A sad hurrying and murmuring filled the old rooms and passages of
Beechcote. The village doctor had arrived, and under his direction the
body of John Ferrier had been removed from the garden to the library of
the house. There, amid Diana's books and pictures, Ferrier lay,
shut-eyed and serene, that touch of the ugly and the ponderous which in
life had mingled with the power and humanity of his aspect entirely lost
and drowned in the dignity of death.
Chide and the doctor were in low-voiced consultation at one end of the
room; Lady Lucy sat beside the body, her face buried in her hands;
Marsham stood behind her.
Brown, the butler, noiselessly entered the room, and approached Chide.
"Please sir, Lord Broadstone's messenger is here. He thinks you might
wish him to take back a letter to his lordship."
Chide turned abruptly.
"Lord Broadstone's messenger?"
"He brought a letter for Mr. Ferrier, sir, half an hour ago."
Chide's face changed.
"Where is the letter?" He turned to the doctor, who shook his head.
"I saw nothing when we brought him in."
Marsham, who had overheard the conversation, came forward.
"Perhaps on the grass--"
Chide--pale, with drawn brows--looked at him a moment in silence.
Marsham hurried to the garden and to the spot under the yews, where the
death had taken place. Round the garden chairs were signs of trampling
feet--the feet of the gardeners who had carried the body. A medley of
books, opened letters, and working-materials lay on the grass. Marsham
looked through them; they all belonged to Diana or Mrs. Colwood. Then he
noticed a cushion which had fallen beside the chair, and a corner of
newspaper peeping from below it. He lifted it up.
Below lay Broadstone's open letter, in its envelope, addressed first in
the Premier's well-known handwriting to "The Right Honble. John Ferrier,
M.P."--and, secondly, in wavering pencil, to "Lady Lucy Marsham,
Tallyn Hall."
Marsham turned the letter over, while thoughts hurried through his
brain. Evidently Ferrier had had time to read it. Why that address to
his mother?--and in that painful hand--written, it seemed, with the
weakness of death already upon him?
The newspaper? Ah!--the _Herald_!--lying as though, after reading it,
Ferrier had thrown it down and let the letter drop upon it, from a hand
that had ceased to obey him. As Marsham saw it the color rushed into his
cheeks. He stooped and raised it. Suddenly he noticed on the margin of
the paper a pencilled line, faint and wavering, like the words written
on the envelope. It ran beside a passage in the article "from a
correspondent," and as he looked at it consciousness and pulse paused
in dismay. There, under his eye, in that dim mark, was the last word and
sign of John Ferrier.
He was still staring at it when a sound disturbed him. Lady Lucy came to
him, feebly, across the grass. Marsham dropped the newspaper, retaining
Broadstone's letter.
"Sir James wished me to leave him a little," she said, brokenly. "The
ambulance will be here directly. They will take him to Lytchett. I
thought it should have been Tallyn. But Sir James decided it."
"Mother!"--Marsham moved toward her, reluctantly--"here is a letter--no
doubt of importance. And--it is addressed to you."
Lady Lucy gave a little cry. She looked at the pencilled address, with
quivering lips; then she opened the envelope, and on the back of the
closely written letter she saw at once Ferrier's last words to her.
Marsham, moved by a son's natural impulse, stooped and kissed her hair.
He drew a chair forward, and she sank into it with the letter. While she
was reading it he raised the _Herald_ again, unobserved, folded it up
hurriedly, and put it in his pocket; then walked away a few steps, that
he might leave his mother to her grief. Presently Lady Lucy called him.
"Oliver!" The voice was strong. He went back to her and she received him
with sparkling eyes, her hand on Broadstone's letter.
"Oliver, this is what killed him! Lord Broadstone must bear the
responsibility."
