Produced by Andrew Templeton, Juliet Sutherland, Mary
Meehan, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
SIR GEORGE TRESSADY, VOLUME I
IN TWO VOLUMES
BY
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
AUTHOR OF "MARCELLA," "THE HISTORY OF DAVID GRIEVE,"
"ROBERT ELSMEKE," ETC.
To my Brother and friend
WILLIAM THOMAS ARNOLD
I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK
VOLUME I.
PART I
CHAPTER I
"Well, that's over, thank Heaven!"
The young man speaking drew in his head from the carriage-window. But
instead of sitting down he turned with a joyous, excited gesture and
lifted the flap over the little window in the back of the landau,
supporting himself, as he stooped to look, by a hand on his companion's
shoulder. Through this peephole he saw, as the horses trotted away, the
crowd in the main street of Market Malford, still huzzaing and waving,
the wild glare of half a dozen torches on the faces and the moving forms,
the closed shops on either hand, the irregular roofs and chimneys
sharp-cut against a wintry sky, and in the far distance the little
lantern belfry and taller mass of the new town-hall.
"I'm much astonished the horses didn't bolt!" said the man addressed.
"That bay mare would have lost all the temper she's got in another
moment. It's a good thing we made them shut the carriage--it has turned
abominably cold. Hadn't you better sit down?"
And Lord Fontenoy made a movement as though to withdraw from the hand on
his shoulder.
The owner of the hand flung himself down on the seat, with a word of
apology, took off his hat, and drew a long breath of fatigue. At the same
moment a sudden look of disgust effaced the smile with which he had taken
his last glimpse at the crowd.
"All very well!--but what one wants after this business is _a moral tub_!
The lies I've told during the last three weeks--the bunkum I've
talked!--it's a feeling of positive dirt! And the worst of it is, however
you may scrub your mind afterwards, some of it must stick."
He took out a cigarette, and lit it at his companion's with a rather
unsteady hand. He had a thin, long face and fair hair; and one would have
guessed him some ten years younger than the man beside him.
"Certainly--it will stick," said the other. "Election promises nowadays
are sharply looked after. I heard no bunkum. As far as I know, our party
doesn't talk any. We leave that to the Government!"
Sir George Tressady, the young man addressed, shrugged his shoulders. His
mouth was still twitching under the influence of nervous excitement. But
as they rolled along between the dark hedges, the carriage-lamps shining
on their wet branches, green yet, in spite of November, he began to
recover a half-cynical self-control. The poll for the Market Malford
Division of West Mercia had been declared that afternoon, between two and
three o'clock, after a hotly contested election; he, as the successful
candidate by a very narrow majority, had since addressed a shouting mob
from the balcony of the Greyhound Hotel, had suffered the usual taking
out of horses and triumphal dragging through the town, and was now
returning with his supporter and party-leader, Lord Fontenoy, to the
great Tory mansion which had sent them forth in the morning, and had been
Tressady's headquarters during the greater part of the fight.
"Did you ever see anyone so down as Burrows?" he said presently, with a
little leap of laughter. "By George! it _is_ hard lines. I suppose he
thought himself safe, what with the work he'd done in the division and
the hold he had on the miners. Then a confounded stranger turns up, and
the chance of seventeen ignorant voters kicks you out! He could hardly
bring himself to shake hands with me. I had come rather to admire him,
hadn't you?"
Lord Fontenoy nodded.
"I thought his speeches showed ability," he said indifferently, "only of
a kind that must be kept out of Parliament--that's all. Sorry you have
qualms--quite unnecessary, I assure you! At the present moment, either
Burrows and his like knock under, or you and your like. This time--by
seventeen votes--Burrows knocks under. Thank the Lord! say I"--and the
speaker opened the window an instant to knock off the end of his cigar.
Tressady made no reply. But again a look, half-chagrined,
half-reflective, puckered his brow, which was smooth, white, and boyish
under his straight, fair hair; whereas the rest of the face was subtly
lined, and browned as though by travel and varied living. The nose and
mouth, though not handsome, were small and delicately cut, while the
long, pointed chin, slightly protruding, made those who disliked him say
that he was like those innumerable portraits of Philip IV., by and after
Velasquez, which bestrew the collections of Europe. But if the Hapsburg
chin had to be admitted, nothing could be more modern, intelligent,
alert, than the rest of him.
The two rolled along a while in silence. They were passing through an
undulating midland country, dimly seen under the stars. At frequent
intervals rose high mounds, with tall chimneys and huddled buildings
beside them or upon them which marked the sites of collieries; while the
lights also, which had begun to twinkle over the face of the land, showed
that it was thickly inhabited.
