One Saturday in early August, some weeks after the incident described in
the last chapter, Bobbie Forbes, in the worst inn's worst fly, such
being the stress and famine of election time, drove up to the Tallyn
front door. It was the day after the polling, and Tallyn, with its open
windows and empty rooms, had the look of a hive from which the bees have
swarmed. According to the butler, only Lady Niton was at home, and the
household was eagerly awaiting news of the declaration of the poll at
Dunscombe Town Hall. Lady Niton, indeed, was knitting in the
drawing-room.
"Capital!--to find you alone," said Bobbie, taking a seat beside her.
"All the others at Dunscombe, I hear. And no news yet?"
Lady Niton, who had given him one inky finger--(a pile of letters just
completed lay beside her)--shook her head, looking him critically up and
down the while.
The critical eye, however, was more required in her own case. She was
untidily dressed, as usual, in a shabby black gown; her brown "front"
was a little displaced, and her cap awry; and her fingers had apparently
been badly worsted in a struggle with her pen. Yet her diminutive figure
in the drawing-room--such is the power of personality--made a social
place of it at once.
"I obeyed your summons," Bobbie continued, "though I'm sure Lady Lucy
didn't want to invite me with all this hubbub going on. Well, what do
you prophesy? They told me at the station that the result would be out
by two o'clock. I very nearly went to the Town Hall, but the fact is
everybody's so nervous I funked it. If Oliver's kicked out, the fewer
tears over spilled milk the better."
"He won't be kicked out."
"Don't make too sure! I have been hearing the most dismal reports. The
Ferrierites hate him much worse than if he'd gone against them openly.
And the fellows he really agrees with don't love him much better."
"All the same he will get in; and if he don't get office now he will in
a few years."
"Oliver must be flattered that you believe in him so."
"I don't believe in him at all," said Lady Niton, sharply. "Every
country has the politicians it deserves."
Bobbie grinned.
"I don't find you a democrat yet."
"I'm just as much of one as anybody in this house, for all their fine
talk. Only they pretend to like being governed by their plumbers and
gas-fitters, and I don't."
"I hear that Oliver's speeches have been extremely good."
"H'm--all about the poor," said Lady Niton, releasing her hand from the
knitting-needles, and waving it scornfully at the room in which they
sat. "Well, if Oliver were to tell me from now till doomsday that his
heart bled for the poor, I shouldn't believe him. It doesn't bleed. He
is as comfortable in his middle region as you or I."
Bobbie laughed.
"Now look here, I'm simply famished for gossip, and I must have it."
Lady Niton's ball of wool fell on the floor. Bobbie pounced upon it,
and put it in his pocket. "A hostage! Surrender--and talk to me! Do you
belong to the Mallory faction--or don't you?"
"Give me my ball, sir--and don't dare to mention that girl's name in
this house."
Bobbie opened his eyes.
"I say!--what did you mean by writing to me like that if you weren't on
the right side?"
"What do you mean?"
"You can't have gone over to Lady Lucy and the Fotheringham woman!"
Lady Niton looked at him with a queer expression of contempt in her
tanned and crumpled face.
"Is that the only reason you can imagine for my not permitting you to
talk of Diana Mallory in this house?"
Bobbie, looked puzzled. Then a light broke.
"I see! You mean the house isn't good enough? Precisely! What's up.
Alicia? _No_!"
Lady Niton laughed.
"He has been practically engaged to her for two years. He didn't know
it, of course--he hadn't an idea of it. But Alicia knew it. Oh! she
allowed him his amusements. The Mallory girl was one of them. If the
Sparling story hadn't broken it off, something else would. I don't
believe Alicia ever alarmed herself."
"Are they engaged?"
"Not formally. I dare say it won't be announced till the autumn," said
his companion, indifferently. Then seeing that Bobbie's attention was
diverted, she made a dash with one skinny hand at his coat-pocket,
abstracted the ball of wool, and triumphantly returned to her knitting.
"Mean!" said Bobbie. "You caught me off guard. Well, I wish them joy.
Of course, I've always liked Marsham, and I'm very sorry he's got
himself into such a mess. But as for Alicia, there's no love lost
between us. I hear Miss Mallory's at Beechcote."
Lady Niton replied that she had only been three days in the house, that
she had asked--ostentatiously--for a carriage the day before to take her
to call at Beechcote, and had been refused. Everything, it seemed, was
wanted for election purposes. But she understood that Miss Mallory was
quite well and not breaking her heart at all. At the present moment she
was the most popular person in Brookshire, and would be the most petted,
if she would allow it. But she and Mrs. Colwood lived a very quiet life,
and were never to be seen at the tea and garden parties in which the
neighborhood abounded.
"Plucky of her to come back here!" said Bobbie. "And how's Lady Lucy?"
Lady Niton moved impatiently.
"Lucy would be all right if her son wouldn't join a set of traitors in
jockeying the man who put him into Parliament, and has been Lucy's
quasi-husband for twenty years!"
"Oh, you think he _is_ in the plot?"
"Of course, Lucy swears he isn't. But if not--why isn't Ferrier here?
His own election was over a week ago. In the natural course of things he
would have been staying here since then, and speaking for Oliver. Not a
word of it! I'm glad he's shown a little spirit at last! He's put up
with it about enough."
"And Lady Lucy's fretting?"
"She don't like it--particularly when he comes to stay with Sir James
Chide and not at Tallyn. Such a thing has never happened before."
"Poor old Ferrier!" said Bobbie, with a shrug of the shoulders.
Lady Niton drew herself up fiercely.
"Don't pity your betters, sir! It's disrespectful."
Bobbie smiled. "You know the Ministry's resigned?"
"About time! What have they been hanging on for so long?"
"Well, it's done at last. I found a wire from the club waiting for me
here. The Queen has sent for Broadstone, and the fat's all in the fire."
