The Fortunate Youth

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"Do you mind a wrench?" he asked. "No? Well, then--you and Colonel
Winwood send him about his business and get another secretary. Let
Savelli give all his time to his Young England League. Making him
mug up material for Winwood's speeches and write letters to
constituents about football clubs is using a razor to cut butter.
His League's the thing. It can surely afford to pay him a decent
salary. If it can't I'll see to a guarantee."

"The last thing we see, my dear Frank," she said after she had
thanked him, "is that which is right under our noses."

The next day she went to Paul full of the scheme. Had he ever
thought of it? He took her hands and smiled in his gay, irresistible
way. "Of course, dearest lady," he said frankly. "But I would have
cut out my tongue sooner than suggest it."

"I know that, my dear boy."

"And yet," said he, "I can't bear the idea of tearing myself away
from you. It seems like black ingratitude."

"It isn't. You forget that James and I have our little ambitions
too--the ambition of a master for a favourite pupil. If you were a
failure we should both be bitterly disappointed. Don't you see? And
as for leaving us--why need you? We should miss you horribly.
You've never been quite our paid servant. And now you're something
like our son." Tears started in the sweet lady's clear eyes. "Even
if you did go to your own chambers, I shouldn't let our new
secretary have this room"--they were in what the household called
"the office"--really Paul's luxuriously furnished private sitting
room, which contained his own little treasures of books and pictures
and bits of china and glass accumulated during the six years of
easeful life--"He will have the print room, which nobody uses from
one year's end to another, and which is far more convenient for the
street door. And the same at Drane's Court. So when you no longer
work for us, my dear boy, our home will be yours, as long as you're
content to stay, just because we love you."

Her hand was on his shoulder and his head was bent. "God grant,"
said he, "that I may be worthy of your love."

He looked up and met her eyes. Her hand was still on his shoulder.
Then very simply he bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

He told his Princess all about it. She listened with dewy eyes. "Ah,
Paul," she said. "That 'precious seeing' of love--I never had it
till you came. I was blind. I never knew that there were such
beautiful souls as Ursula Winwood in the world."

"Dear, how I love you for saying that!" cried Paul.

"But it's true."

"That is why," said he.

So the happiest young man in London worked and danced through the
season, knowing that the day of emancipation was at hand. His
transference from the Winwoods to the League was fixed for October
i. He made great plans for an extension of the League's, activities,
dreamed of a palace for headquarters with the banner of St. George
flying proudly over it, an object-lesson for the nation. One day in
July while. he was waiting for Colonel Winwood in the lobby of the
House of Commons, Frank Ayres stopped in the middle of a busy rush
and shook hands.

"Been down to Hickney Heath again? I would if I were you. Rouse 'em
up."

As the words of a Chief Whip are apt to be significant, Paul
closeted himself with the President of the Hickney Heath Lodge, who
called the Secretary of the local Conservative Association to the
interview. The result was that Paul was invited to speak at an
anti-Budget meeting convened by the Association. He spoke, and
repeated his success. The Conservative newspapers the next morning
gave a resume of his speech. His Sophie, coming to sign letters in
her presidential capacity, brought him the cuttings, a proceeding
which he thought adorable. The season ended triumphantly.

For a while he lost his Princess. She went to Cowes, then to stay
with French relations in a chateau in the Dordogne. Paul went off
yachting with the Chudleys and returned for the shooting to Drane's
Court. In the middle of September the Winwoods' new secretary
arrived and received instruction in his duties. Then came the
Princess to Morebury Park. "Dearest," she said, in his arms, "I
never want to leave you again. France is no longer France for me
since I have England in my heart."

"You remember that? My wonderful Princess!"

He found her more woman, more expansive, more bewitchingly
caressing. Absence had but brought her nearer. When she laid her
head on his shoulder and murmured in the deep and subtle tones of
her own language: "My Paul, it seems such a waste of time to be
apart," it took all his pride and will to withstand the maddening
temptation. He vowed that the time would soon come when he could
claim her, and went away in feverish search for worlds to conquer.

Then came October and London once more.

* * * * * *

Paul was dressing for dinner one evening when a reply-paid telegram
was brought to him.

"If selected by local committee will you stand for Hickney Heath?
Ayres."

He sat on his bed, white and trembling, and stared at the simple
question. The man-servant stood imperturbable, silver tray in hand.
Seeing the reply-paid form, he waited for a few moments.

"Is there an answer, sir?"