And hurriedly, incoherently, she explained that the letter from Lord
Broadstone was an urgent appeal to Ferrier's patriotism and to his
personal friendship for the writer; begging him for the sake of party
unity, and for the sake of the country, to allow the Prime Minister to
cancel the agreement of the day before; to accept a peerage and the War
Office in lieu of the Exchequer and the leadership of the House. The
Premier gave a full account of the insurmountable difficulties in the
way of the completion of the Government, which had disclosed themselves
during the course of the afternoon and evening following his interview
with Ferrier. Refusals of the most unexpected kind, from the most
unlikely quarters; letters and visits of protest from persons impossible
to ignore--most of them, no doubt, engineered by Lord Philip; "finally
the newspapers of this morning--especially the article in the _Herald_,
which you will have seen before this reaches you--all these, taken
together, convince me that if I cannot persuade you to see the matter in
the same light as I do--and I know well that, whether you accept or
refuse, you will put the public advantage first--I must at once inform
her Majesty that my attempt to construct a Government has broken down."
Marsham followed her version of the letter as well as he could; and as
she turned the last page, he too perceived the pencilled writing, which
was not Broadstone's. This she did not offer to communicate; indeed, she
covered it at once with her hand.
"Yes, I suppose it was the shock," he said, in a low voice. "But it was
not Broadstone's fault. It was no one's fault."
Lady Lucy flushed and looked up.
"That man Barrington!" she said, vehemently. "Oh, if I had never had him
in my house!"
Oliver made no reply. He sat beside her, staring at the grass. Suddenly
Lady Lucy touched him on the knee.
"Oliver!"--her voice was gasping and difficult--"Oliver!--you had
nothing to do with that?"
"With what, mother?"
"With the _Herald_ article. I read it this morning. But I laughed at it!
John's letter arrived at the same moment--so happy, so full of plans--"
"Mother!--you don't imagine that a man in Ferrier's position can be
upset by an article in a newspaper?"
"I don't know--the _Herald_ was so important--I have heard John say so.
Oliver!"--her face worked painfully--"I know you talked with that man
that night. You didn't--"
"I didn't say anything of which I am ashamed," he said, sharply, raising
his head.
His mother looked at him in silence. Their eyes met in a flash of
strange antagonism--as though each accused the other.
A sound behind them made Lady Lucy turn round. Brown was coming over the
grass.
"A telegram, sir, for you. Your coachman stopped the boy and sent him
here."
Marsham opened it hastily. As he read it his gray and haggard face
flushed again heavily.
"Awful news just reached me. Deepest sympathy with you and
yours. Should be grateful if I might see you to-day.
"BROADSTONE."
He handed it to his mother, but Lady Lucy scarcely took in the sense of
it. When he left her to write his answer, she sat on in the July sun
which had now reached the chairs, mechanically drawing her large country
hat forward to shield her from its glare--a forlorn figure, with staring
absent eyes; every detail of her sharp slenderness, her blanched and
quivering face, the elegance of her black dress, the diamond fastening
the black lace hat-strings tied under her pointed chin--set in the full
and searching illumination of mid-day. It showed her an old
woman--left alone.
Her whole being rebelled against what had happened to her. Life without
John's letters, John's homage, John's sympathy--how was it to be
endured? Disguises that shrouded her habitual feelings and instincts
even from herself dropped away. That Oliver was left to her did not make
up to her in the least for John's death.
The smart that held her in its grip was a new experience. She had never
felt it at the death of the imperious husband, to whom she had been,
nevertheless, decorously attached. Her thoughts clung to those last
broken words under her hand, trying to wring from them something that
might content and comfort her remorse:
"DEAR LUCY,--I feel ill--it may be nothing--Chide and you may
read this letter. Broadstone couldn't help it. Tell him so.
Bless you--Tell Oliver--Yours, J.F."
The greater part of the letter was all but illegible even by her--but
the "bless you" and the "J.F." were more firmly written than the rest,
as though the failing hand had made a last effort.
Her spiritual vanity was hungry and miserable. Surely, though she would
not be his wife, she had been John's best friend!--his good angel. Her
heart clamored for some warmer, gratefuller word--that might justify her
to herself. And, instead, she realized for the first time the desert she
had herself created, the loneliness she had herself imposed. And with
prophetic terror she saw in front of her the daily self-reproach that
her self-esteem might not be able to kill.