Suddenly the carriage rattled into a village, and Tressady looked out.
"I say, Fontenoy, here's a crowd! Do you suppose they know? Why,
Gregson's taken us another way round!"
Lord Fontenoy let down his window, and identified the small mining
village of Battage.
"Why did you bring us this way, Gregson?" he said to the coachman.
The man, a Londoner, turned, and spoke in a low voice. "I thought we
might find some rioting going on in Marraby, my lord. And now I see
there's lots o' them out here!"
Indeed, with the words he had to check his horses. The village street was
full from end to end with miners just come up from work. Fontenoy at once
perceived that the news of the election had arrived. The men were massed
in large groups, talking and discussing, with evident and angry
excitement, and as soon as the well-known liveries on the box of the new
member's carriage were identified there was an instant rush towards it.
Some of the men had already gone into their houses on either hand, but at
the sound of the wheels and the uproar they came rushing out again. A
howling hubbub arose, a confused sound of booing and groaning, and the
carriage was soon surrounded by grimed men, gesticulating and shouting.
"Yer bloated parasites, yer!" cried a young fellow, catching at the
door-handle on Lord Fontenoy's side; "we'll make a d----d end o' yer
afore we've done wi' yer. Who asked yer to come meddlin in
Malford--d----n yer!"
"Whativer do we want wi' the loikes o' yo representin us!" shouted
another man, pointing at Tressady. "Look at 'im; ee can't walk, ee can't;
mus be druv, poor hinnercent! When did yo iver do a day's work, eh? Look
at my 'ands! Them's the 'ands for honest men--ain't they, you fellers?"
There was a roar of laughter and approval from the crowd, and up went a
forest of begrimed hands, flourishing and waving.
George calmly put down the carriage-window, and, leaning his arms upon
it, put his head out. He flung some good-humoured banter at some of
the nearest men, and two or three responded. But the majority of the
faces were lowering and fierce, and the horses were becoming
inconveniently crowded.
"Get on, Gregson," said Fontenoy, opening the front window of the
brougham.
"If they'll let me, your lordship," said Gregson, rather pale,
raising his whip.
The horses made a sudden start forward. There was a yell from the crowd,
and three or four men had just dashed for the horses' heads, when a shout
of a different kind ascended.
"Burrows! 'Ere's Burrows! Three cheers for Burrows!"
And some distance behind them, at the corner of the village street,
Tressady suddenly perceived a tall dogcart drawing up with two men in it.
It was already surrounded by a cheering and tumultuous assembly, and one
of the men in the cart was shaking hands right and left.
George drew in his head, with a laugh. "This is dramatic. They've stopped
the horses, and here's Burrows!"
Fontenoy shrugged his shoulders. "They'll blackguard us a bit, I suppose,
and let us go. Burrows 'll keep them in order."
"What d'yer mean by it, heh, dash yer!" shouted a huge man, as he sprang
on the step of the carriage and shook a black fist in Tressady's
face--"thrustin yer d----d carkiss where yer ain't wanted? We wanted
'_im_, and we've worked for 'im. This is a workin-class district, an
we've a _right_ to 'im. Do yer 'ear?"
"Then you should have given him seventeen more votes," said George,
composedly, as he thrust his hands into his pockets. "It's the fortunes
of war--your turn next time. I say, suppose you tell your fellows to let
our man get on. We've had a long day, and we're hungry. Ah"--to
Fontenoy--"here's Burrows coming!"
Fontenoy turned, and saw that the dogcart had drawn up alongside them,
and that one of the men was standing on the step of it, holding on to the
rail of the cart.
He was a tall, finely built man, and as he looked down on the carriage,
and on Tressady leaning over the window, the light from a street-lamp
near showed a handsome face blanched with excitement and fatigue.
"Now, my friends," he said, raising his arm, and addressing the crowd,
"you let Sir George go home to his dinner. He's beaten us, and so far as
I know _he's_ fought fair, whatever some of his friends may have done for
him. I'm going home to have a bite of something and a wash. I'm done. But
if any of you like to come round to the club--eight o'clock--I'll tell
you a thing or two about this election. Now goodnight to you, Sir George.
We'll beat you yet, trust us. Fall back there!"
He pointed peremptorily to the men holding the horses. They and the crowd
instantly obeyed him.
The carriage swept on, followed by the hooting and groans of the whole
community, men, women, and children, who were now massed along the street
on either hand.
