THE NEWS FROM RIDDSLEY
The business which had taken Audley away on the morrow of his
engagement had been no mere pretext. The crisis in political life which
Peel’s return to office had brought about was one of those upheavals
which are of rare promise to the adventurous. The wise foresaw that the
party which Sir Robert had led would be riven from top to bottom. Old
allies would be flung into opposing camps, and would be reaching out
every way for support. New men would be learning their value, and to
those who dared, all things might be added. Places, prizes, honors, all
might be the reward of those who knew how to choose their side with
prudence and to support it with courage. The clubs were like hives of
bees. All day long and far into the winter night Pall Mall roared under
the wheels of carriages. About the doors of Whitehall Gardens, where
Peel lived, men gathered like vultures about the prey. And, lo, in a
twinkling and as by magic the Conservative party vanished in a cloud of
dust, to reappear a few days later in the guise of Peelites and
Protectionists—Siamese twins, who would not live together, and could
not live apart.
At such a time it was Audley’s first interest to be as near as possible
to the hub of things and to place himself in evidence as a man
concerned. He had a little influence in the Foreign Office, he had his
vote in the House of Lords. And though he did not think that these
would suffice, he trusted that, reinforced by the belief that he
carried the seat at Riddsley in his pocket, they might be worth
something to him.
Unfortunately he could deal with one side only. If Stubbs were right he
could pass for the owner of the borough only as long as he opposed Sir
Robert. He could return the younger Mottisfont and have the credit of
returning him, in the landed interest; but however much it might suit
his book—and it was of that book he was thinking as he travelled to
Lord Seabourne’s—he could not, if Stubbs were right, return a member in
the other interest.
Now when a man can sell to one party only, tact is needed if he is to
make a good bargain. Audley saw this. But he knew his own qualities and
he did not despair. The occasion was unique, and he thought that it
would be odd if he could not pluck from the confusion something worth
having; some place under the Foreign Office, a minor embassy, a
mission, something worth two, or three, or even four thousand a year.
He travelled up to town thinking steadily of the course he would
pursue, and telling himself that he must be as cunning as the serpent
and as gentle as the dove. He must let no whip cajole him, and no Tory
browbeat him. For he had only this to look to now: a rich marriage was
no longer among the possibilities. Not that he regretted his decision
in that matter as yet, but at times he wondered at it. He told himself
that he had been impulsive, and setting this down to the charms of his
mistress he gave himself credit for disinterested motives. And then,
too, he had made himself safe!
Still there were difficulties in the way of his ambition, which
appeared more clearly at Seabourne Castle, where Lady Adela was a
fellow-guest, and in London than at Riddsley; difficulties of shrewd
whips, who knew the history of the borough by heart, and had figures at
their fingers’ ends; difficulties of arrogant leaders, who talked of
his duty to the land and assumed that duty was its own reward. Above
all, there was the difficulty that he could only sell to the party that
was out of office and must pay in promises—bills drawn at long dates
and for which no discounters could be found. For who could say when the
landed interest, made up of stupid bull-headed men like Lord George
Bentinck and Stubbs, a party without a leader and with divided
counsels, would be in power? They were a mob rather than a party, and
like every other mob were ready to sacrifice future prospects to
present revenge.
That was a terrible difficulty, and his lordship did not see how he was
to get over it. To the Peelites who could pay, cash down, in honors and
places, he could not sell. Nor to the Liberals under little Lord John,
though to their promises some prospect of office gave value. So that at
times he almost despaired. For he had only this to look to now; if he
failed in this he would have love and he would have Mary, and he would
have safety, but very little besides. If his word had not been given to
Mary, he might almost have reconsidered the matter.
The die was cast, however. Yet many a man has believed this, and then
one fine morning he has begun to wonder if it is so—the cast was such
an unlucky, if not an unfair one! And presently he has seen that at the
cost of a little pride, or a little consistency, or what not, he might
call the game drawn. That is, he might—if he were not the soul of honor
that he is!
By and by under the stress of circumstances his lordship began to
consider that point. He did not draw back, he did not propose to draw
back; but he thought that he would keep the door behind him ajar. To
begin with, he did not overwhelm Mary with letters—his public
engagements were so many; and when he wrote he wrote on ordinary
matters. His pen ran more glibly on party gossip than on their joint
future; he wrote as he might have written to a cousin rather than to
his sweetheart. But he told himself that Mary was not versed in love
letters, nor very passionate. She would expect no more.
Then one fine morning he had a letter from Stubbs, which told him that
there was to be a real contest in Riddsley, that the Horn and Corn
platform was to be challenged, and that the assailant was Peter Basset.
Stubbs added that the Working Men’s Institute was beside itself with
joy, that Hatton’s and Banfield’s hands were solid for repeal, and that
the fight would be real, but that the issue was a foregone conclusion.
The news was not altogether unwelcome. The contest gave value to the
seat, and increased my lord’s claim; on that party, unfortunately, they
could only pay in promises. It also tickled my lord’s vanity. His
rival, unhorsed in the lists of love, had betaken himself, it seemed,
to other lists, in which he would as surely be beaten.