"_Tell Oliver_--"
Did it mean "if I die, tell Oliver"? But John never said anything futile
or superfluous in his life. Was it not rather the beginning of some last
word to Oliver that he could not finish? Oh, if her son had indeed
contributed to his death!
She shivered under the thought; hurrying recollections of Mr.
Barrington's visit, of the _Herald_ article of that morning, of Oliver's
speeches and doings during the preceding month, rushing through her
mind. She had already expressed her indignation about the _Herald_
article to Oliver that morning, on the drive which had been so
tragically interrupted.
"Dear Lady Lucy!"
She looked up. Sir James Chide stood beside her.
The first thing he did was to draw her to her feet, and then to move her
chair into the shade.
"You have lost more than any of us," he said, as she sank back into it,
and, holding out his hand, he took hers into his warm compassionate
clasp. He had never thought that she behaved well to Ferrier, and he
knew that she had behaved vilely to Diana; but his heart melted within
him at the sight of a woman--and a gray-haired woman--in grief.
"I hear you found Broadstone's letter?" He glanced at it on her lap. "I
too have heard from him. The messenger, as soon as he knew I was here,
produced a letter for me that he was to have taken on to Lytchett. It is
a nice letter--a very nice letter, as far as that goes. Broadstone
wanted me to use my influence--with John--described his difficulties--"
Chide's hand suddenly clinched on his knee.
"--If I could only get at that creature, Lord Philip!"
"You think it was the shock--killed him?" The hard slow tears had begun
again to drop upon her dress.
"Oh! he has been an ill man since May," said Chide, evasively. "No doubt
there has been heart mischief--unsuspected--for a long time. The doctors
will know--presently. Poor Broadstone!--it will nearly kill him too."
She held out the letter to him.
"You are to read it;" and then, in broken tones, pointing: "look! he
said so."
He started as he saw the writing on the back, and again his hand pressed
hers kindly.
"He felt ill," she said, brokenly; "he foresaw it. Those are his last
words--his precious last words."
She hid her face. As Chide gave it back to her, his brow and lip had
settled into the look which made him so formidable in court. He looked
round him abruptly.
"Where is the _Herald_? I hear Mrs. Colwood brought it out."
He searched the grass in vain, and the chairs. Lady Lucy was silent.
Presently she rose feebly.
"When--when will they take him away?"
"Directly. The ambulance is coming--I shall go with him. Take my arm."
She leaned on him heavily, and as they approached the house they saw two
figures step out of it--Marsham and Diana.
Diana came quickly, in her light white dress. Her eyes were red, but she
was quite composed. Chide looked at her with tenderness. In the two
hours which had passed since the tragedy she had been the help and the
support of everybody, writing, giving directions, making arrangements,
under his own guidance, while keeping herself entirely in the
background. No parade of grief, no interference with himself or the
doctors; but once, as he sat by the body in the darkened room, he was
conscious of her coming in, of her kneeling for a little while at the
dead man's side, of her soft, stifled weeping. He had not said a word to
her, nor she to him. They understood each other.
And now she came, with this wistful face, to Lady Lucy. She stood
between that lady and Marsham, in her own garden, without, as it seemed
to Sir James, a thought of herself. As for him, in the midst of his own
sharp grief, he could not help looking covertly from one to the other,
remembering that February scene in Lady Lucy's drawing-room. And
presently he was sure that Lady Lucy too remembered it. Diana timidly
begged that she would take some food--some milk or wine--before her
drive home. It was three hours--incredible as it seemed--since she had
called to them in the road. Lady Lucy, looking at her, and evidently but
half conscious--at first--of what was said, suddenly colored, and
refused--courteously but decidedly.
"Thank you. I want nothing. I shall soon be home. Oliver!"
"I go to Lytchett with Sir James, mother. Miss Mallory begs that you
will let Mrs. Colwood take you home."
"It is very kind, but I prefer to go alone. Is my carriage there?"