Paul nodded, asked for a pencil, and with a shaky hand wrote the
reply. "Yes," was all he said.

Then with reaction came the thrill of mighty exultation, and,
throwing on his clothes, he rushed to the telephone in his sitting
room. Who first to hear the wondrous news but his Princess? That
there was a vacancy in Hickney Heath he knew, as all Great Britain
knew; for Ponting, the Radical Member, had died suddenly the day
before. But it had never entered his head that he could be chosen as
a candidate.

"Mais j'y ai bien pense, moi," came the voice through the telephone.
"Why did Lord Francis tell you to go to Hickney Heath last July?"

How a woman leaps at things I With all his ambition, his astuteness,
his political intuition, he had not seen the opportunity. But it had
come. Verily the stars in their courses were fighting for him. Other
names, he was aware, were before the Committee of the Local
Association, perhaps a great name suggested by the Central Unionist
Organization; there was also that of the former Tory member, who,
smarting under defeat at the General Election, had taken but a
lukewarm interest in the constituency and was now wandering in the
Far East. But Paul, confident in his destiny, did not doubt that he
would be selected. And then, within the next fortnight--for
bye-elections during a Parliamentary session are matters of sweeping
swiftness--would come the great battle, the great decisive battle
of his life, and he would win. He must win. His kingdom was at stake--the
dream kingdom of his life into which he would enter with his
loved and won Princess on his arm. He poured splendid foolishness
through the telephone into an enraptured ear.

The lack of a sense of proportion is a charge often brought against
women; but how often do men (as they should) thank God for it? Here
was Sophie Zobraska, reared from childhood in the atmosphere of
great affairs, mixing daily with folk who guided the destiny of
nations, having two years before refused in marriage one of those
who held the peace of Europe in his hands, moved to tense excitement
of heart and brain and soul by the news that an obscure young man
might possibly be chosen to contest a London Borough for election to
the British Parliament, and thrillingly convinced that now Was
imminent the great momentous crisis in the history of mankind.

With a lack of the same sense of proportion, equal in kind, though
perhaps not so passionate in degree, did Miss Winwood receive the
world-shaking tidings. She wept, and, thinking Paul a phoenix,
called Frank Ayres an angel. Colonel Winwood tugged his long,
drooping moustache and said very little; but he committed the
astounding indiscretion of allowing his glass to be filled with
champagne; whereupon he lifted it, and said, "Here's luck, my dear
boy," and somewhat recklessly gulped down the gout-compelling
liquid. And after dinner, when Miss Winwood had left them together,
he lighted a long Corona instead of his usual stumpy Bock, and
discussed with Paul electioneering ways and means.

For the next day or two Paul lived in a whirl of telephones,
telegrams, letters, scurryings across London, interviews, brain-
racking questionings and reiterated declarations of political creed.
But his selection was a foregone conclusion. His youth, his absurd
beauty, his fire and eloquence, his unswerving definiteness of aim,
his magic that had inspired so many with a belief in him and had
made him the Fortunate Youth, captivated the imagination of the
essentially unimaginative. Before a committee of wits and poets,
Paul perhaps would not have had a dog's chance. But he appealed to
the hard-headed merchants and professional men who chose him very
much as the hero of melodrama appeals to a pit and gallery audience.
He symbolized to them hope and force and predestined triumph. One or
two at first sniffed suspiciously at his lofty ideals; but as there
was no mistaking his political soundness, they let the ideals pass,
as a natural and evanescent aroma.

So, in his thirtieth year, Paul was nominated as Unionist candidate
for the Borough of Hickney Heath, and he saw himself on the actual
threshold of the great things to which he was born. He wrote a
little note to Jane telling her the news. He also wrote to Barney
Bill: "You dear old Tory--did you ever dream that ragamuffin
little Paul was going to represent you in Parliament? Get out the
dear old 'bus and paint it blue, with 'Paul Savelli forever' in gold
letters, and, instead of chairs and mats, hang it with literature,
telling what a wonderful fellow P. S. is. And go through the streets
of Hickney Heath with it, and say if you like: 'I knew him when' he
was a nipper--that high.' And if you like to be mysterious and
romantic you can say: 'I, Barney Bill, gave him his first chance,'
as you did, my dear old friend, and Paul's not the man to forget it.
Oh, Barney, it's too wonderful"--his heart went out to the old
man. "If I get in I will tell you something that will knock you
flat. It will be the realization of all the silly rubbish I talked
in the old brickfield at Bludston. But, dear old friend, it was you
and the open road that first set me on the patriotic lay, and
there's not a voter in Hickney Heath who can vote as you can--for
his own private and particular trained candidate."

