All this time he mixed little with his fellows. He only once attended a dinner of his group, and then scarcely uttered a word. Sally Flambard attempted in vain to get him to her political luncheons. So far as I knew, he never talked politics with anybody. But he rarely missed a division, and would sit solidly to the close of the dreariest debate. He had taken his seat near the end of the third bench below the gangway, so I had no chance of watching his face. But one evening I made an opportunity by going up into the opposite gallery. He sat very still and composed, I remember, with his eyes narrowed and his head a little bent forward. But the impression I got was of a terrific effort at self-restraint. He was schooling himself to something which he hated and dreaded, bracing himself to an effort on which fateful things depended, and the schooling had brought his nerves to cracking point.
I did not see him during the Christmas vacation. Then in February came the crisis which I have already recorded, when the nation suddenly woke up to the meaning of the unemployment figures, and Chuff began his extra-mural campaign, and parties split themselves up into activists and passivists. You would have said that it was the ideal occasion for Goodeve to take the lead. It was the situation which his maiden speech had forecast and it was the spirit of that maiden speech which was needed. Waldemar and Mayot were the leading passivists, and, Heaven knows, they gave openings enough for a critic. Judging by his early form, Goodeve could have turned them inside out and made them the laughing stock of the country, and he could have made magnificent play with the prime minister’s shuffling. He could have toned down Collinson’s violence, and steadied some of the younger Tories who were beginning to talk wildly. Above all, he could have produced an activist policy based on common sense, which was the crying need. Geraldine could not do it; he was always the parliamentarian rather than the statesman.
Goodeve tried and most comprehensively failed. He simply could not hold the House—could hold it far less than Lanyard, who had a voice like a peahen, or John Fortingall, who stuttered and hesitated and rarely got a verb into his sentences. At his first appearance he had shown an amazing gift of catching the atmosphere of the assembly and gripping its attention in a vice. His air had had authority in it, his voice had been compelling, his confidence had impressed without offending. But now . . . great God! he seemed a different man. I heard him try to tackle Mayot, but Mayot, who had looked nervous when he rose, beamed happily as he continued and laughed aloud when he sat down. There was no grip in him, no word spoken out of strong belief, no blow launched with the weight of the body behind it. He seemed to be repeating— hesitatingly—a lesson which he had imperfectly learned by heart. His personality, once so clean-cut and potent, had dissolved into a vapour.
I missed none of his speeches, and with each my heart grew heavier. For I realized the cause of his fiasco . . . Goodeve was a haunted man, haunted by a dreadful foreknowledge of fate. In his maiden speech fate had been on his side, since he had a definite assurance that he must succeed. But now he was fighting against fate. The same source, which gave him the certainty of his initial triumph, had denied him the hope of further success. As I had advised, he was striving now to coerce fate, to alter what he believed to be his destiny, to stultify what had been decreed . . . He could not do it. That very knowledge which had once given him confidence was now keeping it from him. He had no real hope. He was battling against what he believed to be foreordained. How could a man succeed when he understood in his heart that the eternal powers had predestined failure?
Yet most gallantly he persevered, for it was a matter of life and death. I alone knew the tragedy of it. To other people he was only a politician who was not living up to his promise, the “Single-speech Hamilton” of our day. But behind the epigrams which did not sting, the appeals which rang feebly, the arguments which lacked bite, the perorations which did not glow, I saw a condemned man struggling desperately for a reprieve.
