PETER’S RETURN
Not a word or hint of John Audley’s illness had come to Basset’s ears.
At the time of the alarm he had been in London, and it was not until
some days later that he took his seat in the morning train to return to
Stafford. On his way to town, and for some days after his arrival, he
had been buoyed up by plans, nebulous indeed, but sufficient. He came
back low in his mind and in poor spirits. The hopes, if not the
aspirations, which Colet’s enthusiasm had generated in him had died
down, and the visit to Francis Place had done nothing to revive them.
Some greatness in the man, a largeness of ideas, an echo of the
revolutionary days when the sanest saw visions, Basset was forced to
own. But the two stood too far apart, the inspired tailor and the
country squire, for sympathy. They were divided by too wide a gulf of
breeding and prejudice to come together. Basset was not even a Radical,
and his desire to improve things, and to better the world, fell very
far short of the passion of humanity which possessed the aged
Republican—the man who for half a century had been so forward in all
their movements that his fellows had christened him the “_Old
Postilion_.”
Nothing but disappointment, therefore, had come of the meeting. The two
had parted with a little contempt on the one side, a sense of failure
on the other. If a man could serve his neighbors only in fellowship
with such, if the cause which for a few hours had promised to fill the
void left by an unhappy love, could be supported only by men who held
such opinions, then Basset felt that the thing was not for him. For six
or seven days he went up and down London at odds with himself and his
kind, and ever striving to solve a puzzle, the answer to which evaded
him. Was the hope that he might find a mission and found a purpose on
Colet’s lines, was it just the desire to set the world right that
seized on young men fresh from college? And if this were so, if this
were all, what was he to do? Whither was he to turn? How was he going
to piece together the life which Mary had broken? How was he going to
arrange his future so that some thread of purpose might run through it,
so that something of effort might still link together the long
bede-roll of years?
He found no answer to the riddle. And it was in a gloomy, unsettled
mood, ill-content with himself and the world, that he took his seat in
the train. Alas, he could not refrain from recalling the May morning on
which he had taken his seat in the same train with Mary. How ill had he
then appreciated her company, how little had he understood, how little
had he prized his good fortune! He who was then free to listen to her
voice, to meet her eyes, to follow the changes of her mood from grave
to gay! To be to her—all that he could! And that for hours, for days,
for weeks!
He swore under his breath and sat back in the shadow of the corner. And
a man who entered late, and saw that he kept his eyes shut, fancied
that he was ill; and when he muttered a word under his breath, asked
him if he spoke.
“No,” Basset replied rather curtly. And that he might be alone with his
thoughts he took up a newspaper and held it before him. But not a word
did he read. After a long interval he looked over the journal and met
the other’s eyes.
“Surprising news this,” the stranger said. He had the look of a
soldier, and the bronzed face of one who had lived under warm skies.
Basset murmured that it was.
“The Whigs have a fine opportunity,” the other pursued. “But I am not
sure that they will use it.”
“You are a Whig, perhaps?”
The stranger smiled. “No,” he replied. “I am not. I have lived so long
abroad that I belong to no party. I am an Englishman.”
“Ah?” Basset rejoined, curiosity beginning to stir in him. “That’s
rather a fine idea.”
“Apparently it’s a novel one. But it seems natural to me. I have lived
for fifteen years in India and I have lost touch with the cant of
parties. Out there, we do honestly try to rule for the good of the
people; their prosperity is our interest. Here, during the few weeks I
have spent in England I see things done, not because they are good, but
because they suit a party, or provide a cry, or put the other side in a
quandary.”
“There’s a good deal of that, I suppose.”
“Still,” the stranger continued, “I know a great man, and I know a fine
thing when I see them. And I fancy that I see them here!” He tapped his
paper.
“Has Lord John formed his ministry, then?”
“No, I am not sure that he will. I am not thinking of him, I am
thinking of Peel.”
“Oh! Of Peel?”
“He has done a fine thing! As every man does who puts what is right
before what is easy. May I tell you a story of myself?” the Indian
continued. “Some years ago in the Afghan war I was unlucky enough to
command a small frontier post. My garrison consisted of two companies
and six or seven European officers. The day came when I had to choose
between two courses. I must either hold my ground until our people
advanced, or I must evacuate the post, which had a certain
importance—and fall back into safety. The men never dreamed of
retiring. The officers were confident that we could hold out. But we
were barely supplied for forty days, and in my judgment no
reinforcement was possible under seventy. I made my choice, breached
the place, and retired. But I tell you, sir, that the days of that
retreat, with sullen faces about me, and hardly a man in my company who
did not think me a poltroon, were the bitterest of my life. I knew that
if the big-wigs agreed with them I was a ruined man, and after ten
years service I should go home disgraced. Fortunately the General saw
it as I saw it, and all was well. But—” he looked at Basset with a wry
smile—“it was a march of ten days to the base, and to-day the sullen
looks of those men come back to me in my dreams.”
