SEYMOUR CHARLTON.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLVI, Issue 14133, 7 August 1909, Page 3 (Supplement)

SEYMOUR CHARLTON.

- s ; <• •, v ••••.;. ... :■ . PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.]

Ig ' BY W. B. MAXWELL, Author of '* The Conntess of Maybnrr." *"V. . "laoulcus Fancies," The Ragged § ' Messenger," "The Guarded | P, Flame." etc., etc.

Ps; [COPYRIGHT.] CHAPTER XVIII. {Continued.) fIPIK. Con. thoroughly enjoyed himself ; but to Seymour lie proved almost insnipImportable. Ho was present, as the newspapers Kiy, " in the capacity of an invited i V guest." and ho threw off completely his lifaj tradesman manner. jsf-A' He had lost his generous employer, but to-night he had recovered his dear son-in- (; law. Ho expanded with smiling contentment, made himself really at home— for one night only.

: - " My dear Brentwood, did you grow these |fH' v ponchos yourself? If so, I must congratu- . la. to you on your gardeners. Sir Gregory, look at the peaches. You didn't have lit), finer fruit in Mexico." ,

He talked too much, and Seymour, who V<%. had been angry with him for his ridiculous HI: "My lords" and -"Your lordship," felt pf;: something rf a shock from the "My dear Brent woods" now freely fired at. him across the long range of gilt fruit dishes. Every•u> body iced Mr. Copland; ho drow far too j-fe,.. much attention.

After dinner he was quite irresponsible. 0}- Ho button-holed tho Duke of Harrowmere, pulled the supercilious editor by the arm, and told them both a long fit or about the

§& French Exhibition of 1879, and the pavilion in which he had displayed his model furniture. Acting like an unauthorised Master of tho Ceremonies, he introduced everybody to Sir Gregory Stuart as "a man of the hoar, a striking personality, and my pfv very good friend." He seamed to have (M transferred to Sir Gregory all the sycofr." 1 : phantic subservience that he previously M: held at tho disposal of Seymour. He encouraged and egged on Sir Gregory to show f|f himself as a self-made man, and to prove

conclusively that he had not made himself

after any conventionally elegant pattern.

£ *' Brentwood, my dear fellow, come and jrv"--' listen to Sir Gregory. Sir Gregory is rep.?; lating some of his early adventures." J-f Sir Gregory, flattered and encouraged in |p. ? this manner, talked long and loudly. Soon |V: v Sir Gregory and his admiring friend, Mr. Si; Copland, were the only people talking in a, large group of men.

Till the guests left Seymour's irritation was steadily increasing. Wherever he g. T moved he could hear Mr. Copland's voice. S':< v Once, when Sir Gregory had made a joke, or had intended to make a joke, Mr. Copland clapped his hands to applaud the sally. The Duke of Harrowmere sturec in stupid i- > wonder; other people were startled, and turned with surprise to see whence the unexpected noise had come. It seemed then U to Seymour that Mr. Copland, in his tradesman capacity or in his capacity of invited guest, was alike utterly impossible. What . . could one do with such a father-in-law *

; He regretted his kindness; he thought he ;L* ; had been an idiot in asking Mr. Copland foV-ito dinner; and his irritation became bo . strong that he oecided to tell Gladys he IK. could not and ■would not again be bothered !.V : with Mr. Copland.

But when, after all the guests had gone, he went to his wife's room, he somehow • contrived to gulp down his wrath and dis- \ gust. Gladys was so humbly grateful for " his kindness, so affectionately anxious to ■ hear that papa had acquitted himself well. "It was all right, wasn't it? Papa was : nice':" Looking at ibier trustful eyes, feeling her hands pressing his, he.could not stab.her again by the cruel words that should pro- . nounce papa's doom. - v JV • 1 s*' Did he talk much?" * . "Yes," said Seymour with a gulp, "he talked a great deal." ,

' " Oh, I'm go glad Because that means he was really enjoying it. He always talks a lot when he is happy." , "Oh, yes, I feel sure your father enjoy.ed it. ' He said so himselftwo or three > ' * timas."