She spoke like the stately shadow of her normal self. The carriage was
waiting. Lady Lucy approached Sir James, who was standing apart, and
murmured something in his ear, to the effect that she would come to
Lytchett that evening, and would bring flowers. "Let mine be the first,"
she said, inaudibly to the rest. Sir James assented. Such observances,
he supposed, count for a great deal with women; especially with those
who are conscious of having trifled a little with the weightier matters
of the law.
Then Lady Lucy took her leave; Marsham saw her to her carriage. The two
left behind watched the receding figures--the mother, bent and
tottering, clinging to her son.
"She is terribly shaken," said Sir James; "but she will never give way."
Diana did not reply, and as he glanced at her, he saw that she was
struggling for self-control, her eyes on the ground.
"And that woman might have had her for daughter!" he said to himself,
divining in her the rebuff of some deep and tender instinct.
Marsham came back.
"The ambulance is just arriving."
Sir James nodded, and turned toward the house. Marsham detained him,
dropping his voice.
"Let me go with him, and you take my fly."
Sir James frowned.
"That is all settled," he said, peremptorily. Then he looked at Diana.
"I will see to everything in-doors. Will you take Miss Mallory into
the garden?"
Diana submitted; though, for the first time, her face reddened faintly.
She understood that Sir James wished her to be out of sight and hearing
while they moved the dead.
That was a strange walk together for these two! Side by side, almost in
silence, they followed the garden path which had taken them to the
downs, on a certain February evening. The thought of it hovered, a ghost
unlaid, in both their minds. Instinctively, Marsham guided her by this
path, that they might avoid that spot on the farther lawn, where the
scattered chairs, the trampled books and papers still showed where Death
and Sleep had descended. Yet, as they passed it from a distance he saw
the natural shudder run through her; and, by association, there flashed
through him intolerably the memory of that moment of divine abandonment
in their last interview, when he had comforted her, and she had clung to
him. And now, how near she was to him--and yet how infinitely remote!
She walked beside him, her step faltering now and then, her head thrown
back, as though she craved for air and coolness on her brow and
tear-stained eyes. He could not flatter himself that his presence
disturbed her, that she was thinking at all about him. As for him, his
mind, held as it still was in the grip of catastrophe, and stunned by
new compunctions, was still susceptible from time to time of the most
discordant and agitating recollections--memories glancing,
lightning-quick, through the mind, unsummoned and shattering. Her face
in the moonlight, her voice in the great words of her promise--"all that
a woman can!"--that wretched evening in the House of Commons when he had
finally deserted her--a certain passage with Alicia, in the Tallyn
woods--these images quivered, as it were, through nerve and vein,
disabling and silencing him.
But presently, to his astonishment, Diana began to talk, in her natural
voice, without a trace of preoccupation or embarrassment. She poured out
her latest recollections of Ferrier. She spoke, brushing away her tears
sometimes, of his visit in the morning, and his talk as he lay beside
them on the grass--his recent letters to her--her remembrance of him
in Italy.
Marsham listened in silence. What she said was new to him, and often
bitter. He had known nothing of this intimate relation which had sprung
up so rapidly between her and Ferrier. While he acknowledged its beauty
and delicacy, the very thought of it, even at this moment, filled him
with an irritable jealousy. The new bond had arisen out of the wreck of
those he had himself broken; Ferrier had turned to her, and she to
Ferrier, just as he, by his own acts, had lost them both; it might be
right and natural; he winced under it--in a sense, resented it--none
the less.
And all the time he never ceased to be conscious of the newspaper in his
breast-pocket, and of that faint pencilled line that seemed to burn
against his heart.
Would she shrink from him, finally and irrevocably, if she knew it? Once
or twice he looked at her curiously, wondering at the power that women
have of filling and softening a situation. Her broken talk of Ferrier
was the only possible talk that could have arisen between them at that
moment without awkwardness, without risk. To that last ground of
friendship she could still admit him, and a wounded self-love suggested
that she chose it for his sake as well as Ferrier's.
Of course, she had seen him with Alicia, and must have drawn her
conclusions. Four months after the breach with her!--and such a breach!
