THE QUIET LIFE TO-MORROW.
Old Miss Quisanté was not as sympathetic as might have been wished. She
acquiesced indeed (as who would not?) in the new programme of at least a
year's complete rest; she offered to find funds--happily it was not
necessary, since the sale of some Alethea shares at a handsome premium
supplied them; she admitted that May had done her duty in persuading her
husband to yield a limited obedience to his doctors' orders. But she
looked disappointed, uninterested, dull; she awoke only for a sparkle of
malice, when she remarked how happy they would be together in the
country, with nothing to disturb them, nothing but just their two selves.
"Not as unhappy as you think," said May, smiling.
"All nonsense, I call it," pursued the old lady. "Sandro knew best; now
you've put notions into his head. Oh, I daresay you were bound to, my
dear."
"How can you be so blind?" murmured May. Aunt Maria shook her head
derisively; she was not blind, it was the wife and the doctors who were
blind. "You're not to say that sort of thing to Alexander," May went on
imperiously. Aunt Maria put her head on one side and smiled sardonically.
"You used to agree with me," she said. "Has the Mildmay woman been here
again?"
"No; she's at home. We shall see her perhaps at Henstead."
"Henstead! What are you going there for?"
"And you said you knew Alexander!" laughed May. "You don't suppose he's
going into retirement without a display of fireworks? The Henstead speech
is to be made. Then we put up the shutters--for a year at least, as I
say."
"That's something. Is he interested in it?"
"Oh, yes, working all day. But he's wonderfully well. I've never seen him
better." She hesitated and laughed a little. "How shall we ever stick to
our year?" she asked. "He means it now and I mean it. But----"
"You won't do it," said Aunt Maria emphatically. "Nobody could keep
Sandro quiet for a year!"
"Don't tell me that. We're going to try."
"Oh, I won't interfere, my dear. Try away. After all he'll be young
still, and they won't forget him in a year. Or if they do, he'll soon
make them remember him again."
The buoyant confidence was hard to resist. It seemed to grow greater in
face of all reason, and more and more to fill the old woman's mind as she
herself descended towards the grave which she scorned as a possibility
for Sandro. For now she was very small and frail, thin and yellow; she
too, like her nephew, seemed to hold on to life rather because she chose
of her arbitrary will, than thanks to any physical justification that she
could adduce. Could Quisanté not only make himself live but make Aunt
Maria live too? Full of the influence of that last great moment, May,
laughing at herself, yet hesitated to answer "No." But the year was to be
tried, lest, if die he must, he should die to please her or thinking that
she wanted him to die. He did not think now that she wanted that; she was
happier with him than she had ever been before. She had found a new
indulgence for him, even for what she had hated in him. Justice would
have turned to harshness, clearness of vision to a Pharisaic strictness,
had she not found indulgence for the man who had crept back to kiss her
hand. She was very indulgent towards him, and he seemed happy, save that
now and then he looked at her wistfully, and began to fall into the way
of reminding her of past occasions when he had shone and she admired,
asking whether she remembered this and that. He dropped hints too that
the Henstead speech was to be memorable. She was a little afraid that
already he was feeling indulgence insufficient and mere kindness, or
indeed mere affection, not the great thing that he asked of her, just as
peace and quiet, or pictures, books, and hills, were not the things that
he asked of life. If this were so, the compromise she had brought him to
consent to was precarious; it was, as she had hinted to Aunt Maria,
doubtful whether they could stick to their year.
There was another question in her mind, not less persistent, not less
troubling. Perhaps the greater harmony between them, which had induced
and enabled her to obtain that consent from him, was as precarious as the
compromise itself; it too was liable to be overthrown by a return of
Quisanté's old self, or at least of that side of him which was for the
time hidden. The temptation to work would overthrow the compromise, the
temptation to win might again produce action in him and impose action on
her which would bring death to their newly-achieved harmony, even as
exertion would to his worn-out body.
