At the distance of a mile and a half from Polterham lay an estate which
had long borne the name of Highmead. Here had dwelt three successive
generations of Glazzards. The present possessor, by name William, was,
like his father and grandfather, simply a country gentleman, but,
unlike those respectable ancestors, had seen a good deal of the world,
and only settled down amid his acres when he was tired of wandering.
His age at present was nearing fifty. When quite a young man, he had
married rather rashly--a girl whose acquaintance he had made during a
voyage. In a few years' time, he and his wife agreed to differ on a
great many topics of moment, and consequently to live apart. Mrs.
Glazzard died abroad. William, when the desire for retirement came upon
him, was glad of the society of a son and a daughter in their early
teens. But the lad died of consumption, and the girl, whose name was
Ivy, for a long time seemed to be clinging to life with but doubtful
tenure. She still lived, however, and kept her father's house.
Ivy Glazzard cared little for the pleasures of the world--knew, indeed,
scarcely more about them than she had gathered from books. Her
disposition was serious, inclined to a morbid melancholy; she spent
much time over devotional literature, but very seldom was heard to
speak of religion. Probably her father's avowed indifferentism imposed
upon her a timid silence. When the Revivalist services were being held
in Polterham, she visited the Hall and the churches with assiduity, and
from that period dated her friendship with the daughter of Mr. Mumbray,
Mayor of the town. Serena Mumbray was so uncomfortable at home that she
engaged eagerly in any occupation which could excuse her absence for as
many hours a day as possible. Prior to the outbreak of Revivalism no
one had supposed her particularly pious, and, indeed, she had often
suffered Mrs. Mumbray's rebukes for levity of speech and indifference
to the conventional norm of feminine behaviour. Though her parents had
always been prominent in Polterham society, she was ill-educated, and
of late years had endeavoured, in a fitful, fretful way, to make amends
to herself for this injustice. Disregarding paternal censure, she
subscribed to the Literary Institute, and read at hap-hazard with
little enough profit. Twenty-three years old, she was now doubly
independent, for the will of a maiden aunt (a lady always on the worst
of terms with Mr. and Mrs. Mumbray, and therefore glad to encourage
Serena against them) had made her an heiress of no slight
consideration. Young men of Polterham regarded her as the greatest
prize within view, though none could flatter himself that he stood in
any sensible degree of favour with her. There seemed no reason why Miss
Mumbray should not marry, but it was certain that as yet she behaved
disdainfully to all who approached her with the show of intention. She
was not handsome, but had agreeable features. As though to prove her
contempt of female vanity and vulgar display, she dressed plainly,
often carelessly--a fact which of course served to emphasize her
importance in the eyes of people who tried to seem richer than they
were.
Miss Glazzard rarely came into the town, but Serena visited Highmead at
least once a week. According to the state of the weather, the friends
either sat talking in Ivy's room or rambled about the grounds, where
many a pretty and sheltered spot was discoverable. At such times the
master of the house seldom showed himself, and, on the whole, Highmead
reminded one of a mansion left in the care of servants whilst the
family are abroad. Miss Mumbray was surprised when, on her arrival one
afternoon, she was conducted into the presence of three persons, who
sat conversing in the large drawing-room. With Ivy and her father was a
gentleman whose identity she could only guess; he proved to be Mr.
Eustace Glazzard, her friend's uncle.
To the greetings with which she was received Serena responded formally.
It happened that her attire was to-day even more careless than usual,
for, the weather being wet and cold, she had just thrown a cloak over
the frock in which she lounged at home, and driven out in a cab with
the thought of stepping directly into Ivy's sanctum. So far from this,
she found herself under the scrutiny of two well-dressed men, whose
faces, however courteous, manifested the signature of a critical
spirit. The elder Mr. Glazzard was bald, wrinkled, and of aristocratic
bearing; he wore gold-rimmed glasses, which accentuated the keenness of
his gaze. The younger man, though altogether less formidable, had a
smile which Miss Mumbray instinctively resented; he seemed to be
regarding her with some special interest, and it was clear that her
costume did not escape mental comment.
Ivy did her best to overcome the restraint of the situation, and for a
quarter of an hour something like conversation was maintained, but, of
a sudden, Miss Mumbray rose.
"We will go to my room," said Ivy, regarding her nervously.
"Thank you," was the reply, "I mustn't stay longer to-day."
"Oh, why not? But indeed you must come for a moment; I have something
to show you."
Serena took leave of the gentlemen, and with show of reluctance
suffered herself to be led to the familiar retreat.
"I'm afraid I have displeased you," Ivy addressed her, when the door
was closed. "I ought to have asked your permission."
"It doesn't matter, dear--not a bit. But I wasn't quite in the humour
for--for that kind of thing. I came here for quietness, as I always do."
"Do forgive me! I thought--to tell the truth, it was my uncle--I had
spoken of you to him, and he said he should so much like to meet you."
