Chapter XIII

Next morning Mr. Bailey woke at dawn, a rare thing for him and an unpleasant one. He did not ring his bell: he hoped perhaps for further sleep, but he felt wonderfully wakeful. The morning was fresh; he went and pulled aside the curtain, he threw open the window towards the day, and sniffed the eager air; his mischievous brain was alert and full of plans; he was seeking what he might devour.

In this mood there suddenly recurred to him the night before, and though he was alone he beamed to himself at the recollection of it. He first considered, in that minute manner to which such natures are given, how best he could reply, and in a little while he had decided.

He dressed and went out, ate his breakfast at a little workmen's chop-house in one of the back streets--where he was sufficiently stared at--and then walked smartly northward and eastward towards Mickleton, musing as he went, and with every step he took his plan grew more defined. Of all the men of Mickleton, Mr. Clay, he found, carried most weight. His courage in starting business for a third time, his large number of workmen, the rates he paid, his Swedenborgianism, all counted in the suburb: he had paid Mr. Clay assiduous court for a fortnight, and Mr. Clay was delighted at the honour.

It was half-past nine when he found Mr. Clay in his office, strict and starched as ever, and, as ever, in some incomprehensible hurry to get on to the next affair.

"Clay," he said, "can you lend me the big shed to-night?"

"Yes," said Mr. Clay with the rapidity of decision that had already lost him one fortune and grievously jeopardised two others. "James," he said, turning round smartly, "book that. Mr. Bailey takes the big shed when the men knock off work."

"No, no!" broke in William Bailey, "not when the men knock off work. It's Saturday man! Half-past eight's the hour."

"Oh!" said Mr. Clay promptly. "James, book that: not when the men knock off work, half-past eight. Anything more?" he added, turning to Mr. Bailey as upon a swivel.

"Yes, Clay, certainly," said Mr. Bailey with deliberate hesitation. "Will the men come?"

"Of course they'll come. I'll tell them to come: they'll come anyhow. James," he said, turning round again, "note that the men are to come."

The wretched James noted it.

"Anything more?" said Mr. Clay.

"Yes," said Mr. Bailey, "will you take the chair?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Clay. "James, remind me that I take the chair."

"How shall I remind you?" replied the terrified boy.

"How shall you remind me, you fool? Write it down--book it--make a note of it. Anything more?" he continued.

"No, I think that's about all," said Mr. Bailey. But as he turned to go slowly out Mr. Clay's curiosity got the better of his extremely businesslike habits.

"Mr. Bailey," he said, coughing slightly, "Bailey, I beg your pardon, but what will the meeting be about?"

"Oh, what on earth does that matter?" said Mr. Bailey good-naturedly. "Just a meeting."

"About the unseating of our member?" asked Mr. Clay anxiously.

"Yes," answered Mr. Bailey with jollity, "all sorts of things of that sort."

"I'm your man," said Mr. Clay, "I'm your man. None of that about here: we're free born in Mickleton, we are. Mickleton men," he added, as though Mickleton were an island that had fiercely defended its independence in long and bloody wars--"Mickleton men, Mr. Bailey." Then he nodded, and remembering the true secret of success, began writing rapidly again.

Mr. Bailey sauntered out. He looked about him to find his direction, turned down Mafeking Avenue, and when towards ten o'clock he had reached the agents for the Second Jubilee Hall and the Coronation Annexe, his foolish and disastrous intention was fixed.

He entered abruptly into his business and told the clerk that he must countermand the use of the building for that night. He was willing to pay the £40 for it as though he had hired it, and in case they could get another let at so short a notice, half that sum.

The clerk had been warned by his principal that Mr. Bailey would probably telephone or still more likely call in person that morning, and professed a need to consult the head of the firm before he could give a reply. He was careful to leave Mr. Bailey with a copy of the _Times_ while he went into the principal's private room, and Mr. Bailey, who had not seen that paper for some months, gloomily read a leader upon foreign affairs, in which his warped judgment pretended to detect the hand of the redoubtable and ubiquitous Abraham. He had not been engaged in this fashion for five minutes, when the clerk returned and told him in a firm voice they could not accept his offer.

