diff options
| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:12:23 -0700 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-14 20:12:23 -0700 |
| commit | 767de606aa7fb27c37ed09bbe296316ee30b4e83 (patch) | |
| tree | 8a43f2233a4d4262c672eb340578f5f25003d5d5 /39294-h | |
Diffstat (limited to '39294-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 39294-h/39294-h.htm | 20039 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 39294-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 365884 bytes |
2 files changed, 20039 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/39294-h/39294-h.htm b/39294-h/39294-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..99b1edf --- /dev/null +++ b/39294-h/39294-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,20039 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Great House, by Stanley J. Weyman</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +.center {margin: auto; text-align:center; margin-top:24pt; margin-bottom:24pt} + +p.right {text-align:right; margin-right:20%;} + +p.continue {text-indent: 0in; margin-top:9pt;} + +.poem2 { + margin-top: 24pt; margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; text-align: left; + margin-bottom: 24pt; font-size:90%} + +.poem3 { + margin-top: 24pt; margin-left: 30%; + margin-right: 30%; text-align: left; + margin-bottom: 24pt; font-size:90%} + +.t0 {margin-top:0px; margin-bottom:0px; margin-left:0em; margin-right:0px;} +.t1 {margin-top:0px; margin-bottom:0px; margin-left:1em; margin-right:0px;} +.t2 {margin-top:0px; margin-bottom:0px; margin-left:2em; margin-right:0px;} +.t3 {margin-top:0px; margin-bottom:0px; margin-left:3em; margin-right:0px;} +.t8 {margin-top:0px; margin-bottom:0px; margin-left:8em; margin-right:0px;} + +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5 {text-align: center;} + +span.sc {font-variant: small-caps; font-size:110%;} +span.sc2 {font-variant: small-caps; font-size:90%;} + +hr.W20 {width:20%; color:black; margin-top:12pt; margin-bottom:12pt} + +div.fig { display:block; + margin:0 auto; + text-align:center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Great House, by Stanley J. Weyman</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Great House</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Stanley J. Weyman</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 28, 2012 [eBook #39294]<br /> +[Most recently updated: June 16, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Charles Bowen</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT HOUSE ***</div> + +<div class="fig" style="width:75%;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" style="width:100%;" alt="[Illustration]" /> +</div> + +<h2>THE GREAT HOUSE</h2> + +<h4>BY THE SAME AUTHOR</h4> + +<hr class="W20" /> + +<div style="margin-left:30%"> +<p class="continue">THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF</p> + +<p class="continue">THE NEW RECTOR</p> + +<p class="continue">THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE</p> + +<p class="continue">A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE</p> + +<p class="continue">THE MAN IN BLACK</p> + +<p class="continue">UNDER THE RED ROBE</p> + +<p class="continue">MY LADY ROTHA</p> + +<p class="continue">MEMOIRS OF A MINISTER OF FRANCE</p> + +<p class="continue">THE RED COCKADE</p> + +<p class="continue">SHREWSBURY</p> + +<p class="continue">THE CASTLE INN</p> + +<p class="continue">SOPHIA</p> + +<p class="continue">COUNT HANNIBAL</p> + +<p class="continue">IN KINGS’ BYWAYS</p> + +<p class="continue">THE LONG NIGHT</p> + +<p class="continue">THE ABBESS OF VLAYE</p> + +<p class="continue">STARVECROW FARM</p> + +<p class="continue">CHIPPINGE</p> + +<p class="continue">LAID UP IN LAVENDER</p> + +<p class="continue">THE WILD GEESE</p> +</div> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h1>THE GREAT HOUSE</h1> + +<h5>BY</h5> + +<h2>STANLEY J. WEYMAN</h2> + +<h5>Author of “The Castle Inn,” “Chippinge,”<br/> +“A Gentleman of France,” etc., etc.</h5> + +<h4>NEW YORK</h4> + +<h3>LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.</h3> + +<h4>FOURTH AVENUE AND 30th STREET</h4> + +<h3>1919</h3> + +<p class="center"><span class="sc2">Copyright, 1919<br/> +BY</span><br/> +STANLEY J. WEYMAN</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I. <span class="sc">The Hôtel Lambert—Upstairs.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II. <span class="sc">The Hôtel Lambert—Downstairs.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III. <span class="sc">The Lawyer Abroad.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV. <span class="sc">Homeward Bound.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V. <span class="sc">The London Packet.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI. <span class="sc">Field and Forge.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII. <span class="sc">Mr. John Audley.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII. <span class="sc">The Gatehouse.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX. <span class="sc">Old Things.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X. <span class="sc">New Things.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI. <span class="sc">Tact and Temper.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII. <span class="sc">The Yew Walk.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII. <span class="sc">Peter Pauper.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV. <span class="sc">The Manchester Men.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV. <span class="sc">Strange Bedfellows.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI. <span class="sc">The Great House at Beaudelays.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII. <span class="sc">To the Rescue.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII. <span class="sc">Masks and Faces.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX. <span class="sc">The Corn Law Crisis.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX. <span class="sc">Peter’s Return.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI. <span class="sc">Toft at the Butterflies.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII. <span class="sc">My Lord Speaks.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII. <span class="sc">Blore Under Weaver.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV. <span class="sc">An Agent of the Old School.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV. <span class="sc">Mary is Lonely.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI. <span class="sc">Missing.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII. <span class="sc">A Footstep in the Hall.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII. <span class="sc">The News from Riddsley.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX. <span class="sc">The Audley Bible.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX. <span class="sc">A Friend in Need.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI. <span class="sc">Ben Bosham.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII. <span class="sc">Mary Makes a Discovery.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII. <span class="sc">The Meeting at the Maypole.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV. <span class="sc">By the Canal.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV. <span class="sc">My Lord Speaks Out.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI. <span class="sc">The Riddsley Election.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER XXXVII. <span class="sc">A Turn of the Wheel.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap38">CHAPTER XXXVIII. <span class="sc">Toft’s Little Surprise.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap39">CHAPTER XXXIX. <span class="sc">The Deed of Renunciation.</span></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap40">CHAPTER XL. <span class="sc">“Let Us Make Others Thankful.”</span></a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>THE GREAT HOUSE</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I<br/> +THE HÔTEL LAMBERT—UPSTAIRS</h2> + +<p> +On an evening in March in the ’forties of last century a girl looked down +on the Seine from an attic window on the Ile St. Louis. The room behind +her—or beside her, for she sat on the window-ledge, with her back against +one side of the opening and her feet against the other—was long, +whitewashed from floor to ceiling, lighted by five gaunt windows, and as cold +to the eye as charity to the recipient. Along each side of the chamber ran ten +pallet beds. A black door broke the wall at one end, and above the door hung a +crucifix. A painting of a Station of the Cross adorned the wall at the other +end. Beyond this picture the room had no ornament; it is almost true to say +that beyond what has been named it had no furniture. One bed—the bed +beside the window at which the girl sat—was screened by a thin curtain +which did not reach the floor. This was her bed. +</p> + +<p> +But in early spring no window in Paris looked on a scene more cheerful than +this window; which as from an eyrie commanded a shining reach of the Seine +bordered by the lawns and foliage of the King’s Garden, and closed by the +graceful arches of the Bridge of Austerlitz. On the water boats shot to and +fro. The quays were gay with the red trousers of soldiers and the coquettish +caps of soubrettes, with students in strange cloaks, and the twinkling wheels +of yellow cabriolets. The first swallows were hawking hither and thither above +the water, and a pleasant hum rose from the Boulevard Bourdon. +</p> + +<p> +Yet the girl sighed. For it was her birthday, she was twenty this twenty-fifth +of March, and there was not a soul in the world to know this and to wish her +joy. A life of dependence, toned to the key of the whitewashed room and the +thin pallets, lay before her; and though she had good reason to be thankful for +the safety which dependence bought, still she was only twenty, and springtime, +viewed from prison windows, beckons to its cousin, youth. She saw family groups +walking the quays, and father, mother, children, all, seen from a distance, +were happy. She saw lovers loitering in the garden or pacing to and fro, and +romance walked with every one of them; none came late, or fell to words. She +sighed more deeply; and on the sound the door opened. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Hola!</i>” cried a shrill voice, speaking in French, fluent, +but oddly accented. “Who is here? The Princess desires that the English +Mademoiselle will descend this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” the girl in the window replied pleasantly. “At +the same hour, Joséphine?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not, Mademoiselle?” A trim maid, with a plain face and the +faultless figure of a Pole, came a few steps into the room. “But you are +alone?” +</p> + +<p> +“The children are walking. I stayed at home.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be alone? As if I did not understand that! To be alone—it is +the luxury of the rich.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl nodded. “None but a Pole would have thought of that,” she +said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, the crafty English Miss!” the maid retorted. “How she +flatters! Perhaps she needs a touch of the tongs to-night? Or the loan of a +pair of red-heeled shoes, worn no more than thrice by the Princess—and +with the black which is convenable for Mademoiselle, oh, so neat! Of the +<i>ancien régime</i>, absolutely!” +</p> + +<p> +The other laughed. “The <i>ancien régime</i>, Joséphine—and +this!” she replied, with a gesture that embraced the room, the pallets, +her own bed. “A curled head—and this! You are truly a +cabbage——” +</p> + +<p> +“But Mademoiselle descends!” +</p> + +<p> +“A cabbage of—foolishness!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, if I descended, you would see,” the maid retorted. +“I am but the Princess’s second maid, and I know nothing! But if I +descended it would not be to this dormitory I should return! Nor to the +tartines! Nor to the daughters of Poland! Trust me for that—and I know +but my prayers. While Mademoiselle, she is an artist’s daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +“There spoke the Pole again,” the girl struck in with a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“The English Miss knows how to flatter,” Joséphine laughed. +“That is one for the touch of the tongs,” she continued, ticking +them off on her fingers. “And one for the red-heeled shoes. And—but +no more! Let me begone before I am bankrupt!” She turned about with a +flirt of her short petticoats, but paused and looked back, with her hand on the +door. “None the less, mark you well, Mademoiselle, from the whitewash to +the ceiling of Lebrun, from the dortoir of the Jeunes Filles to the Gallery of +Hercules, there are but twenty stairs, and easy, oh, so easy to descend! If +Mademoiselle instead of flattering Joséphine, the Cracovienne, flattered some +pretty gentleman—who knows? Not I! I know but my prayers!” And with +a light laugh the maid clapped to the door and was gone. +</p> + +<p> +The girl in the window had not throughout the parley changed her pose or moved +more than her head, and this was characteristic of her. For even in her +playfulness there was gravity, and a measure of stillness. Now, left alone, she +dropped her feet to the floor, turned, and knelt on the sill with her brow +pressed against the glass. The sun had set, mists were rising from the river, +the quays were gray and cold. Here and there a lamp began to shine through the +twilight. But the girl’s thoughts were no longer on the scene beneath her +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“There goes the third who has been good to me,” she pondered. +“First the Polish lodger who lived on the floor below, and saved me from +that woman. Then the Princess’s daughter. Now Joséphine. There are still +kind people in the world—God grant that I may not forget it! But how much +better to give than to take, to be strong than to be weak, to be the mistress +and not the puppet of fortune! How much better—and, were I a man, how +easy!” +</p> + +<p> +But on that there came into her remembrance one to whom it had not been easy, +one who had signally failed to master fortune, or to grapple with +circumstances. “Poor father!” she whispered. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II<br/> +THE HÔTEL LAMBERT—DOWNSTAIRS</h2> + +<p> +When ladies were at home to their intimates in the Paris of the ’forties, +they seated their guests about large round tables with a view to that common +exchange of wit and fancy which is the French ideal. The mode crossed to +England, and in many houses these round tables, fallen to the uses of the +dining-room or the nursery, may still be seen. But when the Princess +Czartoriski entertained in the Hôtel Lambert, under the ceiling painted by +Lebrun, which had looked down on the arm-chair of Madame de Châtelet and the +tabouret of Voltaire, she was, as became a Pole, a law to herself. In that +beautiful room, softly lit by wax candles, her guests were free to follow their +bent, to fall into groups, or to admire at their ease the Watteaus and Bouchers +which the Princess’s father-in-law, old Prince Adam, had restored to +their native panels. +</p> + +<p> +Thanks to his taste and under her rule the gallery of Hercules presented on +this evening a scene not unworthy of its past. The silks and satins of the old +régime were indeed replaced by the high-shouldered coats, the stocks, the pins +and velvet vests of the dandies; and Thiers beaming through his glasses, or +Lamartine, though beauty, melted by the woes of Poland, hung upon his lips, +might have been thought by some unequal to the dead. But they were now what +those had been; and the women peacocked it as of old. At any rate the effect +was good, and a guest who came late, and paused a moment on the threshold to +observe the scene, thought that he had never before done the room full justice. +Presently the Princess saw him and he went forward. The man who was talking to +her made his bow, and she pointed with her fan to the vacant place. +“Felicitations, my lord,” she said. She held out her gloved hand. +</p> + +<p> +“A thousands thanks,” he said, as he bent over it. “But on +what, Princess?” +</p> + +<p> +“On the success of a friend. On what we have all seen in the +<i>Journal</i>. Is it not true that you have won your suit?” +</p> + +<p> +“I won, yes.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But what, Madame? A +bare title, an empty rent-roll.” +</p> + +<p> +“For shame!” she answered. “But I suppose that this is your +English phlegm. Is it not a thing to be proud of—an old title? That which +money cannot buy and the wisest would fain wear? M. Guizot, what would he not +give to be Chien de Race? Your Peel, also?” +</p> + +<p> +“And your Thiers?” he returned, with a sly glance at the little man +in the shining glasses. +</p> + +<p> +“He, too! But he has the passion of humanity, which is a title in itself. +Whereas you English, turning in your unending circle, one out, one in, one in, +one out, are but playing a game—marking time! You have not a desire to go +forward!” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely, Princess, you forget our Reform Bill, scarce ten years +old.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which bought off your cotton lords and your fat bourgeois, and left the +people without leaders and more helpless than before. No, my lord, if your +Russell—Lord John, do you call him?—had one jot of M. Thiers’ +enthusiasm! Or your Peel—but I look for nothing there!” +</p> + +<p> +He shrugged his shoulders. “I admit,” he said, “that M. +Thiers has an enthusiasm beyond the ordinary.” +</p> + +<p> +“You do? Wonderful!” +</p> + +<p> +“But,” with a smile, “it is, I fancy, an enthusiasm of which +the object is—M. Thiers!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she cried, fanning herself more quickly. “Now there +spoke not Mr. Audley, the attaché—he had not been so imprudent! +But—how do you call yourself now?” +</p> + +<p> +“On days of ceremony,” he replied, “Lord Audley of +Beaudelays.” +</p> + +<p> +“There spoke my lord, unattached! Oh, you English, you have no +enthusiasm. You have only traditions. Poor were Poland if her fate hung on +you!” +</p> + +<p> +“There are still bright spots,” he said slyly. And his glance +returned to the little statesman in spectacles on whom the Princess rested the +hopes of Poland. +</p> + +<p> +“No!” she cried vividly. “Don’t say it again or I shall +be displeased. Turn your eyes elsewhere. There is one here about whom I wish to +consult you. Do you see the tall girl in black who is engaged with the +miniatures?” +</p> + +<p> +“I saw her some time ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose so. You are a man. I dare say you would call her +handsome?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it possible, were she not in this company. What of her, +Princess?” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you notice anything beyond her looks?” +</p> + +<p> +“The picture is plain—for the frame in which I see her. Is she one +of the staff of your school?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but with an air——” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly—an air!” He nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, she is a countrywoman of yours and has a history. Her father, a +journalist, artist, no matter what, came to live in Paris years ago. He went +down, down, always down; six months ago he died. There was enough to bury him, +no more. She says, I don’t know”—the Princess indicated doubt +with a movement of her fan—“that she wrote to friends in England. +Perhaps she did not write; how do I know? She was at the last sou, the street +before her, a hag of a concierge behind, and withal—as you see +her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not wearing that dress, I presume?” he said with a faint smile. +</p> + +<p> +“No. She had passed everything to the Mont de Piété; she had what she +stood up in—yet herself! Then a Polish family on the floor below, to whom +my daughter carried alms, told Cécile of her. They pitied her, spoke well of +her, she had done—no matter what for them—perhaps nothing. Probably +nothing. But Cécile ascended, saw her, became enamoured, <i>enragée!</i> You +know Cécile—for her all that wears feathers is of the angels! Nothing +would do but she must bring her here and set her to teach English to the +daughters during her own absence.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Princess is away?” +</p> + +<p> +“For four weeks. But in three days she returns, and you see where I am. +How do I know who this is? She may be this, or that. If she were French, if she +were Polish, I should know! But she is English and of a calm, a +reticence—ah!” +</p> + +<p> +“And of a pride too,” he replied thoughtfully, “if I mistake +not. Yet it is a good face, Princess.” +</p> + +<p> +She fluttered her fan. “It is a handsome one. For a man that is the +same.” +</p> + +<p> +“With all this you permit her to appear?” +</p> + +<p> +“To be of use. And a little that she may be seen by some English friend, +who may tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shall I talk to her?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you will be so good. Learn, if you please, what she is.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your wishes are law,” he rejoined. “Will you present +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is not necessary,” the Princess answered. She beckoned to a +stout gentleman who wore whiskers trimmed à la mode du Roi, and had laurel +leaves on his coat collar. “A thousand thanks.” +</p> + +<p> +He lingered a moment to take part in the Princess’s reception of the +Academician. Then he joined a group about old Prince Adam Czartoriski, who was +describing a recent visit to Cracow, that last morsel of free Poland, soon to +pass into the maw of Austria. A little apart, the girl in black bent over the +case of miniatures, comparing some with a list, and polishing others with a +square of silk. Presently he found himself beside her. Their eyes met. +</p> + +<p> +“I am told,” he said, bowing, “that you are my countrywoman. +The Princess thought that I might be of use to you.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl had read his errand before he spoke and a shade flitted across her +face. She knew, only too well, that her hold on this rock of safety to which +chance had lifted her—out of a gulf of peril and misery of which she +trembled to think—was of the slightest. Early, almost from the first, she +had discovered that the Princess’s benevolence found vent rather in +schemes for the good of many than in tenderness for one. But hitherto she had +relied on the daughter’s affection, and a little on her own usefulness. +Then, too, she was young and hopeful, and the depths from which she had escaped +were such that she could not believe that Providence would return her to them. +</p> + +<p> +But she was quick-witted, and his opening frightened her. She guessed at once +that she was not to be allowed to await Cécile’s return, that her fate +hung on what this Englishman, so big and bland and forceful, reported of her. +</p> + +<p> +She braced herself to meet the danger. “I am obliged to the +Princess,” she said. “But my ties with England are slight. I came +to France with my father when I was ten years old.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you lost him recently?” He found his task less easy than +it should have been. +</p> + +<p> +“He died six months ago,” she replied, regarding him gravely. +“His illness left me without means. I was penniless, when the young +Princess befriended me and gave me a respite here. I am no part of this,” +with a glance at the salon and the groups about them. “I teach upstairs. +I am thankful for the privilege of doing so.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Princess told me as much,” he said frankly. “She thought +that, being English, I might advise you better than she could; that possibly I +might put you in touch with your relations?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +“Or your friends? You must have friends?” +</p> + +<p> +“Doubtless my father had—once,” she said in a low voice. +“But as his means diminished, he saw less and less of those who had known +him. For the last two years I do not think that he saw an Englishman at home. +Before that time I was in a convent school, and I do not know.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a Roman Catholic, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. And for that reason—and for another, that my account was not +paid”—her color rose painfully to her face—“I could not +apply to the Sisters. I am very frank,” she added, her lip trembling. +</p> + +<p> +“And I encroach,” he answered, bowing. “Forgive me! Your +father was an artist, I believe?” +</p> + +<p> +“He drew for an Atelier de Porcelaine—for the journals when he +could. But he was not very successful,” she continued reluctantly. +“The china factory which had employed him since he came to Paris, failed. +When I returned from school he was alone and poor, living in the little street +in the Quartier, where he died.” +</p> + +<p> +“But forgive me, you must have some relations in England?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only one of whom I know,” she replied. “My father’s +brother. My father had quarrelled with him—bitterly, I fear; but when he +was dying he bade me write to my uncle and tell him how we were placed. I did +so. No answer came. Then after my father’s death I wrote again. I told my +uncle that I was alone, that I was without money, that in a short time I should +be homeless, that if I could return to England I could live by teaching French. +He did not reply. I could do no more.” +</p> + +<p> +“That was outrageous,” he answered, flushing darkly. Though well +under thirty he was a tall man and portly, with one of those large faces that +easily become injected. “Do you know—is your uncle also in narrow +circumstances?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know no more than his name,” she said. “My father never +spoke of him. They had quarrelled. Indeed, my father spoke little of his +past.” +</p> + +<p> +“But when you did not hear from your uncle, did you not tell your +father?” +</p> + +<p> +“It could do no good,” she said. “And he was dying.” +</p> + +<p> +He was not sentimental, this big man, whose entrance into a room carried with +it a sense of power. Nor was he one to be lightly moved, but her simplicity and +the picture her words drew for him of the daughter and the dying man touched +him. Already his mind was made up that the Czartoriski should not turn her +adrift for lack of a word. Aloud, “The Princess did not tell me your +name,” he said. “May I know it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Audley,” she said. “Mary Audley.” +</p> + +<p> +He stared at her. She supposed that he had not caught the name. She repeated +it. +</p> + +<p> +“Audley? Do you really mean that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not?” she asked, surprised in her turn. “Is it so +uncommon a name?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he replied slowly. “No, but it is a coincidence. The +Princess did not tell me that your name was Audley.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl shook her head. “I doubt if she knows,” she said. +“To her I am only ‘the English girl.’” +</p> + +<p> +“And your father was an artist, resident in Paris? And his name?” +</p> + +<p> +“Peter Audley.” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded. “Peter Audley,” he repeated. His eyes looked through her +at something far away. His lips were more firmly set. His face was grave. +“Peter Audley,” he repeated softly. “An artist resident in +Paris!” +</p> + +<p> +“But did you know him?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +He brought his thoughts and his eyes back to her. “No, I did not know +him,” he said. “But I have heard of him.” And again it was +plain that his thoughts took wing. “John Audley’s brother, the +artist!” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +In her impatience she could have taken him by the sleeve and shaken him. +“Then you do know John Audley?” she said. “My uncle?” +</p> + +<p> +Again he brought himself back with an effort. “A thousand pardons!” +he said. “You see the Princess did not tell me that you were an Audley. +Yes, I know John Audley—of the Gatehouse. I suppose it was to him you +wrote?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he did not reply?” +</p> + +<p> +She nodded. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed, as at something whimsical. It was not a kindly laugh, it jarred a +little on his listener. But the next moment his face softened, he smiled at +her, and the smile of such a man had its importance, for in repose his eyes +were hard. It was clear to her that he was a man of position, that he belonged +of right to this keen polished world at which she was stealing a glance. His +air was distinguished, and his dress, though quiet, struck the last note of +fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“But I am keeping you in suspense,” he said. “I must tell +you, Miss Audley, why it surprised me to learn your name. Because I, too, am an +Audley.” +</p> + +<p> +“You!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I,” he replied. “What is more, I am akin to you. The +kinship is remote, but it happens that your father’s name, in its place +in a pedigree, has been familiar to me of late, and I could set down the +precise degree of cousinship in which you stand to me. I think your father was +my fourth cousin.” +</p> + +<p> +She colored charmingly. “Is it possible?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a fact, proved indeed, recently, in a court of law,” he +answered lightly. “Perhaps it is as well that we have that warrant for a +conversation which I can see that the Princess thinks long. After this she will +expect to hear the whole of your history.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear that she may be displeased,” the girl said, wincing a +little. “You have been very kind——” +</p> + +<p> +“Who should be kind,” he replied, “if not the head of your +family? But have no fear, I will deal with the Princess. I shall be able to +satisfy her, I have no doubt.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you”—she looked at him with appeal in her +eyes—“will you be good enough to tell me who you are?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am Lord Audley. To distinguish me from another of the same name, I am +called Audley of Beaudelays.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of Beaudelays?” she repeated. He thought her face, her whole +bearing, singularly composed in view of his announcement. +“Beaudelays?” she repeated thoughtfully. “I have heard the +name more than once. Perhaps from my father.” +</p> + +<p> +“It were odd if you had not,” he said. “It is the name of my +house, and your uncle, John Audley, lives within a mile of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh,” she said. The name of the uncle who had ignored her appeals +fell on her like a cold douche. +</p> + +<p> +“I will not say more now,” Lord Audley continued. “But you +shall hear from me. To—morrow I quit Paris for three or four days, but +when I return have no fear. You may leave the matter in my hands in full +confidence that I shall not fail—my cousin.” +</p> + +<p> +He held out his hand and she laid hers in it. She looked him frankly in the +face. “Thank you,” she said. “I little thought when I +descended this evening that I should meet a kinsman.” +</p> + +<p> +“And a friend,” he answered, holding her hand a little longer than +was needful. +</p> + +<p> +“And a friend,” she repeated. “But there—I must go now. +I should have disappeared ten minutes ago. This is my way.” She inclined +her head, and turning from him she pushed open a small door masked by a +picture. She passed at once into a dark corridor, and threading its windings +gained the great staircase. +</p> + +<p> +As she flitted upwards from floor to floor, skirting a long procession of +shadowy forms, and now ogled by a Leda whose only veil was the dusk, now +threatened by the tusks of the great boar at bay, she was not conscious of +thought or surprise. It was not until she had lighted her taper outside the +dormitory door, and, passing between the rows of sleeping children, had gained +her screened corner, that she found it possible to think. Then she set the +light in her tiny washing-basin—such was the rule—and seated +herself on her bed. For some minutes she stared before her, motionless and +unwinking, her hands clasped about her knees, her mind at work. +</p> + +<p> +Was it true, or a dream? Had this really happened to her since she had viewed +herself in the blurred mirror, had set a curl right and, satisfied, had turned +to go down? The danger and the delivery from it, the fear and the friend in +need? Or was it a Cinderella’s treat, which no fairy godmother would +recall to her, with which no lost slipper would connect her? She could almost +believe this. For no Cinderella, in the ashes of the hearth, could have seemed +more remote from the gay ball-room than she crouching on her thin mattress, +with the breathing of the children in her ears, from the luxury of the famous +salon. +</p> + +<p> +Or, if it was true, if it had happened, would anything come of it? Would Lord +Audley remember her? Or would he think no more of her, ignoring to-morrow the +poor relation whom it had been the whim of the moment to own? That would be +cruel! That would be base! But if Mary had fallen in with some good people +since her father’s death, she had also met many callous, and a few cruel +people. He might be one. And then, how strange it was that her father had never +named this great kinsman, never referred to him, never even, when dying, +disclosed his name! +</p> + +<p> +The light wavered in the draught that stole through the bald, undraped window. +A child whimpered in its sleep, awoke, began to sob. It was the youngest of the +daughters of Poland. The girl rose, and going on tip-toe to the child, bent +over it, kissed it, warmed it in her bosom, soothed it. Presently the little +waif slept again, and Mary Audley began to make ready for bed. +</p> + +<p> +But so much turned for her on what had happened, so much hung in the balance, +that it was not unnatural that as she let down her hair and plaited it in two +long tails for the night, she should see her new kinsman’s face in the +mirror. Nor strange that as she lay sleepless and thought-ridden in her bed the +same face should present itself anew relieved against the background of +darkness. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III<br/> +THE LAWYER ABROAD</h2> + +<p> +Half an hour later Lord Audley paused in the hall at Meurice’s, and +having given his cloak and hat to a servant went thoughtfully up the wide +staircase. He opened the door of a room on the first floor. A stout man with a +bald head, who had been for some time yawning over the dying fire, rose to his +feet and remained standing. +</p> + +<p> +Audley nodded. “Hallo, Stubbs!” he said carelessly, “not in +bed yet?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lord,” the other answered. “I waited to learn if your +lordship had any orders for England.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sit down now. I’ve something to tell you.” My lord +stooped as he spoke and warmed his hands at the embers; then rising, he stood +with his back to the hearth. The stout man sat forward on his chair with an air +of deference. His double chin rested on the ample folds of a soft white stock +secured by a gold pin in the shape of a wheat-sheaf. He wore black +knee-breeches and stockings, and his dress, though plain, bore the stamp of +neatness and prosperity. +</p> + +<p> +For a minute or two Audley continued to look thoughtfully before him. At +length, “May I take it that this claim is really at an end now?” he +said. “Is the decision final, I mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“Unless new evidence crops up,” Stubbs answered—he was a +lawyer—“the decision is certainly final. With your lordship’s +signature to the papers I brought over——” +</p> + +<p> +“But the claimant might try again?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. John Audley might do anything,” Stubbs returned. “I +believe him to be mad upon the point, and therefore capable of much. But he +could only move on new evidence of the most cogent nature. I do not believe +that such evidence exists.” +</p> + +<p> +His employer weighed this for some time. At length, “Then if you were in +my place,” he said, “you would not be tempted to hedge?” +</p> + +<p> +“To hedge?” the lawyer exclaimed, as if he had never heard the word +before. “I am afraid I don’t understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will explain. But first, tell me this. If anything happens to me +before I have a child, John Audley succeeds to the peerage? That is +clear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly! Mr. John Audley, the claimant, is also your +heir-at-law.” +</p> + +<p> +“To title and estates—such as they are?” +</p> + +<p> +“To both, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then follow me another step, Stubbs. Failing John Audley, who is the +next heir?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Peter Audley,” Stubbs replied, “his only brother, would +succeed, if he were alive. But it is common ground that he is dead. I knew Mr. +Peter, and, if I may say it of an Audley, my lord, a more shiftless, weak, +improvident gentleman never lived. And obstinate as the devil! He married into +trade, and Mr. John never forgave it—never forgave it, my lord. Never +spoke of his brother or to his brother from that time. It was before the Reform +Bill,” the lawyer continued with a sigh. “There were no railways +then and things were different. Dear, dear, how the world changes! Mr. Peter +must have gone abroad ten years ago, but until he was mentioned in the suit I +don’t think that I had heard his name ten times in as many years. And he +an Audley!” +</p> + +<p> +“He had a child?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only one, a daughter.” +</p> + +<p> +“Would she come in after Mr. John?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lord, she would—if living.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been talking to her this evening.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” The lawyer was not so simple as he seemed, and for a minute +or two he had foreseen the <i>dénouement</i>. “Ah!” he repeated, +thoughtfully rubbing his plump calf. “I see, my lord. Mr. Peter +Audley’s daughter? Really! And if I may venture to ask, what is she +like?” +</p> + +<p> +Audley paused before he answered. Then, “If you have painted the father +aright, Stubbs, I should say that she was his opposite in all but his +obstinacy. A calm and self-reliant young woman, if I am any judge.” +</p> + +<p> +“And handsome?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, with a look of breeding. At the same time she is penniless and +dependent, teaching English in a kind of charity school, cheek by jowl with a +princess!” +</p> + +<p> +“God bless my soul!” cried the lawyer, astonished at last. “A +princess!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who is a good creature as women go, but as likely as not to send her +adrift to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tut-tut-tut!” muttered the other. +</p> + +<p> +“However, I’ll tell you the story,” Audley concluded. And he +did so. +</p> + +<p> +When he had done, “Well,” Stubbs exclaimed, “for a +coincidence——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, there,” the young man broke in, “I fancy, all’s +not said. I take it the Princess noted the name, but was too polite to question +me. Anyway, the girl is there. She is dependent, friendless; attractive, and +well-bred. For a moment it did occur to me—she is John Audley’s +heiress—that I might make all safe by——” His voice +dropped. His last words were inaudible. +</p> + +<p> +“The chance is so very remote,” said the lawyer, aware that he was +on delicate ground, and that the other was rather following out his own +thoughts than consulting him. +</p> + +<p> +“It is. The idea crossed my mind only for a moment—of course +it’s absurd for a man as poor as I am. There is hardly a poorer peer out +of Ireland—you know that. Fourteenth baron without a roof to my house or +a pane of glass in my windows! And a rent-roll when all is told +of——” +</p> + +<p> +“A little short of three thousand,” the lawyer muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“Two thousand five hundred, by God, and not a penny more! If any man +ought to marry money, I am that man, Stubbs!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stubbs, staring at the fire with a hand on each knee, assented +respectfully. “I’ve always hoped that you would, my lord,” he +said, “though I’ve not ventured to say it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes! Well—putting that aside,” the other resumed, +“what is to be done about her? I’ve been thinking it over, and I +fancy that I’ve hit on the right line. John Audley’s given me +trouble enough. I’ll give him some. I’ll make him provide for her, +d—n him, or I don’t know my man!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d like to know, my lord,” Stubbs ventured thoughtfully, +“why he didn’t answer her letters. He hated her father, but it is +not like Mr. John to let the young lady drift. He’s crazy about the +family, and she is his next heir. He’s a lonely man, too, and there is +room at the Gatehouse.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley paused, half-way across the room. “I wish we had never leased the +Gatehouse to him!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s not everybody’s house, my lord. It’s lonely +and——” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s too near Beaudelays!” +</p> + +<p> +“If your lordship were living at the Great House, quite so,” the +lawyer agreed. “But, as it is, the rent is useful, and the lease was made +before our time, so that we have no choice.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall always believe that he had a reason for going there!” +</p> + +<p> +“He had an idea that it strengthened his claim,” the lawyer said +indulgently. “Nothing beyond that, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ve made up my mind to increase his family by a +niece!” the other replied. “He shall have the girl whether he likes +it or not. Take a pen, man, and sit down. He’s spoiled my breakfast many +a time with his confounded Writs of Error, or whatever you call them, and for +once I’ll be even with him. Say—yes, Stubbs, say this: +</p> + +<p> +“‘I am directed by Lord Audley to inform you that a young lady, +believed to be a daughter of the late Mr. Peter Audley, and recently living in +poverty in an obscure’—yes, Stubbs, say obscure—‘part +of Paris, has been rescued by the benevolence of a Polish lady. For the present +she is in the lady’s house in a menial capacity, and is dependent on her +charity. Lord Audley is informed that the young lady made application to you +without result, but this report his lordship discredits. Still, he feels +himself concerned; and if those to whom she naturally looks decline to aid her, +it is his lordship’s intention to make such provision as may enable her +to live respectably. I am to inform you that Miss Audley’s address is the +Hôtel Lambert, Ile St. Louis, Paris. Letters should be addressed “Care of +the Housekeeper.”’” +</p> + +<p> +“He won’t like the last touch!” the young man continued, with +a quiet chuckle. “If that does not touch him on the raw, I’ll yield +up the title to-morrow. And now, Stubbs, good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +But Stubbs did not take the hint. “I want to say one word, my lord, about +the borough—about Riddsley,” he said. “We put in Mr. +Mottisfont at the last election, your lordship’s interest just tipping +the scale. We think, therefore, that a word from you may set right what is +going wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a strong feeling,” the lawyer answered, his face +serious, “that the party is not being led aright. And that Mr. +Mottisfont, who is old——” +</p> + +<p> +“Is willing to go with the party, eh, Stubbs?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lord, with the party leaders. Which is a different thing. Sir +Robert Peel—the land put him in, but, d—n me, my +lord”—the lawyer’s manner lost much of its deference and he +spoke bluntly and strongly—“it looks as if he were going to put the +land out! An income-tax in peace time, we’ve taken that. And less +protection for the farmer, very good—if it must be. But all this taking +off of duties, this letting in of Canadian corn—I tell you, my lord, +there’s an ugly feeling abroad! There are a good many in Riddsley say +that he is going to repeal the Corn Laws altogether; that he’s sold us to +the League, and won’t be long before he delivers us!” +</p> + +<p> +The big man sitting back in his chair smiled. “It seems to me,” he +said, “that you are travelling rather fast and rather far, Stubbs!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s just what we fear Sir Robert is doing!” the lawyer +retorted smartly, the other’s rank forgotten. “And you may take it +from me the borough won’t stand it, my lord, and the sooner Mr. +Mottisfont has a hint the better. If he follows Peel too far, the bottom will +fall out of his seat. There’s no Corn Law leaguer will ever sit for +Riddsley!” +</p> + +<p> +“With your help, anyway, Stubbs,” my lord said with a smile. The +lawyer’s excitement amused him. +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lord! Never with my help! I believe that on the landed interest +rests the stability of the country! It was the landed interest that supported +Pitt and beat Bony, and brought us through the long war. It was the landed +interest that kept us from revolution in the dark days after the war. And now +because the men that turn cotton and iron and clay into money by the help of +the devil’s breath—because they want to pay lower +wages——” +</p> + +<p> +“The ark of the covenant is to be overthrown, eh?” the young man +laughed. “Why, to listen to you, Stubbs, one would think that you were +the largest landowner in the county!