Arthur James Northway reached London in a mood of imperfect
satisfaction. On the principle that half a cake was better than
nothing, he might congratulate himself that he carried in his
pocket-book banknotes to the value of five hundred pounds; but it was a
bitter necessity that had forbidden his exacting more. The possession
of a sum greater than he had ever yet owned fired his imagination; he
began to reflect that, after all, Quarrier's defiance was most likely
nothing but a ruse; that by showing himself resolved, he might have
secured at least the thousand pounds. Then he cursed the man Marks,
whose political schemes would betray the valuable secret, and make it
certain that none of that more substantial assistance promised by
Quarrier would ever be given. And yet, it was not disagreeable to
picture Quarrier's rage when he found that the bribe had been expended
to no purpose. If he had felt animosity against the wealthy man before
meeting him face to face, he now regarded him with a fiercer
malevolence. It was hard to relinquish Lilian, and harder still to have
no means of revenging himself upon her and her pretended husband.
Humiliated by consciousness of the base part he had played, he wished
it in his power to inflict upon them some signal calamity.
On the next day, when he was newly arrayed from head to foot, and
jingled loose sovereigns in his pocket, this tumult of feelings
possessed him even more strongly. Added to his other provocations was
the uncertainty whether Marks had yet taken action. Save by returning
to Polterham, he knew not how to learn what was happening there.
To-morrow a Polterham newspaper would be published; he must wait for
that source of intelligence. Going to a news-agent's, he discovered the
name of the journal, and at once posted an order for a copy to be sent
to him.
In the meantime, he was disposed to taste some of the advantages of
opulence. His passions were awakened; he had to compensate himself for
years lost in suffering of body and mind. With exultant swagger he
walked about the London streets, often inspecting his appearance in a
glass; for awhile he could throw aside all thought of the future,
relish his freedom, take his licence in the way that most recommended
itself to him.
The hours did not lag, and on the following afternoon he received the
newspaper for which he was waiting. He tore it open, and ran his eye
over the columns, but they contained no extraordinary matter. Nothing
unexpected had befallen; there was an account of the nomination, and
plenty of rancour against the Radicals, but assuredly, up to the hour
of the _Mercury's_ going to press, no public scandal had exploded in
Polterham.
What did it mean? Was Marks delaying for some definite reason? Or had
he misrepresented his motives? Was it a private enmity he had planned
to gratify--now frustrated by the default of his instrument?
He had given Marks an address in Bristol, that of a shop at which
letters were received. Possibly some communication awaited him there.
He hastened to Paddington and took the first westward train.
On inquiry next morning, he found he had had his journey for nothing.
As he might have anticipated, Marks was too cautious a man to have
recourse to writing.
There were still two days before the poll at Polterham. Thither he must
return, that was certain; for if the election passed without startling
events, he would again be in a position to catch Quarrier by the throat.
To be sure, there was the promise of assistance in a commercial career,
but his indulgence of the last day or two had inclined him to prefer
sums of ready money. Once elected, Quarrier would not submit to social
disgrace for the sake of a thousand pounds--nor for two
thousand--possibly not for five. Cupidity had taken hold upon Northway.
With a few thousands in his pocket, he might aim at something more to
his taste than a life of trading. Five thousand it should be, not a
penny less! This time he was not to be fobbed off with bluster and
posturing.
He spent the day in Bristol, and at nightfall journeyed towards
Polterham.
No; even yet nothing had happened. Conversation at an inn to which he
betook himself assured him that things were going their orderly way.
Had Marks himself been _bought off_?
The next day--that before the election--he wandered about the town and
its vicinity, undetermined how to act, thinking on the whole that he
had better do nothing till after the morrow. Twice, morning and
afternoon, did he view Mrs. Wade's cottage from a distance. Just after
sunset he was once more in that neighbourhood, and this time with a
purpose.
At that hour Mrs. Wade and her guest were together in the sitting-room.
The lamp had just been lighted, the red blind drawn down. Lilian
reclined on a couch; she looked worse in health than when she had taken
leave of Denzil; her eyes told of fever, and her limbs were relaxed.
Last night she had not enjoyed an hour of sleep; the strange room and
the recollection of Northway's visit to this house (Quarrier, in his
faith that Mrs. Wade's companionship was best for Lilian, had taken no
account of the disagreeable association) kept her nerves in torment,
and with the morning she had begun to suffer from a racking headache.
