IMPREGNABLE
Brent received this plain-spoken declaration with a curious tightening
of lips and setting of jaw which Tansley, during their brief
acquaintance, had come to know well enough. They were accompanied by a
fixed stare--the solicitor knew that too. These things meant that
Brent's fighting spirit was roused and that his temper became ugly.
Tansley laughed.
"You're the sort of chap for a scrap, Brent," he continued, "and a
go-ahead customer too! But--you don't know this lot, nor their
resources. Whatever anybody may say, and whatever men like your late
cousin, and Epplewhite, and any of the so-called Progressives--I'm not
one, myself; it pays me to belong to neither party!--whatever these
folks may think or say, Simon Crood and his lot are top-dogs in this
little old town! Vested interests, my boy!--ancient tree, with roots
firmly fixed in the piled-up soil, strata upon strata, of a thousand
years! You're not going to pull up these roots, my lad!"
"How'll Simon Crood smash me?" demanded Brent quietly.
"As to the exact how," answered Tansley, "can't say! Mole work--but
he'll set the majority of the electors in that Castle Ward against you."
"I've enough promises of support now to give me a majority," retorted
Brent.
"That for promises!" exclaimed Tansley, snapping his fingers. "You don't
know Hathelsborough people! They'll promise you their support to your
face--just to get rid of your presence on their door-steps--and vote
against you when they reach the ballot-box. I'll lay anything most of
the folk you've been to see have promised their support to both
candidates."
"Why should these people support Crood and his crew?" demanded Brent.
"Because Crood and his crew represent the only god they worship!" said
Tansley, with a cynical laugh. "Brass!--as they call it. All that a
Hathelsborough man thinks about is brass--money. Get money where you
can--never mind how, as long as you get it, and keep just within the
law. Simon Crood represents the Hathelsborough principle of graft, and
whatever you may think, he's the paramount influence in the town
to-day."
"He and his lot have only got the barest majority on the Council,"
remarked Brent.
"Maybe; but they've got all the really influential men behind 'em, the
moneyed men," said Tansley. "And they've distributed all the various
official posts, sinecures most of 'em, amongst their friends. That Town
Trustee business is the nut to crack here, Brent, and a nut that's been
hardening for centuries isn't going to be cracked with an ordinary
implement. Come now, are you an extraordinary one?"
"I'll make a try at things anyway," replied Brent. "And I don't believe
I shall lose that election, either."
"You might have scraped in if you hadn't carried Simon Crood's niece
away from under his very nose," said Tansley. "But now that you've
brought personal matters into the quarrel, the old chap'll move every
piece he has on the board to checkmate you. It won't do to have you on
the Council, Brent, you're too much of an innovator. Now this town--the
real town!--doesn't want innovation. Innovation in an ancient borough
like this is--unsettling and uncomfortable. See?"
"This world doesn't stand still," retorted Brent. "I'm going ahead!"
But he reflected, as he left the solicitor's office, that much of what
Tansley had said was true. There was something baffling in the very
atmosphere of Hathelsborough--he felt like a man who fights the wind.
Everything was elusive, ungraspable, evasive--he seemed to get no
further forward. And, if Tansley was right in affirming that
Hathelsborough people made promises which they had no intention of
redeeming, his chances of getting a seat on the Town Council and setting
to work to rebuild his late cousin's schemes of reformation were small
indeed. But once more he set his jaw and nerved himself to endeavour,
and, as the day of election was now close at hand, plunged into the task
of canvassing and persuading--wondering all the time, now that he had
heard Tansley's cynical remarks, if the people to whom he talked and who
were mostly plausible and ingratiating in their reception of him were
in reality laughing at him for his pains. He saw little of the efforts
of the other side; but Peppermore agreed with Tansley that the
opposition would leave no stone unturned in the task of beating him.
The _Monitor_ was all for Brent--Peppermore's proprietor was a
Progressive; a tradesman who had bought up the _Monitor_ for a mere
song, and ran it as a business speculation which had so far turned out
very satisfactorily. Consequently, Brent at this period went much to the
_Monitor_ office, and did things in concert with Peppermore, inspiring
articles which, to say the least of them, were severely critical of the
methods of the Crood regime. On one of these visits Peppermore, in the
middle of a discussion about one of these effusions, abruptly switched
off the trend of his thought in another direction.