“And you think,” Basset said—the other’s story had won his
respect—“that Peel has found himself in such a position?”
“To compare great issues with small, I do. I suspect that he has gone
through an agony—that is hardly too strong a word—such as I went
through. My impression is that when he came into office he was in
advance of his party. He saw that the distress in the country called
for measures which his followers would accept from no one else. He
believed that he could carry them with him. Perhaps, even then, he held
a repeal of the Corn Laws possible in some remote future; perhaps he
did not, I don’t know. For suddenly there came on him the fear of this
Irish famine—and forced his hand.”
“But don’t you think,” Basset asked, “that the alarm is premature?” A
dozen times he had heard the famine called a flam, a sham, a bite,
anything but a reality.
“You have never seen a famine?” the other replied gravely. “You have
never had to face the impossibility of creating food where it does not
exist, or of bringing it from a distance when there are no roads. I
have had that experience. I have seen people die of starvation by
hundreds, women, children, babes, when I could do nothing because steps
had not been taken in time. God forbid that that should happen in
Ireland! If the fear does not outrun the dearth, God help the poor! Now
I am told that Peel witnessed a famine in Ireland about ’17 or ’18, and
knows what it is.”
“You have had interesting experiences?”
“The experience of every Indian officer. But the burden which rests on
us makes us alive to the difficulties of a statesman’s position. I see
Peel forced—forced suddenly, perhaps, to make a choice; to decide
whether he shall do what is right or what is consistent. He must betray
his friends, or he must betray his country. And the agony of the
decision is the greater if he has it burnt in on his memory that he did
this thing once before, that once before he turned his back on his
party—and that all the world knows!”
“I see.”
“If a man in that position puts self, consistency, reputation all
behind him—believe me, he is doing a fine thing.”
Basset assented. “But you speak,” he added, “as if Sir Robert were
going to do the thing himself—instead of merely standing aside for
others to do it.”
“A distinction without much difference,” the other rejoined. “Possibly
it will turn out that he is the only man who can do it. If so, he will
have a hard row to hoe. He will need the help of every moderate man in
the country, if he is not to be beaten. For whether he succeeds or
fails, depends not upon the fanatics, but upon the moderate men. I
don’t know what your opinions are?”
“Well,” Basset said frankly, “I am not much of a party-man myself. I am
inclined to agree with you, so far.”
“Then if you have any influence, use it. Unfortunately, I am out of it
for family reasons.”
Basset looked at the stranger. “You are not by any chance Colonel
Mottisfont?” he said.
“I am. You know my brother? He is member for Riddsley.”
“Yes. My name is Basset.”
“Of Blore? Indeed. I knew your father. Well, I have not cast my seed on
stony ground. Though you are stony enough about Wootton under Weaver.”
“True, worse luck. Your brother is retiring, I hear?”
“Yes, he has just horse sense, has Jack. He won’t vote against Peel.
His lad has less and will take his place and vote old Tory. But there,
I mustn’t abuse the family.”
They had still half an hour to spend together before Basset got out at
Stafford. He had time to discover that the soldier was faced by a
problem not unlike his own. His service over, he had to consider what
he would do. “All I know,” the Colonel said breezily, “is that I won’t
do nothing. Some take to preaching, others to Bath, but neither will
suit me. But I’ll not drift. I kept from brandy pawnee out there, and I
am going to keep from drift here. For you, you’re a young man, Basset,
and a hundred things are open to you. I am over the top of the hill.
But I’ll do something.”
“You have done something to-day,” Basset said. “You have done me good.”
Later he had time to think it over during the long journey from
Stafford to Blore. He drove by twisting country roads, under the gray
walls of Chartley, by Uttoxeter and Rocester. Thence he toiled uphill
to the sterile Derbyshire border, the retreat of old families and old
houses. He began to think that he had gained some ideas with which he
could sympathize, ideas which were at one with Mary Audley’s burning
desire to help, while they did not clash with old prejudices. If he
threw himself into Peel’s cause, he would indeed be seen askance by
many. He would have to put himself forward after a fashion that gave
him the goose-flesh when he thought of it. A landowner, he would have
to go against the land. But he would not feel, in his darker moods,
that he was the dupe of cranks and fanatics. He saw Peel as Mottisfont
had pictured him, as a man putting all behind him except the right; and
his heart warmed to the picture. Many would fall away, few would be
staunch. From this ship, as from every sinking ship, the rats would
flee. But so much the stronger was the call.
The result was that the Peter Basset who descended at the porch of the
old gabled house, that sat low and faced east in the valley under
Weaver, was a more hopeful man than he who had entered the train at
Euston. A purpose, a plan—he had gained these, and the hope that
springs from them.
