CHAPTER III
I
Old Mrs. Brand and Mabel were seated at a window of the new AdmiraltyOffices in Trafalgar Square to see Oliver deliver his speech on thefiftieth anniversary of the passing of the Poor Laws Reform.
It was an inspiriting sight, this bright June morning, to see the crowdsgathering round Braithwaite's statue. That politician, dead fifteenyears before, was represented in his famous attitude, with armsoutstretched and down dropped, his head up and one foot slightlyadvanced, and to-day was decked, as was becoming more and more usual onsuch occasions, in his Masonic insignia. It was he who had givenimmense impetus to that secret movement by his declaration in the Housethat the key of future progress and brotherhood of nations was in thehands of the Order. It was through this alone that the false unity ofthe Church with its fantastic spiritual fraternity could becounteracted. St. Paul had been right, he declared, in his desire tobreak down the partition-walls between nations, and wrong only in hisexaltation of Jesus Christ. Thus he had preluded his speech on the PoorLaw question, pointing to the true charity that existed among Masonsapart from religious motive, and appealing to the famous benefactions onthe Continent; and in the enthusiasm of the Bill's success the Order hadreceived a great accession of members.
Old Mrs. Brand was in her best to-day, and looked out with considerableexcitement at the huge throng gathered to hear her son speak. A platformwas erected round the bronze statue at such a height that the statesmanappeared to be one of the speakers, though at a slightly higherelevation, and this platform was hung with roses, surmounted by asounding-board, and set with a chair and table.
The whole square round about was paved with heads and resonant withsound, the murmurs of thousands of voices, overpowered now and again bythe crash of brass and thunder of drums as the Benefit Societies anddemocratic Guilds, each headed by a banner, deployed from North, South,East and West, and converged towards the wide railed space about theplatform where room was reserved for them. The windows on every sidewere packed with faces; tall stands were erected along the front of theNational Gallery and St. Martin's Church, garden-beds of colour behindthe mute, white statues that faced outwards round the square; fromBraithwaite in front, past the Victorians--John Davidson, John Burns,and the rest--round to Hampden and de Montfort towards the north. Theold column was gone, with its lions. Nelson had not been foundadvantageous to the _Entente Cordiale_, nor the lions to the new art;and in their place stretched a wide pavement broken by slopes of stepsthat led up to the National Gallery.
Overhead the roofs showed crowded friezes of heads against the bluesummer sky. Not less than one hundred thousand persons, it was estimatedin the evening papers, were collected within sight and sound of theplatform by noon.
As the clocks began to tell the hour, two figures appeared from behindthe statue and came forward, and, in an instant, the murmurs of talkrose into cheering.
Old Lord Pemberton came first, a grey-haired, upright man, whose fatherhad been active in denouncing the House of which he was a member on theoccasion of its fall over seventy years ago, and his son had succeededhim worthily. This man was now a member of the Government, and sat forManchester (3); and it was he who was to be chairman on this auspiciousoccasion. Behind him came Oliver, bareheaded and spruce, and even atthat distance his mother and wife could see his brisk movement, hissudden smile and nod as his name emerged from the storm of sound thatsurged round the platform. Lord Pemberton came forward, lifted his handand made a signal; and in a moment the thin cheering died under thesudden roll of drums beneath that preluded the Masonic Hymn.
There was no doubt that these Londoners could sing. It was as if a giantvoice hummed the sonorous melody, rising to enthusiasm till the music ofmassed bands followed it as a flag follows a flag-stick. The hymn wasone composed ten years before, and all England was familiar with it.Old Mrs. Bland lifted the printed paper mechanically to her eyes, andsaw the words that she knew so well:
"_The Lord that dwells in earth and sea._" ...
She glanced down the verses, that from the Humanitarian point of viewhad been composed with both skill and ardour. They had a religious ring;the unintelligent Christian could sing them without a qualm; yet theirsense was plain enough--the old human creed that man was all. EvenChrist's, words themselves were quoted. The kingdom of God, it was said,lay within the human heart, and the greatest of all graces was Charity.
She glanced at Mabel, and saw that the girl was singing with all hermight, with her eyes fixed on her husband's dark figure a hundred yardsaway, and her soul pouring through them. So the mother, too, began tomove her lips in chorus with that vast volume of sound.
As the hymn died away, and before the cheering could begin again, oldLord Pemberton was standing forward on the edge of the platform, and histhin, metallic voice piped a sentence or two across the tinkling splashof the fountains behind him. Then he stepped back, and Oliver cameforward.
* * * * *
It was too far for the two to hear what was said, but Mabel slipped apaper, smiling tremulously, into the old lady's hand, and herself bentforward to listen.
Old Mrs. Brand looked at that, too, knowing that it was an analysis ofher son's speech, and aware that she would not be able to hear hiswords.
There was an exordium first, congratulating all who were present to dohonour to the great man who presided from his pedestal on the occasionof this great anniversary. Then there came a retrospect, comparing theold state of England with the present. Fifty years ago, the speakersaid, poverty was still a disgrace, now it was so no longer. It was inthe causes that led to poverty that the disgrace or the merit lay. Whowould not honour a man worn out in the service of his country, orovercome at last by circumstances against which his efforts could notprevail?... He enumerated the reforms passed fifty years before on thisvery day, by which the nation once and for all declared the glory ofpoverty and man's sympathy with the unfortunate.
So he had told them he was to sing the praise of patient poverty and itsreward, and that, he supposed, together with a few periods on the reformof the prison laws, would form the first half of his speech.
The second part was to be a panegyric of Braithwaite, treating him asthe Precursor of a movement that even now had begun.
Old Mrs. Brand leaned back in her seat, and looked about her.
The window where they sat had been reserved for them; two arm-chairsfilled the space, but immediately behind there were others, standingvery silent now, craning forward, watching, too, with parted lips: acouple of women with an old man directly behind, and other faces visibleagain behind them. Their obvious absorption made the old lady a littleashamed of her distraction, and she turned resolutely once more to thesquare.
Ah! he was working up now to his panegyric! The tiny dark figure wasback, a yard nearer the statue, and as she looked, his hand went up andhe wheeled, pointing, as a murmur of applause drowned for an instant theminute, resonant voice. Then again he was forward, half crouching--forhe was a born actor--and a storm of laughter rippled round the throng ofheads. She heard an indrawn hiss behind her chair, and the next instantan exclamation from Mabel.... What was that?
There was a sharp crack, and the tiny gesticulating figure staggeredback a step. The old man at the table was up in a moment, andsimultaneously a violent commotion bubbled and heaved like water about arock at a point in the crowd immediately outside the railed space wherethe bands were massed, and directly opposite the front of the platform.
Mrs. Brand, bewildered and dazed, found herself standing up, clutchingthe window rail, while the girl gripped her, crying out something shecould not understand. A great roaring filled the square, the headstossed this way and that, like corn under a squall of wind. Then Oliverwas forward again, pointing and crying out, for she could see hisgestures; and she sank back quickly, the blood racing through her oldveins, and her heart hammering at the base of her throat.
"My dear, my dear, what is it?" she sobbed.
But Mabel was up, too, starin
g out at her husband; and a quick babble oftalk and exclamations from behind made itself audible in spite of theroaring tumult of the square.
Lord of the World Page 7