The two fell into an excited discussion of the situation. The two rival
heroes of the electoral six weeks on the Liberal side had been, of
course, Ferrier and Lord Philip. Lord Philip had conducted an
astonishing campaign in the Midlands, through a series of speeches of
almost revolutionary violence, containing many veiled, or scarcely
veiled, attacks on Ferrier. Ferrier, on the whole held the North; but
the candidates in the Midlands had been greatly affected by Lord Philip
and Lord Philip's speeches, and a contagious enthusiasm had spread
through whole districts, carrying in the Liberal candidates with a rush.
In the West and South, too, where the Darcy family had many friends and
large estates, the Liberal nominees had shown a strong tendency to adopt
Lord Philip's programme and profess enthusiastic admiration for its
author. So that there were now two kings of Brentford. Lord Philip's
fortunes had risen to a threatening height, and the whole interest of
the Cabinet-making just beginning lay in the contest which it inevitably
implied between Ferrier and his new but formidable lieutenant. It was
said that Lord Philip had retired to his tent--alias, his
Northamptonshire house--and did not mean to budge thence till he had
got all he wanted out of the veteran Premier.
"As for the papers," said Bobbie, "you see they're already at it hammer
and tongs. However, so long as the _Herald_ sticks to Ferrier, he has
very much the best of it. This new editor Barrington is an awfully
clever fellow."
"Barrington!--Barrington!" said Lady Niton, looking up, "That's the man
who's coming to-night."
"Coming here?--Barrington? Hullo, I wonder what's up?"
"He proposed himself, Oliver says; he's an old friend."
"They were at Trinity together. But he doesn't really care much about
Oliver. I'm certain he's not coming here for Oliver's _beaux yeux_, or
Lady Lucy's."
"What does it matter?" cried Lady Niton, disdainfully.
"H'm!--you think 'em all a poor lot?"
"Well, when you've known Dizzy and Peel, Palmerston and Melbourne,
you're not going to stay awake nights worriting about John Ferrier. In
any other house but this I should back Lord Philip. But I like to make
Oliver uncomfortable."
"Upon my word! I have heard you say that Lord Philip's speeches were
abominable."
"So they are. But he ought to have credit for the number of 'em he can
turn out in a week."
"He'll be heard, in fact, for his much speaking?"
Bobbie looked at his companion with a smile. Suddenly his cheek flushed.
He sat down beside her and tried to take her hand.
"Look here," he said, with vivacity, "I think you were an awful brick to
stick up for Miss Mallory as you did."
Lady Niton withdrew her hand.
"I haven't an idea what you're driving at."
"You really thought that Oliver should have given up all that money?"
His companion looked at him rather puzzled.
"He wouldn't have been a pauper," she said, dryly; "the girl had some."
"Oh, but not much. No!--you took a dear, unworldly generous view of
it!--a view which has encouraged me immensely!"
"You!" Lady Niton drew back, and drew up, as though scenting battle,
while her wig and cap slipped more astray.
"Yes--me. It's made me think--well, that I ought to have told you a
secret of mine weeks ago."
And with a resolute and combative air, Bobbie suddenly unburdened
himself of the story of his engagement--to a clergyman's daughter,
without a farthing, his distant cousin on his mother's side, and quite
unknown to Lady Niton.
His listener emitted a few stifled cries--asked a few furious
questions--and then sat rigid.
"Well?" said Bobbie, masking his real anxiety under a smiling
appearance.
With a great effort, Lady Niton composed herself. She stretched out a
claw and resumed her work, two red spots on her cheeks.
"Marry her, if you like," she said, with delusive calm. "I sha'n't ever
speak to you again. A scheming minx without a penny!--that ought never
to have been allowed out of the school-room."
Bobbie leaped from his chair.
"Is that the way you mean to take it?"
Lady Niton nodded.
"That is the way I mean to take it!"
"What a fool I was to believe your fine speeches about Oliver!"
"Oliver may go to the devil!" cried Lady Niton.
"Very well!" Bobbie's dignity was tremendous. "Then I don't mean to be
allowed less liberty than Oliver. It's no good continuing this
conversation. Why, I declare! some fool has been meddling with
those books!"
And rapidly crossing the floor, swelling with wrath and determination,
Bobbie opened the bookcase of first editions which stood in this inner
drawing-room and began to replace some volumes, which had strayed from
their proper shelves, with a deliberate hand.
"You resemble Oliver in one thing!" Lady Niton threw after him.
"What may that be?" he said, carelessly.
"You both find gratitude inconvenient!"
Bobbie turned and bowed. "I do!" he said, "inconvenient, and
intolerable! Hullo!--I hear the carriage. I beg you to remark that what
I told you was confidential. It is not to be repeated in company."
Lady Niton had only time to give him a fierce look when the door opened,
and Lady Lucy came wearily in.
Bobbie hastened to meet her.
"My dear Lady Lucy!--what news?"
"Oliver is in!"
"Hurrah!" Bobbie shook her hand vehemently. "I am glad!"
Lady Niton, controlling herself with difficulty, rose from her seat, and
also offered a hand.
"There, you see, Lucy, you needn't have been so anxious."
Lady Lucy sank into a chair.
"What's the majority?" said Bobbie, astonished by her appearance and
manner. "I say, you know, you've been working too hard."
"The majority is twenty-four," said Lady Lucy, coldly, as though she had
rather not have been asked the question; and at the same time, leaning
heavily back in her chair, she began feebly to untie the lace strings of
her bonnet. Bobbie was shocked by her appearance. She had aged rapidly
since he had last seen her, and, in particular, a gray shadow had
overspread the pink-and-white complexion which had so long preserved her
good looks.
On hearing the figures (the majority five years before had been fifteen
hundred), Bobbie could not forbear an exclamation which produced another
contraction of Lady Lucy's tired brow. Lady Niton gave a very audible
"Whew!"--to which she hastened to add: "Well, Lucy, what does it matter?