Jane, for reasons unconjectured, did not reply. But from Barney
Bill, who, it must be remembered, had leanings toward literature, he
received a postcard with the following inscription: "Paul, Hif I can
help you konker the Beastes of Effesus I will. Bill."

And then began the furious existence of an electioneering campaign.
His side had a clear start of the Radicals, who found some hitch in
the choice of their candidate. The Young England League leaped into
practical enthusiasm over their champion. Seldom has young candidate
had so glad a welcome. And behind him stood his Sophie, an inspiring
goddess.

It so happened that for a date a few days hence had been fixed the
Annual General Meeting of the Forlorn Widows' Fund, when Report and
Balance Sheet were presented to the society. The control of this
organization Paul had not allowed to pass into the alien hands of
Townsend, the Winwoods' new secretary. Had not his Princess, for the
most delicious reasons in the world, been made President? He scorned
Ursula Winwood's suggestion that for this year he would allow
Townsend to manage affairs. "What!" cried he, "leave my Princess in
the lurch on her first appearance? Never!" By telephone he arranged
an hour for the next day, when they could all consult together over
this important matter.

"But, my dear boy," said Miss Winwood, "your time is not your own.
Suppose you're detained at Hickney Heath?"

"The Conqueror," he cried, with a gay laugh, "belongs to the
Detainers--not the Detained."

She looked at him out of her clear eyes, and shook an indulgent
head. .

"I know," said he, meeting her glance shrewdly. "He has got to use
his detaining faculty with discretion. I've made a study of the
little ways of conquerors. Ali! Dearest lady!" he burst out
suddenly, in his impetuous way, "I'm talking nonsense; but I'm so
uncannily happy!"

"It does me good to look at you," she said.

CHAPTER XVII

PAUL leaned back in his leather writing chair, smoking a cigarette
and focussing the electioneering situation. Beside a sheet of
foolscap on which he had been jotting down notes lay in neat piles
the typewritten Report of the Forlorn Widows' Fund, the account book
and the banker's pass book. He had sat up till three o'clock in the
morning preparing for his Princess. Nothing now remained but the
formal "examined and found correct" report of the auditors. For the
moment the Forlorn Widows stood leagues away from Paul's thoughts.
He had passed a strenuous day at Hickney Heath, lunching in the
committee room on sandwiches and whisky and soda obtained from the
nearest tavern, talking, inventing, dictating, writing, playing upon
dull minds the flashes of his organizing genius. His committee was
held up for the while by a dark rift in the Radical camp. They had
not yet chosen their man. Nothing was known, save that a certain
John Questerhayes, K. C., an eminent Chancery barrister, who had of
late made himself conspicuous in the constituency, had been turned
down on the ground that he was not sufficiently progressive. Now for
comfort to the Radical the term "Progressive" licks the blessed word
Mesopotamia into a cocked hat. Under the Progressive's sad-coloured
cloak he need not wear the red tie of the socialist. Apparently Mr.
Questerhayes objected to the sad-coloured cloak, the mantle of
Elijah, M. P., the late member for Hickney Heath. "Wanted: an
Elisha," seemed to be the cry of the Radical Committee.

Paul leaned back, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his finger
tips together, a cigarette between his lips, lost in thought. The
early November twilight deepened in the room. He was to address a
meeting that night. In order to get ready for his speech he had not
allowed himself to be detained, and had come home early. His speech
had been prepared; but the Radical delay was a new factor of which
he might take triumphant advantage. Hence the pencil notes on the
sheet of foolscap, before him.

A man-servant came in, turned on the electric light, pulled the
curtains together and saw to the fire.

"Tea's in the drawing-room, sir."

"Bring me some here in a breakfast cup--nothing to eat," said
Paul.

Even his dearest lady could not help him in his meditated attack on
the enemy whom the Lord was delivering into his hands.

The man-servant went away. Presently Paul heard him reenter the
room; the door was at his back. He threw out an impatient hand
behind him. "Put it down anywhere, Wilton, I'll have it when I want
it."

"I beg pardon, sir," said the man, coming forward, "but it's not the
tea. There's a gentleman and a lady and another person would like to
see you. I said that you were busy, sir, but--"

He put the silver salver, with its card, in front of Paul. Printed
on the card was, "Mr. Silas Finn." In pencil was written: "Miss
Seddon, Mr. William Simmons."

