THE WOMAN AND--THE OTHER WOMAN
"You see, Mannering," Lord Redford said, tapping the outspread evening
paper with his forefinger, "the situation now presents a different
aspect. I have no wish to force your hand--a few hours ago I think I
proved this. But if you are to remain even nominally with us some sort
of pronouncement must come from you in reply to these statements."
"Yes," Mannering said, "that is quite reasonable."
"The postponement of your campaign has been hinted at before," Lord
Redford continued, "but we have never used the word abandonment. Now, to
speak bluntly, the whole fat is in the fire. Your place on the fence is
no longer possible. You must make your own declaration, and it must be
for one of three things. You must remain with us, abandon public life for
a time, or go over to the other side. And you must make promptly an
announcement of your intentions."
"I have no alternative in the matter," Mannering said. "In fact, I think
that this has happened opportunely. My presence with you was sure to
prove something of an embarrassment to all of us. I shall apply for the
Chiltern Hundreds to-morrow, and I shall not seek to re-enter the present
Parliament. The few months' respite will be useful to me. I can only
express to you, Lord Redford, my sincere gratitude for all your
consideration, and my regret for this disarrangement of your plans."
Lord Redford sighed. Why were men born, he wondered, with such a
prodigious capacity for playing the fool?
"My chief regret, Mannering," he said, "is for you. The Fates so
controlled circumstances that you seemed certain to achieve as a young
man what is the crowning triumph of us veterans in the political world. I
respect the honest scruples of every man, but it seems to me that you are
throwing away an unparalleled opportunity in a fit of what a practical
man like myself can only call sentimentality. I have no more to say.
Forgive me if I have said too much. For the rest, give us the pleasure of
your company here for as long as you find it convenient. We will abjure
politics, and you shall give me my revenge at golf."
Mannering shook his head.
"I am very much obliged to you," he said, "but there is only one course
open to me. I must go back and make my plans. If I could have a carriage
for the nine-forty!"
Lord Redford made no effort to induce him to change his mind, though he
remained courteous to the last.
"I was really glad to have him go," he told Borrowdean afterwards. "His
very presence--the thought that there could be such colossal fools in the
world--irritated me beyond measure. You can write his epitaph, Leslie, if
your humorous vein is working, for the man is politically dead."
"One never knows," Berenice said, quietly. "There must be something great
about a man capable of such prodigious self-sacrifice. For at heart
Lawrence Mannering is an ambitious man."
Lord Redford shrugged his shoulders.
"Perhaps," he said, "but I am very sure of this. There is nothing so
great about the man as his folly."
Berenice smiled.
"We shall see," she said. "Personally, I believe that Sir Leslie would
find his epitaph a little previous. I saw a great deal of Lawrence
Mannering in the country, and I think that I understand him as well as
either of you. I believe that his day will come."
"Well, all I can say is," Lord Redford pronounced, "that I very much
wish you had left him down at his country home. Between you you have
created a very serious situation. I must go up to town to-morrow and see
Manningham. In the meantime, Leslie, I shall leave those reports severely
alone. We must ignore Mannering altogether."
Berenice turned away with a smile at her lips. She had a very little
opinion of Lord Redford and his following. Already she saw the man whose
career they counted finished, at the head of a new and greater party.
There were plenty of clever men of the coming generation, plenty of room
for compromises, for the formation of a great national party out of the
scattered units of a disunited opposition. She believed Mannering strong
enough to do this. She saw in it greater possibilities than might have
been forthcoming even if he had been chosen to lead the somewhat ragged
party represented by Lord Redford and his followers. For the rest, she
had been very near the success she so desired. Only an accident had
robbed her of victory. If once they had reached the rose-garden she knew
that she would have triumphed.
As her maid took off her jewellery that night she smiled at herself in
the glass. She was thinking of that moment on the terrace. The glow had
not wholly faded from her face--she saw herself with her long, slender
neck and smooth, unwrinkled complexion, still beautiful, still a woman to
be loved. Her maid ventured to whisper a word of respectful compliment.
Truly Madame La Duchesse was growing younger!
* * * * *
What strange whim, or evil fate, had turned his feet in that direction?
Mannering often tried to trace backwards the workings of his mind that
night, but he never wholly succeeded. He reached London about eleven, and
sent his man home with his luggage, intending merely to call in at the
club for letters. But afterwards he remembered only that he had strolled
aimlessly along homewards, thinking deeply, and not particularly careful
as to his direction. Even then he would have passed the house in Sloane
Gardens without looking up, but for the civil "Good-night, sir," of a
coachman sitting on the box of a small brougham drawn up against the
kerb. He raised his head to return the salute, and realized at once where
he was. Almost at the same moment the front door opened, and behind a
glow of light in the hall he saw a familiar figure in the act of passing
out to her carriage. The street was well lit, and he was almost opposite
a lamp-post. She recognized him at once.
"Lawrence," she exclaimed, incredulously. "You--were you coming in?"
She was wrapped from head to foot in a long white opera cloak, but the
jewels in her hair and at her throat glistened in the flashing light. She
moved slowly forward to his side. Her maid, who had been coming out to
open the carriage door, lingered behind.
"I--upon my word, I scarcely know how I came here," he answered, a little
bewildered. "I was walking home--it is scarcely out of my way--and
thinking. You are going out?"
She nodded. Looking at her now more closely he saw the shadows under
her eyes, only imperfectly concealed. The little gesture with which she
answered him savoured of weariness.
"Yes, I was going out. I have sat alone with my thoughts all day, and I
don't want to end my life in a lunatic asylum. I want a little change,
that is all. If you will come in and talk to me instead, that will do as
well. Any sort of distraction, you see," she added, with a hard little
laugh, "just to keep me from--"
She did not finish her sentence. He looked at her gravely, and from her
to the waiting carriage. He suddenly realized how the altered condition
of affairs must affect her.
"I shall have to come and see you in a day or two," he said. "But
now--" he hesitated.
"Why not now, then?" she asked.
"You have an engagement," he said.
She shook her head.
"I was only going somewhere to supper. I was going to call for Eva
Fanesborough, and I suppose we should have had some bridge afterwards.
Come in instead, Lawrence. I can telephone to her."
Already a presage of evil seemed to be forming itself in his mind. He
would have given anything to have thought of some valid excuse.
"Your carriage--"
"Pooh!" she answered. "John, I shall not want you to-night," she said to
the coachman. "Come!"
She led the way, and Mannering followed. As the maid closed the door
behind them Mannering felt his breath quicken--his sense of depression
grew stronger. He seemed threatened by some new and intangible danger. He
stood on the hearthrug while she bent over the switch and turned on the
electric light in the sitting-room. Then she threw off her cloak and
looked at him curiously for a moment. Her face softened.
"My dear Lawrence," she said, "has politics done this, or are you ill?"
"I am quite well," he answered. "A little tired, perhaps. I have had
rather a trying day."
She rang the bell, and ordered sandwiches and wine.
"You look like a corpse," she said, and stood over him while he ate and
drank. And all the time that indefinable fear within him grew. She made
him smoke. Then she leaned back in an easy-chair and looked across at
him.
"You had something to say to me. What was it?"
"Nothing good," he answered. "I have quarrelled with my party, and I have
to resign my seat in the House."
"Already?"
"Already! I am sorry, as of course in a few months' time I should have
been in office, and drawing a considerable salary. As it is--" he
hesitated.
"Oh, I understand!" she said. "Well, it doesn't matter much. I only have
the house for six months furnished, and that's paid for in advance. John
must go, and the horses can be sold."
He looked at her in amazement. Only a few months ago she had talked very
differently.
"I--I am not sure whether all that will be necessary," he said. "I can
find a tenant for Blakely, and I daresay I can manage another hundred a
year or so. Only, of course, the large increase we had thought of will
not be possible now."
"No, I suppose not," she answered, idly.
He moved in his chair uncomfortably. He found her wholly
incomprehensible.
"What a beast I must have seemed to you always," she exclaimed, suddenly.
"Why?" he asked, pointlessly.
"I've sponged on you all my life, and you're not a rich man, are you,
Lawrence? Then I dragged you into politics to supply me with the means to
spend more money. My claim on you was one of sentiment only, but--I've
made you pay. No wonder you hate me!"
"Your claim on me, even to every penny I possess," Mannering answered,
"was a perfectly just one. I have never denied it, and I have done my
best. And as to hating you, you know quite well it is not true!"
