enough for them, because the finger has never touched their eyes. But for
us--no, we have to go on! I was a foolish woman, Lawrence. I lost my
sense of proportion. Traditions, you see, were hard to break away from. I
did not understand. Let this be the end of all mention of such things
between us. We have missed the turning, and we must go on. That is the
hardest thing in life. One can never retrace one's steps."
"We go on--apart?"
"We must," she said. "Don't think me prejudiced, Lawrence. I must stand
by my party. Theoretically, I think that you are the only logical
politician I have ever known. Actually, I think that you are steering
your course towards the sandbanks. You will fail, but you will fail
magnificently. Well, that is something."
"It is a good deal," he answered, "but if I live long enough, and my
strength remains, I shall succeed. I shall place the Government of
this country upon an altogether different basis. I shall empty the
work-houses and fill the factories. Nothing short of that will content
me. Nothing short of that would content any man upon whose shoulders the
burden has fallen."
"You have centuries of prejudice to fight," she warned him. "You may not
succeed! Yet you have all my good wishes. I shall always watch you."
They turned homeward in silence. All that had passed between them seemed
to be already far back in the past. Their retrogression seemed almost
symbolical. They spoke of indifferent things.
"Tell me," he asked, "how you came to know what was going on in Leeds."
"It was your wife," she said, "who discovered it!"
"My wife?"
"She saw a telegram on Sir Leslie's table at breakfast, a telegram from
the man Polden. She read it and demanded an explanation. Sir Leslie tried
all he could to wriggle out of it, but in vain. She appealed to me. Even
I had a great deal of difficulty in dealing with him, but eventually he
gave way."
"Then the telegram," Mannering asked, "wasn't that from you?"
She shook her head.
"It was from your wife," she said. "I cannot take much credit for myself.
It is she whom you must thank for your election. I came out at rather
a dramatic moment. Sir Leslie had just offered her money, five hundred
pounds, I think, to give him back his telegram and say nothing. She
appealed to me at once, and Sir Leslie looked positively foolish."
"I am much obliged to you for telling me," Mannering muttered. He
remembered now that he had scarcely spoken a dozen words to his wife
since his return.
"Mrs. Mannering appears to have your interests very much at heart,"
Berenice said, quietly. "She proved herself quite a match for Sir Leslie.
I think that he would have left here at once, only we are expecting Clara
back."
Mannering smiled scornfully.
"I do not think that even Clara," he said, "is quite fool enough not to
recognize in Borrowdean the arrant opportunist. For my part I am glad
that all pretence at friendship between us is now at an end. He is one
of those men whom I should count more dangerous as a friend than as an
enemy."
Berenice did not reply. They were already in the courtyard of the hotel.
Blanche was in a wicker chair in a sunny corner, talking to a couple of
young Englishmen. Berenice turned towards the steps. They parted without
any further words.
CHAPTER VIII
PLAYING THE GAME
Mannering for a moment hesitated. One of the two young men who were
talking to his wife he recognized as a former acquaintance of hers--one
of a genus whom he had little sympathy with and less desire to know.
While he stood there Blanche laughed at some remark made by one of her
companions, and the laugh, too, seemed somehow to remind him of the old
days. He moved slowly forward.
The young men strolled off almost at once. Mannering took a vacant chair
by his wife's side.
"I have only just heard," he said, "how much I have to thank you for. I
took it for granted somehow that it was the Duchess who had discovered
our friend Borrowdean's little scheme and sent that telegram. Why didn't
you sign it?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"It was the Duchess who made him chuck it up," she said. "I could never
have made him do that. I was an idiot to let Parkins stay in England at
all."
"I always understood," he said, "that he was dead."
"I let you think so," she answered. "I thought you might worry. But
seriously, if he told the truth, now, after all these years, would any
one take any notice of it?"
"Very likely not," he said, "so far as regards any criminal
responsibility. But our political life is fenced about by all the
middle-class love of propriety and hatred of all form of scandal.
Parkins's story, authenticated or not, would have lost me my seat
for Leeds."
"Then I am very glad," she said, "that I happened to see the telegram. Do
you know where Parkins is now?"
"One of my supporters," he said, "a queer little man named Richard
Fardell, has him in tow. He is bringing him up to London, I think."
She nodded.
"What are you doing this afternoon?" he asked.
She looked at him curiously.
"Mr. Englehall has asked me to go out in his car," she said. "I am rather
tired of motoring, but I think I shall go."
Mannering lit a cigarette which he had just taken from his case.
"I don't think I should," he remarked.
She turned her head slowly, and looked at him.
"Why not?" she asked. "How can it concern you? Your plans for the
afternoon are, I presume, already made!"
"It may not concern me directly," he answered, "but I have an idea that
Mr. Englehall is not exactly the sort of person I care to have you
driving about with."
She laughed hardly.
"I am most flattered by your interest in me," she declared. "Pray
consider Mr. Englehall disposed of. You have some other plans, perhaps?"
"If you care to," he said, "we will walk down to the club for lunch and
come home by the sea."
"Alone?"
"Certainly! Unless you choose to bring Hester."
She rose slowly to her feet.
"No," she said. "Let us go alone. It will be almost the first time since
we were married, I think. I am curious to see how much I can bore you!
Will you wait here while I find a hat?"
She disappeared inside the hotel. Mannering watched her absently. In
a vague sort of way he was wondering what it was that had made their
married life so completely a failure. He had imagined her as asking very
little from him, content with the shelter of his name and home, content
at any rate without those things of which he had made no mention when he
had spoken to her of marriage. And he was becoming gradually aware that
it was not so. She expected, had hoped for more. The terms which he had
zealously striven to cultivate with her were terms of which she clearly
did not approve. The signs of revolt were already apparent.
Mannering became absorbed in thought. He remembered clearly the feelings
with which he had gone to her and made his offer. He went over it all
again. Surely he had made himself understood? But then there was her
confession to him, the confession of her love. He had ignored that, but
it was unforgetable. Had he not tacitly accepted the whole situation? If
so, was he doing his duty? The shelter of his name and home, what were
those to a warm-hearted woman, if she loved him? He had married her,
loving another woman. She must have known this, but did she understand
that he was not prepared to make any effort to accept the inevitable? He
was still deep in thought when Berenice came out.
"What are you doing there all by yourself?" she asked. "Where is your
wife?"
"She has gone to get a hat," he answered. "We thought of going to the
club for _déjeuner_."
She nodded.
"A delightful idea," she said. "Do invite me, and I will take you in the
car. Mrs. Mannering likes motoring, I know."
"Of course!" he said. "We shall be delighted!"
She beckoned to her chauffer, who was in the courtyard. Just then Blanche
came out. She had changed her gown for one of plain white serge, and she
wore a hat of tuscan straw which Mannering had once admired.
"You won't mind motoring, Mrs. Mannering?" Berenice said, as she
approached. "I have invited myself to luncheon with you, and I am going
to take you round to the club in the car."
Blanche stood quite still for a moment. The sun was in her eyes, and she
lowered her parasol for a moment.
"It will be very pleasant," she said, quietly, "only I think that I will
go in and change my hat. I thought that we were going to walk."
She retraced her steps, walking a little wearily. Berenice came and sat
down by Mannering's side.
"I hope Mrs. Mannering does not object to my coming," she said. "It
occurred to me that she was not particularly cordial."
"It is only her manner," he answered. "It is very good of you to take
us."
"Your wife doesn't like me," Berenice said. "I wonder why. I thought that
I had been rather decent to her."
"Blanche is a little odd," Mannering answered. "I am afraid that it is my
fault. Here are the Redfords. I wonder if they would join us."
"Three," she murmured, "is certainly an awkward number."
In the end the party became rather a large one, for Lord Redford met some
old friends at the club who insisted upon their joining tables. In the
interval, whilst they waited for luncheon, Mannering contrived to have
a word alone with his wife.
"I am not responsible," he said, "for this enlargement of our party. The
Duchess invited herself."
"It does not matter," she declared, listlessly. "What are you doing
afterwards?"
"Playing golf, I fancy," he answered. "You heard what Redford said about
a foursome."
"And you are returning--when?"
"I must leave here at six to-morrow morning."
They were leaning over the white palings of the pavilion, looking out
upon the last green. She seemed to be watching the approach of two
players who were just coming in.
