Accustomed to the somewhat tired or conventional creeds of his political world, he found refreshment in the man"s intense faith. He also found pathetic attraction in the man"s efforts towards self-expression. Mr. Finn, who lived a life of great loneliness--scarcely a soul, said Jane, crossed his threshold from month"s end to month"s end--seemed delighted to have a sympathetic visitor to whom he could display his painted treasures. When he was among them the haunting pain vanished from his eyes, as sometimes one has seen it vanish from those of an unhappy woman among her flowers. He loved to take Paul through his collection and point out the beauties and claim his admiration. He had converted a conservatory running along one side of the house into a picture gallery, and this was filled with his masterpieces of pictorial villainy. Here Paul was at first astonished at recognizing replicas of pictures which hung in other rooms. Mr. Finn explained.
"These," said he, "are the originals."
Paul pondered over the dark saying for a moment or two until he came upon a half-finished canvas on an easel. It was the copy of a landscape on the wall. He turned questioningly to his host. The latter smiled.
"I"m a bit of an artist myself," he said. "But as I"ve never had time for lessons in painting, I teach myself by copying good pictures. It"s a Saunders"--a name unknown to Paul--"and a very good example. It"s called Noontide. The cow is particularly good, isn"t it? But it"s exceedingly difficult. That fore-shortening--I can"t get it quite right yet. But I go on and on till I succeed. The only way."
Paul acquiesced and asked him where he had picked up his Saunders.
Indeed, where had he picked up all the others? Not an exhibition in London would have admitted one of them. This "Saunders" represented a wooden cow out of drawing lying in the shade of a conventional tree. It was peculiarly bad.
"I bought it direct from the artist," replied Mr. Finn. "He"s an unrecognized genius, and now he"s getting old, poor fellow. Years ago he offended the Royal Academy, and they never forgot it. He says they"ve kept him under all his life. I have a great many of his pictures." He looked admiringly at the cow for a while, and added: "I gave him four pounds ten for this one."
Paul could not forbear saying, though his tone betrayed no irony: "A good price."
"I think so," replied Mr. Finn. "That"s what he asked. I could never haggle with an artist. His work is of the spirit, isn"t it?"
And Paul marvelled at the childlike simplicity of the man, the son of the Sicilian woman who went about with a barrel-organ, who, starting in the race on a level with Barney Bill, had made a fortune in the exploitation of fried fish. To disturb his faith in the genius of Saunders were a crime--as base a crime as proving to a child the non-existence of fairies. For Paul saw that Silas Finn found in this land of artistic illusion a refuge from many things; not only from the sordid cares of a large business, but perhaps also from the fierce intensity of his religion, from his driving and compelling deity. Here G.o.d entered gently.
There was another reason, which Paul scarcely confessed to himself, for the pleasure he found in the older man"s company. The veil which he had thrown so adroitly over his past history, which needed continuous adroitness to maintain, was useless in this house. Both Barney Bill and Jane had spoken of him freely. Silas Finn knew of Bludston, of his modeldom, of his inglorious career on the stage. He could talk openly once more, without the never-absent subconscious sense of reserve. He was still, in his own, eyes, the prince out of the fairy-tale; but Silas Finn and the two others alone of his friends shared the knowledge of the days when he herded swine. Now a prince out of a fairy-tale who has herded swine is a romantic figure. Paul did not doubt that he was one. Even Jane, in spite of her direct common sense, admitted it.
Barney Bill proclaimed it openly, slapping him on the back and taking much credit to himself for helping the prince on the way to his kingdom. And Mr. Finn, even in the heat of political discussion or theological a.s.severation, treated him with a curious and pathetic deference.
Meanwhile Paul pursued his own career of glory. The occasional visits to Hickney Heath were, after all, but rare, though distinct, episodes in his busy life. He had his parliamentary work for Colonel Winwood, his work for Miss Winwood, his work for the Young England League. He had his social engagements. He had the Princess Zobraska. He also began to write, in picturesque advocacy of his views, for serious weekly and monthly publications. Then Christmas came and he found himself at Drane"s Court, somewhat gasping for breath. A large houseparty, however, including Lord Francis Ayres, the chief Opposition Whip, threatened to keep him busy.
The Princess drove over from Chetwood Park for dinner on Christmas Day.