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lord,” the lawyer answered. “But it’s the +landowners have made me what I am. And it’s the landowners and the +farmers that Riddsley lives by and is going to stand by! And the sooner Mr. +Mottisfont knows that the better. He was elected as a Tory, and a Tory he must +stop, whether Sir Robert turns his coat or not!” +</p> + +<p> +“You want me to speak to Mottisfont?” +</p> + +<p> +“We do, my lord. Just a word. I was at the Ordinary last fair day, and +there was nothing else talked of. Free Canadian corn was too like free French +corn and free Belgian corn for Stafford wits to see much difference. And Peel +is too like repeal, my lord. We are beginning to see that.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley shrugged his shoulders. “The party is satisfied,” he said. +“And Mottisfont? I can’t drive the man.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but a word from you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll think about it. But I fancy you’re overrunning +the scent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then the line is not straight!” the lawyer retorted shrewdly. +“However, if I have been too warm, I beg pardon, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll bear it in mind,” Audley answered. “Very good. +And now, good-night, Stubbs. Don’t forget to send the letter to John +Audley as soon as you reach London.” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs replied that he would, and took his leave. He had said his say on the +borough question, lord or no lord; which to a Briton—and he was a typical +Briton—was a satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +But half an hour later, when he had drawn his nightcap down to his ears and +stood, the extinguisher in his hand, he paused. “He’s a sober hand +for a young man,” he thought, “a very sober hand. I warrant he will +never run his ship on the rocks for lack of a good look-out!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV<br/> +HOMEWARD BOUND</h2> + +<p> +In the corner of the light diligence, seating six inside, which had brought her +from Montreuil, Mary Audley leant forward, looking out through the dingy panes +for the windmills of Calais. Joséphine slept in the corner facing her, as she +had slept for two hours past. Their companions, a French shopkeeper and her +child, and an English bagman, sighed and fidgeted, as travellers had cause to +sigh and fidget in days when he was lucky who covered the distance from Paris +to Calais in twenty-five hours. The coach rumbled on. The sun had set, a small +rain was falling. The fading light tinged the plain of the Pas de Calais with a +melancholy which little by little dyed the girl’s thoughts. +</p> + +<p> +She was on her way to her own country, to those on whom she might be dependent +without shame. And common sense, of which she had a large share, told her that +she had cause, great cause to be thankful. But the flush of relief, to which +the opening prospect had given rise, was ebbing. The life before her was new, +those amongst whom she must lead that life were strange; nor did the cold +phrases of her uncle’s invitation, which ignored both her father and the +letters that she had written, promise an over-warm welcome. +</p> + +<p> +Still, “Courage!” Mary murmured to herself, “Courage!” +And she recalled a saying which she had learned from the maid, “At the +worst, ten fingers!” Then, seeing that at last they were entering the +streets of the town and that the weary journey was over—she had left +Paris the day before—she touched Joséphine. “We are there,” +she said. +</p> + +<p> +The maid awoke with her eyes on the bagman, who was stout. “Ah!” +she muttered. “In England they are like that! No wonder that they travel +seeing that their bones are so padded! But, for me I am one ache.” +</p> + +<p> +They jolted over the uneven pavement, crossed a bridge, lumbered through +streets scarcely wider than the swaying diligence, at last with a great +cracking of whips they swerved to the left and drew up amid the babel of the +quay. In a twinkling they were part of it. Porters dragged down, fought for, +snatched up their baggage. English-speaking touts shook dirty cards in their +faces. Tide-waiters bawled questions in their ears. The postilion, the +conductor, all the world stretched greedy palms under their noses. Other +travellers ran into them, and they ran into other travellers. All this, in the +dusk, in the rain, while the bell on the deck overhead clanged above the roar +of the escaping steam, and a man shouted without ceasing, “Tower steamer! +Tower steamer! Any more for England?” +</p> + +<p> +Joséphine, after one bitter exchange of words with a lad who had seized her +handbag, thrust her fingers into her ears and resigned herself. Even Mary for a +moment was aghast. She was dragged this way and that, she lost one article and +recovered it, lost another and recovered that, she lost her ticket and rescued +it from a man’s hand. At last, her baggage on board, she found herself +breathless at the foot of the ladder, with three passengers imploring her to +ascend, and six touts clinging to her skirts and crying for drink-money. She +had barely time to make her little gift to the kind-hearted maid—who was +returning to Paris by the night coach—and no time to thank her, before +they were parted. Mary was pushed up the ladder. In a moment she was looking +down from the deck on the wet, squalid quay, the pale up-turned faces, the +bustling crowd. +</p> + +<p> +She picked out the one face which she knew, and which it pained her to lose. By +gestures and smiles, with a tear in the eye, she tried to make amends to +Joséphine for the hasty parting, the half-spoken words. The maid on her side +was in tears, and after the French fashion was proud of them. So the last +minute came. The paddles were already turning, the ship was going slowly +astern, when a man pushed his way through the crowd. He clutched the ladder as +it was unhooked, and at some risk and much loss of dignity he was bundled on +board. There was a lamp amidships, and, as he regained his balance, Mary, +smiling in spite of herself, saw that he was an Englishman, a man about thirty, +and plainly dressed. Then in her anxiety to see the last of Joséphine she +crossed the deck as the ship went about, and she lost sight of him. +</p> + +<p> +She continued to look back and to wave her handkerchief, until nothing remained +but a light or two in a bank of shadow. That was the last she was to see of the +land which had been her home for ten years; and chilled and lonely she turned +about and did what, had she been an older traveller, she would have done +before. She sought the after-cabin. Alas, a glance from the foot of the +companion was enough! Every place was taken, every couch occupied, and the air, +already close, repelled her. She climbed to the deck again, and was seeking +some corner where she could sit, sheltered from the wind and rain, when the +captain saw her and fell foul of her. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, young lady,” he said, “no woman’s allowed on deck +at night!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but,” she protested, “there’s no room +downstairs!” +</p> + +<p> +“Won’t do,” he answered roughly. “Lost a woman +overboard once, and as much trouble about her as about all the men, drunk or +sober, I’ve ever carried. All women below, all women below, is the order! +Besides,” more amicably, as he saw by a ray of lantern-light that she was +young and comely, “it’s wet, my dear, and going to be d—d +wet, and as dark as Wapping!” +</p> + +<p> +“But I’ve a cloak,” she petitioned, “if I sit quite +still, and——” +</p> + +<p> +A tall form loomed up at the captain’s elbow. “This is the lady I +am looking for,” the new-comer said. “It will be all right, Captain +Jones.” +</p> + +<p> +The captain turned sharply. “Oh, my lord,” he said, “I +didn’t know; but with petticoats and a dark night, blest if you know +where you are! I’m sure I beg the young lady’s pardon. Quite right, +my lord, quite right!” With a rough salute he went forward and the +darkness swallowed him. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord Audley?” Mary said. She spoke quietly, but to do so she had +to steady her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he replied. “I knew that you were crossing to-night, +and as I had to go over this week I chose this evening. I’ve reserved a +cabin for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but,” she remonstrated, “I don’t think you should +have done that! I don’t know that I can——” +</p> + +<p> +“Afford it?” he said coolly. “Then—as it is a matter of +some shillings—your kinsman will presume to pay for it.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a small thing, and she let it pass. “But who told you,” she +asked, “that I was crossing to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +“The Princess. You don’t feel, I suppose, that as you are crossing, +it was my duty to stay in France?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no!” she protested. +</p> + +<p> +“But you are not sure whether you are more pleased or more vexed? Well, +let me show you where your cabin is—it is the size of a milliner’s +box, but by morning you will be glad of it, and that may turn the scale. +Moreover,” as he led the way across the deck, “the steward’s +boy, when he is not serving gin below, will serve tea above, and at sea tea is +not to be scorned. That’s your number—7. And there is the boy. +Boy!” he called in a voice that ensured obedience, “Tea and bread +and butter for this lady in number 7 in an hour. See it is there, my +lad!” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled. “I think the tea and bread and butter may turn the +scale,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Right,” he replied. “Then, as it is only eight +o’clock, why should we not sit in the shelter of this tarpaulin? I see +that there are two seats. They might have been put for us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it possible that they were?” she asked shrewdly. “Well, +why not?” +</p> + +<p> +She had no reason to give—and the temptation was great. Five minutes +before she had been the most lonely creature in the world. The parting from +Joséphine, the discomfort of the boat, the dark sea and the darker horizon, the +captain’s rough words, had brought the tears to her eyes. And then, in a +moment, to be thought of, provided for, kindly entreated, to be lapped in +attentions as in a cloak—in very fact, in another second a warm cloak was +about her—who could expect her to refuse this? Moreover, he was her +kinsman; probably she owed it to him that she was here. +</p> + +<p> +At any rate she thought that it would be prudish to demur, and she took one of +the seats in the lee of the screen. Audley tucked the cloak about her, and took +the other. The light of a lantern fell on their faces and the few passengers +who still tramped the windy deck could see the pair, and doubtless envied him +their shelter. “Are you comfortable?” he inquired—but before +she could answer he whistled softly. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” Mary asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Not much.” He laughed to himself. +</p> + +<p> +Then she saw coming along the deck towards them a man who had not found his +sea-legs. As he approached he took little runs, and now brought up against the +rail, now clutched at a stay. Mary knew the man again. “He nearly missed +the boat,” she whispered. +</p> + +<p> +“Did he?” her companion answered in the same tone. “Well, if +he had quite missed it, I’d have forgiven him. He is going to be ill, +I’ll wager!” +</p> + +<p> +When the man was close to them he reeled, and to save himself he grasped the +end of their screen. His eyes met theirs. He was past much show of emotion, but +his voice rose as he exclaimed, “Audley. Is that you?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is. We are in for a rough night, I’m afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“And—pardon me,” the stranger hesitated, peering at them, +“is that Miss Audley with you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Mary said, much surprised. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” +</p> + +<p> +“This is Mr. Basset,” Audley explained. Mary stared at the +stranger. The name conveyed nothing to her. +</p> + +<p> +“I came to meet you,” he said, speaking with difficulty, and now +and again casting a wild eye abroad as the deck heaved under him. “But I +expected to find you at the hotel, and I waited there until I nearly missed the +boat. Even then I felt that I ought to learn if you were on board, and I came +up to see.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very much obliged to you,” Mary answered politely, “but +I am quite comfortable, thank you. It is close below, and Lord Audley found +this seat for me. And I have a cabin.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh yes!” he answered. “I think I will go down then if +you—if you are sure you want nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, thank you,” Mary answered with decision. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I—I’ll go, then. Good-night!” +</p> + +<p> +With that he went, making desperate tacks in the direction of the companion. +Unfortunately what he gained in speed he lost in dignity, and before he reached +the hatch Lord Audley gave way to laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, don’t!” Mary cried. “He will hear you. And it was +kind of him to look for me when he was not well.” +</p> + +<p> +But Audley only laughed the more. “You don’t catch the full flavor +of it,” he said. “He’s come three hundred miles to meet you, +and he’s too ill to do anything now he’s here!” +</p> + +<p> +“Three hundred miles to meet me!” she cried in astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Every yard of it! Don’t you know who he is? He’s Peter +Basset, your uncle’s nephew by marriage, who lives with him. He’s +come, or rather your uncle has sent him, all the way from Stafford to meet +you—and he’s gone to lie down! He’s gone to lie down! +There’s a squire of dames for you! Upon my honor, I never knew anything +richer!” +</p> + +<p> +And my lord’s laughter broke out anew. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V<br/> +THE LONDON PACKET</h2> + +<p> +Mary laughed with him, but she was not comfortable. What she had seen of the +stranger, a man plain in feature and ordinary in figure, one whom the eye would +not have remarked in a crowd, did not especially commend him. And certainly he +had not shown himself equal to a difficult situation. But the effort he had +made to come to her help appealed to her generosity, and she was not sure how +far she formed a part of the comedy. So her laughter was from the lips only, +and brief. Then, “My uncle’s nephew?” she asked thoughtfully. +</p> + +<p> +“His wife’s nephew. Your uncle married a Basset.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why did he send him to meet me?” +</p> + +<p> +“For a simple reason—I should say that he had no one else to send. +Your uncle is not a man of many friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“I understood that some one would meet the boat in London,” she +said. “But I expected a woman.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fancy the woman would be to seek,” he replied. “And Basset +is a kind of tame cat at the Gatehouse. He lives there a part of the year, +though he has an old place of his own up the country. He’s a +Staffordshire man born and bred, and I dare say a good fellow in his way, but a +dull dog! a dull dog! Are you sure that the wind does not catch you?” +</p> + +<p> +She said that she was very comfortable, and they were silent awhile, listening +to the monotonous slapping of a rope against the mast and the wash of the waves +as they surged past the beam. A single light at the end of the breakwater shone +in the darkness behind them. She marked the light grow smaller and more +distant, and her thoughts went back to the convent school, to her father, to +the third-floor where for a time they had been together, to his care for +her—feeble and inefficient, to his illness. And a lump rose in her +throat, her hands gripped one another as she strove to hide her feelings. In +her heart she whispered a farewell. She was turning her back on her +father’s grave. The last tendril which bound her to the old life was +breaking. +</p> + +<p> +The light vanished, and gradually the girl’s reflections sought a new +channel. They turned from the past to the present, and dwelt on the man beside +her, who had not only thought of her comfort, who had not only saved her from +some hours of loneliness, but had probably wrought this change in her life. +This was the third time only that she had seen him. Once, some days after that +memorable evening, he had called at the Hôtel Lambert, and her employer had +sent for her. He had greeted her courteously in the Princess’s presence, +had asked her kindly if she had heard from England, and had led her to believe +that she would hear. And she remembered with a blush that the Princess had +looked from one to the other with a smile, and afterwards had had another +manner for her. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile the man wondered what she was thinking, and waited for her to give +him the clue. But she was so long silent that his patience wore thin. It was +not for this, it was not to sit silent beside her, that he had taken a night +journey and secured these cosey seats. +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” he said at last. +</p> + +<p> +She turned to him, her eyes wet with tears. “It seems so strange,” +she murmured, “to be leaving all and going into a world in which I know +no one.” +</p> + +<p> +“Except the head of your family.” +</p> + +<p> +“Except you! I suppose that I owe it to you that I am here?” +</p> + +<p> +“I should be happy if I thought so,” he replied, with careful +reticence. “But we set a stone rolling, we do not know where it falls. +You will soon learn—Basset will tell you, if I don’t—that +your uncle and I are not on good terms. Therefore it is unlikely that he was +moved by what I said.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you said something?” +</p> + +<p> +“If I did,” he answered, smiling, “it was against the +grain—who likes to put his finger between the door and the jamb? And let +me caution you. Your uncle will not suffer meddling on my part, still less a +reminder of it. Therefore, as you are going to owe all to him, you will do well +to be silent about me.” +</p> + +<p> +She was sure that she owed all to him, and she might have said so, but at that +moment the boat changed its course and the full force of the wind struck them. +The salt spray whipped and stung their faces. Her cloak flew out like a +balloon, her scarf pennon-wise, the tarpaulin flapped like some huge bird. He +had to spring to the screen, to adjust it to the new course, to secure and tuck +in her cloak—and all in haste, with exclamations and laughter, while +Mary, sharing the joy of the struggle, and braced by the sting of the salt +wind, felt her heart rise. How kind he was, and how strong. How he towered +above ordinary men. How safe she felt in his care. +</p> + +<p> +When they were settled anew, she asked him to tell her something about the +Gatehouse. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a lonely place,” he said. “It is quite out of the +world. I don’t know, indeed, how you will exist after the life you have +led.” +</p> + +<p> +“The life I have led!” she protested. “But that is absurd! +Though you saw me in the Princess’s salon, you know that my life had +nothing in common with hers. I was downstairs no more than three or four times, +and then merely to interpret. My life was spent between whitewashed walls, on +bare floors. I slept in a room with twenty children, ate with forty—onion +soup and thick tartines. The evening I saw you I wore shoes which the maid lent +me. And with all that I was thankful, most thankful, to have such a refuge. The +great people who met at the Princess’s——” +</p> + +<p> +“And who thought that they were making history!” he laughed. +“Did you know that? Did you know that the Princess was looking to them to +save the last morsel of Poland?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said. “I did not know. I am very ignorant. But if I +were a man, I should love to do things like that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe you would!” he replied. “Well, there are crusades +in England. Only I fear that you will not be in the way of them.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I am not a princess! But tell me, please, what are they?” +</p> + +<p> +“You will not be long before you come upon one,” he replied, a hint +of derision in his tone. “You will see a placard in the streets, +‘<i>Shall the people’s bread be taxed?</i>’ Not quite so +romantic as the independence of Poland? But I can tell you that heads are quite +as likely to be broken over it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Surely,” she said, “there can be only one answer to +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” he replied dryly. “But what is the answer? The +land claims high prices that it may thrive; the towns claim cheap bread that +they may live. Each says that the country depends upon it. ‘England +self-supporting!’ says one. ‘England the workshop of the +world!’ says the other.” +</p> + +<p> +“I begin to see.” +</p> + +<p> +“‘The land is the strength of the country,’ argues the +squire. ‘Down with monopoly,’ cries the cotton lord. Then each arms +himself with a sword lately forged and called ‘Philanthropy,’ and +with that he searches for chinks in the other’s armor. ‘See how +factories work the babes, drive the women underground, ruin the race,’ +shout the squires. ‘Vote for the land and starvation wages,’ shout +the mill-owners.” +</p> + +<p> +“But does no one try to find the answer?” she asked timidly. +“Try to find out what is best for the people?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he rejoined, “if by the people you mean the lower +classes, they cry, ‘Give us not bread, but votes!’ And the squires +say that that is what the traders who have just got votes don’t mean to +give them; and so, to divert their attention, dangle cheap bread before their +noses!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary sighed. “I am afraid that I must give it up,” she said. +“I am so ignorant.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” he replied thoughtfully. “Many are puzzled which side +to take, and are waiting to see how the cat jumps. In the meantime every fence +is placarded with ‘Speed the Plough!’ on one side, and ‘The +Big Loaf!’ on the other. The first man you meet thinks the landlord a +devourer of widows’ houses; to the next the mill-owner is an ogre +grinding men’s bones to make his bread. Even at the Gatehouse I doubt if +you will escape the excitement, though there is not a field of wheat within a +mile of it!” +</p> + +<p> +“To me it is like a new world,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Then, when you are in the new world,” he replied, smiling as he +rose, “do not forget Columbus! But here is the lad to tell you that your +tea is ready.” +</p> + +<p> +He repented when Mary had left him that he had not made better use of his time. +It had been his purpose to make such an impression on the girl as might be of +use in the future, and he wondered why he had not devoted himself more singly +to this; why he had allowed minutes which might have been given to intimate +subjects to be wasted in a dry discussion. But there was a quality in Mary that +did not lightly invite to gallantry—a gravity and a balance that, had he +looked closely into the matter, might have explained his laches. +</p> + +<p> +And in fact he had builded better than he knew, for while he reproached +himself, Mary, safe within the tiny bathing machine which the packet company +called a cabin, was giving much thought to him. The dip-candle, set within a +horn lantern, threw its light on the one comfortable object, the tea-tray, +seated beside which she reviewed what had happened, and found it all +interesting; his meeting with her, his thought for her, the glimpses he had +given her of things beyond the horizon of the convent school, even his +diversion into politics. He was not on good terms with her uncle, and it was +unlikely that she would see more of him. But she was sure that she would always +remember his appearance on the threshold of her new life, that she would always +recall with gratitude this crossing and the kindness which had lapped her about +and saved her from loneliness. +</p> + +<p> +In her eyes he figured as one of the brilliant circle of the Hôtel Lambert. For +her he played a part in great movements and high enterprises such as those +which he had revealed to her. His light treatment of them, his air of +detachment, had, indeed, chilled her at times; but these were perhaps natural +in one who viewed from above and from a distance the ills which it was his task +to treat. How ignorant he must think her! How remote from the plane on which he +lived, the standards by which he judged, the objects at which he aimed! Yet he +had stooped to explain things to her and to make them clear. +</p> + +<p> +She spent an hour deep in thought, and, strange as the life of the ship was to +her, she was deaf to the creaking of the timbers, and the surge of the waves as +they swept past the beam. At intervals hoarse orders, a rush of feet across the +deck, the more regular tramp of rare passengers, caught her attention, only to +lose it as quickly. It was late when she roused herself. She saw that the +candle was burning low, and she began to make her arrangements for the night. +</p> + +<p> +Midway in them she paused, and colored, aware that she knew his tread from the +many that had passed. The footstep ceased. A hand tapped at her door. +“Yes?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“We shall be in the river by daybreak,” Audley announced. “I +thought that you might like to come on deck early. You ought not to miss the +river from the Nore to the Pool.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“You shouldn’t miss it,” he persisted. “Greenwich +especially!” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be there,” she replied. “It is very good of you. +Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +He went away. After all, he was the only man on board shod like a gentleman; it +had been odd if she had not known his step! And for going on deck early, why +should she not? Was she to miss Greenwich because Lord Audley went to a good +bootmaker? +</p> + +<p> +So when Peter Basset, still pale and qualmish, came on deck in the early +morning, a little below the Pool, the first person he saw was the girl whom he +had come to escort. She was standing high above him on the captain’s +bridge, her hands clasping the rail, her hair blown about and shining golden in +the sunshine. Lord Audley’s stately form towered above her. He was +pointing out this and that, and they were talking gaily; and now and again the +captain spoke to them, and many were looking at them. She did not see Basset; +he was on the deck below, standing amid the common crowd, and so he was free to +look at her as he pleased. He might be said not to have seen her before, and +what he saw now bewildered, nay, staggered him. Unwillingly, and to please his +uncle, he had come to meet a girl of whom they knew no more than this, that, +rescued from some backwater of Paris life, into which a weak and shiftless +father had plunged her, she had earned her living, if she had earned it at all, +in a dependent capacity. He had looked to find her one of two things; either +flashy and underbred, with every fault an Englishman might consider French, or +a nice mixture of craft and servility. He had not been able to decide which he +would prefer. +</p> + +<p> +Instead he saw a girl tall, slender, and slow of movement, with eyes set under +a fine width of brow and grave when they smiled, a chin fuller than perfect +beauty required, a mouth a little large, a perfect nose. Auburn hair, thick and +waving, drooped over each temple, and framed a face as calm as it was fair. +“Surely a pearl found on a midden!” he thought. And as the thought +passed through his mind, Mary looked down. Her eyes roved for a moment over the +crowded deck, where some, like Basset, returned her gaze with interest, while +others sought their baggage or bawled for missing companions. He was not a man, +it has been said, to stand out in a crowd, and her eyes travelled over him +without seeing him. Audley spoke to her, she lifted her eyes, she looked ashore +again. But the unheeding glance which had not deigned to know him stung Basset! +He dubbed her, with all her beauty, proud and hard. Still—to be such and +to have sprung from such a life! It was marvellous. +</p> + +<p> +He knew nothing of the convent school with its hourly discipline lasting +through years. He did not guess that the obstinacy which had been weakness in +the father was strength in the child. Much less could he divine that the +improvidence of that father had become a beacon, warning the daughter off the +rocks which had been fatal to him! Mary was no miracle, but neither was she +proud or hard. +</p> + +<p> +They had passed Erith, and Greenwich with its stately pile and formal gardens +glittering in the sunshine of an April morning. The ripple of a westerly wind, +meeting the flood, silvered the turbid surface. A hundred wherries skimmed like +water-flies hither and thither, long lines of colliers fringed the wharves, +tall China clippers forged slowly up under a scrap of foresail, dumb barges +deep laden with hay or Barclay’s Entire, moved mysteriously with the +tide. On all sides hoarse voices bawled orders or objurgations. Charmed with +the gayety, the movement, the color, Mary could not take her eyes from the +scene. The sunshine, the leap of life, the pulse of spring, moved in her blood +and put to flight the fears that had weighed on her at nightfall. She told +herself with elation that this was England, this was her native land, this was +her home. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Audley’s mind took another direction. He reflected that in a +few minutes he must part from the girl, and must trust henceforth to the +impression he had made. For some hours he had scarcely given a thought to +Basset, but he recalled him now, and he searched for him in the throng below. +He found him at last, pressed against the rail between a fat woman with a +basket and a crying child. Their eyes met. My lord glanced away, but he could +not refrain from a smile as he pictured the poor affair the other had made of +his errand. And Basset saw the smile and read its meaning, and though he was +not self—assertive, though he was, indeed, backward to a fault, anger ran +through his veins. To have travelled three hundred miles in order to meet this +girl, to have found her happy in another’s company, and to have accepted +the second place—the position had vexed him even under the qualms of +illness. This morning, and since he had seen her, it stirred in him an unwonted +resentment. He d—d Audley under his breath, disengaged himself from the +basket which the fat woman was thrusting into his ribs, lifted the child aside. +He escaped below to collect his effects. +</p> + +<p> +But in a short time he recovered his temper. When the boat began to go about in +the crowded Pool and Mary reluctantly withdrew her eyes from the White Tower, +darkened by the smoke and the tragedies of twenty generations, she found him +awaiting them at the foot of the ladder. He was still pale, and the +girl’s conscience smote her. For many hours she had not given him a +thought. “I hope you are better,” she said gently. +</p> + +<p> +“Horrid thing, <i>mal de mer!</i>” remarked my lord, with a gleam +of humor in his eye. +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, I am quite right this morning,” Basset answered. +</p> + +<p> +“You go from Euston Grove, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. The morning train starts in a little over an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +No more was said, and they went ashore together. Audley, an old traveller, and +one whose height and presence gave weight to his orders, saw to Mary’s +safety in the crowd, shielded her from touts and tide-waiters, took the upper +hand. He watched the aproned porters disappearing with the baggage in the +direction of the Custom House, and a thought struck him. “I am sorry that +my servant is not here,” he said. “He would see our things through +without troubling us.” His eyes met Basset’s. +</p> + +<p> +Basset disdained to refuse. “I will do it,” he said. He received +the keys and followed the baggage. +</p> + +<p> +Audley looked at Mary and laughed. “I think you’ll find him +useful,” he said. “Takes a hint and is not too forward.” +</p> + +<p> +“For shame!” she cried. “It is very good of him to go.” +But she could not refrain from a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“Well trained,” Audley continued in a whimsical tone, +“fetches and carries, barks at the name of Peel and growls at the name of +Cobden, gives up a stick when required, could be taught to beg—by the +right person.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed—she could not resist his manner. “But you are not very +kind,” she said. “Please to call a—whatever we need. He shall +not do everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything?” Lord Audley echoed. “He should do +nothing,” in a lower tone, “if I had my way.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary blushed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI<br/> +FIELD AND FORGE</h2> + +<p> +The window of the clumsy carriage was narrow, but Mary gazed through it as if +she could never see enough of the flying landscape, the fields, the woods, the +ivy-clad homes and red-roofed towns that passed in procession before her. The +emotions of those who journeyed for the first time on a railway at a speed four +times as great as that of the swiftest High-flier that ever devoured the road +are forgotten by this generation. But they were vivid. The thing was a miracle. +And though by this time men had ceased to believe that he who passed through +the air at sixty miles an hour must of necessity cease to breathe, the novice +still felt that he could never tire of the panorama so swiftly unrolled before +him. +</p> + +<p> +And it was not only wonder, it was admiration that held Mary chained to the +window. Her infancy had been spent in a drab London street, her early youth in +the heart of a Paris which was still gloomy and mediæval. Some beautiful things +she had seen on fête days, the bend of the river at Meudon or St. Germain, and +once the Forest of Fontainebleau; on Sundays the Bois. But the smiling English +meadows, the gray towers of village churches, the parks and lawns of +manor-houses, the canals with their lines of painted barges, and here and there +a gay packet boat—she drank in the beauty of these, and more than once +her eyes grew dim. For a time Basset, seated in the opposite corner, did not +exist for her; while he, behind the <i>Morning Chronicle</i>, made his +observations and took note of her at his leisure. The longer he looked the more +he marvelled. +</p> + +<p> +He asked himself with amusement what John Audley would think of her when he, +too, should see her. He anticipated the old man’s surprise on finding her +so remote from their preconceived ideas of her. He wondered what she would +think of John Audley. +</p> + +<p> +And while he pondered, and now scanned his paper without reading it, and now +stole another glance at her, he steeled himself against her. She might not have +been to blame, it might not have been her fault; but, between them, the two on +the boat had put him in his place and he could not forget it. He had cut a poor +figure, and he resented it. He foresaw that in the future she would be +dependent on him for society, and he would be a fool if he then forgot the +lesson he had learned. She had a good face, but probably her up-bringing had +been anything but good. Probably it had taught her to make the most of the +moment and of the man of the moment, and he would be foolish if he let her +amuse herself with him. He had seen in what light she viewed him when other +game was afoot, and he would deserve the worst if he did not remember this. +</p> + +<p> +Presently an embankment cut off the view, and she withdrew her eyes from the +window. In her turn she took the measure of her companion. It seemed to her +that his face was too thoughtful for his years, and that his figure was +insignificant. The eye which had accustomed itself to Lord Audley’s port +and air found Basset slight and almost mean. She smiled as she recalled the +skill with which my lord had set him aside and made use of him. +</p> + +<p> +Still, he was a part of the life to which she was hastening, and curiosity +stirred in her. He was in possession, he was in close relations with her uncle, +he knew many things which she was anxious to know. Much of her comfort might +depend on him. Presently she asked him what her uncle was like. +</p> + +<p> +“You will see for yourself in a few hours,” he replied, his tone +cold and almost ungracious. “Did not Lord Audley describe him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. And you seem,” with a faint smile, “to be equally on +your guard, Mr. Basset.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” he retorted. “But I think it better to leave +you to judge for yourself. I have lived too near to Mr. Audley to—to +criticise him.” +</p> + +<p> +She colored. +</p> + +<p> +“Let me give you one hint, however,” he continued in the same dry +tone; “you will be wise not to mention Lord Audley to him. They are not +on good terms.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry.” +</p> + +<p> +He shrugged his shoulders. “It cannot be said to be unnatural, after what +has happened.” +</p> + +<p> +She considered this. “What has happened?” she asked after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, the claim to the peerage, if nothing else——” +</p> + +<p> +“What claim?” she asked. “Whose claim? What peerage? I am +quite in the dark.” +</p> + +<p> +He stared. He did not believe her. “Your uncle’s claim,” he +said curtly. Then as she still looked a question, “You must know,” +he continued, “that your uncle claimed the title which Lord Audley bears, +and the property which goes with it. And that the decision was only given +against him three months ago.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing of it,” she said. “I never heard of the +claim.” +</p> + +<p> +“Really?” he replied. He hardly deigned to veil his incredulity. +“Yet if your uncle had succeeded you were the next heir.” +</p> + +<p> +“I?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, you.” +</p> + +<p> +Then her face shook his unbelief. She turned slowly and painfully red. +“Is it possible?” she said. “You are not playing with +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly I am not. Do you mean that Lord Audley never told you that? +Never told you that you were interested?” +</p> + +<p> +“Never! He only told me that he was not on good terms with my uncle, and +that for that reason he would leave me to learn the rest at the +Gatehouse.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, that was right,” Basset answered. “It is as well, +since you have to live with Mr. Audley, that you should not be prejudiced +against him.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt,” she said dryly. “But I do not understand why he +did not answer my letters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Did you write to him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Twice.” She was going to explain the circumstances, but she +refrained. Why appeal to the sympathies of one who seemed so cold, so distant, +so indifferent? +</p> + +<p> +“He cannot have had the letters,” Basset decided after a pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Then how did he come to write to me at last?” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord Audley sent your address to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” she said. “I supposed so.” With an air of +finality she turned to the window, and for some time she was silent. Her mind +had much upon which to work. +</p> + +<p> +She was silent for so long that before more was said they were running through +the outskirts of Birmingham, and Mary awoke with a shock to another and sadder +side of England. In place of parks and homesteads she saw the England of the +workers—workers at that time exploited to the utmost in pursuance of a +theory of economy that heeded only the wealth of nations, and placed on that +wealth the narrowest meaning. They passed across squalid streets, built in +haste to meet the needs of new factories, under tall chimneys the smoke of +which darkened the sky without hindrance, by vile courts, airless and almost +sunless. They looked down on sallow children whose only playground was the +street and whose only school-bell was the whistle that summoned them at dawn to +premature toil. Haggard women sat on doorsteps with puling babes in their arms. +Lines of men, whose pallor peered through the grime, propped the walls, or +gazed with apathy at the train. For a few minutes Mary forgot not only her own +hopes and fears, but the aloofness and even the presence of her companion. When +they came to a standstill in the station, where they had to change on to the +Grand Junction Railway, Basset had to speak twice before she understood that he +wished her to leave the carriage. +</p> + +<p> +“What a dreadful place!” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it is not beautiful,” Basset admitted. “One does not +look for beauty in Birmingham and the Black Country.” +</p> + +<p> +He got her some tea, and marshalled her carefully to the upper line. But his +answer had jarred upon her, and when they were again seated, Mary kept her +thoughts to herself. Beyond Birmingham their route skirted towns rather than +passed through them, but she saw enough to deepen the impression which the +lanes and alleys of that place had made upon her. The sun had set and the cold +evening light revealed in all their meanness the rows of naked cottages, the +heaps of slag and cinders, the starveling horses that stood with hanging heads +on the dreary lands. As darkness fell, fires shone out here and there, and +threw into Dantesque relief the dark forms of half-naked men toiling with fury +to feed the flames. The change which an hour had made in all she saw seemed +appalling to the girl; it filled her with awe and sadness. Here, so near the +paradise of the country and the plough, was the Inferno of the town, the forge, +the pit! Here, in place of the thatched cottage and the ruddy faces, were +squalor and sunken cheeks and misery and dearth. +</p> + +<p> +She thought of the question which Lord Audley had raised twenty-four hours +before, and which he had told her was racking the minds of men—should +food be taxed? And she fancied that there was, there could be, but one answer. +These toiling masses, these slaves of the hammer and the pick, must be fed, +and, surely, so fed that a margin, however small, however meagre, might be +saved out of which to better their sordid lot. +</p> + +<p> +“We call this the Black Country,” Basset explained, feeling the +silence irksome. After all, she was in his charge, in a way she was his guest. +He ought to amuse her. +</p> + +<p> +“It is well named,” she answered. “Is there anything in +England worse than this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, round Hales Owen and Dudley,” he rejoined, “it may be +worse. And at Cradley Heath it may be rougher. More women and children are +employed in the pits; and where women make chains—well, it’s pretty +bad.” +</p> + +<p> +She had spoken dryly to hide her feelings. He replied in a tone as +matter-of-fact, through lack of feeling. For this he was not so much to blame +as she fancied, for that which horrified her was to him an everyday matter, one +of the facts of life with which he had been familiar from boyhood. But she did +not understand this. She judged him and condemned him. She did not speak again. +</p> + +<p> +By and by, “We shall be at Penkridge in twenty minutes,” he said. +“After that a nine-miles drive will take us to the Gatehouse, and your +journey will be over. But I fear that you will find the life quiet after +Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was very quiet in Paris.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you were in a large house.” +</p> + +<p> +“I was at the Princess Czartoriski’s.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. I suppose it was there that you met Lord Audley?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, after that kind of life, I am afraid that the Gatehouse will have +few charms for you. It is very remote, very lonely.” +</p> + +<p> +She cut him short with impatience, the color rising to her face. “I +thought you understood,” she said, “that I was in the +Princess’s house as a governess? It was my business to take care of a +number of children, to eat with them, to sleep with them, to see that they +washed their hands and kept their hair clean. That was my position, Mr. Basset. +I do not wish it to be misunderstood.” +</p> + +<p> +“But if that were so,” he stammered, “how did +you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Meet Lord Audley,” she replied. “Very simply. Once or twice +the Princess ordered me to descend to the salon to interpret. On one of these +occasions Lord Audley saw me and learned—who I was.