He had barely doffed his driving-coat, however, before his thoughts
were swept in another direction. On the hall table lay two letters. He
took up one. It was from Colet and written in deep dejection. “The
barber was a Tory and had given him short notice. Feeling ran high in
the town, and other lodgings were not to be had. The Bishop had
supported the rector’s action, and he saw no immediate prospect of
further work.” He did not ask for shelter, but it was plain that he was
at his wit’s end, and more than a little surprised by the storm which
he had raised.
Basset threw down the letter. “He shall come here,” he thought. “What
is it to me whom he marries?” Many solitary hours spent in the streets
of London had gone some way towards widening Peter’s outlook.
He took up the second letter. It was from John Audley, and before he
had read three lines, he rang the bell and ordered that the post-chaise
which had brought him from Stafford should be kept: he would want it in
the morning. John Audley wrote that he had been very ill—he was still
in bed. He must see Basset. The matter was urgent, he had something to
tell him. He hinted that if he did not come quickly it might be too
late.
Basset could not refuse to go; summoned after this fashion, he must go.
But he tried to believe that he was not glad to go. He tried to believe
that the excitement with which he looked forward to the journey had to
do with his uncle. It was in vain; he knew that he tricked himself. Or
if he did not know this then, his eyes were opened next day, when,
after walking up the hill to spare the horses—and a little because he
shrank at the last from the meeting—he came in sight of the Gatehouse,
and saw Mary Audley standing in the doorway. The longing that gripped
him then, the emotion that unmanned him, told him all. It was of Mary
he had been thinking, towards Mary he had been travelling, of her work
it was that the miles had seemed leagues! He was not cured. He was not
in the way to be cured. He was the same love-sick fool whom she had
driven from her with contumely an age—it seemed an age, ago.
He bent his head as he approached, that she might not see his face. His
knees shook and a tremor ran through him. Why had he come back? Why had
he come back to face this anguish?
Then he mastered himself; indeed he took himself the more strongly in
hand for the knowledge he had gained. When they met at the door it was
Mary, not he, whose color came and went, who spoke awkwardly, and
rushed into needless explanations. The man listened with a stony face,
and said little, almost nothing.
After the first awkward greeting, “Your room has been airing,” she
continued, avoiding his eyes. “My uncle has been expecting you for some
days. He has asked for you again and again.”
He explained that he had been in London—hence the delay; and, further,
that he must return to Blore that day. She felt that she was the cause
of this, and she colored painfully. But he seemed to be indifferent. He
noticed a trifling change in the hall, asked a question or two about
his uncle’s state, and inquired what had caused his sudden illness.
She told the story, giving details. He nodded. “Yes, I have seen him in
a similar attack,” he said. “But he gets older. I am afraid it alarmed
you?”
She forced herself to describe Lord Audley’s part in the matter—and Mr.
Stubbs’s, and was conscious that she was dragging in Mr. Stubbs more
often than was necessary. Basset listened politely, remarked that it
was fortunate that Audley had been on the spot, added that he was sure
that everything had been done that was right.
When he had gone upstairs to see John Audley she escaped to her room.
Her cheeks were burning, and she could have cried. Basset’s coldness,
his distance, the complete change in his manner all hurt her more than
she could say. They brought home to her, painfully home to her what she
had done. She had been foolish enough to fling away the friend, when
she need only have discarded the lover!
But she must face it out now, the thing was done, and she must put up
with it. And by and by, fearing that Basset might suppose that she
avoided him, she came down and waited for him in the deserted library.
She had waited some minutes, moving restlessly to and fro and wishing
the ordeal of luncheon were over, when her eyes fell on the door of the
staircase that led up to her uncle’s room. It was ajar.
She stared at it, for she knew that she had closed it after Basset had
gone up. Now it was ajar. She reflected. The house was still, she could
hear no one moving. She went out quickly, crossed the hall, looked into
the dining-room. Toft was not there, nor was he in the pantry. She
returned to the library, and went softly up the stairs.
So softly that she surprised the man before he could raise his head
from the keyhole. He saw that he was detected, and for an instant he
scowled at her in the half-light of the narrow passage, uncertain what
to do. Mary beckoned to him, and went down before him to the library.
There she turned on him. “Shut the door,” she said. “You were
listening! Don’t deny it. You have acted disgracefully, and it will be
my duty to tell Mr. Audley what has happened.”
The man, sallow with fear, tried to brave it out.
“You will only make mischief, Miss,” he said sullenly. “You’ll come
near to killing the master.”
“Very good!” Mary said, quivering with indignation. “Then instead of
telling Mr. Audley I shall tell Mr. Basset. It will be for him to
decide whether Mr. Audley shall know. Go now.”