As he walked beside her through the radiant scented garden, with its
massed roses and delphiniums, its tangle of poppy and lupin, he suddenly
beheld himself as a kind of outcast--distrusted and disliked by an old
friend like Chide, separated forever from the good opinion of this girl
whom he had loved, suspected even by his mother, and finally crushed by
this unexpected tragedy, and by the shock of Barrington's
unpardonable behavior.
Then his whole being reacted in a fierce protesting irritation. He had
been the victim of circumstance as much as she. His will hardened to a
passionate self-defence; he flung off, he held at bay, an anguish that
must and should be conquered. He had to live his life. He would live it.
They passed into the orchard, where, amid the old trees, covered with
tiny green apples, some climbing roses were running at will, hanging
their trails of blossom, crimson and pale pink, from branch to branch.
Linnets and blackbirds made a pleasant chatter; the grass beneath the
trees was rich and soft, and through their tops, one saw white clouds
hovering in a blazing blue.
Diana turned suddenly toward the house.
"I think we may go back now," she said, and her hand contracted and her
lip, as though she realized that her dear dead friend had left her
roof forever.
They hurried back, but there was still time for conversation.
"You knew him, of course, from a child?" she said to him, glancing at
him with timid interrogation.
In reply he forced himself to play that part of Ferrier's
intimate--almost son--which, indeed, she had given him, by implication,
throughout her own talk. In this she had shown a tact, a kindness for
which he owed her gratitude. She must have heard the charges brought
against him by the Ferrier party during the election, yet, noble
creature that she was, she had not believed them. He could have thanked
her aloud, till he remembered that marked newspaper in his pocket.
Once a straggling rose branch caught in her dress. He stooped to free
it. Then for the first time he saw her shrink. The instinctive service
had made them man and woman again--not mind and mind; and he perceived,
with a miserable throb, that she could not be so unconscious of his
identity, his presence, their past, as she had seemed to be.
She had lost--he realized it--the bloom of first youth. How thin was the
hand which gathered up her dress!--the hand once covered with his
kisses. Yet she seemed to him lovelier than ever, and he divined her
more woman than ever, more instinct with feeling, life, and passion.
* * * * *
Sir James's messenger met them half-way. At the door the ambulance
waited.
Chide, bareheaded, and a group of doctors, gardeners, and police stood
beside it.
"I follow you," said Marsham to Sir James. "There is a great deal to
do."
Chide assented coldly. "I have written to Broadstone, and I have sent a
preliminary statement to the papers."
"I can take anything you want to town," said Marsham, hastily. "I must
go up this evening."
He handed Broadstone's telegram to Sir James.
Chide read it and returned it in silence. Then he entered the ambulance,
taking his seat beside the shrouded form within. Slowly it drove away,
mounted police accompanying it. It took a back way from Beechcote, thus
avoiding the crowd, which on the village side had gathered round
the gates.
Diana, on the steps, saw it go, following it with her eyes; standing
very white and still. Then Marsham lifted his hat to her, conscious
through every nerve of the curiosity among the little group of people
standing by. Suddenly, he thought, she too divined it. For she looked
round her, bowed to him slightly, and disappeared with Mrs. Colwood.
* * * * *
He spent two or three hours at Lytchett, making the first arrangements
for the funeral, with Sir James. It was to be at Tallyn, and the burial
in the churchyard of the old Tallyn church. Sir James gave a slow and
grudging assent to this; but in the end he did assent, after the
relations between him and Marsham had become still more strained.
Further statements were drawn up for the newspapers. As the afternoon
wore on the grounds and hall of Lytchett betrayed the presence of a
number of reporters, hurriedly sent thither by the chief London and
provincial papers. By now the news had travelled through England.
Marsham worked hard, saving Sir James all he could. Another messenger
arrived from Lord Broadstone, with a pathetic letter for Sir James.
Chide's face darkened over it. "Broadstone must bear up," he said to
Marsham, as they stood together in Chide's sanctum. "It was not his
fault, and he has the country to think of. You tell him so. Now, are
you off?"
Marsham replied that his fly had been announced.
"What'll they offer you?" said Chide, abruptly.