"It is a long way to come," she remarked, "for so short a time."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"The aftermath of a contested election is a thing to escape from," he
said. "I felt that I wanted to get as far away as possible, and then
again I wanted to find out who it was who had sent that telegram."
They sat apart at luncheon, and Blanche was much quieter than usual. The
others were all old friends. It seemed to her more than ordinarily
apparent that she was present on sufferance, accepted as Mannering's
wife, as an evil to be endured, and, so far as possible, ignored.
Mannering himself spoke to her now and then across the table. Lord
Redford, always good-natured, made a few efforts to draw her into the
conversation. But it seemed to her that she had lost her confidence. The
freemasonry of old acquaintance which existed between all of them left
her outside an invisible but very real circle. Words came to her with
difficulty. She felt stupid, almost shy. When she made an effort to break
through it she was acutely conscious of her failure. Her laugh was too
hard, it lacked sincerity or restraint. The cigarette which she smoked
out of bravado with her coffee, seemed somehow out of place. When at last
luncheon was over Mannering left his place and came over to her.
"The Duchess and I," he said, "are going to play Lord Redford and Mrs.
Arbuthnot. Won't you walk round with us? The links are really very
pretty."
"Thanks, I hate watching golf," she answered, rising and shaking out her
skirt. "Hester and I will walk home."
"Do take the car, Mrs. Mannering," Berenice said. "It will simply be
waiting here doing nothing."
"Thank you," Blanche answered. "I shall enjoy the walk."
The foursome was played in very leisurely fashion. There was plenty of
time for conversation.
"I don't quite understand your wife," Berenice said to Mannering. "Her
dislike of me is a little too obvious. What does it mean? Do you know?"
He shook his head. He was looking very pale and tired.
"I am not sure that I know anything about it at all," he said. "I am
beginning to distrust my own judgment."
"Your marriage--" she began, thoughtfully.
"Don't let us talk about it," he interrupted. "I tried to pay a debt.
It seems to me that I have only incurred a fresh one."
They were silent for some time. Then their opponents lost a ball and
displayed no particular diligence in attempting to find it. Berenice sat
down upon a plank seat.
"Your marriage," she said, "seemed always to me a piece of quixotism.
I never altogether understood it."
"It was an affair of impulse," he said, slowly. "Life from a personal
point of view had lost all interest to me. I did not dream after
my--shall we call it apostacy?--that I could rely upon even a modicum
of your friendship. I looked upon myself as an outcast commencing life
afresh. Then chance intervened. I thought I saw my way to making some
atonement to a woman whose life I had certainly helped to ruin. That was
where the serious part of the mistake came. I thought what I had to offer
would be sufficient. I am beginning now to doubt it."
"And what are you going to do?" she asked, looking steadily away from
him.
"Heaven knows," he answered, bitterly. "I cannot give what I do not
possess."
Was it his fancy, or was there a gleam of satisfaction about her still,
pale face? He went on.
"I don't want to play the hypocrite. On the other hand I don't want all
that I have done to go for nothing. Can you advise me?"
"No, nor any one else," she answered, softly.
"Yet I can perhaps correct a little your point of view. I think that you
overestimate your indebtedness to the woman whom you have made your wife.
Her husband was a weak, dissipated creature and he was a doomed man long
before that unfortunate day. It is even very questionable whether that
scene in which you figured had anything whatever to do in hastening his
death. That is a good many years ago, and ever since then you seem to
have impoverished yourself to find her the means to live in luxury. I
consider that you paid your debt over and over again, and that your final
act of self-abnegation was entirely uncalled for. What more she wants
from you I do not know. Perhaps I can imagine."
There was a moment's silence. She turned her head and looked at
him--looked him in the eyes unshamed, yet with her secret shining there
for him to see.
"There may be others, Lawrence," she said, "to whom you owe something. A
woman cannot take back what she has given. There may be sufferers in the
world whom you ought also to consider. And a woman loves to think that
what she may not have herself is at least kept sacred--to her memory."
"Fore!" cried Lord Redford, who had found his ball. "Awfully decent of
you people to wait so long. We were afraid you meant to claim the hole!"
Mannering rose to play his shot.
"The Duchess and I, Lord Redford," he said, lightly, "scorn to take small
advantages. We mean to play the game!"
CHAPTER IX
THE TRAGEDY OF A KEY
Blanche, in a plain black net gown, sat on Lord Redford's right hand at
the hastily improvised dinner party that evening. Berenice, more subtly
and more magnificently dressed, was opposite, by Mannering's side. The
conversation seemed mostly to circle about them.
"A very charming place," Lord Redford declared. "I have enjoyed my stay
here thoroughly. Let us hope that we may all meet here again next year,"
he added, raising his glass. "Mannering, you will drink to that, I hope?"
"With all my heart," Mannering answered. "And you, Blanche?"
She raised her almost untasted glass and touched it with her lips. She
set it down with a faint smile. Berenice moved her head towards him.
"Your wife is not very enthusiastic," she remarked.
"She neither plays golf nor bathes," Mannering said. "It is possible that
she finds it a little dull."
"Both are habits which it is possible to acquire," Berenice answered. "I
am telling your husband, Mrs. Mannering," she continued, "that you ought
to learn to play golf."
"Lawrence has offered to teach me more than once," Blanche answered,
calmly. "I am afraid that games do not attract me. Besides, I am too old
to learn!"
"My dear Mrs. Mannering!" Lord Redford protested.
"I am forty-two," Blanche replied, "and at that age a woman thinks twice
before she begins anything new in the shape of vigorous exercise.
Besides, I find plenty to amuse me here."
"Might one ask in what direction?" Berenice murmured. "I have found in
the place many things that are delightful, but not amusing."
"I find amusement often in watching my neighbours," Blanche said. "I like
to ask myself what it is they want, and to study their way of attaining
it. You generally find that every one is fairly transparent when once you
have found the key--and everybody is trying for something which they
don't care for other people to know about."
The Duchess looked at Blanche steadily. There was a certain insolence,
the insolence of her aristocratic birth and assured position in the level
stare of her clear brown eyes. But Blanche did not flinch.
"I had no idea, Mrs. Mannering, that you had tastes of that sort,"
Berenice said, languidly. "Suppose you give us a few examples."
"Not for the world," Blanche answered, fervently. "Did you say that we
were to have coffee outside, Lord Redford? How delightful! I wonder if
Lady Redford is ready."
They all trooped out in a minute or two. Berenice laid her hand upon
Mannering's arm.
"Your wife," she said, quietly, "is going a little too far. She is
getting positively rude to me!"
Mannering muttered some evasive reply. He, too, had marked the note of
battle in Blanche's tone. He had noticed, too, the unusual restraint of
her manner. She had drunk little or no wine at dinner time, and she had
talked quietly and sensibly. Directly they reached the courtyard she
seated herself on a settee for two, and made room for him by her side.
"Come and tell me about the golf match," she said. "Who won?"
Mannering had no alternative but to obey. Lady Redford, however, drew her
chair up close to theirs, and the conversation was always general.
Berenice in a few minutes rose to her feet.
"Listen to the sea," she exclaimed. "Don't some of you want to come down
to the rocks and watch it?"
Blanche rose up at once.
"Do come, Lawrence, if you are not too tired!" she said.
The whole party trooped out on to the promenade. Blanche passed her arm
through her husband's, and calmly appropriated him.
"You can walk with whom you please presently, Lawrence," she said, "but
I want you for a few minutes. I suppose you will admit that I have some
claim?"
"Certainly," Mannering answered. "I have never denied it."
"I am your wife," Blanche said, "though heaven knows why you ever married
me. The Duchess is, I suppose, the woman whom you would have married if
you hadn't got into a mess with your politics. She is a very attractive
woman, and you married me, of course, out of pity, or some such maudlin
reason. But all the same I am here, and--I don't care what you do when
I can't see you, but I won't have her make love to you before my face."
"The Duchess is not that sort of woman, Blanche," Mannering said,
gravely.
"Isn't she?" Blanche remarked, unconvinced. "Well, I've watched her, and
in my opinion she isn't very different from any other sort of woman. Do
you wish you were free very much? I know she does!"
"Is there any object to be gained by this conversation?" Mannering asked.
"Frankly, I don't like it. I made you no absurd promises when I married
you. I think that you understood the position very well. So far as I know
I have given you no cause to complain."
They had reached the end of the promenade. Blanche leaned over the rail.
Her eyes seemed fixed upon a light flashing and disappearing across the
sea. Mannering stood uncomfortably by her side.
