His rooms were in readiness for him, and whilst the attendant prepared
a light supper, he examined some letters which had arrived that
evening. Two of the envelopes contained pressing invitations--with
reference to accounts rendered and re-rendered; he glanced over the
writing and threw them into the fire. The third missive was more
interesting; it came from a lady of high social position at whose house
he had formerly been a frequent guest. "Why do we never see you?" she
wrote. "They tell me you have passed the winter in England; why should
you avoid your friends who have been condemned to the same endurance? I
am always at home on Thursday."
He held the dainty little note, and mused over it. At one time the
sight of this handwriting had quickened his pulses with a delicious
hope; now it stimulated his gloomy reflections. Such a revival of the
past was very unseasonable.
Before going to bed he wrote several letters. They were announcements
of his coming marriage--brief, carelessly worded, giving as little
information as possible.
The next morning was taken up with business. He saw, among other
people, his friend Stark, the picture-collecting lawyer. Stark had
letters from Polterham which assured him that the Liberals were
confident of victory.
"Confounded pity that Quarrier just got the start of you!" he
exclaimed. "You could have kept that seat for the rest of your life."
"Better as it is," was the cheerful reply. "I should have been heartily
sick of the business by now."
"There's no knowing. So you marry Miss Mumbray? An excellent choice, I
have no doubt. Hearty congratulations!--Oh, by-the-bye, Jacobs &
Burrows have a capital Greuze--do look in if you are passing."
Glazzard perceived clearly enough that the lawyer regarded this
marriage just as Quarrier did, the _pisaller_ of a disappointed and
embarrassed man. There was no more interest in his career; he had sunk
finally into the commonplace.
At three o'clock he was at home again, and without occupation. The
calendar on his writing-table reminded him that it was Thursday. After
all, he might as well respond to the friendly invitation of last
evening, and say good-bye to his stately acquaintances in Grosvenor
Square. He paid a little attention to costume, and presently went forth.
In this drawing-room he had been wont to shine with the double radiance
of artist and critic. Here he had talked pictures with the fashionable
painters of the day; music with men and women of resonant name. The
accomplished hostess was ever ready with that smile she bestowed only
upon a few favourites, and her daughter--well, he had misunderstood,
and so came to grief one evening of mid-season. A rebuff, the gentlest
possible, but leaving no scintilla of hope. At the end of the same
season she gave her hand to Sir Something Somebody, the diplomatist.
And to-day the hostess was as kind as ever, smiled quite in the old
way, held his hand a moment longer than was necessary. A dozen callers
were in the room, he had no opportunity for private speech, and went
away without having mentioned the step he was about to take. Better so;
he might have spoken indiscreetly, unbecomingly, in a tone which would
only have surprised and shocked that gracious lady.
He reached his rooms again with brain and heart in fiery tumult. Serena
Mumbray!--he was tempted to put an end to his life in some brutal
fashion, such as suited with his debasement.
Another letter had arrived during his absence. An hour passed before he
saw it, but when his eye at length fell on the envelope he was roused
to attention. He took out a sheet of blue note-paper, covered with
large, clerkly writing.
"DEAR SIR,
"We have at length been able to trace the person concerning whom you
are in communication with us. He is at present living in Bristol, and
we think is likely to remain there for a short time yet. Will you
favour us with a call, or make an appointment elsewhere?
"We have the honour to be, dear Sir,
"Yours faithfully,
"TULKS & CROWE."
He paced the room, holding the letter behind his back. It was more than
three weeks since the investigation referred to had been committed to
Messrs. Tulks & Crowe, private inquiry agents; and long before this he
had grown careless whether they succeeded or not. An impulse of
curiosity; nothing more. Well, yes; a fondness for playing with
secrets, a disposition to get power into his hands--excited to activity
just after a long pleasant talk with Lilian. He was sorry this letter
had come; yet it made him smile, which perhaps nothing else would have
done just now.
"To be weak is miserable, doing or suffering." The quotation was often
in his mind, and he had never felt its force so profoundly as this
afternoon. The worst of it was, he did not believe himself a victim of
inherent weakness; rather of circumstances which persistently baffled
him. But it came to the same thing. Was he never to know the joy of
vigorous action?--of asserting himself to some notable result?
