II

I thought of all those things, as one will, half-unconsciously, think of

memories when something recalls them, as I rode into Sicaster that

chilly and foggy November morning to take part in the grand doings which

always mark the election of a new mayor in that historic town. There

would be ample opportunity for Abraham to display his greatness. First

the election in the Council Chamber in the Town Hall; then the

procession through the market-place to the parish church; finally, the

mayoral banquet in the evening--Abraham, I said to myself, thinking of

the time when I used to drive him to school and he shared my dinner,

would (as we say in these parts) be in full pomp all day.

I was chilled with my ride, and when I had seen my mare stabled at the

King George I turned into the bar-parlour to take a glass of whisky.

There were several townsmen hob-a-nobbing there, as they always do when

there is a general holiday in the town (and not seldom when there

isn't!), and, of course, all the talk was of the mayor-elect. And one

man, a tradesman, who as I knew (from sad experience on market-days) was

uncommonly fond of hearing himself talk, was holding forth on the

grandeur of those careers which begin at the bottom of the ladder and

finish at the top.

"The self-made man, gentlemen," he was saying when I entered, "the

self-made man is the king of men! What is a Peer of the Realm,

gentlemen--yes, I will even go further, and with all respect say, what

is the Sovereign in comparison with the man who has made himself out of

nothing? Our worthy mayor-elect----"

"Why," said another man, interrupting the wordy one and espying me, "I

believe Mr. Poskitt there used to drive Abraham into school in Sicaster

here when they were lads together. Wasn't that so, Mr. Poskitt, sir?"

"You are quite right, sir," I replied, "and Mr. Kellet used to say in

those days that he would be Mayor of Sicaster."

"Aye, look there now, gentlemen!" exclaimed the loquacious one. "That

just proves the argument which----"

But I gave no heed to him--as I have said, I got enough of him on

market-days, and my attention had been attracted to a man, a stranger

(you know how quickly we country-folk always spot a man who does not

belong to us), who sat in a corner of the bar-parlour, which, as I

should say, you are all very well aware, is a dimly-lighted room. He

sat there, apart from everybody, a glass on the table before him, a

cigar in his hand--and the cigar had been lighted, and had gone out, and

while the other men talked he made no attempt to relight it, but sat

quietly listening. He was an oldish man, well dressed in clothes which

were, I considered, of foreign cut and material; his hair was grey and

rather long and tangled about his eyes, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat

well pulled down over his brows. "An artist gentleman," I thought, and

then thought no more about him and finished my whisky and went out into

the market-place.

My invitation was to Abraham's private house, from which, in accordance

with custom, he was to be escorted by a few private friends to the Town

Hall at eleven o'clock. It was a fine, indeed a noble house, standing

in the market-place exactly in front of his shop, and the interior was

as grand as the exterior--paintings and gildings and soft carpets and

luxuries on all sides. Abraham kept a man-servant by that time, and I

was conducted in state up a fine staircase to the drawing-room, where I

found a goodly company already assembled--the Vicar, and the Town Clerk,

and some of the aldermen and big-wigs of the place, and Abraham in his

usual--but new--attire of broadcloth and white linen, and his wife and

two daughters in silks and satins, and everything very stately. There

were rare wines set out on the tables, but I took a drop more whisky.

And presently Abraham grasped my arm and led me across to one of the

windows overlooking the market-place.

"Poskitt!" he said, in a low voice, "do you remember when you used to

drive me into school and share your dinner with me?"

"I do," said I.

He waved his hand--a big white hand, with a fine diamond ring sparkling

on it--towards the shop and then around him.

"Didn't I say I would be Mayor of Sicaster?" he said.

"You did," said I.

He put his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat--a favourite trick

of his when he stood in the middle of his shop, looking about him--and

spread himself out like a turkey-cock.

"And before noon I shall be, Poskitt!" he said. "The poor lad has

become the great----"

He suddenly broke off there, and I saw his broad countenance, which was

usually ruddy, turn as white as paste. He leaned forward, staring

through the window with eyes that looked like to start out of his head.

And following his glance I saw, standing on the opposite side of the

market-place, and staring curiously at Kellet's house, the stranger whom

I had seen a quarter of an hour before in the bar-parlour of the King

George. He looked from window to window, up, down, and sauntered

carelessly away.