"No cause to complain!" she repeated, as though to herself. "No,
I suppose not. And yet, how much the better off do you think I am,
Lawrence? I had friends before of some sort or another. Some of them
pretended to like me, even if they didn't. I did as I chose. I lived as I
liked. I was my own mistress. And now--well, there is no one! I enjoy the
respectability of your name, the privilege of knowing your friends, the
ability to pay my bills, but I should go stark mad if it wasn't for
Hester. I gave myself away to you, I know. You married me for pity, I
know. But what in God's name do I get out of it?"
A note of real passion quivered in her tone. Mannering looked down at her
helplessly, taken wholly aback, without the power for a moment to
formulate his thoughts. There was a touch of colour in her pale cheeks,
her eyes were lit with an unusual fire. The faint moonlight was kind to
her. Her features, thinner than they had been, seemed to have gained a
certain refinement. She reminded him more than ever before of the Blanche
of many years ago. He answered her kindly, almost tenderly.
"I am very sorry," he said, "if I have caused you any suffering. What I
did I did for the best. I don't think that I quite understood, and I
thought that you knew--what had come into my life."
"I knew that you cared for her, of course," she answered, with a little
sob, "but I did not know that you meant to nurse it--that feeling. I
thought that when we were married you would try to care for me--a little.
I--Here are the others!"
Lord Redford, who had failed to amuse Berenice, and who had a secret
preference for the woman who generally amused him, broke up their
_tête-à-tête_. He led Blanche away, and Mannering followed with Berenice.
"What does this change in your wife mean?" she asked, abruptly.
"Change?" he repeated.
"Yes! She watches us! If it were not too absurd, one would believe her
jealous. Of course, it is not my business to ask you on what terms you
are with your wife, but--"
"You know what terms," he interrupted.
Her manner softened. She looked at him for a moment and then her eyes
dropped.
"I am rather a hateful woman!" she said, slowly. "I wish I had not said
that. I don't think we have managed things very cleverly, Lawrence.
Still, I suppose life is made up of these sorts of idiotic blunders."
"Mine," he said, "has been always distinguished by them."
"And mine," she said, "only since I came to Blakely, and learnt to talk
nonsense in your rose-garden! But come," she added, more briskly, "we are
breaking our compact. We agreed to be friends, you know, and abjure
sentiment."
He nodded.
"It seemed quite easy then," he remarked.
"And it is easy now! It must be," she added. "I have scarcely
congratulated you upon your election. What it all means, and with which
party you are going to vote, I scarcely know even now. But I can at least
congratulate you personally."
"You are generous," he said, "for I suppose I am a deserter. As to where
I shall sit, it is very hard to tell. I fancy myself that we are on the
eve of a complete readjustment of parties. Wherever I may find myself,
however, it will scarcely be with your friends."
She nodded.
"I realize that, and I am sorry," she said. "All that we need is a
leader, and you might have been he. As it is, I suppose we shall muddle
along somehow until some one comes out of the ruck strong enough to pull
us together.... Come and see me in London, Lawrence. Who knows but that
you may be able to convert me!"
"You are too staunch," he answered, "and you have not seen what I have
seen."
She sighed.
"Didn't you once tell me at Blakely that politics for a woman was a
mischosen profession--that we were at once too obstinate and too
sentimental? Perhaps you were right. We don't come into touch with
the same forces that you meet with, and we come into touch with others
which make the world seem curiously upside-down. Good-night, Lawrence!
I am going to my room quietly. Lady Redford wants to play bridge, and I
don't feel like it! _Bon voyage!_"
Mannering stood alone in the little courtyard, lit now with hanging
lights, and crowded with stray visitors who had strolled in from the
streets. The rest of the party had gone into the salon beyond, and
Mannering felt curiously disinclined to join them. Suddenly there was a
touch upon his arm. He turned round. Blanche was standing there looking
up at him. Something in her face puzzled him. Her eyes fell before his.
She was pale, yet as he looked at her a flood of colour rushed into her
cheeks. His momentary impression of her eyes was that they were very soft
and very bright. She had thrown off her wrap, and with her left hand was
holding up her white skirt. Her right hand was clenched as though holding
something, and extended timidly towards him.
"I wanted to say good-night to you--and--there was something else--this!"
Something passed from her hand to his, something cold and hard. He looked
at her in amazement, but she was already on her way up the grey stone
steps which led from the courtyard into the hotel, and she did not turn
back. He opened his hand and stared at what he found there. It was a
key--number forty-four, _Premier étage_.
CHAPTER X
BLANCHE FINDS A WAY OUT
Mannering was conscious of an overpowering desire to be alone. He made
his way out of the courtyard and back to the promenade. Some of the
lights were already extinguished, and a slight drizzling rain was
falling. He walked at once to the further wall, and stood leaning over,
looking into the chaos of darkness. The key, round which his fingers
were still tightly clenched, seemed almost to burn his flesh.
What to do? How much more of himself was he bound to surrender? Through a
confusion of thoughts some things came to him then very clearly. Amongst
others the grim, pitiless selfishness of his life. How much must she have
suffered before she had dared to do this thing! He had taken up a burden
and adjusted the weight to suit himself. He had had no thought for her,
no care save that the seemliness of his own absorbed life might not be
disturbed. And behind it all the other reason. What a pigmy of a man he
was, after all.
A clock from the town struck eleven. He must decide! A vision of her rose
up before him. He understood now her weakness and her strength. She was
an ordinary woman, seeking the affection her sex demanded from its
legitimate source. He understood the coming and going of the colour in
her cheeks, her strained attempts to please, her barely controlled
jealousy. In that mad moment when he had planned for her salvation he had
imagined that she would have understood. What folly! Why should she? The
complex workings of his innermost nature were scarcely likely to have
been patent to her. What right had he to build upon that? What right, as
an honest man, to contract a debt he never meant to pay? If he had not at
the moment realized his responsibilities that was his own fault. From her
point of view they were obvious enough, and it was from her point of view
as well as his own that they must be considered.
He turned back to the hotel, walking a little unsteadily. All the time he
was not sure that this was not a dream. And then on the wet pavement he
came face to face with two cloaked figures, one of whom stopped short and
called him by name. It was Berenice!
"You!" he exclaimed, more than ever sure that he was not properly awake.
"Is it so wonderful?" she answered. "To tell you the truth, I was not
sleepy, and I felt like a little walk. You can go back now, Bryan," she
said, turning to her maid. "Mr. Mannering will see me home."
As though by mutual consent they crossed to the sea-wall.
"What made you come out again?" she asked. "No, don't answer me! I think
that I know."
"Impossible," he murmured.
"I was going up to my room," she said, "and as I passed the landing
window which looks into the courtyard I saw you talking to your wife.
I--I am afraid that I watched. I saw her leave you."
"Yes!"
"What was it that she gave you? What is it that you have in your hand?"
He opened his fingers. She turned her head away. It seemed to him an
eternity that she stood there. When she spoke her voice was scarcely more
than a whisper.
"Lawrence," she said, "we have been very selfish, you and I! There have
been no words between us, but I think the compact has been there all the
same. It seemed to me somehow that it was a compensation, that it was
part of the natural order of things, that as our own folly had kept us
apart, you should still belong to me--in my thoughts. And I have no right
to this, or any share of you, Lawrence."
He drew a little nearer to her. She moved instantly away.
"I am glad," she said, "that our party breaks up to-morrow. When we meet
again, Lawrence, it must be differently. I am parting with a great deal
that has been precious to me, but it must be. It is quite clear."
"I made no promise!" he cried, hoarsely. "I did not mean--"
She stopped him with a swift glance.
"Never mind that. You and I are not of the race of people who shrink from
their duty, or fear to do what is right. Your wife's face taught me mine.
Your conscience will tell you yours."
"You mean?" he exclaimed.
"You know what I mean. We shall meet again, of course, but this is none
the less our farewell. No, don't touch me! Not even my hand, Lawrence.
Don't make it any harder. Let us go in."
But he did not move. The place where they stood was deserted. From below
the white spray came leaping up almost to their faces as the waves beat
against the wall. Behind them the town was black and deserted, save where
a few lights gleamed out from the hotel. She shivered a little, and drew
her cloak around her.
"Come," she said, "I am getting cold and cramped."
He walked by her side to the hotel. At the foot of the steps she left
him.