"How do you mean you can't accept it?" demanded Mr. Bailey in very genuine astonishment and with still more genuine irritation. "You can't refuse it!... you mean you can't accept the £20?" he added a little more gently.

"Yes we can, sir--no I don't, sir," answered the clerk hurriedly and firmly, while his mouth twitched like that of a Colonial Governor in time of crisis. "I mean we can't accept it, sir, it can't be done."

"But it's got to be done," roared Mr. Bailey. "You can't force me to hold my meeting if I don't want to!"

"No, sir, certainly not, sir," said the clerk.

"Then what the hell do you mean?" shouted the blasphemous fellow.

"I mean that we can't take a plain inclusive payment for the loss and disturbance, sir. We can't do it."

"What _do_ you mean?" said Mr. Bailey.

The clerk answered that he must consult his principal again, and Mr. Bailey, restraining himself with a considerable effort, sat down to finish the leader which he was more convinced than ever had proceeded from the pen of the mythical Hebrew. It was a long while before the clerk returned, for it had been necessary to communicate by telephone with the Duke of Battersea, and at such an early hour it was not easy to obtain the philanthropist's reply.

"We'll take your offer, sir," said the clerk.

"Oh you will, will you?" said Mr. Bailey, "then you won't have the chance. I'll hold the meeting just the same. So there!" he added, a little vulgarly, and stalked out.

It is undecided, flighty action of this sort which leads to half the trouble in this world. Mr. Bailey had not the remotest intention of holding the meeting in the original hall. In that his somewhat wayward decision stood firm. With that object he had seen Mr. Clay; and he was wise, for the forces against him were too strong to permit him to call the meeting in the Second Jubilee Hall or even in the Coronation Annexe; they were strong enough to prevent his holding it in any public building. But this sudden rise of temper on his part proved a source of considerable irritation and expense to others, who should not have been made responsible for it.

The conversation that passed over the telephone, between the Duke of Battersea and the agent, was singularly and needlessly acrimonious upon the part of the aged statesman, almost servile upon the part of the agent; both emotions might surely have been spared to two men who at heart knew themselves to be worthy of nobler things, had not Mr. Bailey, by his precipitate ill-temper, destroyed arrangements which would probably have been for his own good, and certainly for that of the community at large. The upshot of the conversation was that the Duke, despairing of understanding the situation, announced his intention of coming himself to Mickleton by noon, and the agent, pleased as he was at the advertisement that such a visit must afford him, would willingly have foregone the honour for the sake of that peace which he feared never to regain.

At noon the motor-car glode up with its tiny strawberry leaf coronet and the dainty arms upon the panels.

The agent came out, was obsequious, deferential, intelligent and full of sympathy, but unfortunately incapable of the rapid perception which was demanded of him. His only reply was that he could not see how he could do it; that he would do everything he could; he would be delighted to withdraw the placards which were even now being got ready to stand outside the hall; he would make what difficulties he could for the admission of the Press--though he very much doubted his power to exclude reporters once the hall was hired. When, in the midst of his excuses, he suddenly let light into his caller's mind by saying:

"And of course everything would be subject to the proprietors."

"Who are then the proprietors?" said the Duke sharply.

"The Anglo-Saxon Exchange," said the agent with that touch of pride which we all feel when we mention any important power with which we have even a distant connection.

The Duke was relieved.

"That I should also have known," he said gently, and then changing his manner altogether he added:

"That is _allright_, that is _allright_," separating the first two words and laying stress upon the first syllable of the last, in a manner which still faintly betrayed those difficulties with the English language which he had had the courage and the perseverance to conquer almost completely.