Abraham Kellet pulled himself together and glanced suspiciously at me.

There was a queer look on his face and he tried to smile--and at the

same time he put his hand to his heart.

"Don't say anything, Poskitt," he said, looking round. "A slight

spasm--it's nothing. The excitement, eh, Poskitt? And--it's time we

were making a move."

He went back to the middle of the room and asked his company to join him

in a final glass before setting out for the Town Hall, at the same time

bidding his wife and daughters to be off to their places in the gallery

set apart for ladies. And I noticed when he helped himself to a drink

that he filled a champagne glass with brandy, and drank it off at a

gulp, and that his hand trembled as he lifted the glass to his lips.

Others, no doubt, noticed that too, and set it down to a very natural

nervousness. He laughed, somewhat too boisterously, at an old-fashioned

joke which the Vicar (who was as fond of his fun as he was of old port)

made--that, too, might have been put down to nervousness. But I

attributed neither the shaking hand nor the forced laughter to

nervousness--it seemed to me that Abraham Kellet was frightened.

I told you that it was the custom in those days for the mayor-elect to

be accompanied from his private residence to the Town Hall by a company

of his friends--it was a further custom that each man walking in this

little informal procession should carry what we then called a nosegay,

and is now-a-days called a bouquet, of flowers. And so as we filed down

the wide staircase of Abraham Kellet's house, each of us received at the

hands of the man-servant a fine posy of such autumn blooms as were

procurable. Thus decorated we went out into the market-place, passing

between two groups of people who had gathered on either side the

entrance to see the mayor-elect leave his house. They set up a hearty

cheer as Abraham's burly figure came in sight, and that cheering

continued all the way to the Town Hall, with an occasional blessing

thrown in from old women who hoped, later in the day, to be sharers in

the new mayor's bounty. Abraham walked through the market-place with

erect head and smiling face, nodding and bowing right and left, but I,

walking just behind and a little on one side of him, saw that he kept

looking about him as if he were searching for a face.

The Town Hall was full when Abraham's party arrived--full, except for

the seats which they had reserved for the favoured. Those for our party

were in the front row of the right-hand gallery--when I had got into

mine I took a leisurely survey of the scene. The Town Hall at Sicaster

is a chamber of some size and pretensions--at one end is a wide and deep

platform, behind which is a sculpture representing the surrender of

Sicaster Castle at the time of the Civil War, and upon this platform,

arranged in their due order of precedence, were already assembled the

aldermen and councillors of the borough. They sat in semicircles round

the platform--in the middle space stood a velvet-covered table on which

were set out the ancient insignia of Sicaster, the mace, the cap of

maintenance, the seal, the Bible. Behind this table were set three

chairs, the one in the middle being placed on a sort of dais, a much

more imposing one than those which flanked it. In front of the platform

were seats for the grandees of the town, extending half-way down the

hall, the remainder of which was open to the public, who had already

packed it to its full extent. The right-hand gallery, in which I sat,

was reserved for friends of members of the corporation; the opposite

gallery for ladies, and in the front row there, immediately overlooking

the platform, were Mrs. Kellet and her daughters, proud and beaming.

The gallery at the rear of the hall was, like the lower half below,

thrown open to the public. And glancing its packed rows over I saw,

sitting immediately over the clock in the centre of the balustrade, the

man whom I had seen in the King George and afterwards staring at Abraham

Kellet's house.

He was sitting with his elbows fixed on the balustrade in front of him,

and his chin propped in his hands, staring intently at the scene and the

people. It seemed to me (and even twenty years ago, when I was only a

matter of fifty odd years old, I flattered myself a bit on reading

people's faces!) that he was recognizing, calling to mind, noting the

differences which time makes. Without moving body or head, he let his

eyes slowly search the galleries on either side of him just as they were

searching the platform when I first saw him. And I began to wonder with

a vague uneasiness who this man was and what he did there. Was he a

mere stranger, actuated by curiosity to see an old English ceremony, or

was he there of set purpose? And why had Abraham Kellet been moved at

sight of him? For I was sure he had.

