Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (517 page)

“That seems sound enough,” Mr. Fleight exclaimed. “Ah, but you see,” Mr. Blood continued, “there was once an unfortunate incident. Mr. Gregory was very ill with influenza and at the same time he was very impatient to see a new kind of portable sty. So he had a sty brought into his drawing-room through the French windows with a pig in it. While he was looking at the pig he fainted, and he had to be carried away to bed and there he remained for a fortnight. And since there was no one to look after the servants, the pigsty remained in the drawing-room. So now the Hemsterleys have got half the population of poor Gregory’s place to swear that he was in the habit of keeping pigs in his drawing-room.”

“But can’t he explain?” Mr. Fleight said. “Can’t he make it clear that that sort of thing was an accident?”

“You can’t ever explain that sort of thing to commissioners and masters and clerks and people in lunacy,” Mr. Blood answered, “they’re blind and deaf and paralytic, and their underlings want as many jobs as possible. And they never hear what anybody says, and if they do, they can’t see who it is saying it. No, my dear Fleight, once you get into their clutches you never get out. And all their proceedings take place in secret so that it’s contempt of court to refer to them in the Press, and the minister who found them their jobs won’t let them be referred to in Parliament. It’s a wonderful system—”

“By heavens!” Mr. Fleight suddenly broke in, “I won’t let that man be shut up if I have to spend half the money I’ve got. I’ll have him properly protected.”

“Well, that’s very creditable of you,” Mr. Blood said; “it’s quite admirable and it would make a very pretty spectacle.” He turned towards Mr. Macpherson. “I think you can go and rouse the house now,” he said. “And remember the pretty story how one candidate is writted for lunacy and the other swears that he’ll rescue him from his dungeon, if he has to raise a troop of artillery to do it.”

And whilst the skirts of Mr. Macpherson’s dressing gown were whisking round the corner of the door, Mr. Fleight said:

“I’m really quite in earnest, you know. I mean that if they do try to bring that man in a lunatic...”

“I know you’re perfectly in earnest,” Mr. Blood answered, “and it’s a most commendable resolution.”

“Unless,” Mr. Fleight said, with a sudden loyalty, “it would interfere with your plans.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t interfere with my plans,” Mr. Blood answered, “unless you spent too much money. You’ve got to remember that you’re not really a Rockefeller, and that it generally costs you a pretty penny when you attack ancient and corrupt institutions. But you’d better sit down, I’ve got something to say to you.”

Mr. Fleight sat down in the great chair that had the two lions quarrelling over the top of the back. A dead silence reigned. But after a time Mr. Fleight remarked meditatively:

“You don’t seem to object to these corrupt institutions. You seem rather to like them. I can’t understand that.”

“I don’t, you know, care a halfpenny,” Mr. Blood answered, “but if I did have any preferences I should say that it’s more picturesque and better for everybody concerned that there should be secret courts presided over by blind, deaf and obstinate old men than that the country should be run by imbecile and corrupt millionaires. If you look at it in a perfectly aloof manner you’ll see that it’s scandalous that one party machine should job you into this candidature and that the other should job Gregory. If you look at it from the point of view of the unfortunate constituency it’s got to be represented either by a chap with, on the face of it, an extraordinarily bad record with women — that’s you — or else its member has to be a soft-witted creature with a cold in the head, who keeps pigs in his drawing room.’’

“But he didn’t,” Mr. Fleight said indignantly.

“Oh, yes, he did,” Mr. Blood answered; “the facts were exactly as I have related them. And if a man is so weakly that, for a fortnight, he can’t keep pigs out of his drawing-room, he isn’t the man to represent a decorous and rather puritanic constituency like Byefleet. You know perfectly well that the constituency detests both of you.”

Mr. Fleight, after a moment of reflection, sighed deeply.

“Of course every word of what you’ve been saying is perfectly true,” he exclaimed, “but it seems a dismal sort of business.”

“It is a dismal sort of business,” Mr. Blood said. “That’s what I’ve been saying ever since I was born, and from the point of view of a man who cares for decencies — which I don’t give a hang for — it gets more and more dismal every day. The old sort of corruption, that of jobbing decayed barristers into shops, was a child compared with it; was a joke. Of course, you must have corruption. As long as there’s a nephew in the world there must be nepotism. You can’t hit it because you can’t really define it. You gave a large cheque to a fellow called Garstein, but it was made payable to ‘self.’ And on account of that cheque you’re going to represent Byefleet, which doesn’t want you. But you couldn’t possibly prove that you gave that cheque to an American Jew. It was cashed, as you know, by a boy messenger. There’s just simply nothing whatever to show for the immense mass of efficient corruption that hangs like a pall all over this country, and all over every other country for the matter of that. The old sort of corruption was picturesque, so that you could have a shy at it. But you couldn’t ever catch Mr. Garstein. He’d be off to Saratoga for his health before you’d opened your mouth, and every paper of both sides would be shockedly exclaiming that you were too scandalous to be printed. The other man is just the same. The story of Gregory is just as preposterous as your own—”

Mr. Blood broke off, and then he exclaimed suddenly: “Look here, I’m going to let you Corbury.”