"Offer me? It doesn't much matter, does it?--on a day like this?"
Marsham's tone was equally curt. Then he added: "I shall be here again
to-morrow."
Chide acquiesced. When Marsham had driven off, and as the sound of the
wheels died away, Chide uttered a fierce inarticulate sound. His hot
Irish heart swelled within him. He walked hurriedly to and fro, his
hands in his pockets.
"John!--John!" he groaned. "They'll be dancing and triumphing on your
grave to-night, John; and that fellow you were a father to--like the
rest. But they shall do it without me, John--they shall do it
without me!"
And he thought, with a grim satisfaction, of the note he had just
confided to the Premier's second messenger refusing the offer of the
Attorney-Generalship. He was sorry for Broadstone; he had done his best
to comfort him; but he would serve in no Government with John's
supplanters.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Marsham was speeding up to town. At every way-side station,
under the evening light, he saw the long lines of placards: "Sudden
death of Mr. Ferrier. Effect on the new Ministry." Every paper he bought
was full of comments and hasty biographies. There was more than a
conventional note of loss in them. Ferrier was not widely popular, in
the sense in which many English statesmen have been popular, but there
was something in his personality that had long since won the affection
and respect of all that public, in all classes, which really observes
and directs English affairs. He was sincerely mourned, and he would be
practically missed.
But the immediate effect would be the triumph of the Cave, a new
direction given to current politics. That no one doubted.
Marsham was lost in tumultuous thought. The truth was that the two
articles in the _Herald_ of that morning, which had arrived at Tallyn by
nine o'clock, had struck him with nothing less than consternation.
Ever since his interview with Barrington, he had persuaded himself that
in it he had laid the foundations of party reunion; and he had since
been eagerly scanning the signs of slow change in the attitude of the
party paper, combined--as they had been up to this very day--with an
unbroken personal loyalty to Ferrier. But the article of this morning
had shown a complete--and in Oliver's opinion, as he read it at the
breakfast-table--an extravagant _volte-face_. It amounted to nothing
less than a vehement appeal to the new Prime Minister to intrust the
leadership of the House of Commons, at so critical a moment, to a man
more truly in sympathy with the forward policy of the party.
"We have hoped against hope," said the _Herald_; "we have supported Mr.
Ferrier against all opposition; but a careful reconsideration and
analysis of his latest speeches--taken together with our general
knowledge public and private, of the political situation--have convinced
us, sorely against our will, that while Mr. Ferrier must, of course,
hold one of the most important offices in the new Cabinet, his
leadership of the Commons--in view of the two great measures to which
the party is practically pledged--could only bring calamity. He will not
oppose them; that, of course, we know; but is it possible that he can
_fight them through_ with success? We appeal to his patriotism, which
has never yet failed him or us. If he will only accept the peerage he
has so amply earned, together with either the War Office or the
Admiralty, and represent the Government in the Lords, where it is
sorely in need of strength, all will be well. The leadership of the
Commons must necessarily fall to that section of the party which,
through Lord Philip's astonishing campaign, has risen so rapidly in
public favor. Lord Philip himself, indeed, is no more acceptable to the
moderates than Mr. Ferrier to the Left Wing. Heat of personal feeling
alone would prevent his filling the part successfully. But two or three
men are named, under whom Lord Philip would be content to serve, while
the moderates would have nothing to say against them."
This was damaging enough. But far more serious was the "communicated"
article on the next page--"from a correspondent"--on which the "leader"
was based.
Marsham saw at once that the "correspondent" was really Barrington
himself, and that the article was wholly derived from the conversation
which had taken place at Tallyn, and from the portions of Ferrier's
letters, which Marsham had read or summarized for the journalist's
benefit.
The passage in particular which Ferrier's dying hand had marked--he
recalled the gleam in Barrington's black eyes as he had listened to it,
the instinctive movement in his powerful hand, as though to pounce,
vulturelike, on the letter--and his own qualm of anxiety--his sudden
sense of having gone too far--his insistence on discretion.
