HITHERTO, Dwala had been great, but great only in the relative sense, in comparison with you and me and the Man in the Street; great to the capacity of a vast austerely-fronted house in Park Lane; overwhelming for us on the pavement who fancy him within, infusing that big block with a huge cubic soul; who catch glimpses of him whirling out of the big gates to take tea, no doubt, with Ambassadors and Duchesses, and whirling in again with some real live Royalty—so rumours the little crowd outside as the stout policeman touches his helmet. Not immeasurable, however, to the big-calibred folk who eat with him, talk with him, see him starting on routes of acquaintance which they have long since travelled: even to Huxtable, mere man, a calculable quantity.
But a new movement was beginning, an upheaval; volcanic forces were at work; the throes of earthquake, striking premonitory awe into the hearts of men, presaged a rearrangement of geography. And slowly the Great World became aware that a new mountain was rising in its midst.
The Dwala Naturalisation Bill, introduced in the Lords, had run a calm and rapid course, and Dwala was an Englishman. The journals recorded it without exultation: it was placed among the ‘Items of Interest’ in the ‘Daily Mail.’ But soon there followed articles on his scientific interests: it appeared that he was already an eminent philatelist; Huxtable had bought big stamp-collections for him at the sales—Huxtable had innocent tastes which he was now able to enjoy by proxy. The Prince was interested in Antarctic Exploration—at least, he had signed a cheque for a thousand pounds for the Relief Expedition; in astronomy, too, for he had promised a new telescope to the Greenwich Observatory. His claims to represent Science in Parliament—since he had decided to go into politics—were indisputable; and there was ground for the rumour that London University had settled upon him for their representative, provided that one or two stipulations were fulfilled. If not, the Government had a safe seat for him in Cornwall.
His private life became a matter of public interest. He had bought Wynfield Castle in Yorkshire; he was fitting it with lifts and electric light; the Saharan Emperor had promised to come over for the shooting next autumn; Sir Benet Smyth, who had arranged the visit, would be there. There was no truth in the rumour of his engagement to Lady Alice Minnifer, Lord Glendover’s daughter; the rumour was at any rate premature.
Politicians began to frequent his ways: he was not destined to be an ordinary humdrum Member, paying a heavy price to be driven in and out of lobbies by a sheep-dog; he was going to be a power. Of what nature, nobody knew exactly; his opinions could only be guessed. That mattered very little. All the public has to do is to get the big man and plant him in office; party discipline will do the rest. There were fifteen parties in Parliament, and only two lobbies for them to vote in; leaders with opinions were a drug in the market; better the large unifying vagueness of a mind with none. Why he was to be great no one clearly knew; the fiat had gone forth from some hidden chamber of the citadel; or it had descended inscrutably from heaven, or risen on the breath of the sweating multitude: anyhow, there was a general agreement of unknown origin to magnify the name of Dwala. These things are mysterious, and the responsibility cannot be fixed till the time of recrimination comes.
Huxtable was happy. Well he might be, lucky dog! His uncles smiled and slapped him on the back in public in their big successful way. Lady Glendover remembered his face; Pendred Lillico went about boasting that young Huxtable had been his fag at Eton. These things were pleasant to the Huxtable mind; pleasant also the graciousness of Lady Wyse, who distinguished him at her Thursdays above his betters in the social hierarchy.
Yet there were things in Park Lane that he could have wished different. Of course he had done what he could to the right human furnishing of the big house; he had secured his patron the necessary atmosphere of awestruck service, silent efficiency and unassuming pomp. There was the stout butler, who looked like a conscientious low-church Bishop left over from a dinner-party, eager to please but uneasy at finding himself still there. He went about the house silently in flat slippers, seeking a clue to his identity, and looking out of window from time to time, as if he meditated escaping in search of his See. Tall scarlet footmen, with white legs, borrowed from some giant balustrade: stately animals, ‘incedingly upborne,’ like Vashti in ‘Villette’—alert but always perpendicular, eager as midshipmen to the domestic call, blighting visitors at the entry with the frigid consciousness of social difference. For the rest of the economy, invisible hands and watchful eyes; she-brownies that came and went unseen; bells that rang in distant corridors, summoning punctual feet to unknown observances; green-baize doors that swung and hid the minor mysteries of the great life.
These things were good. But what of Hartopp and the little girl?