The Case of Richard Meynell Part 32

"Certainly you do! A typical product--with just as much right to a place in English religion as Meynell--and no more."

"Hugh!--you must behave very nicely to the Bishop to-night."

"I should think I must!--considering the _ominum gatherum_ you have asked to meet him. I really do not think you ought to have asked Meynell."

"There we must agree to differ," said Rose firmly. "Social relations in this country must be maintained--in spite of politics--in spite of religion--in spite of everything."

"That's all very well--but if you mix people too violently, you make them uncomfortable."

"My dear Hugh!--how many drawing-rooms are there?" His wife waved a vague hand toward the folding doors on her right, implying the suite of Georgian rooms that stretched away beyond them; "one for every _nuance_ if it comes to that. If they positively won't mix I shall have to segregate them. But they will mix." Then she fell into a reverie for a moment, adding at the end of it--"I must keep one drawing-room for the Rector and Mr. Norham--"

"That I understand is what we're giving the party for. Intriguer!"

Rose threw him a cool glance.

"You may continue to play Gallio if you like. _I_ am now a partisan."

"So I perceive. And you hope to turn Norham into one."

Rose nodded. Mr. Norham was the Home Secretary, the most important member in a Cabinet headed by a Prime Minister in rapidly failing health; to whose place, either by death or retirement it was generally expected that Edward Norham would succeed.

"Well, darling, I shall watch your manoeuvres with interest," said Flaxman, rising and gathering up his letters--"and, _longo intervallo_, I shall humbly do my best to a.s.sist them. Are Catherine and Mary coming?"

"Mary certainly--and, I think, Catharine. The Fox-Wiltons of course, and that mad creature Hester, who goes to Paris in a few days--and Alice Puttenham. How that sister of hers bullies her--horrid little woman! _And_ Mr. Barron!"--Flaxman made an exclamation--"and the deaf daughter--and the nice elder son--and the unpresentable younger one--in fact the whole menagerie."

Flaxman shrugged his shoulders.

"A few others, I hope, to act as buffers."

"Heaps!" said Rose. "I have asked half the neighbourhood--our first big party. And as for the weekenders, you chose them yourself." She ran through the list, while Flaxman vainly protested that he had never in their joint existence been allowed to do anything of the kind. "But to-night you're not to take any notice of them at all. Neighbours first!

Plenty of time for you to amuse yourself to-morrow. What time does Mr.

Barron come?"

"In ten minutes!" said Flaxman, hastily departing, only, however, to be followed into his study by Rose, who breathed into his ear--

"And if you see Mary and Mr. Meynell colloguing--play up!"

Flaxman turned round with a start.

"I say!--is there really anything in that?"

Rose, sitting on the arm of his chair, did her best to bring him up to date. Yes--from her observation of the two--she was certain there was a good deal in it.

"And Catharine?"

Rose's eyebrows expressed the uncertainty of the situation.

"But such an odd thing happened last week! You remember the day of the accident--and the Church Council that was put off?"

"Perfectly."

"Catharine made up her mind suddenly to go to that Church Council--after not having been able to speak of Mr. Meynell or the Movement for weeks.

_Why_--neither Mary nor I know. But she walked over from the cottage--the first time she has done it. She arrived in the village just as the dreadful thing had happened in the pit. Then of course she and the Rector took command. n.o.body who knew Catharine would have expected anything else. And now she and Mary and the Rector are busy looking after the poor survivors. 'It's propinquity does it,' my dear!"

"Catharine could never--never--reconcile herself."

"I don't know," said Rose, doubtfully. "What did she want to go to that Council for?"

"Perhaps to lift up her voice?"

"No. Catharine isn't that sort. She would have suffered dreadfully--and sat still."

And with a thoughtful shake of the head, as though to indicate that the veins of meditation opened up by the case were rich and various, Rose went slowly away.

Then Hugh was left to his _Times_, and to speculations on the reasons why Henry Barron--a man whom he had never liked and often thwarted--should have asked for this interview in a letter marked "private." Flaxman made an agreeable figure, as he sat pondering by the fire, while the _Times_ gradually slipped from his hands to the floor. And he was precisely what he looked--an excellent fellow, richly endowed with the world's good things, material and moral. He was of spare build, with grizzled hair; long-limbed, clean-shaven and gray-eyed. In general society he appeared as a person of polished manners, with a gently ironic turn of mind. His friends were more numerous and more devoted than is generally the case in middle age; and his family were rarely happy out of his company. Certain indeed of his early comrades in life were inclined to accuse him of a too facile contentment with things as they are, and a rather Philistine estimate of the value of machinery. He was absorbed in "business" which he did admirably. Not so much of the financial sort, although he was a trusted member of important boards. But for all that unpaid multiplicity of affairs--magisterial, munic.i.p.al, social or charitable--which make the country gentleman's sphere Hugh Flaxman's appet.i.te was insatiable. He was a born chairman of a county council, and a heaven-sent treasurer of a hospital.

And no doubt this natural bent, terribly indulged of late years, led occasionally to "holding forth"; at least those who took no interest in the things which interested Flaxman said so. And his wife, who was much more concerned for his social effect than for her own, was often nervously on the watch lest it should be true. That her handsome, popular Hugh should ever, even for a quarter of an hour, sit heavy on the soul even of a youth of eighteen was not to be borne; she pounced on each incipient harangue with mingled tact and decision.

But though Flaxman was a man of the world, he was by no means a worldling. Tenderly, unflinchingly, with a modest and cheerful devotion, he had made himself the stay of his brother-in-law Elsmere's hara.s.sed and broken life. His supreme and tyrannical common sense had never allowed him any delusions as to the ultimate permanence of heroic ventures like the New Brotherhood; and as to his private opinions on religious matters it is probable that not even his wife knew them. But outside the strong affections of his personal life there was at least one enduring pa.s.sion in Flaxman which dignified his character. For liberty of experiment, and liberty of conscience, in himself or others, he would gladly have gone to the stake. Himself the loyal upholder of an established order, which he helped to run decently, he was yet in curious sympathy with many obscure revolutionists in many fields. To brutalize a man's conscience seemed to him worse than to murder his body. Hence a constant sympathy with minorities of all sorts; which no doubt interfered often with his practical efficiency. But perhaps it accounted for the number of his friends.

"We shall, I presume, be undisturbed?"

The speaker was Henry Barron; and he and Flaxman stood for a moment surveying each other after their first greeting.

"Certainly. I have given orders. For an hour if you wish, I am at your disposal."

"Oh, we shall not want so long."

Barron seated himself in the chair pointed out to him. His portly presence, in some faultlessly new and formal clothes, filled it substantially; and his colour, always high, was more emphatic than usual.

Beside him, Flaxman made but a thread-paper appearance.

"I have come on an unpleasant errand"--he said, withdrawing some papers from his breast pocket--"but--after much thought--I came to the conclusion that there was no one in this neighbourhood I could consult upon a very painful matter, with greater profit--than yourself."

Flaxman made a rather stiff gesture of acknowledgment.

"May I ask you to read that?"

Barron selected a letter from the papers he held and handed it to his host.

Flaxman read it. His face changed and worked as he did so. He read it twice, turned it over to see if it contained any signature, and returned it to Barron.

"That's a precious production! Was it addressed to yourself?"

"No--to Dawes, the colliery manager. He brought it to me yesterday."