"Ah!" She rose suddenly to her feet, and before he had realized her
intention she was on her knees by his side. She caught at his hand and
kept her face hidden from him.
"Lawrence," she cried, "I was mad the other day. It was all the pent-up
bitterness of years which seemed to escape me so suddenly. I said so much
that I did not mean to--I was mad, dear. Oh, Lawrence, I am so lonely!"
Then the fear in his heart became a live thing. He was dumb. He could not
have spoken had he tried.
"It was your coldness all these years," she murmured. "You were different
once. You know that. At first, when the horror of what happened was
young, I thought I understood. I thought, as it wore off, that you would
be different. The horror has gone now, Lawrence. We know that it was an
accident, it might as well have been another as you. But you have not
changed. I have given up hoping. I have tried everything else, and I am a
very miserable woman. Now I am going to pray to you, Lawrence. You do not
care for me more. Pretend that you do! You cannot give me your love. Give
me the best you can. Don't despise me too utterly, Lawrence! Pity me, if
you will. Heaven knows I need it. And--you will be a little kind!"
Her hands were clasped about his neck. He disengaged himself gently.
"Blanche!" he cried, hoarsely, "I love another woman!"
"Are you engaged to her?"
"No! Not now!"
"Then what does it matter? What does it matter, anyhow? It is not the
real thing I am asking you for, Lawrence--only the make-belief! Keep the
rest for her, if you must, but give me lies, false looks, hollow
caresses, anything! You see what depths I have fallen to."
He held her hands tightly. A great pity for her filled his heart--pity
for her, and for himself.
"Blanche," he said, "there is one way only. It is for you to decide. Will
you marry me? I will do my best to make you a good husband!"
"Marry you?" she gasped. "Lawrence, I dare not!"
"I cannot alter the past," he said, sadly. "It never seemed to me
possible that you could care for my--after what happened. But--"
"Oh, it is not that," she interrupted. "There is--the other woman, and,
Lawrence, I should be afraid. I am not good enough!"
"Whatever you are, Blanche," he said, gravely, "remember that it is I who
am responsible for your having been left alone to face the world. Your
follies belong to me. I am quite free to share their burden with you."
"But the other woman?" she faltered.
"I must love her always," he said, quietly, "but I cannot marry her."
"And you would kiss me sometimes, Lawrence?" she whispered.
He took her quietly into his arms and kissed her forehead.
"I will do my best, Blanche," he said. "I dare not promise any more."
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
MATRIMONY AND AN AWKWARD MEETING
"How delightfully Continental!" Blanche exclaimed, as the head-waiter
showed them to their table. "Hester, did you ever see anything more
quaint?"
"It is perfect," the girl answered, leaning back in her chair, and
looking around with quiet content.
Mannering took up the menu and ordered dinner. Then he lit a cigarette
and looked around.
"It certainly is quaint," he said. "One dines out of doors often enough,
especially over here, but I have never seen a courtyard made such
excellent use of before. The place is really old, too."
They had found their way to a small seaside resort, in the north of
France, which Mannering had heard highly praised by some casual
acquaintance. The courtyard of the small hotel was set out with round
dining tables, and the illumination was afforded by Japanese lanterns
hung from every available spot. A small band played from a wooden
balcony. Monsieur, the proprietor, walked anxiously from table to
table, all smiles and bows. Through the roofed way, which led from the
street, one caught a distant glimpse of the sea.
Mannering, to the surprise of his friends, and to his own secret
amazement, had survived the crisis which had seemed at one time likely
enough to wreck his life. Politically he was no longer a great power, for
the party whose cause he had half espoused had met with a distinct
reverse, and he himself was without a seat in Parliament, but amongst the
masses his was still a name to conjure with. Socially his marriage with
Blanche Phillimore had scarcely proved the disaster which every one had
anticipated. Her old ways and manner of life lay in the background. She
had aged a little, perhaps, and grown thinner, but she had shown from the
first an almost pathetic desire to adapt her life to his, to assume an
altogether unobtrusive position, and if she could not in any way
influence his destiny, at least she did not hamper it. She had made no
demands upon him which he was not able to grant. She had lived where he
had suggested, she had never embarrassed him with too vehement an
affection. As for Mannering himself, he had found solace in work.
Defeated at the polls, he had declined a safe seat, and remained the
chosen independent candidate of a great Northern constituency. He
addressed public meetings occasionally, and he contributed to the
reviews. Without having ever finally committed himself to a definite
scheme of tariff reform, he preached everywhere the doctrine of
consideration. In a modified way he was reckoned now as one of its
possible supporters.
They were almost halfway through their dinner when some commotion was
heard in the narrow street outside. Then with much tooting of horns and
the shrill shouting of directions from the bystanders, two heavily laden
touring cars turned slowly into the cobbled courtyard, and drew up within
a few feet of the semicircular line of tables. Mannering's little party
watched the arrivals with an interest shared by every one in the place.
Muffled up in cloaks and veils, they were at first unrecognized. It was
Mannering himself who first realized who they were.
"Clara!" he exclaimed to the young lady who was standing almost by his
side. "Welcome to Bonestre!"
She turned towards him with a little start.
"Uncle!" she exclaimed. "How extraordinary! Why, how long have you been
here?"
"We arrived this afternoon," he answered. "You remember Hester, don't
you? And this is Mrs. Mannering."
Clara shook hands with both. She declared afterwards that she was
surprised into it, but she would certainly never have recognized in the
quiet, rather weary-looking, woman who sat at her uncle's side the
Blanche Phillimore whom she had more than once passionately declared that
she would sooner die than speak to. She murmured a few mechanical words,
and then, suddenly realizing the situation, she glanced a little
anxiously over her shoulder.
"You know who I am with, uncle?" she whispered.
But Mannering was already face to face with Berenice. She held out her
hand without hesitation. If she felt any emotion she concealed it
perfectly. Her voice was steady and cordial, if her cheeks were pale. The
dust lay thickly upon them all. Mannering, tall and grave in his plain
dinner clothes and black tie, stood almost like a statue before her,
until her extended hand invited his movement.
"What an extraordinary meeting," she said, quietly. "I am very glad to
see you again, Mr. Mannering. We have had such a ride, all the way from
Havre along roads an inch thick in dust. This is your wife, is it not?
I am very glad to know you, Mrs. Mannering."
All that might have been embarrassing in the encounter seemed dissolved
by the utterly conventional tone of her greeting. Sir Leslie Borrowdean
came up and joined them, and Lord and Lady Redford. Then the little
party, escorted by the landlord, disappeared into the hotel. Mannering
resumed his seat and continued his dinner. He leaned over and addressed
his wife. His tone was kinder than usual.
"When we have had our coffee," he said, "I hope that you will feel like
a walk. The moon is coming up over the sea."
She shook her head.
"Take Hester," she said. "She loves that sort of thing. I have a
headache, and I should like to go upstairs as soon as possible."
So Hester walked with Mannering out to the rocks where pools of water,
left by the tide, shone like silver in the moonlight. They talked very
little at first, but as they leaned over the rail and looked out seawards
Hester broke the silence, and spoke of the things which they both had in
their minds.
"I am sorry they came," she said. "I am afraid it will upset mother, and
it is not pleasant for you, is it?"
"For me it is nothing, Hester," he answered, "and I hope that your mother
will not worry about it. They all behaved very nicely, and we need not
see much of them."
She passed her arm through his.
"Tell me how you feel about it," she begged. "It must seem to you like a
glimpse of the life you left when--when you--married!"
"Hester," he said, earnestly, "don't make any mistake about this. Don't
let your mother make any mistake. It was my political change of views
which separated me from all my former friends--that entirely. To them I
am an apostate, and a very bad sort of one. I deserted them just when
they needed me. I did it from convictions which are stronger to-day than
ever. But none the less I threw them over. I always said that they very
much exaggerated my importance as a factor in the situation, and my words
are proved. They carried the elections without any difficulty, and they
have formed a strong Government. They can afford to be magnanimous to me.
If I had stayed with them I should have been in office. As it was, I lost
even my seat."
"You did what you thought was right," she said, softly. "No one can do
any more!"
Mannering thought over her words as they walked homewards over the
sand-dunes. Yes, he had done that! Was he satisfied with the result? He
had become a minor power in politics. Men spoke of him as a weakling--as
one who had shrunk from the burden of great responsibility, and left the
friends who had trusted him in the lurch. And then--there was the other
thing. He had paid a great price for this woman's salvation. Had he
succeeded? She had given up all her old ways. She dressed, she lived, she
carried herself through life even with a furtive, almost a pathetic,
attempt to reach his standard. Often he caught her watching him as though
fearful lest some word or action of hers had been displeasing to him.