Mrs. Wade was talking, seated by the table, on which her arms rested.
She, too, had a look of nervous tension, and her voice was slightly
hoarse.
"Ambition," she said, with a slow emphasis, "is the keynote of Mr.
Quarrier's character. If you haven't understood that, you don't yet
know him--indeed you don't! A noble ambition, mind. He is above all
meanness. In wishing to take a foremost part in politics, he cares, at
heart, very little for the personal dignity it will bring him; his
desire--I am convinced--is to advance all causes that appeal to an
honest and feeling man. He has discovered that he can do this in a way
he had never before suspected--by the exercise of a splendid gift of
eloquence. What a deplorable thing if that possibility had been
frustrated!"
Lilian murmured an assent. Silence followed, and she closed her eyes.
In a minute or two Mrs. Wade turned to look; the expression which grew
upon her face as she watched furtively was one of subtlest malice. Of
scorn, too. Had _she_ been in the position of that feeble creature, how
differently would she have encountered its perils!
"Is your head any better?" she asked, just above her breath.
"It burns!--Feel my hand, how hot it is!"
"You are feverish. We have talked too much, I fear."
"No; I like to hear you talk. And it passes the time. Oh, I hope Denzil
won't be very late!"
There sounded a knock at the front door, a heavy rap such as would be
given by some rustic hand.
"What can that be?" Lilian exclaimed, raising herself.
"Nothing, dear--nothing. Some errand boy."
The servant was heard in the passage. She brought a letter, and said a
messenger waited for the reply. Mrs. Wade looked at the address; the
hand was unknown to her.
"From Denzil?" asked Lilian.
The other made no reply. What she found in the envelope was a note from
Northway, saying he was close by and wished to see her. After a
moment's hesitation she went to the door, where a boy was standing.
"Will you tell the person who gave you this note that he may come here?"
Then she bade her servant put a light in the dining room, and returned
to Lilian. Her look excited the sufferer's alarm.
"Has anything happened, Mrs. Wade?"
"Hush! Try to command yourself. He is here again; wishes to see me."
"He is here again?"
Lilian rose to her feet, and moaned despairingly.
"You won't let him come into this room? What does he want? He told us
he would never come again. Is he seeking more money?"
"He sha'n't come in here. I'll see him as I did before."
As she spoke, a rat-tat sounded from without, and, having advised
Lilian to lock the door, Mrs. Wade crossed to the other room. Northway
entered, grave and nervous.
"I hope you will excuse my coming again," he began, as the widow
regarded him with silent interrogation. "You spoke to me last time in
such a very kind and friendly way. Being in a difficulty, I thought I
couldn't do better than ask your advice."
"What is the difficulty, Mr. Northway?"
Her suave tone reassured him, and he seated himself. His real purpose
in coming was to discover, if possible, whether Quarrier's position was
still unassailed. He had a vague sense that this Mrs. Wade, on whatever
grounds, was sympathetically disposed to him; by strengthening the
acquaintance, he might somehow benefit himself.
"First, I should like to know if all has gone smoothly since I went
away?"
"Smoothly?--Quite, I think."
"It still seems certain that Mr. Quarrier will be elected to-morrow?"
"Very likely indeed."
He looked about him, and smoothed his silk hat--a very different
article from that he had formerly worn. Examining him, Mrs. Wade was
amused at the endeavour he had made to equip himself like a gentleman.
"What else did you wish to ask me, Mr. Northway?"
"It's a point of conscience. If you remember, Mrs. Wade, it was you who
persuaded me to give up all thought of parting those persons."
"I tried to do so," she answered, with a smile. "I thought it best for
your interests as well as for theirs."
"Yes, but I fear that I had no right to do it. My conscience rebukes
me."
"Does it, really?--I can't quite see"----
She herself was so agitated that features and voice would hardly obey
her will. She strove to concentrate her attention upon Northway's
words, and divine their secret meaning. His talk continued for awhile
in the same strain, but confused, uncertain, rambling. Mrs. Wade found
it impossible to determine what he aimed at; now and then she suspected
that he had been drinking. At length he stood up.
"You still think I am justified in--in making terms with Mr. Quarrier?"
"What else are you inclined to do?" the widow asked, anxiously.
"I can't be sure yet what I shall eventually do. Perhaps you would let
me see you again, when the election is over?"
