THE TRUTH ABOUT THE MAN.
In arriving at the bold decision which had caused so much anger and
alarm to his enemies, and some searchings of heart among many who still
ranked themselves as his friends, the Premier had been moved by more
than one motive. The sinister design of overawing the Legislature by the
fear of physical force and armed attack did not form part of his
intentions, but he did intend and desire what, to a man trained in the
traditions of Sir Robert's school, was hardly less unconstitutional and
wrong. Through the machinery of his great gatherings, it was to be
plainly intimated to the members what course their constituents and
masters willed them to follow. He proposed to take every precaution
against riot--and the necessary measures fell within the sphere of his
own official duties as Chief Secretary; but he was willing and eager
that every form of suasion and threat, short of the cudgels for which
François Gaspard pined, should be brought to bear on his renegade
followers. And, in the second place, it was a vital object to him to
probe as deep as he could into the secrets of the popular mind. In six
months the life of the Legislative Assembly would expire by effluxion of
time: at any moment before he had a right to demand a dissolution,
provided that he could convince the Governor of the probability of his
coming back with a majority; thus, if the meetings could not avert
defeat, they would, he hoped, teach him what course to follow in face of
it. Lastly, he anticipated a renewal of energy and confidence in his own
followers as the result of an outward manifestation of the support which
he believed the masses of the electors accorded to his policy. His plans
ignored the mine which was always beneath his feet. He had not forgotten
it: it was constantly present to his mind with its menace of sudden
explosion, but he was driven to disregard a chance that was entirely
incalculable. He could not discern the mind of Benham, or of the man who
pulled the strings to which Benham danced, accurately enough to forecast
when the moment of attack would come. He felt sure that nothing short of
the surrender and renunciation of all his policy could avert the
blow--perhaps not even that would serve; if so, the blow must fall, when
and where it would; for, whatever its effect on his position or his
party, it would not leave him so powerless or so humbled in his own eyes
as a voluntary submission to the terms his enemies chose to dictate.
The alternative of surrender would never have crossed his mind, had he
been able to think only of the political side of the matter. But there
was another, on which Benham's threats played with equal force. The
episode of Dick Derosne's banishment had opened his eyes more fully to
what the revelation might mean to his daughter; for, when he thought
over the abrupt end that had been put to that romance, he could hardly
fail to connect it with Benham or with Kilshaw. He shrank from the
exposure to Daisy which he would have to undergo, and from the pain
which he was doomed to inflict on her. Long years, no less than his own
mode of thought, had veiled from him the character of what he would have
to avow; the thing took on a new aspect when he forced himself to hear
it as it would strike a daughter's ears. And, by this time, he was
conscious--he could no longer affect to himself to be unconscious--that
the blow which was to fall on Daisy would strike another with equal,
perhaps greater, severity. He might remind himself, as he did over and
over again, of the improbability, nay, the absurdity of what had
happened; he might tell himself that he was no longer young, that time
had robbed him of anything that could catch a girl's fancy, that the
gulf of birth, associations, and surroundings yawned wide between. His
own experience and insight into temperament rose up and contradicted
him, and Alicia Derosne's face drove the truth into his mind. Seeking
for a hero, she had strangely, almost comically, he thought, made one
of him. Hero-worship, shutting out all criticism, had led her on till
she made of him, a man whose life bore no close scrutiny, a battered
politician, half visionary, half demagogue (for he did not spare himself
in his thoughts)--till she had made of him an ideal statesman and a man
worthy of all she had to give. A swift and gentle disenchantment was the
best that could be wished for her: so he told himself, but he did not
wish it. Time had not altogether changed him, and a woman's smile was to
him still a force in his life, as much as it had been, or almost, when
it led the boy of twenty-three to do all those rash and wrong things
long ago. He could not bear to shut the door: dreaming of impossible
transformations of obstinate facts, he drifted on, excusing himself for
doing nothing by telling himself that there was nothing he could do.