The great speech, the last speech, was to be on Wednesday. They arrived
in Henstead on Tuesday morning and were plunged at once into a turmoil of
business. There was a luncheon, a deputation, a meeting of the party
association; Japhet Williams had half a dozen difficulties, and old
Foster as many bits of shrewd counsel. Over all and through all was the
air of congratulation, of relief from the fear of losing Quisanté, of
enthusiastic applause for his magnificently courageous struggle against
illness and its triumphant issue. When May hinted at a period of
rest--the full extent of it was not disclosed--Foster nodded tolerantly,
Japhet said times were critical, and the rest declared that they would
not flog a willing horse, but knew that Mr. Quisanté would do his duty.
Unquestionably Henstead's effect was bad, both for the compromise and for
Quisanté. Minute by minute May saw how the old fascination grew on him,
how more and more he forgot that this was to be the last effort, that it
was an end, not a beginning. He gave pledges of action, he would not
positively decline engagements, he talked as though he would be in his
place in Parliament throughout the session. While doing all this he
avoided meeting her eye; he would have found nothing worse than pity
touched with amusement. But he kept declaring to her, when they had a
chance of being alone, that he was loyal to their compact. "Though it's
pretty hard," he added with a renewal of his bitterness against the fate
that constrained him.
"We ought never to have come," she said. "It makes it worse. I wish we
hadn't."
"Wait till you've heard me to-morrow night," he whispered, pressing her
hand and looking into her eyes with the glee of anticipated triumph.
He was going to make a great speech, she knew that very well; there were
all the signs about him, the glee, the pride, the occasional absence of
mind, the frequent appeal for sympathy, the need of a confidence to
answer and confirm his own. Such a mood, in spite of its element of
childishness, was yet a good one with him. It raised him above pettiness
and made him impatient of old Foster's cunning little devices for
capturing an enemy or confirming the allegiance of a doubtful friend. He
had for the time forgotten himself in his work, the position in what he
meant to do with it; he would have delivered that speech now if the price
had been the loss of his seat; whatever the price was, that speech now
would have its way, all of it, whole and unimpaired, even the passage on
which Foster was consulted with the result that its suppression was
declared imperative in view of Japhet Williams' feelings. "Damn Japhet
Williams," said Quisanté with a laugh, and Quisanté's wife found herself
wishing that he would "damn" a few more men and things. It was just the
habit that he wanted, just the thing that Marchmont and Dick Benyon and
men like them had. Oh, if he could win and keep it!
"He must consider local feeling," said old Foster, pinching a fat chin in
fear and doubt.
"No, he needn't, no, he needn't now," she cried. "He'll carry it with
him, whatever he does now. Don't you see? He can take them all with him
now. Wait till you've heard him to-morrow night!"
Here was happiness for her and for him, but where else? Not in the
compromise, not in the year of quiet. It seemed to be for this that they
had come together, in this that they could help one another, feel with
one another, be really at one. And this could not be. The tears stood in
May Quisanté's eyes as she turned away from the pleasant shrewd old
schemer; his picture should stand no more on the mantelpiece. But now it
seemed again strange and incredible that this, the great career, could
not be; Aunt Maria's was the creed for a time like this.
The great night came, and a great crowd in the Corn Exchange. Old Foster
was in the chair and the place seemed full of familiar faces; the butcher
who was troubled about slaughter-houses sat side by side with the man who
was uneasy about his deceased wife's sister; Japhet Williams was on the
platform and his men sat in close ranks at the back of the hall, they and
Dunn's contingent hard-by smoking their pipes as the custom was at
Henstead. There were other faces, not so usual; for far away, in a
purposely chosen obscurity, May saw Weston Marchmont and the Dean of St.
Neot's. The Mildmays themselves could not be present, but these two had
come over from Moors End and sat there now, the Dean beaming in
anticipation of a treat, Marchmont with a rather supercilious smile and
an air of weariness. May could not catch their eyes but she felt glad to
have them there; it was always pleasant to her that her friends should
see Quisanté when he was at his best, and he was going to be at his best
to-night.