Twenty-four is as good as two thousand."
Lady Lucy roused herself a little.
"Of course," she said, languidly, "it is disappointing. But we may be
glad it is no worse. For a little while, during the counting, we thought
Oliver was out. But the last bundles to be counted were all for him, and
we just saved it." A pause, and then the speaker added, with emphasis:
"It has been a _horrid_ election! Such ill-feeling--and violence--such
unfair placards!--some of them, I am sure, were libellous. But I am told
one can do nothing."
"Well, my dear, this is what Democracy comes to," said Lady Niton,
taking up her knitting again with vehemence. "'_Tu l'as voulu, Georges
Dandin_.' You Liberals have opened the gates--and now you grumble at
the deluge."
"It has been the injustice shown him by his own side that Oliver minds."
The speaker's voice betrayed the bleeding of the inward wound. "Really,
to hear some of our neighbors talk, you would think him a Communist.
And, on the other hand, he and Alicia only just escaped being badly hurt
this morning at the collieries--when they were driving round. I implored
them not to go. However, they would. There was an ugly crowd, and but
for a few mounted police that came up, it might have been most
unpleasant."
"I suppose Alicia has been careering about with him all day?" said Lady
Niton.
"Alicia--and Roland Lankester--and the chairman of Oliver's committee.
Now they've gone off on the coach, to drive round some of the villages,
and thank people." Lady Lucy rose as she spoke.
"Not much to thank for, according to you!" observed Lady Niton, grimly.
"Oh, well, he's in!" Lady Lucy drew a long breath. "But people have
behaved so extraordinarily! That man--that clergyman--at Beechcote--Mr.
Lavery. He's been working night and day against Oliver. Really, I think
parsons ought to leave politics alone."
"Lavery?" said Bobbie. "I thought he was a Radical. Weren't Oliver's
speeches advanced enough to please him?"
"He has been denouncing Oliver as a humbug, because of what he is
pleased to call the state of the mining villages. I'm sure they're a
great, great deal better than they were twenty years ago!" Lady Lucy's
voice was almost piteous. "However, he very nearly persuaded the miners
to run a candidate of their own, and when that fell through, he advised
them to abstain from voting. And they must have done so--in several
villages. That's pulled down the majority."
"Abominable!" said Bobbie, who was comfortably conservative. "I always
said that man was a firebrand."
"I don't know what he expects to get by it," said Lady Lucy, slowly, as
she moved toward the door. Her tone was curiously helpless; she was
still stately, but it was a ghostly and pallid stateliness.
"Get by it!" sneered Lady Niton. "After all, his friends are in. They
say he's eloquent. His jackasseries will get him a bishopric in
time--you'll see."
"It was the unkindness--the ill-feeling--I minded," said Lady Lucy, in a
low voice, leaning heavily upon her stick, and looking straight before
her as though she inwardly recalled some of the incidents of the
election. "I never knew anything like it before."
Lady Niton lifted her eyebrows--not finding a suitable response. Did
Lucy really not understand what was the matter?--that her beloved Oliver
had earned the reputation throughout the division of a man who can
propose to a charming girl, and then desert her for money, at the moment
when the tragic blow of her life had fallen upon her?--and she, that of
the mercenary mother who had forced him into it. Precious lucky for
Oliver to have got in at all!
The door closed on Lady Lucy. Forgetting for an instant what had
happened before her hostess entered, Elizabeth Niton, bristling with
remarks, turned impetuously toward Forbes. He had gone back to first
editions, and was whistling vigorously as he worked. With a start, Lady
Niton recollected herself. Her face reddened afresh; she rose, walked
with as much majesty as her station admitted to the door, which she
closed sharply behind her.
As soon as she was gone Bobbie stopped whistling. If she was really
going to make a quarrel of it, it would certainly be a great bore--a
hideous bore. His conscience pricked him for the mean and unmanly
dependence which had given the capricious and masterful little woman so
much to say in his affairs. He must really find fresh work, pay his
debts, those to Lady Niton first and foremost, and marry the girl who
would make a decent fellow of him. But his heart smote him about his
queer old Fairy Blackstick. No surrender!--but he would like to
make peace.
* * * * *
It was past eight o'clock when the four-in-hand on which the new member
had been touring the constituency drove up to the Tallyn door. Forbes
hurried to the steps to greet the party.
"Hullo, Oliver! A thousand congratulations, old fellow! Never mind the
figures. A win's a win! But I thought you would have been dining and
junketing in Dunscombe to-night. How on earth did you get them to
let you off?"
Oliver's tired countenance smiled perfunctorily as he swung himself down
from the coach. He allowed his hand to be shaken; his lips moved, but
only a husky whisper emerged.
"Lost his voice," Roland Lankester explained. "And so done that we
begged him off from the Dunscombe dinner. He's only fit for bed."
And with a wave of the hand to the company, Marsham, weary and worn,
mounted the steps, and, passing rapidly through the hall, went
up-stairs. Alicia Drake and Lankester followed, pausing in the hall to
talk with Bobbie.
Alicia too looked tired out. She was dressed in a marvellous gown of
white chiffon, adorned with a large rosette of Marsham's
colors--red-and-yellow--and wore a hat entirely composed of red and
yellow roses. The colors were not becoming to her, and she had no air of
happy triumph. Rather, both in her and in Marsham there were strong
signs of suppressed chagrin and indignation.
"Well, that's over!" said Miss Drake, throwing down her gloves on the
billiard-table with a fierce gesture; "and I'm sure neither Oliver nor I
would go through it again for a million of money. How _revolting_ the
lower classes are!"
Lankester looked at her curiously.
"You've worked awfully hard," he said. "I hope you're going to have a
good rest."
"I wouldn't bother about rest if I could pay out some of the people
here," said Alicia, passionately. "I should like to see a few score of
them hanged in chains, _pour encourager les autres_."