"We shall meet again in London," she said, quietly. "Don't be too hard
upon your old friends when you take your seat. Remember that you were
once one of us."
She looked round and waved her hand as she disappeared. He caught a
glimpse of her face as she passed underneath the hanging lamp--the face
of a tired woman suddenly grown old. With a little groan he made his way
into the hotel, and slowly ascended the stairs.
Early the next morning Mannering left Bonestre, and in twenty-four hours
he was back again, summoned by a telegram which had met him in London. It
seemed to him that everybody at the station and about the hotel regarded
him with shocked and respectful sympathy. Hester, looking like a ghost,
took him at once to her room. He was haggard and weary with rapid
travelling, and he sank into a chair.
"Tell me--the worst!" he said.
"She started with Mr. Englehall about mid-day," Hester said. "They had
luggage, but I explained that he was going to Paris, she was coming back
by train. At two o'clock we were rung up on the telephone. Their brake
had snapped going down the hill by St. Entuiel, and the chauffeur--he is
mad now--but they think he lost his nerve. They were dashed into a tree,
and--they were both dead--when they were got out from the wreck."
"God in Heaven!" Mannering murmured, white to the lips.
There was a silence between them. Mannering had covered his head with his
hands. Hester tried once or twice to speak, but the tears were streaming
from her eyes. She had the air of having more to say. The white horror of
tragedy was still in her face.
"There is a letter," she said at last. "She left a letter for you."
Mannering rose slowly to his feet and moved to the lamp. Directly he had
broken the seal he understood. He read the first line and looked up. His
eyes met Hester's.
"Who knows--this?" he asked, hoarsely.
"No one! They had not been gone two hours. I explained everything."
Then Mannering read on.
"My dear Husband:
"I call you that for the last time, for I am going off with Englehall
to Paris. Don't be too shocked, and don't despise me too much. I am
just a very ordinary woman, and I'm afraid I've bad blood in my veins.
Anyhow, I can't go on living under a glass case any longer. The old
life was rotten enough, but this is insupportable. I'm going to have a
fling, and after that I don't care what becomes of me.
"Now, Lawrence, I don't want you to blame yourself. I did think perhaps
that when we were married I might have got you to care for me a little,
but I suppose that was just my vanity. It wasn't very possible with a
woman like--well, never mind who--about. You did your best. You were
very nice and very kind to me last night, but it wasn't the real thing,
was it? I knew you hated being where you were. I could almost hear your
sigh of relief when I let you go. The fact of it is, our marriage was a
mistake. I ought to have been satisfied with your name, I suppose, and
the position it gave me, but I'm not that sort of woman. I've been in
Bohemia too long. I like cheery friends, even if their names are not in
Debrett, and I must have some one to care for me, or to pretend to care
for me. You know I've cared for you--only you in a certain way--but I'm
not heroic enough to be content with a shadowy love. I'm not an
idealist. Imagination doesn't content me in the least. I'd rather have
an inferior substance than ideal perfection. You see, I'm a very
commonplace person at heart, Lawrence--almost vulgar. But these are my
last words to you, so I've gone in for plain speaking. Now you're rid
of me.
"That's all! From your point of view I suppose, and your friends, I've
gone to the devil. Don't be too sure of it. I'm going to have a good
time, and when the end comes I'm willing to pay. If you are idiotic
enough to come after me, I shall be angry with you for the first time
in my life, and it wouldn't be the least bit of use. Englehall's an old
friend of mine, and he's a good sort. He's wanted me to do this often
enough for years, but I never felt quite like it. I believe he'd marry
me after, but he's got a wife shut up somewhere.
"I expect you think this a callous sort of letter. Well, I can't help
it. If it disgusts you with me, so much the better. I'm sorry for the
scandal, but you will get over that. Good-bye, Lawrence. Forgive me all
the bother I've been to you.
"Blanche."
Mannering looked up from the letter, and again his eyes met Hester's. The
secret was theirs alone. Very carefully he tore the pages into small
pieces. Then he opened the stove and watched them consumed.
"No one will ever know," Hester said. "She said--when she left--that it
was a morning's ride--but motors were so uncertain that she took a bag."
Mannering's eyes were filled once more with tears. The intolerable pity
of the whole thing, its awful suddenness swept every other thought out of
his mind. He remembered how anxiously she had tried to please him on that
last night. He loathed himself for the cold brutality of his chilly
affection. Hester came and knelt by his side, but she said nothing. So
the hours passed.
BOOK IV
CHAPTER I
THE PERSISTENCY OF BORROWDEAN
"And what does Mannering think of it all, I wonder!" Lord Redford
remarked, lighting a fresh cigarette. "This may be his opportunity, who
can tell!"
"Will he have the nerve to grasp it?" Borrowdean asked. "Mannering has
never been proved in a crisis."
"He may have the nerve. I should be more inclined to question the
desire," Lord Redford said. "For a man in his position he has always
seemed to me singularly unambitious. I don't think that the prospect of
being Prime Minister would dazzle him in the least. It is part of the
genius of the politician too, to know exactly when and how to seize an
opportunity. I can imagine him watching it come, examining it through his
eyeglass, and standing on one side with a shrug of the shoulders."
"You do not believe, then," Berenice said, "that he is sufficiently in
earnest to grasp it?"
"Exactly," Lord Redford said. "I have that feeling about Mannering, I
must admit, especially during the last two years. He seems to have drawn
away from all of us, to live altogether too absorbed and self-contained
a life for a man who has great ambitions to realize, or who is in
downright earnest about his work."
"What you all forget when you discuss Lawrence Mannering is this,"
Berenice said. "He holds his position almost as a sacred charge. He is
absolutely conscientious. He wants certain things for the sake of the
people, and he will work steadily on until he gets them. I believe it is
the truth that he has no personal ambition, but if the cause he has at
heart is to be furthered at all it must be by his taking office.
Therefore I think that when the time comes he will take it."
"That sounds reasonable enough," Lord Redford admitted. "By the bye, did
you notice that he is included in the house party at Sandringham again
this week?"
Anstruther, the youngest Cabinet Minister, and Lord Redford's nephew,
joined in the conversation.
"I can tell you something for a fact," he said. "My cousin is
Lady-in-Waiting, and she's been up in town for a few days, and she asked
me about Mannering. A Certain Personage thinks very highly of him indeed.
Told some one that Mr. Mannering was the most statesman-like politician
in the service of his country. I believe he'd sooner see Mannering Prime
Minister than any one."
"But he has no following," Borrowdean objected.
"I think," Berenice said, slowly, "that he keeps as far aloof as possible
for one reason, and one reason only. He avoids friendship, but he makes
no enemies. He cultivates a neutral position whenever he can. What he is
looking forward to, I am sure, is to found a coalition Government."
"It is very possible," Lord Redford remarked. "I wonder if he will ask me
to join."
"Always selfish," Berenice laughed. "You men are all alike!"
"On the contrary," Lord Redford answered, "my interest was purely
patriotic. I cannot imagine the affairs of the country flourishing
deprived of my valuable services. Let us go and wander through the
crowd. Members of a Government in extremes like ours ought not to whisper
together in corners. It gives rise to comment."
Anstruther came hurrying up. He drew Redford on one side.
"Mannering is here," he said, quietly. "Just arrived from Sandringham. He
is looking for you."
Almost as he spoke Mannering appeared. He did not at first see Berenice,
and from the corner where she stood she watched him closely.
It was two years since those few weeks at Bonestre, and during all that
time they had scarcely met. Berenice knew that he had avoided her. For
twelve months he had declined all social engagements, and since then he
had pleaded the stress of political affairs as an excuse for leading the
life almost of a recluse. Unseen herself, she studied him closely. He was
much thinner, and every trace of his once healthy colouring had
disappeared. His eyes seemed deeper set. There were streaks of grey in
his hair. But for all that to her he was unaltered. He was still the one
man in the world. She saw him shake hands with Lord Redford and draw him
a little on one side.
"Can you spare me five minutes?" he asked. "I have a matter to discuss
with you."
"Certainly!" Lord Redford answered. "I am leaving directly, and I might
drive you home if you liked. We heard that you were at Sandringham."
"I came up this afternoon," Mannering answered. "I heard that you were
likely to be here, and as Lady Herrington had been kind enough to send me
a card I came on."
Lord Redford nodded.
"Borrowdean and Anstruther are here too," he remarked. "We all felt in
need of diversion. As you know very well, we're in a tight corner."