"We are rejoiced to welcome our Member back among us in good health and
strength again," old Foster began, quite in the Aunt Maria style, and he
went on to describe the grief caused by Quisanté's illness and the joy
now felt at the prospect of his being able to render services to his
Queen, his country, and his constituency no less long than valuable and
brilliant. Quisanté listened with a smile, gently tapping the table with
his fingers. May turned from him to seek again her friends' faces in the
hall; this time she met their gaze; they were both looking at her with
pitying eyes; the instant they saw her glance, they avoided it. What did
that mean? It meant that they were not of Aunt Maria's party. The kindly
compassionate look of those two men went to her heart; it brought back
reality and pierced through the pretence, the grand pretence, which
everybody, herself included, had been weaving. An impulse of fear laid
hold of her; involuntarily she put out her hand towards Foster who had
just finished his speech and was sitting down. She meant to tell him to
stop the meeting, to send the people home, to help her to persuade
Quisanté to go back to the hotel and not to speak. Foster looked round to
see what she wanted, but at the moment Quisanté was already on his feet.
"It's nothing," May whispered, withdrawing her hand. It was too late now,
the thing must go forward now, whatever the end of it might be, whatever
the friendly pity of those eyes might seem to say. To-morrow quiet would
begin; but she had a new, strange, intense terror of to-night. This
feeling lasted through the early part of Quisanté's speech, when he was
still in a quiet vein and showed some signs of physical weakness. But as
he went on it vanished and in its place came the old faith and the old
illusion. For he gathered force, he put out his strength, he exhaled
vitality. Again she sought her friends' faces and marked with joy and
triumph that their eyes were now set on the speaker and their attention
held firmly, as the fine resonant voice filled the building and seemed to
resent the confinement of its walls, or even more when a whisper, heard
only by a miracle as she thought, thrilled even the most distant
listener. The speech was being all that it had been going to be, his
confidence and hers were to be justified. The pronouncement that the
country waited for was coming, the fighting men were to get the lead they
wanted, the attack was sounded, the battle was being opened to the sound
of a trumpet-call. May leant forward, listening. A period reached its
close, and applause delayed the beginning of the next. Quisanté glanced
round and saw his wife; their eyes met; a slow smile came on his lips, a
smile of great delight. Once more her heart beat and her eyes gleamed for
him, once more she would be no man's if she could not be his. His air was
gay and his face joyful as, the next minute, he threw himself into a
flood of eloquence where indignation mingled with ridicule; he made men
doubt whether they must laugh or fight. Now he had all that he desired,
men hung on his words, and she sat by, and saw, and felt, and shared.
At the next pause, when the cheering again imposed a momentary silence,
the Dean turned to Marchmont, raising his hands and dropping them again.
"Yes, he can do it," said Marchmont in a curious tone; envy and scorn and
admiration all seemed to find expression.
"Look at her!" whispered the Dean, but this time Marchmont made no
answer. He had been looking at her, and knew now why she had tied her
life to Alexander Quisanté's.
"If I could do it like that I couldn't stop doing it," said the Dean.
"He never will as long as he lives," answered Marchmont with a shrug of
his shoulders.
"But he won't live?" whispered the Dean. "You mean that?"
The applause ended; there was no need for Marchmont to answer, even if he
could have found an answer. Quisanté took up his work again. He was near
the end now, an hour and a quarter had passed. May's eyes never left him;
he was going to get through, she thought, and she had no thought now of
the compromise or the year of quiet, no thought except of his triumph
that to-morrow would ring through the land. He paused an instant, whether
in faltering or for effect she could not tell, and then began his
peroration. It was short, but he gave every word slowly, apart, as it
were in a place of its own, in the sure and superb confidence that every
word had its own office, its own weight, and its own effect. But before
he ended there came one interruption. Suddenly, as though moved by an
impulse foreign to himself, old Foster pushed back his chair and rose to
his feet; after an instant the whole audience imitated him. Quisanté
paused and looked round; again he smiled; then, taking a step forward to
clear himself of those who surrounded him, he went on. Thus he ended his
speech, he standing, to men and women one and all standing about and
before him.