Mr. Kilshaw's information as to the Governor's attitude had not been
entirely incorrect, but, after an interview with the Premier, in which
the latter explained his action, Lord Eynesford did not feel that more
was required than a temperately expressed surprise and a hinted
disapproval of the course adopted. He declined his wife's invitation to
regard the matter in the most serious light, or to attribute any heinous
offence to the Premier, contenting himself with remarking that Medland
had a more powerful motive to maintain order than any one else; he also
ventured to suggest that the best way of considering the question was
not through a mist of prejudice against the Premier and all his
belongings.
"Whatever you may do, Mary," he said, "I must keep the private and
public sides separate."
"That's just what you don't do," retorted his wife--let it be added that
they were alone. "The man has got round you as he gets round everybody."
"You, at least, seem safe so far," laughed the Governor. "Aren't you
content with your triumph in the matter of Dick?"
"I heard from him to-day. He wants to come back."
Dick had obtained leave to visit Australia, instead of going home, and
was therefore within comparatively easy distance of New Lindsey.
"Oh, I think we'll wait a bit."
"He seems to be having a splendid time, but he says he's lonely without
us all."
"How touching!" remarked Lord Eynesford sceptically.
"Willie, be just to him. I was thinking how nice it would be if Alicia
could join him for a little while. She's looking pale and wants a
change."
"Does she want to go?"
"Well, I don't know."
"Haven't you asked her?"
"No, dear."
Lord Eynesford knew his wife's way. He rose and stood with his back to
the fireplace.
"You'll be sending me away next, Mary," he remarked. "What's wrong with
Alicia? She doesn't show signs of relenting about your friend Coxon,
does she? If so, she shall go by the next boat, if I have to exert the
prerogative."
"Mr. Coxon? Oh, dear, no! Poor man! There's no danger from him."
"What's in the wind then?"
"She's too intimate with these Medlands."
"My dear Mary! Forgive me, but you're in danger of becoming a
monomaniac. The Medlands are not lepers."
Lady Eynesford shut her lips close and made no answer.
"What harm can they do her?" pursued the Governor. "Daisy's a nice girl,
and Medland--well, the worst he can do is to make her a Radical, and it
doesn't matter two straws what she is."
Lady Eynesford's foot tapped on the floor.
"I suppose you'll laugh at me," she said. "Indeed it's absurd enough to
make any one laugh, but, Willie, I'm not quite sure that Alicia isn't
too much----"
The sentence was cut short by the entrance of Alicia herself.
"Ah! Al!" cried the Governor. "Come here. Would you like to join Dick in
Australia?"
Alicia started.
"He says he's lonely, and I thought it would be such a nice trip for
you," added Lady Eynesford.
"Dick lonely! What nonsense! It only means he wants to come back, Mary."
Dick's pathos was evidently a broken reed. Lady Eynesford let it go, and
said,
"Anyhow, you might take advantage of his being there to see Australia."
"I don't want to see Australia," answered Alicia. "I much prefer New
Lindsey."
"You don't jump at Mary's proposal?"
"I utterly decline," laughed Alicia, and, taking the book she had come
in search of, she went out.
"You see. She won't go," remarked Lady Eynesford.
"I never thought she would. What were you going to say when she came
in?"
Lady Eynesford rose and stood by her husband.
"Willie," she said, "what is it about the Medlands? I'm tired of not
knowing whether there is anything or whether there isn't."
"I don't know, my dear. There's some gossip, I believe," said Lord
Eynesford discreetly.
"Do you know what Mrs. Puttock said to Eleanor? Eleanor ought to have
told me at once, but she only did last night. Eleanor asked something
about his wife, and Mrs. Puttock said, 'For my part, I don't believe he
ever had a wife.'" Lady Eynesford repeated the all-important sentence
with scrupulous accuracy.
"By Jove!" exclaimed the Governor. "That was what--" He checked himself
before Kilshaw's name could leave his lips.
"Yes? Now, Willie, if that's true or--or anything like it, you know, is
it right for Alicia to be constantly with Daisy Medland and--and in and
out of the house, you know?"