"It's easy to see this man Gregson's a new hand," said Fontenoy, with an
accent of annoyance, as they got clear of the village. "I believe the
Wattons have only just imported him, otherwise he'd never have avoided
Marraby, and come round by Battage."
"Battage has some special connection with Burrows, hasn't it? I had
forgotten."
"Of course. He was check-weigher at the Acme pit here for years, before
they made him district secretary of the union."
"That's why they gave me such a hot meeting here a fortnight ago!--I
remember now; but one thing drives another out of one's head. Well,
I daresay you and I'll have plenty more to do with Burrows before
we've done."
Tressady threw himself back in his corner with a yawn.
Fontenoy laughed.
"There'll be another big strike some time next year," he said
drily--"bound to be, as far as I can see. We shall all have plenty to do
with Burrows then."
"All right," said Tressady, indistinctly, pulling his hat over his eyes.
"Burrows or anybody else may blow me up next year, so long as they let me
go to sleep now."
However, he did not find it so easy to go to sleep. His pulses were still
tingling under the emotions of the day and the stimulus of the hubbub
they had just passed through. His mind raced backwards and forwards over
the incidents and excitements of the last six months, over the scenes of
his canvass--and over some other scenes of a different kind which had
taken place in the country-house whither he and Fontenoy were returning.
But he did his best to feign sleep. His one desire was that Fontenoy
should not talk to him. Fontenoy, however, was not easily taken in, and
no sooner did George make his first restless movement under the rug he
had drawn over him, than his companion broke silence.
"By the way, what did you think of that memorandum of mine on Maxwell's
bill?"
George fidgeted and mumbled. Fontenoy, undaunted, began to harangue on
certain minutiae of factory law with a monotonous zest of voice and
gesture which seemed to Tressady nothing short of amazing.
He watched the speaker a minute or two through his half-shut eyes. So
this was his leader to be--the man who had made him member for Market
Malford.
Eight years before, when George Tressady had first entered Christchurch,
he had found that place of tempered learning alive with traditions on the
subject of "Dicky Fontenoy." And such traditions--good Heavens!
Subsequently, at most race-meetings, large and small, and at various
clubs, theatres, and places of public resort, the younger man had had his
opportunities of observing the elder, and had used them always with
relish, and sometimes with admiration. He himself had no desire to follow
in Fontenoy's footsteps. Other elements ruled in him, which drew him
other ways. But there was a magnificence about the impetuosity, or rather
the doggedness with which Fontenoy had plunged into the business of
ruining himself, which stirred the imagination. On the last occasion,
some three and a half years before this Market Malford election, when
Tressady had seen Fontenoy before starting himself on a long Eastern
tour, he had been conscious of a lively curiosity as to what might have
happened to "Dicky" by the time he came back again. The eldest sons of
peers do not generally come to the workhouse; but there are aristocratic
substitutes which, relatively, are not much less disagreeable; and George
hardly saw how they were to be escaped.
And now--not four years!--and here sat Dicky Fontenoy, haranguing on the
dull clauses of a technical act, throat hoarse with the speaking of the
last three weeks, eyes cavernous with anxiety and overwork, the creator
and leader of a political party which did not exist when Tressady left
England, and now bade fair to hold the balance of power in English
government! The surprises of fate and character! Tressady pondered them a
little in a sleepy way; but the fatigue of many days asserted itself.
Even his companion was soon obliged to give him up as a listener. Lord
Fontenoy ceased to talk; yet every now and then, as some jolt of the
carriage made George open his eyes, he saw the broad-shouldered figure
beside him, sitting in the same attitude, erect and tireless, the same
half-peevish pugnacity giving expression to mouth and eye.
* * * * *
"Come, wake up, Tressady! Here we are!"
There was a vindictive eagerness in Fontenoy's voice. Ease was no longer
welcome to him, whether in himself or as a spectacle in other men.
George, startled from a momentary profundity of sleep, staggered to his
feet, and clutched at various bags and rugs.
The carriage was standing under the pillared porch of Malford House, and
the great house-doors, thrown back upon an inner flight of marble steps,
gave passage to a blaze of light. George, descending, had just shaken
himself awake, and handed the things he held to a footman, when there was
a sudden uproar from within. A crowd of figures--men and women, the men
cheering, the women clapping and laughing--ran down the inner steps
towards him. He was surrounded, embraced, slapped on the back, and
finally carried triumphantly into the hall.
"Bring him in!" said an exultant voice; "and stand back, please, and let
his mother get at him."
The laughing group fell back, and George, blinking, radiant, and abashed,
found himself in the arms of an exceedingly sprightly and youthful dame,
with pale, frizzled hair, and the figure of seventeen.