"I never saw such a thing," whispered the Dean of St. Neot's. But his
words were lost in the cheers, and Weston Marchmont's "Bravo" rang out so
loud that May Quisanté heard it on the platform and bent forward to kiss
her hand to him.
In the tea-room, to which all the important persons withdrew after the
meeting, festivity reigned. Quisanté was surrounded by admirers, busy
listening to compliments and congratulations, and receiving the advice of
the local wise men. May did not attempt to get near him, but surrendered
herself to a like process. Old Foster came up to her and shook hands,
saying, "I'm proud to have had a hand in making Mr. Quisanté member for
Henstead. You were right too; he can say what he likes now."
Then came Japhet Williams' thin voice. "I hope it won't be many days
before Mr. Quisanté tells the House of Commons what he's told us
to-night."
Should she say that he would not tell anything to the House of Commons
for many days, probably not ever, that his voice would not be heard
there? They would not believe her, she hardly would believe herself. In
that hour illness and retirement seemed dim and distant, unreal and a
little ludicrous. She abandoned herself to the temptation pressed upon
her and talked as though her husband were to lead all through the
campaign that he had opened.
"I never saw him looking better in my life," said Foster.
As he spoke a short thick-set man with grey hair pushed by him. Old
Foster caught him by the wrist, crying with a laugh, "Why, Doctor, what
are you doing here? You're one of the enemy!"
"I came to hear the speech."
"A good'un, eh?"
"Never mind the speech. Take me over to Mr. Quisanté--now, directly."
"What for?"
"He must go home."
"Go home? Nonsense. He's all right."
Dr. Tillman wrenched his hand away, shook his head scornfully, and
started across the room toward where Quisanté was. May laid her hand on
old Foster's arm.
"What did he say? Does he think my husband ill?"
"I don't know. It's all nonsense."
Another voice broke in.
"A triumph, Lady May, a triumph indeed!"
She turned to find the Dean and Marchmont close behind her, and the Dean
holding out his hand as he spoke.
"Yes, yes," she said hurriedly and uncomfortably. "It was fine, wasn't
it?"
"It was magnificent," said Marchmont.
"Thanks, thanks." Her tone was still hurried, absent, ungracious. The two
looked at her in surprise. Where was the radiance of triumph that had lit
up her face as she signalled to them from the platform? They had expected
to find her full of the speech and had been prepared to give her joy by
the warmth and sincerity of their praise.
"What's the matter?" whispered Marchmont.
"Do you see that short man, the one with grey hair, trying to get near
Alexander It's the doctor--Dr. Tillman. He can't get near Alexander."
"What does he want?"
"I don't know. He thinks he ought to go home. He thinks--Ah, now he's
getting to him! Look! He's speaking to him now!"
They saw the doctor come up to Quisanté and Quisanté smile as he waited
for the visitor to introduce himself. The doctor began to speak quickly
and energetically. "Oh, thank you very much, but I'm all right," came
suddenly in loud clear tones from Quisanté. The doctor spoke again.
Quisanté shook his head, laughing merrily. Marchmont looked at May; her
eyes were on her husband and they were full of fear. "I'd forgotten," he
heard her murmur. She turned to him with an imploring air. "He won't
listen," she said.
A burst of laughter came from Quisanté's group; he had made some joke and
they all applauded him. Tillman stood for a moment longer before him,
then gave a queer jerk of his head, and turned sharp round on his heel.
He came back towards where she stood. She took a step forward and thus
crossed his path, Marchmont and the Dean standing on either side of her.
"You remember me, Dr. Tillman?" she asked. "I'm Mr. Quisanté's wife, you
know."
He stood still, looking at her angrily from under his bushy eyebrows.
"Take him home then," he said sharply. "It was madness to let him come
here at all. You're flying in the face of the advice you've had. Oh, I
know about it. Let me tell you, you're very lucky to have got through so
far."
"We--we're through all right now," she said.