The Governor looked grave. The thing was tangible enough now, and
demanded to be dealt with more urgently than it ever had before.
"It's a pity Eleanor didn't speak sooner," he said.
"She thought less of it because Mrs. Puttock is a vulgar old gossip."
"Yes; but I'm afraid there may be something in it. Why did Eleanor tell
you now?"
"Because I was speaking to her about the way Mr. Medland monopolised
Alicia in the Park the other afternoon."
"Oh, that was my fault."
"It makes no difference how it came about. Willie, she had eyes and ears
for no one else," and Lady Eynesford's voice became very earnest.
"But it's preposterous, Mary. You must be wrong. There couldn't possibly
be anything of the kind."
"You know the sort of girl she is," his wife went on. "She's--well,
she's easily caught by an idea, and rather romantic, and--really, dear,
we ought to be careful."
"I can't believe it. If it's true, Medland has treated me very badly."
"What does he care?" asked Lady Eynesford. "How I wish she would go
away! Nothing I say seems to make any impression on her."
"Perhaps Medland has noticed nothing, even if you're right about
Alicia."
"He couldn't help noticing."
"What? Do you mean she makes it----?"
"I don't want to say anything unkind, but--well, yes, I'm afraid she
does."
The Governor took a pace along the room.
"Upon my word," he exclaimed impatiently, "the way we get mixed up with
these people is absurdly awkward. First there's Dick----"
"That's nothing to this. Dick was never really serious, and Alicia's
always serious, if she thinks about a thing at all."
"Well, well, of course it must be stopped. What are you going to do?"
"She must be told," said Lady Eynesford.
"I won't tell her."
"Then I must."
"I wonder if you're not wrong after all."
"Oh, watch them!" retorted Lady Eynesford, and, leaving her husband, she
sought Alicia and invited her to come and have a talk in the verandah.
Alicia, when thus summoned, was sitting with Eleanor Scaife, and they
were both watching Captain Heseltine's fox terrier jump over a
walking-stick under his master's tuition. It was a suitable enough
amusement for a hot day; and it was engrossing enough to prevent Eleanor
raising her eyes at the sound of Lady Eynesford's voice. In fact, she
was not over and above anxious to meet that lady's glance. Eleanor had,
in the light of recent events, grown rather doubtful of the wisdom of
her wonderful discretion, and Lady Eynesford had intimated, with her
usual clearness of statement, a decided opinion that not Eleanor, but
she herself was the proper person to judge what should and should not be
told to Alicia. She had enforced her moral by hinting at very
distressing consequences which might follow on Eleanor's unfortunate
reticence.
"I sometimes think," Eleanor remarked to Heseltine, when Alicia had left
them, "that perfect openness and candour are always best."
Captain Heseltine lowered the walking-stick and looked at her with an
air of expectancy.
"It saves so much misunderstanding, if you tell everybody everything
right out," continued Eleanor.
"For my part," returned Heseltine, with an earnestness which he rarely
displayed, "I differ utterly. I've never in my life told anybody
anything without being sorry I hadn't held my tongue."
"Oh, you mean your private affairs."
"Well, and you? Oh, I see. You only mean other people's. Agreed, agreed!
Perfect openness and candour about them by all means!"
"I am quite serious. One never knows how much harm may be done by
concealing them."
"Got a murder on your conscience?"
"Oh, not exactly," sighed Eleanor.
"You're like that chap Kilshaw. He's always talking as if he had
something awful up his sleeve."
"Perhaps he has."
As Eleanor said this, she jumped up and ran to meet Alicia, whom she saw
coming towards her. Lady Eynesford had wasted no time over her task.
The Captain, being left alone, did the appropriate thing. He
soliloquised.
"She'd have told me in another half-minute," said he, with a chuckle.
"It was choking her. Yet she's a sensible one as they go."
Whom or what class he meant by "they" it is merciful to his ignorant
prejudices to leave unrevealed.