The Dawn of Reckoning (7 page)

“Sorry, Monsell—awfully sorry—but I’m lunching with my
great-uncle.”

He broke into a roar of happy laughter, laughter that by its cleansing,
heartening quality seemed almost to push the clouds in the sky a little
further off. This notion of possessing a great-uncle amused him immeasurably,
and even Philip, without perceiving exactly what the joke was, could not help
joining in.

“But who
is
your great-uncle?” he asked, as they entered the cool
tiled hall of the Greyhound.

Ward lowered his voice. “He’s one of the most charming old men I’ve ever
met—and, as it happens, a doctor himself…Doctor Challis…Probably
you know him?”

Philip took the other affectionately by the arm and led the way into the
hotel-lounge. “Now that’s really extraordinary,” he said quietly, “Challis is
our family doctor—has been for the past forty years…”

Over beer and lemonade they discussed further, while the
pavements and gutters outside hissed and swirled in the sudden downpour.

“As a matter of fact,” Ward said, when they had settled themselves in the
old-fashioned window-seat, “Challis wants me to be his assistant—sort
of under study, you know. He’s getting too old to tackle all the work by
himself.”

“I should think so. He must be well over sixty.”

“Sixty-five. Of course, it wants thinking about, and I haven’t quite made
up my mind yet—that’s why what I’m telling you is in confidence. You
see—to put it frankly—I have to decide whether coming here
wouldn’t be—in a sort of way—burying myself alive. On the other
hand, Challis has a good practice, and a few years’ general experience is a
good qualification for a medical man if he wants to turn to specialisation
afterwards.”

“And you want to do that?”

“Yes…” He flushed slightly, as if conscious that he had said rather more
about himself than was his habit. “I’m ambitious,
Monsell—
very
.”

“So am I.”

They stared at each other for a moment without speaking, and then at last
Philip added: “Though so far I’ve been a rather humorous failure. Do you
remember that time you cleared those drunken fellows out of my
room?—
I
couldn’t have done it—but you seemed to know how
by instinct. I simply don’t know how to deal with people…Last December, for
instance, I made an awful fool of myself at a big political meeting up in
Loamport…”

He told him the whole story, without exaggeration or reticence. There was
nobody else in the world (except, perhaps, Stella) with whom such a
confession would have been even possible.

When he had finished Ward made no comment, and for that Philip was
grateful. By this time also the shower was over, and the clock in the tower
of the parish church began the chiming of noon.

“So you can’t come to lunch with us to-day?” Philip resumed, as they left
the hotel and turned up the High Street.

The other smiled and shook his head regretfully.

“Then to-morrow?”

“Oh rather, yes. I was waiting for you to say that.”

A moment later the sun shone brightly on them as they shook hands and
separated.

Since the fiasco at Loamport Philip and Stella had been
aware of a difference in their relationship, but exactly how far the
difference extended neither of them could say. That curious incident in the
ante room of the Loamport Town Hall had brought them face to face with the
reality of their own affections, but afterwards Philip, from very shyness,
had seemed unwilling to define the matter further. When, how ever, Stella
hinted at the change in their relationship, he surprised her by saying: “But,
Stella—I thought—I thought it was all settled. I love you, and I
want to marry you, but I can’t till I’m successful.”

“Then we must hurry up and make you successful,” she answered, laughing.
“And I can help you, can’t I?”

He nodded.

She felt she wanted to spring upwards and throw her arms round his neck
and kiss him. She had to fight down the desire, because—well, because
he was Philip, and different from other men. It was not that he was cold or
unfeeling, nor even that he was passionless; it was rather a kind of
over-refinement that made him shy of love-making, or of any demonstrative
affection. Really the only thing in the world she was afraid of was that look
of his, puzzled, doubtful, and with just the merest hint of reproach in
it—the look that came into his eyes whenever she did something he did
not quite approve.