Paul looked at the card in some bewilderment. What in the name of
politics or friendship were they doing in Portland Place? Not to
receive them, however, was unthinkable.

"Show them in," said he.

Silas Finn, Jane and Barney Bill! It was odd. He laughed and took
out his watch. Yes, he could easily give them half an hour or so.
But why had they come? He had found time to call once at the house
in Hickney Heath since his return to town, and then he had seen Jane
and Silas Finn together and they had talked, as far as he could
remember, of the Disestablishment of the Anglican Church and the
elevating influence of landscape painting on the human soul. Why had
they come? It could not be to offer their services during the
election, for Silas Finn in politics was a fanatical enemy. The
visit stirred a lively curiosity.

They entered: Mr. Finn in his usual black with many-coloured tie and
diamond ring, looking more mournfully grave than ever; Jane wearing
an expression half of anxiety and half of defiance; Barney Bill,
very uncomfortable in his well-preserved best suit, very restless
and nervous. They gave the impression of a deputation coming to
announce the death of a near relative. Paul received them cordially.
But why in the world, thought he, were they all so solemn? He pushed
forward chairs.

"I got your postcard, Bill. Thanks so much for it."

Bill grunted and embraced his hard felt hat.

"I ought to have written to you," said Jane--"but---"

"She felt restrained by her duty towards me," said Mr. Finn. "I hope
you did not think it was discourteous on her part."

"My dear sir," Paul laughed, seating himself in his writing chair,
which he twisted away from the table, "Jane and I are too old
friends for that. In her heart I know she wishes me luck. And I hope
you do too, Mr. Finn," he added pleasantly--"although I know
you're on the other side."

"I'm afraid my principles will not allow me to wish you luck in this
election, Mr. Savelli."

"Well, well," said Paul. "It doesn't matter. If you vote against me
I'll not bear malice."

"I am not going to vote against you, Mr. Savelli," said Mr. Finn,
looking at him with melancholy eyes. "I am going to stand against
you."

Paul sprang forward in his chair. Here was fantastic news indeed!
"Stand against me? You? You're the Radical candidate?"

"Yes."

Paul laughed boyishly. "Why, it's capital! I'm awfully glad."

"I was asked this morning," said Mr. Finn gravely. "I prayed God for
guidance. He answered, and I felt it my duty to come to you at once,
with our two friends."

Barney Bill cocked his head on one side. "I did my best to persuade
him not to, sonny."

"But why shouldn't he?" cried Paul courteously--though why he
should puzzled him exceedingly. "It's very good of you, Mr. Finn.
I'm sure your side," he went on, "could not have chosen a better
man. You're well known in the constituency--I am jolly lucky to
have a man like you as an opponent."

"Mr. Savelli," said Mr. Finn, "it was precisely so that we should
not be opponents that I have taken this unusual step."

"I don't quite understand," said Paul.

"Mr. Finn wants you to retire in favour of some other Conservative
candidate," said Jane calmly.

"Retire? I retire?"

Paul looked at her, then at Barney Bill, who nodded his white head,
then at Mr. Finn, whose deep eyes met his with a curious tragical
mournfulness. The proposal took his breath away. It was crazily
preposterous. But for their long faces he would have burst into
laughter. "Why on earth do you want me to retire?" he asked
good-humouredly.

"I will tell you," said Mr. Finn. "Because you will have God against
you."

Paul saw a gleam of light in the dark mystery of the visit. "You may
believe it, Mr. Finn, but I don't. I believe that my war cry, 'God
for England, Savelli and Saint George,' is quite as acceptable to,
the Almighty as yours."

Mr. Finn stretched out two hands in earnest deprecation. "Forgive me
if I say it; but you don't know what you're talking about. God has
not revealed Himself to you. He has to me. When my fellow-citizens
asked me to stand as the Liberal candidate, I thought it was because
they knew me to be an upright man, who had worked hard on their
council, an active apostle in the cause of religion, temperance and
the suppression of vice. I thought I had merely deserved well in
their opinion. When I fell on my knees and prayed the glory of the
Lord spread about me and I knew that they had been divinely
inspired. It was revealed to me that this was a Divine Call to
represent the Truth in the Parliament of the nation."

"I remember your saying, when I first had the pleasure of meeting
you," Paul remarked, with unwonted dryness, "that the Kingdom of
Heaven was not adequately represented in the House of Commons."