"Oh, you dear, great, foolish thing!" said the lady, with the voice and
the fervour, moreover, of seventeen. "So you've got in--you've done it!
Well, I should never have spoken to you again if you hadn't! And I
suppose you'd have minded that a little--from your own mother. Goodness!
how cold he is!"
And she flew at him with little pecking kisses, retreating every now and
again to look at him, and then closing upon him again in ecstasy, till
George, at the end of his patience, held her off with a strong arm.
"Now, mother, that's enough. Have the others been home long?" he
asked, addressing a smiling young man in knickerbockers who, with his
hands in his pockets, was standing beside the hero of the occasion
surveying the scene.
"Oh! about half an hour. They reported you'd have some difficulty
in getting out of the clutches of the crowd. We hardly expected
you so soon."
"How's Miss Sewell's headache? Does she know?"
The expression of the young man's eye, which was bent on Tressady,
changed ever so slightly as he replied:
"Oh yes, she knows. As soon as the others got back Mrs. Watton went up to
tell her. She didn't show at lunch."
"Mrs. Watton came to tell _me_--naughty man!" said the lady whom George
had addressed as his mother, tapping the speaker on the arm with her fan.
"Mothers first, if you please, especially when they're cripples like me,
and can't go and see their dear darlings' triumphs with their own eyes.
And _I_ told Miss Sewell."
She put her head on one side, and looked archly at her son. Her high
gown, a work of the most approved Parisian art, was so cut as to show
much more throat than usual, and, in addition, a row of very fine pearls.
Her very elegant waist and bust were defined by a sort of Empire sash;
her complexion did her maid and, indeed, her years, infinite credit.
George flushed slightly at his mother's words, and was turning away from
her when he was gripped by the owner of the house, Squire Watton, an
eloquent and soft-hearted old gentleman who, having in George's opinion
already overdone it greatly at the town-hall in the way of hand-shaking
and congratulations, was now most unreasonably prepared to overdo it
again. Lady Tressady joined in with little shrieks and sallies, the other
guests of the house gathered round, and the hero of the day was once
more lost to sight and hearing amid the general hubbub of talk and
laughter--for the young man in knickerbockers, at any rate, who stood a
little way off from the rest.
"I wonder when she'll condescend to come down," he said to himself,
examining his boots with a speculative smile. "Of course it was mere
caprice that she didn't go to Malford; she meant it to annoy."
"I say, do let me get warm," said Tressady at last, breaking from his
tormentors, and coming up to the open log fire, in front of which the
young man stood. "Where's Fontenoy vanished to?"
"Went up to write letters directly he had swallowed a cup of tea," said
the young man, whose name was Bayle; "and called Marks to go with him."
(Marks was Lord Fontenoy's private secretary.)
George Tressady threw up his hands in disgust.
"It's absurd. He never allows himself an hour's peace. If he expects me
to grind as he does, he'll soon regret that he lent a hand to put me into
Parliament. Well, I'm stiff all over, and as tired as a rat. I'll go and
have a warm bath before dinner."
But still he lingered, warming his hands over the blaze, and every now
and then scanning the gallery which ran round the big hall. Bayle chatted
to Mm about some of the incidents of the day. George answered at random.
He did, indeed, look tired out, and his expression was restless and
discontented.
Suddenly there was a cry from the group of young men and maidens who were
amusing themselves in the centre of the hall.
"Why, there's Letty! and as fresh as paint."
George turned abruptly. Bayle saw his manner stiffen and his eye kindle.
A young girl was slowly coming down the great staircase which led to the
hall. She was in a soft black dress with a blue sash, and a knot of blue
at her throat--a childish slip of a dress, which answered to her small
rounded form, her curly head, and the hand slipping along the marble
rail. She came down silently smiling, taking each step with great
deliberation, in spite of the outbreak of half-derisive sympathy with
which she was greeted from her friends below. Her bright eyes glanced
from face to face--from the mocking inquirers immediately beneath her to
George Tressady standing by the fire.
At the moment when she reached the last step Tressady found it necessary
to put another log on a fire already piled to repletion.
Meanwhile Miss Sewell went straight towards the new member and held
out her hand.
"I am so glad, Sir George; let me congratulate you."
George put down his log, and then looked at his fingers critically.
"I am very sorry, Miss Sewell, but I am not fit to touch. I hope your
headache is better."
Miss Sewell dropped her hand meekly, shot him a glance which was not
meek, and said demurely:
"Oh! my headaches do what they're told. You see, I was determined to come
down and congratulate you."