And yet--he wondered--was this what she had hoped for? Had he given her
what she had the right to expect? Had he indeed received value for the
price he had paid? He asked Hester a sudden question:
"Hester, is your mother happy?"
Hester started a little.
"If she is not," she answered, gravely, "she must be a very ungrateful
woman."
He left it at that, and together they retraced their steps to the hotel.
Hester slipped up to her room by a side entrance, but Mannering was
obliged to pass the table where the new arrivals were lingering over
their coffee. Clara and Lord Redford both called to him.
"Come and have a smoke with us, Mannering, and tell us all about this
place," the latter said. "The Duchess and your niece are charmed with it,
and they want to stay for a few days. Are there any golf links?"
"Come and sit next me, uncle," Clara cried, "and tell me how you like
being guardian to an heiress. How I have blessed that dear departed aunt
of mine every day of my life."
Mannering accepted a cigarette, and sat down.
"The golf links are excellent," he said. "As for your aunt, Clara, she
was a very sensible woman. Her money was so well invested that I have
practically nothing to do. I expect my duties will commence when the
young men come!"
"Miss Mannering," Sir Leslie said, gravely, "is not at all attracted by
young men. She prefers something more staid. I have serious hopes that
before our little tour is over I shall have persuaded her to marry me!"
"You dear man!" Clara exclaimed. "I only wish you'd give me the chance."
"There's a brazen child to have to chaperon," the Duchess said.
"Positively asking for a proposal."
"And not in vain," Sir Leslie declared. "Walk down to the sea with me,
Miss Clara, and I'll propose to you in my most approved fashion. I think
you said that the investments were sound, Mannering?"
"The investments are all right," Mannering answered, "but I shall have
nothing to do with fortune-hunters."
"And I a Cabinet Minister!" Sir Leslie declared. "Miss Clara, let us have
that walk."
"To-morrow night," she promised. "When I get up it will be to go to bed.
Even your love-making, Sir Leslie, could not keep me awake to-night."
The Duchess rose. The dust was gone, but she was pale, and looked tired.
"Let us leave these men to make plans for us," she said. "I hope we shall
see something of you to-morrow, Mr. Mannering. Good-night, everybody."
Mannering rose and bowed with the others. For a moment their eyes met.
Not a muscle of her face changed, and yet Mannering was conscious of a
sudden wave of emotion. He understood that she had not forgotten!
CHAPTER II
THE SNUB FOR BORROWDEAN
Berenice sat at one of the small round tables in the courtyard, finishing
her morning coffee. Sir Leslie sat upon the steps by her side. It was one
of those brilliant mornings in early September, when the sunlight seems
to find its way everywhere. Even here, surrounded by the pile of worn
grey stone buildings, which threw shadows everywhere, it had penetrated.
A long shaft of soft, warm light stretched across the cobbles to their
feet. Berenice, slim and elegant, fresh as the morning itself, glanced up
at her companion with a smile.
"Clara," she remarked, "does not like to be kept waiting."
"She is not down yet," he answered, "and there is something I want to say
to you."
Her delicate eyebrows were a trifle uplifted.
"Do you think that you had better?" she asked.
"I am a man," he said, "and things are known to me which a woman would
scarcely discover. Do you think that it is quite fair to send Lady
Redford out motoring with Mrs. Mannering?"
"Why not?"
"Lady Redford is, of course, ignorant of Mrs. Mannering's antecedents.
What you may do yourself concerns no one. You make your own social laws,
and you have a right to. But I do not think that even you have a right to
pass Blanche Phillimore on to your friends, even under the shelter of
Mannering's name."
Berenice looked at him for several seconds without speaking. Borrowdean
bit his lip.
"If we were not acquaintances of long standing, Sir Leslie," she said,
calmly, "I should consider your remarks impertinent. As it is, I choose
to look upon them as a regrettable mistake. The person, whoever she may
be, whom the Duchess of Lenchester chooses to receive is usually
acceptable to her friends. I beg that you will not refer to the subject
again."
Sir Leslie bowed.
"I have no more to say," he declared. "Knowing naturally a good deal more
than you concerning the lady in question, I considered it my duty to say
what I have said."
"It is the sort of duty," Berenice murmured, "which the whole world seems
to accept always with a relish. One does not expect it so much from your
sex. Mrs. Mannering was born one of us, and she has had an unhappy life.
If she has been indiscreet she has her excuses. I choose to whitewash
her. Do you understand? I pay dearly enough for my social position, and I
certainly claim its privileges. I recognize Mrs. Mannering, and I require
my friends to do so."
Sir Leslie rose up.
"You are, if you will forgive my saying so," he remarked, drily, "more
generous than wise."
"That," she answered, "is my affair. Here comes Clara. Before you start,
find Mr. Mannering. He is in the hotel somewhere writing letters, and
tell him that when he has finished I wish to speak to him."
Sir Leslie only bowed. He felt himself opposed by a will as strong as his
own, and he was too seriously annoyed to trust himself to speech. Clara,
in her cool white linen dress, came strolling up.
"What have you been doing to Sir Leslie?" she asked, laughing. "He has
just gone into the hotel with a face like a thunder-cloud."
"I have been giving him a lesson in Christian charity," Berenice
answered. "He needs it."
Clara nodded. She understood.
"I think you are awfully kind," she said.
Berenice smiled.
"I hate all narrowness," she said, "and if there is a man on God's earth
who deserves to have people kind to him it is your uncle."
Sir Leslie returned, and he and Clara departed for the golf links.
Berenice was left alone in the little grey courtyard, fragrant with the
perfume of scented shrubs and blossoming plants, filled too, with the
warm sunlight, which seemed to find its way into every corner. She sat at
her little table, paler than a few moments ago, her teeth clenched, her
white fingers clasped together. Underneath her muslin blouse her heart
had suddenly commenced to beat fiercely--a sense of excitement, long
absent, was stealing through her veins. The bonds which a year's studied
self-repression had forged were snapped apart. She knew now what it
meant, the great inexpressible thing, the one eternal emotion which has
come throbbing down the world from the days when poets sung their first
song and painters flung truth on to canvas. She was a woman like the
others, and she loved. Her unique position in society, her carefully
studied life, her lofty ambitions, were like vain things crumbling into
dust before her eyes. A year of cold misery seemed atoned for by the
simple fact that within a few yards of her he sat writing--that within a
few minutes he would be by her side. Of the future she scarcely thought.
Hers was the woman's love, content with small things. Its passion was of
the soul, and its song was self-sacrifice. But if she had known--if she
had only known!
He came out to her soon. His manner was quiet and a little grave.
Self-control came easier to him because the truth had been with him
longer. Nevertheless, he was not wholly at his ease.
"You know what has happened?" she asked, smiling. "The Redfords have
taken Mrs. Mannering and her daughter motoring, and Sir Leslie and Clara
have gone to the golf links. You and I are left to entertain one
another."
"What would you like to do?" he asked, simply.
"I should like to walk," she answered, "down by the sea somewhere. I am
ready now."
They made their way through the little town, along the promenade and on
to the sands beyond. Then a climb, and they found themselves in a thick
wood stretching back inland from the sea. She pointed to a fallen trunk.
"Let us sit down," she said. "There are so many things I want to ask
you."
On the way they had spoken only of indifferent matters, yet from the
first Mannering had felt the presence of a subtle something in her
deportment towards him, for which he could find no explanation. He
himself was feeling the tension of this meeting. He had expected to find
her so different. Gracious, perhaps, because she was a great lady, but
certainly without any of these suggestions of something kept back, which
continually, without any sort of direct expression, made themselves felt.
And when they sat down she said nothing. He had the feeling that it was
because she dared not trust herself to speak. Surprise and agitation kept
him, too, silent.
At last she spoke. Her voice was not very steady, and she avoided looking
at him.
"I should like," she said, "to have you tell me about yourself--about
your life--and your work."
"It is told in a few words," he answered. "Somewhere, somehow, I have
failed! I could not adopt the Birmingham programme, I could not oppose
it. You know what isolation means politically?--abuse from one side and
contempt from the other. That is what I am experiencing. The working
classes have some faith in me, I believe. My work, such as it is, is
solely for them. I suppose the papers tell the truth when they say that
mine is a ruined career--only, you see, I am trying to do the best I can
with the pieces."