"I have not changed my opinion, Mr Savelli. The hand of God has
guided my business. The hand of God is placing me in the House of
Commons to work His will. You cannot oppose God's purpose, Paul
Savelli--and that is why I beg you not to stand against me."

"You see, he likes yer," interjected Barney Bill, with anxiety in
his glittering eyes. "That's why he's a-doing of it. He says to
hisself, says he, 'ere's a young chap what I likes with his first
great chance in front of him, with the eyes of the country sot on
him--now if I comes in and smashes him, as I can't help myself
from doing, it'll be all u-p with that young chap's glorious career.
But if I warns him in time, then he can retire--find an honourable
retreat--that's what he wants yer to have--an honourable
retreat. Isn't that it, Silas?"

"Those are the feelings by which I am actuated," said Mr. Finn.

Paul stretched himself out in his chair, his ankles crossed, and
surveyed his guests. "What do you think of it, Jane?" said he, not
without a touch of irony.

She had been looking into the fire, her face in profile. Addressed,
she turned. "Mr. Finn has your interests very deep at heart," she
answered tonelessly.

Paul jumped to his feet and laughed his fresh laugh. It was all so
comic, so incredible, so mad. Yet none of them appeared to see any
humour in the situation. There sat Jane and Barney Bill cowering
under the influence of their crazy fishmongering apostle; and there,
regarding him with a world of appeal in his sorrowful eyes, sat the
apostle himself, bolt upright in his chair, an odd figure with his
streaked black and white hair, ascetic face and
Methodistico-Tattersall raiment. And they all seemed to expect him
to obey this quaint person's fanatical whimsy.

"It's very kind indeed of you, Mr. Finn, to consult my interests in
this manner," said he. "And I'm most indebted to you for your
consideration. But, as I said before, I've as much reason for
believing God to be on my side as you have. And I honestly believe
I'm going to win this election. So I certainly won't withdraw."

"I implore you to do so. I will go on my knees and beseech you,"
said Mr. Finn, with hands clasped in front of him.

Paul looked round. "I'm afraid, Bill," said he, "that this is
getting rather painful."

"It is painful. It's more than painful. It's horrible! It's
ghastly!" cried Mr. Finn, in sudden shrill crescendo, leaping to his
feet. In an instant the man's demeanour had changed. The mournful
apostle had become a wild, vibrating creature with flashing eyes and
fingers.

"Easy, now, Silas. Whoa! Steady!" said Barney Bill.

Silas Finn advanced on Paul and clapped his hands on his shoulders
and shouted hoarsely: "For the love of God--don't thwart me in
this. You can't thwart me. You daren't thwart me. You daren't thwart
God."

Paul disengaged himself impatiently. The humour had passed from the
situation. The man was a lunatic, a religious maniac. Again he
addressed Barney Bill. "As I can't convince Mr. Finn of the
absurdity of his request, I must ask you to do so for me."

"Young man," cried Silas, quivering with passion, "do not speak to
God's appointed in your vanity and your arrogance. You--you--of
all human beings--"

Both Jane and Barney Bill closed round him. Jane clutched his arm.
"Come away. Do come away."

"Steady now, Silas," implored Barney Bill. "You see it's no use. I
told you so. Come along."

"Leave me alone," shouted Finn, casting them off. "What have I to do
with you? It is that young man there who defies God and me."

"Mr. Finn," said Paul, very erect, "if I have hurt your feelings I
am sorry. But I fight this election. That's final. The choice no
longer rests with me. I'm the instrument of my party. I desire to be
courteous in every way, but you must see that it would be useless to
prolong this discussion." And he moved to the door.

"Come away now, for Heaven's sake. Can't you realize it's no good?"
said Jane, white to the lips.

Silas Finn again cast her off and railed and raved at her. "I will
not go away," he cried in wild passion. "I will not allow my own son
to raise an impious hand against the Almighty."

"Lor' lumme!" gasped Barney Bill, dropping his hat. "He's done it."

There was a silence. Silas Finn stood shaking in the middle of the
room, the sweat streaming down his forehead.

Paul turned at the door and walked slowly up to him. "Your son? What
do you mean?"

Jane, with wringing hands and tense, uplifted face, said in a queer
cracked voice: "He promised us not to speak. He has broken his
promise."

"You broke your sacred word," said Barney Bill.

The man's face grew haggard. His passion left him as suddenly as it
had seized him. He collapsed, a piteous wreck, looked wide of the
three, and threw out his hands helplessly. "I broke my promise. May
God forgive me!"

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