"I see," he repeated, making her a little bow. "I hope my ailments, when
I get them, will be as docile. So my mother told you?"
"I didn't want telling," she said placidly. "I knew it was all safe."
"Then you knew what only the gods knew--for I only got in by
seventeen votes."
"Yes, so I heard. I was very sorry for Burrows."
She put one foot on the stone fender, raised her pretty dress with one
hand, and leant the other lightly against the mantelpiece. The attitude
was full of grace, and the little sighing voice fitted the curves of a
mouth which seemed always ready to laugh, yet seldom laughed frankly.
As she made her remark about Burrows Tressady smiled.
"My prophetic soul was right," he said deliberately; "I knew you would be
sorry for Burrows."
"Well, it _is_ hard on him, isn't it? You can't deny you're a
carpet-bagger, can you?"
"Why should I? I'm proud of it."
Then he looked round him. The rest of the party--not without whispers and
smothered laughter--had withdrawn from them. Some of the ladies had
already gone up to dress. The men had wandered away into a little library
and smoking-room which opened on the hall. Only the squire, safe in a
capacious armchair a little way off, was absorbed in a local paper and
the last humours of the election.
Satisfied with his glance, Tressady put his hands into his pockets, and
leant back against the fireplace, in a way to give himself fuller command
of Miss Sewell's countenance.
"Do you never give your friends any better sympathy than you have given
me in this affair, Miss Sewell?" he said suddenly, as their eyes met.
She made a little face.
"Why, I've been an angel!" she said, poking at a prominent log
with her foot.
George laughed.
"Then our ideas of angels agree no better than the rest. Why didn't you
come and hear the poll declared, after promising me you would be there?"
"Because I had a headache, Sir George."
He responded with a little inclination, as though ceremoniously accepting
her statement.
"May I ask at what time your headache began?"
"Let me see," she said, laughing; "I think it was directly after
breakfast."
"Yes. It declared itself, if I remember right, immediately after certain
remarks of mine about a Captain Addison?"
He looked straight before him, with a detached air.
"Yes," said Letty, thoughtfully; "it was a curious coincidence,
wasn't it?"
There was a moment's silence. Then she broke into infectious laughter.
"Don't you know," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder--"don't you
know that you're a most foolish and wasteful person? We get along
capitally, you and I--we've had a rattling time all this week--and then
you will go and make uncivil remarks about my friends--in public, too!
You actually think I'm going to let you tell Aunt Watton how to manage
me! You get me into no end of a fuss--it'll take me weeks to undo the
mischief you've been making--and then you expect me to take it like a
lamb! Now, do I look like a lamb?"
All this time she was holding him tight by the arm, and her dimpled face,
alive with mirth and malice, was so close to his that a moment's wild
impulse flashed through him to kiss her there and then. But the impulse
passed. He and Letty Sewell had known each other for about three weeks.
They were not engaged--far from it. And these--the hand on the arm, and
the rest--were Letty Sewell's ways.
Instead of kissing her, then, he scanned her deliberately.
"_I_ never saw anyone more plainly given over to obstinacy and pride,"
he said quietly; "I told you some plain facts about the character of a
man whom I know, and you don't, whereupon you sulk all day, you break
all your promises about coming to Malford, and when I come back you call
me names."
She raised her eyebrows and withdrew her hand.
"Well, it's plain, isn't it? that I must have been in a great rage. It
was very dull upstairs, though I did write reams to my best friend all
about you--a very candid account--I shall have to soften it down. By the
way, are you ever going to dress for dinner?"
George started, and looked at his watch.
"Are we alone? Is anyone coming from outside?"
"Only a few 'locals,' just to celebrate the occasion. I know the
clergyman's wife's coming, for she told me she had been copying one of my
frocks, and wanted me to tell her what I thought."
George laughed.
"Poor lady!"
"I don't _think_ I shall be nice to her," said Letty, playing with a
flower on the mantelpiece. "Dowdy people make me feel wicked. Well, _I_
must dress."
It was now his turn to lay a detaining hand.
"Are you sorry?" he said, bending over to her. His bright grey eyes had
shaken off fatigue.
"For what? Because you got in?"
Her face overflowed with laughter. He let her go. She linked her arm in
that of the daughter of the house--Miss Florence Watton--who was crossing
the hall at the moment, and the two went upstairs together, she throwing
back one triumphant glance at him from the landing.
George stood watching them till they disappeared. His expression was
neither soft nor angry. There was in it a mocking self-possession which
showed that he too had been playing a part--mingled, perhaps, with a
certain perplexity.