His last speech was on the Ministry of Labour estimates, when John Fortingall’s motion nearly brought the government down. He rose late in the debate, when the House was packed and the air was electric, since a close division was certain. Waldemar had made one of his sagacious, polysyllabic, old-world orations, and Collinson from the Labour benches had replied with a fiery appeal to the House to give up ancestor-worship and face realities. For one moment I thought that Goodeve was going to come off at last. He began briskly, almost with spirit, and he looked the Treasury bench squarely in the face. His voice, too, had a better ring in it. Clearly he had braced himself for a great effort . . . Then he got into a mesh of figures, and the attention of members slackened. He managed them badly, losing his way in his notes, and, when one item was questioned, he gave a lame explanation. He never finished that section of his case, for he seemed to feel that he was losing the House, so he hurried on to what he must have prepared most carefully, a final appeal somewhat on the lines of his maiden speech. But ah! the difference! To be eloquent and moving one must have either complete self-confidence or complete forgetfulness of self, and Goodeve had neither. He seemed once again to be repeating a lesson badly learned; his voice broke in a rotund sentence so that it sounded falsetto; in an appeal which should have rung like a trumpet he forgot his piece, and it ended limply. Never have I listened to anything more painful. Members grew restless and began to talk. Goodeve’s voice became shrill, he dropped it to a whisper, and then raised it to an unmeaning shout . . . He paused—and someone tittered . . . He sat down.
When Trant rose an hour later to wind up the debate Goodeve hurried from the House. To the best of my belief he never entered it again.
Chapter 6
Towards the end of March I had to speak in Glasgow, and since my meeting was in the afternoon I travelled up by the night train. I was breakfasting in the hotel, when to my surprise I saw Goodeve at an adjacent table. Somehow Glasgow was not the kind of place where one expected to find him.
He joined me, and I had a good look at him. The man was lamentably thin, but at first sight I thought that he looked well. His dusky complexion was a very fair imitation of sunburn, and that and his lean cheeks suggested a man in hard training. But the next moment I revised my view. He moved listlessly and wearily, and his eyes were sick. It was some fever of spirit, not health, that gave him his robust colouring.
I had to hurry off to do some business, so I suggested that we should lunch together. He agreed, but mentioned that he had invited a man to luncheon—that very Colonel Dugald Chatto whose name he had read in the same obituary paragraph as his own. I said that I should like to meet him, and asked how Goodeve had managed to achieve the acquaintance. Quite simply, he said. He had got a friend to take him to golf at Prestwick, where Colonel Chatto played regularly, had been introduced to him in the clubhouse, and had on subsequent occasions played several rounds with him . . . “Not a bad fellow,” he said, and then, when he saw my wondering eyes, he laughed. “I must keep close to him, for, you see, we are more intimately linked than any other two people in the world. We are like the pairs tied up by Carrier in his noyades in the Loire— you remember, in the French Revolution. We sink or swim together.”
You could not have found a starker opposite to Goodeve than Chatto if you had ransacked the globe. He was a little stocky man, with a scraggy neck, sandy hair and a high-coloured face, who looked as if he took a good deal of both exercise and whisky. He said he was pleased to meet me, and he thumped Goodeve on the back. He was a cheerful soul.
He ate a hearty luncheon and he was full of chat in the juiciest of accents. He had grievances against the War Office because of their treatment of the Territorial division in which he had served, and he had some scathing things to say about politicians. His sympathies were with the right wing of our party, which Goodeve disliked. “I’m not blaming you, Sir Edward,” he told me. “You’re a lawyer, and mostly talk sense, if you don’t mind my saying so. But Goodeve here used to splash about something awful. I remember reading his speeches, and
wishing I could get five minutes with him in a quiet place. I tell you, I’ve done a good job for the country in keeping him out of Parliament, for he hasn’t been near it since him and me foregathered. I’m making quite a decent golfer of him, too. A wee bit weak in his short game still, but that’ll improve.”
He was a vulgar, jolly little man with nothing in his head, and no conversation except war reminiscences, golf shop, and a fund of rather broad Scots stories. Also he was a bit of an angler, the kind that enters for competitions on Loch Leven. When I listened to him I wondered how the fastidious Goodeve could endure him for half an hour. But Goodeve did more than endure him, for a real friendship seemed to have sprung up between them. There was interest, almost affection, in his eyes. Chatto, no doubt, thought it a tribute to his charms, and being a simple soul, he returned it. He did not know of the uncanny chain which linked the two incompatibles. I can imagine, if Goodeve had told him, the stalwart incredulity with which he would have received the confession.