Berenice came out from her place. At the sound of the rustling of her
skirts both men turned their heads. She wore a gown of black velvet and a
wonderful rope of pearls hung from her neck. She raised her hand and
smiled at Mannering.
"I am glad to see you again," she said, softly. "It is quite an age since
we met, isn't it?"
He held her hand for a moment. The touch of his fingers chilled her. He
greeted her with quiet courtesy, but there was no answering smile upon
his lips.
"I have heard often of your movements from Clara," he said. "You have
been very kind to her."
"It has never occurred to me in that light," she said. "Clara needs a
chaperon, and I need a companion. We were talking yesterday of going to
Cairo for the winter. My only fear is that I am robbing you of your
niece."
"Please do not let that trouble you," he said. "Clara would be a most
uncomfortable member of my household."
"But are you never at all lonely?" she asked.
"I never have time to think of such a thing," he answered. "Besides, I
have Hester. She makes a wonderful secretary, and she seems to enjoy the
work."
"I should like to have a talk with you some time," she said. "Won't you
come and see me?"
He hesitated.
"It is very kind of you to ask me," he said. "Don't think me churlish,
but I go nowhere. I am trying to make up, you see, for my years of
idleness."
She looked at him steadfastly, and her heart sank. The change in
his outward appearance seemed typical of some deeper and more final
alteration in his whole nature. She felt herself powerless against the
absolute impenetrability of his tone and manner. She felt that he had
fought a battle within himself and conquered; that for some reason or
other he had decided to walk no longer in the pleasanter paths of life.
She had come to him unexpectedly, but he had shown no sign of emotion.
Her influence over him seemed to be wholly a thing of the past. She made
one more effort.
"I think," she said, "that as one grows older one parts the less readily
with the few friends who count. I hope that you will change your mind."
He bowed gravely, but he made no answer. Berenice took Borrowdean's
arm and passed on. There was a little spot of colour in her cheeks.
Borrowdean felt nerved to his enterprise.
"Let us go somewhere and sit down for a few minutes," he suggested. "The
rooms are so hot this evening."
She assented without words, and he found a solitary couch in one of the
further apartments.
"I wonder," he said, after a moment's pause, "whether I might say
something to you, whether you would listen to me for a few minutes."
Berenice was absorbed in her own thoughts. She allowed him to proceed.
"For a good many years," he said, lowering his voice a little, "I have
worked hard and done all I could to be successful. I wanted to have some
sort of a position to offer. I am a Cabinet Minister now, and although I
don't suppose we can last much longer this time, I shall have a place
whenever we are in again."
The sense of what he was saying began to dawn upon her. She stopped him
at once.
"Please do not say any more, Sir Leslie," she begged. "I should have
given you credit for sufficient perception to have known beforehand the
absolute impossibility of--of anything of the sort."
"You are still a young woman," he said, quietly. "The world expects you
to marry again."
"I have no interest in what the world expects of me," she answered, "but
I may tell you at once that my refusal has nothing whatever to do with
the question of marriage in the abstract. You are a man of perception,
Sir Leslie! It will be, I trust, sufficient if I say that I have no
feelings whatever towards you which would induce me to consider the
subject even for a moment."
She was unchanged, then! This time he recognized the note of finality
in her tone. All the time and thought he had given to this matter were
wasted. He had failed, and he knew why. He seldom permitted himself the
luxury of anger, but he felt all the poison of bitter hatred stirring
within him at that moment, and craving for some sort of expression. There
was nothing he could do, nothing he could say. But if Mannering had been
within reach then he would have struck him. He rose and walked slowly
away.
CHAPTER II
HESTER THINKS IT "A GREAT PITY"
"You will understand," Mannering said, as the brougham drove off, "that
you and I are speaking together merely as friends. I have nothing
official to say to you. It would be presumption on my part to assume that
the time is ripe for anything definite while you are still at the head of
an unbeaten Government. But one learns to read the signs of the times.
I think that you and I both know that you cannot last the session."
"It is a positive luxury at times," Redford answered, "to be able to
indulge in absolute candour. We cannot last the session. You pulled us
through our last tight corner, but we shall part, I suppose, on the New
Tenement Bill, and then we shall come a cropper."
Mannering nodded.
"The Opposition," he said, "are not strong enough to form a Government
alone. And I do not think that a one-man Cabinet would be popular. It
has been suggested to me that at no time in political history have the
conditions been more favourable for a really strong coalition Government,
containing men of moderate views on both sides. I am anxious to know
whether you would be willing to join such a combination."
"Under whom?" Lord Redford asked.
"Under myself," Mannering answered, gravely. "Don't think me
over-presumptuous. The matter has been very carefully thought out. You
could not serve under Rushleigh, nor could he serve under you. But you
could both be invaluable members of a Cabinet of which I was the nominal
head. I do not wish to entrap you into consent, however, without your
fully understanding this: a modified, and to a certain extent an
experimental, scheme of tariff reform would be part of our programme."
"You wish for a reply," Lord Redford said, "only in general terms?"
"Only in general terms, of course," Mannering assented.
"Then you may take it," Lord Redford said, "that I should be proud to
become a member of such a Government. Anything would be better than a
fourth-party administration with Imperialism on the brain and rank
Protection on their programme. They might do mischief which it would take
centuries to undo."
"We understand one another, Lord Redford," Mannering said, simply. "I am
very much obliged to you. This is my turning."
Mannering, when he found himself alone in his study, drew a little sigh
of relief. He flung himself into an easy-chair, and sat with his hands
pressed against his temples. The events of the day, from the morning at
Sandringham to his recent conversation with Lord Redford, were certainly
of sufficiently exciting a nature to provide him with food for thought.
And yet his mind was full of one thing only, this chance meeting with
Berenice. It was wonderful to him that she should have changed so little.
He himself felt that the last two years were equal to a decade, that
events on the other side of that line with which his life was riven were
events with which some other person was concerned, certainly not the
Lawrence Mannering of to-day. And yet he knew now that the battle which
he had fought was far from a final one. Her power over him was unchanged.
He was face to face once more with the old problem. His life was sworn to
the service of the people. He had crowded his days with thoughts and
deeds and plans for them. Almost every personal luxury and pleasure had
been abnegated. He had found a sort of fierce delight in the asceticism
of his daily life, in the unflinching firmness with which he had barred
the gates which might lead him into smoother and happier ways. To-night
he was beset with a sudden fear. He rose and looked at himself in the
glass. He was pale and wan. His face lacked the robust vitality of a few
years ago. He was ageing fast. He was conscious of certain disquieting
symptoms in the routine of his daily life. He threw himself back into the
chair with a little groan. The mockery of his life of ceaseless toil
seemed suddenly to spread itself out before him, a grim and unlovely
jest. What if his strength should go? What if all this labour and
self-denial should be in vain? He found himself growing giddy at the
thought.
He rang the bell and ordered wine. Then he went to the telephone and rang
up a doctor who lived near. Very soon, with coat and waistcoat off, he
was going through a somewhat prolonged examination. Afterwards the doctor
sat down opposite to him and accepted a cigar.
"What made you send for me this evening?" he asked, curiously.
Mannering hesitated.
"An impulse," he said. "To-morrrow I should have no time to come to
you. I wasn't feeling quite myself, and it is possible that I may be
undertaking some very important work before long."
"I shouldn't if I were you," the doctor remarked, quietly.
"The work is of such a nature," Mannering said, "that I could not refuse
it. It may not come, but if it does I must go through with it."
"I doubt whether you will succeed," the doctor said. "There is nothing
the matter with you except that you have been drawing on your reserve
stock of strength to such an extent that you are on the verge of a
collapse. The longer you stave it off the more complete it will be."
"You are a Job's comforter," Mannering remarked, with a smile. "Send me
some physic, and I will take things as easy as I can."
"I'll send you some," the doctor answered, "but it won't do you much
good. What you want is rest and amusement."
Mannering laughed, and showed him out. When he returned to his study
Hester was there, just returned from a visit to the theatre with some
friends. She threw off her wrap and looked through the letters which had
come by the evening's post.
"Did you see this from Richard Fardell?" she asked him. "Parkins is dead
at last. Fardell says that he has been quite childish for the last
eighteen months! Are you ill?" she broke off, suddenly.
Mannering, who was lying back in his easy-chair, white almost to the
lips, roused himself with an effort. He poured out a glass of wine and
drank it off.
