it was the day of the mass-meeting at rilchester, when gabriel strong, gentleman, of the friary, saltire, was to be formally presented to electors of the place as the accepted candidate in the unionist cause. the rilchester town-hall had been retained for the occasion and prepared for the ceremony with bunting, palms, and flowers. many of the local dignitaries, swollen big within sabbath apparel, were purposing to represent the ancient and noble corporation of rilchester on the platform that afternoon. the golden lion, the county hotel, was draped in red, white, and blue, for the members of the conservative association were giving a lunch there at five shillings a head. there was also a select primrose league déjeuner at lady popham’s, where the knights and dames of the rilchester habitation were to assemble before ascending in force to uphold the empire.
at saltire hall many tables were spread. john strong, confident in purse and wine-cellar, revelled in his son’s publicity with a british pride. the coming oracle was himself modestly solemn and inclined towards silence. he kept judith at his side, feeling in her nearness a peculiar yet powerful sense of comfort. the air was oleaginous with flattery and unction. gabriel responded after lunch to the toast of his own success with a certain shy deference and timidity. he was one of those men apt to efface their convictions in the presence of strangers. his personality only unveiled itself to the intelligent sympathy of elect souls.
many of the saltire worthies were in attendance, attracted more as blue-bottles to fish-bones than being drawn thither by any superabundance of political fervor. here were mr. mince, sublimely didactic and full of egregious hauteur; dr. marjoy, debonair and practice-pushing; mr. lang, the local notary, a shrivelled shred of sardonic whimsicality, a veritable wasp, forever marring the mellifluous productions of the vicar’s tongue. mrs. mince, who had favored champagne and salmon mayonnaise, had retired to the hall with an overladen look, and mrs. marjoy was seated beside her on one of the lounges. the two ladies were as critical as ever, even after the benign influence of lunch. they were very eager to detect any evidence that might reveal to them the productiveness of their most christian epistle.
“the poet fellow looks a bit worried,” said mrs. marjoy, fanning herself with her handkerchief.
“any man ought to look worried,” declared the vicaress, “who is leading a shockingly evil and double-faced life. we cannot escape from the prick of conscience, my dear. god’s laws move slowly, but oh—they are sure. i wonder why on earth they don’t bring us some coffee.”
the florid lady entered upon a further disquisition concerning the iniquities of mankind at large. champagne had quickened her tongue, whereas the vicaress began to wax somnolent with a pleasant sense of satiety. she responded in monosyllables to mrs. marjoy’s dithyrambics on morals.
sir hercules dimsdale, a hook-nosed veteran with a fine head of snowy hair, had drawn gabriel aside into the conservatory for the purpose of political counsel. the baronet was a very pithy old gentleman, having imbibed a certain genial cynicism during his many years of political campaigning. like a free lance, he had fought perhaps more for the love of fighting than from any intense enthusiasm of purpose.
“ha, my boy, are you one of those rare young beings capable of listening to an old man’s patter?”
“i can take advice,” said gabriel, with a smile.
“then you are a paragon for your age. don’t be too diffident to-day; arrogance counts for strength with the average britisher. stand up and talk like a beaconsfield. self-confidence is an excalibur when the wielder is worthy. above all things you must pretend to convictions, even if you don’t believe half you say. talk as though you thought every man on the other side the most infernal jackass that ever chewed carrots.”
“i will strive not to hide my light under a bushel,” said the neophyte.
“have you your crackers ready?”
“the customary gibes, sir hercules.”
“your comic condiments. always raise a laugh; it is nearly as effective as offering free drinks all round. and don’t forget to blarney the beggars. stroke the local big-wigs the right way and they’ll purr like tom-cats; flatter their opinions; make ’em think they’re all statesmen.”
“i will do my best.”
“and then the catch sentiments, the gallery rhetoric—”
“such as these: the grand and glorious future of our british empire! the splendid tenacity of the anglo-saxon race! our stupendous commercial energy! the magnificent heroism of our army!”
“that’s it, that’s it. always superlatives.”
“claim all the fine statesmanship ever witnessed in the island as the special heirloom of our own party.”
