With sullen acquiescence the supporters of Mr. Mumbray and "Progressive
Conservatism"--what phrase is not good enough for the lips of
party?--recognized that they must needs vote for the old name.
Dissension at such a moment was more dangerous than an imbecile
candidate. Mr. Sam Quarrier had declared that rather than give his
voice for Mumbray he would remain neutral. "Old W.-B. is good enough
for a figure-head; he signifies something. If we are to be beaten, let
it be on the old ground." That defeat was likely enough, the more
intelligent Conservatives could not help seeing. Many of them (Samuel
among the number) had no enthusiasm for Beaconsfield, and _la haute
politique_ as the leader understood it, but they liked still less the
principles represented by Councillor Chown and his vociferous regiment.
So the familiar bills were once more posted about the streets, and once
more the Tory canvassers urged men to vote for Welwyn-Baker in the name
of Church and State.
At Salutary Mount (this was the name of the ex-Mayor's residence)
personal disappointment left no leisure for lamenting the prospects of
Conservatism. Mr. Mumbray shut himself up in the room known as his
"study." Mrs. Mumbray stormed at her servants, wrangled with her
children, and from her husband held apart in sour contempt--feeble,
pompous creature that he was! With such an opportunity, and unable to
make use of it! But for _her_, he would never even have become Mayor.
She was enraged at having yielded in the matter of Serena's betrothal.
Glazzard had fooled them; he was an unprincipled adventurer, with an
eye only to the fortune Serena would bring him!
"If you marry that man," she asseverated, _a propos_ of a discussion
with her daughter on a carpet which had worn badly, "I shall have
nothing whatever to do with the affair--nothing!"
Serena drew apart and kept silence.
"You hear what I say? You understand me?"
"You mean that you won't be present at the wedding?"
"I do!" cried her mother, careless what she said so long as it sounded
emphatic. "You shall take all the responsibility. If you like to throw
yourself away on a bald-headed, dissipated man--as I _know_ he is--it
shall be entirely your own doing. I wash my hands of it--and that's the
last word you will hear from me on the subject."
In consequence of which assertion she vilified Glazzard and Serena for
three-quarters of an hour, until her daughter, who had sat in
abstraction, slowly rose and withdrew.
Alone in her bedroom, Serena shed many tears, as she had often done of
late. The poor girl was miserably uncertain how to act. She foresaw
that home would be less than ever a home to her after this accumulation
of troubles, and indeed she had made up her mind to leave it, but
whether as a wife or as an independent woman she could not decide. "On
her own responsibility"--yes, that was the one thing certain. And what
experience had she whereon to form a judgment? It might be that her
mother's arraignment of Glazzard was grounded in truth, but how could
she determine one way or the other? On the whole, she liked him better
than when she promised to marry him--yes, she liked him better; she did
not shrink from the thought of wedlock with him. He was a highly
educated and clever man; he offered her a prospect of fuller life than
she had yet imagined; perhaps it was a choice between him and the
ordinary husband such as fell to Polterham girls. Yet again, if he did
not really care for her--only for her money?
She remembered Denzil Quarrier's lecture on "Woman," and all he had
said about the monstrously unfair position of girls who are asked in
marriage by men of the world. And thereupon an idea came into her mind.
Presently she had dried her tears, and in half-an-hour's time she left
the house.
Her purpose was to call upon Mrs. Quarrier, whom she had met not long
ago at Highmead. But the lady was not at home. After a moment of
indecision, she wrote on the back of her visiting card: "Will you be so
kind as to let me know when I could see you? I will come at any hour."
It was then midday. In the afternoon she received a note,
hand-delivered. Mrs. Quarrier would be at home from ten to twelve the
next morning.
Again she called, and Lilian received her in the small drawing-room.
They looked at each other with earnest faces, Lilian wondering whether
this visit had anything to do with the election. Serena was nervous,
and could not reply composedly to the ordinary phrases of politeness
with which she was received. And yet the phrases were not quite
ordinary; whomsoever she addressed, Lilian spoke with a softness, a
kindness peculiar to herself, and chose words which seemed to have more
than the common meaning.
The visitor grew sensible of this pleasant characteristic, and at
length found voice for her intention.
"I wished to see you for a very strange reason, Mrs. Quarrier. I feel
half afraid that I may even offend you. You will think me very strange
indeed."
Lilian trembled. The old dread awoke in her. Had Miss Mumbray
discovered something?
"Do let me know what it is," she replied, in a low voice.
"It--it is about Mr. Eustace Glazzard. I think he is an intimate friend
of Mr. Quarrier's?"
"Yes, he is."
"You are surprised, of course. I came to you because I feel so alone
and so helpless. You know that I am engaged to Mr. Glazzard?"
Her voice faltered. Relieved from anxiety, Lilian looked and spoke in
her kindest way.
"Do speak freely to me, Miss Mumbray. I shall be so glad to--to help
you in any way I can--so very glad."