Discretion indeed! The whole thing was monstrous treachery. He had
warned the man that these few sentences were not to be taken
literally--that they were, in fact, Ferrier's caricature of himself and
his true opinion. "You press on me a particular measure," they said, in
effect, "you expect the millennium from it. Well, I'll tell you what
you'll really get by it!"--and then a forecast of the future, after the
great Bill was passed, in Ferrier's most biting vein.
The passage in the _Herald_ was given as a paraphrase, or, rather, as a
kind of _reductio ad absurdum_ of one of Ferrier's last speeches in the
House. It was, in truth, a literal quotation from one of the letters.
Barrington had an excellent memory. He had omitted nothing. The stolen
sentences made the point, the damning point, of the article. They were
not exactly quoted as Ferrier's, but they claimed to express Ferrier
more closely than he had yet expressed himself. "We have excellent
reason to believe that this is, in truth, the attitude of Mr. Ferrier."
How, then, could a man of so cold and sceptical a temper continue to
lead the young reformers of the party? The _Herald_, with infinite
regret, made its bow to its old leader, and went over bag and baggage to
the camp of Lord Philip, who, Marsham could not doubt, had been in close
consultation with the editor through the whole business.
Again and again, as the train sped on, did Marsham go back over the
fatal interview which had led to these results. His mind, full of an
agony of remorse he could not still, was full also of storm and fury
against Barrington. Never had a journalist made a more shameful use of a
trust reposed in him.
With torturing clearness, imagination built up the scene in the garden:
the arrival of Broadstone's letter; the hand of the stricken man groping
for the newspaper; the effort of those pencilled lines; and, finally,
that wavering mark, John Ferrier's last word on earth.
If it had, indeed, been meant for him, Oliver--well, he had received
it; the dead man had reached out and touched him; he felt the brand upon
him; and it was a secret forever between Ferrier and himself.
The train was nearing St. Pancras. Marsham roused himself with an
effort. After all, what fault was it of his--this tragic coincidence of
a tragic day? If Ferrier had lived, all could have been explained; or if
not all, most. And because Ferrier had died of a sudden ailment, common
among men worn out with high responsibilities, was a man to go on
reproaching himself eternally for another man's vile behavior--for the
results of an indiscretion committed with no ill-intent whatever? With
miserable self-control, Oliver turned his mind to his approaching
interview with the Prime Minister. Up to the morning of this awful day
he had been hanging on the Cabinet news from hour to hour. The most
important posts would, of course be filled first. Afterward would come
the minor appointments--and then!
* * * * *
Marsham found the Premier much shaken. He was an old man; he had been a
warm personal friend of Ferrier's; and the blow had hit him hard.
Evidently for a few hours he had been determined to resign; but strong
influences had been brought to bear, and he had wearily resumed
his task.
Reluctantly, Marsham told the story. Poor Lord Broadstone could not
escape from the connection between the arrival of his letter and the
seizure which had killed his old comrade. He sat bowed beneath it for a
while; then, with a fortitude and a self-control which never fails men
of his type in times of public stress and difficulty, he roused himself
to discuss the political situation which had arisen--so far, at least,
as was necessary and fitting in the case of a man not in the
inner circle.
As the two men sat talking the messenger arrived from Beechcote with Sir
James Chide's letter. From the Premier's expression as he laid it down
Marsham divined that it contained Chide's refusal to join the
Government. Lord Broadstone got up and began to move to and fro, wrapped
in a cloud of thought. He seemed to forget Marsham's presence, and
Marsham made a movement to go. As he did so Lord Broadstone looked up
and came toward him.
"I am much obliged to you for having come so promptly," he said, with
melancholy courtesy. "I thought we should have met soon--on an
occasion--more agreeable to us both. As you are here, forgive me if I
talk business. This rough-and-tumble world has to be carried on, and if
it suits you, I shall be happy to recommend your appointment to her
Majesty--as a Junior Lord of the Treasury--carrying with it, as of
course you understand, the office of Second Whip."
Ten minutes later Marsham left the Prime Minister's house. As he walked
back to St. Pancras, he was conscious of yet another smart added to the
rest. If _anything_ were offered to him, he had certainly hoped for
something more considerable.