Jj So Gladys was permitted to fall asleep Hi:joyous in the thought that papa, had been U' ; , very nice, and had even achieved some • slight social success as a chatty, companion- ; able dinner guest. Lord Brentwood kissed & . his wife and bade her good-night. He had somehow, for her sake, swallowed his irritation. And that was incomparably the best and most substantial thing done by Lord Brentwood on this long, futile day. fDuring these late summer months he was fej almost perfect as a husband. He was with fe,! his wife whenever he could find time, and " ;* he never forgot the tenderness and forbearance especially due to a wife in her condition. Already he had learnt by experience that she had a pride of her own, and fej, that it could very easily be wounded. Al- • ready, before they had b?en married a full . , year, there had been sharp disagreements,, > brief estrangements, and an occasional cold- - 5» ness that could be melt only by her tears. She was so gentle and yielding; and yet, jfe| if she fancied she met injustice or unkindfj.; ness, she showed a strength of resistance that surprised arid angered him. She would' suffer anything for love; but she failed |p£ more than once in the implicit, unreasonpp i ing obedience which he believed he had a 5.'-.. right to command. One dispute arose from jijjj her persistence in seeking out old and unde•suable friends. She visited her bridesmaid, ; , and refused to drop this most undesirable <. ' ■ acquaintance. Sfye had known Miss Mair -- comson all her life; she must be loyal to | ■ her ancient comrades. '' " You must be loyal to me," he said fret* jf.- fully. "You must help me— make things difficult for me." » g?;; Then her pride rose, and there was no Iff'yholding her. Anger, resentment, coldness , were the stages they passed through before ? they could be reconciled, and oblivion be granted for the rebellious and forbidden k, • visit to Miss Irene in the Bayswater Road. |! '•>« But now all these trifling squabbles "were forgotten. Care for his wife's health, i anxious devices of her comfort and security absorbed him—whenever his engagements 1 allowed him to be with her. fejf'-'' He longed for the birth of the child, to ~ fT feel assured that all danger was past, and to .1 get ba<;k his wife as a true companion, i , - Sometimes he thought of how completely this natural and desired event had _ upeet tj"'. his plans. He had wanted the thing to I •, happen, but not in this way; he had not plllfbeen prepared for it now, at once. It had *!?>■' taken her from his side just when he country ed on her aid and support. He had no bad thoughts, not one regret that he could v.'' analyse as selfish or unnatural; but it seem.ed to him that in this, as in everything I else, he had been the plaything of fate. . . If he had known earlier lie might have , shaped his course differently. Had he' ..known he might not, perhaps, have joined ..the Government. If she had told'him _ he, might have struck another bargain, stipuUpV/.,, Hating for a year's delay before he opened lllg'bis stronghold. But no, she waited until r''-•* he had committed himself, and only then— 8- day after he formed and announced his decision—she first whispered her hope. The baby son-and-heir, a new and innocent Lord Collingbourne — born in fS- ■ - August, , very soon after Parliament rose. !" » While happy crowds of holiday-makers were hurrying from the town danger and fear made a heavy, breathless atmosphere in the wide corridors and lofty rooms of Andover House. Wisest doctors, most skill- ' ed .nurses, everything that money can buy were hero to help Lady Brentwood through &, : her trial; but it would have been better, ~ perhaps, for the mother and child if they 7-j J could have exchanged the luxury of this London palace for a humble cottage in the fresh, cool air that blows over open fields. • Seymour at first reproached himself because •' he had not turned his back on the nations Easiness and carried his wife far away into the country. Wise doctors assured him, however, that London, even in August, is as I business and carried other. far away into ;•* the country. Wise doctors assured him, however, that London, even in August, is as Sp°d a place as auv other. 'o'There was just time 1 for the; awakening ISj'Of his parental feelings, and thfin came bit•ter disappointment. Although something

pa fi" f ? imaginative enough, he needlv •.v ~ tto stimulate his thought. But dirriu "le sound of the infant's cry and the g t of his child lying in 'his wife's arms —above all, with his fears for the mother's t * a 'most piissed— could realise the orce of those instinctive yearnings that had been satisfied by the creation of the fragile f . *c Three -weeks were given him i j il 6 strong growth of a father's pride sna then the cause of it was gone. Gladys felt that her heart had been buried with the child. In her agony of grief she wished to die. Wise doctors shook their heads ominously. A stout fight for life was necessary, and unhappily our patient iS allying herself to the enemy. In the case before ue we have youth, a sound constitution ; and yet we find sudden, almost wilful collapse. She was desperately ill for a month, very slowly recovering for two more months. The fogs of November had come back again before it was possible to move her. Lady Emily throughout this weary convalescence was a kind and faithful sister. She was constant in her attendance on the patient, would eit throuen the longest day at the patient's bedside, and resolutely refuse to leave London until the patient could go herself.

