Part 30 (2/2)
The next day, Sunday, old Lord Chudley dragged him into his own private den. He had a very red, battered, clean-shaven face and very red hair and side whiskers; and he was a very honest gentleman, believing implicitly in G.o.d and the King and the House of Lords, and Foxes, and the Dutch School of Painting, and his responsibility as a great landowner toward the two or three thousand human beings with whom he had business relations.
”Look here, Savelli. I've looked into your League. It's a d.a.m.ned good thing. About the only thing that has been invented which can stem the tide of Socialism. Catch 'em young. That's the way. But you want the sinews of war. You get subscriptions, but not enough; I've seen your last balance sheet. You want a little army of--what the devil shall we call 'em?”
”Big Englanders,” Paul suggested at a venture.
”Good. We want an army of 'em to devote their whole time to the work.
Open a special fund. You and Ursula Winwood will know how to work it.
What Ursula Winwood doesn't know in this sort of business isn't worth knowing--and here's something to head the list with.”
And he handed Paul a cheque, which after a dazed second or two he realized to be one for five thousand pounds.
That was the beginning of the financial prosperity and the real political importance of the Young England League. Paul organized a great public dinner with the Leader of the Opposition in the chair and an amazing band of notables around the tables. Speeches were made, the Marquis of Chudley's patriotism extolled, and subscription lists filled up and handed to a triumphant organizing secretary.
A powerful daily newspaper took up the cause and made strong appeal.
The Lodges made simultaneous efforts in their respective districts.
Money flowed into the League's coffers.
When Parliament rose for the Easter recess Paul, the most tired, yet the most blissful, youth among the Fortunate, flew straight to Venice, where a happy-eyed princess welcomed him. She was living in a Palazzo on the Grand Ca.n.a.l, lent to her--that is the graceful Italian way of putting it--by some Venetian friends; and there, with Mademoiselle de Cressy to keep off the importunate, she received such acquaintance as floated from the ends of the earth through the enchanted city.
”I have started by seeing as few people as I can,” she said. ”That's all on account of you, monsieur.”
He pressed her hand. ”I hope we don't see a single soul we know as long as I'm here,” he declared.
His hope was gratified, not completely, but enough to remove grounds for lover's fretfulness. He pa.s.sed idyllic days in halcyon weather.
Often she would send her gondola to fetch him from the Grand Hotel, where he was staying. Now and then, most graciously audacious of princesses, she would come herself. On such occasions he would sit awaiting her with beating heart, juvenis fortunatus nimium, on the narrow veranda of the hotel, regardless of the domed white pile of Santa Maria della Salute opposite, or the ceaseless life on the water, or the suns.h.i.+ne, or anything else in Venice, his gaze fixed on the bend of the ca.n.a.l; and then at last would appear the tall curved prow, and then the white-clad, red-sashed Giacomo bending to his oar, and then the white tenda with the dear form beneath, vaguely visible, and then Felipe, clad like Giacomo and bending, too, rhythmically with the foremost figure. Slowly, all too slowly, the gondola would near the steps, and beneath the tenda would smile the dearest face in the world, and the cheeks would be delicately flushed and the eyes tender and somewhat shy. And Paul would stand, smiling too, a conquering young figure with green Marienbad hat tilted with ever so tiny a shade of jauntiness, the object of frankly admiring and curious glances from a lone woman or two on the veranda, until the gondola was brought up to the wave-washed steps, and the hotel porter had fixed the bridge of plank. Then, with Giacomo supporting his elbow, he would board the black craft and would creep under the tenda and sink on the low seat by her side with a sense of daring and delicious intimacy, and the gondola would glide away into fairyland.
”Let us be real tourists and do Venice thoroughly,” she had said. ”I have never seen it properly.”
”But you've been here many times before.”
”Yes. But--”
She hesitated.
”Eh bien?”
”Je ne peux pas le dire. Il faut deviner.”
”Will you forgive me if I guess right? Our great Shakespeare says: 'Love lends a precious seeing to the eye.'”
”That--that's very pretty,” said the Princess in French. ”I love much your Shakespeare.”
Whereupon Paul recognized her admission of the correctness of his conjecture; and so, with the precious vision they had borrowed, they went about tourist-wise to familiar churches and palaces, and everything they saw was lit with exceeding loveliness. And they saw the great pictures of the world, and Paul, with his expert knowledge, pointed out beauties she had not dreamed of hitherto, and told her tales of the painters and discoursed picturesquely on Venetian history, and she marvelled at his insight and learning and thought him the most wonderful man that had ever dropped, ready-made, from heaven. And he, in the flush of his new love, was thrilled by her touch and the low tones of her voice when she plucked him by the sleeve and murmured: ”Ah, Paul, regardez-moi ca. It is so beautiful one wants to weep with joy.”
They spoke now half in French, half in English, and she no longer protested against his murderous accent, which, however, he strove to improve. Love must have lent its precious hearing too, for she vowed she loved to hear him speak her language.
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