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CHAPTER II

At Ravensham House on the borders of Richmond Park, suburban seat of
the Casterley family, ever since it became usual to have a residence
within easy driving distance of Westminster--in a large 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."




The Patrician by John Galsworthy
Category:
Contemporary

General Fiction
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