He went away in a frame of mind at which the agent was at once too polite and too humble to wonder, but which was certainly far less agitated than that in which he had come. It was a heavy strain to fall upon a man of the Duke of Battersea's age, and one that should have been spared him, but no one knew better than that strong genius of finance what things may be done by deputy and what things must be done in person. Nor will any of my readers regret that the old man's investigation should have left him freed of the fears which the vicious and unpatriotic conduct of an irresponsible eccentric had aroused.

A little after lunch Mr. Kahn, the secretary of the Anglo Saxon Exchange, happened to drop in at the agent's in Mickleton. There was nothing unexpected in the visit. His few questions turned upon the usual topics, whether the hall had recently let well, who had taken it, whether the more disturbed political meetings had done any damage, whether it was now worth applying for a licence, &c. It occurred to him to ask, just as he was going away, when the hall was likely to be let next, and to whom, as there were certain reparations which the architect for the estate had decided upon.

The reappearance of this terrible subject once more disturbed the restored equanimity of the agent.

"Oh, dear," he said, "it's let--in a manner of speaking."

"What's in a manner of speaking?" said the astonished secretary.

"Well, a gentleman's got it anyhow, and then he didn't want it, and now he wants it again."

"Oh nonsense!" said Mr. Kahn, "we can't play the fool with the County Council. The platform's declared unsafe; we must have the workmen come in. I thought there were several days to do it in and I wasn't in any hurry, but it certainly can't be done in a couple of hours. You'll have to tell your man he can't have it."

The appearance of this further complication almost drove the wretched agent mad. Excusing himself for perhaps the fifth time that day and rushing to the telephone he called up Mr. Bailey and entreated him to cancel the engagement. But Mr. Bailey was in a dour mood, and as he sat indulging in his habitual excess of port after a solitary lunch, he darted into his receiver the most positive and vicious refusal, saying plainly that if his rights were tampered with he would sue for damages.

The agent came back with the substance, though not with the expletives of this reply, and the secretary of the Anglo-Saxon Exchange, pulling out his watch, said briefly:

"Well, there's no help for it. We must send in the workmen at once, and if he wants to sue he can sue."

In an hour a considerable body of healthy but somnolent men slouched into the building, their chief showed his written orders, and the remainder of the afternoon was spent in removing benches, opening up the floor, barricading the door, cutting off the electric light from the main (nothing is more dangerous than to leave such connections during repairs), digging a deep trench in front of the back entrance, and in other ways setting about improvements that were doubtless necessary, but that would make it highly inconvenient for any considerable body to gather within for political or for any other purposes.

The agent, after repeated conversations with Mr. Bailey, each more conciliatory than the last, promised and despatched a cheque for £25 on the distinct understanding that no proceedings should follow; and when the agent had recovered this sum (as he did with difficulty) from the Anglo-Saxon Exchange, the expenses of that great financial corporation, in labour and in compensation, were, I regret to say, considerably over £100.

Mr. Bailey, seated by his lonely but warm and brilliant hearth, held the cheque for £25 daintily between his finger and thumb. For a moment it seemed as though he would have put it in the fire, then with the subtle smile of the fanatic, he thought better of the business; he endorsed the cheque and sent it, with a Latin motto pinned on, to a Jew-baiting organisation in Vienna; a foul gang of which he knew nothing whatsoever save that he had read its address in one of those vile Continental rags from which he derived so many of his prejudices, and whose authority was the origin of his repeated falsehoods.

* * * * *

It had been arranged that Mr. Clutterbuck should pick up Mr. Bailey on the way, just upon eight o'clock, and drive him to the hall.