"Yes," she said, softly, "that is something. To do the best one can with
the pieces. We all might try to do that."
He smiled.
"You, at least, have no need to consider such a thing," he said. "So far
as any woman can be preeminent in politics you have succeeded in becoming
so. I saw that a lady's paper a few weeks ago said that your influence
outside the Cabinet was more powerful than any one man's within it."
"Yes," she said, calmly, "the papers talk like that. It gives their
readers something to laugh at! I wonder what you would say, my friend, if
I told you that I, too, am engaged in that same thankless task. I, too,
am striving to do the best I can with the pieces."
"You are not serious!" he protested.
"I am very serious indeed," she declared. "Shall I tell you more? Shall
I tell you when I made my mistake?"
"No!" he cried, hoarsely.
"But I shall," she continued, suddenly gripping his arm. "I meant to tell
you. I brought you here to tell you. I made my mistake when I let Leslie
Borrowdean take you back to Lord Redford just as we were entering the
rose-garden at Bayleigh. Do you remember? I made my mistake when I
suffered anything in this great world to come between me and a woman's
only chance of happiness! I made my mistake when I was too proud to tell
you that I loved you, and that nothing else in the world mattered. There!
You tried me hard! You know that! But my mistake was none the less fatal.
I ought to have held fast by you, and I let you go. And I shall suffer
for it all my days."
"You cared like that?" he cried.
"Worse!" she answered, turning her flushed face towards him. "I care now.
Kiss me, Lawrence!"
He held her in his arms. Time stood still until she stole away with an
odd little laugh.
"There," she said, "I have vindicated myself. No one can ever call me a
proud woman again. And you know the truth! I might have had you all to
myself and I let you go. Now I am going to do the best I can with the
pieces. The half of you I want belongs to your wife. I must be content
with the other half. I suppose I may have that?"
"But your friends--"
"Bosh! My friends and your wife must make the best of it. I shan't rob
her again as I did just now. You can blot that out--antedate it. It
belonged to the past. But I am not going through life as I have gone
through this last year, longing for a sight of you, longing to hear you
speak, and denying myself just because you are married. Live with your
wife, Lawrence, and make her as happy as you can, but remember that you
owe me a great deal, too, and you must do your best to pay it. Don't look
at me as though I were talking nonsense."
He held her hand. She placed it in his unresistingly. All the lines in
his face seemed smoothed out. The fire of youth was in his eyes.
"Do you wonder that I am surprised?" he asked. "All this year you have
made no sign. All the time I have been schooling myself to forget you."
"Don't dare to tell me that you have succeeded!" she exclaimed.
"Not an iota!" he answered. "It was the most miserable failure of my
life."
She smiled upon him delightfully, and gently withdrew her hand.
"Lawrence," she said, "I am going to talk to you seriously for one
minute. You are too conscientious for a politician. Don't let the same
vice spoil our friendship! Certain things you owe to your wife. Mind,
I admit that, though from some points of view even that might be
disputed. But you also owe me certain things--and I mean to be paid.
I won't be avoided, mind. I want to be treated as a very close--and
dear--companion--and--kiss me once more, Lawrence, and then we'll begin,"
she wound up, with a little sob in her throat.
An hour later the whole party had _déjeuner_ together in the courtyard of
the little hotel. The Duchess was noticeably kind to Mrs. Mannering, and
she snubbed Sir Leslie. Clara looked on a little gravely. The situation
contained many elements of interest.
CHAPTER III
CLOUDS--AND A CALL TO ARMS
The first cloud appeared towards the end of the third day at Bonestre.
Blanche and Sir Leslie were left alone, and he hastened to improve the
opportunity.
"The Duchess and your husband," he remarked, "appear very easily to have
picked up again the threads of their old friendship."
"The Duchess," she answered, "is a very charming woman. I am sure that
you find her so, don't you?"
"We are very old friends," he answered, "but I was never admitted to
exactly the same privileges as your husband enjoys."
"The Duchess," she answered, calmly, "is a woman of taste!"
Sir Leslie muttered something under his breath. Blanche made a movement
as though to take up again the book which she had been reading in a
sheltered corner of the hotel garden.
"Don't you think," he said, "that we should make better friends than
enemies?"
"I am not at all sure," she answered, calmly. "To tell you the truth,
I don't fancy you particularly in either capacity."
He laughed unpleasantly.
"You are scarcely complimentary," he remarked.
"I did not mean to be," she answered. "Why should I?"
"You are content, then, to let your husband drift back into his old
relations with the Duchess? I presume that you know what they were?"
"Whether I am or not," she answered, "what business is it of yours?"
"I will tell you, if you like," he answered. "In fact, I think it would
be better. It has been the one desire of my life to marry the Duchess of
Lenchester myself."
She smiled at him scornfully.
"Come," she said, "let me give you a little advice. Give up the idea.
They say that lookers-on see most of the game, and so far as I am
concerned I'm certainly the looker-on of this party. The Duchess doesn't
care a row of pins about you!"
"There are other marriages, besides marriages of affection," Sir Leslie
said, stiffly. "The Duchess is ambitious."
"But she is also a woman," Blanche declared. "And she is in love."
"With whom?"
"With my husband! I presume that is clear enough to most people!"
Sir Leslie was a little staggered.
"You take it very coolly," he remarked.
"Why not? The Duchess is too proud a woman to give herself away, and my
husband--belongs to me!"
"You haven't any idea of taking poison, or anything of that sort, I
suppose, have you?" he inquired. "The other woman nearly always does
that."
"Not in real life," Blanche answered, composedly. "Besides, I'm not the
other woman--I'm the one. The Duchess is the other!"
"But your husband--"
"Do you know, I should prefer not to discuss my husband--with you,"
Blanche said, calmly, taking up her book. "He is not the sort of man you
would be at all likely to understand. If you want a rich wife why don't
you propose to Clara Mannering? I suppose you knew that some unheard-of
aunt had left her fifty thousand pounds?"
Sir Leslie rose to his feet.
"I don't fancy that you and I are very sympathetic this afternoon," he
remarked. "I will go and see if any one has returned."
"Do," she answered. "I shall miss you, of course, but my book is
positively absorbing, and I am dying to go on with it."
Sir Leslie left the garden without another word. Blanche held her book
before her face until he had disappeared. Then it slipped from her
fingers. She looked hard into a cluster of roses, and she saw only two
figures--always the same figures. Her eyes were set, her face was wan and
old.
"The other woman!" she murmured to herself. "That is what I am. And
I can't live up to it. I ought to take poison, or get run over or
something, and I know very well I shan't. Bother the man! Why couldn't
he leave me alone?"
After dinner that evening she accepted her husband's nightly invitation
and walked with him for a little while. The others followed.
"How much longer can you stay away from England, Lawrence?" she asked
him.
"Oh--a fortnight, I should think," he answered. "I am not tied to any
particular date. You like it here, I hope?"
"Immensely! Are--our friends going to remain?"
"I haven't heard them say anything about moving on yet," he answered.
"Are you in love with the Duchess still, Lawrence?"
"Am I--Blanche!"
"Don't be angry! You made a mistake once, you know. Don't make another.
I'm not a jealous woman, and I don't ask much from you, but I'm your
wife. That's all!"
She turned and called to Hester. The little party rearranged itself.
Mannering found himself with Berenice.
"What was your wife saying to you?" she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"It was the beginning," he remarked.
Berenice sighed.
"It is a strange thing," she said, "but in this world no one can ever be
happy except at some one else's expense. It is a most unnatural law of
compensation. Shall we move on to-morrow?"
"The day after," he pleaded. "To-morrow we are going to Berneval."
She nodded.
"We are queer people, I think," she said. "I have been perfectly
satisfied this week simply to be with you. When it comes to an end
I should like it to come suddenly."
He thought of her words an hour later, when on his return to the hotel
they handed him a telegram. He passed it on at once to Lord Redford, and
glanced at his watch.
"Poor Cunningham," he said, "it was a short triumph for him. I must go
back to-night, or the first train to-morrow morning. The sitting member
for my division of Leeds died suddenly last night, Blanche," he said to
his wife. "I must be on the spot at once."
She rose to her feet.
"I will go and pack," she said.
Lady Redford followed her very soon. Clara and Sir Leslie had not yet
returned from their stroll. Lord Redford remained alone with them.
"I scarcely know what sort of fortune to wish you, Mannering," he said.
"Perhaps your first speech will tell us."