"If you promise me to do nothing--but keep out of sight--in the
meanwhile."
"Yes, I'll promise that," he said, with deliberation.
She was loth to dismiss him, yet saw no use in further talk. At the
door he shook hands with her, and said that he was going into the town.
Lilian opened the door of the sitting-room.
"He has gone?"
Her companion nodded.
"Where?--What will he do?"
Mrs. Wade answered with a gesture of uncertainty, and sat down by the
table, where she propped her forehead upon her hands. Lilian was
standing, her countenance that of one distraught. Suddenly the widow
looked up and spoke in a voice hoarser than before.
"I see what he means. He enjoys keeping you both at his mercy. It's
like an animal that has tasted blood--and if his desire is balked,
he'll revenge himself in the other way."
"You think he has gone to Denzil?"
"Very likely. If not to-night, he will to-morrow. Will Mr. Quarrier pay
him again, do you think?" She put the question in a tone which to
Lilian sounded strange, all but hostile.
"I can't say," was the weary, distracted answer.
"Oh, I am sorry for you, Lilian!" pursued the other, in agitation,
though again her voice was curiously harsh. "You will reproach yourself
so if his life's purpose is frustrated! But remember, it's not your
fault. It was he who took the responsibility from the first. It was he
who chose to brave this possible danger. If the worst comes, you must
strengthen yourself."
Lilian sank upon a chair, and leaned forward with stupefied gaze at the
speaker.
"The danger is," pursued Mrs. Wade, in lower tones, "that he may be
unjust--feel unjustly--as men are wont to. You--in spite of himself, he
may feel that _you_ have been the cause of his failure. You must be
prepared for that; I tell it you in all kindness. If he again consents
to pay Northway, he will be in constant fear. The sense of servitude
will grow intolerable--embarrassing all he tries to do--all his public
and private life. In that case, too, he _must_ sometimes think of you
as in the way of his ambition. A most difficult task is before you--a
duty that will tax all your powers. You will be equal to it, I have no
doubt. Just now you see everything darkly and hopelessly, but that's
because your health has suffered of late."
"Perhaps this very night," said Lilian, without looking at her
companion, "he will tell people."
"He is more likely to succeed in getting money, and then he will keep
the threat held over you. He seems to have come at this moment just
because he knows that your fear of him will be keenest now. That will
always be his aim--to appear with his threats just when a disclosure
would be hardest to bear. But I suppose Mr. Quarrier will rather give
up everything than submit to this. Oh, the pity! the pity!"
Lilian let her hands fall and sat staring before her.
She felt as though cast out into a terrible solitude. Mrs. Wade's voice
came from a distance; and it was not a voice of true sympathy, but of
veiled upbraiding. Unspeakably remote was the image of the man she
loved, and he moved still away from her. A cloud of pain fell between
her and all the kindly world.
In these nights of sleepless misery she had thought of her old home.
The relatives from whom she was for ever parted--her sister, her kind
old aunt--looked at her with reproachful eyes; and now, in anguish
which bordered upon delirium, it was they alone who seemed real to her;
all her recent life had become a vague suffering, a confused
consciousness of desire and terror. Her childhood returned; she saw her
parents and heard them talk. A longing for the peace and love of those
dead days rent her heart.
She could neither speak nor move. Torture born in the brain throbbed
through every part of her body. But worse was that ghastly sense of
utter loneliness, of being forsaken by human sympathy. The cloud about
her thickened; it muffled light and sound, and began to obscure even
her memories.
For a long time Mrs. Wade had sat silent. At length she rose, glanced
at Lilian, and, without speaking left the room.
She went upstairs and into her bed-chamber, and here stood for a few
minutes in the dark, purposeless. Then she seated herself in a low
chair that was by the bed side. For her, too, the past night had been
one of painful watching; her nerves threatened danger if she stayed in
the same room with Lilian. Here she could recover something of
self-control, and think over the latest aspect of affairs.
Thus had she sat for nearly half an hour, when her reverie was broken
by a sound from below. It was the closing of the front door. She sprang
up and ran to the window, to see if any one passed out into the road;
but no figure became visible. The gate was closed; no one could have
gone forth so quickly. A minute or two passed, yet she heard and saw
nothing.
Then she quickly descended the stairs. The door of the sitting-room was
open; the room was vacant.
"Lilian!" she called aloud, involuntarily.
She sprang to the front door and looked about in the little garden.