"I am sure you mean that. My mother is very much against our
marriage--against Mr. Glazzard. She wants me to break off. I can't do
that without some better reason than I know of. Will you tell me what
you think of Mr. Glazzard? Will you tell me in confidence? You know him
probably much better than I do--though that sounds strange. You have
known him much longer, haven't you?"
"Not much longer. I met him first in London."
"But you know him through your husband. I only wish to ask you whether
you have a high opinion of him. How has he impressed you from the
first?"
Lilian reflected for an instant, and spoke with grave conscientiousness.
"My husband considers him his best friend. He thinks very highly of
him. They are unlike each other in many things. Mr. Quarrier sometimes
wishes that he--that Mr. Glazzard were more active, less absorbed in
art; but I have never heard him say anything worse than that. He likes
him very much indeed. They have been friends since boyhood."
The listener sat with bowed head, and there was a brief silence.
"Then you think," she said at length, "that I shall be quite safe
in--Oh, that is a bad way of putting it! Do forgive me for talking to
you like this. You, Mrs. Quarrier, are very happily married; but I am
sure you can sympathize with a girl's uncertainty. We have so few
opportunities of----Oh, it was so true what Mr. Quarrier said in his
lecture at the Institute--before you came. He said that a girl had to
take her husband so very much on trust--of course his words were better
than those, but that's what he meant."
"Yes--I know--I have heard him say the same thing."
"I don't ask," pursued the other, quickly, "about his religious
opinions, or anything of that kind. Nowadays, I suppose, there are very
few men who believe as women do--as most women do." She glanced at
Lilian timidly. "I only mean--do you think him a good man--an
honourable man?"
"To that I can reply with confidence," said Lilian, sweetly. "I am
quite sure he is an honourable man--quite sure I believe he has very
high thoughts. Have you heard him play? No man who hadn't a noble
nature could play like that."
Serena drew a sigh of relief.
"Thank you, dear Mrs. Quarrier--thank you so very much! You have put my
mind at rest."
These words gave delight to the hearer. To do good and to receive
gratitude were all but the prime necessities of Lilian's heart. Obeying
her impulse, she began to say all manner of kind, tender, hopeful
things. Was there not a similarity between this girl's position and
that in which she had herself stood when consenting to the wretched
marriage which happily came to an end at the church door? Another woman
might have been disposed to say, in the female parrot-language: "But do
you love him or not? That is the whole question." It was _not_ the
whole question, even granting that love had spoken plainly; and Lilian
understood very well that it is possible for a girl to contemplate
wedlock without passionate feeling such as could obscure her judgment.
They talked with much intimacy, much reciprocal good-will, and Serena
took her leave with a comparatively cheerful mind. She had resolved
what to do.
And the opportunity for action came that afternoon. Glazzard called
upon her. He looked rather gloomy, but smiled in reply to the smile she
gave him.
"Have you read Mr. Gladstone's address to the electors of Midlothian?"
Serena began by asking, with a roguish look.
"Pooh! What is such stuff to me?"
"I knew I should tease you. What do you think of Mr. Quarrier's
chances?"
"Oh, he will be elected, no doubt."
Glazzard spoke absently, his eyes on Serena's face, but seemingly not
conscious of her expression.
"I hope he will," she rejoined.
"What!--you hope so?"
"Yes, I do. I am convinced he is the right man. I agree with his
principles. Henceforth I am a Radical."
Glazzard laughed mockingly, and Serena joined, but not in the same tone.
"I like him," she pursued, with a certain odd persistence. "If I could
do it decently, I would canvass for him. He is a manly man and means
what he says. I like his wife, too--she is very sweet."
He glanced at her and pursed his lips.
"I am sure," added Serena, "you like me to praise such good friends of
yours?"
"Certainly."
They were in the room where the grand piano stood, for Mrs. Mumbray had
gone to pass the day with friends at a distance. Serena said of a
sudden:
"Will you please play me something--some serious piece--one of the best
you know?"
"You mean it?"
"I do. I want to hear you play a really noble piece. You won't refuse."
He eyed her in a puzzled way, but smiled, and sat down to the
instrument. His choice was from Beethoven. As he played, Serena stood
in an attitude of profound attention. When the music ceased, she went
up to him and held out her hand.
"Thank you, Eustace. I don't think many people can play like that."
"No; not very many," he replied quietly, and thereupon kissed her
fingers.
He went to the window and looked out into the chill, damp garden.
"Serena, have you any idea what Sicily is like at this time of year?"
"A faint imagination. Very lovely, no doubt."
"I want to go there."
"Do you?" she answered, carelessly, and added in lower tones, "So do I."
"There's no reason why you shouldn't. Marry me next week, and we will
go straight to Messina."
"I will marry you in a fortnight from to-day," said Serena, in
quivering voice.
"You will?"
Glazzard walked back to Highmead with a countenance which alternated
curiously between smiling and lowering. The smile was not agreeable,
and the dark look showed his face at its worst. He was completely
absorbed in thought, and when some one stopped full in front of him
with jocose accost, he gave a start of alarm.