Berenice leaned back in her chair.
"I can't imagine you as a labour member in the least," she remarked.
"Doesn't this force your hand a little, Mannering?" Lord Redford said. "I
understand that you were anxious to avoid a direct pronouncement upon the
fiscal policy for the present."
Mannering nodded gravely.
"It is quite time I made up my mind," he said. "I shall do so now."
"May we find ourselves in the same lobby!" Lord Redford said. "I will go
and find my man. He may as well take you to the station in the car."
Berenice smiled at Mannering luminously through the shadowy lights.
"Dear friend," she said, "I am delighted that you are going. Our
little time here has been delightful, but we had reached its limit.
I like to think that you are going back into the thick of it. Don't be
faint-hearted, Lawrence. Don't lose faith in yourself. You have chosen
a terribly lonely path; if any man can find his way to the top, you can.
And don't dare to forget me, sir!"
He caught her cheerful tone.
"You are inspiring," he declared. "Thank heaven, I have a twelve hours'
journey before me. I need time for thought, if ever a man did."
"Don't worry about it," she answered, lightly. "The truth is somewhere in
your brain, I suppose, and when the time comes you will find it. Much
better think about your sandwiches."
The car backed into the yard. Blanche reappeared, and behind her
Mannering's bag.
"I do hope that Hester and I have packed everything," she said. "We could
come over to-morrow, if there's anything you want us for. If not we shall
stay here for another week. Good-bye!"
She calmly held up her lips, and Mannering kissed them after a moment's
hesitation. She remained by his side even when he turned to say farewell
to Berenice.
"I am sure you ought to be going," she said calmly. "I will send on your
letters if there are any to-morrow. Wire your address as soon as you
arrive. Good luck!"
The car glided away. They all stood in a group to see him go, and waved
indiscriminate farewells. Blanche moved a little apart as the car
disappeared, and Berenice watched her curiously. She was rubbing her lips
with her handkerchief.
"A sting!" she remarked, becoming suddenly aware of the other's scrutiny.
"Nothing that hurts very much!"
CHAPTER IV
DISASTER
Mannering, in his sitting-room at last, locked the door and drew a long
breath of relief. Upon his ear-drums there throbbed still the yells of
his enthusiastic but noisy adherents--the truculent cries of those who
had heard his great speech with satisfaction, of those who saw pass from
amongst themselves to a newer school of thought one whom they had
regarded as their natural leader. It was over at last. He had made his
pronouncement. To some it might seem a compromise. To himself it was the
only logical outcome of his long period of thought. He spoke for the
workingman. He demanded inquiry, consideration, experiment. He demanded
them in a way of his own, at once novel and convincing. Many of the most
brilliant articles which had ever come from his pen he abjured. He drew
a sharp line between the province of the student and the duty of the
politician.
And now he was alone at last, free to think and dream, free to think of
Bonestre, to wonder what reports of his meeting would reach the little
French watering-place, and how they would be received. He could see
Berenice reading the morning paper in the little grey courtyard, with the
pigeons flying above her head and the sunlight streaming across the
flags. He could hear Borrowdean's sneer, could see Lord Redford's shrug
of the shoulders. There is little sympathy in the world for the man who
dares to change his mind.
There was a knock at the door, and his servant entered with a tray.
"I have brought the whiskey and soda, sandwiches and cigarettes, sir," he
announced. "I am sorry to say that there is a person outside whom I
cannot get rid of. His name is Fardell, and he insists upon it that his
business is of importance."
Mannering smiled.
"You can show him up at once," he ordered; "now, and whenever he calls."
Fardell appeared almost directly. Mannering had seen him before during
the day, but noticed at once a change in him. He was pale, and looked
like a man who had received some sort of a shock.
"Come in, Fardell, and sit down," Mannering said. "You look tired. Have a
drink."
Fardell walked straight to the tray and helped himself to some neat
whiskey.
"Thank you, sir," he said. "I--I've had rather a knockout blow."
He emptied the tumbler and set it down.
"Mr. Mannering, sir," he said, "I've just heard a man bet twenty to one
in crisp five-pound bank-notes that you never sit for West Leeds."
"Was he drunk or sober?" Mannering asked.
"Sober as a judge!"
Mannering smiled.
"How often did you take him?" he asked.
"Not once! I didn't dare!"
Mannering, who had been in the act of helping himself to a whiskey and
soda, looked around with the decanter in his hand.
"I don't understand you," he said, bewildered. "You know very well that
the chances, so far as they can be reckoned up, are slightly in my
favour."
"They were!" Fardell answered. "Heaven knows what they are now."
Mannering was a little annoyed. It seemed to him that Fardell must have
been drinking.
"Do you mind explaining yourself?" he asked.
"I can do so," Fardell answered. "I must do so. But while I am about it
I want you to put on your hat and come with me."
Mannering laughed shortly.
"What, to-night?" he exclaimed. "No, thank you. Be reasonable, Fardell.
I've had my day's work, and I think I've earned a little rest. To be
frank with you, I don't like mysteries. If you've anything to say, out
with it."
"Right!" Richard Fardell answered. "I am going to ask you a question,
Mr. Mannering. Go back a good many years, as many years as you like.
Is there anything in your life as a younger man, say when you first
entered Parliament, which--if it were brought up against you now--might
be--embarrassing?"
Mannering did not answer for several moments. He was already pale and
tired, but he felt what little colour remained leave his face. Least of
all he had expected this. Even now--what could the man mean? What could
be known?
"I am not sure that I understand you," he said. "There is nothing that
could be known! I am sure of that."
"There is a person," Fardell said, slowly, "who has made extraordinary
statements. Our opponents have got hold of him. The substance of them is
this: He says that many years ago you were the lover of a married woman,
that you sold her husband worthless shares and ruined him, and that
finally--in a quarrel--he declares that he was an eye-witness of
this--that you killed him."
Mannering slowly subsided into his chair. His cheeks were blanched.
Richard Fardell watched him with feverish anxiety.
"It is a lie," Mannering declared. "There is no man living who can say
this."
"The man says," Fardell continued, stonily, "that his name is Parkins,
and that he was butler to Mr. Stephen Phillimore eleven years ago."
"Parkins is dead!" Mannering said, hoarsely. "He has been dead for many
years."
"He is living in Leeds to-day," Fardell answered. "A journalist from the
_Yorkshire Herald_ was with him for two hours this afternoon."
"Blanche--I was told that he was dead," Mannering said.
"Then the story is true?" Fardell asked.
"Not as you have told it," Mannering answered.
"There is truth in it?"
"Yes."
Richard Fardell was silent for several moments. He paced up and down the
room, his hands behind his back, his eyebrows contracted into a heavy
frown. For him it was a bitter moment. He was only a half-educated,
illiterate man, possessed of sturdy common sense and a wonderful tenacity
of purpose. He had permitted himself to indulge in a little silent but
none the less absolute hero-worship, and Mannering had been the hero.
"You must come with me at once and see this man," he said at last. "He
has not yet signed his statement. We must do what we can to keep him
quiet."
Mannering took up his coat and hat without a word. They left the hotel,
and Fardell summoned a cab.
"It is a long way," he explained. "We will drive part of the distance and
walk the rest. We may be watched already."
Mannering nodded. The last blow was so unexpected that he felt in a sense
numbed. His speech only a few hours ago had made large inroads upon his
powers of endurance. His partial recantation had cost him many hours of
torture, from which he was still suffering. And now, without the
slightest warning, he found himself face to face with a crisis far
graver, far more acute. Never in his most gloomy moments had he felt any
real fear of a resurrection of the past such as that with which he was
now threatened. It was a thunderbolt from a clear sky. Even now he found
it hard to persuade himself that he was not dreaming.
They were in the cab for nearly half an hour before Fardell stopped and
dismissed it. Then they walked up and down and across streets of small
houses, pitiless in their monotony, squalid and depressing in their
ugliness.
Finally Fardell stopped, and without hesitation knocked at the door of
one of them. It was opened by a man in shirt-sleeves, holding a tallow
candle in his hand.
"What yer want?" he inquired, suspiciously.
"Your lodger," Fardell answered, pushing past him and drawing Mannering
into the room. "Where is he?"
The man jerked his thumb upwards.
"Where he won't be long," he answered, shortly. "The likes of 'im having
visitors, and one a toff, too. Say, are yer going to pay his rent?"
"We may do that," Fardell answered. "Is he upstairs?"