"I'd a visit from Mrs. Saumarez this morning, Mr. Brent," he said,
eyeing his companion with a knowing look. "Pretty and accomplished
woman, that, sir; but queer, Mr. Brent, queer!"
"What do you mean?" asked Brent.
"Odd ideas, sir, very odd!" replied Peppermore. "Wanted to find out from
me, Mr. Brent, if, in case she's called up again at this inquest
business, or if circumstances arise which necessitate police proceedings
at which she might be a witness, her name couldn't be suppressed? Ever
hear such a proposal, sir, to make to a journalist? 'Impossible, my dear
madam!' says I. 'Publicity, ma'am,' I says, 'is--well, it's the very
salt of life, as you might term it,' I says. 'When gentlemen of our
profession report public affairs we keep nothing back,' I says; firmly,
sir. 'I very much object to my name figuring in these proceedings,' she
says. 'I object very strongly indeed!' 'Can't help it, ma'am,' says I.
'If the highest in the land was called into a witness-box, and I
reported the case,' I says, 'I should have to give the name! It's the
glory of our profession, Mrs. Saumarez.' I says, 'just as it's that of
the law, that we don't countenance hole-and-corner business. The light
of day, ma'am, the light of day! that's the idea, Mrs. Saumarez!' I
says. 'Let the clear, unclouded radiance of high noon, ma'am, shine
on'--but you know what I mean, Mr. Brent. As I said to her, the
publicity that's attendant on all this sort of thing in England is one
of the very finest of our national institutions.
"Odd, sir, but, for a woman that's supposed to be modern and
progressive, she didn't agree. 'I don't want to see my name in the
papers in connection with this affair, Mr. Peppermore,' she declared
again. 'I thought, perhaps,' she says, rather coaxingly, 'that you could
suggest some way of keeping it out if there are any further
proceedings.' 'Can't, ma'am!' says I. 'If such an eventuality comes to
be, it'll be my duty to record faithfully and fully in the _Monitor_
whatever takes place.' 'Oh,' says she. 'But it's not the _Monitor_ that
I so much object to--it's the London papers. I understand that you
supply the reports to them, Mr. Peppermore.' Well, of course, as you
know, Mr. Brent, I am district correspondent for two of the big London
agencies, but I had to explain to her that in a sensational case like
this the London papers generally sent down men of their own: there were,
for instance, two or three London reporters present the other day.
"Yes, she said; so she'd heard, and she'd got all the London papers to
see if her name was mentioned, and had been relieved to find that it
hadn't: there were nothing but summarized reports: her name hadn't
appeared anywhere but in the _Monitor_. 'And what I wanted, Mr.
Peppermore,' she says, more wheedlingly than ever, 'was that, if it lay
in your power, and if occasion arises, you would do what you could to
keep my name out of it--I don't want publicity!' Um!" concluded
Peppermore. "Pretty woman, Mr. Brent, and with taking ways, but of
course I had to be adamant, sir--firm, Mr. Brent, firm as St.
Hathelswide's tower. 'The Press, Mrs. Saumarez,' I says, as I dismissed
the matter--politely, of course--'has its Duties. It can make no
exception, Mrs. Saumarez, to wealth, or rank, or--beauty.' I made her a
nice bow, Mr. Brent, as I spoke the last word. But she wasn't impressed.
As I say--queer woman! What's publicity matter to her as long as she's
no more than a witness?"
Brent was not particularly impressed by Peppermore's story. He saw
nothing in it beyond the natural desire of a sensitive, highly-strung
woman to keep herself aloof from an unpleasant episode, and he said so.
"I don't see what good Hawthwaite hoped to get by ever calling Mrs.
Saumarez before the Coroner," he added. "She told nothing that everybody
didn't know. What did it all amount to?"
