An amnesty, you suppose?" "I thought so. And I happen to know he's very active among the political clubs here." "Oh, that explains Medland being with him," said Kilshaw. "Some Communist or Socialist probably." Attention being thus directed to the stranger, one or two of the Kirton politicians present recollected having encountered him in the course of their canvassings, and bore witness to the influence which he wielded among the extreme section of the labouring men. His presence with Medland was considered to increase appreciably the threatening aspect of affairs. "One criminal in his Cabinet," said Mr. Kilshaw, with scornful reference to Norburn, "and arm-in-arm down the street with another. We're getting on, aren't we, Chief Justice?" "I have seen too many criminals," answered Sir John, "to think badly of a man merely because he commits an offence against the law." The Chief Justice did not intend to be drawn into any exhibition of partisanship. The occupants of the Club window continued to watch the Premier until he parted from his companion with a shake of the hand, and, as it seemed, a last emphatic word, and turned to Norburn, who was claiming his attention. Now the last emphatic word whose unknown purport stirred much curiosity in the Club, carried a pang of disappointment to Francois Gaspard, for it was "Mind, no sticks," and it swept away Francois' rapturous imaginings of the thousands of Kirton armed with a forest of sturdy cudgels, wherewith to terrify the _bourgeoisie_. Still, Francois had made up his mind to trust Jimmy Medland, in spite of sundry shortcomings of faith and practice, and having sworn by his _foi_--which, to tell the truth, was an unsubstantial sanction--to obey his leader, he loyally, though regretfully, promised that there should be no sticks; for, "If sticks appear," the Premier had said, "I shall not appear, that's all, Mr. Gaspard." The English illogicality which hung obstinately round even such gifted men as Medland and _le jeune_ Norburn, so oppressed Francois--who could not see why, if you might hint at cudgels in the background, you should not use them--that, on his way to his next committee, he turned into a tavern to refresh his spirit. The room was fairly full, and he found, the centre of an interested group, an acquaintance of his, Mr. Benham. Francois imported no personal rancour into his politics; he hated whole classes with a deadly enmity, but he was ready to talk to or drink or gossip with any of the individuals composing them, without prejudice of course to his right, or rather duty, of obliterating them in their corporate capacity at the earliest opportunity, or even removing them one by one, did his insatiable principles demand the sacrifice. He had met Benham several times, since the latter had taken to frequenting music-halls and drinking-shops, and had enjoyed some argument with him, in which the loss of temper had been entirely on Benham's side. Francois gave his order, sat down, lit his cigarette, and listened to his friend's denunciation of the Government and its works. Presently the company, having drunk as much as it wanted or could pay for, or being weary of Benham's philippic, went its various ways, and Francois was left alone with his opponent. Benham had been consuming more small glasses of cognac than were good for him, and had reached the boastful and confidential stage of intoxication. He ranged up beside Francois, besought that unbending though polite man to eschew his evil ways, and hinted openly at the folly of those who pinned their faith on the Premier. "He does not go all my way," responded Francois, with a smile and a shrug, "but he goes part. Well, we will go that part together." Benham leant over him and whispered huskily, bringing his fist down on the counter-- "I can crush him, and I will." "My dear friend!" murmured Francois. "See! Do not drink any more. It destroys the generally excellent balance of your mind." "Ah, you may laugh, but I can do it." Francois used the permission; he laughed gaily and freely. "All your party tries," said he, "and it does not do it. And you will do it alone! Ah, _par exemple_!" His cool scepticism unloosed Benham's tongue, when an eager curiosity might have revived his prudence and set a seal on his lips. He had chafed at being thought a nobody so long: Kilshaw's injunctions against gossip had been so hard to follow: he could not resist trying what startling effect a hint would have. "I know enough to ruin him," he whispered, and something in his look or tone convinced Francois that he believed what he said. "Yes, and I'm going to do it. Others have got the money and'll back me--I've got the information. We shall ruin him, Mr. G-Gaspard, we shall drive him from the country, and where'll your precious party, and your precious schemes, and your precious meetings be then? Tell me that!" "He would be a great loss," remarked Francois calmly. "But, come, what is this great thing that is to ruin him?" "Wouldn't you like to know?" "Eh, my friend, immensely!" smiled Francois, who spoke the mere truth, for all he took care to speak it very carelessly. "I'll tell you this much, it's not a political matter--it's a private matter, and a public man's private character is everything." "You think so? To me, it is not a great thing, so that he will do what I wish." Benham smiled knowingly as he answered, with a wink, "At any rate, most people think so. And I'll tell you what, Gaspard, I hate that fellow. He's wronged me--me, I tell you, and, by God, he shall smart for it!" "Oh, if it is a personal quarrel," murmured Francois, with the air of not desiring to intrude in a matter which concerned two gentlemen alone. "Every one'll know it in a few days," said Benham, "and then Mr. Medland's bust up, and all the lot of you with him. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, friend Gaspard." "And at present no one knows it but you?" If Benham had answered truly he would have been wise, but his vaunting mind persuaded him not to diminish his importance by confessing that he shared his secret with any one. After all, it was all his secret, though Kilshaw had bought it. "Not a soul alive!" he answered, rising to go. "Ah, then yours is a life valuable to your party. Wrap up, my friend, wrap up. It is chilly outside." He buttoned Benham's coat for him with friendly solicitude, besought him not to get run over--a caution rather necessary--and started him on his way. Then he sat down again, ordered a cup of coffee, and smoked another cigarette. "Decidedly," he said at last, "it would be a thousand pities if a creature like that were allowed to do any harm to the good Medland. Surely it would not be right to suffer that?" And he sat thinking, and becoming more and more sure whither the finger of duty pointed, until some comrades came and carried him off to take the chair at an organising committee, where he made a very temperate speech, and announced that he should regard every one who carried a stick on Sunday as intentionally guilty of the grossest incivility to him, Francois Gaspard, and as an enemy to the cause to boot. _ |
||