"I should be afraid of lamp-posts," said Quarrier, "if I had that
somnambulistic habit. Why haven't you looked in lately? Men of infinite
leisure must wait upon the busy."
"My leisure, thank the destinies!" replied Glazzard, "will very soon be
spent out of hearing of election tumult."
"When? Going abroad again?"
"To Sicily."
"Ha!--that means, I conjecture," said Denzil, searching his friend's
face, "that a certain affair will come to nothing after all?"
"And what if you are right?" returned the other, slowly, averting his
eyes.
"I sha'n't grieve. No, to tell you the truth, I shall not! So at last I
may speak my real opinion. It wouldn't have done, Glazzard; it was a
mistake, old fellow. I have never been able to understand it. You--a
man of your standing--no, no, it was completely a mistake, believe me!"
Glazzard looked into the speaker's face, smiled again, and remarked
calmly:
"That's unfortunate. I didn't say my engagement was at an end; and, in
fact, I shall be married in a fortnight. We go to Sicily for the
honeymoon."
A flush of embarrassment rose to Denzil's face. For a moment he could
not command himself; then indignation possessed him.
"That's too bad!" he exclaimed. "You took advantage of me. You laid a
trap. I'm damned if I feel able to apologize!"
Glazzard turned away, and it seemed as if he would walk on. But he
faced about again abruptly, laughed, held out his hand.
"No, it is I who should apologize. I did lay a trap, and it was too
bad. But I wished to know your real opinion."
No one more pliable than Denzil. At once he took the hand that was
offered and pressed it heartily.
"I'm a blundering fellow. Do come and spend an hour with me to-night.
From eleven to twelve. I dine out with fools, and shall rejoice to see
you afterwards."
"Thanks, I can't. I go up to town by the 7.15."
They were in a suburban road, and at the moment some ladies approached.
Quarrier, who was acquainted with them, raised his hat and spoke a few
hasty words, after which he walked on by Glazzard's side.
"My opinion," he said, "is worth very little. I had no right whatever
to express it, having such slight evidence to go upon. It was double
impertinence. If _you_ can't be trusted to choose a wife, who could? I
see that--now that I have made a fool of myself."
"Don't say any more about it," replied the other, in a good-natured
voice. "We have lived in the palace of truth for a few minutes, that's
all."
"So you go to Sicily. There you will be in your element. Live in the
South, Glazzard; I'm convinced you will be a happier man than in this
mill-smoke atmosphere. You have the artist's temperament; indulge it to
the utmost. After all, a man ought to live out what is in him. Your
wedding will be here, of course?"
"Yes, but absolutely private."
"You won't reject me when I offer good wishes? There is no man living
who likes you better than I do, or is more anxious for your happiness.
Shake hands again, old fellow. I must hurry off."
So they parted, and in a couple of hours Glazzard was steaming towards
London.
He lay back in the corner of a carriage, his arms hanging loose, his
eyes on vacancy. Of course he had guessed Quarrier's opinion of the
marriage he was making; he could imagine his speaking to Lilian about
it with half-contemptuous amusement. The daughter of a man like
Mumbray--an unformed, scarcely pretty girl, who had inherited a sort of
fortune from some soap-boiling family--what a culmination to a career
of fastidious dilettantism! "He has probably run through all his
money," Quarrier would add. "Poor old fellow! he deserves better
things."
He had come to hate Quarrier. Yet with no vulgar hatred; not with the
vengeful rancour which would find delight in annihilating its object.
His feeling was consistent with a measure of justice to Denzil's
qualities, and even with a good deal of admiration; as it originated in
mortified vanity, so it might have been replaced by the original
kindness, if only some stroke of fortune or of power had set Glazzard
in his original position of superiority. Quarrier as an ingenuous young
fellow looking up to the older comrade, reverencing his dicta, holding
him an authority on most subjects, was acceptable, lovable; as a
self-assertive man, given to patronage (though perhaps unconsciously),
and succeeding in life as his friend stood still or retrograded, he
aroused dangerous emotions. Glazzard could no longer endure his
presence, hated the sound of his voice, cursed his genial impudence;
yet he did not wish for his final unhappiness--only for a temporary
pulling-down, a wholesome castigation of over-blown pride.
The sound of the rushing wheels affected his thought, kept it on the
one subject, shaped it to a monotony of verbal suggestion. Not a novel
suggestion, by any means; something that his fancy had often played
with; very much, perhaps, as that ingenious criminal spoken of by
Serena amused himself with the picture of a wrecked train long before
he resolved to enjoy the sight in reality.
"Live in the South," Quarrier had urged. "Precisely; in other words:
Keep out of my way. You're a good, simple-hearted fellow, to be sure,
but it was a pity I had to trust you with that secret. Leave England
for a long time."
And why not? Certainly it was good counsel--if it had come from any one
but Denzil Quarrier. Probably he should act upon it after all.