Delphi Works of Ford Madox Ford (Illustrated) (524 page)

Suddenly a thin, dark, hard-bitten man was asking him in tones of deep English politeness — the formidable tones that so set Mr. Fleight’s teeth on edge — whether he wouldn’t go and talk to Mr. Butler, the Leader of the Opposition. It was a man called Stevens, who had been Colonial Secretary in the last Opposition administration. This, in fact, was being treated with deference by the really great.

A long way from the group which contained Augusta, Mr. Fleight stood listening to the words of Mr. Butler, his chief and leader.

“It’s really splendid!” that gentleman was saying. “It’s much better than would appear, simply because people are so superstitious nowadays. It isn’t merely because the poor devil’s dropped dead, it’s because it marks you out as such a lucky man. And on such a public occasion as this. It ought to hearten the party up in a most extraordinary manner. Because you’re certainly the luckiest man in London, and it does us good to think that we’ve got you amongst us. There’s no knowing where you mightn’t get to if such luck as this continues.”

“The luckiest man in London!” Mr. Fleight said absently. “Yes, certainly, I’m all that.” His eyes were watching Augusta, who, upon the Chancellor’s arm, and with the great man leaning jocularly and almost affectionately over her, was laughing brilliantly as, with buoyant steps and her great fair head thrown back, she disappeared with him through the doorway that led into the dark garden.

EPILOGU
E

Christmas Day, at 11 o’clock in the morning, Mr. Blood walked up the steps of the large building known as Whitehall Court. He told the porter to send up and tell Mr. Rothweil, who, during the period of his waiting for the marriage with Augusta and for the preparation of their residence in Cadogan Square, had taken a suite of furnished rooms in this building — to tell Mr. Rothweil that Mr. Blood was awaiting him in the smoking room of the What-Not Club, where Mr. Fleight had first made his acquaintance on the previous Derby Day.

It seemed longer ago. The room was quite empty, as it had been then, and Mr. Blood sank down into the armchair that he had occupied on that occasion. It was a clear, grey day and very still, so that the Embankment was plainly visible. Mr. Blood sat looking at the white flakes of gulls’ wings that whirled above the river. And then, insensibly, he began to count the vehicles on the Embankment, comparing those that were drawn by horses with those that were mechanically propelled. There was hardly a horse at all. Everything glided along swiftly and like an insect without visible legs. There was just one carriage and pair which went eastward, and Mr. Blood considered that this must be the vehicle of either Bowl, K.C., or Freshfield, K.C., who had probably sat up all night in the Temple over some case — and Mr. Blood knew that both of these great counsel had several very complicated cases pending — and was now being fetched home in time to attend Divine service with the remainder of his family.

Mr. Blood also noticed that the wooden-legged waterman, who generally attended on the cab-rank at the corner of the gardens, was absent, so that either his bronchitis had carried him off or he was in prison for having assaulted his wife. The carriage and pair returned going westward, and Mr. Blood was satisfied that its occupant must be Freshfield, K.C., because that gentleman hated to keep his horses standing, whereas Bowl, K.C., did not care at all. He had counted one hundred and forty-seven motor vehicles as against eleven horses when he was aware that Mr. Fleight was standing beside him. The high voice of Mr. Macpherson came from the hall, where he was engaged in reading the names on the letters of members stuck up on a green baize board. Mr. Macpherson did this because, in the first place he wished to know who the members might be, and in the second, he knew a great many handwritings and might thus get to know who wrote to them.

Mr. Blood, sprawling back in his chair, repeated aloud the numbers, “a hundred and forty-seven,” and “eleven” in order to fix them in his memory. And then Mr. Fleight remarked:

“It doesn’t prove anything.”

Mr. Blood said:

“Who the devil said that it did?”

And just at that moment Mr. Macpherson burst upon them with the exclamation:

“What’s that? What are you talking about?” And then he couldn’t refrain from bringing out the information, and his tones were of the gladdest:

“I say — Augusta says that Fleight dresses very well.

She says he looks quite decent when he’s got his best things on. Isn’t that fine? Isn’t that jolly? Doesn’t it prove that she’s beginning to like him and that the marriage is going to be a huge success?”

Mr. Blood looked lazily at Mr. Fleight. The silk revers of Mr. Fleight’s frock coat had a lustre of an unapproached luminosity. In his button-hole there was a large white gardenia. His waistcoat slips were whiter than they could have imagined white to be. His lavender-coloured trousers were so exactly creased that his legs might have been encased in stiff, folded paper. His top hat shone so that you might have imagined that, like a mirror, it would have been obscured had you breathed upon it. And so did his black satin tie, which was decorated with one large diamond.

“I certainly can see,” Mr. Blood said, “how immensely Augusta must admire—” He had intended to say “your get up,” but, with a kindly impulse — for, after all, the poor little beggar had had a devil of a time — he changed the words into “you.”

And for the first time the face of Mr. Fleight changed. The lines of his mouth lifted, and the lines from his nostrils to the corners of his lips. The wrinkles disappeared from his brow; his eyelids opened and his eyes shone so that he appeared at last as radiant as his clothing.