"Ay, but that's just it, in a town like this, Mr. Brent," answered
Peppermore with a wink. "I can tell you why the police put the Coroner
up to calling Mrs. Saumarez as a witness. They'd got a theory--that
Wellesley killed your cousin in a fit of jealousy, of which she was the
cause, and they hoped to substantiate it through her evidence. There's
no doubt, sir, that there were love-passages between Dr. Wellesley and
this attractive lady and between her and your cousin, but--shall I tell
you, sir, something that's in my mind?"
"Ay. Why not?" answered Brent. He was thinking of the thick pile of
letters which he had returned to Mrs. Saumarez and of the unmistakable
love-tokens which he had seen deposited with them in the casket wherein
Wallingford had kept them. "What is it you're thinking of?"
Peppermore edged his chair closer to his visitor's, and lowered his
voice.
"I am not unobservant, Mr. Brent," he said. "Our profession, as you
know, sir, leads us to the cultivation of that faculty. Now, I've
thought a good deal about this matter, and I'll tell you a conclusion
I've come to. Do you remember that when Dr. Wellesley was being
questioned the other day he was asked if there was jealousy between him
and Mr. Wallingford about Mrs. Saumarez? To be sure! Now what did he
answer? He answered frankly that _there had been but it no longer
existed_! Do you know what I deduced from that, Mr. Brent? This--that
the little lady had had both those men as strings to her bow at the same
time, indecisive as to which of 'em she'd finally choose, but that, not
so long since, she'd given up both, in favour of a third man!"
Brent started, and laughed.
"Ingenious, Peppermore, very ingenious!" he said. "Given 'em both the
mitten as they say? But the third man?"
"Mrs. Saumarez was away on the Continent most of the winter," answered
Peppermore. "The Riviera, Nice, Monte Carlo--that sort of thing. She may
have met somebody there that she preferred to either Wellesley or
Wallingford. Anyway, Mr. Brent, what did the doctor mean when he frankly
admitted that there had been jealousy between him and Wallingford, but
that it _no longer existed_? He meant, I take it, that there was no
reason for its further existence. That implies that another man had come
into the arena!"
"Ay, but does it?" said Brent. "It might mean something else--that she'd
finally accepted Wellesley. Eh?"
"No," declared Peppermore. "She's not engaged to Wellesley: I'll lay
anything she isn't, Mr. Brent. There's a third man, somewhere in the
background, and it's my opinion that that's the reason why she doesn't
want the publicity she came to me about."
Brent fell into a new train of thought, more or less confused. Mrs.
Saumarez's talk to him about Wallingford, and the letters, and the
things in the casket, were all mixed up in it.
"Had you any opportunity of seeing Wellesley and my cousin together
during the last week or two before my cousin's death?" he asked
presently.
"Several, Mr. Brent, several opportunities," answered Peppermore. "I
went to report the proceedings of two or three committees of the Town
Council during the fortnight preceding that lamentable occurrence, sir,
and saw them at close quarters. I saw them frequently at the Club, of
which I am a member. I should say, sir, from what I observed, that they
were on very good terms with each other--more friendly than ever, Mr.
Brent."
"Um," said Brent. "Well, there's a lot of queer stuff about this
business, Peppermore. But let's get back to that of the moment. Look
here, I've got a fine notion for your _Monitor_--you'll just have time
to get it out before my election day. Let's make a real, vigorous,
uncompromising attack on the _principle_ of the Town Trustee business.
We'll not say one word about the present Trustees, old Crood, Mallett
and Coppinger--we'll have no personalities, and make no charges; we'll
avoid all stuff of that sort. We'll just attack the thing on its
principle, taking up the line that it's a bad principle that the
finances of a borough should be entrusted to the sole control of three
men responsible to nobody and with the power, if one dies, to elect his
successor. Let's argue it out _on_ the principle; then, later, we'll have
another article on the argument that the finances of a town should be
wholly controlled by the elected representatives of the people--see?"