"I'm not ill," he said, with rather a weak smile, "but I'm a little
tired."
"Who was your visitor?" she asked.
"A doctor. I felt a little run down, so I sent for him. Of course he told
me the usual story. Rest and a holiday."
She came and sat on the arm of his chair. Every year she grew less and
less like her mother. Her hair was smoothly brushed back from her
forehead, and her features were distinctly intellectual. She was by far
the best secretary Mannering had ever had.
"You need some one to look after you," she said, decisively.
"It seems to me that you do that pretty well," he answered. "I don't want
any one else."
"You need some one with more authority than I have," she said. "You ought
to marry."
"Marry!" he gasped.
"Yes."
"Any particular person?"
"Of course! You know whom."
Mannering did not reply at once. He was looking steadfastly into the
fire, and the gloom in his face was unlightened.
"Hester," he said, at last, in a very low tone, "I will tell you, if you
like, a short, a very short chapter of my life. It lasted a few hours, a
day or so, more or less. Yet of course it has made a difference always."
"I should like to hear it," she whispered.
"The two great events of my life," he said, "came together. I was engaged
to be married to the Duchess of Lenchester at the same time that I found
myself forced to sever my connexion with the Liberal party. You know, of
course, that the Duchess has always been a great figure in politics. She
has ambitions, and her political creed is almost a part of the religion
of her life. She looked upon my apostasy with horror. It came between us
at the very moment when I thought that I had found in life the one great
and beautiful thing."
"If ever she let it come between you," Hester interrupted, softly, "I
believe that she has repented. We women are quick to find out those
things, you know," she added, "and I am sure that I am right. She has
never married any one else. I do not believe that she ever will."
"It is too late," Mannering said. "A union between us now could only lead
to unhappiness. The disintegration of parties is slowly commencing, and I
think that the next few years will find me still further apart than I am
to-day from my old friends. Berenice"--he slipped so easily into calling
her so--"is heart and soul with them."
"At least," Hester said, "I think that for both your sakes you should
give her the opportunity of choosing."
"Even that," he said, "would not be wise. We are man and woman still, you
see, Hester, and there are moments when sentiment is strong enough to
triumph over principle and sweep our minds bare of all the every-day
thoughts. But afterwards--there is always the afterwards. The conflict
must come. Reason stays with us always, and sentiment might weaken with
the years."
She shook her head.
"The Duchess is a woman," she said, "and the hold of all other things
grows weak when she loves. Give her the chance."
"Don't!" Mannering exclaimed, almost sharply. "You can't see this matter
as I do. I have vowed my life now. I have seen my duty, and I have kept
my face turned steadily towards it. Once I was contented with very
different things, and I think that I came as near happiness then as a man
often does. But those days have gone by. They have left a whole world of
delightful memories, but I have locked the doors of the past behind me."
Hester shook her head.
"You are making a mistake," she said. "Two people who love one another,
and who are honest in their opinions, find happiness sooner or later if
they have the courage to seek for it. Don't you know," she continued,
after a moment's pause, "that--she understood? I always like to think
what I believe to be the truth. She went away to leave you free."
Mannering rose to his feet and pointed to the clock.
"It is time that you and I were in bed, Hester," he said. "Remember that
we have a busy morning."
"It seems a pity," she murmured, as she wished him good-night. "A great
pity!"
CHAPTER III
SUMMONED TO WINDSOR
Berenice, who had just returned from making a call, was standing in the
hall, glancing through the cards displayed upon a small round table. The
major-domo of her household came hurrying out from his office.
"There is a young lady, your Grace," he announced, "who has been waiting
to see you for half an hour. Her name is Miss Phillimore."
"Where is she?" Berenice asked.
"In the library, your Grace."
"Show her into my own room," Berenice said, "I will see her at once."
Hester was a little nervous, but Berenice set her immediately at her ease
by the graciousness of her manner. They talked for some time of Bonestre.
Then there was a moment's pause. Hester summoned up her courage.
"I am afraid," she said, "that you may consider what I am going to say
rather a liberty. I've thought it all out, and I decided to come to you.
I couldn't see any other way."
Berenice smiled encouragingly.
"I will promise you," she said, "that I will consider it nothing of the
sort."
"That is very kind of you," Hester said. "I have come here because Mr.
Mannering is the greatest friend I have in the world. He stands to me for
all the relatives most girls have, and I am very fond of him indeed. I
scarcely remember my father, but Mr. Mannering was always kind to me when
I was a child. You know, perhaps, that I am living with him now as his
secretary?"
Berenice nodded pleasantly.
"I see him every day," Hester continued, "and I notice things. He has
changed a great deal during the last few years. I am getting very anxious
about him."
"He is not ill, I hope?" Berenice asked. "I too noticed a change. It
grieved me very much."
"He is simply working himself to death," Hester continued, "without
relaxation or pleasure of any sort. And all the time he is unhappy. Other
men, however hard they work, have their hobbies and their occasional
holidays. He has neither. And I think that I know why. He fights all the
time to forget."
"To forget what?" Berenice asked, slowly turning her head.
"To forget how near he came once to being very happy," Hester answered,
boldly. "To forget--you!"
Then her heart sang a little song of triumph, for she saw the instant
change in the still, cold face turned now a little away from her. She saw
the proud lips tremble and the unmistakable light leap out from the dark
eyes. She saw the colour rush into the cheeks, and she had no more fear.
She rose from her chair and dropped on one knee by Berenice's side.
"Make him happy, please," she begged. "You can do it. You only! He loves
you!"
Berenice smiled, although her eyes were wet with tears. She laid her
long, delicate fingers upon the other's hand.
"But, my dear child," she protested, "what can I do? Mr. Mannering won't
come near me. He won't even write to me. I can't take him by storm, can
I?"
"He is so foolish," Hester said, also smiling. "He will not understand
how unimportant all other things are when two people care for one
another. He talks about the difference in your politics, as though that
were sufficient to keep you apart!"
Berenice was silent for a moment.
"There was a time," she said, softly, "when I thought so, too."
"Exactly!" Hester declared. "And he doesn't know, of course, that you
don't think so now."
Berenice smiled slightly.
"You must remember, dear," she said, "that Mr. Mannering and I are in
rather a peculiar position. My great-grandfather, my father and my uncle
were all Prime Ministers of England, and they were all staunch Liberals.
My family has always taken its politics very seriously indeed, and so
have I. It is not a little thing, this, after all."
"But you will do it!" Hester exclaimed. "I am sure that you will."
Berenice rose to her feet. A sense of excitement was suddenly quivering
in her veins, her heart was beating fiercely. After all, this child
was wise. She had been drifting into the dull, passionless life of a
middle-aged woman. All the joys of youth seemed suddenly to be sweeping
up from her heart, mocking the serenity of her days, these stagnant days,
sheltered from the great winds of life, where the waves were ripples and
the hours changeless. She raised her arms for a moment and dropped them
to her side.
"Oh, I do not know!" she cried. "It is such an upheaval. If he were
here--if he asked me himself. But he will never come now."
"I believe that he would come to-morrow," Hester said, "if he were
sure--"
Berenice laughed softly. There was colour in her cheeks as she turned to
Hester.
"Tell him to come and have tea with me to-morrow afternoon," she said. "I
shall be quite alone."
* * * * *
Hester felt all her confidence slipping away from her. The echoes of her
breathless, passionate words had scarcely died away, and Mannering, to
all appearance, was unmoved. His still, cold face showed no signs of
agitation, his dark, beringed eyes were full of nothing but an intense
weariness.
"Do I understand, Hester," he asked, "that you have been to see the
Duchess?--that you have spoken of these things to her?"
Her heart sank. His tone was almost censorious. Nevertheless, she stood
her ground.
"Yes! I have told you the truth. And I am glad that I went. You are very
clever people, both of you, but you are spoiling your lives for the sake
of a little common sense. It was necessary for some one to interfere."
Mannering shook his head slowly.
"You meant kindly, Hester," he said, "but it was a mistake. The time when
that might have been possible has gone by. Neither she nor I can call
back the hand of time. The last two years have made an old man of me. I
have no longer my enthusiasm. I am in the whirlpool, and I must fight my
way through to the end."
She sat at his feet. He was still in the easy-chair into which he had
sunk on his first coming into the room. He had been speaking in the House
late, amidst all the excitement of a political crisis.