" Take me away." This was the patient's cry to her kind sister and to her husband. "Take me away. Don't listen to the doctors. If lam to live, take me away."

It was dreadful to be compelled to refuse, and day after day to answer the cry with the same words.

"Yesget well—gain only a little more strength, and you shall go. ,r She wed to burst into wild sobbing, cling convulsively with her weak arms, and implore her husband to disobey the doctor's orders and eliut his ears to their heavy warnings.

" Seymour, take me away from this unlucky house. It is a fatal house to me. It is a tomb. It is the tomb of all my hope and all my love. Have pity on me and take me away from it."

Then she lay exhausted, white, trembling, almost lifeless. v

"Seymour, are you there still?" And ehe would take his hand, 'and sometimes feebly drew it to her lips. " Don't listen to what I say. I didn't mean what I said. I'll never say it again. You are so good— so very good to me. I'll do anything you tell me."

CHAPTER XIX. Another season had begun; Parliament had once more re.'issemblecl after an Easter recess; London was rapidly filling itself with its usual summer crowds. Gladys attended the first Court of the yearpresented by the wife of a Partyleader, and not by her aunt the Duchess of Harrowmere—and now she was going into general society -with her husband. She looked careworn and —not nearly so pretty as last year, when nobody saw her. Seymour, glancing at her across his friends' dinner tables, noticed this deterioration and remembered the brightness of her eyes, her friendly, gracious smiles, and her happy, cheerful manner" eighteen months ago, when, at the Darmstadt Hotel, she welcomed his stupid relations. He had done all he could for her, but she seemed quite unable to get over the loss of her baby. Change of air and change of scenequiet months at Collingbourne Court, a second visit to Beach-End, a rapid journey to the South of France—air that money and care provided for her had failed to restore perfect equanimity. Grief, oic the memory of grief,still was betrayed by pallid cheeks, sad eyes, and languid voice.

Once he told her the time had come when she really must make an effort. It was her duty to cheer up and throw off vain regrets.

"Yes," she said humbly, "I'll try to be gay—l'll try to forgetfor your sake." • The season's entertainments were in preparation, or under discussion, at Andover House. The great evening receptions were not due yet: > it was too early even to fix dates for them. But the series of banquets must start,' and this year, with a hostess in her proper place at" last, the presence of ladies would grace the feasts. Gladys got through two big dinners fairly well. Then she was subjected .to . the severest known test' of social qualifications. A great, the very greatest honour, fell upon Lord arid Lady Brentwood at Andover House, tumbled from a propitious sky long ere they could reasonably have anticipated or craved for such unique distinction.

As the hour of dinner approached, policemen wearing plain clothes, as well as policemen wearing helmets,. paced beneath the stone walls on either side of the porch and its symbolic, ceremonious, nerve-disturbing red carpet. Above the area-copings, up and down Carolus-street, there showed rows of bodyless servants gaping for the rapid, silent, inexpressibly impressive pageant of the portentous arrival.

State-liveries had been brought from tissue paper, wrappings; Mr. Marlow in command was calm, stern, ' terrible - as Napoleon on the eve of a battle; Mr. Osborn was steady as a rock; the whole staff were firm beneath the shock and -stood their ground bravely ; and the hostess got through the ordeal somehow—but, alas, , not too well. Hitherto big social Elanets had twinkled before her, she had orne the cold glare of the large fixed stars; but now the light-giving orb of all the social system wag shining full upon her. Perhaps the overpowering bright rays dazzled her, blinded her, made her trip and blunder. Perhaps *no one who is not trained from childhood to support such glorious radiance can successfully pass so severe a test. The light shone in its effulgent splendour from a quarter .to nine to eleven o'clock, all but three minutes. Then darkness descended, or rather was reinstated, and there was nothing left for the highly-honoured Lord and Lady Brentwood to do but that which is done by Mr. and Mrs. Jones, of Tooting, or Mr. and Mrs. Brown, of Balham, directly their guests have driven off—ask each other if their little dinner has gone off well

"Oh, yes," said Seymour. "Quite right. Yes, everything was all right." But she knew by something fiat or toneless in his voice that he was secretly dissatisfied—not with Mr. Marlow, Mr. Osborn, or the others, but with Ker, his well-meaning but insufficiently trained assistant.