“Let me Corbury!” Mr. Fleight exclaimed. “Good God! You aren’t in want of money.”

“I’m not in want of money,” Mr. Blood answered; “but you need to be an English county gentleman.”

“But I’m not fitted for it,” Mr. Fleight expostulated. “I should look ridiculous. Fancy, Rothweil of Corbury!”

“Rothweil’s a very good name,” Mr. Blood answered, “and don’t make any mistakes. I’ll tell you what the position is: I don’t think you’ve got a chance — not a ghost of a chance — against Gregory.”

“I don’t think I have,” Mr. Fleight answered. “It’s all up with me.”

“Then what will happen,” Mr. Blood said, “is that poor Mr. Gregory will be unseated about six months after he’s elected, because he’ll be proved to be of unsound mind. He’ll probably be forced to resign, because, if he didn’t, your side would get him kicked out, or they’d have a try, and there’d be a scandal, which neither side in this country ever wants. Now, the opponent that you’re going to have after poor Gregory goes is my brother Reginald.”

“I rather suspected that, you know,” Mr. Fleight said. “So you would,” Mr. Blood answered. He continued, after a moment: “The position then will be perfectly regular. You will be a Jew with a bad record about women.”

“I haven’t really got a bad record about women,” Mr. Fleight said.

“I know you haven’t,” Mr. Blood answered; “but you’ll never shake free of it — never in your life. And it’ll do you good in the end — after the first year or so — because it will add a touch of romance to your figure; there’s nothing else in the world that’s romantic about you.”

“That’s perfectly true, too,” Mr. Fleight said.

“Well, now we’ve got a tremendous lot to talk about,” Mr. Blood began once more. “Take off your coat and put your feet upon the table and make yourself perfectly comfortable, and don’t interrupt unless I ask you a question or unless you’re too absolutely outraged in your best feelings.”

“I think I’ll sit as I am,” Mr. Fleight said; “it seems more respectful. You see, this is almost the greatest day of my life. It’s what I’ve been looking forward to ever since I sat in old Plodge’s room and listened to you speaking three solid hours to him and other fellows with never a word to me. I said to myself that the ambition of my life would be to be asked down to Corbury and have you talking by the hour to me alone.”

“Then here you are,” Mr. Blood said, “and I’m sure your flattery does me good.”

CHAPTER VII
I

THE position, as Mr. Blood propounded it in the darkened library, beneath the painted circles on the ceiling, was pretty well as follows: Mr. Fleight might consider himself to have lost the first battle of his campaign. He had better go on canvassing and spreading bribes in view of the next bye-election. But he hadn’t the beginnings of a chance of coming in on top of the poll. He just simply wouldn’t be anywhere after the papers reported his evidence in the two courts next day. Nobody could stand up against that, and he had better let the constituency alone for a couple of months.

He must regard his career as divided into two parts. There was the constituency which he must render safe, and there was London which would make or mar him afterwards. For a moment he must give up the constituency. He must set to work and slave like a nigger to make the big entertainment that they were giving, and that would fall just before the declaration of the poll, as enormous a success as he possibly could and as vulgar a one. In that he was appealing to the suffrages of the people who would “shove” him after he got into Parliament. After that he must take Corbury furnished for a season and begin, tentatively, once more to show his nose in the division. As Mr. Blood had already said, he would be a Jew with a bad record about women. Reginald, on the other hand, was a Papist with a bad record in the Divorce Courts. They would be so evenly matched that scandal would have to die down.

“Now you understand,” Mr. Blood addressed Mr. Fleight, “I’m going to give Reginald the most perfectly decent show it’s possible for him to have. He’s my brother and I’ve a great affection for him, so you mustn’t mind.”

Mr. Fleight made with his right hand a little gesture that showed he quite understood.

“I want Reginald to make a career,” Mr. Blood said. “It’s about the one thing I do want, and he’s made a start. The position is perfectly even and fair. I doubt if any other constituency would give him a start or you a start just now. So you’ll be helping each other really, because, whichever of you fails, he will put up such a fine fight that another seat will certainly be found for him at the General Election, when there’s so much buzz that scandal doesn’t count much. You understand?” Again Mr. Fleight moved his right hand.