Some one moving behind caused her to turn round; it was the servant.
"Annie, has Mrs. Quarrier left the house?"
"Yes, m'm, she has. I just had the kitchen door open, and I saw her go
out--without anything on her head."
"Where can she be, then? The gate hasn't been opened; I should have
heard it."
One other way there was out of the garden. By passing along a side of
the cottage, one came into the back-yard, and thence, by a gate, into
one of the fields which spread towards Bale Water. Mrs. Wade remembered
that Lilian had discovered this exit one day not long ago.
"I don't understand it," she continued, hurriedly. "You run and put
your hat on, and then look up and down the road. I'll go to the back."
Regardless of the cold night air, she hastened in the direction that
Lilian must necessarily have taken. Reaching the field, she could at
first distinguish no object in the dark space before her. But the sky
was clear and starry, and in a few moments, running on the while, she
caught sight of a figure not very far in advance. That undoubtedly was
Lilian, escaping, speeding over the meadows--whither?
The ground rose gradually, and at a distance of less than a quarter of
a mile cut clearly across the sky. Still advancing, though with less
speed, she saw Lilian's form gain the top of the rise, and there stand,
a black, motionless projection from the ground. If now she called in a
loud voice, the fugitive must certainly hear her; but she kept silence.
By running quickly over the grass she might overtake her friend, who
still lingered; but, as if her limbs had failed, she crouched down, and
so remained until the dark figure all at once disappeared.
Immediately she started to her feet again, and pressed forward. A few
minutes, and she was at the top of the field, where Lilian had paused;
panting, her heart throbbing, a cold sweat on her forehand. From this
point she looked over a grassy slope, towards the trees which shadowed
Bale Water. But her eye could discern nothing save outlines against the
starry heaven. All the ground before her lay in a wide-spreading
hollow, and darkness cloaked it.
Again she crouched down, pressing her hand against her heart,
listening. It was a very still night, and few sounds disturbed its
peacefulness. Somewhere, far off, a cart rumbled along; presently one
of the Polterham clocks began to strike, faintly but clearly. That
caused her to look in the direction of the town; she saw the radiance
of lights, and thought of what was going on over there--the shouting,
rushing, fighting.
A night-insect buzzed against her, and, almost in the same moment,
there came from down in the hollow, from beyond the trees, a sound
which chilled her blood, stopped the wild beating of her heart. It
seemed to echo with dreadful clearness from end to end of the heavens.
A dull splash of water, that was all; in reality, scarcely to be heard
at this distance save by an ear straining in dreadful expectation.
She made one effort to rise, but could not. Another, and she was
fleeing back to the cottage as if chased for her life.
The back-door was locked; she had to go round into the garden, and
there the servant was waiting.
"Have you found her, m'm?"
"No--I can't think--go in, Annie."
The girl was frightened; yet more so when, by the light from the
sitting-room, she saw her mistress's face.
"Do you think she's gone home, m'm?"
"Yes, no doubt. Go into the kitchen. I'll call you again."
Mrs. Wade entered the parlour, and closed the door. Her dress was in
disorder; her hair had in part fallen loose; on her hands were traces
of mud. She did not sit down, and remained just within the door; her
look and attitude were those of a terrified listener.
Presently she moved towards the fire, and knelt before it--though she
had no need of warmth. Starts and shudders indicated her mental
anguish. Yet no sound escape her, until, in a sudden convulsion of her
frame, she gave a cry of terror, and threw herself at full length upon
the ground. There she lay, struggling with hysterical passion, half
choked by sobs, now and then uttering a hoarse wail, at length weeping
with the self-abandonment of a child.
It lasted for ten minutes or more, and then followed a long silence.
Her body still quivered; she lay with her face half hidden against the
hearth-rug, lips parted, but teeth set, breathing heavily.
The clock upon her mantelpiece sounded the third quarter--a quarter to
nine. It drew her attention, and at length she half raised herself.
Still she had the look of one who listens. She stood up, mechanically
smoothed her hair, and twice walked the length of the room. Nearing the
door yet again, she opened it, and went upstairs.
Five minutes, and she had made herself ready to go out. At the foot of
the stairs she called to her servant.
"I must go into Polterham, Annie. If Mr. Quarrier should come whilst
I'm away, say that Mrs. Quarrier and I have gone out, but shall be back
very soon. You understand that?"
Then she set forth, and hurried along the dark road.