"I did all you told me, Seymour. I tried to do all. , What was wrong?" " Nothing— It was all right." But she knew he was discontented, and thus the great unsolicited honour of that night brought her nothing but a heavy heart, a pillow wet with tears, and a dream of inexplicable, unavoidable pain. It will be readily understood that this great honour was not a matter to be dealt with - in the secretariat. Etiquette forbade that it should be turned to account for the good of the party. Mr. Roberts sent no word of it to the public press; but it was briefly and more gloriously chronicled by a line in the Court Circular. Only then did Fashionable Intelligence get to know of it. " Lord Brentwood," said busy paragraphia, "is a persona grata at Court, and no one will be surprised to hear that Andover House was honoured last night by . In accordance with the customary 'rule, frock dress was worn by all the men present," j There could be no question tlicit if Seymour was, as the social journal authoritatively . stated, a person grateful and pleasing to courtly circles, he was moreover strikingly successful as a member of the people's Ministry. During this second year of office it was impossible to doubt his success. All praised him,many told him that he was mvaluablenuite invaluable. His "chiefs praised him or being useful and hardworking, and this was what he had wished to be and not an ornamental Minister. But that, in spite of himself, was what they made 3 him They pushed him forward to catch the public eye-whenever ornament ca irV\han rueeed force was called for. Cre was noSer representative the Government who looked half as well on a railway platform among the assembly uWn the barriers waiting to receive withln _ the D potentate. If the august some f° re jo p Jlinc heon at the -Mansion fomgner took lancheon tak tho Lord i House, no one c<w driking the health Mayor so elegantly: £ °He"ould not .evade .of the Gove duties; and his chiefs SSdSrSto Rising him to the

best advantage. He was truly handsome, aristocratic, and decorative, nothing tawdry, clap-trappy,, trumpery about 1 ™ >' and, always to be remembered, behind the attractive ornamental figure of the man there was the solid weight, the massive dignity, the ancient prestige of Andover House. Everyone remembered it; in the public eye and in the public mind, as also in the arrangements and plans of clever Government wire-pullers, the man and the house were one. " See that bloke," said honest Radicals riding up Park Lane on omnibuses after their day's toil. "He's one oi the Government toffs —Earl o' Brentwood same as lives at Andover House. All a swell, ain't he? ... • There, look down that street and you'll see the house itself. . . There! All ft house, am tit •'

Successful, praised, flattered by everwidening attention, Seymour liked his life in this second year of office. I eople always like doing that which they do really well, if only they can persuade themselves and continue to believe that the thing is worth doing. And now Seymour hud succeeded in this too. Vague doubt and unanalysed misgivings troubled him less and less frequently. All about him believed that without their single and concentrated effort the world could not run and roll so smoothly. He and they were parts of the social and political machinesmall parts or big parts, but all of - them essential to the working of the vastly intricate, stupendously powerful machine. This belief sustained him and all of them.

So now the labour of his clays, though «'ery heavy, was rarely disagreeable to him. Ho liked changing his clothes for a nation's welfare, fie liked —mora and morethe quiet, reposeful atmosphere ot the House of Lords, its brown panels, gilded mouldings, stained glass, its faintly coloured light and its grey depths ol shadow, its loftiness and its narrowness, its high-canopied empty throne and its conveniently-situated, rapidly-filled wastepaper boxes. Everything that appertained to it satisfied him. He liked to sit in long, peaceful silence while Opposition lords urbanely criticised the management of his Department; and then, without heat or flurry, to rise and reply to the courteous attack. The noble marquis who has just sat down asks — my lords, no question can be more natural it is a question for which we are, altogether prepared," etc. • It was routine work, but he did the work admirably well; and he liked it immensely as long as he could preserve that sustaining belief in its essential importance. -