He had been late so often that Mr. Bailey was expecting some delay, but when the quarter had struck, he grew anxious; and at twenty past he would wait no longer. He had the good luck to get a taxi at the corner of the square, but even so he would be late. He began to have doubts, and as he dashed up northwards to Mickleton those doubts in that diseased brain of his rapidly became certainties. Mr. Clutterbuck had been nobbled: Mr. Clutterbuck would not appear. Asleep or ill, or overturned in some ditch, or accidentally locked up in some room, the ex-Member for Mickleton would not be in Mickleton that night. Such were the wild fancies which formed in the fanatic's imagination. The truth was simple and needed no such extravaganza of melodrama as William Bailey concocted within himself.

Charlie Fitzgerald had had the curiosity to stroll into the old constituency that morning; he had come back to the centre of town from Mickleton by two. He had had lunch, of course, with the Duke of Battersea, who depended every day more and more upon the young fellow's conversation and wit. Mr. Bailey's latest insanity, which Charlie Fitzgerald happened to have heard of during his visit to Mickleton in the morning, was naturally touched upon in their conversation; they laughed at the cunning which had hired Mr. Clay's shed, and they discussed the chances of the extempore meeting, but the happy young Irishman was not without a sense of duty; he would not leave his employer unaided, nor did the Duke of Battersea press him too eagerly to remain.

By half-past four, therefore, he was back at The Plâs, ready with his cheery voice to give Mr. Clutterbuck energy for the evening's business. He suggested a run round in one of the motors before going straight into town; there was a fine heartening wind from the south-west, with heavy clouds; it was just the afternoon to take an hour or two of the air before turning in after dark to London and duty. The suggestion was excellent, as were most of Charlie's suggestions, and Mr. Clutterbuck, carefully rolling up the speech that Mr. Bailey had written for him, and thrusting it into his breast pocket, put on his great fur coat and gloves, and ordered one of the smaller cars to come round.

"Nothing braces one up like a sharp bit of motoring before a speech," said Mr. Clutterbuck, as he got into the open Renault.

Charlie Fitzgerald was occupied in hauling away at the barrel organ in front of the radiator. He made faces as he did so.

Mr. Clutterbuck was rubbing his hands nervously and glancing at the sky.

"It looks dark," he went on, still rubbing his hands, "but I dare say nothing will come of it."

Charlie Fitzgerald, with a face more hideous than any yet drawn, gave a final tug at the starting handle and the machine began to throb. He jumped up by Mr. Clutterbuck's side and steered slowly past the lodge into the Croydon Road, while Mr. Clutterbuck kept on harping at his side upon the advantages of a sharp spin before a speech, and the doubtfulness of the weather. They fell into the main road and turned sharply to the left.

"Taking us far afield?" said Mr. Clutterbuck cheerfully. Nothing pleased him more than the experience of his secretary in the driving of a car. "Godalming, eh?"

Charlie Fitzgerald spoke for the first time:

"Something of that kind," he said. "Just a long run.... We'll go further than Godalming; we'll go right away round, and come into town from the north and west by the Harrow Road. It's much better like that; we won't get any of the slums. Let's eat somewhere in the country."

Mr. Clutterbuck was delighted. His honest old soul and his still more honest old stomach could not quite forget the honest old hours of high teas and a snack later on.

They shot round the base of the hills, missed a child in Dorking, ran into Guildford, had a splendid zizz along the Hog's Back, and then turned sharp round on to the Frimley Road, passed Penny Hill, and on towards Virginia Water. By the time they reached Staines it was dark.

All the way Mr. Clutterbuck had spoken with increasing joy, and Charlie Fitzgerald, in spite of his interest in the driving, had been very human to him. Now the dark had fallen, however, it was necessary that he should keep silence while he picked his way across country towards Harrow.

The turnings were bewildering, but Mr. Clutterbuck very properly trusted to his guide, and when about half-past six he had not yet perceived the first gas lights of a London street, he only asked quite casually whereabouts they were.