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed,” he said. “I see.” Perhaps he had had it in +his mind to test her and the truth of Audley’s letter, which nothing in +her or in my lord’s conduct seemed to confirm. He did not know if this +had been in his mind, but in any case the result silenced him. She was either +very honest or very clever. Many girls, he knew, would have slurred over the +facts, and not a few would have boasted of the Princess’s friendship and +the Princess’s society, and the Princess’s hôtel, and brought up +her name a dozen times a day. +</p> + +<p> +She is very clever, he thought, or she is—good. But for the moment he +steeled himself against the latter opinion. +</p> + +<p> +No other travellers alighted at Penkridge, and he went away to claim the +baggage, while she waited, cold and depressed, on the little platform which, +lit by a single oil lamp, looked down on a dim churchyard. Dusk was passing +into night, and the wind, sweeping across the flat, whipped her skirts and +chilled her blood. Her courage sank. A light or two betrayed the nearness of +the town, but in every other direction dull lines of willows or pale stretches +of water ran into the night. +</p> + +<p> +Five minutes before she had resented Basset’s company, now she was glad +to see him return. He led the way to the road in silence. “The carriage +is late,” he muttered, but even as he spoke the quick tramp of a pair of +horses pushed to speed broke on them, lights appeared, a moment later a fly +pulled up beside them and turned. “You are late,” Basset said. +</p> + +<p> +“There!” the man replied. “Minutes might be guineas since +trains came in, dang ’em! Give me the days when five minutes made neither +man nor mouse, and gentry kept their own time.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, let us get off now.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ask no better, Squire. Please yourself and you’ll please +me.” +</p> + +<p> +When they were shut in, Basset laughed. “Stafford manners!” he +said. “You’ll become used to them!” +</p> + +<p> +“Is this my uncle’s carriage?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he replied, smiling in the darkness. “He does not keep +one.” +</p> + +<p> +She said no more. Though she could not see him, her shoulder touched his, and +his nearness and the darkness in which they sat troubled her, though she was +not timid. They rode thus for a minute or two, then trundled through a narrow +street, dimly lit by shop windows; again they were in the dark and the country. +Presently the pace dropped to a walk as they began to ascend. +</p> + +<p> +She fancied, peering out on her side, that they were winding up through woods. +Branches swept the sides of the carriage. They jolted into ruts and jolted out +of them. By and by they were clear of the trees and the road seemed to be +better. The moon, newly risen, showed her a dreary upland, bare and endless, +here dotted with the dark stumps of trees, there of a deeper black as if fire +had swept over it and scarred it. They met no one, saw no sign of habitation. +To the girl, accustomed all her life to streets and towns, the place seemed +infinitely desolate—a place of solitude and witches and terror and +midnight murder. +</p> + +<p> +“What is this?” she asked, shivering. +</p> + +<p> +“This is the Great Chase,” he said. “Riddsley, on the farther +side, is our nearest town, but since the railway was opened we use Penkridge +Station.” +</p> + +<p> +His practical tone steadied her, but she was tired, and the loneliness which +she had felt while she waited on the bleak platform weighed heavily on her. To +what was she going? How would her uncle receive her? This dreary landscape, the +gaunt signpost that looked like a gibbet and might have been one, the skeleton +trees that raised bare arms to heaven, the scream of a dying rabbit, all added +to the depression of the moment. She was glad when at last the carriage stopped +at a gate. Basset alighted and opened the gate. He stepped in again, they went +on. There were now shadowy trees about them, sparsely set. They jolted unevenly +over turf. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we there?” she asked, a tremor in her voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Very nearly,” he said. “Another mile and we shall be there. +This is Beaudelays Park.” +</p> + +<p> +She called pride to her aid, and he did not guess—for all day he had +marked her self-possession—that she was trembling. Vainly she told +herself that she was foolish, that nothing could happen to her, nothing that +mattered. What, after all, was a cold reception, what was her uncle’s +frown beside the poverty and the hazards from which she had escaped? Vainly she +reassured herself; she could not still the rapid beating of her heart. +</p> + +<p> +He might have said a word to cheer her. But he did not know that she was +suffering, and he said no word. She came near to hating him for his stolidity +and his silence. He was inhuman! A block! +</p> + +<p> +She peered through the misty glass, striving to see what was before them. But +she could make out no more than the dark limbs of trees, and now and then a +trunk, which shone as the light of the lamp slipped over it, and as quickly +vanished. Suddenly they shot from turf to hard road, passed through an open +gateway, for an instant the lamp on her side showed a grotesque +pillar—they wheeled, they stopped. Within a few feet of her a door stood +open, and in the doorway a girl held a lantern aloft in one hand, and with the +other screened her eyes from the light. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII<br/> +MR. JOHN AUDLEY</h2> + +<p> +An hour later Basset was seated on one side of a wide hearth, on the other John +Audley faced him. The library in which they sat was the room which Basset loved +best in the world. It was a room of silence and large spaces, and except where +four windows, tall and narrow, broke one wall, it was lined high with the +companions of silence—books. The ceiling was of black oak, adorned at the +crossings of the joists and beams with emblems, butterflies, and Stafford knots +and the like, once bright with color, and still soberly rich. A five-sided bay +enlarged each of the two inner corners of the room and broke the outlines. One +of these bays shrined a window, four-mullioned, the other a spiral staircase. +An air of comfort and stateliness pervaded the whole; here the great scutcheon +over the mantel, there the smaller coats on the chair-backs blended their or +and gules with the hues of old rugs and the dun bindings of old folios. There +were books on the four or five tables, and books on the Cromwell chairs; and +charts and deeds, antique weapons and silver pieces, all the tools and toys of +the antiquary, lay broadcast. Against the door hung a blazoned pedigree of the +Audleys of Beaudelays. It was six feet long and dull with age. +</p> + +<p> +But Basset, as he faced his companion, was not thinking of the room, or of the +pursuits with which it was connected in his mind, and which, more than +affection and habit, bound him to John Audley. He moved restlessly in his +chair, then stretched his legs to meet the glow of the wood fire. “All +the same,” he said, “I think you would have done well to see her +to-night, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pooh! pooh!” John Audley answered with lazy good humor. +“Why? It doesn’t matter what I think of her or she thinks of me. +It’s what Peter thinks of Mary and Mary thinks of Peter that matters. +That’s what matters!” He chuckled as he marked the other’s +annoyance. “She is a beauty, is she?” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t say so.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you think it. You don’t deceive me at this time of day. And +stand-off, is she? That’s for the marines and innocent young fellows like +you who think women angels. I’ll be bound that she’s her +mother’s daughter, and knows her value and will see that she fetches it! +Trading blood will out!” +</p> + +<p> +To the eye that looked and glanced away John Audley, lolling in his chair, in a +quilted dressing-gown with silk facings, was a plump and pleasant figure. His +face was fresh-colored, and would have been comely if the cheeks had not been a +little pendulous. His hair was fine and white and he wore it long, and his +hands were shapely and well cared for. As he said his last word he poured a +little brandy into a glass and filled it up with water. “Here’s to +the wooing that’s not long adoing!” he said, his eyes twinkling. He +seemed to take a pleasure in annoying the other. +</p> + +<p> +He was so far successful that Basset swore softly. “It’s silly to +talk like that,” he said, “when I have hardly known the girl +twenty-four hours and have scarcely said ten times as many words to her.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you’re going to say a good many more words to her!” +Audley retorted, grinning. “Sweet, pretty words, my boy! But there, +there,” he continued, veering between an elfish desire to tease and a +desire equally strong to bring the other to his way of thinking. +“I’m only joking. I know you’ll never let that devil have his +way! You’ll never leave the course open for <i>him!</i> I know that. But +there’s no hurry! There’s no hurry. Though, lord, how I sweated +when I read his letter! I had never a wink of sleep the night after.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t suppose that he’s given a thought to her in that +way,” Basset answered. “Why should he?” +</p> + +<p> +John Audley leant forward, and his face underwent a remarkable change. It +became a pale, heavy mask, out of which his eyes gleamed, small and malevolent. +“Don’t talk like a fool!” he said harshly. “Of course +he means it. And if she’s fool enough all my plans, all my pains, all my +rights—and once you come to your senses and help me I shall have my +rights—all, all, all will go for nothing. For nothing!” He sank +back in his chair. “There! now you’ve excited me. You’ve +excited me, and you know that I can’t bear excitement!” His hand +groped feebly for his glass, and he raised it to his lips. He gasped once or +twice. The color came back to his face. +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry,” Basset said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay. But be a good lad. Be a good lad. Make up your mind to help me +at the Great House.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset shook his head. +</p> + +<p> +“To help me, and twenty-four hours—only twenty-four hours, +man—may make all the difference! All the difference in the world to +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have told you my views about it,” Basset said doggedly. He +shifted uneasily in his chair. “I cannot do it, sir, and I +won’t.” +</p> + +<p> +John Audley groaned. “Well, well!” he answered. “I’ll +say no more now. I’ll say no more now. When you and she have made it +up”—in vain Basset shook his head—“you’ll see the +question in another light. Ay, believe me, you will. It’ll be your +business then, and your interest, and nothing venture, nothing win! +You’ll see it differently. You’ll help the old man to his rights +then.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset shrugged his shoulders, but thought it useless to protest. The other +sighed once or twice and was silent also. At length, “You never told me +that you had heard from her,” Basset said. +</p> + +<p> +“That I’d——” John Audley broke off. “What +is it, Toft?” he asked over his shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +A man-servant, tall, thin, lantern-jawed, had entered unseen. “I came to +see if you wanted anything more, sir?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, nothing, Toft. Good-night!” He spoke impatiently, and he +watched the man out before he went on. Then, “Perhaps I heard from her, +perhaps I didn’t,” he said. “It’s some time ago. What +of it?” +</p> + +<p> +“She was in great distress when she wrote.” +</p> + +<p> +John Audley raised his eyebrows. “What of it!” he repeated. +“She was that woman’s daughter. When Peter married a +tradesman’s daughter—married a——” He did not +continue. His thoughts trickled away into silence. The matter was not worthy of +his attention. +</p> + +<p> +But by and by he roused himself. “You’ve ridiculous +scruples,” he said. “Absurd scruples. But,” briskly, +“there’s that much of good in this girl that I think she’ll +put an end to them. You must brighten up, my lad, and spark it a little! +You’re too grave.” +</p> + +<p> +“Damn!” said Basset. “For God’s sake, don’t begin +it all again. I’ve told you that I’ve not the least +intention——” +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll see to that if she’s what I think her,” John +Audley retorted cheerfully. “If she’s her mother’s daughter! +But very well, very well! We’ll change the subject. I’ve been +working at the Feathers—the Prince’s Feathers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you gone any farther?” Basset asked, forcing an interest +which would have been ready enough at another time. +</p> + +<p> +“I might have, but I had a visitor.” +</p> + +<p> +Visitors were rare at the Gatehouse, and Basset wondered. “Who was +it?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Bagenal the maltster from Riddsley. He came about some political +rubbish. Some trouble they are having with Mottisfont. D—n Mottisfont! +What do I care about him? They think he isn’t running straight—that +he’s going in for corn-law repeal. And Bagenal and the other fools think +that that will be the ruin of the town.” +</p> + +<p> +“But Mottisfont is a Tory,” Basset objected. +</p> + +<p> +“So is Peel. They are both in Bagenal’s bad books. Bagenal is sure +that Peel is going back to the cotton people he came from. Spinning Jenny +spinning round again!” +</p> + +<p> +“I see.” +</p> + +<p> +“I asked him,” Audley continued, rubbing his knees with sly +enjoyment, “what Stubbs the lawyer was doing about it. He’s the +party manager. Why didn’t he come to me?” +</p> + +<p> +Basset smiled. “What did he say to that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hummed and hawed. At last he said that owing to Stubbs’s +connection with—you know who—it was thought that he was not the +right person to come to me. So I asked him what Stubbs’s employer was +going to do about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +“He didn’t know what to say to that, the ass! Thought I should go +the other way, you see. So I told him”—John Audley laughed +maliciously as he spoke—“that, for the landed interest, the law had +taken away my land, and, for politics, I would not give a d—n for either +party in a country where men did not get their rights! Lord! how he +looked!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you didn’t hide your feelings.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should I?” John Audley asked cheerfully. “What will they +do for me? Nothing. Will they move a finger to right me? No. Then a plague on +both their houses!” He snapped his fingers in schoolboy fashion and rose +to his feet. He lit a candle, taking a light from the fire with a spill. +“I am going to bed now, Peter. Unless——” he paused, the +candlestick in his hand, and gazed fixedly at his companion. “Lord, man, +what we could do in two or three hours! In two or three hours. This very +night!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve told you that I will have nothing to do with it!” +Basset repeated. +</p> + +<p> +John Audley sighed, and removing his eyes, poked the wick of the candle with +the snuffers. “Well,” he said, “good-night. We must look to +bright eyes and red lips to convert you. What a man won’t do for another +he will do for himself, Peter. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +Left alone, Basset stared fretfully at the fire. It was not the first time by +scores that John Audley had tried him and driven him almost beyond bearing. But +habit is a strong tie, and a common taste is a bond even stronger. In this +room, and from the elder man, Basset had learned to trace a genealogy, to read +a coat, to know a bar from a bend, to discourse of badges and collars under the +guidance of the learned Anstie or the ingenious Le Neve. There he had spent +hours flitting from book to book and chart to chart in the pursuit, as +thrilling while it lasted as any fox-chase, of some family link, the origin of +this, the end of that, a thing of value only to those who sought it, but to +them all-important. He could recall many a day so spent while rain lashed the +tall mullioned windows or sunlight flooded the window-seat in the bay; and +these days had endeared to him every nook in the library from the folio shelves +in the shadowy corner under the staircase to the cosey table near the hearth +which was called “Mr. Basset’s,” and enshrined in a long +drawer a tree of the Bassets of Blore. +</p> + +<p> +For he as well as Audley came of an ancient and shrunken stock. He also could +count among his forbears men who had fought at Blore Heath and Towton, or had +escaped by a neck from the ruin of the Gunpowder Plot. So he had fallen early +under the spell of the elder man’s pursuits, and, still young, had +learned from him to live in the past. Later the romantic solitude of the +Gatehouse, where he had spent more of the last six years than in his own house +at Blore, had confirmed him in the habit. +</p> + +<p> +Under the surface, however, the two men remained singularly unlike. While a +fixed idea had narrowed John Audley’s vision to the inhuman, the younger +man, under a dry and reserved exterior—he was shy, and his undrained +acres, his twelve hundred a year, poorly supported an ancient name—was +not only human, but in his way was something of an idealist. He dreamed dreams, +he had his secret aspirations, at times ambition of the higher kind stirred in +him, he planned plans and another life than this. But always—this was a +thing inbred in him—he put forward the commonplace, as the cuttle-fish +sheds ink, and hid nothing so shyly as the visions which he had done nothing to +make real. On those about him he made no deep impression, though from one +border of Staffordshire to the other his birth won respect. Politics viewed as +a game, and a selfish game, had no attraction for him. Quarter Sessions and the +Bench struck no spark from him. At the Races and the County Ball richer men +outshone him. But given something to touch his heart and fire his ambition, he +had qualities. He might still show himself in another light. +</p> + +<p> +Something of this, for no reason that he could imagine, some feeling of regret +for past opportunities, passed through his mind as he sat fretting over John +Audley’s folly. But after a time he roused himself and became aware that +he was tired; and he rose and lit a candle. He pushed back the smouldering logs +and slowly and methodically he put out the lights. He gave a last thought to +John Audley. “There was always one maggot in his head,” he +muttered, “now there’s a second. What I would not do to please him, +he thinks I shall do to please another! Well, he does not know her yet!” +</p> + +<p> +He went to bed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII<br/> +THE GATEHOUSE</h2> + +<p> +It is within the bounds of imagination that death may make no greater change in +our inner selves than is wrought at times by a new mood or another outlook. +When Mary, an hour before the world was astir on the morning after her arrival, +let herself out of the Gatehouse, and from its threshold as from a ledge saw +the broad valley of the Trent stretched before her in all the beauty of a May +morning, her alarm of the past night seemed incredible. At her feet a sharp +slope, clothed in gorse and shrub, fell away to meet the plain. It sank no more +than a couple of hundred feet, but this was enough to enable her to follow the +silver streak of the river winding afar between park and coppice and under many +a church tower. Away to the right she could see the three graceful spires of +Lichfield, and southward, where an opal haze closed the prospect, she could +imagine the fringe of the Black Country, made beautiful by distance. +</p> + +<p> +In sober fact few parts of England are less inviting than the low lands of +Staffordshire, when the spring floods cover them or the fogs of autumn cling to +the cold soil. But in spring, when larks soar above them and tall, lop-sided +elms outline the fields, they have their beauty; and Mary gazed long at the +fair prospect before she turned her back on it and looked at the house that was +fated to be her home. +</p> + +<p> +It was what its name signified, a gatehouse; yet by turns it could be a sombre +and a charming thing. Some Audley of noble ideas, a man long dead, had built it +to be the entrance to his demesne. The park wall, overhung by trees, still ran +right and left from it, but the road which had once passed through the archway +now slid humbly aside and entered the park by a field gate. A wide-latticed +Tudor tower, rising two stories above the arch and turreted at the four +corners, formed the middle. It was buttressed on either hand by a lower +building, flush with it and of about the same width. The tower was of yellowish +stone, the wings were faced with stained stucco. Right and left of the whole a +plot of shrubs masked on the one hand the stables, on the other the +kitchens—modern blocks set back to such a distance that each touched the +old part at a corner only. +</p> + +<p> +He who had planned the building had set it cunningly on the brow of the Great +Chase, so that, viewed from the vale, it rose against the skyline. On dark days +it broke the fringe of woodland and stood up, gloomy and forbidding, the portal +of a Doubting Castle. On bright days, with its hundred diamond panes a-glitter +in the sunshine, it seemed to be the porch of a fairy palace, the silent home +of some Sleeping Beauty. At all times it imposed itself upon men below and +spoke of something beyond, something unseen, greater, mysterious. +</p> + +<p> +To Mary Audley, who saw it at its best, the very stains of the plaster +glorified by the morning light, it was a thing of joy. She fancied that to live +behind those ancient mullioned windows, to look out morning and evening on that +spacious landscape, to feel the bustle of the world so remote, must in itself +be happiness. For a time she could not turn from it. +</p> + +<p> +But presently the desire to explore her new surroundings seized her and she +re-entered the house. A glance at the groined roof of the hall—many a +gallant horseman had ridden under it in his time—proved that it was +merely the archway closed and fitted with a small door and window at either +end. She unlocked the farther door and passed into a paved court, in which the +grass grew between the worn flags. In the stables on the left a dog whined. The +kitchens were on the other hand, and before her an opening flanked by tall +heraldic beasts broke a low wall, built of moss-grown brick. She ventured +through it and uttered a cry of delight. +</p> + +<p> +Near at hand, under cover of a vast chestnut tree, were traces of domestic +labor: a grindstone, a saw-pit, a woodpile, coops with clucking hens. But +beyond these the sward, faintly lined at first with ruts, stretched away into +forest glades, bordered here by giant oaks brown in bud, there by the +yellowish-green of beech trees. In the foreground lay patches of gorse, and in +places an ancient thorn, riven and half prostrate, crowned the russet of last +year’s bracken with a splash of cream. Heedless of the spectator, rabbits +sat making their toilet, and from every brake birds filled the air with a riot +of song. +</p> + +<p> +To one who had seen little but the streets of Paris, more sordid then than now, +the scene was charming. Mary’s eyes filled, her heart swelled. Ah, what a +home was here! She had espied on her journey many a nook and sheltered dell, +but nothing that could vie with this! Heedless of her thin shoes, with no more +than a handkerchief on her head, she strayed on and on. By and by a track, +faintly marked, led her to the left. A little farther, and old trees fell into +line on either hand, as if in days long gone, before age thinned their ranks, +they had formed an avenue. +</p> + +<p> +For a time she sat musing on a fallen trunk, then the hawthorn that a few paces +away perfumed the spring air moved her to gather an armful of it. She forgot +that time was passing, almost she forgot that she had not breakfasted, and she +might have been nearly a mile from the Gatehouse when she was startled by a +faint hail that seemed to come from behind her. She looked back and saw Basset +coming after her. +</p> + +<p> +He, too, was hatless—he had set off in haste—and he was out of +breath. She turned with concern to meet him. “Am I very late, Mr. +Basset?” she asked, her conscience pricking her. What if this first +morning she had broken the rules? +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no,” he said. And then, “You’ve not been farther +than this?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. I am afraid my uncle is waiting?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no. He breakfasts in his own room. But Etruria told me that you had +gone this way, and I followed. I see that you are not empty-handed.” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” And she thrust the great bunch of may under his +nose—who would not have been gay, who would not have lost her reserve in +such a scene, on such a morning? “Isn’t it fresh? Isn’t it +delicious?” +</p> + +<p> +As he stooped to the flowers his eyes met hers smiling through the hawthorn +sprays, and he saw her as he had not seen her before. Her gravity had left her. +Spring laughed in her eyes, youth fluttered in the tendrils of her hair, she +was the soul of May. And what she had found of beauty in the woodland, of music +in the larks’ songs, of perfume in the blossoms, of freshness in the +morning, the man found in her; and a shock, never to be forgotten, ran through +him. He did not speak. He smelled the hawthorn in silence. +</p> + +<p> +But a few seconds later—as men reckon time—he took note of his +feelings, and he was startled. He had not been prepared to like her, we know; +many things had armed him against her. But before the witchery of her morning +face, the challenge of her laughing eyes, he awoke to the fact that he was in +danger. He had to own that if he must live beside her day by day and would +maintain his indifference, he must steel himself. He must keep his first +impressions of her always before him, and be careful. And be very +careful—if even that might avail. +</p> + +<p> +For a hundred paces he walked at her side, listening without knowing what she +said. Then his coolness returned, and when she asked him why he had come after +her without his hat he was ready. +</p> + +<p> +“I had better tell you,” he answered, “this path is little +used. It leads to the Great House, and your uncle, owing to his quarrel with +Lord Audley, does not like any one to go farther in that direction than the Yew +Tree Walk. You can see the Walk from here—the yews mark the entrance to +the gardens. I thought that it would be unfortunate if you began by displeasing +him, and I came after you.” +</p> + +<p> +“It was very good of you,” she said. Her face was not gay now. +“Does Lord Audley live there—when he is at home?” +</p> + +<p> +“No one lives there,” he explained soberly. “No one has lived +there for three generations. It’s a ruin—I was going to say, a +nightmare. The greater part of the house was burnt down in a carouse held to +celebrate the accession of George the Third. The Audley of that day rebuilt it +on a great scale, but before it was finished he gave a housewarming, at which +his only son quarrelled with a guest. The two fought at daybreak, and the son +was killed beside the old Butterfly in the Yew Walk—you will see the spot +some day. The father sent away the builders and never looked up again. He +diverted much of his property, and a cousin came into the remainder and the +title, but the house was never finished, the windows in the new part were never +glazed. In the old part some furniture and tapestry decay; in the new are only +bats and dust and owls. So it has stood for eighty years, vacant in the midst +of neglected gardens. In the sunlight it is one of the most dreary things you +can imagine. By moonlight it is better, but unspeakably melancholy.” +</p> + +<p> +“How dreadful,” she said in a low voice. “I almost wish, Mr. +Basset, that you had not told me. They say in France that if you see the dead +without touching them, you dream of them. I feel like that about the +house.” +</p> + +<p> +It crossed his mind that she was talking for effect. “It is only a house +after all,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“But our house,” with a touch of pride. Then, “What are +those?” she asked, pointing to the gray shapeless beasts, time-worn and +weather-stained, that flanked the entrance to the courtyard. +</p> + +<p> +“They are, or once were, Butterflies, the badge of the Audleys. These +hold shields. You will see the Butterflies in many places in the Gatehouse. You +will find them with men’s faces and sometimes with a fret on the wings. +Your uncle says that they are not butterflies, but moths, that have eaten the +Audley fortunes.” +</p> + +<p> +It was a thought that matched the picture he had drawn of the deserted house, +and Mary felt that the morning had lost its brightness. But not for long. +Basset led her into a room on the right of the hall, and the sight drew from +her a cry of pleasure. On three sides the dark wainscot rose eight feet from +the floor; above, the walls were whitewashed to the ceiling and broken by dim +portraits, on stretchers and without frames. On the fourth side where the +panelling divided the room from a serving-room, once part of it, it rose to the +ceiling. The stone hearth, the iron dogs, the matted floor, the heavy chairs +and oak table, all were dark and plain and increased the austerity of the room. +</p> + +<p> +At the end of the table places were laid for three, and Toft, who had set on +the breakfast, was fixing the kettle amid the burning logs. +</p> + +<p> +“Is Mr. Audley coming down?” Basset asked. +</p> + +<p> +“He bade me lay for him,” Toft replied dryly. “I doubt if he +will come. You had better begin, sir. The young lady,” with a searching +look at her, “must want her breakfast.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I do,” Mary confessed. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, we will begin,” Basset said. He invited her to make the tea. +</p> + +<p> +When they were seated, “You like the room?” +</p> + +<p> +“I love it,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“So do I,” he rejoined, more soberly. “The panelling is +linen—pattern of the fifteenth century—you see the folds? It was +saved from the old house. I am glad you like it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I love it,” she said again. But after that she grew thoughtful, +and during the rest of the meal she said little. She was thinking of what was +before her; of the unknown uncle, whose bread she was eating, and upon whom she +was going to be dependent. What would he be like? How would he receive her? And +why was every one so reticent about him—so reticent that he was beginning +to be something of an ogre to her? When Toft presently appeared and said that +Mr. Audley was in the library and would see her when she was ready, she lost +color. But she answered the man with self-possession, asked quietly where the +library was, and had not Basset’s eyes been on her face he would have had +no notion that she was troubled. +</p> + +<p> +As it was, he waited for her to avow her misgiving—he was prepared to +encourage her. But she said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +None the less, at the last moment, with her hand on the door of the library, +she hesitated. It was not so much fear of the unknown relative whom she was +going to see that drove the blood from her cheek, as the knowledge that for her +everything depended upon him. Her new home, its peace, its age, its woodland +surroundings, fascinated her. It promised her not only content, but happiness. +But as her stay in it hung upon John Audley’s will, so her pleasure in +it, and her enjoyment of it, depended upon the relations between them. What +would they be? How would he receive her? What would he be like? At last she +called up her courage, turned the handle, and entered the library. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment she saw no one. The great room, with its distances and its +harmonious litter, appeared to be empty. Then, “Mary, my dear,” +said a pleasant voice, “welcome to the Gatehouse!” And John Audley +rose from his seat at a distant table and came towards her. +</p> + +<p> +The notion which she had formed of him vanished in a twinkling, and with it her +fears. She saw before her an elderly gentleman, plump and kindly, who walked +with a short tripping step, and wore the swallow-tailed coat with gilt buttons +which the frock-coat had displaced. He took her hand with a smile, kissed her +on the forehead, and led her to a chair placed beside his own. He sat for a +moment holding her hand and looking at her. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I see the likeness,” he said, after a moment’s +contemplation. “But, my dear, how is this? There are tears in your eyes, +and you tremble.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think,” she said, “I was a little afraid of you, +sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you are not afraid now,” he replied cheerfully. “And +you won’t be again. You won’t be again. My dear, welcome once more +to the Gatehouse. I hope that it may be your home until another is offered you. +Things came between your father and me—I shall never mention them again, +and don’t you, my dear!”—this a little +hurriedly—“don’t you; all that is buried now, and I must make +it up to you. Your letters?” he continued, patting her hand. “Yes, +Peter told me that you wrote to me. I need not say that I never had them. No, +never had them—Toft, what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +The change in his voice struck her. The servant had come in quietly. “Mr. +Basset, sir, has lost——” +</p> + +<p> +“Another time!” John Audley replied curtly. “Another time! I +am engaged now. Go!” Then when the door had closed behind the servant, +“No, my dear,” he continued, “I need not say that I never had +them, so that I first heard of your troubles through a channel upon which I +will not dwell. However, many good things come by bad ways, Mary. I hope you +like the Gatehouse?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is charming!” she cried with enthusiasm. +</p> + +<p> +“It has only one drawback,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +She was clever enough to understand that he referred to its owner, and to +escape from the subject. “This room,” she said, “is +perfection. I have never seen anything like it, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a pleasant room,” he said, looking round him. “There +is our coat over the mantel, gules, a fret or; like all old coats, very simple. +Some think it is the Lacy Knot; the Audley of Edward the First’s time +married a Lacy. But we bore our old coat of three Butterflies later than that, +for before the fall of Roger Mortimer, who was hung at Tyburn, he married his +daughter to an Audley, and the escheaters found the wedding chamber in his +house furnished with our Butterflies. Later the Butterfly survived as our +badge. You see it there!” he continued, pointing it out among the +mouldings of the ceiling. “There is the Stafford Knot, the badge of the +great Dukes of Buckingham, the noblest of English families; it is said that the +last of the line, a cobbler, died at Newport, not twenty miles from here. We +intermarried with them, and through them with Peter’s people, the +Bassets. That is the Lovel Wolf, and there is the White Wolf of the +Mortimers—all badges. But you do not know, I suppose, what a badge +is?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid not,” she said, smiling. “But I am as proud of +our Butterfly, and as proud to be an Audley, sir, as if I knew more.” +</p> + +<p> +“Peter must give you some lessons in heraldry,” he answered. +“We live in the past here, my dear, and we must indoctrinate you with a +love of our pursuits or you will be dull.” He paused to consider. +“I am afraid that we cannot allot you a drawing-room, but you must make +your room upstairs as comfortable as you can. Etruria will see to that. And +Peter shall arrange a table for you in the south bay here, and it shall be your +table and your bay. That is his table; this is mine. We are orderly, and so we +do not get in one another’s way.” +</p> + +<p> +She thanked him gratefully, and with tears in her eyes, she said something to +which he would not listen—he only patted her hand—as to his +kindness, his great kindness, in receiving her. She could not, indeed, put her +relief into words, so deep was it. Nowhere, she felt, could life be more +peaceful or more calm than in this room which no sounds of the outer world +except the songs of birds, no sights save the swaying of branches disturbed; +where the blazoned panes cast their azure and argent on lines of russet books, +where an aged hound sprawled before the embers, and the measured tick of the +clock alone vied with the scratching of the pen. She saw herself seated there +during drowsy summer days, or when firelight cheered the winter evenings. She +saw herself sewing beside the hearth while her companions worked, each within +his circle of light. +</p> + +<p> +Then, she also was an Audley. She also had her share in the race which had +lived long on this spot. Already she was fired with the desire to know more of +them, and that flame John Audley was well fitted to fan. For he was not of the +school of dry-as-dust antiquaries. He had the knack of choosing the picturesque +in story, he could make it stand out for others, he could impart life to the +actors in it. And, anxious to captivate Mary, he bent himself for nearly an +hour to the display of his knowledge. Taking for his text one or other of the +objects about him, he told her of great castles, from which England had been +ruled, and through which the choicest life of the country had passed, that now +were piles of sherds clothed with nettles. He told her of that woodland country +on the borders of three counties, where the papists had long lived undisturbed +and where the Gunpowder Plot had had its centre. He told her of the fashion +which came in with Richard the Second, of adorning the clothes with initials, +reading and writing having become for the first time courtly accomplishments; +and to illustrate this he showed her the Westminster portrait of Richard in a +robe embroidered with letters of R. He quoted Chaucer: +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +And thereon hung a broch of gold ful schene<br/> +On which was first i-written a crowned A<br/> +And after that, Amor vincit omnia. +</p> +</div> + +<p> +Then, turning his back on her, he produced from some secret place a key, and +opening a masked cupboard in the wall, he held out for her inspection a small +bowl, bent and mis-shapen by use, and supported by two fragile butterflies. The +whole was of silver so thin that to modern eyes it seemed trivial. Traces of +gilding lingered about some parts of it, and on each of the wings of the +butterflies was a capital A. +</p> + +<p> +She was charmed. “Of all your illustrations,” she cried, “I +prefer this one! It is very old, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is of the fifteenth century,” he said, turning it about. +“We believe that it was made for the Audley who fell early in the Wars of +the Roses. Pages and knights, maids and matrons, gloves of silk and gloves of +mail, wrinkled palms and babies’ fingers, the men, the women, the +children of twelve generations of our race, my dear, have handled this. Once, +according to an old inventory, there were six; this one alone remains.” +</p> + +<p> +“It must be very rare?” she said, her eyes sparkling. +</p> + +<p> +“It is very rare,” he said, and he handled it as if he loved it. He +had not once allowed it to go out of his fingers. “Very rare. I doubt if, +apart from the City Companies, there is another in the hands of the original +owners.” +</p> + +<p> +“And it came to you by descent, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +He paused in the act of returning it to its hiding-place. “Yes, that is +how it came to me,” he said in a muffled tone. But he seemed to be a long +time putting it away; and when he turned with the key in his hand his face was +altered, and he looked at her—well, had she done anything to anger him, +she would have thought he was angry. “To whom besides me could it +descend!” he asked, his voice raised a tone. “But there, I must not +grow excited. I think—I think you had better go now. Go, my dear, now. +But come back presently.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary went. But the change in tone and face had been such as to startle her and +to dash the happy mood of a few moments earlier. She wondered what she had said +to annoy him. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX<br/> +OLD THINGS</h2> + +<p> +The Gatehouse, placed on the verge of the upland, was very solitary. Cut off +from the vale by an ascent which the coachmen of the great deemed too rough for +their horses, it was isolated on the other three sides by Beaudelays Park and +by the Great Chase, which flung its barren moors over many miles of table-land. +In the course of the famous suit John Audley had added to the solitude of the +house by a smiling aloofness which gave no quarter to those who agreed with his +rival. The result was that when Mary came to live there, few young people would +have found the Gatehouse a lively abode. +</p> + +<p> +But to Mary during the quiet weeks that followed her arrival it seemed a +paradise. She spent long hours in the open air, now seated on a fallen trunk in +some glade of the park, now watching the squirrels in the clear gloom of the +beech-wood, or again, lying at length on the carpet of thyme and heather that +clothed the moor. She came to know by heart every path through the +park—except that which led to the Great House; she discovered where the +foxgloves clustered, where the meadow-sweet fringed the runlet, where the rare +bog-bean warned the traveller to look to his footing. Even the Great Chase she +came to know, and almost daily she walked to a point beyond the park whence she +could see the distant smoke of a mining village. That was the one sign of life +on the Chase; elsewhere it stretched vast and unpeopled, sombre under a livid +sky, smiling in sunshine, here purple with ling, there scarred by +fire—always wide under a wide heaven, raised high above the common world. +Now and again she met a shepherd or saw a gig, lessened by distance, making its +slow way along a moorland track. But for days together she might wander there +without seeing a human being. +</p> + +<p> +The wide horizon became as dear to her as the greenwood. Pent as she had been +in cities, straitened in mean rooms where sight and smell had alike been +outraged, she revelled in this sweet and open life. The hum of bees, the scent +of pines, the flight of the ousel down the water, the whistle of the curlew, +all were to her pleasures as vivid as they were new. +</p> + +<p> +Meantime Basset made no attempt to share her excursions. He was fighting a +battle with himself, and he knew better than to go out of his way to aid the +enemy. And for her part she did not miss him. She did not dislike him, but the +interest he excited in her was feeble. The thought of comparing him with Lord +Audley, with the man to whose intervention she owed this home, this peace, this +content, never occurred to her. Of Audley she did think as much perhaps as was +prudent, sometimes with pensive gratitude, more rarely with a smile and a blush +at her folly in dwelling on him. For always she thought of him as one, high and +remote, whom it was not probable that she would ever see again, one whose +course through life lay far from hers. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, it is not to be denied, Basset began to grow upon her. He was there. +He was part of her life. Morning and evening she had to do with him. Often she +read or sewed in the same room with him, and in many small ways he added to her +comfort. Sometimes he suggested things which would please her uncle; sometimes +he warned her of things which she would do well to avoid. Once or twice he +diverted to himself a spirt of John Audley’s uncertain temper; and though +Mary did not always detect the manœuvre, though she was far from +suspecting the extent of his vigilance or the care which he cast about her, it +would have been odd if she had not come to think more kindly of him, and to see +merits in him which had escaped her at first. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile he thought of her with mingled feelings. At first with doubt—it +was never out of his mind that she had made much of Lord Audley and little of +him. Then with admiration which he withstood more feebly as time went on, and +the cloven hoof failed to appear. Later, with tenderness, which, hating the +scheme John Audley had formed, he masked even from himself, and which he was +sure that he would never have the courage to express in her presence. +</p> + +<p> +For Basset was conscious that, aspire as he might, he was not a hero. The clash +of life, the shock of battle, had no attraction for him. The library at the +Gatehouse was, he owned it frankly, his true sphere. She, on the other hand, +had had experiences. She had sailed through unknown seas, she had led a life +strange to him. She had seen much, done much, suffered much, had held her own +among strangers. Before her calmness and self-possession he humbled himself. He +veiled his head. +</p> + +<p> +He did not attempt, therefore, to accompany her abroad, but at home he had no +choice save to see much of her. There was only one living room for all, and she +glided with surprising ease into the current of the men’s occupations. At +first she was astray on the sea of books. Her knowledge was not sufficient to +supply chart or compass, and it fell to Basset to point the way, to choose her +reading, to set in a proper light John Audley’s vivid pictures of the +past, to teach her the elements of heraldry and genealogy. She proved, however, +an apt scholar, and very soon she dropped into the position of her +uncle’s secretary. Sometimes she copied his notes, at other times he set +her on the track of a fact, a relationship, a quotation, and she would spend +hours in a corner, embedded in huge tomes of the county histories. Dugdale, +Leland, Hall, even Polydore Vergil, became her friends. She pored over the +Paston Letters, probed the false pedigrees of Banks, and could soon work out +for herself the famous discovery respecting the last Lovel. +</p> + +<p> +For a young girl it was an odd pursuit. But the past was in the atmosphere of +the house, it went with the fortunes of a race whose importance lay in days +long gone. Then all was new to her, enthusiasm is easily caught, and Mary, +eager to please her uncle, was glad to be of use. She found the work restful +after the suspense of the past year. It sufficed for the present, and she asked +no more. +</p> + +<p> +She never forgot the lamplit evenings of that summer; the spacious room, the +fluttering of the moths that entered by the open windows, the flop of the old +dog as it sought a cooler spot, the whisper of leaves turned ceaselessly in the +pursuit of a fact or a fancy. In the retrospect all became less a picture than +a frame containing a past world, a fifteenth-century world of color and +movement, of rooms stifled in hangings and tapestries, of lines of spear-points +and rows of knights in surcoats, of tolling bells and praying monks, of +travellers kneeling before wayside shrines, of strange changes of fortune. For +says the chronicler: +</p> + +<p> +“I saw one of them, who was Duke of Exeter (but he concealed his name) +following the Duke of Burgundy’s train barefoot and bare-legged, begging +his bread from door to door—this person was the next of the House of +Lancaster and had married King Edward’s sister.” +</p> + +<p class="continue"> +And of dark sayings: +</p> + +<p> +“Thys sayde Edward, Duke of Somerset, had herde a fantastyk prophecy that +he sholde dy under a Castelle, wherefore he, as meche as in him was, he lete +the King that he sholde not come in the Castelle of Wynsore, dredynge the sayde +prophecy; but at Seint Albonys there was an hostelry havyng the sygne of a +Castelle, and before that hostelry he was slayne.” +</p> + +<p> +“His badge was a Portcullis,” her uncle said, when she read this to +him, “so it was natural that he should fall before a castle. He used the +Beanstalk, too, and if his name had been John, a pretty thing might have been +raised upon it. But you’re divagating, my dear,” he continued, +smiling—and seldom had Mary seen him in a better +humor—“you’re divagating, whereas I—I believe that I +have solved the problem of the Feathers.” +</p> + +<p> +“The Prince of Wales’s? No!” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so. Of course there is no truth in the story which traces them +to the blind King of Bohemia, killed at Crécy. His crest was two vulture +wings.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what of Arderne, who was the Prince’s surgeon?” Basset +objected. “He says clearly that the Prince gained it from the King of +Bohemia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all!” John Audley replied arrogantly—at this moment +he was an antiquary and nothing more. “Where is the Arderne extract? +Listen. ‘Edward, son of Edward the King, used to wear such a feather, and +gained that feather from the King of Bohemia, whom he slew at Crécy, and so +assumed to himself that feather which is called an ostrich feather which the +first-named most illustrious King, used to wear on his crest.’ Now who +was the first-named most illustrious King, who before that used to wear +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“The King of Bohemia.” +</p> + +<p> +“Rubbish! Arderne means his own King, ‘Edward the King.’ He +means that the Black Prince, after winning his spurs by his victory over the +Bohemian, took his father’s insignia. He had only been knighted six weeks +and waited to wear his father’s crest until he had earned it.” +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove, sir!” Basset exclaimed, “I believe you are +right!” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course I am! The evidence is all that way. The Black Prince’s +brothers wore it; surely not because their brother had done something, but +because it was their father’s crest, probably derived from their mother, +Philippa of Hainault? If you will look in the inventory of jewels made on the +usurpation of Henry the Fourth you will see this item, ‘A collar of the +livery of the Queen, on whom God have mercy, with an ostrich.’” +</p> + +<p> +“But that,” Basset interposed, “was Queen Anne of +Bohemia—she died seven years before. There you get Bohemia again!” +</p> + +<p> +“Compare this other entry,” replied the antiquary, unmoved: +“‘A collar of the livery of Queen Anne, of branches of +rosemary.’ Now either Queen Anne of Bohemia had two liveries—which +is unlikely—or the inventory made by order of Henry IV. quotes verbatim +from lists made during the lifetime of Queen Anne; if this be the case, the +last deceased Queen, on whom God have mercy, would be Philippa of Hainault; and +we have here a clear statement that her livery was an ostrich, of which ostrich +her husband wore a feather on his crest.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset clapped his hands. Mary beat applause on the table. +“Hurrah!” she cried. “Audley for ever!” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Audley,” Basset said, “Toft shall bring in hot water, +and we will have punch!” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Audley!” her uncle exclaimed, with a wrinkling nose. +“Why don’t you call her Mary? And why, child, don’t you call +him Peter?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary curtseyed. “Why not, my lord?” she said. “Peter it shall +be—Peter who keeps the keys that you discover!” +</p> + +<p> +And Peter laughed. But he saw that she used his name without a blush or a +tremor, whereas he knew that if he could force his lips to frame her name, the +word would betray him. For by this time, from his seat at his remote table, and +from the ambush of his book, he had watched her too often for his peace, and +too closely not to know that she was indifferent to him. He knew that at the +best she felt a liking for him, the growth of habit, and tinged, he feared, +with contempt. +</p> + +<p> +He was so far right that there were three persons in the house who had a larger +share of the girl’s thoughts than he had. The first was John Audley. He +puzzled her. There were times when she could not doubt his affection, times +when he seemed all that she could desire, kind, good-humored, frank, engaged +with the simplicity of a child in innocent pursuits, and without one thought +beyond them. But touch a certain spot, approach with steps ever so delicate a +certain subject—Lord Audley and his title—and his manner changed, +the very man changed, he became secretive, suspicious, menacing. Nor, however +quickly she might withdraw from the danger-line, could the harm be undone at +once. He would remain for hours gloomy and thoughtful, would eye her covertly +and with suspicion, would sit silent through meals, and at times mutter to +himself. More rarely he would turn on her with a face which rage made inhuman, +a face that she did not know, and with a shaking hand he would bid her +go—go, and leave the room! +</p> + +<p> +The first time that this happened she feared that he might follow up his words +by sending her away. But nothing ensued, then or later. For a while after each +outburst he would appear ill at ease. He would avoid her eyes, and look away +from her in a manner almost as unpleasant as his violence; later, in a +shamefaced way, he would tell her that she must not excite him, she must not +excite him, it was bad for him. And the man-servant meeting her in the hall, +would take the liberty of giving her the same advice. +</p> + +<p> +Toft, indeed, was the second who puzzled her. He was civil, with the civility +of the trained servant, but always there was in his manner a reserve. And she +fancied that he watched her. If she left the house and glanced back she was +certain to see his face at a window, or his figure in a doorway. Within doors +it was the same. He slept out, living with his wife in the kitchen wing, which +had a separate entrance from the courtyard. But he was everywhere at all hours. +Even his master appeared uneasy in his presence, and either broke off what he +was saying when the man entered, or continued the talk on another note. More +rarely he turned on Toft and without rhyme or reason would ask him harshly what +he wanted. +</p> + +<p> +The third person to share Mary’s thoughts, but after a more pleasant +fashion, was Toft’s daughter, Etruria. “I hope you will like her, +my dear,” John Audley had said. “She will give you such attendance +as you require, and will share the south wing with you at night. The two +bedrooms there are on a separate staircase. I sleep above the library in this +wing, and Peter in the tower room—we have our own staircase. I have +brought her into the house because I thought you might not like to sleep alone +in that wing.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary had thanked him, and had said how much she liked the girl. And she had +liked her, but for a time she had not understood her. Etruria was all that was +good and almost all that was beautiful. She was simple, kindly, helpful, having +the wide low brow, the placid eyes, and perfect complexion of a Quaker +girl—and to add to these attractions she was finely shaped, though rather +plump than slender; and she was incredibly neat. Nor could any Quaker girl have +been more gentle or more demure. +</p> + +<p> +But she might have had no tongue, she was so loth to use it; and a hundred +times Mary wondered what was behind that reticence. Sometimes she thought that +the girl was merely stupid. Sometimes she yoked her with her father in the +suspicions she entertained of him. More often, moved by the girl’s meek +eyes, she felt only a vague irritation. She was herself calm by nature, and +reserved by training, the last to gossip with a servant, even with one whose +refinement appeared innate. But Etruria’s dumbness was beyond her. +</p> + +<p> +One day in a research which she was making she fancied that she had hit on a +discovery. It happened that Etruria came into the room at the moment, and in +the fulness of her heart Mary told her of it. “Etruria,” she said, +“I’ve made a discovery all by myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“Something that no one has known for hundreds of years! Think of +that!” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, Miss.” +</p> + +<p> +Provoked, Mary took a new line. “Etruria,” she asked, “are +you happy?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl did not answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you hear me? I asked if you were happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am content, Miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did not ask that. Are you happy?” +</p> + +<p> +And then, moved on her side, perhaps, by an impulse towards confidence, Etruria +yielded. “I don’t think that we can any of us be happy, +Miss,” she said, “with so much sorrow about us.” +</p> + +<p> +“You strange girl!” Mary cried, taken aback. “What do you +mean?” +</p> + +<p> +But Etruria was silent. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” Mary insisted. “You must tell me what you +mean.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Miss,” the girl answered reluctantly, “I’m sad +and loth to think of all the suffering in the world. It’s natural that +you should not think of it, but I’m of the people, and I’m sad for +them.” +</p> + +<p> +Balaam when the ass spoke was scarcely more surprised than Mary. +“Why?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +The girl pointed to the open window. “We’ve all we could ask, +Miss—light and air and birds’ songs and sunshine. We’ve all +we need, and more. But I come of those who have neither light nor air, nor +songs nor sunshine, who’ve no milk for children nor food for mothers! +Who, if they’ve work, work every hour of the day in dust and noise and +heat. Who are half clemmed from year’s end to year’s end, and see +no close to it, no hope, no finish but the pauper’s deals! It’s for +them I’m sad, Miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“Etruria!” +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve no teachers and no time to care,” Etruria continued +in desperate earnest now that the floodgates were raised. “They’re +just tools to make money, and, like the tools, they wear out and are cast +aside! For there are always more to do their work, to begin where they began, +and to be worn out as they were worn out!” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t!” Mary cried. +</p> + +<p> +Etruria was silent, but two large tears rolled down her face. And Mary +marvelled. So this mild, patient girl, going about her daily tasks, could +think, could feel, could speak, and upon a plane so high that the listener was +sensible of humiliation as well as surprise! For a moment this was the only +effect made upon her. Then reflection did its part—and memory. She +recalled that glimpse of the under-world which she had had on her journey from +London. She remembered the noisome alleys, the cinder wastes, the men toiling +half-naked at the furnaces, the pinched faces of the women; and she remembered +also the account which Lord Audley had given her of the fierce contest between +town and country, plough and forge, land-lord and cotton-lord, which had struck +her so much at the time. +</p> + +<p> +In the charms of her new life, in her new interests, these things had faded +from her mind. They recurred now, and she did not again ask Etruria what she +meant. “Is it as bad as that?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It is not as bad as it has been,” Etruria answered. “Three +years ago there were hundreds of thousands out of work. There are thousands, +scores of thousands, still; and thousands have no food but what’s given +them. And charity is bitter to many,” she added, “and the poorhouse +is bitter to all.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what has caused things to be so bad?” +</p> + +<p> +“Some say one thing and some another. But most that machines lower wages, +Miss, and the bread-tax raises food.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” Mary said. And she looked more closely at the girl who knew +so much that was at odds with her station. +</p> + +<p> +“Others,” Etruria continued, a faint color in her cheeks, +“think that it is selfishness, that every one is for himself and no one +for one another, and——” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes?” Mary said, seeing that she hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“And that if every one thought as much of his neighbor as of himself, or +even of his neighbor as well as of himself, it would not be machines nor +corn-taxes nor poorhouses would be strong enough to take the bread out of the +children’s mouths or the work out of men’s hands!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary had an inspiration. “Etruria,” she cried, “some one has +been teaching you this.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl blushed. “Well, Miss,” she said simply, “it was at +church I learned most of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“At church? What church? Not Riddsley?” For it was to Riddsley, to +a service as dull as it was long, that they proceeded on Sundays in a chaise as +slow as the reader. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Miss, not Riddsley,” Etruria answered. “It’s at +Brown Heath on the Chase. But it’s not a real church, Miss. It’s a +room.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” Mary replied. “A meeting-house!” +</p> + +<p> +For some reason Etruria’s eyes gleamed. “No, Miss,” she said. +“It’s the curate at Riddsley has a service in a room at Brown Heath +on Thursdays.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you go?” +</p> + +<p> +“When I can, Miss.” +</p> + +<p> +The idea of attending church on a week-day was strange to Mary; as strange as +to that generation was the zeal that passed beyond the common channel to +refresh those whom migrations of population or changes in industry had left +high and dry. The Tractarian movement was giving vigor not only to those who +supported it, but to those who withstood it. +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ve a sermon?” Mary said. “What was the text +last Thursday, Etruria?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl hesitated, considered, then looked with appeal at her mistress. She +clasped her hands. “‘Two are better than one,’” she +replied, “‘because they have good reward for their labor. For if +they fall, one will lift up his fellow, but woe to him that is alone when he +falleth, for he hath not another to lift him up.’” +</p> + +<p> +“Gracious, Etruria!” Mary cried. “Is that in the +Bible?” +</p> + +<p> +Etruria nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“And what did your preacher say about it?” +</p> + +<p> +“That the employer and the workman were fellows, and if they worked +together and each thought for the other they would have a good reward for their +labor; that if one fell, it was the duty of the other to help him up. And +again, that the land and the mill were fellows—the town and the +country—and if they worked together in love they would have a good +return, and if trouble came to one the other should bear with him. But all the +same,” Etruria added timidly, “that the bread-taxes were +wrong.” +</p> + +<p> +“Etruria,” Mary said. “To-morrow is Thursday. I shall go with +you to Brown Heath.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X<br/> +NEW THINGS</h2> + +<p> +Mary Audley, crossing the moor to a week-day service, was but one of many who +in the ’forties were venturing on new courses. In religion there were +those who fancied that by a return to primitive forms they might recapture the +primitive fervor; and those again who, like the curate whom Mary was going to +hear, were bent on pursuing the beaten path into new places. Some thought that +they had found a panacea for the evils of the day in education, and put their +faith in workmen’s institutes and night schools. Others were satisfied +with philanthropy, and proclaimed that infants of seven ought not to toil for +their living, that coal-pits were not fit places for women, and that what paid +was not the only standard of life. A few dreamt of a new England in which +gentle and simple were to mix on new-old terms; and a multitude, shrewd and +hard-headed, believed in the Corn Law League, whose speakers travelled from +Manchester to carry the claims of cheap bread to butter crosses and market +towns, and there bearded the very landlord’s agent. +</p> + +<p> +The truth was that the country was lying sick with new evils, and had perforce +to find a cure, whether that cure lay in faith, or in the primer, or in the +Golden Rule, or in Adam Smith. For two generations men had been quitting the +field for the mill, the farm for the coal-pit. They had followed their work +into towns built haphazard, that grew presently into cities. There, short of +light, of air, of water, lacking decency, lacking even votes—for the +Reform Bill, that was to give everything to everybody, had stopped at the +masters—lacking everything but wages, they swarmed in numbers stupendous +and alarming to the mind of that day. And then the wages failed. Machines +pushed out hands, though +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +Tools were made, and born were hands,<br/> +Every farmer understands. +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +Machines lowered wages, machines glutted the markets. Men could get no work, +masters could sell no goods. On the top of this came bad seasons and dear +bread. Presently hundreds of thousands were living on public charity, long +lists of masters were in the <i>Gazette</i>. In the gloomy cities of the North, +masses of men heaved and moaned as the sea when the south-west wind falls upon +it. +</p> + +<p> +All but the most thoughtless saw danger as well as unhappiness in this, and +called on their gods. The Chartists proclaimed that safety lay in votes. The +landed interest thought that a little more protection might mend matters. The +Golden Rulers were for shorter hours. But the men who were the loudest and the +most confident cried that cheap bread would mend all. The poor, they said, +would have to eat and to spend. They would buy goods, the glut would cease. The +wheels would turn again, there would be work and wages. The Golden Age would +return. So preached the Manchester men. +</p> + +<p> +In the meantime the doctors wrangled, and the patient grew a little, not much, +better. And Mary Audley and Etruria walked across the moorland in the evening +sunshine, with a light breeze stirring the bracken, and waves of shadow moving +athwart the stretches of purple ling. They seemed very far, very remote from +the struggle for life and work and bread that was passing in the world below. +</p> + +<p> +Presently they dropped into a fern-clad dingle and saw below them, beside the +rivulet that made music in its bottom, a house or two. Descending farther, they +came on more houses, crawling up the hill slopes, and on a few potato patches +and ash-heaps. As the sides of the valley rose higher and closed in above the +walkers cottages fell into lines on either side of the brook, and began to show +one behind the other in rough terraces, with middens that slid from the upper +to the lower level. The valley bent to the left, and quickly tall chimneys +became visible, springing from a huddle of mean roofs through which no other +building of size, no tower, no steeple, rose to break the ugly sameness. This +was Brown Heath. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a rough place,” Etruria said as they picked their way. +“But don’t be afraid, Miss. I’m often passing, and they know +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Still it was a rough place. The roadway was a cinder-track, and from the alleys +and lanes above it open drains wormed their way across the path and into the +stream, long grown foul. The air was laden with smoke, coal dust lay +everywhere; the most cleanly must have despaired. Men seated, pipe in mouth, on +low walls, watched the two go by—not without some rude banter; frowsy +women crouching on door-steps and nursing starveling babes raised sullen faces. +Lads in clogs made way for them unwillingly. In one place a crowd seethed from +a side street and, shouting and struggling, overflowed the roadway before them +and threatened to bar their path. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a dog-fight,” Etruria said. “They are rare and +fond of them, Miss. We’d best get by quickly.” +</p> + +<p> +They passed in safety, passed, too, a brawl between two colliers, the air about +them thick with oaths, passed a third eddy round two women fighting before a +public-house. “The chaps are none so gentle,” Etruria said, falling +unconsciously into a commoner way of speaking. “They’re all for +fighting, dogs or men, and after dark I’m not saying we’d be safe. +But we’ll be over the moor by dusk, Miss.” +</p> + +<p> +They came, as she spoke, to a triangular space, sloping with the hill, skirted +by houses, and crossed by an open sewer. It was dreary and cinder-covered, but +five publics looked upon it and marked it for the centre of Brown Heath. +Etruria crossed the triangle to a building a little cleaner than its neighbors; +it was the warehouse, she told her mistress, of a sack-maker who had failed. +She entered, and her companion followed her. +</p> + +<p> +Mary found herself in a bare barn-like room, having two windows set high in the +walls, the light from which fell coldly on a dozen benches ranged one behind +the other, but covering only a portion of the floor. On these were seated, when +they entered, about twenty persons, mainly women, but including three or four +men of the miner class. No attempt had been made to alter the character of the +place, and of formality there was as little. The two had barely seated +themselves before a lean young man, with a long pale face and large nose, rose +from the front bench, and standing before the little congregation, opened his +book. He wore shabby black, but neither surplice nor gown. +</p> + +<p> +The service lasted perhaps twenty minutes, and Mary was not much moved by it. +The young man’s voice was weak, the man himself looked under-fed. She +noticed, however, that as the service went on the number in the room grew, and +when it closed she found that all the seats were filled, and that there were +even a few men—some of them colliers fresh from the pit—standing at +the back. Remembering the odd text that the clergyman had given out the week +before, she wondered what he would choose to-day, and, faintly amused, she +stole a glance at her companion. But Etruria’s rapt face was a reproach +to her levity. +</p> + +<p> +The young clergyman pushed back the hair from his forehead. His posture was +ungainly, he did not know what to do with his hands, he opened his mouth and +shut it again. Then with an effort he began. “My text, my friends,” +he said, “is but one word, ‘Love.’ Where will you find it in +the Scriptures? In every chapter and in every verse. In the dark days of old +the order was ‘Thou shalt live!’ The new order in these days is +‘Thou shalt love!’” He began by describing the battle of life +in the animal and vegetable world, where all things lived at the cost of +others; and he admitted that the struggle for life, for bread, for work, as +they saw it around them, resembled that struggle. In moving terms he enlarged +on the distress, on the vast numbers lately living on the rates, on the +thousands living, where even the rates fell short, on Government aid. He +described the fireless homes, the foodless children, the strong men hopeless. +And he showed them that others were stricken, that masters suffered, tradesmen +were ruined, the country languished. “The worst may be past,” he +said. “You are working half-time, you are living on half-wages, you are +thankful that things are better.” Then he told them that for his part he +did not presume to say what was at the root of these unhappy conditions, but +that of one thing he felt sure—and this was his message to +them—that if the law of love, if the golden rule of preferring another to +one’s self, if the precept of that charity, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +Which seeketh not itself to please<br/> +Nor for itself hath any care,<br/> +But for another gives its ease, +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +if that were followed by all, then all +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +Might build a heaven in hell’s despair. +</p> +</div> + +<p> +And in words more eloquent than he had yet compassed he begged them to set that +example of brotherhood, in the certainty that the worst social evils, nay, all +evils save pain and death, would be cured by the love that thought for others, +that in the master preferred the servant’s welfare and in the servant put +first his master’s interests. Finally he quoted his old text, “Let +two work together, for if they fall, one will lift up his fellow!” +</p> + +<p> +It seemed as if he had done. He was silent; his hearers waited. Then with an +effort he continued: +</p> + +<p> +“I have a word to say about something which fell from me in this place +last week. While I did not venture, unskilled as I am, to say where lies the +cause of our distress, I did say that I found it hard to believe that the +system which taxes the bread you earn in the sweat of your brow, which takes a +disproportionate part from the scanty crust of the widow and from the food of +the child, was in accordance with the law of love. I repeat that now; and +because I have been told that I dare not say in the pulpit of Riddsley church +what I say here, I shall on the first opportunity state my belief there. You +may ask why I have not done so; my answer is, that I am there the +representative of another, whereas in this voluntary work I am myself more +responsible. In saying that I ask you to judge me, as we should judge all, with +that charity which believeth no evil.” +</p> + +<p> +A moment later Mary, deeply moved, was passing out with the crowd. As she +stood, caught in the press by the door, an old man in horn-rimmed glasses, who +was waiting there, held out his hand. She was going to take it, when she saw +that it was not meant for her, but for the young clergyman who was following at +her heels. +</p> + +<p> +“Master, dunno you do it,” the old fellow growled. +“You’ll break your pick, and naught gotten. Naught gotten, +that’ll serve. Your gaffer’ll not abide it, and you’ll lose +your job!” +</p> + +<p> +“Would you have me take it,” the young man answered, “and not +do the work, Cluff? Never fear for me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dunno you be rash, master!” the other rejoined, clutching his +sleeve and detaining him. “You be sure——” +</p> + +<p> +Mary heard no more. She felt Etruria’s hand pressing her arm. +“We’d best lose no time,” the girl whispered. And she drew +Mary onward, across the triangle and into the lane which led to the moor. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we so late?” The sun had set, but it was still light. +“We’d best hurry,” Etruria persisted, increasing her speed. +</p> + +<p> +Mary looked at her and saw that she was troubled, but at the moment she set +this down to the influence of the sermon, and her own mind went back to it. +“I am glad you brought me, Etruria,” she said. “I shall +always be glad that I came.” +</p> + +<p> +“We’d best be getting home now,” was Etruria’s only +answer, but this time Mary’s ear caught the sound of footsteps behind +them, and she turned. The young clergyman was hastening after them. +</p> + +<p> +“Etruria!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment Mary fancied that Etruria did not hear. The girl hurried on. But +Mary saw no occasion to run away, and she halted. Then Etruria, with a gesture +of despair, stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“It is no use,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +The young man came up with them. His head was bare, his hat was in his hand, +his long plain face was aglow with the haste he had made. He had heard +Etruria’s words, and “It is of every use,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“This is—my mistress,” Etruria said. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Audley?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am Miss Audley,” Mary announced, wondering much. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought that it might be so,” he replied. “I have waited +for such an occasion. I am Mr. Colet, the curate at Riddsley. Etruria and I +love one another,” he continued. “We are going to be married, if +ever my means allow me to marry.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, we are not,” the girl rejoined sharply. “Mr. Colet knows +my mind,” she continued, her eyes turned away. “I have told him +many times that I am a servant, the daughter of a servant, in a different class +from his, and I’ll never be the one to ruin him and be a disgrace to him! +I’ll never marry him! Never!” +</p> + +<p> +“And I have told Etruria,” he replied, “that I will never +take that answer. We love one another. It is nothing to me that she is a +servant. My work is to serve. I am as poor as it is possible to be, with as +poor prospects as it is possible to have. I shall never be anything but what I +am, and I shall think myself rich when I have a hundred pounds a year. I who +have so little, who look for so little, am I to give up this happiness because +Etruria has less? I, too, say, Never!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary, standing between them, did not know what to answer, and it was Etruria +who replied. “It is useless,” she said. And then, in a tone of +honest scorn, “Who ever heard,” she cried, “of a clergyman +who married a servant? Or who ever heard of good coming of it?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary had an inspiration. “Does Etruria’s father know?” she +asked. +</p> + +<p> +“He knows and approves,” the young man replied, his eyes bent +fondly on his mistress. +</p> + +<p> +Mary too looked at Etruria—beautiful, patient, a servant, loved. And she +wondered. All these weeks she had been rubbing elbows with this romance, and +she had not discerned it! Now, while her sympathies flew to the lover’s +side, her prejudices rose up against him. They echoed Etruria’s words, +“Who ever heard of good coming of such a match?” The days had been, +as Mary knew, when the chaplain had married the lady’s maid. But those +days were gone. Meantime the man waited, and she did not know what to say. +</p> + +<p> +“After all,” she said at last, “it is for Etruria to +decide.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, it is for us both to decide,” he replied. And then, as if he +thought that he had sufficiently stated his case, “I ask your pardon, +Miss Audley, for intruding,” he continued. “I am keeping you, and +as I am going your way that is needless. I have had a message from a sick +woman, and I am on my way to see her.” +</p> + +<p> +He took permission for granted, and though Etruria’s very shoulders +forbade him, he moved on beside them. “Conditions are better here than in +many places,” he said, “but in this village you would see much to +sadden you.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have seen enough,” Mary answered, “to know that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ten years ago there was not a house here. Now there is a population of +two thousand, no church, no school, no gentry, no one of the better class. +There is a kind of club, a centre of wild talk; better that, perhaps, than +apathy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it in Riddsley parish?” Mary asked. They were nearly clear of +the houses, and the slopes of the hill, pale green in the peaceful evening +light, began to rise on either side. It was growing dusk, and from the moorland +above came the shrill cries of plovers. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, it is in Riddsley parish,” he answered, “but many miles +from the town, and as aloof from it—Riddsley is purely +agricultural—as black from white. In such places as this—and there +are many of them in Staffordshire, as raw, as rough, and as new—there is +work for plain men and plain women. In these swarming hives there is no room +for any refinement but true refinement. And the Church must learn to do her +work with plain tools, or the work will pass into other hands.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may cut cheese with an onion knife,” Etruria said coldly. +“I don’t know that people like it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know nothing better than onions in the right place,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s not in cheese,” she rejoined, to Mary’s +amusement. +</p> + +<p> +“The poor get little cheese,” he said, “and the main thing is +to cut their bread for them. But here I must leave you. My errand is to that +cottage.” +</p> + +<p> +He pointed to a solitary house, standing a few score paces above the road on +the hillside. Mary shook hands with him, but Etruria turned her shoulder +resolutely. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-bye, Etruria,” he said. And then to Mary, “I hope that +I have made a friend?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you have,” she answered. “I am sure that you deserve +one.” +</p> + +<p> +He colored, raised his hat, and turned away, and the two went on, without +looking back; darkness was coming apace, and they were still two miles from +home. Mary kept silence, prudently considering how she should deal with the +matter, and what she should say to her companion. As it fell out, events +removed her difficulty. They had not gone more than two hundred yards, and were +still some way below the level of the Chase, when a cry reached them. It came +out of the dusk behind them, and might have been the call of a curlew on the +moor. But first one, and then the other stood. They turned, and listened, and +suddenly Etruria, more anxious or sharper of eye than her mistress, uttered a +cry and broke away at a run across the sloping turf towards the solitary +cottage. Alarmed, Mary looked intently in that direction, and made out three or +four figures struggling before the door of the house. She guessed then that the +clergyman was one of them, and that the cry had come from him, and without a +thought for herself she set off, running after Etruria as fast as she could. +</p> + +<p> +Twice Etruria screamed as she ran, and Mary echoed the cry. She saw that the +man was defending himself against the onset of three or four—she could +hear the clatter of sticks on one another. Then she trod on her skirt and fell. +When she had got, breathless, to her feet again, the clergyman was down and the +men appeared to be raining blows on him. Etruria shrieked once more and the +next moment was lost amid the moving figures, the brandished sticks, the +struggle. +</p> + +<p> +Mary ran on desperately. She caught sight of the girl on her knees over the +fallen man, she saw her fend off more than one blow, she heard more than one +blow fall with a sickening thud. She came up to them. With passion that drove +out fear, she seized the arm of the nearest and dragged him back. +</p> + +<p> +“You coward!” she cried. “You coward! I am Miss Audley! Do +you hear! Leave him! Leave him, I say!” +</p> + +<p> +Her appearance, the surprise, checked the man; her fearlessness, perhaps her +name, gave the others pause. They retreated a step. The man she had grasped +shook himself free, but did not attempt to strike her. “Oh, d—n the +screech-owls!” he cried. “The place is alive with them! Hold your +noise, you fools! We’ll have the parish on us!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am Miss Audley!” Mary repeated, and in her indignation she +advanced on him. “How dare you?” Etruria, still on her knees, +continued to shriek. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re like to get a wipe over the head, dang you!” the man +growled, “whoever you be! Go to—— and mind your own brats! +He’ll know better now than to preach against them as he gets his living +by! You be gone!” +</p> + +<p> +But Mary stood her ground. She declared afterwards that, brutally as the man +spoke, the fight had gone out of him. Etruria, on the contrary, maintained +that, finding only women before them, the ruffians would have murdered them. +Fortunately, while the event hung in the balance, “What is it?” +some one shouted from the road below. “What’s the matter +there?” +</p> + +<p> +“Murder!” cried Etruria shrilly. “Help! Help!” +</p> + +<p> +“Help!” cried Mary. She still kept her face to the men, but for the +first time she began to know fear. +</p> + +<p> +Footsteps thudded softly on the turf, figures came into view, climbing the +slope. It needed no more. With a volley of oaths the assailants turned tail and +made off. In a trice they were round the corner of the house and lost in the +dusk. +</p> + +<p> +A moment later two men, equally out of breath and each carrying a gun, reached +the spot. “Well!” said the bigger of the two, “What is +it?” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke as if he had not come very willingly, but Mary did not notice this. +The crisis over, her knees shook, she could barely stand, she could not speak. +She pointed to the fallen man, over whom Etruria still crouched, her hair +dragged down about her shoulders, her neckband torn, a ghastly blotch on her +white cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“Is he dead?” the new-comer asked in a different tone. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, dead!” Etruria echoed. “Dead!” +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately the curate gave the lie to the word. He groaned, moved, with an +effort he raised himself on his elbow. “I’m—all right!” +he gasped. “All right!” +</p> + +<p> +Etruria sprang to her feet. She stepped back as if the ground had opened before +her. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not—hurt,” Colet added weakly. +</p> + +<p> +But it was evident that he was hurt, even if no bones were broken. When they +came to lift him he could not stand, and he seemed to be uncertain where he +was. After watching him a moment, “He should see a doctor,” said +the man who had come up so opportunely. “Petch,” he continued, +addressing his companion, who wore a gamekeeper’s dress, “we must +carry him to the trap and get him down to Brown Heath. Who is he, do you know? +He looks like a parson.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s Mr. Colet of Riddsley,” Mary said. +</p> + +<p> +The man turned and looked at her. “Hallo!” he exclaimed. And then +in the same tone of surprise, “Miss Audley!” he said. “At +this time of night?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary collected herself with an effort. “Yes,” she said, “and +very fortunately, for if we had not been here the men would have murdered him. +As it is, you share the credit of saving him, Lord Audley.” +</p> + +<p> +“The credit of saving you is a good deal more to me,” he answered +gallantly. “I did not think that we should meet after this +fashion.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI<br/> +TACT AND TEMPER</h2> + +<p> +He looked at Etruria, and Mary explained who she was. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid that she is hurt.” +</p> + +<p> +The girl’s temple was bruised and there was blood on her cheek; more than +one of the blows aimed at her lover had fallen on her. But she said eagerly +that it was “Nothing! Nothing!” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you sure, Etruria?” Mary asked with concern. +</p> + +<p> +“It is nothing, indeed, Miss,” the girl repeated. She was trying +with shaking fingers to put up her hair. +</p> + +<p> +“Then the sooner,” Audley rejoined, “we get this—this +gentleman to my dogcart, the better. Take his other arm, Petch. Miss Audley, +can you carry my gun?—it is not loaded. And you,” he continued to +Etruria, “if you are able, take Petch’s.” +</p> + +<p> +They took the guns, and the little procession wound down the path to the road, +where they found a dogcart awaiting them, and, peering from the cart, two +setters, whining and fretting. The dogs were driven under the seat, and the +clergyman, still muttering that he was all right, was lifted in. “Steady +him, Petch,” Audley said; “and do you drive slowly,” he +added, to the other man. “You will be at the surgeon’s at Brown +Heath in twenty minutes. Stay with him, Petch, and send the cart back for +me.” +</p> + +<p> +“But are you not going?” Mary cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not going to leave you in the dark with only your maid,” he +answered with severity. “One adventure a night is enough, Miss +Audley.” +</p> + +<p> +She murmured a word or two, but submitted. The struggle had shaken her; she +could still see the men’s savage faces, still hear the thud of their +blows. And she and Etruria had nearly a mile to go before they reached the +park. +</p> + +<p> +When they were fairly started, “How did it happen?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Mary told the story, but said no word of Etruria’s romance. +</p> + +<p> +“Then you were not with him when they set on him?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, we had parted.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you went back?” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course we did!” +</p> + +<p> +“It was imprudent,” he said, “very imprudent. If we had not +come up at that moment you might have been murdered.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if we had not gone back, Mr. Colet might have been murdered!” +she answered. “What he had done to offend them——” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I can tell you that. He’s the curate at Riddsley, +isn’t he? Who’s been preaching up cheap bread and preaching down +the farmers?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps so,” Mary answered. “He may be. But is he to be +murdered for that? From your tone one might think so.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he replied slowly, “he is not to be murdered for it. +But whether he is wise to preach cheap bread to starving men, whether he is +wise to tell them that they would have it but for this man or that man, this +class or that class—is another matter.” +</p> + +<p> +She was not convinced—the sermon had keyed her thoughts to a high pitch. +But he spoke reasonably, and he had the knack of speaking with authority, and +she said no more. And on his side he had no wish to quarrel. He had come down +to Riddsley partly to shoot, partly to look into the political situation, but a +little—there was no denying it—to learn how Mary Audley fared with +her uncle. +</p> + +<p> +For he had thought much of her since they had parted, and much of the fact that +she was John Audley’s heir. Her beauty, her spirit, her youth, had caught +his fancy. He had looked forward to renewing his acquaintance with her, and he +was in no mood, now he saw her, to spoil their meeting by a quarrel. He thought +Colet, whose doings had been reported to him, a troublesome, pestilent fellow, +and he was not sorry that he had got his head broken. But he need not tell her +that. Circumstances had favored him in bringing them together and giving him +the beau rôle, and he was not going to cross his luck. +</p> + +<p> +So, “Fire is an excellent thing of course,” he continued with an +air of moderation, “but, believe me, it’s not safe amid young trees +in a wind. Whatever your views, to express them in all companies may be honest, +but is not wise. I have no doubt that a parson is tried. He sees the trouble. +He is not always the best judge of the remedy. However, enough of that. We +shall agree at least in this, that our meetings are opportune?