"Why fight alone," she murmured, "when she is willing to come to you?"
He shook his head.
"There would be conditions," he said, "and she would not understand. I
may be in office in a month with most of her friends in opposition. The
situation would be impossible!"
"Rubbish!" Hester declared. "The Duchess is too great a woman to lose so
utterly her sense of proportion. Don't you understand--that she loves
you?"
Mannering laughed bitterly.
"She must love a shadow, then!" he said, "for the man she knew does not
exist any longer. Poor little girl, are you disappointed?" he added, more
kindly. "I am sorry!"
"I am disappointed to hear you talking like this," she declared. "I will
not believe that it is more than a mood. You are overtired, perhaps!"
"Ay!" he said. "But I have been overtired for a long time. The strength
the gods give us lasts a weary while. You must send my excuses to the
Duchess, Hester. The fates are leading me another way."
"I won't do it," she sobbed. "You shall be reasonable! I will make you
go!"
He shook his head.
"If you could," he murmured, "you might alter the writing on one little
page of history. We defeated the Government to-night badly, and I am
going to Windsor to-morrow afternoon."
Hester rose to her feet and paced the room restlessly. Mannering had
spoken without exultation. His pallid face seemed to her to have grown
thin and hard. He saw himself the possible Prime Minister of the morrow
without the slightest suggestion of any sort of gratified ambition.
"I don't know whether to say that I am glad or not," Hester declared,
stopping once more by his side. "If you are going to shut yourself off
from everything else in life which makes for happiness, to forget that
you are a man, and turn yourself into a law-making machine, well, then,
I am sorry. I think that your success will be a curse to you. I think
that you will live to regret it."
Mannering looked at her for a moment with a gleam of his old self shining
out of his eyes. A sudden pathos, a wave of self-pity had softened his
face.
"Dear child!" he said, gravely, "I cannot make you understand. I carry
a burden from which no one can free me. For good or for evil the powers
that be have set my feet in the path of the climbers, and for the sake of
those whose sufferings I have seen I must struggle upwards to the end.
Berenice and the Duchess of Lenchester are two very different persons. I
cannot take one into my life without the other. It is because I love her,
Hester, that I let her go. Good-night, child!"
She kissed his hand and went slowly to her room, stumbling upstairs
through a mist of tears. There was nothing more that she could do.
CHAPTER IV
CHECKMATE TO BORROWDEAN
Mannering's town house, none too large at any time, was transformed into
a little hive of industry. Two hurriedly appointed secretaries were at
work in the dining-room, and Hester was busy typing in her own little
sanctum.
Mannering sat in his study before a table covered with papers, and for
the first time during the day was alone for a few moments.
His servant brought in a card. Mannering glanced at it and frowned.
"The gentleman said that he would not keep you for more than a moment,
sir," the servant announced quietly, mindful of the half-sovereign which
had been slipped into his hand.
Mannering still looked at the card doubtfully.
"You can show him up," he said at last.
"Very good, sir!"
The man withdrew, and reappeared to usher in Sir Leslie Borrowdean.
Mannering greeted him without offering his hand.
"You wished to see me, Sir Leslie?" he asked.
Borrowdean came slowly into the room. He closed the door behind him.
"I hope," he said, "that you will not consider my presence an intrusion!"
"You have business with me, I presume," Mannering answered, coldly. "Pray
sit down."
Borrowdean ignored the chair, towards which Mannering had motioned. He
came and stood by the side of the table.
"Unless your memory, Mannering," he said, with a hard little laugh, "is
as short as the proverbial politician's, you can scarcely be surprised at
my visit."
Mannering raised his eyebrows, and said nothing.
"I must confess," Borrowdean continued, "that I scarcely expected to find
it necessary for me to come here and remind you that it was I who am
responsible for your reappearance in politics."
"I am not likely," Mannering said, slowly, "to forget your good offices
in that respect."
"I felt sure that you would not," Borrowdean answered. "Yet you must not
altogether blame me for my coming! I understand that the list of your
proposed Cabinet is to be completed to-morrow afternoon, and as yet I
have heard nothing from you."
"Your information," Mannering said, "is quite correct. In fact, my list
is complete already. If your visit here is one of curiosity, I have no
objection to gratify it. Here is a list of the names I have selected."
He handed a sheet of paper to Borrowdean, who glanced it eagerly down.
Afterwards he looked up and met Mannering's calm gaze. There was an
absolute silence for several seconds.
"My name," Borrowdean said, hoarsely, "is not amongst these!"
"It really never occurred to me for a single second to place it there,"
Mannering answered.
Borrowdean drew a little breath. He was deathly pale.
"You include Redford," he said. "He is a more violent partizan than I
have ever been. I have heard you say a dozen times that you disapprove of
turning a man out of office directly he has got into the swing of it. Has
any one any fault to find with me? I have done my duty, and done it
thoroughly. I don't know what your programme may be, but if Redford can
accept it I am sure that I can."
"Possibly," Mannering answered. "I have this peculiarity, though. Call it
a whim, if you like. I desire to see my Cabinet composed of honourable
men."
Borrowdean started back as though he had received a blow.
"Am I to accept that as a statement of your opinion of me?" he demanded.
"It seems fairly obvious," Mannering answered, "that such was my
intention."
"You owe your place in public life to me," Borrowdean exclaimed.
"If I do," Mannering answered, "do you imagine that I consider myself
your debtor? I tell you that to-day, at this moment, I have no political
ambitions. Before you appeared at Blakely and commenced your underhand
scheming, I was a contented, almost a happy man. You imagined that my
reappearance in political life would be beneficial to you, and with that
in view, and that only, you set yourself to get me back. You succeeded!
We won't say how! If you are disappointed with the result what concern
is that of mine? You have called yourself my friend. I have not for some
time considered you as such. I owe you nothing. I have no feeling for
you save one of contempt. To me you figure as the modern political
adventurer, living on his wits and the credulity of other people. Better
see how it will pay you in opposition."
Borrowdean, a cold-blooded and calculating man, knew for the first time
in his life what it was to let his passions govern him. Every word which
this man had spoken was truth, and therefore all the more bitter to hear.
He saw himself beaten and humiliated, outwitted by the man whom he had
sought to make his tool. A slow paroxysm of anger held him rigid. He was
white to the lips. His nerves and senses were all tingling. There was red
fire before his eyes.
"If your business with me is ended," Mannering said, waving his hand
towards the door, "you will forgive me if I remind you that I am much
occupied."
Borrowdean snatched up the square glass paper cutter from the table, and
without a second's warning he struck Mannering with it full upon the
temple.
"Damn you!" he said.
Mannering tried to struggle to his feet, but collapsed, and fell upon the
floor. Borrowdean kicked his prostrate body.
"Now go and form your Cabinet," he muttered. "May you wake in hell!"
* * * * *
Borrowdean, who left the study a madman, was a sane person the moment
he began to descend the stairs and found himself face to face with a
tall, heavily cloaked woman. The flash of familiar jewels in her hair,
something, perhaps, in the quiet stateliness of her movements, betrayed
her identity to him. His heart gave a quick jump. A sickening fear stole
over him. He barred the way.
"Duchess!" he exclaimed.
She waved him aside with an impatient gesture. He could see the frown
gathering upon her face.
"Sir Leslie!" she replied. "Please let me pass! I want to see Mr.
Mannering before any one else goes up!"
Sir Leslie drew immediately to one side.
"Pray do not let me detain you," he said, coolly. "Between ourselves, I
do not think that Mannering is in a fit state to see anybody. I have not
been able to get a coherent word out of him. He walks all the time
backwards and forwards like a man demented."
Berenice smiled slightly.
"You are annoyed," she declared, "because you will be in opposition once
more!"
"If I go into opposition again," Borrowdean answered, "it will be my own
choice. Mannering has asked me to join his Cabinet."
Berenice raised her eyebrows. Her surprise was genuine.
"You amaze me!" she declared.
"I was amazed myself," he answered.
She passed on her way, and Borrowdean descending, took a cab quietly
home. Berenice, with her hand upon the door, hesitated. Hester had
purposely sent her up alone. They had waited until they had heard
Borrowdean leave the room. And now at the last moment she hesitated. She
was a proud woman. She was departing now, for his sake, from the
conventions of a lifetime. He had declined to come to her; no matter, she
had come to him instead. Suppose--he should not be glad? Suppose she
should fail to see in his face her justification? It was very quiet in
the room. She could not even hear the scratching of his pen. Twice her
fingers closed upon the knob of the door, and twice she hesitated. If it
had not been for facing Hester below she would probably have gone
silently away.
