The Men Who Wrought

by Ridgwell Cullum

The atmosphere of the little study, or library, or whatever it was called, in which Ruxton carried on the private work of his political calling, in the diminutive house in Smith Square, Westminster, was redolent with that delightful suggestion of the old world so dear to the collector's heart.

Its owner was a collector by instinct and training. He had been brought up to the study of old-world art, and had learned to appreciate the beauties of all those delicate and priceless specimens which are the handicraft of bygone genius. But he was no keeper of a museum. His little home in the purlieus of Westminster was a storehouse of beauty and charm. Every piece of furniture, every tapestry, every rug, every metal gem was full of significance and harmony with its setting. Not one detail of this home but had cost him hours of thought and consideration, and the result was all he asked, a perfectly harmonious whole, a creation of all that made for undemonstrative artistry in his nature.

Just now even the dying early autumn sun seemed graciously disposed towards it. It was peeping in through the old Georgian windows and searching out the mellow beauties of the study. Its softened tone seemed to somehow belong to the picture it discovered within. The delicate tracery of the deep, ruddy mahogany furnishings, the design of which must have given hours of delight to the artist soul of Chippendale; the softened tints of the ancient Persian rugs upon the crazily uneven flooring; the exquisite carving of the oaken panels and the delicate pictures of the hanging tapestries above them,—all these beauties seemed to belong to a time of softened light which comes with the ageing of the year.

The calm delight of it all resisted even the touch of a modern figure suddenly appearing in its midst. Ruxton's modern blue serge suit and soft felt hat might have been an anachronism, but it gave no serious offence. He entered the room and glanced swiftly and appreciatively upon his treasured friends. Then he laid his hat aside, took his seat at his desk and prepared to attend to some work he had on hand.

But, for once, inclination proved stronger than purpose. He sat back in the ample chair, such as an elderly ancestor might have revelled in, lit a cigar, and, for some idle minutes, all effort was abandoned in favor of the relaxed dreaming of a brain accustomed to high pressure.

It was the late afternoon of a long day spent in endless interviews in the world of the officialdom to which he belonged here in London. But his interviews had had little enough to do with the more commonplace affairs of State. His portfolio in the Cabinet, which left him responsible for the affairs of the Duchy of Lancaster, also left him with ample time to carry out those other plans which he believed were to have so great a significance in his country's future.

His day had been spent in completing the negotiations whereby, for a considerable period, certain portions of the great ship-building yards at Dorby were to be adopted and controlled by the Admiralty. It had not been easy to stir the machinery of departments, and only had it been made possible by invoking the efforts of the Prime Minister, Sir Meeston Harborough, and the Foreign Secretary, the Marquis of Lordburgh, with both of whom he had already established a confidential understanding. Admiral Sir Joseph Caistor was purely a naval man, a brilliant officer, but as yet intolerant of desecrating the traditions of his department by confusing it with civilian controlled establishments.

However, the last obstacle had been finally surmounted, and, with its passing, he discovered the real depths of his anxiety. A strong conviction of impending action by the German Government had taken hold of him without his being fully aware of it. He had been oppressed by it. And now, at last, he experienced a deep sense of relief that the cloak of naval secrecy and protection was to be spread out over the new construction upon which he and his father had embarked.

He sat thus reviewing these things and smoking leisurely, in the manner of a satisfied man. He knew he ought to attend to his letters and then go on down to the House, which was now sitting. But he had no intention of doing so. There was no debate of importance going on, and he had no desire to listen to the silly twaddle of a number of men whose qualifications as legislators would have been insufficient to achieve for them squatting room on a council of Red Indians, and whose minds had no other conception of greatness than the limelight of a halfpenny press.

It was five weeks since his return from Borga. Five weeks of hard, rushing work in which a confusion of affairs required to be sorted and carried through; in which plans had to be developed and set in train, and during which a growing and almost oppressing sense of responsibility had steadily taken possession of him. There had been no leisure. It had been work incessant, work, and again work. Now, at last, he felt that a breathing space was almost permissible.