“What I’m going to do,” Mr. Blood said, “is to go to the Chancellor of the Exchequer and tell him exactly what I’m up to. And I warn you, Reginald will spend money like water. I’m as rich as you — and really richer — because I’ve not got your ambitions. I know you don’t care about money, but it’s going to cost you a pretty penny. I shan’t, myself, take personal sides in any case. That’s why I’ll let you Corbury. You can have it for threepence a week if you like, or if you like you can pay three thousand a year to Reginald. I don’t care one way or the other. You may think that Reginald ought to have Corbury, but I don’t agree. It isn’t fitting that a younger son should have the family house while the owner is alive. And whatever may be said about Reginald, he’s the younger son. He’ll have to turn out and live with Lennards in quite a good house, that’s the family dower-place. That’s enough of that. Now let’s get on to the woman question. You must marry. Do you understand? You’ve got to marry quick and strong.”

Mr. Blood looked keenly at his guest. He was expecting an outburst of protest such as had greeted him when he had first mentioned the subject. Instead, Mr. Fleight just brought out: “Well?” so inaudibly that it appeared to be a mumble. Under Mr. Blood’s eyes a flush suddenly came out upon his cheeks, rose to his temples and suffused his whole face. He had a little aspect of the deepest shyness. Mr. Blood continued to look at him until he dropped his eyes.

“Of course,” Mr. Blood said at last, “that makes it infinitely easier.” And then he added: “I may take it, for the sake of clearness, that you have now no objection to marriage. Something has altered your point of view so that you are no longer concerned as enormously for the Baroness of Palatial Hall, and that even the tragic fate of Miss Leroy does not bulk as hugely in your emotions?”

Mr. Blood paused, observing the various hues that chased each other across Mr. Fleight’s face. Then he began again:

“As there’s a great deal to be said, perhaps we may as well leave out the expression of your creditable emotions. That they will be creditable I am absolutely certain, for you’re altogether the most creditable person I’ve ever come across. Besides, you don’t seem in the least inclined to express yourself.”

“You said, you know,” Mr. Fleight remarked mildly, “that I was to hold my tongue and let you do the talking. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

“Oh, I see!” Mr. Blood exclaimed. “I didn’t expect you to be so well drilled. People never are well drilled.

But, anyhow, you’ve done with women for the rest of your days. This closes the chapter with a bang.”

Mr. Fleight writhed in his chair.

“Oh, but I haven’t!’ he said.” I don’t want to interrupt, but I can’t really stand that.”

“Oh, but you have!” Mr. Blood answered; “done with them for good and all. You’re going to become a thoroughly domesticated character; you’re going to settle down and enjoy the pleasures of a Christian fireside.”

Mr. Fleight had exhibited a very marked perturbation during the beginning of this speech, but towards the end a measure of calmness descended upon him.

“Of course,” he said, “if having done with women means domesticity and a Christian fireside—”

“What the devil else should it mean?” Mr. Blood paused again to collect his ideas and then once more he said:

“The whole of this chapter of your existence has been muddled up with the silliest sort of folly about women. There’s the Baroness of Palatial Hall. She’s vulgar, hard, commercial, and she has really a sort of vinegarish, spinsterly jealousy. She’s the very worst kind of Englishwoman, but I suppose you’ll keep your engagements to her. She’s worried the life out of you and she’s done nothing for you. Then again there’s the Gilda Leroy affair; that’s exactly the sort of grotesque nonsense that a little chap like you is bound to get entangled in. There’s not a single newly-rich person of your type in London who isn’t being blackmailed and made utterly miserable by some such preposterous member of the lower classes. I don’t mean to say that Miss Leroy wasn’t a perfectly well-meaning young woman. But she’s done your business just as effectually as if she’d been the worst harpy in West Kensington. You’re predestinated for that sort of thing; and, with a chap like you, you’ll get blackmailed by innocent people infinitely worse than you will be by bad hats, because you’re such an innocent little chap that you haven’t really any taste for bad people or even for dissipated people. You don’t let them come near you. Even the Baroness — she’s told me so and I know it’s true — is as viciously respectable by temperament as the very worst type of provincial Sunday school teacher above the age of fifty. She’s all that temperament; and as far as I can see, you’ve got her hung on to your miserable tail for the rest of your miserable life.”

Again Mr. Fleight writhed.

“Now, don’t be unhappy,” Mr. Blood continued. “I undertook to fix it all up for you and I’ve fixed it all up. I’ve seen the Baroness amongst what Cluny calls her porphyry fonts, and it’s all fixed up. You’re at liberty to be happy with any houri that you like to select. But mind — you’ve got to marry her! The houri, not the Baroness! I’m not officially a moral man, but I’ve a good deal of common sense, which your ancestor knew to be the same thing — Moses, the law-giver of Israel.”