He could do so now, if he chose. In his hand were strings, which, if he
liked to pull them, would topple down a goodly edifice, with uproar and
dust and amazement indescribable: so slight an effort, so
incommensurable an outcome! He had it in his power to shock the
conventional propriety of a whole town, and doubtless, to some extent,
of all England. What a vast joke that would be--to look at no other
aspect of the matter! The screamings of imbecile morality--the
confusion of party zeal--the roaring of indignant pulpits!
He laughed outright.
But no; of course it was only an amusing dream. He was not malignant
enough. The old-fashioned sense of honour was too strong in him. Pooh!
He would go and dine, and then laugh away his evening somewhere or
other.
Carefully he burnt the letter. To-morrow he would look in at the office
of those people, hear their story, and so have done with it.
Next morning he was still in the same mind. He went to Tulks & Crowe's,
and spent about an hour closeted with the senior member of that useful
firm. "A benevolent interest--anxious to help the poor devil if
possible--miserable story, that of the marriage--was to be hoped that
the girl would be persuaded to acknowledge him, and help him to lead an
honest life--no idea where she was." The information he received was
very full and satisfactory; on the spot he paid for it, and issued into
the street again with tolerably easy mind.
To-morrow he must run down to Polterham again. How to pass the rest of
today? Pressing business was all off his hands, and he did not care to
look up any of his acquaintances; he was not in the mood for talk.
Uncertain about the future, he had decided to warehouse the furniture,
pictures, and so on, that belonged to him. Perhaps it would be well if
he occupied himself in going through his papers--making a selection for
the fire.
He did so, until midway in the afternoon. Perusal of old letters will
not generally conduce to cheerfulness, and Glazzard once more felt his
spirits sink, his brain grow feverishly active. Within reach of where
he sat was a railway time-table; he took it up, turned to the Great
Western line, pondered, finally looked at his watch.
At two minutes to five he alighted from a cab at Paddington
Station--rushed, bag in hand, to the booking-office--caught the Bristol
train just as the guard had signalled for starting.
He was at Bristol soon after eight. The town being strange ground to
him, he bade a cabman drive him to a good hotel, where he dined. Such
glimpse as he had caught of the streets did not invite him forth, but
neither could he sit unoccupied; as the weather was fair, he rambled
for an hour or two. His mind was in a condition difficult to account
for; instead of dwelling upon the purpose that had brought him hither,
it busied itself with all manner of thoughts and fancies belonging to
years long past. He recalled the first lines of a poem he had once
attempted; it was suggested by a reading of Coleridge--and there,
possibly, lay the point of association. Coleridge: then he fell upon
literary reminiscences. Where, by the way, was St. Mary Redcliffe? He
put the inquiry to a passer-by, and was directed. By dreary
thoroughfares he came into view of the church, and stood gazing at the
spire, dark against a blotchy sky. Then he mocked at himself for acting
as if he had an interest in Chatterton, when in truth the name
signified boredom to him. Oh, these English provincial towns! What an
atmosphere of deadly dulness hung over them all! And people were born,
and lived, and died in Bristol--merciful powers!
He made his way back to the hotel, drank a glass of hot whisky, and
went to bed.
After a sound sleep he awoke in the grey dawn, wondered awhile where he
could be, then asked himself why on earth he had come here. It didn't
matter much; he could strike off by the Midland to Polterham, and be
there before noon. And again he slept.
When he had breakfasted, he called to the waiter and asked him how far
it was to that part of the town called Hotwells. Learning that the road
thither would bring him near to Clifton, he nodded with satisfaction.
Clifton was a place to be seen; on a bright morning like this it would
be pleasant to walk over the Downs and have a look at the gorge of the
Avon.
A cab was called. With one foot raised he stood in uncertainty, whilst
the driver asked him twice whither they were to go. At length he said
"Hotwells," and named a street in that locality. He lay back and closed
his eyes, remaining thus until the cab stopped.