So saying, she gathered up her gloves and parasol, and swept up-stairs
declaring that she was too dog-tired to talk.
Bobbie Forbes and Lankester looked at each other.
"It's been really a beastly business!" said Lankester, under his breath.
"Precious little politics in it, too, as far as I could see. The strong
Ferrierites no doubt have held aloof on the score of Marsham's supposed
disloyalty to the great man; though, as far as I can make out, he has
been careful not to go beyond a certain line in his speeches. Anyway,
they have done no work, and a good many of them have certainly
abstained from voting. It is our vote that has gone down; the Tories
have scarcely increased theirs at all. But the other side--and the
Socialists--got hold of a lot of nasty little things about the estate
and the collieries. The collieries are practically in rebellion,
spoiling for a big strike next November, if not before. When Miss Drake
and Marsham drove round there this morning they were very badly
received. Her parasol was broken by a stone, and there was a good deal
of mud-throwing."
Bobbie eyed his companion.
"Was any of the Opposition personal to _her_?"
Lankester nodded.
"There's an extraordinary feeling all over the place for--"
"Of course there is!" said Bobbie, hotly. "Marsham isn't such a fool as
not to know that. Why did he let this aggressive young woman take such a
prominent part?"
Lankester shrugged his shoulders, but did not pursue the subject. The
two men went up-stairs, and Lankester parted from his companion with
the remark:
"I must say I hope Marsham won't press for anything in the Government. I
don't believe he'll ever get in for this place again."
Forbes shook his head.
"Marsham's got a lot of devil in him somewhere. I shouldn't wonder if
this made him set his teeth."
* * * * *
Lankester opened the door of the ugly yet luxurious room which had been
assigned him. He looked round it with fresh distaste, resenting its
unnecessary size and its pretentious decoration, resenting also the very
careful valeting which had evidently been bestowed on his shabby
clothes and personal appointments, as though the magnificent young
footman who looked after him had been doing his painful best with
impossible materials.
"Why, the idiots have shut the windows!"
He strode vehemently across the floor, only to find the park outside, as
he hung across the sill, even less to his liking than the room within.
Then, throwing himself into a chair, tired out with the canvassing,
speaking, and multifarious business of the preceding days, he fell to
wondering what on earth had made him--after the fatigues of his own
election--come down to help Marsham with his. There were scores of men
in the House he liked a great deal better, and requests for help had
been showered upon him.
He had, no doubt, been anxious, as a keen member of the advanced group,
that Marsham should finally commit himself to the programme of the Left
Wing, with which he had been so long coquetting. Oliver had a
considerable position in the House, and was, moreover, a rich man. Rich
men had not, so far, been common in the advanced section of the party.
Lankester, in whom the idealist and the wire-puller were shrewdly mixed,
was well aware that the reforms he desired could only be got by
extensive organization; and he knew precisely what the money cost of
getting them would be. Rich men, therefore, were the indispensable tools
of his ideas; and among his own group he who had never possessed a
farthing of his own apart from the earnings of his brain and pen was
generally set on to capture them.
Was that really why he had come down?--to make sure of this rich
Laodicean? Lankester fell into a reverie.
He was a man of curious gifts and double personality. It was generally
impossible to lure him, on any pretext, from the East End and the House
of Commons. He lived in a block of model dwellings in a street opening
out of the East India Dock Road, and his rooms, whenever he was at home,
were overrun by children from the neighboring tenements. To them he was
all gentleness and fun, while his command of invective in a public
meeting was little short of terrible. Great ladies and the
country-houses courted him because of a certain wit, a certain
charm--above all, a certain spiritual power--which piqued the worldling.
He flouted and refused the great ladies--with a smile, however, which
gave no offence; and he knew, notwithstanding, everybody whom he wanted
to know. Occasionally he made quiet spaces in his life, and disappeared
from London for days or weeks. When he reappeared it was often with a
battered and exhausted air, as of one from whom virtue had gone out. He
was, in truth, a mystic of a secular kind: very difficult to class
religiously, though he called himself a member of the Society of
Friends. Lady Lucy, who was of Quaker extraction, recognized in his ways
and phrases echoes from the meetings and influences of her youth. But,
in reality, he was self-taught and self-formed, on the lines of an
Evangelical tradition, which had owed something, a couple of generations
back, among his Danish forebears, to the influence of Emanuel
Swedenborg. This tradition had not only been conveyed to him by a
beloved and saintly mother; it had been appropriated by the man's inmost
forces. What he believed in, with all mystics, was _prayer_--an intimate
and ineffable communion between the heart and God. Lying half asleep on
the House of Commons benches, or strolling on the Terrace, he pursued
often an inner existence, from which he could spring in a moment to full
mundane life--arguing passionately for some Socialist proposal, scathing
an opponent, or laughing and "ragging" with a group of friends, like a
school-boy on an _exeat_. But whatever he did, an atmosphere went with
him that made him beloved. He was extremely poor, and wrote for his
living. His opinions won the scorn of moderate men; and every year his
influence in Parliament--on both sides of the House and with the Labor
party--increased. On his rare appearance in such houses as Tallyn Hall
every servant in the house marked and befriended him. The tall footman,
for instance, who had just been endeavoring to make the threadbare cuffs
of Lankester's dress coat present a more decent appearance, had done it
in no spirit of patronage, but simply in order that a gentleman who
spoke to him as a man and a brother should not go at a disadvantage
among "toffs" who did nothing of the kind.
But again--why had he come down?