“exactly. and promise ’em everything, in reason and out of reason—old-age pensions, acres and cows, the moon, the immortal cherubim, anything, only be generous.”
“i will,” said the novice; “it is very easy to promise. and afterwards—”
“oh, hang the afterwards! win the seat. that’s what you’re talking for.”
at three o’clock gabriel and his patrons were caught up into glory and carried towards rilchester by a coach and four. there was a lavish following of friendly chariots along the old roman highway. it was down hill to rilchester, and the procession rattled through saltire with horns blowing and a great jingling of harness. sir hercules was still playing the nestor in the body of the coach; the reminiscences of forty years had bubbled up under the airy touch of john strong’s champagne.
politics have bulked largely on occasions in the literary stock-pot; much of the material has been sucked to the marrow. nor was the pageant at rilchester that day less commonplace or more unusual than any tramp can see for the shoving, perhaps ten times in his mortal career. there was a scattered gathering in the streets, bunting overhead, a moderate mob outside the public hall, a portrait of the queen loyally pilloried over the stone balcony. within there was the inevitable gathering of local somebodies on the platform, the usual assemblage of local nobodies in the hall. there was the eternal green baize table, the array of bent-cane chairs behind a bulwark of palms and flowers with the florist’s card carefully inserted amid the decorations. there were the usual smiling dames, the usual earnest patricians.
the proceedings may be summarized on account of the dismal prosaicisms of such a scene. sir hercules dimsdale, as chairman, taking his applause with dignity, prepared to warm the hearts of those assembled towards the person of the projected candidate. with his usual genial wit and solid complacency he professed himself confident of the enthusiastic support of the meeting. there was never a more promising politician than the gentleman now presenting himself to the constituency. in sir hercules’ belief this young man was marked out by fortune for a brilliant and valuable career. rilchester would be proud in the future of having given parliamentary birth to one of the ablest men of the younger generation.
it was after some such florid preamble that gabriel stood up to face the most patriotic electors of rilchester. he was palpably nervous, in a modest fashion that appealed perhaps to the parental instincts of his auditors. and yet a certain circumstance had come near marring his first serious public attempt at oratory. looking down, he had seen suddenly under the fringe of palms a girl’s face staring up to his, a face aureoled with gold, the face of joan gildersedge, that beatrice from the rilchester hills.
joan had heard incidentally from gabriel of the affair, and had plotted in her heart how to behold the man’s triumph. she had come into rilchester on foot and waited for an hour outside closed doors to gain good vantage. as she sat in the dingy hall she seemed to hallow it into a cedarn temple. there was a species of celestial pride upon her face and an eagerness that was almost pained in its intense thirst for the man’s triumph. to her the whole affair was vividly impressive, a most solemn conclave gathered for great ends. the chicanery, the stultiloquent bathos of much of it was hid from her ken. she took the applause as demonstrating enthusiasm and soulfulness, and hyperbolical oratory as expressing grandeur of conviction.
the recognition staggered gabriel’s brain. like a glare of light the girl’s face blinded thought for the moment. he was conscious only of her presence, the solemn stare of her gray eyes, the straining eagerness upon her lips. she was leaning forward like one who waits to catch the first notes of some noble song. gabriel stood stiffly with head thrown back and shoulders squared, the fingers of his right hand fidgeting his notes. strain as he would the thread of speech had broken on his tongue. those on the platform, taking his silence for a lapse of memory, applauded zealously, an acclaim that was echoed through the hall.
gabriel looked again at joan and found his manhood on her face. intuition spoke to him of the jealous pride that burned within her woman’s heart; she had come to see him triumph; it was enough. the wistful face aureoled with gold lifted him inspiredly above the present, transfigured the prosaic building into a shrine of grandeur, elevated the occasion above the common concourse to which it pandered. a breath as from olympus touched his lips. he spoke, kindled, and held his theme.