It looked as though while the Ferrier influence had ignored him, the
Darcy influence had not troubled itself to do much for him. That he had
claims could not be denied. So this very meagre bone had been flung him.
But if he had refused it, he would have got nothing else.
The appointment would involve re-election. All that infernal business to
go through again!--probably in the very midst of disturbances in the
mining district. The news from the collieries was as bad as it could be.
* * * * *
He reached home very late--close on midnight. His mother had gone to
bed, ill and worn out, and was not to be disturbed. Isabel Fotheringham
and Alicia awaited him in the drawing-room.
Mrs. Fotheringham had arrived in the course of the evening. She herself
was peevish with fatigue, incurred in canvassing for two of Lord
Philip's most headlong supporters. Personally, she had broken with John
Ferrier some weeks before the election; but the fact had made more
impression on her own mind than on his.
"Well, Oliver, this is a shocking thing! However, of course, Ferrier had
been unhealthy for a long time; any one could see that. It was really
better it should end so."
"You take it calmly!" he said, scandalized by her manner and tone.
"I am sorry, of course. But Ferrier had outlived himself. The people I
have been working among felt him merely in the way. But, of course, I am
sorry mamma is dreadfully upset. That one must expect. Well, now
then--you have seen Broadstone?"
She rose to question him, the political passion in her veins asserting
itself against her weariness. She was still in her travelling dress.
From her small, haggard face the reddish hair was drawn tightly back;
the spectacled eyes, the dry lips, expressed a woman whose life had
hardened to dusty uses. Her mere aspect chilled and repelled her
brother, and he answered her questions shortly.
"Broadstone has treated you shabbily!" she remarked, with decision;
"but I suppose you will have to put up with it. And this terrible thing
that has happened to-day may tell against you when it comes to the
election. Ferrier will be looked upon as a martyr, and we shall suffer."
Oliver turned his eyes for relief to Alicia. She, in a soft black dress,
with many slender chains, studded with beautiful turquoises, about her
white neck, rested and cheered his sight. The black was for sympathy
with the family sorrow; the turquoises were there because he specially
admired them; he understood them both. The night was hot, and without
teasing him with questions she had brought him a glass of iced lemonade,
touching him caressingly on the arm while he drank it.
"Poor Mr. Ferrier! It was terribly, terribly sad!" Her voice was subtly
tuned and pitched. It made no fresh claim on emotion, of which, in his
mental and moral exhaustion, he had none to give; but it more than met
the decencies of the situation, which Isabel had flouted.
"So there will be another election?" she said, presently, still standing
in front of him, erect and provocative, her eyes fixed on his.
"Yes; but I sha'n't be such a brute as to bother you with it this time."
"I shall decide that for myself," she said, lightly. Then--after a
pause: "So Lord Philip has won!--all along the line! I should like to
know that man!"
"You do know him."
"Oh, just to pass the time of day. That's nothing. But I am to meet him
at the Treshams' next week." Her eyes sparkled a little. Marsham glanced
at his sister, who was gathering up some small possessions at the end of
the room.
"Don't try and make a fool of him!" he said, in a low voice. "He's not
your sort."
"Isn't he?" She laughed. "I suppose he's one of the biggest men in
England now. And somebody told me the other day that, after losing two
or three fortunes, he had just got another."
Marsham nodded.
"Altogether, an excellent _parti_."
Alicia's infectious laugh broke out. She sat down beside him, with her
hands round her knees.
"You look miles better than when you came in. But I think--you'd better
go to bed."
* * * * *
As Marsham, in undressing, flung his coat upon a chair, the copy of the
_Herald_ which he had momentarily forgotten fell out of the inner
pocket. He raised it--irresolute. Should he tear it up, and throw the
fragments away?
No. He could not bring himself to do it. It was as though Ferrier, lying
still and cold at Lytchett, would know of it--as though the act would do
some roughness to the dead.
He went into his sitting-room, found an empty drawer in his
writing-table, thrust in the newspaper, and closed the drawer.