"Are you? I hope so. The man's in a high state of excitement now, and
high states of excitement aren't good for him." He paused and added
impatiently, "Have you no influence over him? Can none of you do anything
with him?"
"He won't like it if I go to him," May whispered.
"I'll go," said the Dean, stepping forward.
"Yes," said Tillman, "go and tell him Lady May Quisanté wants him."
The Dean started off on his errand. The doctor's manner grew a little
gentler.
"You couldn't be expected to know," he said. "But in a thing like this
you mustn't think he's all right because he looks all right. He'll look
his best just at the time when there's most--well, when he isn't. I hope
he's going to keep quiet after this?"
"Yes, yes. At least we've arranged that. Weston, do go and bring him to
me."
"Look, he's coming now with the Dean."
Quisanté's group opened, and he began to move towards them. But at every
step somebody stopped him, to shake hands and to say a few words of
thanks or praise. The Dean kept urging him on gently, but he would not be
hurried.
"Now take him straight home," said Tillman. "Good-night." And hardly
waiting for May's bow he turned away and disappeared among the throng
that was making for the door.
Quisanté, at last escaping from his admirers, came up to his wife. His
eyes were very bright, and he ran to her, holding out both his hands. She
put hers in his and said, "We must go home. You'll be worn out."
"Worn out? Not I! But you look worn out. Come along. Ah, Marchmont, this
is a compliment indeed."
They were almost alone in the room now. May took her husband's arm and
they walked thus together.
"Are you pleased?" he whispered.
"Am I pleased!" she said with the laugh he knew and an upward glance of
her eyes. Quisanté himself laughed and drew himself to his full height,
carrying his head defiantly. For though he sought and loved to please
all, it was pleasing her that had been foremost in his mind that night.
He had remembered the boast he made on Duty Hill; now it was justified,
and he had once again tasted his sweetest pleasure.
They had to wait in an ante-room while their carriage was sent for. Here
the Dean and Marchmont joined them again. They were there when old Foster
rushed in in great excitement.
"The whole town's in the square," he cried. "There's never been anything
like it in Henstead. You'll say just a word to them from the steps, sir?
Only a word! They're all waiting there for you. You'll say just a word?
I'll be back in an instant." And he bustled out again.
Quisanté walked across to a window that opened on to the Market Square.
He looked out, then turned and beckoned to his wife. The whole town
seemed to be in the square, as Foster said, and the people caught sight
of him as he stood in the window with the lighted room behind him. They
broke into loud cheering. Quisanté bowed to them. Then a sudden short
shiver seemed to run through him; he put his hand first to his side, then
to his head.
"I feel queer" he said to his wife. "I think I--I won't--I won't speak
any more. I feel so--so queer." Her eyes were fixed on him now, and his
on hers. He smiled and tapped his forehead lightly with his hand. "It's
nothing," he said. "You were pleased, weren't you, to-night?" Again he
put his hands in hers. She found no word to say and they stood like this
for a moment. The cheers ceased, the crowd outside was puzzled. Marchmont
jumped up from his chair and walked forward hastily.
"Anything wrong?" he asked.
Neither heeded him. May's eyes were set in terror on her husband's face;
for now she was holding him up by the power of her hands gripped in his;
without them he would fall. Nay, he would fall now!
He spoke in a low thick voice. "It's come," he said, "it's come." And he
sank back into Weston Marchmont's arms, his wife letting go his hands and
standing rigid.
Old Foster ran in again, calling, "Are you ready, sir?" He found his
answer. Alexander Quisanté would speak no more in Henstead. He was
leaning against Marchmont, breathing heavily and with sore difficulty.
May went to him; she was very white and very calm; she took his hand and
kissed it.
"I--I--I spoke well?" he muttered. "Didn't I?"
"Very very finely, Alexander."
"They were--were all wrong in saying I couldn't do it," he murmured. He
shivered again and then was still. The Dean had brought a chair and they
put him in it. But he moved no more. May looked at old Foster who stood
by, his face wrung with helpless distress and consternation.
"We've killed him among us, I and you and the people out there," she said.