She had invented a strange little parlour game (though it was just as
pleasant to play it under the verandah in fine weather), designed to help
Philip in his public-speaking. Philip delivered his speeches to her, and
whenever the opportunity occurred she would interrupt, as awkwardly and as
impertinently as possible. By dealing with so many interjections it was
intended that Philip should improve and perfect his armour against even the
most pertinacious heckler.

Ward, therefore, arriving at Chassingford Hall at a few minutes to one on
the day following his meeting with Philip, and ringing twice at the front
door without getting an answer, had not strolled very far in the direction of
the garden before the sound of voices came to his ears. He could not help
listening, and what he heard was the following duologue:

Male Voice: “—but I say, on the contrary, that the policy of my
opponents has been absolutely detrimental to the best interests of the
workers of this country, as well as—”

Female Voice (shrilly): “What do you know about the workers?”

Male Voice: “Never mind what I know. I work hard myself, and—”

Female Voice (more shrilly than ever): “Rubbish! What did Lloyd George say
in nineteen-ten?”

Male Voice (nervously): “I—I—I say, really, Stella, what an
absurd question!—Do you think anybody would be silly enough to ask
it?”

Female Voice (now unmistakably Stella’s): “Philip, my dear little
innocent, people are silly enough to ask anything at political meetings. And
the only thing to do is to reply to a silly question by a silly answer. For
instance, in reply to the question ‘What did Lloyd George say in
nineteen-ten?’ you might answer, ‘I don’t know, but I know what Christopher
Columbus said when he discovered America.’”

Male Voice: “But I should hate to reply like that. It’s cheap. And
besides, supposing the man asked me what Columbus did say—”

At this point Ward came through the shrubbery and provided a more
effective interruption than even Stella could have thought of.

Later in the afternoon Stella told Philip she had finally
decided that she did not like Ward. “When I first met him at Cambridge, I
didn’t know, but I know now. I
don’t
like him.”

“But you said then he was like a Hungarian?”

“So he is, and I like that part of him, but there’s something else.
He—he makes me uncomfortable. I hope—I hope he doesn’t come here
often.”

Philip looked serious. “But Stella, why do you dislike him? I assure you I
know him, and he’s a splendid fellow—”

“Yes, he may be. But—but he makes me uncomfortable. He did the first
time I met him, and he did the same again this afternoon. He was laugh ing at
us, too—about you making your speeches and me interrupting you.”

“Oh, you mustn’t worry about that. He laughs at anything—everything
When some men at Cambridge got drunk and messed up my rooms he turned them
out—that was how I first got to know him, by the way—but the next
morning he was laughing about the whole business. ‘Quite a little to-do we
had last night, didn’t we?’ he said—that was how he regarded it. I
shall never forget his words, because I felt indignant at the time that he
should treat the matter so lightly.”

Stella went on: “Well, anyway, I don’t like him. I—yes, I’m quite
certain of it—I
fear
him. I don’t know why or in what way, but I
do.”

“That’s rather a pity,” answered Philip, “because he’s likely to be in
Chassingford a good deal in the future. He told me just before he went that
he had finally decided to be Doctor Challis’s assistant. So I’m afraid it’s
rather—inevitable—that you should meet him occasionally.”

“Inevitable, is it?” She stared moodily in front of her, as if reckoning
things out. “Ah, well,” she added, smiling again, “when you’re successful we
shall marry and move out of Chassingford, shan’t we?”

“Oh, yes, if you’re keen on it. But do you dislike him so much as
that?”

After a long pause she answered thoughtfully: “When I come to think about
it I don’t know that I dislike him—him personally—at all. But I
dislike the—the feeling I have—inside me—when he’s
near…Perhaps that’s it. Or perhaps not. Any way, what does it matter?
You’re conquering your nervousness, you’ll soon get into Parliament, then
you’ll marry me, and then—” Her eyes sparkled deliciously, and she
whispered: “Would you mind very much if I kissed you, Philip?”

She sprang forward and kissed him very prettily on the lips. He started
back, flushing slightly, and then smiled at her with that strange,
half-puzzled smile she knew so well.

“Would you rather I hadn’t done that, Philip?” she asked, not contritely,
but with the utmost defiance.