During the last months of Parliament, Lankester had seen a good deal of
Oliver. The story of Diana, and of Marsham's interrupted wooing was by
that time public property, probably owing to the indignation of certain
persons in Brookshire. As we have seen, it had injured the prestige of
the man concerned in and out of Parliament. But Lankester, who looked at
life intimately and intensely, with the eye of a confessor, had been
roused by it to a curiosity about Oliver Marsham--whom at the time he
was meeting habitually on political affairs--which he had never felt
before. He, with his brooding second sight based on a spiritual estimate
of the world--he and Lady Lucy--alone saw that Marsham was unhappy. His
irritable moodiness might, of course, have nothing to do with his
failure to play the man in the case of Miss Mallory. Lankester was
inclined to think it had--Alicia Drake or no Alicia Drake. And the grace
of repentance is so rare in mankind that the mystic--his own secret life
wavering perpetually between repentance and ecstasy--is drawn to the
merest shadow of it.
These hidden thoughts on Lankester's side had been met by a new and
tacit friendliness on Marsham's. He had shown an increasing liking for
Lankester's company, and had finally asked him to come down and help him
in his constituency.
By George, if he married that girl, he would pay his penalty to the
utmost!
Lankester leaned out of window again, his eyes sweeping the dreary park.
In reality they had before them Marsham's aspect at the declaration of
the poll--head and face thrown back defiantly, hollow eyes of bitterness
and fatigue; and the scene outside--in front, a booing crowd--and beside
the new member, Alicia's angry and insolent look.
The election represented a set-back in a man's career, in spite of the
bare victory. And Lankester did not think it would be retrieved. With a
prophetic insight which seldom failed him, he saw that Marsham's chapter
of success was closed. He might get some small office out of the
Government. Nevertheless, the scale of life had dropped--on the wrong
side. Through Lankester's thought there shot a pang of sympathy. Defeat
was always more winning to him than triumph.
* * * * *
Meanwhile the new member himself was in no melting mood.
Forbes was right. Marsham, in his room, looking over the letters which
his servant had brought him, was only conscious of two feelings--disgust
and loathing with regard to the contest just over, and a dogged
determination with regard to the future. He had been deserted by the
moderates--by the Ferrierites--in spite of all his endeavors to keep
within courteous and judicial bounds; and he had been all but sacrificed
to a forbearance which had not saved him apparently a single moderate
vote, and had lost him scores on the advanced side.
With regard to Ferrier personally, he was extremely sore, A letter from
him during the preceding week would certainly have influenced votes.
Marsham denied hotly that his speeches had been of a character to offend
or injure his old friend and leader. A man must really be allowed some
honest latitude of opinion, even under party government!--and in
circumstances of personal obligation. He had had to steer a most
difficult course. But why must he give up his principles--not to speak
of his chances of political advancement--because John Ferrier had
originally procured him his seat in Parliament, and had been his
parents' intimate friend for many years? Let the Whig deserters answer
that question, if they could!
His whole being was tingling with anger and resentment. The contest had
steeped him in humiliations which stuck to him like mud-stains.
The week before, he had written to Ferrier, imploring him if possible to
come and speak for him--or at least to write a letter; humbling his
pride; and giving elaborate explanations of the line which he had taken.
There, on the table beside him, was Ferrier's reply:
"My Dear Oliver,--I don't think a letter would do you much
good, and for a speech, I am too tired--and I am afraid at
the present moment too thin-skinned. Pray excuse me. We shall
meet when this hubbub is over. All success to you.
"Yours ever, J.F."
Was there ever a more ungracious, a more uncalled-for, letter? Well, at
any rate, he was free henceforward to think and act for himself, and on
public grounds only; though of course he would do nothing unworthy of an
old friendship, or calculated to hurt his mother's feelings. Ferrier, by
this letter, and by the strong negative influence he must have exerted
in West Brookshire during the election, had himself loosened the old
bond; and Marsham would henceforth stand on his own feet.
As to Ferrier's reasons for a course of action so wholly unlike any he
had ever yet taken in the case of Lucy Marsham's son, Oliver's thoughts
found themselves engaged in a sore and perpetual wrangle. Ferrier, he
supposed, suspected him of a lack of "straightness"; and did not care to
maintain an intimate relation, which had been already, and might be
again, used against him. Marsham, on his side, recalled with discomfort
various small incidents in the House of Commons which might have
seemed--to an enemy--to illustrate or confirm such an explanation of the
state of things.
Absurd, of course! He _was_ an old friend of Ferrier's, whose relation
to his mother necessarily involved close and frequent contact with her
son. And at the same time--although in the past Ferrier had no doubt
laid him under great personal and political obligations--he had by now,
in the natural course of things, developed strong opinions of his own,
especially as to the conduct of party affairs in the House of Commons;
opinions which were not Ferrier's--which were, indeed, vehemently
opposed to Ferrier's. In his, Oliver's, opinion, Ferrier's lead in the
House--on certain questions--was a lead of weakness, making for
disaster. Was he not even to hold, much less to express such a view,
because of the quasi-parental relation in which Ferrier had once stood
to him? The whole thing was an odious confusion--most unfair to him
individually--between personal and Parliamentary duty.
Frankness?--loyalty? It would, no doubt, be said that Ferrier had always
behaved with singular generosity both toward opponents and toward
dissidents in his own party. Open and serious argument was at no time
unwelcome to him.
All very well! But how was one to argue, beyond a certain point, with a
man twenty-five years your senior, who had known you in jackets, and was
also your political chief?
Moreover, he had argued--to the best of his ability. Ferrier had written
him a striking series of letters, no doubt, and he had replied to them.
As to Ferrier's wish that he should communicate certain points in those
letters to Barton and Lankester, he had done it, to some extent. But it
was a most useless proceeding. The arguments employed had been
considered and rejected a hundred times already by every member of the
dissident group.
And with regard to the meeting, which had apparently roused so sharp a
resentment in Ferrier, Marsham maintained simply that he was not
responsible. It was a meeting of the advanced Radicals of the division.
Neither Marsham nor his agents had been present. Certain remarks and
opinions of his own had been quoted indeed, even in public, as leading
up to it, and justifying it. A great mistake. He had never meant to
countenance any personal attack on Ferrier or his leadership. Yet he
uncomfortably admitted that the meeting had told badly on the election.