“You really think,” he stuttered, “that Augusta—”

And then in the excess of his emotion he felt suddenly faint and he became almost pale. “If only I could think that it wasn’t only for my—”

In order to cover his embarrassment Mr. Blood addressed Mr. Macpherson:

“Mr. Fleight,” he said, “is of opinion that my being here on Christmas Day in order to go with him and you to a synagogue and give away a Teutonic young lady called Macphail who hasn’t anyone else in particular to give her away — Mr. Fleight thinks that this singular collocation of circumstances doesn’t prove anything.”

Mr. Macpherson interrupted him, and, just as Mr. Fleight had that day for the first time exhibited rapture, so, for the first time, Mr. Macpherson’s voice indicated contempt:

“Proof!” he exclaimed; “what sort of word is that to use in the twentieth century? Aren’t we all just friendly agnostics? I know a chap called Professor Karl Schlummeberger, of the University of Jena, and that’s what he said to me. He’s professor of applied mathematics or Elizabethan literature, or it may have been bacteriology. Anyhow, I know he was a scientist and he was a very jolly old boy. And that’s what he said to me one day when I had taken his wife some Ceylon tea as a present. He said, ‘We are all friendly agnostics,’ and that’s what we are. There’s not a single thing that we can know. We haven’t any one of us got any religion; and science, that everybody used to be so frightened of, has given up the attempt to prove anything. But we’re a nice, pleasant lot, and we don’t burn anybody and we don’t even write letters abusing each other in the
Times,
as Huxley and Mr. Gladstone and that sort of person used to do. And I’m sure it’s much better like that. Isn’t it fun to think that you might be a Manichæan — whatever that may be — if you wanted to, without any St. Dominic to come along with an inquisition? Why, only three weeks ago I wanted to see how many crank religious services I could go to in one week, and I went to twenty-seven, not one of which was Catholic or Protestant. But they were all New Thought, and Higher Culture, and Neo-Esotericism, and all in houses of quite the best people.”

“But still,” Mr. Blood said, “my being here upon Christmas Day counting the traffic is an immense proof of one thing concerning myself. For instance, this is Christmas Day. Now every year since the time when mechanically-propelled traffic first didn’t have to have a chap with a red flag walking in front of it, I’ve come here to analyse the traffic — on Derby Day, because it’s the festival of the horse and most boring of all the great meetings.”

“But you couldn’t have come so long ago as that,” Mr. Macpherson said. “When the first motor car broke down twenty-nine times in the run from London to Brighton, you couldn’t have foreseen this change.”

“It’s precisely what I did foresee,” Mr. Blood said. “Change! Don’t you suppose that I could foretell how, with all the restless brains at work, motors would be made more efficient every day and cheaper every day? It’s a thing that can be done. Take any blessed thing you like — take, say, dairies. Bless you, dairies are going to disappear along with the four-horse coach and the cow! We are going to have synthetic milk without any tuberculosis or typhoid germs. And we shall mix it on our breakfast table and put a little electric buzzer into it that will turn it into butter in three-and-a-quarter minutes.”

“Well, and why shouldn’t we?” Mr. Macpherson said. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t,” Mr. Blood answered. “A lot of dairymen will starve and a lot of milkmen and a lot of dairymaids and a lot of farmers, and our friend Fleight here, or some man like him, will add twenty-six million pounds to his fortune because he’ll have bought the process from some unfortunate inventor for three hundred and twenty-six pounds ten shillings.”

“Well, that’s all right,” Mr. Macpherson said amiably; “that’s the spirit of the time.”

“So it is,” Mr. Blood answered. “I’ve got nothing against it, except that I don’t like being here on Christmas Day instead of Derby Day. It’s a personal deterioration in myself. I don’t like it. I foresee that I, too, shall die a British peer.”

“I don’t see how you get at that,” Mr. Macpherson said.

But Mr. Blood only nodded his head with an expression of the deepest gloom.

Mr. Fleight had been fidgeting nervously for some minutes past.

“Hadn’t we better be going?” he said at last. “I do want to get married, you know.”

Mr. Blood moved resignedly forward in his chair.

“Christmas Day or Derby Day,” he remarked, “that’s one thing that doesn’t change.”

“I don’t see why it should, you know,” Mr. Fleight answered; “and I don’t see that it proves anything.”

“Oh, don’t you?” Mr. Blood answered. And all three, holding their top hats in their hands, made their way towards the swing doors of the smoking room.

In honour of his situation, and with the mien of a modest conqueror, Mr. Fleight went out first.

THE END

First appearing in 1913, this historical novel is set in the Border Country during the first year of Henry VIII’s reign. The story introduces the young Lovell as riding a white horse one day in a forest, when he is accosted by a mysterious and beautiful young lady.
 
Lovell is enchanted in a spell for three months, only to awaken and realise that his brother has seized his inheritance and plans to marry Lovell’s betrothed.
 
The narrative chiefly concerns Lovell’s attempts to win back his usurped rights and defeat his brother, culminating with a dramatic storming of the castle.

The novel reveals Ford’s interest in the German arts, the plot being heavily influenced by the Tannhäuser theme, made popular by Wagner’s opera.
 
The Young Lovell
is rich in descriptive detail, particularly in the delineating of characters, and its flavouring of archaic language is well-suited to the medieval setting.