"Ay!" the man answered, shuffling away. "Pay 'is rent, and yer can chuck
'im out of the winder, if yer like!"
They climbed the crazy staircase. Fardell opened the door of the room
above without even the formality of knocking. An old man sat there,
bending over a table, half dressed. Before him were several sheets of
paper.
"I believe we're in time," Fardell muttered, half to himself. "Parkins,
is that you?" he asked, in a louder tone.
The old man looked up and blinked at them. He shaded his eyes with one
hand. The other he laid flat upon the papers before him. He was old,
blear-eyed, unkempt.
"Is that Master Ronaldson?" he asked, in a thin, quavering tone. "I've
signed 'em, sir. Have yer brought the money? I'm a poor old man, and I
need a drop of something now and then to keep the life in me. If yer'll
just hand over a trifle I'll send out for--eh--eh, my landlord, he's a
kindly man--he'll fetch it. Eh? Two of yer! I don't see so well as I
did. Is that you, Mr. Ronaldson, sir?"
Fardell threw some silver coins upon the table. The old man snatched them
up eagerly.
"It's not Mr. Ronaldson," he said, "but I daresay we shall do as well. We
want to talk to you about those papers there."
The old man nodded. He was gazing at the silver in his hand.
"I've writ it all out," he muttered. "I told 'un I would. A pound a week
for ten years. That's what I 'ad! And then it stopped! Did she mean me to
starve, eh? Not I! John Parkins knows better nor that. I've writ it all
out, and there's my signature. It's gospel truth, too."
"We are going to buy the truth from you," Fardell said. "We have more
money than Ronaldson. Don't be afraid. We have gold to spare where
Ronaldson had silver."
The old man lifted the candle with shaking fingers. Then it dropped with
a crash to the ground, and lay there for a moment spluttering. He shrank
back.
"It's 'im!" he muttered. "Don't kill me, sir. I mean you no harm. It's
Mr. Mannering!"
CHAPTER V
THE JOURNALIST INTERVENES
The old man had sunk into a seat. His face and hands were twitching with
fear. His eyes, as though fascinated, remained fixed upon Mannering's.
All the while he mumbled to himself. Fardell drew Mannering a little on
one side.
"What can we do with him?" he asked. "We might tear up those sheets, give
him money, keep him soddened with drink. And even then he'd give the
whole show away the moment any one got at him. It isn't so bad as he
makes out, I suppose?"
"It is not so bad as that," Mannering answered, "but it is bad enough."
"What became of the woman?" Fardell asked. "Parkins's mistress, I mean?"
"She is my wife," Mannering answered.
Fardell threw out his hands with a little gesture of despair.
"We must get him away from here," he said. "If Polden gets hold of him
you might as well resign at once. It is dangerous for you to stay. He was
evidently expecting that fellow Ronaldson to-night."
Mannering nodded.
"What shall you do with him?" he asked.
"Hide him if I can," Fardell answered, grimly. "If I can get him out of
this place, it ought not to be impossible. The most important thing at
present is for you to get away without being recognized."
Mannering took up his hat.
"I will go," he said. "I shall leave the cab for you. I can find my way
back to the hotel."
Fardell nodded.
"It would be better," he said. "Turn your coat-collar up and draw your
hat down over your eyes. You mustn't be recognized down here. It's a
pretty low part."
Nevertheless, Mannering had not reached the corner of the street before
he heard hasty footsteps behind him, and felt a light touch upon his
shoulder. He turned sharply round.
"Well, sir!" he exclaimed, "what do you want with me?"
The newcomer was a tall, thin young man, wearing glasses, and although he
was a complete stranger to Mannering, he knew at once who he was.
"Mr. Mannering, I believe?" he said, quickly.
"What has my name to do with you, sir?" Mannering answered, coldly.
"Mine is Ronaldson," the young man answered. "I am a reporter."
Mannering regarded him steadily for a moment.
"You are the young man, then," he said, "who has discovered the mare's
nest of my iniquity."
"If it is a mare's nest," the young man answered, briskly, "I shall be
quite as much relieved as disappointed. But your being down here doesn't
look very much like that, does it?"
"No man," Mannering answered, "hears that a bomb is going to be thrown at
him without a certain amount of curiosity as to its nature. I have been
down to examine the bomb. Frankly, I don't think much of it."
"You are prepared, then, to deny this man Parkins's story?" the reporter
asked.
"I am prepared to have a shot at your paper for libel, anyhow, if you use
it," Mannering answered.
"Do you know the substance of his communication?"
"I can make a pretty good guess at it," Mannering answered.
"You really mean to deny it, then?" the reporter asked.
"Assuredly, for it is not true," Mannering answered. "Pray don't let me
detain you any longer!"
He turned on his heel and walked away, but the reporter kept pace with
him.
"You will pardon me, but this is a very serious affair, Mr. Mannering,"
he said. "Serious for both of us. Do you mind discussing it with me?"
"Not in the least," Mannering answered, "so long as you permit me to
continue my way homewards."
"I will walk with you, sir, if you don't mind," the reporter said. "It is
a very serious matter indeed, this! My people are as keen as possible to
make use of it. If they do, and it turns out a true story, you, of
course, will never sit for Leeds. And if on the other hand it is false,
I shall get the sack!"
"Well, it is false," Mannering said.
"Some parts of it, perhaps," the young man answered, smoothly. "Not all,
Mr. Mannering."
"Old men are garrulous," Mannering remarked. "I expect you will find that
your friend has been letting his tongue run away with him."
"He has committed his statements to paper," Ronaldson remarked.
"And signed them?"
"He is willing to do so," the reporter answered. "I was to have fetched
them away to-night."
"You may be a little late," Mannering remarked.
The _double entente_ in his tone did not escape Ronaldson's notice. He
stopped short on the pavement.
"So you have bought him," he remarked.
Mannering glanced at him superciliously.
"Will you pardon me," he said, "if I remark that this conversation has no
particular interest for me? Don't let me bring you any further out of
your way."
Ronaldson took off his hat.
"Very good, sir," he remarked. "I will wish you good-night!"
Mannering pursued his way homeward with the briefest of farewells. The
young reporter retraced his steps. Arrived at Parkins's lodgings he
mounted the stairs, and found the room empty. He returned and interviewed
the landlord. From him he only learned that Parkins had departed with one
of two gentlemen who had come to see him that evening, and that they had
paid his rent for him. The reporter was obliged to depart with no more
satisfactory information. But next morning, before nine o'clock, he was
waiting to see Mannering, and would not be denied. He was accompanied,
too, by a person of no less importance than the editor of the _Yorkshire
Herald_ himself.
Mannering kept them waiting an hour, and then received them coolly.
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Polden," he said, glancing at the editor's
card. "I have already had some conversation with our young friend there,"
he added, glancing towards the reporter. "What can I have the pleasure of
doing for you?"
Mr. Polden produced a sheet of proofs from his pocket. He passed them
over to Mannering.
"I should like you to examine these, sir," he said.
"In type already!" Mannering remarked, calmly.
"In proof for our evening's issue," Polden answered.
Mannering read them through.
"It will cost you several thousand pounds!" he said.
"Then the money will be well spent," Polden answered. "No one has a
higher regard for you politically than I have, Mr. Mannering, but we
don't want you as member for West Leeds. That's all!"
"It happens," Mannering said, "that I am particularly anxious to sit for
West Leeds."
"You will go on--in the face of this?" the editor asked Mannering.
"Yes, and with the suit for libel which will follow," Mannering answered.
The editor shrugged his shoulders.
"Do me the favour to believe, Mr. Mannering," he said, "that we have not
gone into this matter blindfold. We had a preliminary intimation as to
this affair from a person whose word carries considerable weight, and our
investigations have been searching. I will admit that the disappearance
of the man Parkins is a little awkward for us, but we have ample
justification in publishing his story."
"I trust for your sakes that the law courts will support your views,"
Mannering said, coldly. "I scarcely think it likely."
"Mr. Mannering," Polden said, "I quite appreciate your attitude, but do
you really think it is a wise one? I very much regret that it should have
been our duty to unearth this unsavoury story, and having unearthed it,
to use it. But you must remember that the issue on hand is a great one. I
belong to the Liberal party and the absolute Free Traders, and I consider
that for this city to be represented by any one who shows the least
indication of being unsafe upon this question would be a national
disaster and a local disgrace. I want you to understand, therefore, that
I am not playing a game of bluff. The proofs you hold in your hand have
been set and corrected. Within a few hours the story will stand out in
black and white. Are you prepared for this?"
