The Patrician | Page 7

conservatory
adjoining the hall, Lady Casterley stood in front of some Japanese lilies.
She was a slender, short old woman, with an ivory-coloured face, a thin
nose, and keen eyes half-veiled by delicate wrinkled lids. Very still, in
her grey dress, and with grey hair, she gave the impression of a little
figure carved out of fine, worn steel. Her firm, spidery hand held a
letter written in free somewhat sprawling style:
MONKLAND COURT, "DEVON.
"MY DEAR, MOTHER,
"Geoffrey is motoring up to-morrow. He'll look in on you on the way if
he can. This new war scare has taken him up. I shan't be in Town
myself till Miltoun's election is over. The fact is, I daren't leave him
down here alone. He sees his 'Anonyma' every day. That Mr. Courtier,
who wrote the book against War--rather cool for a man who's been a
soldier of fortune, don't you think?--is staying at the inn, working for
the Radical. He knows her, too--and, one can only hope, for Miltoun's
sake, too well--an attractive person, with red moustaches, rather nice
and mad. Bertie has just come down; I must get him to have a talk with
Miltoun, and see if he cant find out how the land lies. One can trust

Bertie--he's really very astute. I must say, that she's quite a
sweet-looking woman; but absolutely nothing's known of her here
except that she divorced her husband. How does one find out about
people? Miltoun's being so extraordinarily strait-laced makes it all the
more awkward. The earnestness of this rising generation is most
remarkable. I don't remember taking such a serious view of life in my
youth."
Lady Casterley lowered the coronetted sheet of paper. The ghost of a
grimace haunted her face--she had not forgotten her daughter's youth.
Raising the letter again, she read on:
"I'm sure Geoffrey and I feel years younger than either Miltoun or
Agatha, though we did produce them. One doesn't feel it with Bertie or
Babs, luckily. The war scare is having an excellent effect on Miltoun's
candidature. Claud Harbinger is with us, too, working for Miltoun; but,
as a matter of fact, I think he's after Babs. It's rather melancholy, when
you think that Babs isn't quite twenty-- still, one can't expect anything
else, I suppose, with her looks; and Claud is rather a fine specimen.
They talk of him a lot now; he's quite coming to the fore among the
young Tories."
Lady Casterley again lowered the letter, and stood listening. A
prolonged, muffled sound as of distant cheering and groans had
penetrated the great conservatory, vibrating among the pale petals of
the lilies and setting free their scent in short waves of perfume. She
passed into the hall; where, stood an old man with sallow face and long
white whiskers.
"What was that noise, Clifton?"
"A posse of Socialists, my lady, on their way to Putney to hold a
demonstration; the people are hooting them. They've got blocked just
outside the gates."
"Are they making speeches?"
"They are talking some kind of rant, my lady."

"I'll go and hear them. Give me my black stick."
Above the velvet-dark, flat-toughed cedar trees, which rose like
pagodas of ebony on either side of the drive, the sky hung lowering in
one great purple cloud, endowed with sinister life by a single white
beam striking up into it from the horizon. Beneath this canopy of cloud
a small phalanx of dusty, dishevelled-looking men and women were
drawn up in the road, guarding, and encouraging with cheers, a tall,
black-coated orator. Before and behind this phalanx, a little mob of
men and boys kept up an accompaniment of groans and jeering.
Lady Casterley and her 'major-domo' stood six paces inside the scrolled
iron gates, and watched. The slight, steel-coloured figure with
steel-coloured hair, was more arresting in its immobility than all the
vociferations and gestures of the mob. Her eyes alone moved under
their half-drooped lids; her right hand clutched tightly the handle of her
stick. The speaker's voice rose in shrill protest against the exploitation
of 'the people'; it sank in ironical comment on Christianity; it demanded
passionately to be free from the continuous burden of 'this insensate
militarist taxation'; it threatened that the people would take things info
their own hands.
Lady Casterley turned her head:
"He is talking nonsense, Clifton. It is going to rain. I shall go in."
Under the stone porch she paused. The purple cloud had broken; a blind
fury of rain was deluging the fast-scattering crowd. A faint smile came
on Lady Casterley's lips.
"It will do them good to have their ardour damped a little. You will get
wet, Clifton--hurry! I expect Lord Valleys to dinner. Have a room got
ready for him to dress. He's motoring from Monkland."