"Your late cousin's theories, Mr. Brent," said Peppermore. "Excellent
notions, both, sir. You write the articles; I'll find the space. All on
principle--no personalities. Plain and practical, Mr. Brent, let them
be, so that everybody can understand. Though to be sure," he added
regretfully, "what our readers most like is personalities! If we dared
to slate old Crood with all the abuse we could lay our pens to, the
readers of the _Monitor_, sir, would hug themselves with pleasure. But
libel, Mr. Brent, libel! Do you know, sir, that ever since I occupied
the editorial chair of state I have always felt that the wet blanket of
the law of libel sat at my banquet like the ghost in Macbeth, letting
its sword hang by a thread an inch from my cranium! Bit mixed in my
metaphors, sir, but you know what I mean. Mustn't involve my respected
proprietor in a libel suit, Mr. Brent, so stick to abstract principles,
sir, and eschew those saucy personal touches which I regret--deeply--I
can't print."
Brent had no intention of indulging in personalities in his warfare with
Simon Crood and the reactionaries, but as the day of the election
approached he discovered that his adversaries were not at all particular
about putting forth highly personal references to himself.
Hathelsborough suddenly became flooded with handbills and posters, each
bearing a few pithy words in enormous type. These effusions were for the
most part in the form of questions, addressed to the recipients; there
was a cynical and sinister sneer in all of them. "Who _is_ Mr. Brent?"
"Why Support a Stranger?" "Who Wants a Carpet-Bagger?" "Vote for the
Home-Made Article." "Hathelsborough Men for Hathelsborough Matters."
"Stand by the True and Tried!" These appeals to the free and enlightened
burgesses whose suffrages he solicited met Brent on every side, and
especially on the day of the election. He had gone in for nothing of
this sort himself: his original election address, it seemed to him,
contained everything that he had to say, and beyond posting it all over
the town in great placards and distributing it in the form of handbills
to the electors of the Castle Ward he had issued nothing in the shape
of literature. But he had stumped his desired constituency thoroughly,
making speeches at every street corner and at every public
meeting-place, and he had a personal conviction from his usual reception
on these occasions that the people were with him. He was still sure of
victory when, at noon on the polling-day, he chanced to meet Tansley.
"Going strong, as far as I can make out," he answered, in response to
the solicitor's inquiry. "I've been about all the morning, and from what
I've seen and what my Committee tell me, I'm in!"
Tansley shook his head.
"Look here, my lad," he said, drawing Brent aside as they stood together
in the market-place, "don't you build too high! They're working against
you to-day, the Crood gang, as they never worked in their lives! They're
bringing every influence they can get hold of against you. And--you
haven't been over wise."
"What have I done now?" demanded Brent.
"Those articles that are appearing in the _Monitor_," replied Tansley.
"Everybody knows they're yours. Do you think there's a soul in
Hathelsborough who believes that Peppermore could write them? Now,
they're a mistake! They may be true----"
"They are true!" growled Brent.
"Granted! But, however true they are, they're an attack on
Hathelsborough," said Tansley. "Now, of whatever political colour they
are, Hathelsborough folk are Hathelsborough folk, and they're prouder of
this old town than you know. Look round you, my lad; there isn't a stone
that you can see that wasn't just where it is now hundreds of years
before you were born. Do you think these people like to hear you, a
stranger, criticizing their old customs, old privileges, as you are
doing in those articles? Not a bit of it! They're asking who you are to
come judging them. You'd have done a lot better, Brent, if you'd been a
bit diplomatic. You should have left all politics and reforms out of it,
and tried to win the seat simply on your relationship to Wallingford.
You could have shown your cards when you'd got in--you've shown 'em too
soon!"
"That be damned!" said Brent. "I've played the game straightforwardly
anyhow. I don't want any underhand business--there's enough of that in
this rotten place now. And I still think I shall be in!"
But before the summer evening had progressed far, Brent learnt that the
vested interests of an ancient English borough are stronger than he
thought. He was hopelessly defeated--only rather more than a hundred
voters marked their papers for him. His opponent was returned by a big
majority. He got a new idea when he heard the result, and went straight
off to Peppermore and the _Monitor_ with it. They would go on with the
articles, and make them of such a nature that the Local Government Board
in London would find it absolutely necessary to give prompt and
searching attention to Hathelsborough and its affairs.