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most opportune,” Mary answered. “And from my point of view +very fortunate!” +</p> + +<p> +“There really is a sort of fate in it. What but fate could have brought +about our meeting at the Hôtel Lambert? What but fate could have drawn us to +the same spot on the Chase to-night?” +</p> + +<p> +There was a tone in his voice that brought the blood to her cheek and warned +her to keep to the surface of things. “The chance that men call +fate,” she answered lightly. +</p> + +<p> +“Or the fate that fools call chance,” he urged, half in jest, half +in earnest. “We have met by chance once, and once again—with +results! The third time—what will the third time bring? I wonder.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a fright like this, I hope!” Mary answered, remaining +cheerfully matter of fact. “Or if it does,” with a flash of +laughter, “I trust that the next time you will come up a few moments +earlier!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ungrateful!” +</p> + +<p> +“I?” she replied. “But it was Etruria who was in +danger!” +</p> + +<p> +For the peril had left her with a sense of exhilaration, of lightness, of ease. +She was pleased to feel that she could hold her own with him, relieved that she +was not afraid of him. And she was glad—she was certainly glad—to +see him again. If he were inclined to make the most of his advantage, well, a +little gallantry was quite in the picture; she was not deceived, and she was +not offended. While he on his side, as they walked over the moor, thought of +her as a clever little witch who knew her value and could keep her head; and he +liked her none the less for it. +</p> + +<p> +When they came at last to the gap in the wall that divided the Chase from the +park, a figure, dimly outlined, stood in the breach waiting for them. “Is +that you?” a voice asked. +</p> + +<p> +The voice was Basset’s, and Mary’s spirits sank. She felt that the +meeting was ill-timed. “Yes,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +Unluckily, Peter was one of those whose anxiety takes an irritable form. +“What in the world has happened?” he asked. “I couldn’t +believe that you were still out. It’s really not safe. Hallo!” +breaking off and speaking in a different tone, “is some one with +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Mary said. They were within touch now and could see one +another. “We have had an adventure. Lord Audley was passing, he came to +our rescue, and has very kindly seen us home.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord Audley!” Basset was taken by surprise and his tone was much +as if he had said, “The devil!” +</p> + +<p> +“By good fortune, Basset,” Audley replied. He may have smiled in +the darkness—we cannot say. “I was returning from shooting, heard +cries for help, and found Miss Audley playing the knight-errant, encircled by +prostrate bodies!” +</p> + +<p> +Basset could not frame a word, so great was his surprise, so overwhelming his +chagrin. Was this man to spring up at every turn? To cross him on every +occasion? To put him in the background perpetually? To intrude even on the +peace and fellowship of the Gatehouse? It was intolerable! +</p> + +<p> +When he did not answer, “It was not I who was the knight-errant,” +Mary said. “It was Etruria. She is a little the worse for it, I fear, and +the sooner she is in bed the better. As Mr. Basset is here,” she +continued, turning to Audley, “we must not take you farther. Your cart is +no doubt waiting for you. But you will allow us to thank you again. We are most +grateful to you—both Etruria and I.” +</p> + +<p> +She spoke more warmly, perhaps she let her hand rest longer in his, to make up +for Basset’s silence. For that silence provoked her. She had gathered +from many things that Basset did not love the other; but to stand mute and +churlish on such an occasion, and find no word of acknowledgment—this was +too bad. +</p> + +<p> +And Basset knew, he too knew that he ought to thank Audley. But the black dog +was on his back, and while he hesitated, the other made his adieux. He said a +pleasant word to Etruria, tossed a careless “Good-night” to the +other man, turned away, and was gone. +</p> + +<p> +For awhile the three who remained trudged homewards in silence. Then, +“What happened to you?” Basset asked grudgingly. +</p> + +<p> +Vexed and indignant, Mary told the story. +</p> + +<p> +“I did not know that you knew Mr. Colet!” +</p> + +<p> +“When a man is being murdered,” she retorted, “one does not +wait for an introduction.” +</p> + +<p> +He was a good fellow, but jealousy was hot within him, and he could not bridle +his tongue. “Oh, but murdered?” he said. “Isn’t that +rather absurd? Who would murder Colet?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary did not deign to reply. +</p> + +<p> +Baffled, he sought for another opening. “I do not know what your uncle +will say.” +</p> + +<p> +“Because we rescued Mr. Colet? And perhaps saved his life?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“Or because Lord Audley rescued us?” +</p> + +<p> +“He will certainly not be pleased to hear that,” he retorted +maliciously. He knew that he was misbehaving, but he could not refrain. +“If you take my advice you will not mention it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall tell him the moment I reach the house,” she declared. +</p> + +<p> +“You will be very unwise if you do.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be honest at least! For the rest I would rather not discuss the +matter, Mr. Basset. I am a good deal shaken by what we have gone through, and I +am very tired.” +</p> + +<p> +He muttered humbly that he was sorry—that he only meant—— +</p> + +<p> +“Please leave it there,” she said. “Enough has been +said.” +</p> + +<p> +Too late the anger and the spirit died out of the unlucky man, and he would +have grovelled before her, he would have done anything to earn his pardon. But +Etruria’s presence tied his tongue, and gloomy and wretched—oh, why +had he not gone farther to meet them, why had he not been the one to rescue +her?—he walked on beside them, cursing his unhappy temper. It was dark, +the tired girls lagged, Etruria hung heavily on her mistress’s arm; he +longed to help them. But he did not dare to offer. He knew too well that Mary +would reject the offer. +</p> + +<p> +Etruria had her own dreams, and in spite of an aching head was happy. But to +Mary, fatigued by the walk, and vexed by Basset’s conduct, the way seemed +endless. At last the house loomed dark above them, their steps rang hard on the +flagged court. The outer door stood ajar, and entering, they found a lamp +burning in the hall; but the silence which prevailed, above and below, struck a +chill. Silence and an open door go ill together. +</p> + +<p> +Etruria at Mary’s bidding went up at once to her room. Basset called +angrily for Toft. But no Toft appeared, and Mary, resentment still hot in her, +opened the door of the library and went in to see her uncle. She felt that the +sooner her story was told the better. +</p> + +<p> +But the library was empty. Lights burned on the several tables, the wood fire +smouldered on the hearth, the tall clock ticked in the silence, the old hound +flopped his tail. But John Audley was not there. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is my uncle?” she asked, as she stood in the open doorway. +</p> + +<p> +Basset looked over her shoulder. He saw that the room was empty. “He may +have gone to look for us.” +</p> + +<p> +“And Toft?” +</p> + +<p> +“And Toft, too, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“But why should my uncle go to look for us?” she asked, aghast at +the thought—he troubled himself so little for others, he lived so +completely his own life! +</p> + +<p> +“He might,” Basset replied. He stood for a moment, thinking. +Then—for the time they had forgotten their quarrel—“You had +better get something to eat and go to bed,” he said. “I will send +Mrs. Toft to you.” +</p> + +<p> +She had not the strength to resist. “Very well,” she said. +“Are you going to look for them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps Mrs. Toft will know where they are.” +</p> + +<p> +She took her candle and went slowly up the narrow winding staircase that led to +her room and to Etruria’s. As she passed, stair by stair, the curving +wainscot of dull wood which so many generations had rubbed, she carried with +her the picture of Basset standing in thought in the middle of the hall, his +eyes on the doorway that gaped on the night. Then a big man with a genial face +usurped his place; and she smiled and sighed. +</p> + +<p> +A moment later she went into Etruria’s room to learn how she was, and +caught the girl rising from her knees. “Oh, Miss,” she said, +coloring as she met Mary’s eyes, “if we had not been there!” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet—you won’t marry him, you foolish girl?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no, no!” +</p> + +<p> +“Although you love him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Love him!” Etruria murmured, her face burning. “It is +because I love him, Miss, that I will never, never marry him.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary wondered. “And yet you love him?” she said, raising the candle +so that its light fell on the other’s face. +</p> + +<p> +Etruria looked this way and that way, but there was no escape. In a very small +voice she said, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0" style="text-indent: -6pt"> +“Love seeketh not itself to please<br/> +Nor for itself hath any care!” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +She covered her hot cheeks with her hands. But Mary took away the hands and +kissed her. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Miss!” Etruria exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +Mary went out then, but on the threshold of her own room she paused to snuff +her candle. “So that is love,” she thought. “It’s very +interesting, and—and rather beautiful!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII<br/> +THE YEW WALK</h2> + +<p> +Basset had been absent the greater part of the day, and returning at sunset had +learned that Miss Audley had not come back from Brown Heath. The servant had +hinted alarm—the Chase was lonely, the hour late; and Basset had hurried +off without more, not doubting that John Audley was in the house. +</p> + +<p> +Now he was sure that John Audley had been abroad at the time, and he suspected +that Toft had known it, and had kept it from him. He stood for a moment in +thought, then he crossed the court to Toft’s house. Mrs. Toft was cooking +something savory in a bonnet before the fire, and the contrast between her warm +cheerful kitchen and the stillness of the house from which he came struck him +painfully. He told her that her daughter had received a blow on the head, and +that Miss Audley needed supper—she had better attend to them. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Toft was a stout woman, set by a placid and even temper above small +surprises. She looked at the clock, a fork in her hand. “I can’t +hurry it, Mr. Basset,” she said. “You may be Sir Robert Peel +himself, but meat’s your master and will have its time. A knock on the +head?” she continued, with a faint stirring of anxiety. “You +don’t say so? Lor, Mr. Basset, who’d go to touch Etruria?” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d better go and see.” +</p> + +<p> +“But where’s Toft?” +</p> + +<p> +Basset’s temper gave way at that. “God knows!” he said. +“He ought to be here—and he’s not!” He went out. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Toft stared after him, and by and by she let down her skirt and prepared +to go into the house. “On the head?” she ruminated. “Well, +’Truria’s a tidy lot of hair! And I will say this, if there’s +few points a man gives a woman, hair’s one of them.” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Basset had struck across the court and taken in the darkness the +track which led in the direction of the Great House. The breeze, light but of +an autumn coldness, swept the upland, whispering through the dying fern, and +rustling in the clumps of trees by which he steered his course. He listened +more than once, hoping that he might hear approaching footsteps, but he heard +none, and presently he came to the yew-trees that masked the entrance to the +gardens. +</p> + +<p> +The trees formed a wall of blackness exceeding that of the darkest night, and +Basset hesitated before he plunged into it. The growth of a century had long +trespassed on the walk, a hundred and fifty yards long, which led through the +yew-wood, and had been in its time a stately avenue trimmed to the neatness of +a bowling green. Now it was little better than a tunnel, dark even at noon, and +at night bristling with a hundred perils. Basset peered into the blackness, +listened, hesitated. But he was honestly anxious on John Audley’s +account, and contenting himself with exclaiming that the man was mad, he began +to grope his way along the path. +</p> + +<p> +It was no pleasant task. If he swerved from his course he stumbled over roots, +branches swept his cheek, jagged points threatened his eyes, and more than once +he found himself in the hedge. Half-way through the wood he came to a circular +clearing, some twenty yards across; and here a glimmer of light enabled him to +avoid the crumbling stone Butterfly that crouched on its mouldering base in the +centre of the clearing—much as a spider crouches in its web. It seemed in +that dim light to be the demon of this underworld, a monster, a thing of evil. +</p> + +<p> +The same gleam, however, disclosed the opposite opening, and for another +seventy yards he groped his way onward, longing to be clear of the stifling +air, and the brooding fancies that dwelt in it, longing to plant his feet on +something more solid than this carpet of rotting yew. At last he came to the +tall, strait gate, wrought of old iron, that admitted to the pleasance. It was +ajar. He passed through it, and with relief he felt the hard walk under his +feet, the fresh air on his face. He crossed the walk, and stepping on to the +neglected lawn, he halted. +</p> + +<p> +The Great House loomed before him, a hundred yards away. The moon had not +risen, but the brightness which goes before its rising lightened the sky behind +the monstrous building. It outlined the roof but left the bulk in gloom. No +light showed in any part, and it was only the watcher’s memory that +pictured the quaint casements of the north wing, or filled in the bald rows of +unglazed windows, which made of the new portion a death-mask. In that north +wing just eighty years before, in a room hung with old Cordovan leather, the +fatal house-warming had been held. The duel had been fought at sunrise within a +pace or two of the moss-grown Butterfly that Basset had passed; and through the +gate of ironwork, wood-smelted and wrought with the arms of Audley, which had +opened at his touch, they had carried the dead heir back to his father. +Tradition had it that the servant who bore in the old lord’s morning +draught of cool ale had borne also the tragic news to his bedside. +</p> + +<p> +Basset remembered that the hinges of the gate, seldom as it was used, had not +creaked, and he felt sure that he was on the right track. He scanned the dark +house, and tried to sift from the soughing of the wind any sound that might +inform him. +</p> + +<p> +Presently he moved forward and scrutinized with care the north wing, which +abutted on the yew-wood. There lay between the two only a strip of formal +garden, once set with rows of birds and beasts cut in yew. Time had turned +these to monsters, huge, amorphous, menacing, amidst which rank grass rioted +and elder pushed. Even in daylight it seemed as if the ancient trees stretched +out arms to embrace and strangle the deserted house. +</p> + +<p> +But the north wing remained as dark as the bulk of the house, and Basset +uttered a sigh of relief. Ill-humor began to take the place of misgiving. He +called himself a fool for his pains and anticipated with distaste a return +through the yew-walk. However, the sooner he undertook the passage the sooner +it would be over, and he was turning on his heel when somewhere between him and +the old wing a stick snapped. +</p> + +<p> +Under a foot, he fancied; and he waited. In two or three minutes the moon would +rise. +</p> + +<p> +Again he caught a faint sound. It resembled the stealthy tread of some one +approaching from the north wing, and Basset, peering that way, was striving to +probe the darkness, when a gleam of light shot across his eyes. He turned and +saw in the main building a bright spark. It vanished. He waited to see it +again, and while he waited a second stick snapped. This time the sound was +behind him, and near the iron gate. +</p> + +<p> +He had been outflanked, and he had now to choose which he would stalk, the +footstep or the light. He chose the latter, the rather as while he stood with +his eyes fixed on the house the upper edge of a rising moon peeped above the +roof. +</p> + +<p> +He stepped back to the gate, and in the shadow of the trees he waited. Two or +three minutes passed. The moon rose clear of the roof, outlining the stately +chimneys and gables and flooding with cold light the lower part of the lawn. +With the rising of the moon the air grew more chilly. He shivered. +</p> + +<p> +At length a dull sound reached him—the sound of a closing door or a +shutter cast back. A minute later he heard the footsteps of some one moving +along the walk towards him. The man trod with care, but once he stumbled. +</p> + +<p> +Basset advanced. “Is that you, sir?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“D—n!” John Audley replied out of the darkness. He halted, +breathing quickly. +</p> + +<p> +“I say d—n, too!” Basset replied. As a rule he was patient +with the old man, but to-night his temper failed him. +</p> + +<p> +The other came on. “Why did you follow me?” he asked. “What +is the use? What is the use? If you are willing to help me, good! But if not, +why do you follow me?” +</p> + +<p> +“To see that you don’t come to harm,” Basset retorted. +“As you certainly will one of these nights if you come here alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I haven’t come to harm to-night! On the +contrary—— But there, there, man, let us get back.” +</p> + +<p> +“The sooner the better,” Basset replied. “I nearly put out an +eye as I came.” +</p> + +<p> +John Audley laughed. “Did you come through the yews in the dark?” +he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Didn’t you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I brought a lantern.” He removed as he spoke the cap of a +small bull’s-eye lantern and threw its light on the path. +“Who’s the fool now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Let us get home,” Basset snapped. +</p> + +<p> +John Audley locked the iron gate behind them and they started. The light +removed their worst difficulties and they reached the open park without mishap. +But long before they gained the house the elder man’s strength failed, +and he was glad to lean on Basset’s arm. On that a sense of weakness on +the one side and of pity on the other closed their differences. “After +all,” Audley said wearily, “I don’t know what I should have +done if you had not come.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’d have stayed there!” +</p> + +<p> +“And that would have been—Heavens, what a pity that would have +been!” Audley paused and struck his stick on the ground. “I must +take care of myself, I must take care of myself! You don’t know, Basset, +what I——” +</p> + +<p> +“And I don’t want to know—here!” Basset replied. +“When you are safe at home, you may tell me what you like.” +</p> + +<p> +In the courtyard they came on Toft, who was looking out for them with a +lantern. “Thank God, you’re safe, sir,” he said. “I was +growing alarmed about you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Where were you,” Basset asked sharply, “when I came +in?” John Audley was too tired to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“I had stepped out at the front to look for the master,” Toft +replied. “I fancied that he had gone out that way.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset did not believe him, but he could not refute the story. “Well, get +the brandy,” he said, “and bring it to the library. Mr. Audley has +been out too long and is tired.” +</p> + +<p> +They went into the library and Toft pulled off his master’s boots and +brought his slippers and the spirit-tray. That done, he lingered, and Basset +thought that he was trying to divine from the old man’s looks whether the +journey had been fruitful. +</p> + +<p> +In the end, however, the man had to go, and Audley leant forward to speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Wait!” Basset muttered. “He is coming back.” +</p> + +<p> +“How do you know?” +</p> + +<p> +Basset raised his hand. The door opened. Toft came in. “I forgot to take +your boots, sir,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, take them now,” his master replied peevishly. When the man +had again withdrawn, “How did you know?” he asked, frowning at the +fire. +</p> + +<p> +“I saw him go to take your boots—and leave them.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley was silent for a time, then “Well,” he said, “he has +been with me many years and I think he is faithful.” +</p> + +<p> +“To his own interests. He dogged you to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“So did you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, but I did not hide! And he did, and hid from me, too, and lied +about it. How long he had been watching you, I cannot say, but if you think +that you can break through all your habits, sir, and be missing for two hours +at night and a man as shrewd as Toft suspect nothing, you are mistaken. Of +course he wonders. The next time he thinks it over. The third time he follows +you. Presently whatever you know he will know.” +</p> + +<p> +“Confound him!” Audley turned to the table and jerked some brandy +into a glass. Then, “You haven’t asked yet,” he said, +“what I’ve done.” +</p> + +<p> +“If I am to choose,” Basset replied, “I would rather not +know. You know my views.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that you didn’t think I should do it? Well, I’ve done +it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean that—you’ve found the evidence?” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it likely?” the other replied petulantly. “No, but +I’ve been in the Muniment Room. It is fifty years since I heard my father +describe its position, but I could have gone to it blindfold! I was a boy then, +and the name—he was telling a story of the old lord—took my fancy. +I listened. In time the thing faded, but one day when I was at the +lawyer’s and some one mentioned the Muniment Room, the story came back to +me so clearly, that I could almost repeat my father’s words.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you’ve been in the room?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve been in it. Why not? A door two inches thick and studded with +iron, and a lock that one out of any dozen big keys would open!” He +rubbed his calves in his satisfaction. “In twenty minutes I was +inside.” +</p> + +<p> +“And it was empty?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was empty,” the other agreed, with a cunning smile. “As +bare as a board. A little whitewashed room, just as my father described +it!” +</p> + +<p> +“They had removed the papers?” +</p> + +<p> +“To the bank, or to London, or to Stubbs’s. The place was as clean +as a platter! Not a length of green tape or an end of parchment was +left!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then what have you gained?” Basset asked. +</p> + +<p> +Audley looked slyly at him, his head on one side. “Ay, what?” he +said. “But I’ll tell you my father’s story. At one time the +part of the room under the stairs was crumbling and the rats got in. The +steward told the old lord and he went to see it. ‘Brick it up!’ he +said. The steward objected that there would not be room—the place was +full; there were boxes everywhere, some under the stairs. The old lord tapped +one of the boxes with his gold-headed cane. ‘What’s in +these!’ he asked. ‘Old papers,’ the steward explained. +‘Of no use, my lord, but curious; old leases for lives, and +terriers.’ ‘Terriers?’ cried the old lord. ‘Then, by +G—d, brick ’em up with the rats!’ And that day at dinner he +told my father the story and chuckled over it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that’s what you’ve had in your mind all this +time?” Basset said. “Do you think it was done?” +</p> + +<p> +“The old lord bricked up many a pipe of port, and I think that he would +do it for the jest’s sake. And”— John Audley turned and +looked in his companion’s face—“the part under the stairs +<i>is bricked up</i>, and the room is as square and as flush as the family +vault—and very like it. The old lord,” he added sardonically, +“knows what it is to be bricked up himself now.” +</p> + +<p> +“And still there may be nothing there to help you.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley rose from his chair. “Don’t say it!” he cried +passionately. “Or I’ll say that there’s no right in the +world, no law, no providence, no God! Don’t dare to say it!” he +continued, his cheeks trembling with excitement. “If I believed that I +should go mad! But it is there! It is there! Do you think that it was for +naught I heard that story? That it was for naught I remembered it, for naught +I’ve carried the story in my mind all these years? No, they are there, +the papers that will give me mine and give it to Mary after me! They are there! +And you must help me to get them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot do it, sir,” Basset replied firmly. “I don’t +think that you understand what you ask. To break into Audley’s house like +any common burglar, to dig down his wall, to steal his +deeds——” +</p> + +<p> +John Audley shook his fist in the young man’s face. “His +house!” he shrieked. “His wall! His deeds! No, fool, but my house, +my wall, my deeds! my deeds! If the papers are there all’s mine! All! And +I am but taking my own! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see it? Have +I no right to take what is my own?” +</p> + +<p> +“But if the papers are not there?” Basset replied gravely. +“No, sir, if you will take my advice you will tell your story, apply to +the court, and let the court examine the documents. That’s the +straightforward course.” +</p> + +<p> +John Audley flung out his arms. “Man!” he cried. “Don’t +you know that as long as he is in possession he can sit on his deeds, and no +power on earth can force him to show them?” +</p> + +<p> +Basset drew in his breath. “If that is so,” he said, “it is +hard. Very hard! But to go by night and break into his house—sticks in my +gizzard, sir. I’m sorry, but that is the way I look at it. The +man’s here too. I saw him this evening. The fancy might have taken him to +visit the house, and he might have found you there?” +</p> + +<p> +Audley’s color faded, he seemed to shrink into himself. “Where did +you see him?” he faltered. +</p> + +<p> +Basset told the story. “I don’t suppose that the girls were really +in danger,” he continued, “but they thought so, and Audley came to +the rescue and brought them as far as the park gap.” +</p> + +<p> +The other took out his silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. “As near as +that,” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, and if he had found you at the house, he might have guessed your +purpose.” +</p> + +<p> +John Audley held out a hand trembling with passion. “I would have killed +him!” he cried. “I would have killed him—before he should +have had what is there!” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly,” Basset replied. “And that is why I will have +nothing to do with the matter! It’s too risky, sir. If you take my advice +you will give it up.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley did not answer. He sat awhile, his shoulders bowed, his eyes fixed on +the hearth, while the other wondered for the hundredth time if he were sane. At +length, “What is he doing here?” the old man asked in a lifeless +tone. The passion had died out of him. +</p> + +<p> +“Shooting, I suppose. But there was some talk in Riddsley of his coming +down to stir up old Mottisfont.” +</p> + +<p> +“What about?” +</p> + +<p> +“Against the corn-law repeal, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley nodded. But after a while, “That’s a pretext,” he +said. “And so is the shooting. He has followed the girl.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset started. “Followed Mary!” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“What else? I have looked for it from the first. I’ve pressed you +to come to an understanding with her for that reason. Why the devil can’t +you? If you leave it much longer you’ll be too late! Too late! And, by +G—d, I’ll never forgive you!” with a fresh spirt of passion. +“Never! Never, man!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve not said that I meant to do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve not said!” Audley replied contemptuously. “Do +you think that I don’t know that she’s all the world to you? Do you +think that I’ve no eyes? Do you think that when you sit there watching +her from behind your book by the hour together, I have not my sight? Man, +I’m not a fool! And I tell you that if you’re not to lose her you +must speak! You must speak! Stand by another month, wait a little longer, and +Philip Audley will put in his oar, and I’ll not give that for your +chances!” He snapped his fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“Why should he put in his oar?” Basset asked sullenly. His face had +turned a dull red. +</p> + +<p> +John Audley shrugged his shoulders. “Do you think that she is without +attractions?” +</p> + +<p> +“But Audley lives in another world.” +</p> + +<p> +“The more likely to have attractions for her!” +</p> + +<p> +“But surely he’ll look for—for something more,” Basset +stammered. +</p> + +<p> +“For a rich wife? For an alliance, as the saying is? And sleep ill of +nights? And have bad dreams? No, he is no fool, if you are. He sees that if he +marries the girl he makes himself safe. He makes himself safe! After me, it +lies between them.” +</p> + +<p> +“I take it that he does think himself safe.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not he!” Audley replied. He was stooping over the ashes, warming +his hands, but at that he jumped up. “Not he! he knows better than you! +And fears! And sleeps ill of nights, d—n him! And dreams! But there, I +must not excite myself. I must not excite myself. Only, if he once begins, +he’ll be no laggard in love as you are! He’ll not sit puling and +peeping and looking at the back of her head by the hour together! He’ll +be up and at her—I know what that big jowl means! And she’ll be in +his arms in half the time that you’ve taken to count her +eyelashes!” He turned in a fresh fit of fury and seized his candle. +“In his arms, I tell you, fool, while you are counting her eyelashes. +Well, lose her, lose her, and I never want to see you again, or her! Never! +I’ll curse you both!” +</p> + +<p> +He stumbled to the door and went out, a queer, gibbering, shaking figure; and +Basset had no doubt at such moments that he was mad. But on this occasion he +was afraid—he was very much afraid, as he sat pondering in his chair, +that there was method in his madness! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII<br/> +PETER PAUPER</h2> + +<p> +The impression which the events of the evening had made on Mary’s mind +was still lively when she awoke next day. It was not less clear, because like +the feminine letter of the ’forties, crossed and recrossed, it had +stamped itself in two layers on her mind, of which the earlier was the more +vivid. +</p> + +<p> +The solitude in which her days had of late been spent had left her peculiarly +open to new ideas, while the quiet and wholesome life of the Gatehouse had +prepared her to answer any call which those ideas might make upon her. Rescued +from penury, lifted above anxiety about bed and board, no longer exposed to the +panic-fears which in Paris had beset even her courageous nature, Mary had for a +while been content simply to rest. She had taken the sunshine, the beauty, the +ease and indolence of her life as a convalescent accepts idleness, without +scruple or question. +</p> + +<p> +But this could not last. She was young, nature soon rallied in her, and she had +seen things and done things during the last two years which forbade her to +accept such a limited horizon as satisfied most of the women of that day. +Unlike them, she had viewed the world from more than one standpoint; through +the grille of a convent school, from the grimy windows of a back-street in +Paris; again, as it moved beneath the painted ceilings of a French salon. And +now, as it presented itself in this retired house. +</p> + +<p> +Therefore she could not view things as those saw them whose standpoint had +never shifted. She had suffered, she still had twinges—for who, with her +experience, could be sure that the path would continue easy? And so to her Mr. +Colet’s sermon had made a strong appeal. +</p> + +<p> +It left the word which Mr. Colet had taken for his text sounding in her ears. +Borne upward on the eloquence which earnestness had lent to the young preacher, +she looked down on a world in torment, a world holding up piteous hands, +craving, itself in ignorance, the help of those who held the secret, and whose +will might make that secret sufficient to save. Love! To do to others as she +would have others do to her! With every day, with every hour, with every minute +to do something for others! Always to give, never to take! Above all to give +herself, to do her part in that preference of others to self, which could alone +right these mighty wrongs, could find work for the idle, food for the hungry, +roofs for the homeless, knowledge for the blind, healing for the sick! Which +could save all this world in torment, and could +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0" style="text-indent:-6pt"> +“Build a Heaven in Hell’s despair!” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +It was a beautiful vision, and in this her first glimpse of it, Mary’s +fancy was not chilled by the hard light of experience. It seemed so plain that +if the workman had his master’s profit at heart, and the master were as +anxious for the weal of his men, the interests of the two would be one. Equally +plain it seemed that if they who grew the food aimed at feeding the greatest +number, and they who ate had the same desire to reward the grower, if every man +shrank from taking advantage of other men, if the learned lived to spread their +knowledge, and the strong to help the weak, if no man wronged his neighbor, but +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0" style="text-indent:-6pt"> +“Each for another gave his ease,” +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +then it seemed equally plain that love would indeed be lord of all! +</p> + +<p> +Later, she might discover that it takes two to make a bargain; that charity +does bless him who gives but not always him who takes; even, that cheap bread +might be a dear advantage—that at least it might have its drawbacks. +</p> + +<p> +But for the moment it was enough for Mary that the vision was beautiful and, as +a theory, true. So that, gazing upward at the faded dimity of her tester, she +longed to play her part in it. That world in torment, those countless hands +stretched upward in appeal, that murmur of infinite pain, the cry of the +hungry, of the widow, of men sitting by tireless hearths, of children dying in +mill and mine—the picture wrought on her so strongly, that she could not +rest. She rose, and though the hoar frost was white on the grass and the fog of +an autumn morning still curtained the view, she began to dress. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps the chill of the cold water in which she washed sobered her. At any +rate, with the comb in one hand and her hair in the other, she drifted down +another line of thought. Lord Audley—how strange was the chance which had +again brought them together! How much she owed him, with what kindness had he +seen to her comfort, how masterfully had he arranged matters for her on the +boat. And then she smiled. She recalled Basset’s ill-humor, or +his—jealousy. At the thought of what the word implied, Mary colored. +</p> + +<p> +There could be nothing in the notion, yet she probed her own feelings. +Certainly she liked Lord Audley. If he was not handsome, he had that air of +strength and power which impresses women; and he had ease and charm, and the +look of fashion which has its weight with even the most sensible of her sex. He +had all these and he was a man, and she admired him and was grateful to him. +And yesterday she might have thought that her feeling for him was love. +</p> + +<p> +But this morning she had gained a higher notion of love. She had learned from +Etruria how near to that pattern of love which Mr. Colet preached the love of +man and woman could rise. She had a new conception of its strength and its +power to expel what was selfish or petty. She had seen it in its noblest form +in Etruria, and she knew that her feeling for Lord Audley was not in the same +world with Etruria’s feeling for the curate. She laughed at the notion. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor Etruria!” she meditated. “Or should it be, happy +Etruria? Who knows? I only know that I am heart-whole!” +</p> + +<p> +And she knotted up her hair and, Diana-like, went out into the pure biting air +of the morning, along the green rides hoary with dew and fringed with bracken, +under the oak trees from which the wood-pigeons broke in startled flight. +</p> + +<p> +But if the energy of her thoughts carried her out, fatigue soon brought her to +a pause. The evening’s excitement, the strain of the adventure had not +left her, young as she was, unscathed. The springs of enthusiasm waned with her +strength, and presently she felt jaded. She perceived that she would have done +better had she rested longer; and too late the charms of bed appealed to her. +</p> + +<p> +She was at the breakfast table when Basset—he, too, had had a restless +night and many thoughts—came down. He saw that she was pale and that +there were shadows under her eyes, and the man’s tenderness went out to +her. He longed, he longed above everything to put himself right with her; and +on the impulse of the moment, “I want you to know,” he said, +standing meekly at her elbow, “that I am sorry I lost my temper last +evening.” +</p> + +<p> +But she was out of sympathy with him. “It is nothing,” she said. +“We were all tired, I think. Etruria is not down yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I want to ask your——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh dear, dear!” she cried, interrupting him with a gesture of +impatience. “Don’t let us rake it up again. If my uncle has not +suffered, there is no harm done. Please let it rest.” +</p> + +<p> +But he could not let it rest. He longed to put his neck under her foot, and he +did not see that she was in the worst possible mood for his purpose. +“Still,” he said, “you must let me say——” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t!” she cried. She put her hands to her ears. Then, +seeing that she had wounded him, she dropped them and spoke more kindly. +“Don’t let us make much of little, Mr. Basset. It was all natural +enough. You don’t like Lord Audley——” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you did not understand that we had been terribly frightened, and had +good reason to be grateful to him. I am sure that if you had known that, you +would have behaved differently. There!” with a smile. “And now that +I have made the amende for you, let us have breakfast. Here is your +coffee.” +</p> + +<p> +He knew that she was holding him off, and all his alarms of the night were +quickened. Again and again had John Audley’s warning recurred to him and +as often he had striven to reject it, but always in vain. And gradually, +slowly, it had kindled his resolution, it had fired him to action. Now, the +very modesty which had long kept him silent and withheld him from enterprise +was changed—as so often happens with diffident man—into rashness. +He was as anxious to put his fate to the test as he had before been unwilling. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, “You will not need to tell your uncle about Lord +Audley,” he said. “I’ve done it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you told him,” she answered gravely, “that we were +indebted to Lord Audley for our safety.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t trust me?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t say things like that!” she cried. “It is +foolish. I have no doubt that in telling my uncle you meant to relieve me. You +have helped me more than once in that way. But——” +</p> + +<p> +“But this is a special occasion?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked at him. “If you wish us to be friends——” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t,” he answered roughly. “I don’t want to +be friends with you.” +</p> + +<p> +Then, ambiguous as his words were, she saw where she stood, and she mustered +her presence of mind. She rose from her seat. “And I,” she said, +“am not going to quarrel with you, Mr. Basset. I am going now to learn +how Etruria is. And then I shall see my uncle.” +</p> + +<p> +She escaped before he could answer. +</p> + +<p> +Once or twice it had crossed her mind that he looked at her with intention; and +once reading that look in his eyes she had felt her color rise, and her heart +beat more quickly. But the absence on her side of any feeling, except that +which a sister might feel for a kind brother, this and the reserve of his +manner had nipped the fancy as soon as it budded. And if she had given it a +second thought, it had been only to smile at her vanity. +</p> + +<p> +Now she had no doubt of the fact, no doubt that it was jealousy that moved him, +and her uppermost, almost her only feeling was vexation. Because they had lived +in the same house for five months, because he had been useful and she had been +grateful, because they were man and woman, how foolish it was! How absurd! How +annoying! She foresaw from it many, many, inconveniences; a breach in their +pleasant intercourse, displeasure on her uncle’s part, trouble in the +house that had been so peaceful—oh, many things. But that which vexed her +most was the fear that she had, all unwittingly, encouraged him. +</p> + +<p> +She believed that she had not. But while she talked to Etruria, and later, as +she went down the stairs to interview her uncle, she had this weight on her +mind. She strove to recall words and looks, and upon the whole she was sure +that she could acquit herself, sure that of this evil no part lay at her door. +But it was very, very vexatious! +</p> + +<p> +On the threshold of the library she wrested her thoughts back to the present, +and paused a moment, considering what she should say to her uncle. +</p> + +<p> +She need not have troubled herself, for he was not there. At the first glance +she took the room to be empty; a second showed her Basset. She turned to +retire, but too late; he stepped between her and the door and closed it. He was +a little paler than usual, and his air of purpose was not to be mistaken. +</p> + +<p> +She stiffened. “I came to see my uncle,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I am the bearer of a message from him,” he answered. “He +asked me to say that he considers the matter at an end. He does not wish it to +be mentioned again. Of course he does not blame you.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mr. Basset——” +</p> + +<p> +But he would not let her speak. “That was his message,” he +continued, “and I am glad to be the messenger because it gives me a +chance of speaking to you. Will you sit down?” +</p> + +<p> +“But we have only just parted,” she remonstrated, struggling +against her fate. “I don’t understand what you +want——” +</p> + +<p> +“To say? No, I am going to explain it—if you will sit down.” +</p> + +<p> +She sat down then with the feeling that she was trapped. And since it was clear +that she must go through with it, she was glad that his insistence hardened her +heart and dried up the springs of pity. +</p> + +<p> +He went to the fire, stooped and moved the wood. “You won’t come +nearer?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she replied. How foolish to trap her like this if he thought +to get anything from her! +</p> + +<p> +He turned to her and his face was changed. Under his wistful look she +discovered that it was not so easy to be hard, not so easy to maintain her +firmness. “You would rather escape?” he said, reading her mind. +“I know. But I can’t let you escape. You are thinking that I have +trapped you? And you are fearing that I am going to make you unhappy +for—for half an hour perhaps? I know. And I am fearing that you are going +to make me unhappy for—always.” +</p> + +<p> +No, she could not retain her hardness. She knew that she was going to feel pity +after all. But she would not speak. +</p> + +<p> +“I have only hope,” he went on. “There is only one thing I am +clinging to. I have read that when a man loves a woman very truly, very deeply, +as I love you, Mary”—she started violently, and blushed to the +roots of her hair, so sudden was the avowal—“as I love you,” +he repeated sorrowfully, “I have read that she either hates him or loves +him. His love is a fire that either warms her or scorches her, draws her or +repels her. I thought of that last night, as I thought of many things, and I +was sure, I was confident that you did not hate me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no,” she answered, unsteadily. “Indeed, indeed, I +don’t! I am very grateful to you. But the other—I don’t think +it is true.” +</p> + +<p> +“No?” he said, keeping his eyes on her face. “And then, you +don’t doubt that I love you?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” The flush had faded from her face and left her pale. “I +don’t doubt that—now.