“Poor beggar!” Audley thought. “He was always a day late! Always came
in second! I don’t know that I ever knew anything more like him than
this! From the day I first saw him, standing behind John Audley’s
counsel at the suit, right to this day, he has always been a loser!”
And he smiled as he recalled the poor figure Basset had cut as a squire
of dames.
A week later Stubbs wrote again, and this time his news was startling.
John Audley was dead. Stubbs wrote in the first alarm of the discovery,
word of which had just been brought into the town. He knew no
particulars, but thought that his lordship should be among the first to
learn the fact. He added a hasty postscript, in which he said that Mr.
Basset was proving himself a stronger candidate than either side had
expected, and that not only were the brass-workers with him but a few
of the smaller fry of tradesmen, caught by his cry of cheap bread.
Stubbs closed, however, with the assurance that the landed interest
would carry it by a solid majority.
“D—n their impudence!” Lord Audley exclaimed. And after that he gave no
further heed to the postscript. As long as the issue was certain, the
election was Mottisfont’s and Stubbs’s affair. As for Basset, the more
money he chose to waste the better.
But John Audley’s death was news—it was great news! So he was gone at
last—the man whom he had always regarded as a menace! Whom he had
feared, whose very name had rung mischief in his ears, by whom, during
many a sleepless night, he had seen himself ousted from all that he had
gained from title, income, lands, position! He was gone at last; and
gone with him were the menace, the danger, the night alarms, the whole
pile of gloomy fancies which apprehension had built up!
The relief was immense. Audley read the letter twice, and it seemed to
him that a weight was lifted from him. John Audley was dead. In his
dressing-gown and smoking-cap my lord paced his rooms at the Albany and
said again and again, “He’s dead! By gad, he’s dead!” Later, he could
not refrain from the thought that if the death had taken place a few
weeks earlier, in that first attack, he would have been under no
temptation to make himself safe. As it was—but he did not pursue the
thought. He only reflected that he had followed love handsomely!
A day later a third letter came from Stubbs, and one from Mary. The
tidings they brought were such that my lord’s face fell as he read
them, and he swore more than once over them. John Audley, the lawyer
wrote, had been found dead in the Great House. He had been found lying
on the stairs, a lantern beside him. Stubbs had visited the house the
moment the facts became known. He had examined the muniment room and
found part of the wall broken down, and in the room two boxes of papers
which had been taken from a recess which the breach had disclosed. One
of the boxes had been broken open. At present Stubbs could only say
that the papers had been disturbed, he could not say whether any were
missing. He begged his lordship—he was much disturbed, it was clear—to
come down as quickly as possible. In the meantime, he would go through
the papers and prepare a report. They appeared to be family documents,
old, and not hitherto known to his lordship’s advisers.
Audley was still swearing, when his man came in. “Will you wear the
black velvet vest, my lord?” he asked, “or the flowered satin?”
“Go to the devil!” his master cried—so furiously that the man fled
without more.
When he was gone Audley read the letter again, and came to the
conclusion that in making himself safe he had builded more wisely than
he knew. For who could say what John Audley had found? Or who, through
those papers, had a hold on him? He remembered the manservant’s visit,
and the thing looked black. Very black. Alive or dead, John Audley
threatened him.
Then he felt bitterly angry with Stubbs. There had been the most
shocking carelessness. Had he not himself pointed out what was going
on? Had he not put it to Stubbs that the place should be guarded? But
the lawyer, stubborn in his belief that there were no papers there, had
done nothing. Nothing! And this had come of it! This which might spell
ruin!
Or, no. Stubbs had indeed done his best to ruin him, but he had saved
himself. He turned with relief to Mary’s letter.
It was written sadly, and it was rather cold. He noticed this, but her
tone did not alarm him, because he set it down to the reserve of his
own letters.
He took care to answer this letter, however, by that day’s post, and he
wrote more affectionately than before—as if her trouble had broken down
a reserve natural to him. He wrote with tact, too. He could not attend
the funeral; the dead man’s feelings towards him forbade that he
should. But his agent would attend, and his carriage and servants. When
he had written the letter he was satisfied with it: more than satisfied
when he had added a phrase implying that their happiness would not long
be postponed.
After he had posted the letter he wondered if she would expect him to
come to her. It was a lonely house and with death in it—but no, in the
circumstances it was not possible. He would go down to The Butterflies
next day. That would be the most that could be expected of him. He
would be at hand if she needed anything.
But when the next day came he did not go. A letter from a man belonging
to the inner circle of politics reached him. The great man, who had
been and might be again in the Cabinet, suggested a meeting. Nothing
came of the meeting—it was one of those will-of-the-wisps that draw the
unwary on until they find themselves committed. But it kept Audley in
London, and it was not until the evening of Monday, the day of the
funeral, that, chilled and out of temper, after posting the last stage
from Stafford, he reached his quarters at The Butterflies, and gave
short answers to Mrs. Jenkinson’s inquiries after his health.
“Poor dear young man!” she said, when she rejoined her sisters. “He has
a kind heart and he feels it. Mr. John was Mr. John, and odd, very odd.
But still he was an Audley!”