Sometimes noble lords, breaking the fetters of routine, tried to do original work of their very. own. They presented Bills invented and drafted by themselves, to take their chance of winning through the chaos and noise of the Commons. Then diligent students of Parliamentary reports might read how_ yesterday "Lord Ambleside said he desired again to introduce the Bill to ammend the law relating to the registration of births and deaths, which passed their lordships' House last year, but which, unfortunately, did not get any farther." Whenever there was an instance of this kind of bold initiative, Lord Brentwood used to think of his wife and of her innocent and rather irritating suggestions. Gladys could not aid him by an intelligent, technically educated sympathy, and yet she would make her ridiculous suggestions. She wished "that he would bring in laws—thus she expressed herself. "Seymour, I wish you'd bring in a law making it illegal to send tradesmen's boys on those dreadful heavy tricycles." He explained that his interference in this matter was impossible. But she never could grasp the meaning of any explanation of the working of the great political •machine, and, whenever she went for- a walk or a drive, unmade laws occurred to her. "Can't you bring in a law to ventilate shops, to warm waiting-rooms, to stop horses in cabs and vans by law when they ought to stop because anybody can see they are tired or over-loaded?" He dreaded her suggestions. "It seems," she said sadly, "that Government can do so little."

" You don't understand. Government is trying to do so much." Once, or perhaps twice, he talked political economy to her. Moral evils must be remedied by moral improvements, and not by practical interference. Public opinion and not the statute-book must redress grievances such as those .of which she spoke. She did not understand, and she could not or would not learn. It. was difficult not to be irritated by her simplicity. Surely she might have instructed herself by reading the debates, studying books, : and talking to well-informed friends; but she never knew anything at all. She leaned on him in small things and in great. If her'task was to open a bazaar she asked him what was the object of the charity? Was the hospital an old institution or a new one? Was the club intended for men or women? She would not trouble to find out for herself. He had to set a sharp curb on his tongue to prevent himself from giving voice to the irritation caused by her guileless, stupid questions, and her languor, lassitude, or laziness, when she ought to have been brisk, bright, and active in the performance of important duties. In fact, though he might not realise it, he was irritated because at these times she upset his sustaining belief, she shook his faith in himself, she brought back his own questioning doubts. Were such things really important? Was the fabric of his life solid as the stone walls of Andover House, or was it vain, baseless, fantastic as the buildings of a dream? Doubt made him excessively uncomfortable, caused him to change his attitude restlessly, cross and recross his knees, take off his hat, put it on again, tilt it over his eyes and push it back, even when he was sitting on what should properly have been to him firm as the bed-rock— is to say, the front bench of the Government side of the Lords.

Very uncomfortable— worrying thoughts dragged upward to the surface by his foolish Gladys! Were my lords really unimportant, unsubstantial as the play of coloured light from the stained glass, the grey shadows thrown by the painted walls? Did it really matter what they said yesterday, to-day? Were all these assembled men, from the Lord Chancellor now readjusting his wig to the clerk wiping his eyeglasses with a silk handkerchief, infinitely small, infinitely futile, ant-like in their assumption of importance and industry, ant-like in their concentration on their ant-heap and their obliviousness of the measureless universe beyond and all round it?

Butt the sense of discomfort passed, he could reassure himself always, when he considered the few really big men in either party of the State. There were just a few —say —Lords and Commoners Liberal and Conservative— who possessed the power of banishing doubt and confirming faith. More and more he respected these men. They talked to him as to an equal, and he felt stronger and firmer with every word that fell from their lips. Instinctively he knew that by their, frank confidence they honoured him, that he was not their equal, that he never could be. Instinct again, and not reason, told him that they were the only men -whose opinion was of value whose ' respect was worth striving to secure.

But he did not guess, he could not consciously recognise, why this should be so. He never realised that — or there, in the blatant, raving Commons, or the tranquil, futile Lords, wheresoever in the crowd one met them —they were men guided by definite aims, men marching on traced paths amid the aimless, pathless wanderers. (To be continued next Saturday.)