But Toft held his ground. “You’ll be doing a bad day’s work, Miss,” he
said earnestly. “I want to run straight.” He raised his hand to his
forehead, which was wet with perspiration. “I swear I do! I want to run
straight.”
“Straight!” Mary cried in scorn. “And you listen at doors!”
The man made a last attempt to soften her. “For God’s sake, be warned,
Miss!” he cried. “Don’t drive me. If you knew as much as I do——”
“I should not listen to learn the rest!” replied Mary without pity.
“That is enough. Please to see that lunch is ready.” She pointed to the
door. She was not an Audley for nothing.
Toft gave way and went, and she remained alone, perplexed as well as
angry. Mrs. Toft and Etruria were good simple folk; she liked them. But
Toft had puzzled her from the first. He was so silent, so secretive, he
was for ever appearing without warning and vanishing without noise. She
had often suspected that he spied on his master.
But she had never caught him in the act, and the certainty that he did
so, filled her with dismay. It was fortunate, she thought, that Basset
was there, and that she could consult him. And the instant that he
appeared, forgetting their quarrel and the strained relations between
them, she poured out her story. Toft was ungrateful, treacherous, a
danger! With Mr. Audley so helpless, the house so lonely, it frightened
her.
It was only when she had run on for some time that Basset’s air of
detachment struck her. He listened, with his back to the fire, and his
eyes bent on the floor, but he did not speak until she had told her
story, and expressed her misgivings.
When he did, “I am not surprised,” he said. “I’ve suspected this for
some time. But I don’t know that anything can be done.”
“Do you mean that—you would do nothing?”
“The truth is,” he answered, “Toft is pretty far in his master’s
confidence. And what he does not know he wishes to know. When he knows
it, he will find it a mare’s nest. The truth—as I see it at any rate—is
that your uncle is possessed by a craze. He wants me to help him in it.
I cannot. I have told him so, firmly and finally, to-day. Well, I
suspect that he will now turn to Toft. I hope not, but he may, and if
we report the man’s misconduct, it will only precipitate matters and
hasten an understanding. That is the position, and if I were you, I
should let the matter rest.”
“You mean that?” she exclaimed.
“I do.”
“But—but I have spoken to Toft!” Her eyes were bright with anger.
He kept his on the floor. It was only by maintaining the distance
between them that he could hope to hide what he felt. “Still I would
let him be,” he repeated. “I do not think that Toft is dangerous. He
has surprised one half of a secret, and he wishes to learn the other
half. That is all.”
“And I am to take no notice?”
“I believe that will be your wisest course.”
She was shocked, and she was still more hurt. He pushed her aside, he
pushed her out of his confidence, out of her uncle’s confidence! His
manner, his indifference, his stolidity showed that she had not only
killed his fancy for her at a stroke, but that he now disliked her.
And still she protested. “But I must tell my uncle!” she cried.
“I think I would not,” he repeated. “But there—” he paused and looked
at his watch—“I am afraid that if you are going to give me lunch I must
sit down. I’ve a long journey before me.”
Then she saw that no more could be said, and with an effort she
repressed her feelings. “Yes,” she said, “I was forgetting. You must be
hungry.”
She led the way to the dining-room, and sat down with him, Toft waiting
on them with the impassive ease of the trained man. While they ate,
Basset talked of indifferent things, of his journey from town, of the
roads, of London, of Colonel Mottisfont—an interesting man whom he had
met in the train. And as he talked, and she made lifeless answers, her
indignation cooled, and her heart sank.
She could have cried, indeed. She had lost her friend. He was gone to
an immense distance. He was willing to leave her to deal with her
troubles and difficulties, it might be, with her dangers. In killing
his love with cruel words—and how often had she repented, not of the
thing, but of the manner!—she had killed every feeling, every liking,
that he had entertained for her.
It was clear that this was so, for to the last he maintained his
coldness and indifference. When he was gone, when the sound of the
chaise-wheels had died in the distance, she felt more lonely than she
had ever felt in her life. In her Paris days she had had no reason to
blame herself, and all the unturned leaves of life awaited her. Now she
had turned over one page, and marred it, she had won a friend and lost
him, she had spoiled the picture, which she had not wished to keep!
Her uncle lay upstairs, ready to bear, but hardly welcoming her
company. He had his secrets, and she stood outside them. She sat below,
enclosed in and menaced by the silence of the house. Yet it was not
fear that she felt so much as a sadness, a great depression, a gray
despondency. She craved something, she did not know what. She only knew
that she was alone—and sad.
She tried to fight against the feeling. She tried to read, to work,
even to interest herself in Toft and his mystery. She failed. And at
last she gave up the attempt and with her elbows on her knees and her
eyes on the fire she fell to musing, the ticking of the tall clock and
the fall of the embers the only sounds that broke the stillness of the
shadowy room.