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is so true that—you know that you have sometimes called me +Peter? Well, I would have given much, very much to call you Mary. But I did not +dare. I could not. For I knew that if I did, only once, my voice would betray +me, and that I should alarm you before the time! I knew that that one +word—that word alone—would set my heart upon my sleeve for all to +see. And I did not want to alarm you. I did not want to hurry you. I thought +then that I had time, time to make myself known to you, time to prove my +devotion, time to win you, Mary. I thought that I could wait. Now, since last +night, I am afraid to wait. I doubt, nay I am sure, that I have no time, that I +dare not wait.” +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer, but the color mounted again to her face. +</p> + +<p> +He turned and knocked the fire together with his foot. Then he took a step +towards her. “Tell me,” he said, “have I any chance? Any +chance at all, Mary?” +</p> + +<p> +She shook her head; but seeing then that he kept his eyes fixed on her and +would not take that for an answer, “None,” she said as kindly as +she could. “I must tell you the truth. It is useless to try to break it. +I have never once, not once thought of you but as a friend, Peter.” +</p> + +<p> +“But now,” he said, “cannot you regard me +differently—now! Now that you know? Cannot you begin to think of me +as—a lover?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Mary said frankly and pitifully. “I should not be +honest if I said that I could. If I held out hopes. You have been always good +to me, kind to me, a dear friend, a brother when I had need of one. And I am +grateful, Mr. Basset, honestly, really grateful to you. And fond of +you—in that way. But I could not think of you in the way you desire. I +know it for certain. I know that there is no chance.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood for a moment without speaking, and seeing how stricken he looked, how +sad his face, her eyes filled with tears. Then, “Is there any one +else?” he asked slowly, his eyes on her face. +</p> + +<p> +She did not answer. She rose to her feet. +</p> + +<p> +“Is there any one else?” he repeated, a new note in his voice. He +moved forward a step. +</p> + +<p> +“You have no right to ask that,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I have every right,” he replied. “What?” he continued, +moving still nearer to her, his whole bearing changed in a moment by the sting +of jealousy. “I am condemned, I am rejected, and I am not to ask +why?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“But I do ask!” he retorted with a passion which surprised and +alarmed her; he was no longer the despondent lover of five minutes before, but +a man demanding his rights. “Have you no heart? Have you no feeling for +me? Do you not consider what this is to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“I consider,” Mary replied with a warmth almost equal to his own, +“that if I answered your question I should humiliate myself. No one, no +one has a right, sir, to ask that question. And least of all you!” +</p> + +<p> +“And I am to be cast aside, I am to be discarded without a reason?” +</p> + +<p> +That word “discarded” seemed so unjust, and so uncalled for, seeing +that she had given him no encouragement, that it stung her to anger. +“Without a reason?” she retorted. “I have given you a +reason—I do not return your love. That is the only reason that you have a +right to know. But if you press me, I will tell you why what you propose is +impossible. Because, if I ever love a man I hope, Mr. Basset, that it will be +one who has some work in the world, something to do that shall be worth the +doing, a man with ambitions above mere trifling, mere groping in the dust of +the past for facts that, when known, make no man happier, and no man better, +and scarce a man wiser! Do you ever think,” she continued, carried away +by the remembrance of Mr. Colet’s zeal, “of the sorrow and pain +that are in the world? Of the vast riddles that are to be solved? Of the work +that awaits the wisest and the strongest, and at which all in their degree can +help? My uncle is an old man, it is well he should play with the past. I am a +girl, it may serve for me. But what do you here?” She pointed to his +table, laden with open folios and calf-bound volumes. “You spend a week +in proving a Bohun marriage that is nothing to any one. Another, in raking up a +blot that is better forgotten! A third in tracing to its source some ancient +tag! You move a thousand books—to make one knight! Is that a man’s +work?” +</p> + +<p> +“At least,” he said huskily, “I do no harm.” +</p> + +<p> +“No harm?” Mary replied, swept away by her feelings. “Is that +enough? Because in this quiet corner, which is home to my uncle and a refuge to +me, no call reaches you, is it enough that you do no harm? Is there no good to +be done? Think, Mr. Basset! I am ignorant, a woman. But I know that to-day +there are great questions calling for an answer, wrongs clamoring to be +righted, a people in travail that pleads for ease! I know that there is work in +England for men, for all! Work, that if there be any virtue left in ancient +blood should summon you as with a trumpet call!” +</p> + +<p> +He did not answer. Twice, early in her attack he had moved as if he would +defend himself. Then he had let his chin fall and he had listened with his eyes +on the table. And—but she had not seen it—he had more than once +shivered under her words as under a lash. For he loved her and she scourged +him. He loved her, he desired her, he had put her on a pedestal, and all the +time she had been viewing him with the clear merciless eyes of youth, trying +him by the standard of her dreams, probing his small pretensions, finding him a +potterer in a library—he who in his vanity had raised his eyes to her and +sought to be her hero! +</p> + +<p> +It was a cruel lesson, cruelly given; and it wounded him to the heart. So that +she, seeing too late that he made no reply, seeing the grayness of his face, +and that he did not raise his eyes, had a too-late perception of what she had +done, of how cruel she had been, of how much more she had said than she had +meant to say. She stood conscience-stricken, remorseful, ashamed. +</p> + +<p> +And then, “Oh, I am sorry!” she cried. “I am sorry! I should +not have said that! You meant to honor me and I have hurt you.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked up then, but neither the shadow nor the grayness left his face. +“Perhaps it was best,” he said dully. “I am sure that you +meant well.” +</p> + +<p> +“I did,” she cried. “I did! But I was wrong. Utterly +wrong!” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, “you were not wrong. The truth was +best.” +</p> + +<p> +“But perhaps it was not the truth,” she replied, anxious at once, +miserably anxious to undo what she had done, to unsay what she had said, to +tell him that she was conceited, foolish, a mere girl! “I am no +judge—after all what do I know of these things? What have I done that I +should say anything?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid that what is said is said,” he replied. “I have +always known that I was no knight-errant. I have never been bold until +to-day—and it has not answered,” with a sickly smile. “But we +understand one another now—and I relieve you.” +</p> + +<p> +He passed her on his way to the door, and she thought that he was going to hold +it open for her to go out. But when he reached the door he fumbled for the +handle, found it as a blind man might find it, and went out himself, without +turning his head. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV<br/> +THE MANCHESTER MEN</h2> + +<p> +Basset knew every path that crossed the Chase, and had traversed them at all +seasons, and in all weathers. But when, some hours later, he halted on a +scarred and blackened waste that stretched to the horizon on every side, he +would have been hard put to it to say how he came to be there. He wore his hat, +he carried his stick, but he could not remember how he had become possessed of +either. +</p> + +<p> +For a time the shock of disappointment, the numbing sense of loss had dulled +his mind. He had walked as in a dream, repeating over and over again that that +was what she thought of him—and he had loved her. It was possible that in +the interval he had sworn at fate, or shrieked against the curlews, or cursed +the inhuman sky that mocked him with its sameness. But he did not think that he +had. He felt the life in him too low for such outbursts. He told himself that +he was a poor creature, a broken thing, a failure. He loved her, and—and +that was what she thought of him. +</p> + +<p> +He sat on the stump of an ancient thorn-tree that had been a landmark on the +burnt heath longer than the oldest man could remember, and he began to put +together what she had said. He was trifling away his life, picking stray finds +from the dust-heap of the past, making no man wiser and no man better, doing +nothing for any one! Was she right? The Bohun pedigree, at which he had worked +so long? He had been proud of his knowledge of Norman descents, proud of the +research which had won that knowledge, proud of his taste for following up +recondite facts. Were the knowledge, the research, the taste, all things for +which he ought to blush? Certainly, tried by the test, <i>cui bono?</i> they +came off but poorly. And perhaps, to sit down at his age, content with such +employments, might seem unworthy and beneath him, if there were other calls +upon him. But were there other calls? +</p> + +<p> +Time had been when his family had played a great part, not in Staffordshire +only but in England; and then doubtless public service had been a tradition +with them. But the tradition had waned with their fortunes. In these days he +was only a small squire, a little more regarded than the new men about him; but +with no ability to push his way in a crowd, no mastery among his fellow-men, +one whom character and position alike cast for a silent part. +</p> + +<p> +Of course she knew none of these things, but with the enthusiasm of youth she +looked to find in every man the qualities of the leading role. He who seldom +raised his voice at Quarter Sessions or on the Grand Jury—to which his +birth rather than his possessions called him—she would have had him +figure among the great, lead causes, champion the oppressed! It was pitiful, if +it had not been absurd! +</p> + +<p> +He walked on by and by, dwelling on the pity of it, a very unhappy man. He +thought of the evenings in the library when she had looked over his shoulder, +and one lamp had lighted them; of the mornings when the sun had gilded her hair +as she bent over the task she was even then criticizing; of afternoons when the +spirit of the chase had been theirs, and the sunshine and the flowers had had +no charm strong enough to draw them from the pursuit of—alas! something +that could make no man better or wiser. He had lost her; and if aught mattered +apart from that, she had for ever poisoned the springs of content, muddied the +wells of his ordered life. +</p> + +<p> +Beyond doubt she loved the other, for had she not, she would have viewed things +differently. Beyond doubt in her love for the other lay the bias that weighted +her strictures. And yet, making all allowance for that, there was so much of +truth in what she had said, so much that hit the mark, that he could never be +the same again, never give himself with pleasure to his former pursuits, never +find the old life a thing to satisfy! +</p> + +<p> +And still, like the tolling of a death bell above the city’s life, two +thoughts beat on his mind again and again, and gave him intolerable pain. That +was what she thought of him! And he had lost her! That was what she thought of +him! And he had lost her! Her slender gracious figure, her smiling eyes, the +glint in her hair, her goodness, her very self—all were for another! All +were lost to him! +</p> + +<p> +Presently the day began to draw in, and fagged and hopeless he turned and began +to make his way back. His road lay through Brown Heath, the mining village, +where in all the taverns and low-browed shops they were beginning to light +their candles. He crossed the Triangle, and made his way along the lane, deep +in coal-dust and foul with drains, that ran upwards to the Chase. A pit, near +at hand, had just turned out its shift, and in the dusk tired men, swinging +tins in their hands, were moving by twos and threes along the track. With his +bent shoulders and weary gait he was lost among them, he walked one with them; +yet here and there an older man espied the difference, recognized him, and +greeted him with rough respect. Presently the current slackened; something, he +could not see what, dammed the stream. A shrewish voice rose in the darkness +before him, and other voices, angry, clamant, protesting, struck in. A few of +the men pushed by the trouble, others stood, here and there a man added a taunt +to the brawl. In his turn Basset came abreast of the quarrel. He halted. +</p> + +<p> +A farm cart blocked the roadway. Over the tail hung three or four wailing +children; into it a couple of sturdy men were trying to lift an old woman, +seated in a chair. A dingy beadle and a constable, who formed the escort and +looked ill at ease, stood beside the cart, and round it half a score of +slatternly women pushed and shrieked and gesticulated. On the group and the +whole dreary scene nightfall cast a pallid light. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” Basset asked. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re shifting Nan Oates to the poorhouse,” a man +answered. “Her son died of the fever, and there’s none to keep her +or the little uns. She’ve done till now, but they’ll not give her +bite nor sup out of the House—that’s the law now’t seems. So +the House it be!” +</p> + +<p> +“Her’d rather die than go!” cried a girl. +</p> + +<p> +“D—n them and their Bastilles!” exclaimed a younger man. +“Are we free men, or are we not?” +</p> + +<p> +“Free men?” shrieked a woman, who had seized the horse’s rein +and was loudest in her outcry. “No, nor Staffordshire men, nor +Englishmen, nor men at all, if you let an old woman that’s always lived +decent go to their stone jug this way. Give me Stafford Gaol—’tis +miles afore it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, you’re at home there, Bet!” a voice in the crowd struck +in, and the laugh that followed lightened matters. +</p> + +<p> +Basset looked with pity at the old woman. Her head sunk upon her breast, her +thin shawl tucked about her shoulders, her gray hair in wisps on her cheeks, +she gazed in tearless grief upon the hovel which had been home to her. +“Who’s to support her,” he asked, “if she stays?” +</p> + +<p> +“For the bite and sup there’s neighbors,” a man answered. +“Reverend Colet he said he might do something. But he’s been +lammed. And there’s the rent. The boy’s ten, and he made four +shilling a week in the pit, but the new law’s stopped the young uns +working.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, d—n all new laws!” cried another. “Poor laws and +pit laws we’re none but the worse for them!” +</p> + +<p> +The men were preparing to move the cart. The woman who held the rein clung to +it. “Now, Bet, have a care!” said the constable. “Or +you’ll go home by Weeping Cross again!” +</p> + +<p> +“Cross? I’ll cross you!” the termagant retorted. +“Selling up widows’ houses is your bread and meat! May the devil, +hoof and horn, with his scythe on his back, go through you! If there were three +men here, ay, men as you’d call men——” +</p> + +<p> +“Easy, woman, easy!” +</p> + +<p> +“Woman, dang you! You call me woman——” +</p> + +<p> +“Now, let go, Bet! You’ll be in trouble else!” some one said. +</p> + +<p> +But she held on, and the crowd were beginning to jostle the men in charge when +Basset stepped forward. “Steady, a moment,” he said. “Will +the guardians let the woman stop if the rent is provided?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who be you, master?” the constable asked. “You’d best +let us do our duty.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dang it, man,” an old fellow interposed, “it’s Squire +Basset of Blore. Dunno you know him? Keep a civil tongue in your head, will +you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” chimed in another, pushing forward with a menacing gesture. +“You be careful, Jack! You be Jack in office, but ’twon’t +always be so! ’Twon’t always be so!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Colet knows the old woman?” Basset asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Sure, sir, the curate knows her.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll find the rent,” Basset said, addressing the +constable, “if you’ll let her be. I’ll see the overseer about +her in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“So long as she don’t come on the rates, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“She’ll not come on the rates for six months,” Basset said. +“I’ll be answerable for so much.” +</p> + +<p> +The men had little stomach for their task, and with a good excuse they were +willing enough to desist. A woman fetched a stub of a pen and a drop of ink and +Basset wrote a word for their satisfaction. While he did so, “O’d +Staffordshire! O’d Staffordshire!” a man explained in the +background. “Bassets of Blore—they be come from an Abbey and come +to a Grange, as the saying is. You never heard of the Bassets of Blore, you be +neither from Mixen nor Moor!” In old Stafford talk the rich lands of +Cheshire stood for the “mixen” as against the bare heaths of the +home county. +</p> + +<p> +In five minutes the business was done, the woman freed, and Basset was trudging +away through the gathering darkness. But the incident had done him good. It had +lightened his heart. It had changed ever so little the direction of his +thoughts. Out of his own trouble he had stretched a hand to another; and +although he knew that it was not by stray acts such as this that he could lift +himself to Mary’s standard, though the battle over the new Poor Law had +taught him, and many others, that charity may be the greatest of evils, what he +had done seemed to bring him nearer to her. A hardship of the poor, which he +might have seen with blind eyes, or viewed from afar as the inevitable result +of the stay of outdoor relief, had come home to him. As he plodded across the +moor he carried with him a picture of the old woman with her gray hair falling +about her wrinkled face, and her hands clasped in hopeless resignation. And he +felt that his was not the only trouble in the world. +</p> + +<p> +When he had passed the wall of Beaudelays Park, Basset struck—not far +from the Gatehouse—into the road leading down to the Vale, and a couple +of hours after dark he plodded into Riddsley. He made for the Audley Arms, a +long straggling house on the main street, in one part of two stories, in +another of three, with a big bay window at the end. Entering the yard by the +archway he ordered a gig to go to the Gatehouse for his portmanteau. Then he +turned into the inn, and scribbled a note to John Audley, stating that he was +called away, and would explain matters when he wrote again. He sent it by the +driver. +</p> + +<p> +It was eight o’clock. “I am afraid, Squire,” the landlord +said, “that there’s no fire upstairs. If you’d not mind our +parlor for once, there’s no one there and it’s snug and +warm.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll do that, Musters,” he said. He was cold and famished +and he was not sorry to avoid the company of his own thoughts. In the parlor, +next door to the Snug, he might be alone or listen to the local gossip as he +pleased. +</p> + +<p> +Ten minutes later he sat in front of a good plain meal, and for the time the +pangs of appetite overcame those of disappointment. About nine the landlord +entered on some errand. “I suppose, sir,” he said, lingering to see +that his guest had all that he wanted, “you’ve heard this about Mr. +Mottisfont?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Musters, what is it? Get a clean glass and tell me about it.” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s to resign, sir, I hear. And his son is to stand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” +</p> + +<p> +“Along o’ this about Sir Robert Peel, I understand. They have it +that Sir Robert’s going to repeal the corn taxes—some say that +he’s been for it all through, and some talk about a potato failure. Mr. +Mottisfont sees that that’ll never do for Riddsley, but he don’t +want to part from his leader, after following him all these years; so +he’ll go out and the young gentleman will take his place.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you think it is true about Peel?” +</p> + +<p> +“They’re saying it, and Mr. Stubbs, he believes it. But it’ll +never go down in Riddsley, Squire. We’re horn and corn men here, two to +one of us. There’s just the two small factories on the other side, and +most of the hands haven’t votes. But here’s Mr. Stubbs +himself.” +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer had looked into the room in passing. Seeing Basset he removed his +hat. “Pardon, Squire,” he said. “I did not know that you were +here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” Basset answered. He knew the lawyer locally, and had +seen him often—at arm’s length—in the peerage suit. +“Will you take a glass of wine with me?” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs said that he would with pleasure, if he might take it standing—his +time was short. The landlord was for withdrawing, but Stubbs detained him. +“No, John, with Mr. Basset’s leave I’ve a bone to pick with +you,” he said. “Who are these men who are staying here?” +</p> + +<p> +Musters’s face fell. “Lord, Mr. Stubbs,” he said, “have +you heard of them?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hear most things,” the lawyer answered. “But repealers +talking treason at the Audley Arms is a thing I never thought to hear. They +must go.” +</p> + +<p> +The landlord rubbed his head. “I can’t turn ’em out,” +he said. “They’d have the law of me. His lordship couldn’t +turn ’em out.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know about that,” Stubbs replied. “He’s +a good landlord, but he likes his own way.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what can I do?” the stout man protested. “When they came +I knew no more about them than a china babe. When they began to talk, so glib +that no one could answer them, I was more took aback than anybody. Seems like +the world’s coming to an end with Manchester men coming here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps it is,” Basset said. +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs met his eye and took his meaning. Later the lawyer maintained that he +had his suspicions from that moment. At the time he only answered, “Not +in our day, Mr. Basset. Peel or Repeal, there’s no one has attacked the +land yet but the land has broken them. And so it will be this time. John, the +sooner those two are out of your house the better.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, dang me, sir, what am I to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Put ’em in the horse trough for what I care!” the lawyer +replied. “Good-evening, Squire. I hope the Riddsley parliament +mayn’t disturb you.” +</p> + +<p> +The landlord followed him out, after handing something through the hatch, which +opened into the Snug. He left the hatch a little ajar when he had done so, and +the voices of those who gathered there nightly, as to a club, reached Basset. +At first he caught no more than a word here or there, but as the debate grew +warm the speakers raised their voices. +</p> + +<p> +“All mighty fine,” some one said, laying down the law, “but +you’re like the rest, you Manchester chaps. You’ve your eyes on +your own rack and manger!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m not denying it,” came the answer in a Lancashire accent, +“I’m not saying that cheap bread won’t suit us. But it +isn’t for that——” +</p> + +<p> +“No, no, of course not,” the former speaker replied with heavy +irony—Basset thought that the voice belonged to Hayward of the Leasows, a +pompous old farmer, dubbed behind his back “The Duke.” “You +don’t want low wages i’ your mills, of course!” +</p> + +<p> +“Cheap bread doesn’t make low wages,” the other rejoined. +“That’s where you mistake, sir. Let me put it to you. You’ve +known wheat high?” +</p> + +<p> +“It was seventy-seven shillings seven years back,” the farmer +pronounced. “And I ha’ known it a hundred shillings a quarter for +three years together.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I suppose the wages at that time were the highest you’ve ever +known?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, no,” the farmer admitted, “I’m not saying +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“And seven years ago when wheat was seventy-seven—it is fifty-six +now—were wages higher then than now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” the Duke answered reluctantly, “I don’t know as +they were, mister, not to take notice of.” +</p> + +<p> +“Think it out for yourself, sir,” the other replied. “I +don’t think you’ll find that wages are highest when wheat is +highest, nor lowest when wheat is lowest.” +</p> + +<p> +The farmer, more weighty than ready, snorted. But another speaker took up the +cudgels. “Ay, but one minute,” he said. “It’s the price +of wheat fixes the lowest wages. If it’s two pound of bread will keep a +man fit to work—just keep him so and no more—it’s the price +of bread fixes whether the lowest wages is eightpence a day or a shilling a +day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but——” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, but by G—d, he’s got you there!” the Duke cried, +and smacked his fat thigh in triumph. “We’ve some sense i’ +Riddsley yet. Here’s your health and song, Dr. Pepper!” At which +there was some laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, sir, I’ll not say yes, nor no, to that,” the +Lancashire man replied, as soon as he could get a hearing. “But, +gentlemen, it’s not low wages we want. I’ll tell you the two things +we do want, and why we want cheap bread; first, that your laborers after they +have bought bread may have something over to buy our woollens, and our cottons, +and your pots. And secondly, if we don’t take foreign wheat in payment +how are foreigners to pay for our goods?” +</p> + +<p> +But at this half a dozen were up in arms. “How?” cried the Duke, +“why wi’ money like honest men at home! But there it is! +There’s the devil’s hoof! It’s foreign corn you’re +after! And with foreign corn coming in at forty shillings where’ll we +be?” +</p> + +<p> +“No wheat will ever be grown at that price,” declared the free +trader with solemnity, “here or abroad!” +</p> + +<p> +“So you say!” cried Hayward. “But put it at forty-five. +We’ll be on the rates, and our laborers, where’ll they be?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t like such talk in my house!” said Musters. +</p> + +<p> +“I’d certainly like an answer to that,” Pepper the surgeon +said. “If the farmers are broke where’ll their laborers be but +flocking to your mills to put down wages there!” +</p> + +<p> +“The laborers? Well, they’re protected now, that’s +true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lucky for them!” cried two or three. +</p> + +<p> +“They are protected now,” the stranger repeated slowly. “And +I’ll tell you what one of them said to me last year. ‘I be +protected,’ he said, ‘and I be starving!’” +</p> + +<p> +“Dang his impudence!” muttered old Hayward. “That’s the +kind of thing they two Boshams at the Bridge talk. Firebrands they be!” +</p> + +<p> +But the shot had told; no one else spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“That man’s wages,” the Manchester man continued, “were +six shillings a week—it was in Wiltshire. And you are protected too, +sir,” he continued, turning suddenly on the Duke. “Have you made a +fortune, sir, farming?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know as I have,” the farmer answered +sulkily—and in a lower voice, “Dang his impudence again!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not? Because you are paying a protected rent. Because you pay high +for feeding-stuff. Because you pay poor-rates so high you’d be better off +paying double wages. There’s only one man benefits by the corn-tax, sir, +there’s only one who is truly protected, and that is the landlord!” +</p> + +<p> +But to several in the room this was treason, and they cried out upon it. +“Ay, that’s the bottom of it, mister,” one roared, +“down with the landlords and up with the cotton lords!” +“There’s your Reform Bill,” shouted another, +“we’ve put the beggars on horseback, and none’s to ride but +them now!” A third protested that cheap bread was a herring drawn across +the track. “They’re for cheap bread for the poor man, but no votes! +Votes would make him as good as them!” +</p> + +<p> +“Anyway,” the stranger replied patiently, “it’s clear +that neither the farmer nor the laborer grows fat on Protection. Your wages are +nine shillings——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ten and eleven!” cried two or three. +</p> + +<p> +“And your farmers are smothered in rates. If that’s all you get by +Protection I’d try another system.” +</p> + +<p> +“Anyways, I’ll ask you to try it out of my house,” Musters +said. “I’ve a good landlord and I’ll not hear him +abused!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear! Hear! Musters! Quite right!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve not said an uncivil word,” the Manchester man rejoined. +“I shall leave your house to-morrow, not an hour before. I’ll add +only one word, gentlemen. Bread is the staff of life. Isn’t it the last +thing you should tax?” +</p> + +<p> +“True,” Mr. Pepper replied. “But isn’t agriculture the +staple industry? Isn’t it the base on which all other industries stand? +Isn’t it the mainstay of the best constitution in the world? And +wasn’t it the land that steadied England, and kept it clear of Bonaparte +and Wooden Shoes——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, wooden ships against wooden shoes for ever!” broke in old +Hayward, in great excitement. “Where were the oaks grown as beat Bony! +No, master, protect the oak and protect the wheat, and England’ll never +lack ships nor meat! Your cotton-printers and ironfounders they’re great +folks now, great folks, with their brass and their votes, and so they’ve +a mind to upset the gentry. It’s the town against the country, and new +money against the old acres that have fed us and our fathers before us world +without end! But put one of my lads in your mills, and amid your muck, and in +twelve months he’d not pitch hay, no not three hours of the day!” +</p> + +<p> +Basset could hear the free trader’s chair grate on the sanded floor as he +pushed it back. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “I’ll not +quarrel with you. I wish you all the protection you deserve—and I think +Sir Robert will give it you! For us, I’m not saying that we are not +thinking of our own interests.” +</p> + +<p> +“Devil a doubt of that!” muttered the farmer. +</p> + +<p> +“And some of us may have been cold-shouldered by my lord. But you may +take it from me that there’s some of us, too, are as anxious to better +the poor man’s lot—ay, as Lord Ashley himself! That’s all! +Good-night, gentlemen.” +</p> + +<p> +When he was gone, “Gi’ me a coal for my pipe, John,” said the +Duke. “I never heard the like of that in Riddsley. He’s a gallus +glib chap that!” +</p> + +<p> +“I won’t say,” said Mr. Pepper cautiously, “that +there’s nothing in it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Plenty in it for the cotton people and the coal people, and the potters. +But not for us!” +</p> + +<p> +“But if Sir Robert sees it that way?” queried the surgeon, +delicately. +</p> + +<p> +“Then if Sir Robert were member for Riddsley,” Hayward answered +stubbornly, “he’d get his notice to quit, Dr. Pepper! You may bet +your hat on that!” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s one got a lesson last night,” a new-comer chimed in. +“Parson Colet got so beaten on the moor he’s in bed I am told. +He’s been speaking free these last two months, and I thought he’d +get it. Three lads from your part I am told, Hayward.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well!” the farmer replied with philosophy. +“There’s good in Colet, and maybe it’ll be a lesson to him! +Anyway, good or bad, he’s going.” +</p> + +<p> +“Going?” cried two or three, speaking at once. +</p> + +<p> +“I met Rector not two hours back. He’d a letter from Colet saying +he was going to preach the same rubbish here as he’s fed ’em with +at Brown Heath—cheap bread and the rest of it. Rector’s been to +him—he wouldn’t budge, and he got his notice to quit right +straight. Rector was fit to burst when I saw him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Colet be a born fool!” cried Musters. “Who’s like to +employ him after that? Wheat is tithe and the parsons are as fond of their +tithe as any man. You may look a long way before you’ll find a parson +that’s a repealer.” +</p> + +<p> +“Serves Colet right!” said one. “But I’m sorry for him +all the same. There’s worse men than the Reverend Colet.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset could never say afterwards what moved him at this point, but whatever it +was he got up and went out. The boots was lounging at the door of the inn. He +asked the man where Mr. Colet lodged, and learning that it was in Stream +Street, near the Maypole, he turned that way. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV<br/> +STRANGE BEDFELLOWS</h2> + +<p> +Had any one told Basset, even that morning, that before night he would seek the +advice of the Riddsley curate, he would have met the suggestion with unmeasured +scorn. Probably he had not since his college days spent an hour in intimate +talk with a man so far from him in fortune and position, and so unlike him in +those things which bring men together. Nor in the act of approaching +Colet—under the impulse of a few casual words and a sudden +thought—was he able to understand or to justify himself. +</p> + +<p> +But when he rose to his feet after an hour spent beside the curate’s +dingy hearth—over the barber’s shop in Stream Street—he did +not need to justify the step. He had said little but he had heard much. +Colet’s tongue had been loosened by the sacrifice he had made, and +inspired by that love of his kind which takes refuge in the most unlikely +shapes, he had poured forth at length his beliefs and his aspirations. And +Basset, whose world had tottered since morning, for whom common things had lost +their poise and life its wonted aspect, began to think that he had found in the +other’s aims a new standpoint and the offer of a new beginning. +</p> + +<p> +The dip candles, which had been many times snuffed, were burning low when the +two rose. The curate, whose pale cheeks matched his bandaged head, had a last +word to say. “Of the need I am sure,” he repeated, as +Basset’s eye sought the cheap clock on the mantelpiece. “If I have +not proved that, the fault, sir, is mine. But the means—they are a +question for you; almost any man may see them more clearly than I do. By votes, +it may be, and so through the people working out their own betterment. Or by +social measures, as Lord Ashley thinks, through the classes that are fitted by +education to judge for all. Or by the wider spread, as I hold, of +self-sacrifice by all for all—to me, the ideal. But of one thing I am +convinced; that this tax upon the commonest food, which takes so much more in +proportion from the poor than from the rich, is wrong. Certainly wrong, Mr. +Basset,—unless the gain and the loss can be equally spread. That’s +another matter.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not say any more now,” Basset answered cautiously, +“than that I am inclined to your view. But for yourself, are there not +others who will not pay so dearly for maintaining it?” +</p> + +<p> +A redness spread over the curate’s long horse-face. “No, Mr. +Basset,” he rejoined, “if I left my duty to others I should pay +still more dearly. I am my own man. I will remain so.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what will you do when you leave here?” Basset inquired, +casting his eyes round the shabby room. He did not see it as he had seen it on +his entrance. He discerned that, small as it was, and shabby as it was, it +might be a man’s home. “I fear that there are few incumbents who +hold your views.” +</p> + +<p> +“There are absentees,” Colet replied with a smile, “who are +not so particular; and in the north there are a few who think as I think. I +shall not starve.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have an old house on the Derbyshire border twenty miles from +here,” Basset said. “A servant and his wife keep it, and during +some months of the year I live there. It is an out-of-the-way place, Mr. Colet, +but it is at your service—if you don’t get work?” +</p> + +<p> +The curate seemed to shrink into himself. “I couldn’t trespass on +you,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you will,” Basset replied. “In the meantime, who was +the man you quoted a few minutes ago?” +</p> + +<p> +“Francis Place. He is a good man though not as we”—he touched +his threadbare cloth—“count goodness. He is something of a +Socialist, something of a Chartist—he might frighten you, Mr. Basset. But +he has the love of the people in him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will see him.” +</p> + +<p> +“He has been a tailor.” +</p> + +<p> +That hit Basset fairly in the face. “Good heavens!” he said. +“A tailor?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Colet replied, smiling. “But a very uncommon tailor. +Let me tell you why I quoted him. Because, though he is not a Christian, he has +ideals. He aims higher than he can shoot, while the aims of the Manchester +League, though I agree with them upon the corn-tax, seem to me to be bounded by +the material and warped by their own interests.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset nodded. “You have thought a good deal on these things,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“I live among the poor. I have them always before me.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I have thought so little that I need time. You must think no worse +of me if I wait a while. And now, good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +But the other did not take the hand held out to him. He was staring at the +candle. “I am not clear that I have been quite frank with you,” he +said awkwardly. “You have offered me the shelter of your house though I +am a stranger, Mr. Basset, and though you must suspect that to harbor me may +expose you to remark. Well, I may be tempted to avail myself of your kindness. +But I cannot do so unless you know more of my circumstances.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know all that is necessary.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t know what I am going to tell you,” Colet +persisted. “And I think that you should. I am going to marry the daughter +of your uncle’s servant, Toft.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good Lord!” cried Basset. This was a second and more serious blow. +It brought him down from the clouds. +</p> + +<p> +“That shocks you, Mr. Basset,” the curate continued with dignity, +“that I should marry one in her position? Well, I am not called upon to +justify it. Why I think her worthy, and more than worthy to share my life, is +my business. I only trouble you with the matter because you have made me an +offer which you might not have made had you known this.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset did not deny the fact. He could not, indeed. His taste, his prejudice, +his traditions all had received a blow, all were up in arms; and, for the +moment, at any rate he repented of his visit. He felt that in stepping out of +the normal round he had made a mistake. He should have foreseen, he should have +known that he would meet with such shocks. “You have certainly astonished +me,” he said after a pause of dismay. “I cannot think the match +suitable, Mr. Colet. May I ask if my uncle knows of this?” +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Audley knows of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—you cannot yourself think it suitable!” +</p> + +<p> +“I have,” Colet replied dryly, “or rather I had seventy +pounds a year. What girl, born in comfort, gently bred, sheltered from +childhood could I ask to share that? How could I, with so little in the present +and no prospects, ask a gentlewoman to share my lot?” +</p> + +<p> +Basset did not reply, but he was not convinced. A clergyman to marry a servant, +good and refined as Etruria was! It seemed to him to be unseemly, to be +altogether wrong. +</p> + +<p> +Colet too was silent a moment. Then, “I am glad I have told you +this,” he said. “I shall not now trespass on you. On the other +hand, I hope that you may still do something—and with your name, you can +do much—for the good cause. If rumor goes for anything, many will in the +next few months examine the ground on which they stand. It will be much, if +what I have said has weight with you.” +</p> + +<p> +He spoke with constraint, but he spoke like a man, and Basset owned his +equality while he resented it. He felt that he ought to renew his offer of +hospitality, but he could not—reserve and shyness had him again in their +grip. He muttered something about thinking it over, added a word or two of +thanks—which were cut short by the flickering out of the candle—and +a minute later he was in the dark deserted street, and walking back to his +inn—not over well content with himself, if the truth be told. +</p> + +<p> +Either he should not have gone, he felt, or he should have gone the whole way, +sunk his ideas of caste, and carried the thing through. What was it to him if +the man was going to marry a servant? +</p> + +<p> +But that was a detail. The main point was that he should not have gone. It had +been a foolish impulse—he saw it now—which had taken him to the +barber’s shop; and one which he might have known that he would repent. He +ought to have foreseen that he could not place himself on Colet’s level +without coming into collision with him; that he could not draw wisdom from him +without paying toll. +</p> + +<p> +An impossible person, he thought, a man of ideas quite unlike his own! And yet +the man had spoken well and ably, and spoken from experience. He had told the +things that he had seen as he passed from house to house, hard, sad facts, the +outcome of rising numbers and falling wages, of over-production, of mouths +foodless and unwanted. And all made worse, as he maintained, by this tax on +bread, that barely touched the rich man’s income, yet took a heavy toll +from the small wage. +</p> + +<p> +As he recalled some of the things that he had heard, Basset felt his interest +revive. Colet had dealt with facts; he had attempted no oratory, he had cast no +glamour over them. But he had brought to bear upon them the light of an +ideal—the Christian ideal of unselfishness; and his hearer, while he +doubted, while he did not admit that the solution was practical, owned its +beauty. +</p> + +<p> +For he too, as we know, had had his aspirations, though he had rarely thought +of turning them into action. Instead, he had hidden them behind the +commonplace; and in this he had matched the times, which were commonplace. For +the country lay in the trough of the wave. Neither the fine fury of the +generation which had adored the rights of man, nor the splendid endurance which +the great war had fostered, nor the lesser ardors of the Reform era, which +found its single panacea in votes, touched or ennobled it. Great wealth and +great poverty, jostling one another, marked a material age, seeking remedies in +material things, despising arms, decrying enthusiasm; an age which felt, but +hardly bowed as yet, to the breath of the new spirit. +</p> + +<p> +But Basset—perhaps because the present offered no great prospect to the +straitened squire—had had his glimpses of a life higher and finer, +devoted to something above the passing whim and the day’s indulgence, a +life that should not be useless to those who came after him. Was it possible +that he now heard the call? Could this be the crusade of which he had idly +dreamed? Had the trumpet sounded at the moment of his utmost need? +</p> + +<p> +If only it were so! During the evening he had kept his sorrow at bay as well as +he could, distracting his thoughts with passing objects. Now, as the boots +ushered him up the close-smelling stairs to the inn’s best room, and he +stood in his hat and coat, looking on the cold bare aspect and the unfamiliar +things—he owned himself desolate. The thought of Mary, of his hopes and +plans and of the end of these, returned upon him in an irresistible flood. The +waters which he had stemmed all day, though all day they had lapped his lips, +overwhelmed him with their bitterness. Mary! He had loved her and she—he +knew what she thought of him. +</p> + +<p> +He could not take up the old life. She had made an end of that, the rather as +from this time onward the Gatehouse would be closed to him by her presence. And +the old house near Wootton where he had been wont to pass part of his time? +That hardly met his needs or his aspirations. Unhappy as he was, he could not +see himself sitting down in idleness, to brood and to rust in a home so remote, +so quiet, so lost among the stony hills that the country said of it, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0" style="text-indent:-6pt"> +“Wootton under Weaver<br/> +Where God came never!” +</p> +</div> + +<p> +No, he could hardly face that. Hitherto he had not been called upon to say what +he would do with his life. Now the question was put to him and he had to answer +it. He had to answer it. For many minutes he sat on the bed staring before him. +And from time to time he sighed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI<br/> +THE GREAT HOUSE AT BEAUDELAYS</h2> + +<p> +It was about a week after this that two men stood on the neglected lawn, +contemplating the long blind front of Beaudelays House. With all its grandeur +the house lacked the dignity of ruin, for ruin presumes a past, and the larger +part of the Great House had no past. The ancient wing that had welcomed brides, +and echoed the laughter of children and given back the sullen notes of the +passing-bell did not suffice to redeem the whole. By night the house might +pass; the silent bulk imposed on the eye. By day it required no effort of fancy +to see the scaffold still clinging to the brickwork, or to discern that the +grand entrance had never opened to guest or neighbor, that everyday life had +never gazed through the blank windows of the long façade. +</p> + +<p> +The house, indeed, was not only dead. It had never lived. +</p> + +<p> +Certainly Nature had done something to shroud the dead. The lawn was knee-deep +in weeds, and the evergreens about it had pushed out embracing arms to narrow +the vista before the windows. At the lower end of the lawn a paved terrace, the +width of the house, promised a freer air, but even here grass sprouted between +the flags, and elders labored to uproot the stately balustrade that looked on +the lower garden. This garden, once formal, was now a tangle of vegetation, a +wilderness amid whose broad walks Venuses slowly turned to Dryads, and classic +urns lay in fragments, split by the frosts of some excessive winter. Only the +prospect of the Trent Valley and the Derbyshire foot-hills, visible beyond the +pleasance, still pleased; and this view was vague and sad and distant. For the +Great House, as became its greatness, shunned the public eye, and, lying far +back, set a wide stretch of park between its bounds and the verge of the +upland. +</p> + +<p> +One of the two men was the owner. The other who bore a bunch of keys was +Stubbs. Both had a depressed air. It would have been hard to say which of the +two entered more deeply into the sadness of the place. +</p> + +<p> +Presently my lord turned his back on the house. “The view is fine,” +he said. “The only fine thing about the place,” he added bitterly. +“Isn’t there a sort of Belvedere below the garden?” +</p> + +<p> +“There is, my lord. But I fear that it is out of repair.” +</p> + +<p> +“Like everything else! There, don’t think I’m blaming you for +it, man. You cannot make bricks without straw. But let us look at this +Belvedere.” +</p> + +<p> +They descended the steps, and passed slowly along the grass-grown walk, now and +again stepping aside to avoid the clutch of a straggling rose bough, or the +fragments of a broken pillar. They paused to inspect the sundial, a giant +Butterfly with closed wings, a replica of the stone monster in the Yew Walk. +Lord Audley read the inscription, barely visible through the verdigris that +stained the dial-plate: +</p> + +<p class="center"> +“Non sine sole volo!” