Marbury looked affectionately at Peter. Peter had met Marbury going to
his room. He was without a collar, and he looked forlorn. Marbury put a
hand on his arm:
"Wenderby shall apologise," he said gravely. "He's a charming fellow,
and he is very fond of young people."
Lady Mary, fresh from canvassing, shared a late supper with Marbury and
Peter. She joined with her brother to wring from Peter a full account of
his adventure. Peter began sorely, but at last detected in Lady Mary an
unconfessed approval. Clearly she liked him for his protest. He even
dared to think that she admired. Peter was gradually more happy, and
soon was enjoying his escapade. He even displayed, in mock heroism, the
large blue marks upon his neck.
Later, in his room, Peter found in the events of the day a consecration
of his devotion to Eustace Haversham. Unessential incidents fell away,
and he was glad of his protest--mistaken though it seemed, and
ridiculous.
Next day was Sunday, and meetings were suspended. The house was very
quiet, and Haversham was not in his usual place. Marbury told Peter he
might not again come down.
After dinner, Peter slipped on to the terrace and faced the shadowy
moor, lifting his head to a faint breeze from the sea. He stood beside
the bronze figure he had so often admired. Before him was the
wilderness, but civilisation was behind in the murmured voices from the
drawing-room and those harsher cries Peter had lately heard from men
made selfish and bitter.
Surely it was well that this triumphant figure should brave the desert,
and that in its shadow a beautiful life should be passing. It flung out
the challenge of art and wisdom. It was a consummation for which
millions worked, and now it confidently stood, as though aware of what
it had cost, resolved that it was well worth the price. Peter wondered
whether it were justified.
His dreaming was broken. Lady Mary rustled beside him.
"You have found this place?" she said after a silence. They watched the
superb silhouette of the statue fading as the light emptied rapidly from
the sky.
"I am wondering whether he is worth while?" said Peter, waving his hand
at the figure between them.
"What is your riddle?"
"He has cost a thousand lives."
"You are talking like a Socialist," said Lady Mary curtly.
Peter felt in her a coldness that passed. She was looking over the moors
as though she followed the blind eyes of the naked boy. Her attitude
suggested that she, too, was part of this challenge. Her dress,
conveying to Peter an impression of complicated and finished art, fell
away from her shoulders as, with head flung back, she filled her eyes
with the beauty of earth and sky. She interpreted in radiant life the
cold metal of the statue. Civilisation was justified in her, or it could
not be justified.
"Have you never any doubt?" said Peter, wistfully impulsive.
Lady Mary turned slowly from the moor. Her calm eyes swept over him.
"Doubt?" she echoed.
"Do you never wonder whether all this"--Peter made one of the large
gestures of his mother--"is worth the noise and the dirt over there?
Have you no doubt at all?"
"How is it possible to doubt?" she calmly responded. She stood proudly
facing him. But she read perplexity in his face and, as it seemed to
Peter, she stooped to him.
"Don't you see," she almost pleaded, "that either we must believe in
ourselves or make way; and we do believe. I believe in all this"--she
faintly parodied Peter's large gesture--"and I believe in myself."
There was a pause, and it was Lady Mary who spoke again. Almost it
seemed that she wanted to make her point.
"You, at any rate," she urged him, "have learned to believe a little."
She looked towards the hut on the terrace, and Peter followed her
thoughts.
The trees stirred a moment, and laughter came from the open room. But
these two heard only the voice of Eustace Haversham, and saw his
lighted features vivid in memory. The last colour of the sunset was full
upon her as she faced her uncle's empty place. Its emptiness to-night
was an omen of the eternal emptiness to come. Her mouth quivered, and
tears shone suddenly under her lids as she turned again to Peter.
"I believe he is worth the whole world," she said, and her voice broke.
Her tears seemed to remove every barrier. Peter saw in her eyes an
appeal for an equal faith. She felt the drops on her cheek, and turned
away into the shadow.
"I, too, believe," Peter deeply whispered.
Then he noticed how her hand lay unprotected upon the pedestal of the
statue, vaguely delicate upon the hard metal.
He impulsively bent and touched it with his lips. She did not start or
cry out, but turned again slowly towards him. She read in his eyes faith
merely and dedication.
"I am glad you did that," she said in a level voice.
Then they went, as by consent, towards the lighted windows of the
drawing-room.
Next morning, ten days before polling day at Sandhaven, Peter was
summoned away by telegram to Hamingburgh. His uncle had suddenly been
stricken seriously ill. Peter bade his friends a quick farewell and
caught the first train from York.