amidst the
piercing laughter of her companions. “Ye’ll never get in for Loamport,”
declared a man quite close to Stella, in a voice that was hardly unkind.
Philip at first took no notice, except perhaps to raise his voice a shade
of a tone higher in the scale. But at last a group in the gallery nearest him
gave a deafening and evidently preconcerted shout of “Sit down.” Then, as if
unable to ignore this final and most uncompromising provocation, he stopped.
He was very pale. He looked fixedly at the interrupters in the gallery. “I
d-don’t know if those gentlemen in, the g-gallery are speaking only for
themselves, or for a c-considerable section of the audience, but if the
l-latter is the case I sh-shall—”
A curious thrill came over Stella. Oh, for him to stand there proud and
defiant—to challenge them, as it were, to shout him down if they
could!—“But if the latter is the case I shall just go on talking,
whether you like it or not, till I have finished all I have to say. I’m not
going to be intimidated by a handful of hooligans. I’ve come here to make a
speech and I shall make it…” Would he talk like that!—The words rose
fiercely to her lips, and she had hard work to keep herself from speaking
them aloud. If only she were on the platform instead of him!
But the voice went on coldly: “I sh-shall then be obliged to b-bow to the
g-general will and b-bring my remarks to an end.”
A great sinking sensation enveloped her He was giving in: he was
surrendering to them ignominiously. A swelling hubbub arose all over the
hall; voices shouted to him to sit down, to continue, to take no notice of
interruptions, to go home…
Then all at once she saw him stagger back, deathly pale, and almost fall
into the arms of Sir Charles Maddison. He had fainted. They put him in a
chair and gave him some water. He seemed to revive. Two of them took him by
the arms and guided him slowly off the platform. All this in front of the
shouting, gesticulating audience…
Sir Charles rose and held up his hand. “I am sure,” he began, when the
tumult was partially stilled, “I am sure we are all very sorry…”
She must go to him. She could not stop away any longer. She got up,
squirmed her way out of the crowded hall, and went round to the side-door
leading to the platform.
V
“Oh, Philip,” she cried, rushing forward to him. “Are you
better?”
He was sitting in an arm-chair in the mayoral anteroom, and two men were
there with him. One was standing in front of the fire with his hands in his
pockets, and the other was mixing and consuming brandies and sodas. Stella’s
sudden entrance surprised them both, but not Philip; he said smilingly: “I
thought you’d c-come, Stella.”
He spoke very sadly, and then rallied a little and remembered to introduce
her to the two others. “Mr. Henry Crayford…Sir Thomas
Hayling…my—s-sister…” (He always introduced her as his sister, to
avoid misunderstandings.)
A muffled roar enveloped them suddenly like the sound of a railway train
passing overhead. “Maddison’s finished,” said Crayford, nodding towards the
door. “Perhaps we’d better get back.”
The other smiled approvingly. “Perhaps we may leave Mr. Monsell in your
capable hands,” he said, addressing Stella.
Somehow she disliked both of them instinctively. She nodded curtly, and
they bowed to her and went out. Not a word or a sign to Philip. She saw him
flush as he realised the significance of the omission.
As soon as they had gone she flung herself down on the carpet and knelt by
the side of him with her cheek against his hand. “Oh, Philip—Philip you
mustn’t mind them—they’re nothing, they’re nobodies—they don’t
count—you mustn’t let them hurt you—you mustn’t, you mustn’t , Philip!”
“I d-don’t,” he said, bravely.
She did not know what to say after that. She was almost crying, and a
renewal of the cheering
piercing laughter of her companions. “Ye’ll never get in for Loamport,”
declared a man quite close to Stella, in a voice that was hardly unkind.
Philip at first took no notice, except perhaps to raise his voice a shade
of a tone higher in the scale. But at last a group in the gallery nearest him
gave a deafening and evidently preconcerted shout of “Sit down.” Then, as if
unable to ignore this final and most uncompromising provocation, he stopped.
He was very pale. He looked fixedly at the interrupters in the gallery. “I
d-don’t know if those gentlemen in, the g-gallery are speaking only for
themselves, or for a c-considerable section of the audience, but if the
l-latter is the case I sh-shall—”
A curious thrill came over Stella. Oh, for him to stand there proud and
defiant—to challenge them, as it were, to shout him down if they
could!—“But if the latter is the case I shall just go on talking,
whether you like it or not, till I have finished all I have to say. I’m not
going to be intimidated by a handful of hooligans. I’ve come here to make a
speech and I shall make it…” Would he talk like that!—The words rose
fiercely to her lips, and she had hard work to keep herself from speaking
them aloud. If only she were on the platform instead of him!
But the voice went on coldly: “I sh-shall then be obliged to b-bow to the
g-general will and b-bring my remarks to an end.”
A great sinking sensation enveloped her He was giving in: he was
surrendering to them ignominiously. A swelling hubbub arose all over the
hall; voices shouted to him to sit down, to continue, to take no notice of
interruptions, to go home…
Then all at once she saw him stagger back, deathly pale, and almost fall
into the arms of Sir Charles Maddison. He had fainted. They put him in a
chair and gave him some water. He seemed to revive. Two of them took him by
the arms and guided him slowly off the platform. All this in front of the
shouting, gesticulating audience…
Sir Charles rose and held up his hand. “I am sure,” he began, when the
tumult was partially stilled, “I am sure we are all very sorry…”
She must go to him. She could not stop away any longer. She got up,
squirmed her way out of the crowded hall, and went round to the side-door
leading to the platform.
V
“Oh, Philip,” she cried, rushing forward to him. “Are you
better?”
He was sitting in an arm-chair in the mayoral anteroom, and two men were
there with him. One was standing in front of the fire with his hands in his
pockets, and the other was mixing and consuming brandies and sodas. Stella’s
sudden entrance surprised them both, but not Philip; he said smilingly: “I
thought you’d c-come, Stella.”
He spoke very sadly, and then rallied a little and remembered to introduce
her to the two others. “Mr. Henry Crayford…Sir Thomas
Hayling…my—s-sister…” (He always introduced her as his sister, to
avoid misunderstandings.)
A muffled roar enveloped them suddenly like the sound of a railway train
passing overhead. “Maddison’s finished,” said Crayford, nodding towards the
door. “Perhaps we’d better get back.”
The other smiled approvingly. “Perhaps we may leave Mr. Monsell in your
capable hands,” he said, addressing Stella.
Somehow she disliked both of them instinctively. She nodded curtly, and
they bowed to her and went out. Not a word or a sign to Philip. She saw him
flush as he realised the significance of the omission.
As soon as they had gone she flung herself down on the carpet and knelt by
the side of him with her cheek against his hand. “Oh, Philip—Philip you
mustn’t mind them—they’re nothing, they’re nobodies—they don’t
count—you mustn’t let them hurt you—you mustn’t, you mustn’t , Philip!”
“I d-don’t,” he said, bravely.
She did not know what to say after that. She was almost crying, and a
renewal of the cheering
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