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so!” he said. “A short life and a merry one!” +</p> + +<p> +A few paces farther along the walk they stopped to examine the basin of the +great fountain. Cracked from edge to centre, and become a shallow bed of clay +and weeds, it was now as unsightly as it had been beautiful in the days when +fair women leaning over it had fed the gold fish, or viewed their mirrored +faces in its waters. +</p> + +<p> +“The fortunes of the Audleys in a nutshell!” muttered the unlucky +owner. And turning on his heel, “Confound it, Stubbs,” he cried, +“I have had as much of this as I can stand! A little more and I shall go +back and cut my throat! It is beginning to rain, too. D—n the Belvedere! +Let us go into the house. That cannot be as bad as this.” +</p> + +<p> +Without waiting for an answer, or looking behind him, he strode back the way +they had come. Stubbs followed in silence, and they regained the lawn. +</p> + +<p> +“I tell you what it is,” Audley continued, letting the agent come +abreast of him. “You must find some vulgarian to take the +place—iron man or cotton man, I don’t care who he is, if he has got +the cash I You must let it, Stubbs. You must let it! It’s a white +elephant, it’s the d—ndest White Elephant man ever had!” +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer shook his head. “You may be sure, my lord,” he said +mildly, “I should have advised that long ago, if it were possible. But we +couldn’t let it in its present state—for a short term; and we have +no more power to lease it for a long one than, as your lordship knows, we have +power to sell it.” +</p> + +<p> +The other swore. At the outset he had scarcely felt his poverty. But he was +beginning to feel it. There were moments such as this when his withers were +wrung; when the consequence which the title had brought failed to soften the +hardships of his lot—a poor peer with a vast house. Had he tried to keep +the Great House in repair it would have swallowed the whole income of the +peerage—a sum which, as it was, barely sufficed for his needs as a +bachelor. +</p> + +<p> +Already Stubbs had hinted that there was one way out—a rich marriage. And +Audley had received the hint with the easiness of a man who was in no haste to +marry and might, likely enough, marry where money was. But once or twice during +the last few days, which they had been spending in a review of the property, my +lord had shown irritation. When an old farmer had said to his face, that he +must bring home a bride with a good fat chest, “and his lordship would be +what his forbears had been,” the great man, in place of a laughing +answer, had turned glumly away. +</p> + +<p> +Presently the two halted at the door of the north wing. Stubbs unlocked it and +pushed it open. They entered an ante-room of moderate size. +</p> + +<p> +“Faugh!” Audley cried. “Open a window! Break one if +necessary.” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs succeeded in opening one, and they passed on into the great hall, a room +sixty feet long and open to the roof, a gallery running round it. A +withdrawing-room of half the length opened at one end, and midway along the +inner side a short passage led to a second hall—the servants’ +hall—the twin of this. Together they formed an H, and were probably a +Jacobean copy of a Henry the Eighth building. A long table, some benches, and a +score of massive chairs furnished the room. Between the windows hung a few +ragged pictures, and on either side of the farther door a piece of tapestry +hung askew. +</p> + +<p> +Audley looked about him. In this room eighty years before the old lord had held +his revels. The two hearths had glowed with logs, a hundred wax-lights had +shone on silver and glass and the rosy tints of old wine. Guests in satin and +velvet, henchmen and led captains, had filled it with laughter and jest, and +song. With a foot on the table they had toasted the young king—not stout +Farmer George, not the old, mad monarch, but the gay young sovereign. To-day +desolation reigned. The windows gray with dirt let in a grisly light. All was +bare and cold and rusty—the webs of spiders crossed the very hearths. The +old lord, mouldering in his coffin, was not more unlike that Georgian reveller +than was the room of to-day unlike the room of eighty years before. +</p> + +<p> +Perhaps the thought struck his descendant. “God! What a +charnel-house!” he cried. “To think that men made merry in this +room. It’s a vault, it’s a grave! Let us get away from it. +What’s through, man?” +</p> + +<p> +They passed into the withdrawing-room, where panels of needlework of Queen +Anne’s time, gloomy with age, filled the wall spaces, and a few pieces of +furniture crouched under shrouds of dust. As they stood gazing two rats leapt +from a screen of Cordovan leather that lay in tatters on the floor. The rats +paused an instant to stare at the intruders, then fled in panic. +</p> + +<p> +The younger man advanced to one of the panels in the wall. “A hunting +scene?” he said. “These may be worth money some day.” +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer looked doubtful. “It will be a long day first, I am +afraid,” he said. “It’s funereal stuff at the best, my +lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate it is out of reach of the rats,” Lord Audley answered. +He cast a look of distaste at the shreds of the screen. He touched them with +his foot. A third rat sprang out and fled squeaking to covert. “Oh, +d—n!” he said. “Let us see something else.” +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer led the way upstairs to the ghostly, echoing gallery that ran round +the hall. They glanced into the principal guest-room, which was over the +drawing-room. Then they went by the short passage of the H to the range of +bedrooms over the servants’ hall. For the most part they opened one from +the other. +</p> + +<p> +“The parents slept in the outer and the young ladies in the inner,” +Audley said, smiling. “Gad! it tells a tale of the times!” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs opened the nearest door and recoiled. “Take care, my lord!” +he said. “Here are the bats!” +</p> + +<p> +“Faugh! What a smell! Can’t you keep them out?” +</p> + +<p> +“We tried years ago—I hate them like poison—but it was of no +use. They are in all these upper rooms.” +</p> + +<p> +They were. For when Stubbs, humping his shoulders as under a shower, opened a +second door, the bats streamed forth in a long silent procession, only to +stream back again as silently. In a dusky corner of the second room a cluster, +like a huge bunch of grapes, hung to one of the rafters. Now and again a bat +detached itself and joined the living current that swept without a sound +through the shadowy rooms. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing beyond these rooms?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then let us go down. Rats and bats and rottenness! <i>Non sine sole +volo!</i> We may not, but the bats do. Let us go down! Or no! I was forgetting. +Where is the Muniment Room?” +</p> + +<p> +“This way, my lord,” Stubbs replied, turning with suspicious +readiness—the bats were his pet aversion. “I brought a candle and +some of the new lucifers. This way, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +He led the way down to a door set in a corner of the ante-room. He unlocked +this and they found themselves at the foot of a circular staircase. On the +farther side of the stairfoot was another door which led, Stubbs explained, +into the servants’ quarters. “This turret,” he added, +“is older even than the wing, and forms no part of the H. It was retained +because it supplied a second staircase, and also a short cut from the +servants’ hall to the entrance. The Muniment Room is over this lobby on +the first floor. Allow me to go first, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +The air was close, but not unpleasant, and the stairs were clean. On the first +floor a low-browed door, clamped and studded with iron, showed itself. Stubbs +halted before it. There was a sputter. A light shone out. “Wonderful +invention!” he said. “Electric telegraph not more wonderful, though +marvellous invention that, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” the other answered dryly. “But—when were you +here last, Stubbs?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not for a twelvemonth, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave your candle?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then what’s that?” The young man pointed to something that +lay in the angle between a stair and the wall. +</p> + +<p> +“God bless my soul!” the lawyer cried. “It’s a +candle.” +</p> + +<p> +“And clean. It has not been there a week. Who has been here, my +friend?” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs reflected. “No one with my authority,” he said. “But +if the devil himself has been here,” he continued, stoutly recovering +himself, “he can have done no harm. I can prove that in five minutes, my +lord—if you will kindly hold the light.” He inserted a large key in +the lock, and with an effort, he shot back the bolts. He pushed open the door +and signed to Lord Audley to enter. +</p> + +<p> +He did so, and Stubbs followed. They stood and looked about them. They were in +a whitewashed chamber twelve feet square, clean, bare, empty. The walls gave +back the light so that the one candle lit the place perfectly. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s as good as air-tight,” Stubbs said with pride. +“And you see, my lord, we swept it as bare as the palm of my hand. I can +answer for it that not a shred of paper or a piece of wax was left.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley, gazing about him, seemed satisfied. His face relaxed. +“Yes,” he said, “you could not overlook anything in a place +like this. I’m glad I’ve seen it.” +</p> + +<p> +He was turning to go when a thought struck him. He lowered the light and +scanned the floor. “All the same, somebody has been here!” he +exclaimed. “There’s one of the things you are so pleased +with—a lucifer!” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs stooped and looked. “A lucifer?” he repeated. He picked up +the bit of charred wood and examined it. “Now how did that come here? I +never used one till six months ago.” +</p> + +<p> +My lord frowned. “Who is it?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Some one, I fear, who has had a key made,” the agent answered, +shaking his head, +</p> + +<p> +“I can see that for myself. But has he learned anything?” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs stared. “There’s nothing to learn, my lord,” he said. +“You can see that. Whoever he is, he has cracked the nut and found no +kernel!” +</p> + +<p> +The young man looked round him again. He nodded. “I suppose so,” he +said. But he seemed ill at ease and inclined to find fault. He threw the light +of the candle this way and that, as if he expected the clean white walls to +tell a tale. “What’s that?” he asked suddenly. “A +crack? Or what?” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs looked, passed his hand over the mark on the wall, effaced it. +“No, my lord, a cobweb,” he said. “Nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +There was no more to be seen, yet Audley seemed loth to go. At length he turned +and went out. Stubbs closed and locked the door behind them, then he took the +candle from his lordship and invited him to go down before him. Still the young +man hesitated. “I suppose we can learn nothing more?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing, my lord,” Stubbs answered. “To tell you the truth, +I have long thought Mr. John mad, and it is possible that his madness has taken +this turn. But I am equally sure that there is nothing for him to discover, if +he spends every day of his life here.” +</p> + +<p> +“All the same I don’t like it,” the owner objected. +“Whoever has been here has no right here. It is odd that I had some +notion of this before we came. You may depend upon it that this was why he +fixed himself at the Gatehouse.” +</p> + +<p> +“He may have had something of the sort in his mind,” Stubbs +admitted. “But I don’t think so, my lord. More probably, being here +and idle, he took to wandering in for lack of something to do.” +</p> + +<p> +“And by and by, had a key made and strayed into the Muniment Room! No, +that won’t do, Stubbs. And frankly there should be closer supervision +here. It should not have remained for me to discover this.” +</p> + +<p> +He began to descend, leaving Stubbs to digest the remark; who for his part +thought honestly that too much was being made of the matter. Probably the +intruder was John Audley; the man had a bee in his bonnet, and what more likely +than that he should be taken with a craze to haunt the house which he believed +was his own? But the agent was too prudent to defend himself while the young +man’s vexation was fresh. He followed him down in silence, and before +many minutes had passed, they were in the open air, and had locked the door +behind them. +</p> + +<p> +Clouds hung low on the tops of the trees, mist veiled the view, and a small +rain was falling on the wet lawn. Nevertheless the young man moved into the +open. “Come this way,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer turned up the collar of his coat and followed him unwillingly. +“Where does he get in?” my lord asked. It seemed as if the longer +he dwelt on the matter the less he liked it. “Not by that door—the +lock is rusty. The key had shrieked in it. Probably he enters by one of the +windows in the new part.” +</p> + +<p> +He walked towards the middle of the lawn and Stubbs, thankful that he wore +Wellington boots, followed him. +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer thought that he had never seen the house wear so dreary an aspect as +it wore under the gray weeping sky. But his lordship was more practical. +“These windows look the most likely,” he said after a short survey: +and he dragged his unwilling attendant to the point he had marked. +</p> + +<p> +A nearer view strengthened his suspicions. On the sill of one of the windows +were scratches and stains. “You see?” he said. “It should not +have been left to me to discover this! Probably John Audley comes from the +Gatehouse by the Yew Walk.” He turned to measure the distance with his +eye, the distance which divided the spot from the Iron Gate. +“That’s it,” he said, “he comes——” +</p> + +<p> +Then, “Good G—d!” he muttered. “Look! Look!” +Stubbs looked. They both looked. Beyond the lawn, on the farther side of the +iron grille and clinging to it with both hands, a man stood bareheaded under +the rain. Whether he had come uncovered, or his hat had been jerked from him by +some movement caused by their appearance, they could not tell; nor how long he +had stood thus, gazing at them through the bars. But they could see that his +eyes never wavered, that his hands gripped the iron, and the two knew by +instinct that in the intensity of his hate, the man was insensible alike to the +rain that drenched him, and to the wind that blew out the skirts of his thin +black coat. +</p> + +<p> +Even Stubbs held his breath. Even he felt that there was something uncanny and +ominous in the appearance. For the gazer was John Audley. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII<br/> +TO THE RESCUE</h2> + +<p> +Stubbs was the first to collect himself, but a minute elapsed before he spoke. +Then, “He must be mad,” he cried, “mad, to expose himself to +the weather at his age. If I had not seen it, I couldn’t believe +it!” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it is John Audley?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” Then raising his voice, “My lord! I don’t think +I would go to him now!” +</p> + +<p> +But Audley was already striding across the lawn towards the gate. The lawyer +hesitated, gave way, and followed him. +</p> + +<p> +They were within twenty paces of the silent watcher when he moved—up to +that time he might have been a lay figure. He shook one hand in the air, as if +he would beat them off, then he turned and walked stiffly away. Half a dozen +steps took him out of sight. The Yew Walk swallowed him. +</p> + +<p> +But, quickly as he vanished, the lawyer had had time to see that he staggered. +“I fear, my lord, he is ill,” he said. “He will never reach +the Gatehouse in that state. I had better follow him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why the devil did he come here?” Audley retorted savagely. The +watcher’s strange aspect, his face, white against the dark yews, his +stillness, his gesture, a something ominous in all, had shaken him. “If +he had stopped at home——” +</p> + +<p> +“Still——” +</p> + +<p> +“D—n him, it’s his affair!” +</p> + +<p> +“Still we cannot leave him if he has fallen, my lord,” Stubbs +replied with decision. And without waiting for his employer’s assent he +tried the gate. It was locked, but in a trice he found the key on his bunch, +turned it, and pushed back the gate. Audley noticed that it moved silently on +its hinges. +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs, the gate open, began to feel ashamed of his impulse. Probably there was +nothing amiss after all. But he had hardly looked along the path before he +uttered a cry, and hurrying forward, stooped over a bundle of clothes that lay +in the middle of the walk. It was John Audley. Apparently he had tripped over a +root and lain where he had fallen. +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs’s cry summoned the other, who followed him through the gate, to +find him on his knees supporting the old man’s head. The sight recalled +Audley to his better self. The mottled face, the staring eyes, the helpless +limbs shocked him. “Good G—d!” he cried, “you were +right, Stubbs! He might have died if we had left him.” +</p> + +<p> +“He would have died,” Stubbs answered. “As it is—I am +not sure.” He opened the waistcoat, felt for the beating of the heart, +bent his ear to it. “No, I don’t think he’s gone,” he +said, “but the heart is feeble, very feeble. We must have brandy! My +lord, you are the more active. Will you go to the Gatehouse—there is no +nearer place—and get some? And something to carry him home! A hurdle if +there is nothing better, and a couple of men?” +</p> + +<p> +“Right!” Audley cried. +</p> + +<p> +“And don’t lose a minute, my lord! He’s nearly gone.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley stripped off his overcoat. “Wrap this about him!” he said. +And before the other could answer he had started for the Gatehouse, at a pace +which he believed that he could keep up. +</p> + +<p> +Pad, pad, my lord ran under the yew trees, swish, swish across the soaking +grass, about the great Butterfly. Pad, pad, again through the gloom under the +yews! Not too fast, he told himself—he was a big man and he must save +himself. Now he saw before him the opening into the park, and the light falling +on the pale turf. And then, at a point not more than twenty yards short of the +open ground, he tripped over a root, tried to recover himself, struck another +root, and fell. +</p> + +<p> +The fall shook him, but he was young, and he was quickly on his feet. He paused +an instant to brush the dirt from his hands and knees; and it was during that +instant that his inbred fear of John Audley, and the certainty that if John +Audley died he need fear no more, rose before him. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, if he died—this man who was even now plotting against +him—there was an end of that fear! There was an end of uneasiness, of +anxiety, of the alarm that assailed him in the small hours, of the forebodings +that showed him stripped of title and income and consequence. Stripped of all! +</p> + +<p> +Five seconds passed, and he still stood, engaged with his hands. Five more; it +was his knees he was brushing now—and very carefully. Another +five—the sweat broke out on his brow though the day was cold. Twenty +seconds, twenty-five! His face showed white in the gloom. And still he stood. +He glanced behind him. No one could see him. +</p> + +<p> +But the movement discovered the man to himself, and with an oath he broke away. +He thrust the damning thought from him, he sprang forward. He ran. In ten +strides he was in the open park, and trotting steadily, his elbows to his +sides, across the sward. The blessed light was about him, the wind swept past +his ears, the cleansing rain whipped his face. Thank God, he had left behind +him the heavy air and noisome scent of the yews. He hated them. He would cut +them all down some day. +</p> + +<p> +For in a strange way he associated them with the temptation which had assailed +him. And he was thankful, most thankful, that he had put that temptation from +him—had put it from him, when most men, he thought, would have succumbed +to it. Thank God, he had not! The farther he went, indeed, the better he felt. +By the time he saw the Gatehouse before him, he was sure that few men, exposed +to that temptation, would have overcome it. For if John Audley died what a +relief it would be! And he had looked very ill; he had looked like a man at the +point of death. The brandy could not reach him under—well, under half an +hour. Half an hour was a long time, when a man looked like that. +“I’ll do my best,” he thought. “Then if he dies, well +and good. I’ve always been afraid of him.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not spare himself, but he was not in training, and he was well winded +when he reached the Gatehouse. A last effort carried him between the +Butterflies, and he halted on the flags of the courtyard. A woman, whose skirts +were visible, but whose head and shoulders were hidden by an umbrella, was +standing in the doorway on his left, speaking to some one in the house. She +heard his footsteps and turned. +</p> + +<p> +“Lord Audley!” she exclaimed—for it was Mary Audley. Then +with a woman’s quickness, “You have come from my uncle?” she +cried. “Is he ill?” +</p> + +<p> +Audley nodded. “I am come for some brandy,” he gasped. +</p> + +<p> +She did not waste a moment. She sped into the house, and to the dining-room. +“I had missed him,” she cried over her shoulder. “The +man-servant is away. I hoped he might be with him.” +</p> + +<p> +In a trice she had opened a cellarette and taken from it a decanter of brandy. +Then she saw that he could not carry this at any speed, and she turned to the +sideboard and took a wicker flask from a drawer. With a steady hand and without +the loss of a minute—he found her presence of mind admirable—she +filled this. +</p> + +<p> +As she corked it, Mrs. Toft appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. +“Dear, dear, miss,” she said, “is the master bad? But +it’s no wonder when he, that doesn’t quit the fire for a week +together, goes out like this? And Toft away and all!” She stared at his +lordship. Probably she knew him by sight. +</p> + +<p> +“Will you get his bed warmed, Mrs. Toft,” Mary answered. She gave +Lord Audley the flask. “Please don’t lose a moment,” she +urged. “I am following—oh yes, I am. But you will go faster.” +</p> + +<p> +She had not a thought, he saw, for the disorder of her dress, or for her hair +dishevelled by the wind, and scarce a thought for him. He decided that he had +never seen her to such advantage, but it was no time for compliments, nor was +she in the mood for them. Without more he nodded and set off on his return +journey—he had not been in the house three minutes. By and by he looked +back, and saw that Mary was following on his heels. She had snatched up a +sun-bonnet, discarded the umbrella, and, heedless of the rain, was coming after +him as swiftly and lightly as Atalanta of the golden apple. “Gad, +she’s not one of the fainting sort!” he reflected; and also that if +he had given way to that d—d temptation he could not have looked her in +the face. “As it is,” his mind ran, “what are the odds the +old boy’s not dead when we get there? If he is—I am safe! If he is +not, I might do worse than think of her. It would checkmate him finely. +More”—he looked again over his shoulder—“she’s a +fine mover, by Gad, and her figure’s perfect! Even that rag on her head +don’t spoil her!” Whereupon he thought of a certain Lady Adela with +whom he was very friendly, who had political connections and would some day +have a plum. The comparison was not, in the matter of fineness and figure, to +Lady Adela’s advantage. Her lines were rather on the Flemish side. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Mary was feeling anything but an Atalanta. Wind and rain and wet +grass, loosened hair and swaying skirts do not make for romance. But in her +anxiety she gave small thought to these. Her one instinct was to help. With all +his oddity her uncle had been kind to her, and she longed to show him that she +was grateful. And he was her one relative. She had no one else in the world. He +had given her what of home he had, and ease, and a security which she had never +known before. Were she to lose him now—the mere fancy spurred her to +fresh exertions, and in spite of a pain in her side, in spite of clinging +skirts, and shoes that threatened to leave her feet, she pushed on. She was not +far behind Audley when he reached the Yew Walk. +</p> + +<p> +She saw him plunge into it, she followed, and was on the scene not many seconds +later. When she caught sight of the little group kneeling about the prostrate +man, that sense of tragedy, and of the inevitable, which assails at such a +time, shook her. The thing always possible, never expected, had happened at +last. +</p> + +<p> +Then the coolness which women find in these emergencies returned. She knelt +between the men, took the insensible head on her arm, held out her other hand +for the cup. “Has he swallowed any?” she asked, taking command of +the situation. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Toft answered—and she became aware that the man with +Lord Audley was the servant. +</p> + +<p> +She waited for no more, she tilted the cup, and by some knack she succeeded +where Toft had failed. A little of the spirit was swallowed. She improvised a +pillow and laid the head down on it. “The lower the better,” she +murmured. She felt the hands and began to rub one. “Rub the other,” +she said to Toft. “The first thing to do is to get him home! Have you a +carriage? How near can you bring it, Lord Audley?” +</p> + +<p> +“We can bring it to the park at the end of the walk,” he answered. +“My agent has gone to fetch it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you hasten it?” she replied. “Toft will stay with me. +And bring something, please, on which you can carry him to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“At once,” Audley answered, and he went off in the direction of the +Great House. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve seen him as bad before, Miss,” Toft said. “I +found that he had gone out without his hat and I followed him, but I could not +trace him at once. I don’t think you need feel alarmed.” +</p> + +<p> +Certainly the face had lost its mottled look, the eyes were now shut, the limbs +lay more naturally. “If he were only at home!” Mary answered. +“But every moment he is exposed to the cold is against him. He must be +wet through.” +</p> + +<p> +She induced the patient to swallow another mouthful of brandy, and with their +eyes on his face the two watched for the first gleam of consciousness. It came +suddenly. John Audley’s eyes opened. He stared at them. +</p> + +<p> +His mind, however, still wandered. “I knew it!” he muttered. +“They could not be there and I not know it! But the wall! The wall is +thick—thick and——” He was silent again. +</p> + +<p> +The rambling mind is to those who are not wont to deal with it a most uncanny +thing, and Mary looked at Toft to see what he made of it. But the servant had +eyes only for his master. He was gazing at him with an absorbed face. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, a thick wall!” the sick man murmured. “They may look and +look, they’ll not see through it.” He was silent a moment, then, +“All bare!” he murmured. “All bare!” He chuckled +faintly, and tried to raise himself, but sank back. “Fools!” he +whispered, “fools, when in ten minutes if they took out a +brick——” +</p> + +<p> +The servant cut him short. “Here’s his lordship!” he cried. +He spoke so sharply that Mary looked up in surprise, wondering what was amiss. +Lord Audley was within three or four paces of them—the carpet of yew +leaves had deadened his footsteps. “Here’s his lordship, +sir!” Toft repeated in the same tone, his mouth close to John +Audley’s ear. +</p> + +<p> +The servant’s manner shocked Mary. “Hush, Toft!” she said. +“Do you want to startle him?” +</p> + +<p> +“His lordship will startle him,” Toft retorted. He looked over his +shoulder, and without ceremony he signed to Lord Audley to stand back. +</p> + +<p> +“Bare, quite bare!” John Audley muttered, his mind still far away. +“But if they took out—if they took out——” +</p> + +<p> +Toft waved his hand again—waved it wildly. +</p> + +<p> +“All right, I understand,” Lord Audley said. He had not at first +grasped what was wanted, but the man’s repeated gestures enlightened him. +He retired to a position where he was out of the sick man’s sight. +</p> + +<p> +The servant wiped the sweat from his brow. “He mustn’t see +him!” he repeated insistently. “Lord! what a turn it gave me. I ask +your pardon, Miss,” he continued, “but I know the master so +well.” He cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder. “If the +master’s eyes lit on him once, only once, when he’s in this state, +I’d not answer for his life.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary reproached herself. “You are quite right, Toft,” she said. +“I ought to have thought of that myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“He must not see any strangers!” +</p> + +<p> +“He shall not. You are quite right.” +</p> + +<p> +But Toft was still uneasy. He looked round. Stubbs and a man who had been +working in the neighborhood were bringing up a sheep-hurdle, and again the +butler’s anxiety overcame him. “D—n!” he said: and he +rose to his feet. “I think they want to kill him amongst them! Why +can’t they keep away?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hush! Toft. Why——” +</p> + +<p> +“He mustn’t see the lawyer! He must not see him on any +account.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary nodded. “I will arrange it!” she said. “Only don’t +excite him. You will do him harm that way if you are not careful. I will speak +to them.” +</p> + +<p> +She went to meet them and explained, while Stubbs, who had not seen her before, +considered her with interest. So this was Miss Audley, Peter Audley’s +daughter! She told them that she thought it better that her uncle should not +find strangers about him when he came to himself. They agreed—it seemed +quite natural—and it was arranged that Toft and the man should carry him +as far as the carriage, while Mary walked beside him; and that afterwards she +and Toft should travel with him. The carriage cushions were placed on the +hurdle, and the helpless man was lifted on to them. Toft and the laborer raised +their burden, and slowly and heavily, with an occasional stagger, they bore it +along the sodden path. Mary saw that the sweat sprang out on Toft’s +sallow face and that his knees shook under him. Clearly the man was taxing his +strength to the utmost, and she felt some concern—she had not given him +credit for such fidelity. However, he held out until they reached the carriage. +</p> + +<p> +Babbling a word now and again, John Audley was moved into the vehicle. Mary +mounted beside him and supported his head, while Toft climbed to the box, and +at a footpace they set off across the sward, the laborer plodding at the tail +of the carriage, and Lord Audley and Stubbs following a score of paces behind. +The rain had ceased, but the clouds were low and leaden, the trees dripped +sadly, and the little procession across the park had a funereal look. To Mary +the way seemed long, to Toft still longer. With every moment his head was +round. His eyes were now on his master, now jealously cast on those who brought +up the rear. But everything comes to an end, and at length they swung into the +courtyard, where Mrs. Toft, capable and cool, met them and took a load off +Mary’s shoulders. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s that bad is he?” she said calmly. “Then the +sooner he’s in his bed the better. ’Truria’s warming it. How +will we get him up? I could carry him myself if that’s all. If +Toft’ll take his feet, I’ll do the rest. No need for another soul +to come in!” with a glance at Lord Audley. “But if they would fetch +the doctor I’d not say no, Miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll ask them to do that,” Mary said. +</p> + +<p> +“And don’t you worrit, Miss,” Mrs. Toft continued, eyeing the +sick man judicially. “He’s been nigh as bad as this before and been +about within the week. There’s some as when they wool-gathers, +there’s no worse sign. But the master he’s never all here, nor all +there, and like a Broseley butter-pot another touch of the kiln will neither +make him nor break him. Now, Toft, wide of the door-post, and steady, +man.” +</p> + +<p> +Lord Audley and Stubbs had remained outside, but when they saw Mary coming +towards them, the young man left Stubbs and went to meet her. “How is +he?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Mrs. Toft thinks well of him. She has seen him nearly as ill before, she +says. But if he recovers,” Mary continued gratefully, “we owe his +life to you. Had you not found him he must have died. And if you had lost a +moment in bringing the news, I am sure that we should have been too +late.” +</p> + +<p> +The young man might have given some credit to Stubbs, but he did not; perhaps +because time pressed, perhaps because he felt that his virtue in resisting a +certain temptation deserved its reward. Instead he looked at Mary with a +sympathy so ardent that her eyes fell. “Who would not have done as +much?” he said. “If not for him—for you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you add one kindness then?” she answered. “Will you +send Dr. Pepper as quickly as possible?” +</p> + +<p> +“Without the loss of a minute,” he said. “But one thing +before I go. I cannot come here to inquire, yet I should like to know how he +goes on. Will you walk a little way down the Riddsley road at noon to-morrow, +and tell me how he fares?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary hesitated. But when he had done so much for them, when he had as good as +saved her uncle’s life, how could she be churlish? How could she play the +prude? “Of course I will,” she said frankly. “I hope I shall +bring a good report.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you,” he said. “Until to-morrow!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII<br/> +MASKS AND FACES</h2> + +<p> +Cherbuliez opens one of his stories with the remark that if the law of +probabilities ruled, the hero and heroine would never have met, seeing that the +one lived in Venice and the other seldom left Paris. That in spite of this they +fell in with one another was enough to suggest to the lady that Destiny was at +work to unite them. +</p> + +<p> +He put into words a thought which has entertained millions of lovers. If in +face of the odds of three hundred and sixty-four to one Phyllis shares her +birthday with Corydon, if Frederica sprains her ankle and the ready arm belongs +to a Frederic, if Mademoiselle has a <i>grain de beauté</i> on the right ear, +and Monsieur a plain mole on the left—here is at once matter for reverie, +and the heart is given almost before the hands have met. +</p> + +<p> +This was the fourth occasion on which Audley had come to Mary’s rescue, +and, sensible as she was, she was too thoroughly woman to be proof against the +suggestion. On three of the four occasions the odds had been against his +appearance. Yet he had come. To-day in particular, as if no pain that +threatened her could be indifferent to him, as if no trouble approached her but +touched a nerve in him, he had risen from the very ground to help and sustain +her. +</p> + +<p> +Could the coldest decline to feel interest in one so strangely linked with her +by fortune? Could the most prudent in such a case abstain from day dreams, in +which love and service, devotion and constancy, played their parts? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Sic itur ad astra!</i> So men and women begin to love. +</p> + +<p> +She spent the morning between the room in which John Audley was making a slow +recovery, and the deserted library which already wore a cold and unused aspect. +In the one and the other she felt a restlessness and a disturbance which she +was fain to set down to yesterday’s alarm. The old interests invited her +in vain. Do what she would, she could not keep her mind off the appointment +before her. Her eyes grew dreamy, her thoughts strayed, her color came and +went. At one moment she would plunge into a thousand attentions to her uncle, +at another she opened books only to close them. She looked at the +clock—surely the hands were not moving! She looked again—it could +not be as late as that! The truth was that Mary was not in love, but she was +ready to be in love. She was glad and sorry, grave and gay, without reason; +like a stream that dances over the shallows, and rippling and twinkling goes +its way through the sunshine, knowing nothing of the deep pool that awaits it. +</p> + +<p> +Presently, acting upon some impulse, she opened a drawer in one of the tables. +It contained a portrait in crayons of Peter Basset, which John Audley had shown +her. She took out the sketch and set it against a book where the light fell +upon it, and she examined it. At first with a smile—that he should have +been so mad as to think what he had thought! And then with a softer look. How +hard she had been to him! How unfeeling! Nay, how cruel! +</p> + +<p> +She sat for a long time looking at the portrait. But in fact she had forgotten +that it was before her, when the clock, striking the half—hour before +noon, surprised her. Then she thrust the portrait back into its drawer, and +went with a composed face to put on her hat. +</p> + +<p> +The past summer had been one of the wettest ever known, for rain had fallen on +five days out of seven. But to-day it was fine, and as Mary descended the road +that led from the house towards Riddsley, a road open to the vale on one side +and flanked on the other by a rising slope covered with brushwood, a watery sun +was shining. Its rays, aided by the clearness of the air, brought out the +colors of stubble and field, flood and coppice, that lay below. And men looking +up from toil or pleasure, leaning on spades or pausing before they crossed a +stile, saw the Gatehouse transformed to a fairy lodge, gray, clear—cut, +glittering, breaking the line of forest trees—saw it as if it had stood +in another world. +</p> + +<p> +Mary looked back, looked forward, admired, descended. She had made up her mind +that Lord Audley would meet her at a turn near the foot of the hill, where a +Cross had once stood, and where the crumbling base and moss-clothed steps still +bade travellers rest and be thankful. +</p> + +<p> +He was there, and Mary owned the attraction of the big smiling face and the +burly figure, that in a rough, caped riding-coat still kept an air of fashion. +He on his side saw coming to meet him, through the pale sunshine, not as +yesterday an Atalanta, but a cool Dian, with her hands in a large muff. +</p> + +<p> +“You bring a good report, I hope?” he cried before they met. +</p> + +<p> +“Very good,” Mary replied, sparkling a little as she looked at +him—was not the sun shining? “My uncle is much better this morning. +Dr. Pepper says that it was mainly exertion acting on a weak heart. He expects +him to be downstairs in a week and to be himself in a fortnight. But he will +have to be more careful in future.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is good!” +</p> + +<p> +“He says, too, that if you had not acted so promptly, my uncle must have +died.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, he was pretty far gone, I must say.” +</p> + +<p> +“So, as he will not thank you himself, you must let me thank you.” +And Mary held out the hand she had hitherto kept in her muff. She was +determined not to be a prude. +</p> + +<p> +He pressed it discreetly. “I am glad,” he said. “Very glad. +Perhaps after this he may think better of me.” +</p> + +<p> +She laughed. “I don’t think that there is a chance of it,” +she said. +</p> + +<p> +“No? Well, I suppose it was foolish, but do you know, I did hope that +this might bring us together.” +</p> + +<p> +“You may dismiss it,” she answered, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” he said. “Then tell me this. How in the world did he +come to be there? Without a hat? Without a coat? And so far from the +house?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary hesitated. He had turned, they were walking side by side. “I am not +sure that I ought to tell you,” she said. “What I know I gathered +from a word that Mr. Audley let fall when he was rambling. He seems to have had +some instinct, some feeling that you were there and to have been forced to +learn if it was so.” +</p> + +<p> +“But forced? By what?” Lord Audley asked. “I don’t +understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand either,” Mary answered. +</p> + +<p> +“He could not know that we were there?” +</p> + +<p> +“But he seems to have known.” +</p> + +<p> +“Strange,” he murmured. “Does he often stray away like +that?” +</p> + +<p> +“He does, sometimes,” she admitted reluctantly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” Audley was silent a moment. Then, “Well, I am glad he +is better,” he said in the tone of one who dismisses a subject. +“Let us talk of something else—ourselves. Are you aware that this +is the fourth time that I have come to your rescue?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that it is the fourth time that you have been very useful,” +she admitted. She wished that she had been able to control her color, but +though he spoke playfully there was meaning in his voice. +</p> + +<p> +“I, too, have a second sense it seems,” he said, almost purring as +he looked at her. “Did you by any chance think of me, when you missed +your uncle?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not for a moment,” she retorted. +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps—you thought of Mr. Basset?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, nor of Mr. Basset. Had he been at the Gatehouse I might have. But he +is away.” +</p> + +<p> +“Away, is he? Oh!” He looked at her with a whimsical smile. +“Do you know that when he met us the other evening I thought that he was +a little out of temper? It was not a continuance of that which took him away, I +suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary would have given the world to show an unmoved face at that moment. But she +could not. Nor could she feel as angry as she wished. “I thought we were +going to talk of ourselves,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought that we were talking of you.” +</p> + +<p> +On that, “I am afraid that I must be going back,” she said. And she +stopped. +</p> + +<p> +“But I am going back with you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you? Well, you may come as far as the Cross.