Lord of the World 11

Lord of the World 11

She glanced at Mabel, and saw that the girl was singing with all her

might, with her eyes fixed on her husband's dark figure a hundred yards

away, and her soul pouring through them. So the mother, too, began to

move her lips in chorus with that vast volume of sound.

 

As the hymn died away, and before the cheering could begin again, old

Lord Pemberton was standing forward on the edge of the platform, and his

thin, metallic voice piped a sentence or two across the tinkling splash

of the fountains behind him. Then he stepped back, and Oliver came

forward.

 

* * * * *

 

It was too far for the two to hear what was said, but Mabel slipped a

paper, smiling tremulously, into the old lady's hand, and herself bent

forward to listen.

 

Old Mrs. Brand looked at that, too, knowing that it was an analysis of

her son's speech, and aware that she would not be able to hear his

words.

 

There was an exordium first, congratulating all who were present to do

honour to the great man who presided from his pedestal on the occasion

of this great anniversary. Then there came a retrospect, comparing the

old state of England with the present. Fifty years ago, the speaker

said, poverty was still a disgrace, now it was so no longer. It was in

the causes that led to poverty that the disgrace or the merit lay. Who

would not honour a man worn out in the service of his country, or

overcome at last by circumstances against which his efforts could not

prevail?... He enumerated the reforms passed fifty years before on this

very day, by which the nation once and for all declared the glory of

poverty and man's sympathy with the unfortunate.

 

So he had told them he was to sing the praise of patient poverty and its

reward, and that, he supposed, together with a few periods on the reform

of the prison laws, would form the first half of his speech.

 

The second part was to be a panegyric of Braithwaite, treating him as

the Precursor of a movement that even now had begun.

 

Old Mrs. Brand leaned back in her seat, and looked about her.

 

The window where they sat had been reserved for them; two arm-chairs

filled the space, but immediately behind there were others, standing

very silent now, craning forward, watching, too, with parted lips: a

couple of women with an old man directly behind, and other faces visible

again behind them. Their obvious absorption made the old lady a little

ashamed of her distraction, and she turned resolutely once more to the

square.

 

Ah! he was working up now to his panegyric! The tiny dark figure was

back, a yard nearer the statue, and as she looked, his hand went up and

he wheeled, pointing, as a murmur of applause drowned for an instant the

minute, resonant voice. Then again he was forward, half crouching--for

he was a born actor--and a storm of laughter rippled round the throng of

heads. She heard an indrawn hiss behind her chair, and the next instant

an exclamation from Mabel.... What was that?

 

There was a sharp crack, and the tiny gesticulating figure staggered

back a step. The old man at the table was up in a moment, and

simultaneously a violent commotion bubbled and heaved like water about a

rock at a point in the crowd immediately outside the railed space where

the bands were massed, and directly opposite the front of the platform.

 

Mrs. Brand, bewildered and dazed, found herself standing up, clutching

the window rail, while the girl gripped her, crying out something she

could not understand. A great roaring filled the square, the heads

tossed this way and that, like corn under a squall of wind. Then Oliver

was forward again, pointing and crying out, for she could see his

gestures; and she sank back quickly, the blood racing through her old

veins, and her heart hammering at the base of her throat.

 

"My dear, my dear, what is it?" she sobbed.

 

But Mabel was up, too, staring out at her husband; and a quick babble of

talk and exclamations from behind made itself audible in spite of the

roaring tumult of the square.

 

 

 

II

 

Oliver told them the explanation of the whole affair that evening at

home, leaning back in his chair, with one arm bandaged and in a sling.

 

They had not been able to get near him at the time; the excitement in

the square had been too fierce; but a messenger had come to his wife

with the news that her husband was only slightly wounded, and was in the

hands of the doctors.

 

"He was a Catholic," explained the drawn-faced Oliver. "He must have

come ready, for his repeater was found loaded. Well, there was no chance

for a priest this time."

 

Mabel nodded slowly: she had read of the man's fate on the placards.

 

"He was killed--trampled and strangled instantly," said Oliver. "I did

what I could: you saw me. But--well, I dare say it was more merciful."

 

"But you did what you could, my dear?" said the old lady, anxiously,

from her corner.

 

"I called out to them, mother, but they wouldn't hear me."

 

Mabel leaned forward---

 

"Oliver, I know this sounds stupid of me; but--but I wish they had not

killed him."

 

Oliver smiled at her. He knew this tender trait in her.

 

"It would have been more perfect if they had not," she said. Then she

broke off and sat back.

 

"Why did he shoot just then?" she asked.

 

Oliver turned his eyes for an instant towards his mother, but she was

knitting tranquilly.

 

Then he answered with a curious deliberateness.

 

"I said that Braithwaite had done more for the world by one speech than

Jesus and all His saints put together." He was aware that the

knitting-needles stopped for a second; then they went on again as

before.

 

"But he must have meant to do it anyhow," continued Oliver.

 

"How do they know he was a Catholic?" asked the girl again.

 

"There was a rosary on him; and then he just had time to call on his

God."

 

"And nothing more is known?"

 

"Nothing more. He was well dressed, though."

 

Oliver leaned back a little wearily and closed his eyes; his arm still

throbbed intolerably. But he was very happy at heart. It was true that

he had been wounded by a fanatic, but he was not sorry to bear pain in

such a cause, and it was obvious that the sympathy of England was with

him. Mr. Phillips even now was busy in the next room, answering the

telegrams that poured in every moment. Caldecott, the Prime Minister,

Maxwell, Snowford and a dozen others had wired instantly their

congratulations, and from every part of England streamed in message

after message. It was an immense stroke for the Communists; their

spokesman had been assaulted during the discharge of his duty, speaking

in defence of his principles; it was an incalculable gain for them, and

loss for the Individualists, that confessors were not all on one side

after all. The huge electric placards over London had winked out the

facts in Esperanto as Oliver stepped into the train at twilight.

 

"_Oliver Brand wounded.... Catholic assailant.... Indignation of the

country.... Well-deserved fate of assassin_."

 

He was pleased, too, that he honestly had done his best to save the man.

Even in that moment of sudden and acute pain he had cried out for a fair

trial; but he had been too late. He had seen the starting eyes roll up

in the crimson face, and the horrid grin come and go as the hands had

clutched and torn at his throat. Then the face had vanished and a heavy

trampling began where it had disappeared. Oh! there was some passion and

loyalty left in England!

 

His mother got up presently and went out, still without a word; and

Mabel turned to him, laying a hand on his knee.

 

"Are you too tired to talk, my dear?"

 

He opened his eyes.

 

"Of course not, my darling. What is it?"

 

"What do you think will be the effect?"

 

He raised himself a little, looking out as usual through the darkening

windows on to that astonishing view. Everywhere now lights were

glowing, a sea of mellow moons just above the houses, and above the

mysterious heavy blue of a summer evening.

 

"The effect?" he said. "It can be nothing but good. It was time that

something happened. My dear, I feel very downcast sometimes, as you

know. Well, I do not think I shall be again. I have been afraid

sometimes that we were losing all our spirit, and that the old Tories

were partly right when they prophesied what Communism would do. But

after this---"

 

"Well?"

 

"Well; we have shown that we can shed our blood too. It is in the nick

of time, too, just at the crisis. I don't want to exaggerate; it is only

a scratch--but it was so deliberate, and--and so dramatic. The poor

devil could not have chosen a worse moment. People won't forget it."

 

Mabel's eyes shone with pleasure.

 

"You poor dear!" she said. "Are you in pain?"