In the view of one side, he had not had pluck enough to go to it; in the
view of the other, he had disgracefully connived at it.
* * * * *
The arrival of the evening post and papers did something to brush away
these dismal self-communings. Wonderful news from the counties! The
success of the latest batch of advanced candidates had been astonishing.
Other men, it seemed, had been free to liberate their souls! Well, now
the arbiter of the situation was Lord Philip, and there would certainly
be a strong advanced infusion in the new Ministry. Marsham considered
that he had as good claims as any of the younger men; and if it came to
another election in Brookshire, hateful as the prospect was, he should
be fighting in the open, and choosing his own weapons. No shirking! His
whole being gathered itself into a passionate determination to retaliate
upon the persons who had injured, thwarted, and calumniated him during
the contest just over. He would fight again--next week, if
necessary--and he would win!
As to the particular and personal calumnies with which he had been
assailed--why, of course, he absolved Diana. She could have had no
hand in them.
Suddenly he pushed his papers from him with a hasty unconscious
movement.
In driving home that evening past the gates and plantations of Beechcote
it seemed to him that he had seen through the trees--in the
distance--the fluttering of a white dress. Had the news of his
inglorious success just reached her? How had she received it? Her face
came before him--the frank eyes--the sweet troubled look.
He dropped his head upon his arms. A sick distaste for all that he had
been doing and thinking rose upon him, wavelike, drowning for a moment
the energies of mind and will. Had anything been worth while--for
_him_--since the day when he had failed to keep the last tryst which
Diana had offered him?
He did not, however, long allow himself a weakness which he knew well he
had no right to indulge. He roused himself abruptly, took pen and paper,
and wrote a little note to Alicia, sending it round to her through
her maid.
* * * * *
Marsham pleaded fatigue, and dined in his room. In the course of the
meal he inquired of his servant if Mr. Barrington had arrived.
"Yes, sir; he arrived in time for dinner."
"Ask him to come up afterward and see me here."
As he awaited the new-comer, Marsham had time to ponder what this visit
of a self-invited guest might mean. The support of the _Herald_ and its
brilliant editor had been so far one of Ferrier's chief assets. But
there had been some signs of wavering in its columns lately, especially
on two important questions likely to occupy the new Ministry in its
first session--matters on which the opinion of the Darcy, or advanced
section, was understood to be in violent conflict with that of Ferrier
and the senior members of the late Front Opposition Bench in general.
Barrington, no doubt, wished to pump him--one of Ferrier's
intimates--with regard to the latest phase of Ferrier's views on these
two principal measures. The leader himself was rather stiff and
old-fashioned with regard to journalists--gave too little information
where other men gave too much.
Oliver glanced in some disquiet at the pile of Ferrier's letters lying
beside him. It contained material for which any ambitious journalist, at
the present juncture, would give the eyes out of his head. But could
Barrington be trusted? Oliver vaguely remembered some stories to his
disadvantage, told probably by Lankester, who in these respects was one
of the most scrupulous of men. Yet the paper stood high, and was
certainly written with conspicuous ability.
Why not give him information?--cautiously, of course, and with
discretion. What harm could it do--to Ferrier or any one else? The party
was torn by dissensions; and the first and most necessary step toward
reunion was that Ferrier's aims and methods should be thoroughly
understood. No doubt in these letters, as he had himself pointed out, he
had expressed himself with complete, even dangerous freedom. But there
was not going to be any question of putting them into Barrington's
hands. Certainly not!--merely a quotation--a reference here and there.
As he began to sketch his own share in the expected conversation, a
pleasant feeling of self-importance crept in, soothing to the wounds of
the preceding week. Secretly Marsham knew that he had never yet made the
mark in politics that he had hoped to make, that his abilities entitled
him to make. The more he thought of it the more he realized that the
coming half-hour might be of great significance in English politics; he
had it in his own power to make it so. He was conscious of a strong
wish to impress Barrington--perhaps Ferrier also. After all, a man grows
up, and does not remain an Eton boy, or an undergraduate, forever. It
would be well to make Ferrier more aware than he was of that fact.
In the midst of his thoughts the door opened, and Barrington--a man
showing in his dark-skinned, large-featured alertness the signs of
Jewish pliancy and intelligence--walked in.
"Are you up to conversation?" he said, laughing. "You look pretty done!"
"If I can whisper you what you want," said Oliver, huskily, "it's at
your service! There are the cigarettes."
The talk lasted long. Midnight was near before the two men separated.
* * * * *
The news of Marsham's election reached Ferrier under Sir James Chide's
roof, in the pleasant furnished house about four miles from Beechcote,
of which he had lately become the tenant in order to be near Diana. It
was conveyed in a letter from Lady Lucy, of which the conclusion ran
as follows:
"It is so strange not to have you here this evening--not to
be able to talk over with you all these anxieties and trials.
I can't help being a little angry with Sir James. We are the
oldest friends.
"Of course I have often been anxious lately lest Oliver
should have done anything to offend you. I have spoken to him
about that tiresome meeting, and I think I could prove to you
it was _not_ his fault. Do, my dear friend, come here as soon
as you can, and let me explain to you whatever may have
seemed wrong. You cannot think how much we miss you. I feel
it a little hard that there should be strangers here this
evening--like Mr. Lankester and Mr. Barrington. But it could
not be helped. Mr. Lankester was speaking for Oliver last
night--and Mr. Barrington invited himself. I really don't
know why. Oliver is dreadfully tired--and so am I. The
ingratitude and ill-feeling of many of our neighbors has
tried me sorely. It will be a long time before I forget it.
It really seems as though nothing were worth striving for in
this very difficult world."
"Poor Lucy!" said Ferrier to himself, his heart softening, as usual.