even the local socialists present were not averse to acknowledging the virtues of an honest optimism. as for the primrose dames, they were clapping their gloved hands with the furor of enthusiastic amateurs at a public rehearsal. the electors of rilchester thundered approbation; sir hercules beamed on the assembly like a moses. thirty eloquent minutes had not caught gabriel’s tongue wavering; he had flown from flight to finish. the reporter of the rilchester guardian, sucking inspiration from his pencil, jotted down certain euphemistical phrases—“the new demosthenes,” “burke redivivus,” and the like.
questions were launched and answered; amiable passes of humor glittered, rapier-like, in the air. the assemblage with hoof and hand expressed itself enraptured, chanted “rule britannia” with great fervor, listened with docility to the meanderings of various local comets, applauded, and dispersed with glee. for gabriel, keen of brain and flushed of face, there was a single trophy, the triumph fire in a woman’s eyes. for him a golden head moved through the press, sunning the prosaic shadows with olympian gold.
“excellent,” said sir hercules to john strong, who was paternally elated; “a most inspiring oration, though a trifle bold. thought the boy had stage fright at the first push. excellent.”
“a slap-up jaw,” quoth the conservative agent to a gentleman who wore a red carnation and yellow gaiters. “fine young stallion. well run him in with a ‘thou’ to the good, you bet.”
“who would have thought it!” said mrs. mince. “why, he spoke quite intelligently, though, of course, after jacob’s eloquence it sounded flat and dull to me. i wonder who gave him all his ideas?”
“dissolute young men have oily tongues,” said mrs. marjoy. “there will be a big crash in the strong ‘market’ some day,” and she leered suggestively.
at saltire hall there was much decking of tables and shimmering of glass that night. success spoke in the breath of the flowers and the bubbling mirth of champagne. wines, white and red, flooded many dainty lips. silks shivered and elaborate coiffures glimmered under the lamps. the panelled hall was a green gloom of shrubs and palms. the stairways shone with color. luxury smiled in silver and gold, from the gleaming, snowy tables, from tapestries purple and green, from parquetry burnished like brass. music moved in the air. amethyst, diamond, and ruby breathed on the bosoms of women. laughter, like a carillon of bells, ran through the well-thronged rooms.
the noise of an ephemeral triumph rang loud in gabriel’s ears that night. the gilt card of social excellence was proffered to his fingers; the perfume of a facile and flattering life ascended into his nostrils. and yet through the gilded meshes of the net the one face gazed, fair as truth, with eyes looking straight to the heart. eyes, crystal bright, yet dim with immortal dreams!
thus it came about that before the rout grew silent john strong missed his son from the glare of the many lamps. judith, his sister, went in search of him, clad in a rust-red gown that made more vivid the beauty of her hair and the white brilliance of her skin. in the library she found him, with a solitary candle burning on the mantel-shelf and the room in gloom. he was standing by an open window with the wind sweeping in as he looked out into the night.
“gabriel,” she said, as she touched his sleeve.
he started, for he had not heard her enter and thought himself alone.
“why have you left us?”
he did not look at her, but still stared out into the dark.
“i am tired,” he said.
“of course, dear.”
“is the nonsense over?”
judith took his hand between hers and he did not resist her. her voice was restful as a quiet wind through trees.
“what is the matter?” she asked him.
“nothing.”
“can you not tell me, your sister?”
he stood with slouched shoulders and face darkened in the shadows. the candle smoked and flickered on the mantel-shelf; the books glimmered gilt-lettered in the gloom like parables half cloaked in mystery.
“i am very weary of all this,” he said.
“when you have done so splendidly!”
“splendidly, indeed!”
“yes.”
“it was not i, but the soul of another in me.”
“still these dark sayings.”
“all is dark, dear, save for the stars in the vault, and i have one star.”
“gabriel!”
“all this is glare and mockery and discord. i hate, i loathe it. only to be in the dark alone—that is all i desire. leave me alone, dear, to-night.”
“but your father and the others?”
“they are content after their lights, so am i—here.”
“come for my sake.”
“no, dear.”
“not even for me?”
he bent and kissed her forehead.
“i obey my thoughts,” he said, “and they are too sacred for anything save solitude. darkness is good in its season. we see less of earth, more of the universe. good-night.”