He had to worship from afar; for a long spell of the evening to worship with horrible jealousy. Lord Francis Ayres, a bachelor and a man of winning charm, as men must be whose function it is to keep Members of Parliament good and pleased with themselves and sheeplike, held the Princess captive, in a remote corner, with his honeyed tongue. She looked at him seductively out of her great, slumberous blue eyes, even as she had looked, on occasion, at him, Paul. He hated Lord Francis, set himself up against him, as of old he had set himself up against Billy Goodge. He was a better man than Frank Ayres. Frank Ayres was only a popinjay. Beneath the tails of his coat he snapped his fingers at Frank Ayres, while he listened, with his own agreeable smile, to Mademoiselle de Cressy"s devilled gossip.
He was very frigid and courtly when he bade the Princess good night at the door of her limousine.
"Ah, que vous etes bete!" she laughed.
He went to bed very angry. She had told him to his face that he was a silly fool. And so he was. He thought of all the brilliantly dignified things he might have said, if the relentless engine had not whirred her away down the drive. But the next morning Lord Francis met him in the wintry garden and smiled and held out a winning hand. Paul hid his hatred beneath the mask of courtesy. They talked for a few moments of indifferent matters. Then Frank Ayres suddenly said: "Have you ever thought of standing for Parliament?"
Paul, who had been sauntering between flowerless beds with his companion, stood stock still. The Chief Whip of a political party is a devil of a fellow. To the aspiring young politician he is much more a devil of a fellow than the Prime Minister or any Secretary of State. If a Chief Whip breathes the suggestion that a man might possibly stand for election as a Member of Parliament, it means that at any suitable vacancy, or at a general election, he will, with utter certainty, have his chance as a candidate with the whole force of his party behind him.
It is part of the business of Chief Whips to find candidates.
"Of course," said Paul, rather stupidly. "Eventually. One of these days."
"But soon?"
"Soon?"
Paul"s head reeled. What did he mean by soon? "Well," Lord Francis laughed, "not to-morrow. But pretty soon. Look here, Savelli. I"m going to speak frankly. The party"s in for a long period out of office.
That"s obvious. Look at the majority against us. We want the young blood--not the old hacks--so that when we come in again we shall have a band of trained men in the heyday of their powers. Of course I know--it"s my business to know--what generally you have done for the Young England League, but I missed your speech at Flickney Heath in the autumn. You had an immense success, hadn"t you?"
"They seemed pleased with what I had to say," replied Paul modestly.
"When did you hear about it?"
"Last night."
"The Winwoods are the dearest people in the world," said Paul, walking warily, "but they are prejudiced in my favour."
"It wasn"t the Winwoods."
The beautiful truth flashed upon Paul.
"Then it was the Princess Zobraska."
The other laughed. "Never mind. I know all about it. It isn"t often one has to listen to speeches at second-hand. The question is: Would you care to stand when the time comes?"
"I should just think I would," cried Paul boyishly.
All his jealous resentment had given place to exultation. It was the Princess who had told Frank Ayres. If she had been laying him under the spell of her seduction it was on his, Paul"s, account. She had had the splendid audacity to recite his speech to the Chief Whip. Frank Ayres was suddenly transformed from a popinjay into an admirable fellow. The Princess herself sat enthroned more adorable than ever.
"The only difficulty," said Paul, "is that I have to earn my living."
"That might be arranged," said Lord Francis.
So Paul, as soon as he found an opportunity, danced over to Chetwood Park and told his Princess all about it, and called her a tutelary G.o.ddess and an angel and all manner of pretty names. And the Princess, who was alone, poured for him her priceless Russian tea into egg-sh.e.l.l China tea-cups and fed him on English crumpets, and, in her French and feminine way, gave him the outer fringe of her heart to play with--a very dangerous game. She had received him, not as once before in the state drawing room, but in the intimacy of her own boudoir, a place all soft lights and cushions and tapestries and gleaming bits of sculpture.
After tea and crumpets had been consumed, the dangerous game proceeded far enough for Paul to confess his unjust dislike of Frank Ayres.
"Gros jaloux," said the Princess.
"That was why you said que vous etes bete," said he.
"Partly."
"What were the other reasons?"
"Any woman has a thousand reasons for calling any man stupid."
"Tell me some of them at any rate."
"Well, isn"t it stupid of a man to try to quarrel with his best friend when he won"t be seeing her again for three or four months?"
"You"re not going away soon?"
"Next week."
"Oh!" said Paul.
"Yes. I go to Paris, then to my villa at Mont Boron. I have the nostalgia of my own country, you see. Then to Venice at Easter."
Paul looked at her wistfully, for life seemed suddenly very blank and dismal. "What shall I do all that time without my best friend?"
"You will probably find another and forget her."
She was lying back among cushions, pink and terra-cotta, and a round black cushion framed her delicate head.
Paul said in a low voice, bending forward: "Do you think you are a woman whom men forget?"