The hotel boasted some old brandy which Chatto insisted on our sampling. “Supplied by my own firm, gentlemen, long before I was born.” After that he took to calling Goodeve “Bob.” “Bob here is coming with me to Macrihanish, and we’re going to make a week of it.”
“Don’t forget that you’re coming to me for the Mayfly,” Goodeve reminded him.
“Not likely I’ll forget. That’ll be a new kind of ploy for me. I’m not sure I’ll be much good at it, but I’m young enough to learn . . . Man, I get younger every day. I got a new lease of life out of that bloody war. Talk about shellshock! I’m the opposite! I’m shell-stimulated, if you see what I mean.”
He expanded in recollections, comments, anticipations, variegated by high-flavoured anecdotes. He had become perhaps a little drunk. One could not help liking the fellow, and I began to feel grateful to him when I saw how Goodeve seemed to absorb confidence from his company. The man was so vital and vigorous that the other drew comfort from the sight of him. Almost all the sickness went out of Goodeve’s eyes. His comrade in the noyades was not likely to drown, and his buoyancy might sustain them both.
Goodeve saw me off by the night train. I said something complimentary about Chatto.
“There’s more in him than you realize at first,” he said, “and he’s the kindliest little chap alive. What does it matter that he doesn’t talk our talk? I’m sick of all that old world of mine.”
I said something about Chatto’s health.
“Pretty nearly perfect. Now and then he does himself a little too well, as at luncheon today, but that was the excitement of meeting a swell like you. Usually he is very careful. I’ve made enquiries among his friends, and have got to know his doctor. The doctor says he has a constitution of steel and teak.”
“And you yourself?” I asked. “You’re a little fine-drawn, aren’t you?”
For a moment there was alarm in his eyes.
“Not a bit of it. I’m very well. I’ve been vetted by the same doctor. He gave me the cleanest bill of health, but advised me not to worry. That’s why I have cut out Parliament and come up here. Being with Chatto takes me out of myself. He’s as good for me as oxygen.”
When I asked about his plans he said he had none. He meant to be a good deal in the North, and see as much of Chatto as possible. Chatto was a bachelor with a country house in Dumbartonshire, and Goodeve was in treaty for a shooting nearby. I could see the motive of that: it was vital for him to pretend to himself that the coming tenth of June meant nothing, and to arrange for shooting grouse two months later.
I entered my sleeping berth fairly well satisfied. It was right that Goodeve should keep in close touch with the man whom destiny had joined to him, and it was the mercy of Providence that this man should be an embodiment of careless, exuberant life.
Chapter 7
May was of course occupied with the general election, and for the better part of it I had no time to think of anything beyond the small change of political controversy. I saw that Goodeve was not standing again for the Marton division, and I wondered casually if the florid Chatto had spent the mayfly season on the limpid and intricate waters which I knew so well. I pigeonholed a resolution to hunt up Goodeve as soon as I got a moment to turn round.
Oddly enough, the first news I got of him was from Chatto, whom I met at a Scottish junction.
“Ugh, ay!” said that worthy. “I’ve been sojourning in the stately homes of England. Did you ever see such a place as yon? I hadn’t a notion that Bob was such a big man in his own countryside? Ay, I caught some trout, but I worked hard for them. Yon’s too expert a job for me, but, by God, Bob’s the fine hand at it.”
I asked him about Goodeve’s health and whereabouts. “He’s in London,” was the answer. “I had a line from him yesterday. He was thinking of going on a wee cruise in a week or two. One of those yachting trips that the big steamship companies run—to Norway or some place like that. His health, you say? ‘Deed, I don’t quite know how to answer that. He wants toning up, I think. Him and me had a week at Macrihanish and, instead of coming on, his game went back every day. There were times when he seemed to have no pith in him. Down at Goodeve he was much the same. There’s not much exertion in dry-fly fishing, but every now and then he would lie on his back and appear as tired as if he had been wrestling with a sixteen-foot salmon rod on the Awe. And yet he looks as healthy as a deep-sea sailor. As I say, he wants toning up, and maybe the sea air is the thing for him.”