Mannering shrugged his shoulders.
"I am not prepared to resign my candidature, if that is what you mean,"
he said. "I presume that nothing short of that will satisfy you?"
"Nothing," the editor answered, firmly.
"Then there remains nothing more," Mannering remarked, coldly, "than for
me to wish you a very good-morning."
"I am sorry," Mr. Polden said. "I trust you will believe, Mr. Mannering,
that I find this a very unpleasant duty."
Mannering made no answer save a slight bow. He held open the door, and
Mr. Polden and his satellite passed out. Afterwards he strolled to the
window and looked down idly upon the crowd.
"If I act in accordance with the conventions," he murmured to himself, "I
suppose I ought to take, a glass of poison, or blow my brains out.
Instead of which--"
He shrugged his shoulders, and rang for his hat and coat. He was due at
one of the great foundries in half an hour to speak to the men during
their luncheon interval.
"Instead of which," he muttered, as he lit a cigarette, "I shall go on to
the end."
CHAPTER VI
TREACHERY AND A TELEGRAM
The sunlight streamed down into the little grey courtyard of the _Leon
D'or_ at Bonestre. Sir Leslie Borrowdean, in an immaculate grey suit, and
with a carefully chosen pink carnation in his button-hole, sat alone at a
small table having his morning coffee. His attention was divided between
a copy of the _Figaro_ and a little pile of letters and telegrams on the
other side of his plate. More than once he glanced at the topmost of the
latter and smiled.
Mrs. Mannering and Hester came down the grey stone steps and crossed
towards their own table. The former lingered for a moment as she passed
Sir Leslie, who rose to greet the two women.
"Another glorious day!" he remarked. "What news from Leeds?"
"None," she said. "My husband seldom writes."
Sir Leslie smiled reflectively, and glanced towards the pile of papers at
his side.
"Perhaps," she remarked, "you know better than I do how things are going
there."
He shook his head.
"I have no correspondents in Leeds," he answered.
At that moment a puff of wind disturbed the papers by his side. A
telegram would have fluttered away, but Blanche Mannering caught it at
the edge of the table. She was handing it back, when a curious expression
on Borrowdean's face inspired her with a sudden idea. She deliberately
looked at the telegram, and her fingers stiffened upon it. His forward
movement was checked. She stood just out of his reach.
"No correspondents in Leeds," she repeated. "Then what about this
telegram?"
"You will permit me to remind you," he said, stretching out his hand for
it, "that it is addressed to me."
Her hands were behind her. She leaned over towards him.
"It can be addressed to you a thousand times over," she answered, "but
before I part with it I want to know what it means."
Borrowdean was thinking quickly. He wanted to gain time.
"I do not even know which document you have--purloined," he said.
"It is from Leeds," she answered, "and it is signed Polden. 'Parkins
found, has made statement, appears to-night.' Can you explain what this
means, Sir Leslie Borrowdean?"
Her voice was scarcely raised above a whisper, but there was a dangerous
glitter in her eyes. There were few traces left of the woman whom once
before he had found so easy a tool.
"I cannot tell you," he answered. "It is not an affair for you to concern
yourself with at all."
"Not an affair for me to concern myself about!" she repeated, leaning
a little over towards him. "Isn't it my husband against whom you are
scheming? Don't I know what low tricks you are capable of? Isn't this
another proof of it? Not an affair for me to concern myself about,
indeed! Didn't you worm the whole miserable story out of me?"
"My dear Mrs. Mannering!"
She checked a torrent of words. Her bosom was heaving underneath her lace
blouse. She was pale almost to the lips. The sudden and complete disuse
of all manner of cosmetics had to a certain extent blanched her face.
There was room there now for the writing of tragedy. Borrowdean, still
outwardly suave, was inwardly cursing the unlucky chance which had blown
the telegram her way.
"Might I suggest," he said, in a low tone, "that we postpone our
conversation till after breakfast time? The waiters seem to be favouring
us with a great deal of attention, and several of them understand
English."
She did not even turn her head. Thinner a good deal since her marriage,
she seemed to him to have grown taller, to have gained in dignity and
presence, as she stood there before him, her angry eyes fixed upon his
face. She was no longer a person to be ignored.
"You must tell me about this--or--"
"Or?" he repeated, stonily.
"Or I will make a public statement," she answered. "If you ruin my
husband's career, I can at least do the same with yours. Politics is
supposed to be a game for honourable men to play with honourable weapons.
I wonder if Lord Redford would approve of your methods?"
"You can go and ask him, my dear madam," he answered. "I am perfectly
ready to defend myself."
"Defend! You have no defence," she answered. "Can you deny that you are
plotting to keep my husband out of Parliament now, just as a few months
ago you plotted to bring him back? You are making use of a personal
secret, a forgotten chapter of his life, to move him about like a puppet
to do your will."
"I work for the good of a cause and a great party," he answered. "You do
not understand these things."
"I understand you so far as this," she answered. "You are one of those to
whom life is a chessboard, and your one aim is to make the pieces work
for you, and at your bidding, till you sit in the place you covet. There
isn't much of the patriot about you, Sir Leslie Borrowdean."
He glanced down at his unfinished breakfast. He had the air of one who is
a little bored.
"My dear lady," he said, "is this discussion really worth while?"
"No," she answered, bluntly, "it isn't. You are quite right. We are
wandering from the subject."
"Let us talk," he suggested, "after breakfast. Give me back that telegram
now, and I will explain it, say, in the garden in half an hour. I detest
cold coffee."
"You can do like me, order some fresh," she said. "If I let you out of my
sight I know very well how much I shall see of you for the rest of the
day. Explain now if you can. What does that telegram mean?"
"Surely it is obvious enough," he answered. "The man Parkins, whom you
told me was dead, is alive and in Leeds. He has seen Mannering's name
about, has been talking, and the press have got hold of his story. I am
sorry, but there was always this possibility, wasn't there?"
"And this telegram?" she asked.
"I know Polden, the editor of the paper, and he referred to me to know if
there could be any truth in it."
"These are lies!" she declared. "You were the instigator. You set them on
the track."
"I have nothing more to say," Borrowdean declared, coldly.
"I have," she said. "I shall take this telegram to Lord Redford. I shall
tell him everything!"
A faint smile flickered upon Borrowdean's lips.
"Lord Redford would, I am sure, be charmed to hear your story," he
remarked. "Unfortunately he started for Dieppe this morning before eight
o'clock, and will not be back until to-morrow."
"And to-morrow will be too late," she added, rapidly pursuing his train
of thought. "Then I will try the Duchess!"
He started very slightly, but she saw it.
"Sit down for a moment, Mrs. Mannering," he said.
She accepted the chair he placed for her. There was a distinct change in
his manner. He realized that this woman held a trump card against him.
Even in her hands it might mean disaster.
"Blanche--" he began.
"Thank you," she interrupted, "I prefer 'Mrs. Mannering.'"
He bit his lips in annoyance.
"Mrs. Mannering, then," he continued, "we have been allies before, and I
think that you will admit that I have always kept faith with you. I don't
see any reason why we should play at being enemies. You have a price, I
suppose, for that telegram and your silence. Name it."
She nodded.
"Yes, I have a price," she admitted.
"Remember that, after all, this is not a great issue," he said. "If your
husband does not get in for Leeds he will probably find a seat somewhere
else."
"That is false," she answered, "If your man Polden publishes Parkins's
story my husband's political career is over, and you know it. Do keep as
near to the truth as you can."
"I will give you," he said, "five hundred pounds for that telegram and
your silence."
She rose slowly to her feet. A dull flush of colour mounted almost to
her eyes. Borrowdean watched her anxiously. Then for a moment came an
interruption. The Duchess was descending the grey stone steps from the
hotel.
She had addressed some word of greeting to them. They both turned towards
her. She wore a white serge dress, and she carried a white lace parasol
over her bare head. She moved towards them with her usual languid grace,
followed by her maid carrying a tiny Maltese dog and a budget of letters.
The loiterrers in the courtyard stared at her with admiration. It was
impossible to mistake her for anything but a great lady.
"You have the air of conspirators, you two!" she said, as she approached
them. "Is it an expedition for the day that you are planning?"
Blanche Mannering turned her back upon Borrowdean.
"Sir Leslie," she said, "has just offered me five hundred pounds for a
telegram which I have here and for my silence concerning its contents.
I was wondering whether he had bid high enough."