Charlie Fitzgerald answered with perfect straightforwardness that they must be somewhere near North Holty and Pinner by the look of the lanes, and he would take the next turning to the right; it would put them into Bruton well before eight, but they would have no time for more than a snack on the way. The next turning to the right he duly took and then for many miles the road appeared to lead through a maze of turnings until they found themselves steadily ascending. On the right and the left were silent woods of beech, and there was no light for miles around. It was long past 7 o'clock, and Mr. Clutterbuck was seriously alarmed.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Fitzgerald," he said--it was not often that he had remonstrated in all these months--"I beg your pardon, but are you quite certain where you are?"

Then for the first time Charlie Fitzgerald confessed that he was not absolutely certain; he could not possibly, he said, be far from Rickmansworth, even if he had gone quite out of his way, and the best thing they could do was to send a telegram from the next telegraph office and to ask their way.

As he thus spoke, he suddenly slackened speed at a turn in the road and began a steep descent which lasted for over a mile. One five minutes and another went by; there was no sign of a house. At last a light showed far off to the left of the road.

Fitzgerald pulled up, leapt out with zeal, and came back with the information that they were at Postcombe, and so far as he could make out from the rustics who were singularly dull, the next post office was a mile or two down the road; they were on the right line for London, but it would be another eighteen miles.

The post office was there right enough, and Fitzgerald went in and sent a telegram; then he took his seat again and drove through the night.

Mile after mile went by and there was no sign of men.

At Mr. Clutterbuck's age this kind of thing is dangerous; the lack of food told upon him; the anxiety told upon him still more. He worried Fitzgerald with continual questions; when they would be in; what direction they were following; whether he could perceive any glimmer of London before them.

To these questions his secretary only replied by nervous jerks of the head as he drove on straight through the darkness. His anxiety was betrayed by the forward bend of his body and the anxious tightening of his brows. He had hoped, perhaps, before he had sent the telegram to be in time. That was now past praying for, but they might at least turn the confusion of the meeting into a success if only they could make the lights of London by nine. He pushed the car to its utmost limits of speed, careless of the thick blackness and of the perpetual windings of the lanes which he followed with singular confidence.

They passed over a railway line, but there was no station in sight; they went on and passed another in the same fashion, then a broad river.

At last the motion showed them they were taking yet another long hill. There was no hedge upon either side, open fields, down; and a bitter wind driving across them filled the night. It was even too dark to perceive more than the ghosts of the clouds, when, at what seemed the loneliest part of this lonely countryside the machine stopped suddenly, and Charlie Fitzgerald, in a voice of weary despair, muttered half to himself and half to his companion:

"If it's the king-bolt, we're done!"

He took one of the lanterns from the front of the car, put it down upon the ground where it would illumine the complicated works beneath, and lying flat upon his back on the road, he began to inspect the damage. Mr. Clutterbuck, stooping anxiously with hands on knees, interrogated him from time to time, but received only disjointed replies in which king-bolts, the differential, the clutch and Beeton's Patent played a confused part.

After some few minutes of this investigation Charlie Fitzgerald reappeared, replaced the lamp, and said in a solemn manner:

"We're cooked!"

It began to snow.

If Mr. Clutterbuck had had the slightest idea where he was, his dolour might have been to that amount relieved. He had none. He looked at his watch by the acetylene flare and found that it was nearly ten o'clock. The monotony of their misfortune was relieved by the approach of a horse and cart, and they learned from the driver at last the full extent of their misfortune. They had the choice, it seemed, of two resting-places that night, equally distant, one was Stow-in-the-Wold; and the only consolation the situation could offer them was the certainty that their car had done very well to cover such a distance in such weather in such a time. For the rest, eight miles in the dark was not a pleasing prospect, and Charlie Fitzgerald was moved to make one more attempt at reviving the car.

To Mr. Clutterbuck's astonishment the able young fellow succeeded this time within a very few moments. They continued the main road and reached their inn a little before eleven.

* * * * *

Meanwhile in London the meeting had, indeed, pursued a course Mr. Clutterbuck did not in the least desire.