Again Mr. Fleight flushed.

“How did you know,” he said, “that Moses was my ancestor? — that I was of the tribe of Moses, that is to say?”

“Oh, don’t I know,” Mr. Blood said, “that your respected father, Mr. Aaron Rothweil, had some things wrapped up in a lot of old rags that he carried about in his bosom even when he was starving — things like the bone tabs that you hang on key-rings? Do you suppose I don’t know that you trace your pedigree back to three thousand — or seven thousand or whatever it was — years before the Christian era? You might give me credit for knowing what every schoolboy knows about your amiable, but much too sentimental race. If you weren’t a prince in Israel, what the devil could you be, I should like to know? Haven’t you got a sort of antelope look about you? Like a confounded mournful gazelle. One could break one of your knees as if they were pipe stems. Well, that’s blood.”

Mr. Fleight had not been listening very intently. The sort of theory that Mr. Blood had been uttering was too familiar to arrest his attention, and instead of an answer he brought out a deep groan.

“I don’t believe,” he said, “that she’d marry me. Of course, I want to marry her. Or at least I don’t so much want to marry her as to lay pearls as big as roc’s eggs at her feet and have myself so efficiently cremated that there’d only be a teaspoonful of ashes she could drink in a golden cup of wine.”

“Of course, my oriental friend,” Mr. Blood said, “that is how it would take you. Mind, I don’t mean to say that I can guarantee this particular houri’s marrying you. I can’t, but I’ll guarantee that as far as the Baroness is concerned you’ll be at liberty to pay your honourable addresses to any blonde young person that you like to think of.”

“You don’t think she’ll have me?” Mr. Fleight began agitatedly.

“I can’t tell,” Mr. Blood answered. “I can’t guarantee any of these things. If you like to empower me, as a respectable marriage broker, to make your Israelitish advances I’ll do my best and no doubt I could do it twenty times better than ever you could; but I can’t guarantee that.”

“Then what’s the good,” Mr. Fleight said, “of anything you can guarantee? I don’t want to be ungrateful, but what
is
the good?”

“My good man,” Mr. Blood answered coolly, “I can clear up my lord’s temporal affairs; for the matter of that I could knock down any two or three men who tried to strike him. But when it comes to providing love philtres for a person of my lord’s physical appearance — which in the large Teutonic eye couldn’t be expected to be attractive — well, frankly, that isn’t my job.”

Mr. Fleight sank down in the deep chair so low that he almost disappeared. An entirely new degree of dejection expressed itself upon his face, and Mr. Blood was so moved by his obvious suffering that he said:

“Of course, I could use my common sense to present your material advantages to the sterling Saxon common sense of the lady.”

“Oh, yes, for heaven’s sake do that!” Mr. Fleight exclaimed, and he sprang out of his chair.

“If you’ll only do that—” he began again, but Mr.

Blood interrupted him.

“Of course I’ll do that,” he answered; “but if you want to give me any help you’ll just clear out of the way as much as possible. You won’t present yourself to the lady’s gaze more often than a hundred times a day.”

Mr. Fleight passed agitatedly twice up and down in front of the high carved mantel.

“I can’t,” he exclaimed, “keep away from her! I don’t seem to be living. At this moment I don’t seem to be living. You see, for a week, for a month she’s hardly been out of my sight. I’ve got so used — but there, I don’t know how long it’s been. It’s been like the dawn of life to me — a beginning of life! I haven’t lived.

Don’t you understand? But, there, you can’t understand; you cold-blooded Christian product. You’re all like fishes.”

“My good man,” Mr. Blood said coolly, “I understand, though I don’t burst all the pearl studs out of my shirt front in the effort to explain. Look here, I’ll make you a level bet — if I don’t in the end make myself ten times as much of a confounded fool over some such little imbecile as Wilhelmina, I’ll make you a present of Corbury, lock, stock and barrel. Of course, I hope I shall stick out for ten years, or if God has any goodness in Him at all, for twenty. I’m a temperate sort of person, but it will come.”

Mr. Fleight exclaimed, with a disconcerting fury:

“Who the devil cares about you and Wilhelmina? You aren’t a human being, you’re a natural force. You’re like a wind or a rock or a chain of mountains. You stick up there and you say ‘
Bow wow! I am because I am.’
But I’m a man, damn you, with the passion of a man and the heart of a man. But no,” he added, and an air of profound dejection settled once more upon him. He threw himself into the depths of the big chair again. “I’m not a man. I’m not even a dirty little antelope, as you said. I’m one of the cage of apes that came from Sidon and made the Queen of Sheba feel ill. That’s what I am.”