Hastily he looked about him. He was among poor houses, and near to
docks; the masts of great ships appeared above roofs. With a quick
movement he drew a coin from his pocket, tossed it up, caught it
between his hands. The driver had got down and was standing at the door.
"This the place? Thanks; I'll get out."
He looked at the half-crown, smiled, and handed it to the cabman.
In a few minutes he stood before an ugly but decent house, which had a
card in the window intimating that lodgings were here to let. His knock
brought a woman to the door.
"I think Mr. North lives here?"
"Yes, sir, he do live yere," the woman answered, in a simple tone.
"Would you wish for to see him?"
"Please ask him if he could see a gentleman on business--Mr. Marks."
"But he ben't in, sir, not just now. He"----she broke off and pointed
up the street. "Why, there he come, I declare!"
"The tall man?"
"That be he, sir."
Glazzard moved towards the person indicated, a man of perhaps thirty,
with a good figure, a thin, sallow face, clean-shaven, and in rather
shabby clothes. He went close up to him and said gravely:
"Mr. North, I have just called to see you on business."
The young man suppressed a movement of uneasiness, drew in his lank
cheeks, and looked steadily at the speaker.
"What name?" he asked, curtly, with the accent which represents some
degree of liberal education.
"Mr. Marks. I should like to speak to you in private."
"Has any one sent you?"
"No, I have taken the trouble to find where you were living. It's
purely my own affair. I think it will be to your interest to talk with
me."
The other still eyed him suspiciously, but did not resist.
"I haven't a sitting-room," he said, "and we can't talk here. We can
walk on a little, if you like."
"I'm a stranger. Is there a quiet spot anywhere about here?"
"If we jump on this omnibus that's coming, it'll take us to the
Suspension Bridge--Clifton, you know. Plenty of quiet spots about
there."
The suggestion was accepted. On the omnibus they conversed as any
casual acquaintances might have done. Glazzard occasionally inspected
his companion's features, which were not vulgar, yet not pleasing. The
young man had a habit of sucking in his cheeks, and of half closing his
eyes as if he suffered from weak sight; his limbs twitched now and
then, and he constantly fingered his throat.
"A fine view," remarked Glazzard, as they came near to the great
cliffs; "but the bridge spoils it, of course."
"Do you think so? Not to my mind. I always welcome the signs of
civilization."
Glazzard looked at him with curiosity, and the speaker threw back his
head in a self-conscious, conceited way.
"Picturesqueness is all very well," he added, "but it very often means
hardships to human beings. I don't ask whether a country looks
beautiful, but what it does for the inhabitants."
"Very right and proper," assented Glazzard, with a curl of the lip.
"I know very well," pursued the moralist, "that civilization doesn't
necessarily mean benefit to the class which ought to be considered
first. But that's another question. It _ought_ to benefit them, and
eventually it must."
"You lean towards Socialism?"
"Christian Socialism if you know what that signifies."
"I have an idea. A very improving doctrine, no doubt."
They dismounted, and began the ascent of the hillside by a path which
wound among trees. Not far from the summit they came to a bench which
afforded a good view.
"Suppose we stop here," Glazzard suggested. "It doesn't look as if we
should be disturbed."
"As you please."
"By-the-bye, you have abbreviated your name, I think?"
The other again looked uneasy and clicked with his tongue.
"You had better say what you want with me, Mr. Marks," he replied,
impatiently.
"My business is with Arthur James Northway. If you are he, I think I
can do you a service."
"Why should you do me a service?"
"From a motive I will explain if all else is satisfactory."
"How did you find out where I was?"
"By private means which are at my command." Glazzard adopted the tone
of a superior, but was still suave. "My information is pretty complete.
Naturally, you are still looking about for employment. I can't promise
you that, but I daresay you wouldn't object to earn a five-pound note?"
"If it's anything--underhand, I'll have nothing to do with it."
"Nothing you can object to. In fact, it's an affair that concerns you
more than any one else.--I believe you can't find any trace of your
wife?"
Northway turned his head, and peered at his neighbour with narrow eyes.
"It's about _her_, is it?"
"Yes, about her."