The consequence of this talk was that I wired to Goodeve, and found that he was still in London on some matter of business. Next day— I think it was May 31st—we dined together at his club. This time I was genuinely scared by his looks, for in the past five or six weeks he had gone rapidly downhill. His colour was still high, but now it was definitely unwholesome, and his thinness had become emaciation. His clothes hung on him loosely and there were ugly hollows at his temples. Also—and this was what alarmed me— his eyes had the gaunt, hungry, foreboding look that I remembered in Moe’s.
Of course I said nothing about his health, but his first enquiry was about Chatto’s, when he heard that I had seen him. I told him that I had never seen such an example of bodily well-being, and he murmured something which sounded like “Thank God!”
It was no good beating about the bush, for the time for any pretence between us had long passed.
“In another fortnight,” I said, “you will be rid of this nightmare. Now, what is the best way of putting in the time? I’m thinking of your comfort, for, as you know, I don’t believe there is the slightest substance in all that nonsense. But it is real to you, and we must make our book for that.”
“I agree,” he said. “I thought of going for a cruise in the North Sea. The boat’s called the Runeberg, I think—a Norwegian steamer chartered by a British firm. I fancy it’s the kind of thing for me, for these cruises are always crowded—a sort of floating Blackpool. There’s certain to be nobody I know on board, and the discomfort of a rackety company will keep me from brooding. If we get bad weather, so much the better, for I’m a rotten sailor. I’ve booked my cabin, and we sail from Leith on the sixth.”
I told him that I warmly approved. “That’s the common sense of the thing,” I said. “You must bluff your confounded premonitions. On June 10th you’ll be sitting on deck inside the Skerrygard, forgetting that there’s such a thing as a newspaper. What’s Chatto doing?”
“Going on as usual. Business four days a week and golf the rest. He has no foreboding to worry him. I get frequent news of his health, you know. I have a friend in a Glasgow lawyer’s office, who knows both him and his doctor, and he sends me reports. I wonder what he thinks of it all. A David and Jonathan friendship, I hope; but these Glasgow lawyers never let you see what is inside their mind.”
On the whole I was better pleased with the situation. Goodeve was facing it bravely and philosophically, and Chatto was a sheet-anchor. In a
fortnight it would be all over, and he could laugh at his tremors. He was due back in town from the cruise on the twentieth, and we arranged to dine together. I could see that he was playing up well to his plan, and filling up his time with engagements beyond the tenth.
I asked him what he proposed to do before he sailed. There was a weekend with Chatto, he said, and then he must go back to Goodeve for a day or two on estate business. I had to return to the House for a division, and, being suddenly struck afresh by Goodeve’s air of fragility, I urged him, as we parted, to go straight to bed.
He shook his head. “I’m going for a long walk,” he said. “I walk half the night, for I sleep badly. My only chance is to tire out my body.”
“You can’t stand much more of that,” I told him. “What does your doctor say?”
“I don’t know. It isn’t a case for doctors. I’m fighting, you see, and it’s taking a lot out of me. The fight is not with the arm of flesh, but the flesh must pay.”
“You’re as certain to win as that the sun will rise tomorrow.” These were my last words to him, and I put my hand on his shoulder. He started at the touch, but his eyes looked me steadily in the face. God knows what was in them—suffering in the extreme, fear to the uttermost, courage, too, of the starkest. But one thing I realized—they were like Moe’s eyes; and I left the club with a pain at my heart.
Chapter 8
I never saw Goodeve again. But the following are the facts which I learned afterwards.
He went to Prestwick with Chatto and played vile golf. Chatto, who was on the top of his game and in high spirits, lost his temper with his pupil, and then began in his kindly way to fuss about his health. He asked a doctor friend in the clubhouse to have a look at him, but Goodeve refused his attentions, declaring that he was perfectly fit. Then, after arranging to lunch with Chatto in Glasgow on the sixth before sailing from Leith, Goodeve went south.