"Barrington? H'm. That's odd." He had only time for a short reply:
"My dear Lady Lucy,--It's horrid that you are tired and
depressed. I wish I could come and cheer you up. Politics are
a cursed trade. But never mind, Oliver is safely in, and as
soon as the Government is formed, I will come to Tallyn, and
we will laugh at these woes. I can't write at greater length
now, for Broadstone has just summoned me. You will have seen
that he went to Windsor this morning. Now the agony begins.
Let's hope it may be decently short. I am just off for town.
"Yours ever, John Ferrier."
Two days passed--three days--and still the "agony" lasted. Lord
Broadstone's house in Portman Square was besieged all day by anxious
journalists watching the goings and comings of a Cabinet in the making.
But nothing could be communicated to the newspapers--nothing, in fact,
was settled. Envoys went backward and forward to Lord Philip in
Northamptonshire. Urgent telegrams invited him to London. He took no
notice of the telegrams; he did not invite the envoys, and when they
came he had little or nothing of interest to say to them. Lord
Broadstone, he declared, was fully in possession of his views. He had
nothing more to add. And, indeed, a short note from him laid by in the
new Premier's pocket-book was, if the truth were known, the _fons et
origo_ of all Lord Broadstone's difficulties.
Meanwhile the more conservative section exerted itself, and by the
evening of the third day it seemed to have triumphed. A rumor spread
abroad that Lord Philip had gone too far. Ferrier emerged from a long
colloquy with the Prime Minister, walking briskly across the square with
his secretary, smiling at some of the reporters in waiting. Twenty
minutes later, as he stood in the smoking-room of the Reform, surrounded
by a few privileged friends, Lankester passed through the room.
"By Jove," he said to a friend with him, "I believe Ferrier's done the
trick!"
* * * * *
In spite, however, of a contented mind, Ferrier was aware, on reaching
his own house, that he was far from well. There was nothing very much to
account for his feeling of illness. A slight pain across the chest, a
slight feeling of faintness, when he came to count up his symptoms;
nothing else appeared. It was a glorious summer evening. He determined
to go back to Chide, who now always returned to Lytchett by an evening
train, after a working-day in town. Accordingly, the new Chancellor of
the Exchequer and Leader of the House dined lightly, and went off to St.
Pancras, leaving a note for the Prime Minister to say where he was to be
found, and promising to come to town again the following afternoon.
* * * * *
The following morning fulfilled the promise of the tranquil evening and
starry night, which, amid the deep quiet of the country, had done much
to refresh a man, in whom, indeed, a stimulating consciousness of
success seemed already to have repaired the ravages of the fight.
Ferrier was always an early riser, and by nine o'clock he and Sir James
were pottering and smoking in the garden. A long case in which Chide had
been engaged had come to an end the preceding day. The great lawyer sent
word to his chambers that he was not coming up to town; Ferrier
ascertained that he was only half an hour from a telegraph office, made
a special arrangement with the local post as to a mid-day delivery of
letters, and then gave himself up for the morning to rest, gossip, and
a walk.
By a tiresome _contretemps_ the newspapers did not arrive at
breakfast-time. Sir James was but a new-comer in the district, and the
parcel of papers due to him had gone astray through the stupidity of a
newsboy. A servant was sent into Dunscombe, five miles off; and
meanwhile Ferrier bore the blunder with equanimity. His letters of the
morning, fresh from the heart of things, made newspapers a mere
superfluity. They could tell him nothing that he did not know already.
And as for opinions, those might wait.
He proposed, indeed, before the return of the servant from Dunscombe, to
walk over to Beechcote. The road lay through woods, two miles of shade.
He pined for exercise; Diana and her young sympathy acted as a magnet
both on him and on Sir James; and it was to be presumed she took a daily
paper, being, as Ferrier recalled, "a terrible little Tory."
In less than an hour they were at Beechcote. They found Diana and Mrs.
Colwood on the lawn of the old house, reading and working in the shade
of a yew hedge planted by that Topham Beauclerk who was a friend of
Johnson. The scent of roses and limes; the hum of bees; the beauty of
slow-sailing clouds, and of the shadows they flung on the mellowed
color of the house; combined with the figure of Diana in white, her
eager eyes, her smile, and her unquenchable interest in all that
concerned the two friends, of whose devotion to her she was so
gratefully and simply proud--these things put the last touch to
Ferrier's enjoyment. He flung himself on the grass, talking to both the
ladies of the incidents and absurdities of Cabinet-making, with a
freedom and fun, an abandonment of anxiety and care that made him young
again. Nobody mentioned a newspaper.
Presently Chide, who had now taken the part of general adviser to Diana,
which had once been filled by Marsham, strolled off with her to look at
a greenhouse in need of repairs. Mrs. Colwood was called in by some
household matter. Ferrier was left alone.
As usual, he had a book in his pocket. This time it was a volume of
selected essays, ranging from Bacon to Carlyle. He began lazily to turn
the pages, smiling to himself the while at the paradoxes of life. Here,
for an hour, he sat under the limes, drunk with summer breezes and
scents, toying with a book, as though he were some "indolent
irresponsible reviewer"--some college fellow in vacation--some wooer of
an idle muse. Yet dusk that evening would find him once more in the
Babel of London. And before him lay the most strenuous, and, as he
hoped, the most fruitful passage of his political life. Broadstone, too,
was an old man; the Premiership itself could not be far away.
As for Lord Philip--Ferrier's thoughts ran upon that gentleman with a
good-humor which was not without malice. He had played his cards
extremely well, but the trumps in his hand had not been quite strong
enough. Well, he was young; plenty of time yet for Cabinet office. That
he would be a thorn in the side of the new Ministry went without saying.
Ferrier felt no particular dismay at the prospect, and amused himself
with speculations on the letters which had probably passed that very day
between Broadstone and the "iratus Achilles" in Northamptonshire.