Strangely enough, Glazzard could not feel as if this conversation
greatly interested him. He kept gazing at the Suspension Bridge, at the
woods beyond, at the sluggish river, and thought more of the view than
of his interlocutor. The last words fell from his lips idly.
"You know where she is?" Northway inquired.
"Quite well. I have seen her often of late--from a distance. To prove I
am not mistaken, look at this portrait and tell me if you recognize the
person?"
He took from an inner pocket a mutilated photograph; originally of
cabinet size, it was cut down to an oval, so that only the head
remained. The portrait had been taken in London between Lilian's return
from Paris and her arrival at Polterham. Glazzard was one of the few
favoured people who received a copy.
Northway examined it and drew in his cheeks, breathing hard.
"There's no mistake, I think?"
The reply was a gruff negative.
"I suppose you do care about discovering her?"
The answer was delayed. Glazzard read it, however, in the man's
countenance, which expressed various emotions.
"She has married again--eh?"
"First, let me ask you another question. Have you seen her relatives?"
"Yes, I have."
"With what result?"
"They profess to know nothing about her. Of course, I don't believe
them."
"But you may," said Glazzard, calmly. "They speak the truth, no doubt.
From them you must hope for no information. In all likelihood, you
might seek her for the rest of your life and never come upon her track."
"Then let me know what you propose."
"I offer to tell you where she is, and how situated, and to enable you
to claim her. But you, for your part, must undertake to do this in a
certain way, which I will describe when everything is ready, a week or
so hence. As I have said, I am willing to reward you for agreeing to
act as I direct. My reasons you shall understand when I go into the
other details. You will see that I have no kind of selfish object in
view--in fact, that I am quite justified in what looks like vulgar
plotting."
Glazzard threw out the words with a careless condescension, keeping his
eyes on the landscape.
"I'll take back the portrait, if you please."
He restored it to his pocket, and watched Northway's features, which
were expressive of mental debate.
"At present," he went on, "I can do no more than give you an idea of
what has been going on. Your wife has not been rash enough to marry a
second time; but she is supposed to be married to a man of wealth and
position--is living publicly as his wife. They have deceived every one
who knows them."
"Except you, it seems," remarked Northway, with a gleam from between
his eyelids.
"Except me--but that doesn't concern you. Now, you see that your wife
has done nothing illegal; you can doubtless divorce her, but have no
other legal remedy. I mention this because it might occur to you
that--you will excuse me--that the situation is a profitable one. It is
nothing of the kind. On the threat of exposure they would simply leave
England at once. Nothing could induce them to part--be quite sure of
that. The man, as I said, has a high position, and you might be tempted
to suppose that--to speak coarsely--he would pay blackmail. Don't think
it for a moment. He is far too wise to persevere in what would be a
lost game; they would at once go abroad. It is only on the stage that
men consent to pay for the keeping of a secret which is quite certain
not to be kept."
Northway had followed with eager attention, pinching his long throat
and drawing in his cheeks.
"Well, what do you want me to do?" he asked.
"To remain here in Bristol for a week or so longer. I will then
telegraph to you, and tell you where to meet me."
"Is it far from here?"
"A couple of hours' journey, or so. If you will allow me, I will pay
your fare at once."
He took out a sovereign, which Northway, after a moment's hesitation,
accepted.
"Do you take any interest in the elections?" Glazzard asked.
"Not much," replied the other, reassuming his intellectual air. "One
party is as worthless as the other from my point of view."
"I'm glad to hear that--you'll understand why when we meet again. And,
indeed, I quite agree with you."
"Politics are no use nowadays," pursued Northway. "The questions of the
time are social. We want a party that is neither Liberal nor Tory."
"Exactly.--Well, now, may I depend upon you?"
"I'll come when you send for me."
"Very well. I have your address."
He stood up, hesitated a moment, and offered his hand, which Northway
took without raising his eyes.
"I shall walk on into Clifton; so here we say good-bye for the
present.--A week or ten days."
"I suppose you won't alter your mind, Mr.--Mr. Marks?"
"Not the least fear of that. I have a public duty to discharge."
So speaking, and with a peculiar smile on his lips, Glazzard walked
away. Northway watched him and seemed tempted to follow, but at length
went down the hill.