"It really doesn't matter; but I look rather like the woman who comes
to buy old dresses, don't I?"
Ivy laughed.
"Of course not!"
"And what if I do?" exclaimed the other, seating herself by the fire.
"I don't know that I've any claim to look better than Mrs. Moss. I
suppose she and I are about on a level in understanding and education,
if the truth were told. Your uncle would see that, of course."
"Now, don't--don't!" pleaded Ivy, bending over the chair and stroking
her friend's shoulder. "It's so wrong of you, dear. My father and Uncle
Eustace are both quite capable of judging you rightly."
"What did you tell him about me--your uncle?" asked Serena, pettishly.
"That you were my friend, and that we read together"----
"Oh, of course! What else?"
Ivy faltered.
"I explained who you were."
"That I had a ridiculous name, and was the daughter of silly people!"
"Oh, it _is_ unkind of you!"
"Well, and what else? I insist on knowing, Ivy."
"Indeed, I didn't say one word that you mightn't have heard yourself. I
think you can believe me, dear?"
"To be sure I can. But then no doubt your father told him the rest, or
has done by this time. There's no harm in that. I like people to know
that I am independent. Well, now tell me about _him_. He isn't a great
favourite of yours, is he?"
"No, not a great favourite." Ivy seemed always to weigh her words. "I
don't know him very well. He has always lived in London, and I've never
seen him more than once a year. I'm afraid he doesn't care much about
the things that I prize most, but he is kind and very clever, I
believe. Father always says he might have been a great artist if he had
chosen."
"Then why didn't he choose?"
"I can't say. So many people seem to fall far short of what they might
have been."
"Women do--what else can you expect? But men are free. I suppose he is
rich?"
"No, not rich. He seems to have enough for his needs."
Serena indulged her thoughts.
"I felt I disliked him at first," she said, presently. "But he is
improved. He can talk well, I should think. I suppose he is always in
clever society?"
"I suppose so."
"And why doesn't he invite you to London, and take you to see people?"
"Oh, he knows me better than that!" replied Ivy, with a laugh.
Whilst the girls talked thus, Eustace Glazzard and his brother were
also in confidential chat. They had gone to the library and made
themselves comfortable with cigars--a cellaret and glasses standing
within reach. The rooms at Highmead gave evidence of neglect. Guests
were seldom entertained; the servants were few, and not well looked
after.
"She has, I dare say, thirty thousand," William Glazzard was saying,
with an air of indifference. "I suppose she'll marry some parson. Let
us hope it's one of the fifty-pound curates."
"Deep in the old slough?"
"Hopelessly--or Ivy wouldn't be so thick with her."
When he had spoken, William turned with an expressive smile.
"Still, who knows? I rather like the girl. She has no humbug about
her--no pretence, that's to say. You see how she dresses."
"A bad sign, I'm afraid."
"Well, no, not in this case, I think. Her home accounts for it. That
old ass, Mumbray, and his wife make things pretty sour for her, as the
Germans say; at least, I guess so."
"I don't dislike her appearance--intelligent at bottom, I should
imagine."
There followed a long silence. Eustace broke it by asking softly:
"And how do things go with you?"
"The same as ever. Steadily down-hill. I had better let the place before
it gets into a thoroughly bad state. And you?"
His brother made no answer, but sat with bent head.
"You remember Stark," he said at length, "the lawyer? He wants me to
stand for Polterham at the next election."
"You? In place of Welwyn-Baker?"
"No; as Liberal candidate; or Radical, if you like."
"You're joking, I suppose!"
"Where's the impossibility?"
Their eyes met.
"There's no absurdity," said William, "in your standing for Parliament;
_au contraire_. But I can't imagine you on the Radical side. And I
don't see the necessity of that. Welwyn-Baker is breaking up; they
won't let him come forward again, even if he wishes. His son is
disliked, and would have a very poor chance. If you cared to put
yourself in touch with Mumbray and the rest of them--by Jove! I believe
they would welcome you. I don't know of any one but the Welwyn-Bakers
at all likely to stand."
"But," objected his brother, "what's the use of my standing for a party
that is pretty sure to be beaten?"
"You think that's the case?"
Eustace repeated Mr. Stark's opinions, and what he had heard from
Quarrier. It seemed to cost William an effort to fix his mind on the
question; but at length he admitted that the contest would probably be
a very close one, even granting that the Conservatives secured a good
candidate.
"That's as much as to say," observed his brother, "that the Liberals
stand to win, as things are. Now, there seems to be no doubt that
Liversedge would gladly withdraw in favour of a better man. What I want
you to do is to set this thing in train for me. I am in earnest."