And then--she heard a sound. It was not at all the sort of sound for
which she had been listening, but it brought her hesitation to a sudden
end. She threw open the door, and a little cry of amazement broke from
her trembling lips. It was indeed a groan which she had heard. Mannering
was stretched upon the floor, his eyes half closed, his face ghastly
white. For a moment she stood motionless, a whole torrent of arrested
speech upon her quivering lips. Then she dropped on her knees by his side
and lifted his cold hand.
"Oh, my love!" she murmured. "My love!"
But he made no sign. Then she stood up, and her cry of horror rang
through the house.
CHAPTER V
A BRAZEN PROCEEDING
Mannering opened his eyes lazily. His companion had stopped suddenly in
his reading. He appeared to be examining a certain paragraph in the paper
with much interest. Mannering stretched out his hand for a match, and
relit his cigarette.
"Read it out, Richard," he said. "Don't mind me."
The young man started slightly.
"I am very sorry, sir," he said. "I thought that you were asleep!"
Mannering smiled.
"What about the paragraph?" he asked.
"It is just this," Richard answered, reading. "'The Duchess of Lenchester
and Miss Clara Mannering have arrived at Claridge's from the South of
Italy.'"
Mannering looked at him keenly.
"I am curious to know which part of that announcement you find so
interesting," he said.
"Certainly not the latter part, sir," the young man answered. "I thought
perhaps you would have noticed--I meant to speak to you as soon as you
were a little stronger--I have asked Hester to be my wife!"
"Then all I can say," Mannering declared, gravely, "is, that you are a
remarkably sensible young man. I am quite strong enough to bear a shock
of that sort."
"I'm very glad to hear you say so, sir," Richard said. "Of course I
shouldn't think of taking her away until you were quite yourself again."
"The cheek of the young man!" Mannering murmured. "She wouldn't go!"
"I don't believe she would," Richard laughed. "Of course we consider that
you are very nearly well now."
"You can consider what you like," Mannering answered, "but I shall remain
an invalid as long as it pleases me."
Hester appeared on the upper lawn, and Richard rose up at once.
"If you don't mind, sir," he said, "I think that I should like to go and
tell Hester that I have spoken to you."
Mannering nodded. He watched the two young people stroll off together
towards the rose-garden, talking earnestly. He heard the little iron gate
open and close. He watched them disappear behind the hedge of laurels. A
puff of breeze brought the faint odour of roses to him, and with it a
sudden host of memories. His eyes grew wistful. He felt something tugging
at his heartstrings. Only a few years ago life here had seemed so
wonderful a thing--only a few years, but with all the passions and
struggles of a lifetime crowded into them. The maelstrom was there still,
but he himself had crept out of it. What was there left? Peace, haunted
with memories, rest, troubled by desire. He heard the sound of their
voices in the rose-garden, and he turned away with a pain in his heart of
which he was ashamed. These things were for the young! If youth had
passed him by, still there were compensations!
Compensations, aye--but he wanted none of them! He picked up the
newspaper, and with a little difficulty, for his sight was not yet good,
found a certain paragraph. Then the paper slipped again from his fingers,
and he heard the sweeping of a woman's dress across the smooth-shaven
lawn. He gripped the sides of his chair and set his teeth hard. He
struggled to rise, but she moved swiftly up to him with a gesture of
remonstrance.
"Please don't move," she exclaimed, as though her coming were the most
natural thing in the world. "I am going to sit down with you, if I may!"
He murmured an expression of conventional delight. She wore a dress of
some soft white material, and her figure was as wonderful as ever. He
recovered himself almost at once and studied her admiringly.
"Paris?" he murmured.
"Paquin!" she answered. "I remembered that you liked me in white."
"But where on earth have you come from?" he asked.
"The Farm," she answered. "I'm going to take it for three months--if
you're decent to me!"
"That rascal Richard!" he muttered. "Never told me a word! Pretended to
be surprised when he heard you and Clara were back."
She nodded.
"Clara is going to marry that Frenchman next month," she said, "and I
shall be looking for another companion. Do you know of one?"
"I haven't another niece," he answered.
"Even if you had," she said, "I have come to the conclusion that I want
something different. Will you listen to me patiently for a moment?"
"Yes."
"Will you marry me, please?" she said. "No, don't interrupt. I want there
to be no misunderstandings this time. I don't care whether you are an
invalid or not. I don't care whether you are going back into politics or
not. I don't care whether we live here or in any other corner of the
world. You can call yourself anything, from an anarchist to a Tory--or be
anything. You can have all your workingmen here to dinner in flannel
shirts, if you like, and I'll play bowls with their wives on the lawn.
Nothing matters but this one thing, Lawrence. Will you marry me--and try
to care a little?"
"This is absolutely," Mannering declared, taking her into his arms, "the
most brazen proceeding!"
"It's a good deal better than the bungle we made of it before," she
murmured.
THE END
* * * * * *
E. Phillips Oppenheim's Novels
A PRINCE OF SINNERS
Thoroughly matured, brilliantly constructed, and convincingly
told.--_London Times_.
It is rare that so much knowledge of the world, taken as a whole, is
set between two covers of a novel.--_Chicago Daily News_.
ANNA THE ADVENTURESS
A story of London life that is at once unusual, original, consistent,
and delightful.--_Buffalo Express_.
An entrancing story which has seldom been surpassed as a study of
feminine character and sentiment.--_Outlook_, London.
ENOCH STRONE
In no other novel has Mr. Oppenheim created such life-like characters
or handled his plot with such admirable force and restraint as in this
capital story of the career of masterful Enoch Strone.
A SLEEPING MEMORY
A story in occultism, but with all its mysticism and its dealings with
the unknowable the book is never dull, the thread of the human story
in it is never lost sight of for a moment.--_Boston Transcript_.
MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN
Emphatically a good story--strong, bold, original, and admirably
told.--_Literature_, London.
Intensely readable for the dramatic force with which the story is
told, the absolute originality of the underlying creative thought, and
the strength of all the men and women who fill the pages.--_Pittsburgh
Times_.
THE YELLOW CRAYON
_Containing the Further Adventures of "Mysterious
Mr. Sabin"_
The efforts of Mr. Sabin, one of Mr. Oppenheim's most fascinating
characters, to free his wife from an entanglement with the Order of
the Yellow Crayon, give the author one of his most complicated and
absorbing plots. A number of the characters of "Mysterious Mr.
Sabin" figure in this delightful work.
THE TRAITORS
A brilliant and engrossing story of love and adventure and Russian
political intrigue. A revolution, the recall of an exiled king, the
defence of his dominion against Turkish aggression, furnish a series
of exciting pictures and dramatic situations.
THE BETRAYAL
In none of Mr. Oppenheim's fascinating and absorbing books has
he better illustrated his remarkable faculty for holding the reader's
interest to the end than in "The Betrayal." The efforts of the
French Secret Service to obtain important papers relating to the
Coast Defence of England are the _motif_ of its remarkable plot.
A MILLIONAIRE OF YESTERDAY
Mr. Oppenheim has never written a better story than "A Millionaire
of Yesterday." He grips the reader's attention at the start by
his vivid picture of the two men in the West African bush making a
grim fight for life and fortune, and he holds it to the finish. The
volume is thrilling throughout, while the style is excellent.
THE MAN AND HIS KINGDOM
This brilliant, nervous, and intensely dramatic tale of love, intrigue,
and revolution in a South American State is so human and life-like
that the reader is bewildered by the writer's evident daring, and his
equal fidelity to things as they are.
THE LOST LEADER
As fascinating a story of modern life as a novelist has yet conceived
and one that arrests the mind by its fine strenuousness of purpose.
THE MALEFACTOR
This amazing story of the strange revenge of Sir Wingrave Seton,
who suffered imprisonment for a crime he did not commit rather than
defend himself at a woman's expense, "will make the most languid
alive with expectant interest," says the _Chicago Record-Herald_.
A MAKER OF HISTORY
A story of absorbing interest turning on a complicated plot worked
out with dexterous craftsmanship. A capital yarn of European secret
service.--_Literary Digest_.
THE MASTER MUMMER
Will be found of absorbing interest to those who love a story of
action and romance.--_Academy_, London.