The Duchess looked from one to the other. She almost permitted herself to
be astonished. Borrowdean's face was dark with anger. Blanche Mannering's
apparent calmness was obviously of the surface only.
"Are you serious?" she asked.
"Miserably so!" Blanche answered. "Sir Leslie has strange ideas of
honour, I find. He is making use of a story which I told him once
concerning my husband, to drive him out of political life. Duchess, will
you do me the favour to let me talk with you for five minutes, and to
make Sir Leslie Borrowdean promise not to leave this hotel till you have
seen him again?"
"I have no intention of leaving the hotel," Sir Leslie said, stiffly.
Berenice pointed to her table.
"Come and take your coffee with me, Mrs. Mannering," she said.
* * * * *
Mannering passed through the day like a man in a nightmare. He addressed
two meetings of working-men, and interviewed half a dozen of his workers.
At mid-day the afternoon edition of the _Yorkshire Herald_ was being sold
in the streets. He bought a copy and glanced it feverishly through.
Nothing! He lunched and went on with his work. At three o'clock a second
edition was out. Again he purchased a copy, and again there was nothing.
The suspense was getting worse even than the disaster itself. Between
four and five they brought him in a telegram. He tore it open, and found
that it was from Bonestre. The words seemed to stare up at him from the
pink form. It was incredible:
"Polden muzzled. Go in and win."
The form fluttered from his fingers on to the floor of his sitting-room.
He stood looking at it, dazed. Outside, a mob of people, standing round
his carriage, were shouting his name.
CHAPTER VII
MR. MANNERING, M.P.
Mannering threw up his window with a sigh of immense relief. The air was
cold and fresh. The land, as yet unwarmed by the slowly rising sun, was
hung with a faint autumn mist. Traces of an early frost lay in the brown
hedgerows inland; the sea was like a sheet of polished glass. Gone the
smoke-stained rows of shapeless houses, the atmosphere polluted by a
thousand chimneys belching smuts and black vapour, the clanging of
electric cars, the rattle of all manner of vehicles over the cobbled
streets. Gone the hoarse excitement of the shouting mobs, the poisonous
atmosphere of close rooms, all the turmoil and racket and anxiety of
those fighting days. He was back again in Bonestre. Below in the
courtyard the white cockatoo was screaming. The waiters in their linen
coats were preparing the tables for the few remaining guests. And the
other things were of yesterday!
Mannering had arrived in the middle of the night unexpectedly, and his
appearance was a surprise to every one. He had knocked at his wife's door
on his way downstairs, but Blanche had taken to early rising, and was
already down. He found them all breakfasting together in a sheltered
corner of the courtyard.
Berenice, after the usual greetings and explanations, smiled at him
thoughtfully.
"I am not sure," she said, "whether I ought to congratulate you or not.
Sir Leslie here thinks that you mean mischief!"
"Only on the principle," Borrowdean said, "that whoever is not with us is
against us."
"We are all agreed upon one thing," Berenice said. "It was your last
speech, the one the night before the election, which carried you in. A
national party indeed! A legislator, not a politician! You talked to
those canny Yorkshiremen with your head in the clouds, and yet they
listened."
Mannering smiled as he poured out his coffee.
"I talked common sense to them," he remarked, "and Yorkshiremen like
that. We have been slaves to the old-fashioned idea of party Government
long enough. It's an absurd thing when you come to think of it. Fancy a
great business being carried on by a board of partners of divergent
views, and unable to make a purchase or a sale or effect any change
whatever without talking the whole thing threadbare, and then voting
upon it. The business would go down, of course!"
"Party Government," Borrowdean declared, "is the natural evolution of
any republican form of administration. A nation that chooses its own
representatives must select them from its varying standpoint."
"Their views may differ slightly upon some matters," Mannering said,
"but their first duty should be to come into accord with one another.
It is a matter for compromises, of course. The real differences between
intelligent men of either party are very slight. The trouble is that
under the present system everything is done to increase them instead
of bridging them over."
"If you had to form a Government, then," Berenice asked, "you would not
choose the members from one party?"
"Certainly not," Mannering answered. "Supposing I were the owner of
Redford's car there, and wanted a driver. I should simply try to get the
best man I could, and I should certainly not worry as to whether he were,
say, a churchman or a dissenter. The best man for the post is what the
country has a right to expect, whatever he may call himself, and the
country doesn't get it. The people pay the piper, and I consider that
they get shocking bad value for their money. The Boer War, for instance,
would have cost us less than half as much if we had had the right men to
direct the commercial side of it. That money would have been useful in
the country just now."
"An absolute monarchy," Hester said, smiling, "would be really the most
logical form of Government, then? But would it answer?"
"Why not?" Borrowdean asked. "If the monarch were incapable he would of
course be shot!"
"A dictator--" Berenice began, but Mannering held out his hands,
laughing.
"Think of my last few days, and spare me!" he begged. "I have thirty-six
hours' holiday. How do you people spend your time here?"
Berenice took him away with her as a matter of course. Blanche watched
them depart with a curious tightening of the lips. She was standing alone
in the gateway of the hotel, and she watched them until they were out of
sight. Borrowdean, sauntering out to buy some papers, paused for a moment
as he passed.
"Your husband, Mrs. Mannering," he said, drily, "is a very fortunate
man."
She made no reply, and Borrowdean passed on. Hester came out with a
message from Lady Redford--would Mrs. Mannering care to motor over to
Berneval for luncheon? Blanche shook her head. She scarcely heard the
invitation. She was still watching the two figures disappearing in the
distance. Hester understood, but she spoke lightly.
"I believe," she said, "that the Duchess still has hopes of Mr.
Mannering."
"She is a persistent woman," Blanche answered. "They say that she
generally succeeds. Let us go in."
* * * * *
Berenice was listening to Mannering's account of his last few days'
electioneering.
"The whole affair came upon me like a thunderclap," he told her. "Richard
Fardell found it out somehow, and he took me to see Parkins. But it was
too late. Polden had hold of the story and meant to use it. I never
imagined but that Parkins had been talking and this journalist had got
hold of him by accident. Now I understand that it was Borrowdean who was
pulling the strings."
She nodded.
"He traced Parkins out some time ago, and knew exactly where he was to be
found."
"I think," Mannering said, "that it is time Borrowdean and I came to some
understanding. I haven't said anything about it yet. I don't exactly know
what to say now. You are a very generous woman."
She sighed.
"No," she said, "I don't think that. Sir Leslie is a schemer of the class
I detest. I listened to him once, and I have regretted it ever since. Yet
you must remember this! If it had not been for him you would have been at
Blakely to-day."
His thoughts carried him backwards with a rush. Once more the thrall of
that quiet life of passionless sweetness held him. He looked back upon it
curiously, as a man who has passed into another country. Days of physical
exaltation, alone with the sun and the wind and all the murmuring voices
of Nature, God's life he had called it then. And now! The stress of
battle was hard upon him. He was fighting in the front ranks, a somewhat
cheerless battle, fighting for great causes with inefficient weapons. But
he could not go back. Life had become a more strenuous, a more vital, a
less beautiful thing! He felt himself ageing. All the inevitable sadness
of the man in touch with the world's great problems was in his heart. But
he could not go back.
"Yes," he said, quietly, "I owe that much to Borrowdean."
"There is a question," she said, "which I have wanted to ask you. Do you
regret, or are you glad to have been forced out once more upon the
world's stage?"
He smiled.
"How can I answer you?" he asked. "At Blakely I was as happy as I knew
how to be, and until you came I was content! But to-day, well, there are
different things. How can I answer your question, indeed? Tell me what
happiness means! Tell me whether it is an ignoble or a praiseworthy
state!"
Berenice was silent. Into her face there had come a sudden gravity.
Mannering, glancing towards her, was at once conscious of the change. He
saw the weariness so often and zealously repressed, the ageing of her
face, the sudden triumph of the despair which in the quiet moments
chilled her heart. It seemed to him that for that moment they had come
into some closer communion. He bent over towards her.
"Ah!" he murmured, "you, too, are beginning to understand. Happiness is
only for the ignorant. For you and for me knowledge has eaten its way
too far into our lives. We climb all the while, but the flowers in the
meadows are the fairest."
She shook her head.
"The little white flower which grows in the mountains is what we must
always seek," she answered. "The meadows are for the others."
"We are accursed with this knowledge, and the desire for it," he
declared, fiercely. "The suffering is for us, and the joy for the beasts
of the field. Why not throw down the cards? We are the devil's puppets in
this game of life."