There was a bustle and a stir, and the outgoing Mayor, accompanied by

his deputy, the Town Clerk, and the other officials came on to the

platform, accompanied by Abraham Kellet and two or three other aldermen,

who passed to their usual seats. I saw Abraham, as he sat down, glance

around the crowded hall with that glance which I had noticed in the

marketplace. And I saw, too, that he did not see the man who sat over

the clock. But now that Abraham was there, on the platform, in his

aldermanic robes, the man had no eyes for anything but him. He watched

him as I have seen a cat watch the hole out of which it knows a mouse is

going to emerge.

The proceedings began. As Abraham's proposer and seconder moved his

election, Abraham seemed to swell out more and more and his wife's beam

assumed a new dignity. All the civic virtues were his, according to

Alderman Gillworthy; it was he who, as Chairman of the Watch Committee,

had instituted a new system of clothing for the police; it was he who,

as Chairman of the Waterworks Committee, had provided Sicaster with pure

drinking water. Mr. Councillor Sparcroft dealt more with his moral

virtues, remarking that Alderman Gillworthy had exhausted the list of

their friend's municipal triumphs. He reminded the Council that Abraham

was a shining example of rectitude, and drew the eyes of the whole

assemblage on Mrs. Kellet and her daughters when he spoke of him

feelingly as a model husband and father. He referred to him as a

Sunday-school teacher of well over thirty years' standing; as vicar's

churchwarden for over twenty; he was connected with all the benevolent

societies, and the poor knew him. Then the councillor, who was

celebrated for his oratory, turned to the business side of Abraham's

history and sketched his career in trenchant sentences and glowing

colours. His humble origin--his early ambitions--his perseverance--his

strenuous endeavours--his misfortune at a time when all seemed fair--his

mounting, Phoenix-like, from the ashes--his steady climb up the mountain

of success--his attainment of its topmost height--all these things were

touched on by the councillor, who wound up a flowery speech with a

quotation from Holy Scripture--"Seest thou a man diligent in

business?--he shall stand before kings!"

There was no opposition to Abraham Kellet--the Council was unanimous.

He was duly elected Mayor of Sicaster--the three hundred and

seventy-fifth since the old town received its charter.

I suppose there had never been such a moment of emotion in Abraham

Kellet's life as when, duly installed in the mayoral chair, wearing the

mayoral robes, invested with the mayoral chain, he rose to make his

first speech as chief magistrate of Sicaster. For once the pomposity of

manner which had grown upon him slipped away; he seemed to revert to a

simple, a more natural self. He looked round him; he glanced at his

wife and daughters; he caught my eye--it was a full moment before the

applause which had greeted the Mayor's rising had died away that he

could command himself to speak. When he spoke his first sentences were

nervous and hesitating, but he gained confidence when he began to refer

to Sparcroft's references to his career as a tradesman.

"You see before you one," he said, "who never knew what it was to fear a

difficulty, who refused to believe in obstacles, who always meant to

march on with the times, and who----"

He paused there for a second, for he was troubled with a slight cough

that morning, and in that second a voice, penetrating, cold and sharp as

steel and as merciless as the implacable avenger's hand when it drives

steel home, rang out across the hall--

"_And who burned his shop in order to get the insurance money!_"

I have never had a clear recollection--no, I never had a clear

realization--of what followed. I remember a sea of white, frightened

faces, a murmur of voices, of seeing the man behind the clock stretching

an accusing finger across the space between the gallery and the

platform. And I remember Abraham Kellet, palsy-stricken, gripping the

table before him and staring, staring at the accusing finger and the man

behind it as one might stare at the Evil Thing. It seemed hours before

that second passed and a cry, more like the cry of a lost soul than of a

man, burst, dryly, hoarsely, from his lips--

"_Aynesley! Come back!_"

Then in all his mayoral finery he fell heavily across the table, and the

mayoral chain rattled against the mace which had been carried before

many an honest predecessor for twice two hundred years.

There was no procession to church that day and no mayoral banquet that

night, but Sicaster had plenty to talk of, and it is a gossip-loving

town. And the shameful story was all true. The fire of many a long year

before was a clever piece of incendiarism on Abraham Kellet's part, and

his manager Aynesley had detected his guilt and had been squared by

Abraham, who had subsequently endeavoured, to put a nice phrase on it,

to have him removed. And Aynesley had sworn revenge, and had worked and

schemed until he, too, was a rich man--and he had bided his time,

waiting to pull Abraham from the pinnacle of his glory just as he

reached it.

Vanity of vanities--all is vanity! It is time for our nightcaps.