"You astonish me! I can't reconcile such an ambition with"----
"No, no; of course not." Glazzard spoke with unwonted animation. "You
don't know what my life is and has been. Look I must do something to
make my blood circulate, or I shall furnish a case for the coroner one
of these mornings. I want excitement. I have taken up one thing after
another, and gone just far enough to understand that there's no hope of
reaching what I aimed at--superlative excellence; then the thing began
to nauseate me. I'm like poor Jackson, the novelist, who groaned to me
once that for fifteen years the reviewers had been describing his books
as 'above the average.' In whatever I have undertaken the results were
'above the average,' and that's all. This is damned poor consolation
for a man with a temperament like mine!"
His voice broke down. He had talked himself into a tremor, and the
exhibition of feeling astonished his brother, who--as is so often the
case between brothers--had never suspected what lay beneath the surface
of Eustace's _dilettante_ life.
"I can enter into that," said the elder, slowly. "But do you imagine
that in politics you have found your real line?"
"No such thing. But it offers me a chance of _living_ for a few years.
I don't flatter myself that I could make a figure in the House of
Commons; but I want to sit there, and be in the full current of
existence. I had never dreamt of such a thing until Stark suggested it.
But he's a shrewd fellow, and he has guessed my need."
"What about the financial matter?" asked William, after reflection.
"I see no insuperable difficulty. You, I understand, are in no position
to help me?"
"Oh, I won't say that," interrupted the other. "A few hundreds will
make no difference to me. I suppose you see your way for the ordinary
expenses of life?"
"With care, yes. I've been throwing money away, but that shall stop;
there'll be no need for it when my nerves are put in tone."
"Well, it strikes me in a comical light, but you must act as you think
best. I'll go to work for you. It's a pity I stand so much apart, but I
suppose my name is worth something. The Radicals have often tried to
draw me into their camp, and of course it's taken for granted that I am
rather for than against them. By-the-bye, what is the date? Ah! that's
fortunate. To-morrow I am booked to take the chair at the Institute; a
lecture--I don't know by whom, or about what. A good opportunity for
setting things astir."
"Then you do take some part in town life?"
"Most exceptional thing. I must have refused to lecture and to
chairmanize twenty times. But those fellows are persistent; they caught
me in a weak moment a few days ago. I suppose you realize the kind of
speechifying that would be expected of you? Are you prepared to blaze
away against Beaconsfield, and all that sort of thing?"
"I'm not afraid. There are more sides to my character than you suppose."
Eustace spoke excitedly, and tossed off a glass of liqueur. His manner
had become more youthful than of wont; his face showed more colour.
"The fact is," he went on, "if I talk politics at all, I can manage the
Radical standpoint much more easily than the Tory. I have precious
little sympathy with anything popular, that's true; but it's easier for
me to adopt the heroic strain of popular leaders than to put my own
sentiments into the language of squires and parsons. I should feel I
was doing a baser thing if I talked vulgar Toryism than in roaring the
democratic note. Do you understand?"
"I have an inkling of what you mean."
Eustace refilled the little glass.
"Of course," he went on, "my true life stands altogether outside
popular contention. I am an artist, though only half-baked. But I admit
most heartily that our form of government is a good one--the most
favourable that exists to individual freedom. We are ruled by the
balance of two parties; neither could do without the other. This being
the case, a man of my mind may conscientiously support either side.
Nowadays neither is a foe to liberty; we know that party tall-talk
means nothing--mere playing to the gallery. If I throw whatever weight
I represent into the Liberal scales, I am only helping, like every
other Member of Parliament, to maintain the constitutional equilibrium.
You see, this view is not even cynical; any one might proclaim it
seriously."
"Yes; but don't do so in Polterham."
The other laughed, and at the same moment remembered how long it was
since such an expression of mirth had escaped his lips.
"Well," he exclaimed, "I feel better to-day than for long enough. I've
been going through a devilish bad time, I can tell you. To make things
worse, some one has fixed an infernal accusation on me--an abominable
calumny. I won't talk about it now, but it may be necessary some day."
"Calumny?--nothing that could be made use against you in public?"
"No danger of that, I think. I didn't mean to speak of it."
"You know that a man on the hustings must look out for mud?"
"Of course, of course!--How do you spend your afternoons? What shall we
do?"
William threw away the end of a cigar, and stretched himself.
"I do very little but read," he answered. "A man gets the reading
habit, just like the morphia habit, or anything else of that kind. I
think my average is six novels a week: French, Russian, German,
Italian. No English, unless I'm in need of an emetic. What else should
I do? It's a way of watching contemporary life.--Would you like to go
and talk with Ivy? Oh, I forgot that girl."
"You wouldn't care to ask some people to dinner one of these days--the
right kind of people?"
"Yes, yes; we'll do that. I must warn you not to talk much about art,
and above all not to play the piano. It would make a bad impression."
"All right. How shall I deal with Liversedge? I go there this evening,
you remember."
"Sound him, if opportunity offers. No hurry, you know. We have probably
several months before us. You'll have to live here a good deal."
As the rain had ceased, they presently went out into the garden and
strolled aimlessly about.