He answered: “Stella, of course not…I don’t mind at all, but
but—”

“But what?” Her voice was sharp, almost acid. “You—you startle me so
much.”

She burst into a sudden ripple of laughter. “Oh you poor old
Philip—startled because I kiss you Well, you must never be startled
like that any more, because I’m going to do it again—often and
often—just when I want, in fact. See?”

And she did it again. A strange daring infected her. Her fear of him, and
of that curious puzzled look that came into his eyes, was gone—for the
time being at any rate. Something had driven it away.

Aubrey Ward came to Chassingford a fortnight afterwards, and
within a week he was the talk of the little market town. It seemed
incomprehensible that the old and respected Doctor Challis could have chosen
such a wild and romantic-looking youth to be his second in command. For
Doctor Challis, on the one hand, was all that a doctor should be. He had
silver-grey hair, a wistful smile, a perfect bedside manner, and a tendency
to tell people exactly what they delighted to hear about themselves. He never
visited except in immaculate morning-coat and top-hat, and still preferred a
carriage and pair to the smartest limousine. Add to that an excellent taste
in wines and a disposition to treat the smallest illness as gravely as if it
were an affair of state, and you complete the picture of the man.

Doctor Ward, on the other hand, was young, hand some, and possessed
manners that were more natural on the rugger field than at the bedside.
Doctor Challis paid visits like an ambassador; his assistant “blinded”
through the countryside on a high-powered motor-cycle, with an incredibly
dirty motor-oilskin covering a suit of light-coloured plus-fours; he was, as
Mrs. Monsell nicknamed him, the Human Tornado. There was, however, no doubt
about his ability. What he lacked in experience he made up for in knowledge
and earnestness, and before he had been in Chassingford many months he had
staunch partisans. Curiously, perhaps, a majority of these were to be found
in the small but very compact working-class district in the town.

When the Monsells returned after their usual foreign tour they found that
Ward had immensely consolidated his position. He was popular with all
classes, and even his curious habit of telling people frankly that they had
nothing at all the matter with them did not antagonise so much as it
fascinated.

Stella alone refused to join in the general chorus of adulation. “It’s no
good questioning me about it,” she said to Philip, almost crossly. “I just
don’t like him, and perhaps there isn’t the least reason at all why I
don’t.”

Chassingford seemed bent on losing its reputation for being
unexciting. Not only had Ward come into it, but a few months after his
arrival, Colonel Dumbleby, its aged and respected representative in
Parliament, passed away in a nursing-home at Brighton. Colonel Dumbleby had
been, like the place he represented, unexciting. Only once had he spoken in
the House, and that was when, to his own great surprise and alarm, he had
interjected the word “Why?” at a moment when nobody else was interjecting
anything. Hansard reported it, the
Chassingford Advertiser
reported
it; but after wards the Colonel allowed his quickly-won fame to slip away
from him. He never spoke in the House again, and a few years later he became
too old and ill to speak much anywhere.

After the funeral it became necessary for the Chassingford Association to
seek another candidate. Philip’s name was put forward, along with those of
several other men; and at the Association meeting he made an excellent speech
in which he was not in the least nervous. Of course it was a small and
comparatively select gathering; nevertheless, he had improved immensely since
the Loamport fiasco, and had actually, by taking thought, added cubits to his
political stature, In the end the Association adopted him unanimously, and
since Chassingford was considered a safe seat, it looked as if one great
barrier was at last surmounted.

Indeed, for several days it seemed even possible that there might be no
contest at all, and that Philip would be returned to Parliament unopposed.
Then at the last minute, a few hours before the time for nominations, an
opponent appeared, went through the necessary formalities, and was officially
listed for the Chassingford election stakes. He was a Mr. James Grainger, a
local estate agent. Stella was furious. She had, as Philip often told her
severely, an absolutely unpolitical mind.

“The man has a perfect right to oppose me,” Philip said, though the
expensive prospect of a contest was no doubt a disappointment to him. “And I
shall fight him fairly.”