And from Lord Philip, Ferrier's thoughts--shrewdly indulgent--strayed to
the other conspirators, and to Oliver Marsham in particular, their
spokesman and intermediary. Suddenly a great softness invaded him toward
Oliver and his mother. After all, had he not been hard with the boy, to
leave him to his fight without a word of help? Oliver's ways were
irritating; he had more than one of the intriguer's gifts; and several
times during the preceding weeks Ferrier's mind had recurred with
disquiet to the letters in his hands. But, after all, things had worked
out better than could possibly have been expected. The _Herald_, in
particular, had done splendid service, to himself personally, and to the
moderates in general. Now was the time for amnesty and reconciliation
all round. Ferrier's mind ran busily on schemes of the kind. As to
Oliver, he had already spoken to Broadstone about him, and would speak
again that night. Certainly he must have something--Junior Lordship at
least. And if he were opposed on re-election, why, he should be
helped--roundly helped. Ferrier already saw himself at Tallyn once more,
with Lady Lucy's frail hand in one of his, the other perhaps on Oliver's
shoulder. After all, where was he happy--or nearly happy--but with them?
* * * * *
His eyes returned to his book. With a mild amusement he saw that it had
opened of itself at an essay, by Abraham Cowley, on "Greatness" and its
penalties: "Out of these inconveniences arises naturally one more, which
is, that no greatness can be satisfied or contented with itself; still,
if it could mount up a little higher, it would be happy; if it could not
gain that point, it would obtain all its desires; but yet at last, when
it is got up to the very top of the peak of Teneriffe, it is in very
great danger of breaking its neck downward, but in no possibility of
ascending upward--into the seat of tranquillity about the moon."
The new Secretary of State threw himself back in his garden chair, his
hands behind his head. Cowley wrote well; but the old fellow did not,
after all, know much about it, in spite of his boasted experiences at
that sham and musty court of St.-Germain's. Is it true that men who have
climbed high are always thirsty to climb higher? No! "What is my feeling
now? Simply a sense of _opportunity_. A man may be glad to have the
chance of leaving his mark on England."
Thoughts rose in him which were not those of a pessimist--thoughts,
however, which the wise man will express as little as possible, since
talk profanes them. The concluding words of Peel's great Corn Law speech
ran through his memory, and thrilled it. He was accused of indifference
to the lot of the poor. It was not true. It never had been true.
"Hullo! who comes?"
Mrs. Colwood was running over the lawn, bringing apparently a letter,
and a newspaper.
She came up, a little breathless.
"This letter has just come for you, Mr. Ferrier, by special messenger.
And Miss Mallory asked me to bring you the newspaper."
Ferrier took the letter, which was bulky and addressed in the Premier's
handwriting.
"Kindly ask the messenger to wait. I will come and speak to him."
He opened the letter and read it. Then, having put it deliberately in
his pocket, he sat bending forward, staring at the grass. The newspaper
caught his eye. It was the _Herald_ of that morning. He raised it from
the ground, read the first leading article, and then a column "from a
correspondent" on which the article was based.
As he came to the end of it a strange premonition took possession of
him. He was still himself, but it seemed to him that the roar of some
approaching cataract was in his ears. He mastered himself with
difficulty, took a pencil from his pocket, and drew a wavering line
beside a passage in the article contributed by the _Herald's_
correspondent. The newspaper slid from his knee to the ground.
Then, with a groping hand, he sought again for Broadstone's letter, drew
it out of its envelope, and, with a mist before his eyes, felt for the
last page which, he seemed to remember, was blank. On this he traced,
with difficulty, a few lines, replaced the whole letter in the torn
envelope and wrote an address upon it--uncertainly crossing out his
own name.
Then, suddenly, he fell back. The letter followed the newspaper to the
ground. Deadly weakness was creeping upon him, but as yet the brain was
clear. Only his will struggled no more; everything had given way, but
with the sense of utter catastrophe there mingled neither pain nor
bitterness. Some of the Latin verse scattered over the essay he had been
reading ran vaguely through his mind--then phrases from his last talk
with the Prime Minister--then remembrances of the night at Assisi--and
the face of the poet--
A piercing cry rang out close beside him--Diana's cry. His life made a
last rally, and his eyes opened. They closed again, and he heard
no more.
Sir James Chide stooped over Diana.
"Run for help!--brandy!--a doctor! I'll stay with him. Run!"
Diana ran. She met Mrs. Colwood hurrying, and sent her for brandy. She
herself sped on blindly toward the village.
A few yards beyond the Beechcote gate she was overtaken by a carriage.
There was an exclamation, the carriage pulled up sharp, and a man
leaped from it.
"Miss Mallory!--what is the matter?"
She looked up, saw Oliver Marsham, and, in the carriage behind him, Lady
Lucy, sitting stiff and pale, with astonished eyes.
"Mr. Ferrier is ill--very ill! Please go for the doctor! He is here--at
my house."
The figure in the carriage rose hurriedly. Lady Lucy was beside her.
"What is the matter?" She laid an imperious hand on the girl's arm.
"I think--he is dying," said Diana, gasping. "Oh, come!--come back at
once!"
Marsham was already in the carriage. The horse galloped forward. Diana
and Lady Lucy ran toward the house.
"In the garden," said Diana, breathlessly; and, taking Lady Lucy's hand,
she guided her.
Beside the dying man stood Sir James Chide, Muriel Colwood, and the old
butler. Sir James looked up, started at the sight of Lady Lucy, and went
to meet her.
"You are just in time," he said, tenderly; "but he is going fast. We
have done all we could."
Ferrier was now lying on the grass, his head supported. Lady Lucy sank
beside him.
"John!" she called, in a voice of anguish--"John--dear, dear friend!"
But the dying man made no sign. And as she lifted his hand to her
lips--the love she had shown him so grudgingly in life speaking now
undisguised through her tears and her despair--Sir James watched the
gentle passage of the last breaths, and knew that all was done--the play
over and the lights out.