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, hang the Cross!” he answered with a masterfulness of which +Mary owned the charm, while she rebelled against it. “I shall come as far +as I like! And hang Basset too—if he makes you unhappy!” He +laughed. “We’ll talk of—what shall we talk of, Mary? Why, we +are cousins—does not that entitle me to call you +‘Mary’?” +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather you did not,” she said, and this time there was no +lack of firmness in her tone. She remembered what Basset had said about her +name and—and for the moment the other’s airiness displeased her. +</p> + +<p> +“But we are cousins.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you can call me cousin,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +He laughed. “Beaten again!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“And I can call you cousin,” she said sedately. “Indeed, I am +going to treat you as a cousin. I want you, if not to do, to think of doing +something for me. I don’t know,” nervously, “whether I am +asking more than I ought—if so you must forgive me. But it is not for +myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“You frighten me!” he said. “What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s about Mr. Colet, the curate whom you helped us to save from +those men at Brown Heath. He has been shamefully treated. What they did to him +might be forgiven—they knew no better. But I hear that because he +preaches what is not to everybody’s taste, but what thousands and +thousands are saying, he is to lose his curacy. And that is his livelihood. It +seems most wicked to me, because I am told that no one else will employ him. +And what is he to do? He has no friends——” +</p> + +<p> +“He has one eloquent friend.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t laugh at me!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not laughing,” he answered. He was, in fact, wondering how he +should deal with this—this fad of hers. A little, too, he was wondering +what it meant. It could not be that she was in love with Colet. Absurd! He +recalled the look of the man. “I am not laughing,” he repeated more +slowly. “But what do you want me to do?” +</p> + +<p> +“To use your influence for him,” Mary explained, “either with +the rector to keep him or with some one else to employ him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see.” +</p> + +<p> +“He only did what he thought was his duty. And—and because he did +it, is he to pay with all he has in the world?” +</p> + +<p> +“It seems a hard case.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is more, it is an abominable injustice!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said slowly. “It seems so. It certainly seems hard. +But let me—don’t be angry with me if I put another side.” He +spoke with careful moderation. “It is my experience that good, easy men, +such as I take the rector of Riddsley to be, rarely do a thing which seems +cruel, without reason. A clergyman, for instance; he has generally thought out +more clearly than you or I what it is right to say in the pulpit; how far it is +lawful, and then again how far it is wise to deal with matters of debate. He +has considered how far a pronouncement may offend some, and so may render his +office less welcome to them. That is one consideration. Probably, too, he has +considered that a statement, if events falsify it, will injure him with his +poorer parishioners who look up to him as wiser than themselves. Well, when +such a man has laid down a rule and finds a younger clergyman bent upon +transgressing it, is it unreasonable if he puts his foot down?” +</p> + +<p> +“I had not looked at it in that way.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that, perhaps, is not all,” he resumed. “You know that a +thing may be true, but that it is not always wise to proclaim it. It may be too +strong meat. It may be true, for instance, that corn-dealers make an unfair +profit out of the poor; but it is not a truth that you would tell a hungry +crowd outside the corn-dealer’s shop on a Saturday night.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Mary allowed reluctantly. “Perhaps not.” +</p> + +<p> +“And again—I have nothing to say against Colet. It is enough for me +that he is a friend of yours——” +</p> + +<p> +“I have a reason for being interested in him. I am sure that if you heard +him——” +</p> + +<p> +“I might be carried away? Precisely. But is it not possible that he has +seen much of one side of this question, much of the poverty for which a cure is +sought, without being for that reason fitted to decide what the cure should +be?” +</p> + +<p> +Mary nodded. “Have you formed any opinion yourself?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +But he was too prudent to enter on a discussion. He saw that so far he had +impressed her with what he had said, and he was not going to risk the advantage +he had gained. “No,” he said, “I am weighing the matter at +this moment. We are on the verge of a crisis on the Corn Laws, and it is my +duty to consider the question carefully. I am doing so. I have hitherto been a +believer in the tax. I may change my views, but I shall not do so hastily. As +for your friend, I will consider what can be done, but I fear that he has been +imprudent.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sometimes,” she ventured, “imprudence is a virtue.” +</p> + +<p> +“And its own reward!” he retorted. They had passed the Cross, they +were by this time high on the hill, with one accord they came to a stand. +“However, I will think it over,” he continued. “I will think +it over, and what a cousin may, a cousin shall.” +</p> + +<p> +“A cousin may much when he is Lord Audley.” +</p> + +<p> +“A poor man in a fine coat! A butterfly in an east wind.” He +removed his curly-brimmed hat and stood gazing over the prospect, over the wide +valley that far and near gleamed with many a sheet of flood-water. “Have +you ever thought, Mary, what that means?” he continued with feeling. +“To be the shadow of a name! A ghost of the past! To have for home a +ruin, and for lands a few poor farms—in place of all that we can see from +here! For all this was once ours. To live a poor man among the rich! To have +nothing but——” +</p> + +<p> +“Opportunities!” she answered, her voice betraying how deeply she +was moved—for she too was an Audley. “For, with all said and done, +you start where others end. You have no need to wait for a hearing. Doors stand +open to you that others must open. Your name is a passport—is there a +Stafford man who does not thrill to it? Surely these things are something. +Surely they are much?” +</p> + +<p> +“You would make me think so!” he exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“Believe me, they are.” +</p> + +<p> +“They would be if I had your enthusiasm!” he answered, moved by her +words. “And, by Jove,” gazing with admiration at her glowing face, +“if I had you by me to spur me on there’s no knowing, Mary, what I +might not try! And what I might not do!” +</p> + +<p> +Womanlike, she would evade the crisis which she had provoked. “Or fail to +do!” she replied. “Perhaps the most worthy would be left undone. +But I must go now,” she continued. “I have to give my uncle his +medicine. I fear I am late already.” +</p> + +<p> +“When shall I see you again?” he asked, trying to detain her. +</p> + +<p> +“Some day, I have no doubt. But good-bye now! And don’t forget Mr. +Colet! Good-bye!” +</p> + +<p> +He stood awhile looking after her, then he turned and went down the hill. By +the time he was at the place where he had met her he was glad that she had +broken off the interview. +</p> + +<p> +“I might have said too much,” he reflected. “She’s +handsome enough to turn any man’s head! And not so cold as she looks. And +she spells safety. But there’s no hurry—and she’s inclined to +be kind, or I am mistaken! That clown, Basset, too, has got his dismissal, I +fancy, and there’s no one else!” +</p> + +<p> +Presently his thoughts took another turn. “What maggots women get into +their heads!” he muttered. “That pestilent Colet—I’m +glad the rector acted on my hint. But there it is; when a woman meddles with +politics she’s game for the first spouter she comes across! Fine eyes, +too, and the Audley blood! With a little drilling she would hold her own +anywhere.” +</p> + +<p> +Altogether, he found the walk to the place where he had left his carriage +pleasant enough and his thoughts satisfactory. With Mary and safety on one +side, and Lady Adela and a plum on the other—it would be odd if he did +not bring his wares to a tolerable market. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX<br/> +THE CORN LAW CRISIS</h2> + +<p> +He had been right in his forecast when he told Mary that a political crisis was +at hand. That which had been long whispered, was beginning to be stated openly +in club and market-place. The Corn Laws, the support of the country, the +mainstay, as so many thought, of the Constitution, were in danger; and behind +closed doors, while England listened without, the doctors were met to decide +their fate. +</p> + +<p> +Potatoes! The word flew from mouth to mouth that wet autumn, from town to +country, from village to village. Potatoes! The thing seemed incredible. That +the lordly Corn Laws, the bulwark of the landed interest, the prop of +agriculture, that had withstood all attacks for two generations, and maintained +themselves alike against high prices and the Corn Law League—that these +should go down because a vulgar root like the potato had failed in +Ireland—it was a thing passing belief. It couldn’t be. With the +Conservatives in power, it seemed impossible. +</p> + +<p> +Yet it was certain that the position was grave, if not hopeless. Never since +the Reform Bill had there been such meetings of the Cabinet, so frequent, so +secret. And strange things were said. Some who had supported Peel yet did not +trust him, maintained that this was the natural sequel of his measures, the +point to which he had been moving through all the years of his Ministry. +Potatoes—bah! Others who still supported him, yet did not trust him, +brooded nervously over his action twenty years before, when he had first +resisted and then accepted the Catholic claims. Tories and Conservatives alike, +wondered what they were there to conserve, if such things were in the wind; +they protested, but with growing misgiving, that the thing could not be. While +those among them who had seats to save and majorities to guard, met one another +with gloomy looks, whispered together in corners and privately asked themselves +what they would do—if he did. Happy in these circumstances were those who +like Mottisfont, the father, were ready to retire; and still happier those who +like Mottisfont, the son, knew the wishes of their constituents and could sing +“John Barleycorn, my Joe, John,” with no fear of being jilted. +</p> + +<p> +Their anxieties—they were politicians—were mainly +personal—and selfish. But there were some, simple people like Mr. Stubbs +at Riddsley, who really believed, when these rumors reached them, that the +foundations of things were breaking up, and that the world in which they had +lived was sinking under their feet. Already in fancy they saw the glare of +furnaces fall across the peaceful fields. Already they heard the tall mill jar +and quiver where the cosey homestead and the full stackyard sprawled. They saw +a weakly race, slaves to the factory bell, overrun the land where the ploughman +still whistled at his work and his wife suckled healthy babes. To these men, if +the rumors they heard were true, if Peel had indeed sold the pass, it meant the +loss of all. It meant the victory of coal and cotton, the ruling of all after +the Manchester pattern, the reign of Cash, the Lord, and ten per cent. his +profit. It meant the end of the old England they had loved. +</p> + +<p> +Not that Stubbs said this at Riddsley, or anything like it. He smiled and kept +silence, as became a man who knew much and was set above common rumor. The +landlord of the Audley Arms, the corndealer, the brewer, the saddler went away +from him with their fears allayed merely by the way in which he shrugged his +shoulders. At the farmers’ ordinary he had never been more cheerful. He +gave the toast of “Horn and Corn, gentlemen! And when potatoes take their +place you may come and tell me!” And he gave it so heartily that the +farmers went home, market-peart and rejoicing, laughed at their doubting +neighbors, and quoted a hundred things that Lawyer Stubbs had not said. +</p> + +<p> +But a day or two later the lawyer sustained an unpleasant shock. He had been +little moved by Lord John’s manifesto—the declaration in which the +little Whig Leader, seeing that the Government hesitated, had plumped for total +repeal. That was in the common course of things. It had heartened him, if +anything. It was natural. It would bring the Tories into line and put an end to +trimming. But this—this which confronted him one morning when he opened +his London paper was different. He read it, he held his breath, he stood aghast +a long minute, he swore. After a few minutes he took his hat and the newspaper, +and went round to the house in which Lord Audley lived when he was at Riddsley. +</p> + +<p> +It was a handsome Georgian house, built of brick with stone facings, and partly +covered with ivy. A wide smooth lawn divided it from the road. The occupant was +a curate’s widow who lived there with her two sisters and eked out their +joint means by letting the first floor to her landlord. For “The +Butterflies” was Audley property, and the clergyman’s widow was +held to derogate in no way by an arrangement which differed widely from a +common letting of lodgings. Mrs. Jenkinson was stout, short, and fussy, her +sisters were thin, short, and precise, but all three overflowed with words as +kindly as their deeds. Good Mrs. Jenkinson, in fact, who never spoke of his +lordship behind his back but with distant respect, sometimes forgot in his +presence that he was anything but a “dear young man,” and when he +had a cold, would prescribe a posset or a warming-pan with an insistence which +at times amused and more often bored him. +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs found his lordship just risen from a late lunch, and in his excitement, +the lawyer forgot his manners. “By G—d, my lord!” he cried, +“he’s resigned.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley looked at him with displeasure. “Who’s resigned?” he +asked coldly. +</p> + +<p> +“Peel!” +</p> + +<p> +Against that news the young man was not proof. He caught the infection. +“Impossible!” he said, rising to his feet. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s true! It’s in the <i>Morning Post</i>, my lord! He saw +the Queen yesterday. She’s sending for Lord John. It’s black +treachery! It’s the blackest of treachery! With a majority in the House, +with the peers in his pocket, the country quiet, trade improving, everything in +his favor, he’s sold us—sold us to Cobden on some d—d pretext +of famine in Ireland!” +</p> + +<p> +Audley did not answer at once. He stood deep in thought, his eyes on the floor, +his hands in his pockets. At length, “I don’t follow it,” he +said. “How is Russell, who is in a minority, to carry repeal?” +</p> + +<p> +“Peel’s promised his support!” Stubbs cried. Like most honest +men, he was nothing if not thorough. “You may depend upon it, my lord, he +has! He won’t deceive me again. I know him through and through, now. +He’ll take with him Graham and Gladstone and Herbert, his old tail, +Radicals at heart every man of them, and he’s the biggest!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” Audley said slowly, “he might have done one thing +worse. He might have stayed in and passed repeal himself!” +</p> + +<p> +“Good G—d!” the lawyer cried, “Judas wouldn’t +have done that! All he could do, he has done. He has let in corn from Canada, +cattle from Heaven knows where, he has let in wool. All that he has done. But +even he has a limit, my lord! Even he! The man who was returned to support the +Corn Laws—to repeal them. Impossible!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” Audley said. “There’ll be an election, I +suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“The sooner the better,” Stubbs answered vengefully. “And we +shall see what the country thinks of this. In Riddsley we’ve been ready +for weeks—as you know, my lord. But a General Election? Gad! I only hope +they will put up some one here, and we will give them such a beating as +they’ve never had!” +</p> + +<p> +Audley pondered. “I suppose Riddsley is safe,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“As safe as Burton Bridge, my lord!” +</p> + +<p> +The other rattled the money in his pocket. “As long as you give them a +lead, Stubbs, I suppose? But if you went over? What then?” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs opened his eyes. “Went over?” he ejaculated. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t mean,” my lord said airily, “that +you’re not as staunch as Burton Bridge. But supposing you took the other +side—it would make a difference, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a jot!” the lawyer answered sturdily. +</p> + +<p> +“Not even if the two Mottisfonts sided with Peel?” +</p> + +<p> +“If they did the old gentleman would never see Westminster again,” +Stubbs cried, “nor the young one go there!” +</p> + +<p> +“Or,” Audley continued, setting his shoulders against the +mantel-shelf, and smiling, “suppose I did? If the Beaudelays interest +were cast for repeal? What then?” +</p> + +<p> +“What then?” Stubbs answered. “You’ll pardon me, my +lord, if I am frank. Then the Beaudelays influence, that has held the borough +time out of mind, that returned two members before ’32, and has returned +one since—there’d be an end of it! It would snap like a rotten +stick. The truth is we hold the borough while we go with the stream. In fair +weather when it is a question of twenty votes one way or the other, we carry +it. And you’ve the credit, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley moved his shoulders restlessly. “It’s all I get by +it,” he said. “If I could turn the credit into a snug place of two +thousand a year, Stubbs—it would be another thing. Do you know,” he +continued, “I’ve often wondered why you feel so strongly on the +corn-taxes?” +</p> + +<p> +“You asked me that once before, my lord,” the agent answered +slowly. “All that I can say is that more things than one go to it. +Perhaps the best answer I can make is that, like your lordship’s +influence in the borough, it’s part sentiment and part tradition. I have +a picture in my mind—it’s a picture of an old homestead that my +grandfather lived in and died in, and that I visited when I was a boy. That +would be about the middle nineties; the French war going, corn high, cattle +high, a good horse in the gig and old ale for all comers. There was comfort +inside and plenty without; comfort in the great kitchen, with its floor as +clean as a pink, and greened in squares with bay leaves, its dresser bright +with pewter, its mantel with Toby jugs! There was wealth in the stackyard, with +the poultry strutting and scratching, and more in the byres knee-deep in straw, +and the big barn where they flailed the wheat! And there were men and maids +more than on two farms to-day, some in the house, some in thatched cottages +with a run on the common and wood for the getting. I remember, as if they were +yesterday, hot summer afternoons when there’d be a stillness on the farm +and all drowsed together, the bees, and the calves, and the old sheep-dog, and +the only sounds that broke the silence were the cluck of a hen, or the clank of +pattens on the dairy-floor, while the sun fell hot on the orchard, where a +little boy hunted for damsons! That’s what I often see, my lord,” +Stubbs continued stoutly. “And may Peel protect me, if I ever raise a +finger to set mill and furnace, devil’s dust and slave-grown cotton, in +place of that!” +</p> + +<p> +My lord concealed a yawn. “Very interesting, Stubbs,” he said. +“Quite a picture! Peace and plenty and old ale! And little Jack Horner +sitting in a corner! No, don’t go yet, man. I want you.” He made a +sign to Stubbs to sit down, and settling his shoulders more firmly against the +mantel-shelf, he thrust his hands deeper into his trouser-pockets. +“I’m not easy in my mind about John Audley,” he said. +“I’m not sure that he has not found something.” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs stared. “There’s nothing to find,” he said. +“Nothing, my lord! You may be sure of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“He goes there.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a craze.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a confoundedly unpleasant one!” +</p> + +<p> +“But harmless, my lord. Really harmless.” +</p> + +<p> +The younger man’s impatience darkened his face, but he controlled +it—a sure sign that he was in earnest. “Tell me this,” he +said. “What evidence would upset us? You told me once that the claim +could be reopened on fresh evidence. On what evidence?” +</p> + +<p> +“I regard the case as closed,” Stubbs answered stubbornly. +“But if you put the question—” he seemed to +reflect—“the point at issue, on which the whole turned, was the +legitimacy of your great-grandfather, my lord, Peter Paravicini Audley’s +son. Mr. John’s great-grandfather was Peter Paravicini’s younger +brother. The other side alleged, but could not produce, a family agreement +admitting that the son was illegitimate. Such an agreement, if Peter Paravicini +was a party to it, if it was proved, and came from the proper custody, would be +an awkward document and might let in the next brother’s +descendants—that’s Mr. John. But in my opinion, its existence is a +fairy story, and in its absence, the entry in the register stands good.” +</p> + +<p> +“But such a document would be fatal?” +</p> + +<p> +“If it fulfilled the conditions it would be serious,” the lawyer +admitted. “But it does not exist,” he added confidently. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet—I’m not comfortable, Stubbs,” Audley rejoined. +“I can’t get John Audley’s face out of my mind. If ever man +looked as if he had his enemy by the throat, he looked it; a d—d +disinheriting face I thought it! I don’t mind telling you,” the +speaker continued, some disorder in his own looks, “that I awoke at three +o’clock this morning, and I saw him as clearly as I see you now, and at +that moment I wouldn’t have given a thousand pounds for my chance of +being Lord Audley this time two years!” +</p> + +<p> +“Liver!” said Stubbs, unmoved. “Liver, my lord, asking your +pardon! Nothing else—and the small hours. I’ve felt like that +myself. Still, if you are really uneasy there is always a way out, though it +may be impertinent of me to mention it.” +</p> + +<p> +“The old way?” +</p> + +<p> +“You might marry Miss Audley. A handsome young lady, if I may presume to +say so, of your own blood and name, and no disparagement except in fortune. +After Mr. John, she is the next heir, and the match once made would checkmate +any action on his part.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I could not afford such a marriage,” Audley said +coldly. “But I am to you. As for this news—” he flicked the +newspaper that lay on the table—“it may be true or it may not. If +it is true, it will alter many things. We shall see. If you hear anything fresh +let me know.” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs said that he would and took his leave, wondering a little, but having +weightier things on his mind. He sought his home by back ways, for he did not +wish to meet Dr. Pepper or Bagenal the brewer, or even the saddler, until he +had considered what face he would put on Peel’s latest move. He felt that +his reputation for knowledge and sagacity was at stake. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile his employer, left alone, fell to considering, not what face he +should put upon the matter, but how he might at this crisis turn the matter and +the borough to the best account. Certainly Stubbs was discouraging, but Stubbs +was a fool. It was all very well for him; he drew his wages either way. But a +man of the world did not cling to the credit of owning a borough for the mere +name of the thing. If he were sensible he looked to get something more from it +than that. And it was upon occasions such as this that the something more was +to be had by those who knew how to go about the business. +</p> + +<p> +Here, in fact, was the moment, if he was the man. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX<br/> +PETER’S RETURN</h2> + +<p> +Not a word or hint of John Audley’s illness had come to Basset’s +ears. At the time of the alarm he had been in London, and it was not until some +days later that he took his seat in the morning train to return to Stafford. On +his way to town, and for some days after his arrival, he had been buoyed up by +plans, nebulous indeed, but sufficient. He came back low in his mind and in +poor spirits. The hopes, if not the aspirations, which Colet’s enthusiasm +had generated in him had died down, and the visit to Francis Place had done +nothing to revive them. +</p> + +<p> +Some greatness in the man, a largeness of ideas, an echo of the revolutionary +days when the sanest saw visions, Basset was forced to own. But the two stood +too far apart, the inspired tailor and the country squire, for sympathy. They +were divided by too wide a gulf of breeding and prejudice to come together. +Basset was not even a Radical, and his desire to improve things, and to better +the world, fell very far short of the passion of humanity which possessed the +aged Republican—the man who for half a century had been so forward in all +their movements that his fellows had christened him the “<i>Old +Postilion</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +Nothing but disappointment, therefore, had come of the meeting. The two had +parted with a little contempt on the one side, a sense of failure on the other. +If a man could serve his neighbors only in fellowship with such, if the cause +which for a few hours had promised to fill the void left by an unhappy love, +could be supported only by men who held such opinions, then Basset felt that +the thing was not for him. For six or seven days he went up and down London at +odds with himself and his kind, and ever striving to solve a puzzle, the answer +to which evaded him. Was the hope that he might find a mission and found a +purpose on Colet’s lines, was it just the desire to set the world right +that seized on young men fresh from college? And if this were so, if this were +all, what was he to do? Whither was he to turn? How was he going to piece +together the life which Mary had broken? How was he going to arrange his future +so that some thread of purpose might run through it, so that something of +effort might still link together the long bede-roll of years? +</p> + +<p> +He found no answer to the riddle. And it was in a gloomy, unsettled mood, +ill-content with himself and the world, that he took his seat in the train. +Alas, he could not refrain from recalling the May morning on which he had taken +his seat in the same train with Mary. How ill had he then appreciated her +company, how little had he understood, how little had he prized his good +fortune! He who was then free to listen to her voice, to meet her eyes, to +follow the changes of her mood from grave to gay! To be to her—all that +he could! And that for hours, for days, for weeks! +</p> + +<p> +He swore under his breath and sat back in the shadow of the corner. And a man +who entered late, and saw that he kept his eyes shut, fancied that he was ill; +and when he muttered a word under his breath, asked him if he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Basset replied rather curtly. And that he might be alone with +his thoughts he took up a newspaper and held it before him. But not a word did +he read. After a long interval he looked over the journal and met the +other’s eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Surprising news this,” the stranger said. He had the look of a +soldier, and the bronzed face of one who had lived under warm skies. +</p> + +<p> +Basset murmured that it was. +</p> + +<p> +“The Whigs have a fine opportunity,” the other pursued. “But +I am not sure that they will use it.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a Whig, perhaps?” +</p> + +<p> +The stranger smiled. “No,” he replied. “I am not. I have +lived so long abroad that I belong to no party. I am an Englishman.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah?” Basset rejoined, curiosity beginning to stir in him. +“That’s rather a fine idea.” +</p> + +<p> +“Apparently it’s a novel one. But it seems natural to me. I have +lived for fifteen years in India and I have lost touch with the cant of +parties. Out there, we do honestly try to rule for the good of the people; +their prosperity is our interest. Here, during the few weeks I have spent in +England I see things done, not because they are good, but because they suit a +party, or provide a cry, or put the other side in a quandary.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s a good deal of that, I suppose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still,” the stranger continued, “I know a great man, and I +know a fine thing when I see them. And I fancy that I see them here!” He +tapped his paper. +</p> + +<p> +“Has Lord John formed his ministry, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, I am not sure that he will. I am not thinking of him, I am thinking +of Peel.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! Of Peel?” +</p> + +<p> +“He has done a fine thing! As every man does who puts what is right +before what is easy. May I tell you a story of myself?” the Indian +continued. “Some years ago in the Afghan war I was unlucky enough to +command a small frontier post. My garrison consisted of two companies and six +or seven European officers. The day came when I had to choose between two +courses. I must either hold my ground until our people advanced, or I must +evacuate the post, which had a certain importance—and fall back into +safety. The men never dreamed of retiring. The officers were confident that we +could hold out. But we were barely supplied for forty days, and in my judgment +no reinforcement was possible under seventy. I made my choice, breached the +place, and retired. But I tell you, sir, that the days of that retreat, with +sullen faces about me, and hardly a man in my company who did not think me a +poltroon, were the bitterest of my life. I knew that if the big-wigs agreed +with them I was a ruined man, and after ten years service I should go home +disgraced. Fortunately the General saw it as I saw it, and all was well. +But—” he looked at Basset with a wry smile—“it was a +march of ten days to the base, and to-day the sullen looks of those men come +back to me in my dreams.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think,” Basset said—the other’s story had won +his respect—“that Peel has found himself in such a position?” +</p> + +<p> +“To compare great issues with small, I do. I suspect that he has gone +through an agony—that is hardly too strong a word—such as I went +through. My impression is that when he came into office he was in advance of +his party. He saw that the distress in the country called for measures which +his followers would accept from no one else. He believed that he could carry +them with him. Perhaps, even then, he held a repeal of the Corn Laws possible +in some remote future; perhaps he did not, I don’t know. For suddenly +there came on him the fear of this Irish famine—and forced his +hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“But don’t you think,” Basset asked, “that the alarm is +premature?” A dozen times he had heard the famine called a flam, a sham, +a bite, anything but a reality. +</p> + +<p> +“You have never seen a famine?” the other replied gravely. +“You have never had to face the impossibility of creating food where it +does not exist, or of bringing it from a distance when there are no roads. I +have had that experience. I have seen people die of starvation by hundreds, +women, children, babes, when I could do nothing because steps had not been +taken in time. God forbid that that should happen in Ireland! If the fear does +not outrun the dearth, God help the poor! Now I am told that Peel witnessed a +famine in Ireland about ’17 or ’18, and knows what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have had interesting experiences?” +</p> + +<p> +“The experience of every Indian officer. But the burden which rests on us +makes us alive to the difficulties of a statesman’s position. I see Peel +forced—forced suddenly, perhaps, to make a choice; to decide whether he +shall do what is right or what is consistent. He must betray his friends, or he +must betray his country. And the agony of the decision is the greater if he has +it burnt in on his memory that he did this thing once before, that once before +he turned his back on his party—and that all the world knows!” +</p> + +<p> +“I see.” +</p> + +<p> +“If a man in that position puts self, consistency, reputation all behind +him—believe me, he is doing a fine thing.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset assented. “But you speak,” he added, “as if Sir Robert +were going to do the thing himself—instead of merely standing aside for +others to do it.” +</p> + +<p> +“A distinction without much difference,” the other rejoined. +“Possibly it will turn out that he is the only man who can do it. If so, +he will have a hard row to hoe. He will need the help of every moderate man in +the country, if he is not to be beaten. For whether he succeeds or fails, +depends not upon the fanatics, but upon the moderate men. I don’t know +what your opinions are?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” Basset said frankly, “I am not much of a party-man +myself. I am inclined to agree with you, so far.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then if you have any influence, use it. Unfortunately, I am out of it +for family reasons.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset looked at the stranger. “You are not by any chance Colonel +Mottisfont?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I am. You know my brother? He is member for Riddsley.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. My name is Basset.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of Blore? Indeed. I knew your father. Well, I have not cast my seed on +stony ground. Though you are stony enough about Wootton under Weaver.” +</p> + +<p> +“True, worse luck. Your brother is retiring, I hear?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, he has just horse sense, has Jack. He won’t vote against +Peel. His lad has less and will take his place and vote old Tory. But there, I +mustn’t abuse the family.” +</p> + +<p> +They had still half an hour to spend together before Basset got out at +Stafford. He had time to discover that the soldier was faced by a problem not +unlike his own. His service over, he had to consider what he would do. +“All I know,” the Colonel said breezily, “is that I +won’t do nothing. Some take to preaching, others to Bath, but neither +will suit me. But I’ll not drift. I kept from brandy pawnee out there, +and I am going to keep from drift here. For you, you’re a young man, +Basset, and a hundred things are open to you. I am over the top of the hill. +But I’ll do something.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have done something to-day,” Basset said. “You have done +me good.” +</p> + +<p> +Later he had time to think it over during the long journey from Stafford to +Blore. He drove by twisting country roads, under the gray walls of Chartley, by +Uttoxeter and Rocester. Thence he toiled uphill to the sterile Derbyshire +border, the retreat of old families and old houses. He began to think that he +had gained some ideas with which he could sympathize, ideas which were at one +with Mary Audley’s burning desire to help, while they did not clash with +old prejudices. If he threw himself into Peel’s cause, he would indeed be +seen askance by many. He would have to put himself forward after a fashion that +gave him the goose-flesh when he thought of it. A landowner, he would have to +go against the land. But he would not feel, in his darker moods, that he was +the dupe of cranks and fanatics. He saw Peel as Mottisfont had pictured him, as +a man putting all behind him except the right; and his heart warmed to the +picture. Many would fall away, few would be staunch. From this ship, as from +every sinking ship, the rats would flee. But so much the stronger was the call. +</p> + +<p> +The result was that the Peter Basset who descended at the porch of the old +gabled house, that sat low and faced east in the valley under Weaver, was a +more hopeful man than he who had entered the train at Euston. A purpose, a +plan—he had gained these, and the hope that springs from them. +</p> + +<p> +He had barely doffed his driving-coat, however, before his thoughts were swept +in another direction. On the hall table lay two letters. He took up one. It was +from Colet and written in deep dejection. “The barber was a Tory and had +given him short notice. Feeling ran high in the town, and other lodgings were +not to be had. The Bishop had supported the rector’s action, and he saw +no immediate prospect of further work.” He did not ask for shelter, but +it was plain that he was at his wit’s end, and more than a little +surprised by the storm which he had raised. +</p> + +<p> +Basset threw down the letter. “He shall come here,” he thought. +“What is it to me whom he marries?” Many solitary hours spent in +the streets of London had gone some way towards widening Peter’s outlook. +</p> + +<p> +He took up the second letter. It was from John Audley, and before he had read +three lines, he rang the bell and ordered that the post-chaise which had +brought him from Stafford should be kept: he would want it in the morning. John +Audley wrote that he had been very ill—he was still in bed. He must see +Basset. The matter was urgent, he had something to tell him. He hinted that if +he did not come quickly it might be too late. +</p> + +<p> +Basset could not refuse to go; summoned after this fashion, he must go. But he +tried to believe that he was not glad to go. He tried to believe that the +excitement with which he looked forward to the journey had to do with his +uncle. It was in vain; he knew that he tricked himself. Or if he did not know +this then, his eyes were opened next day, when, after walking up the hill to +spare the horses—and a little because he shrank at the last from the +meeting—he came in sight of the Gatehouse, and saw Mary Audley standing +in the doorway. The longing that gripped him then, the emotion that unmanned +him, told him all. It was of Mary he had been thinking, towards Mary he had +been travelling, of her work it was that the miles had seemed leagues! He was +not cured. He was not in the way to be cured. He was the same love-sick fool +whom she had driven from her with contumely an age—it seemed an age, ago. +</p> + +<p> +He bent his head as he approached, that she might not see his face. His knees +shook and a tremor ran through him. Why had he come back? Why had he come back +to face this anguish? +</p> + +<p> +Then he mastered himself; indeed he took himself the more strongly in hand for +the knowledge he had gained. When they met at the door it was Mary, not he, +whose color came and went, who spoke awkwardly, and rushed into needless +explanations. The man listened with a stony face, and said little, almost +nothing. +</p> + +<p> +After the first awkward greeting, “Your room has been airing,” she +continued, avoiding his eyes. “My uncle has been expecting you for some +days. He has asked for you again and again.” +</p> + +<p> +He explained that he had been in London—hence the delay; and, further, +that he must return to Blore that day. She felt that she was the cause of this, +and she colored painfully. But he seemed to be indifferent. He noticed a +trifling change in the hall, asked a question or two about his uncle’s +state, and inquired what had caused his sudden illness. +</p> + +<p> +She told the story, giving details. He nodded. “Yes, I have seen him in a +similar attack,” he said. “But he gets older. I am afraid it +alarmed you?” +</p> + +<p> +She forced herself to describe Lord Audley’s part in the matter—and +Mr. Stubbs’s, and was conscious that she was dragging in Mr. Stubbs more +often than was necessary. Basset listened politely, remarked that it was +fortunate that Audley had been on the spot, added that he was sure that +everything had been done that was right. +</p> + +<p> +When he had gone upstairs to see John Audley she escaped to her room. Her +cheeks were burning, and she could have cried. Basset’s coldness, his +distance, the complete change in his manner all hurt her more than she could +say. They brought home to her, painfully home to her what she had done. She had +been foolish enough to fling away the friend, when she need only have discarded +the lover! +</p> + +<p> +But she must face it out now, the thing was done, and she must put up with it. +And by and by, fearing that Basset might suppose that she avoided him, she came +down and waited for him in the deserted library. She had waited some minutes, +moving restlessly to and fro and wishing the ordeal of luncheon were over, when +her eyes fell on the door of the staircase that led up to her uncle’s +room. It was ajar. +</p> + +<p> +She stared at it, for she knew that she had closed it after Basset had gone up. +Now it was ajar. She reflected. The house was still, she could hear no one +moving. She went out quickly, crossed the hall, looked into the dining-room. +Toft was not there, nor was he in the pantry. She returned to the library, and +went softly up the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +So softly that she surprised the man before he could raise his head from the +keyhole. He saw that he was detected, and for an instant he scowled at her in +the half-light of the narrow passage, uncertain what to do. Mary beckoned to +him, and went down before him to the library. +</p> + +<p> +There she turned on him. “Shut the door,” she said. “You were +listening! Don’t deny it. You have acted disgracefully, and it will be my +duty to tell Mr. Audley what has happened.” +</p> + +<p> +The man, sallow with fear, tried to brave it out. +</p> + +<p> +“You will only make mischief, Miss,” he said sullenly. +“You’ll come near to killing the master.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good!” Mary said, quivering with indignation. “Then +instead of telling Mr. Audley I shall tell Mr. Basset. It will be for him to +decide whether Mr. Audley shall know. Go now.” +</p> + +<p> +But Toft held his ground. “You’ll be doing a bad day’s work, +Miss,” he said earnestly. “I want to run straight.” He raised +his hand to his forehead, which was wet with perspiration. “I swear I do! +I want to run straight.” +</p> + +<p> +“Straight!” Mary cried in scorn. “And you listen at +doors!” +</p> + +<p> +The man made a last attempt to soften her. “For God’s sake, be +warned, Miss!” he cried. “Don’t drive me. If you knew as much +as I do——” +</p> + +<p> +“I should not listen to learn the rest!” replied Mary without pity. +“That is enough. Please to see that lunch is ready.” She pointed to +the door. She was not an Audley for nothing. +</p> + +<p> +Toft gave way and went, and she remained alone, perplexed as well as angry. +Mrs. Toft and Etruria were good simple folk; she liked them. But Toft had +puzzled her from the first. He was so silent, so secretive, he was for ever +appearing without warning and vanishing without noise. She had often suspected +that he spied on his master. +</p> + +<p> +But she had never caught him in the act, and the certainty that he did so, +filled her with dismay. It was fortunate, she thought, that Basset was there, +and that she could consult him. And the instant that he appeared, forgetting +their quarrel and the strained relations between them, she poured out her +story. Toft was ungrateful, treacherous, a danger! With Mr. Audley so helpless, +the house so lonely, it frightened her. +</p> + +<p> +It was only when she had run on for some time that Basset’s air of +detachment struck her. He listened, with his back to the fire, and his eyes +bent on the floor, but he did not speak until she had told her story, and +expressed her misgivings. +</p> + +<p> +When he did, “I am not surprised,” he said. “I’ve +suspected this for some time. But I don’t know that anything can be +done.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean that—you would do nothing?” +</p> + +<p> +“The truth is,” he answered, “Toft is pretty far in his +master’s confidence. And what he does not know he wishes to know. When he +knows it, he will find it a mare’s nest. The truth—as I see it at +any rate—is that your uncle is possessed by a craze. He wants me to help +him in it. I cannot. I have told him so, firmly and finally, to-day. Well, I +suspect that he will now turn to Toft. I hope not, but he may, and if we report +the man’s misconduct, it will only precipitate matters and hasten an +understanding. That is the position, and if I were you, I should let the matter +rest.” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean that?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +“I do.” +</p> + +<p> +“But—but I have spoken to Toft!” Her eyes were bright with +anger. +</p> + +<p> +He kept his on the floor. It was only by maintaining the distance between them +that he could hope to hide what he felt. “Still I would let him +be,” he repeated. “I do not think that Toft is dangerous. He has +surprised one half of a secret, and he wishes to learn the other half. That is +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I am to take no notice?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe that will be your wisest course.” +</p> + +<p> +She was shocked, and she was still more hurt. He pushed her aside, he pushed +her out of his confidence, out of her uncle’s confidence! His manner, his +indifference, his stolidity showed that she had not only killed his fancy for +her at a stroke, but that he now disliked her. +</p> + +<p> +And still she protested. “But I must tell my uncle!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“I think I would not,” he repeated. “But there—” +he paused and looked at his watch—“I am afraid that if you are +going to give me lunch I must sit down. I’ve a long journey before +me.” +</p> + +<p> +Then she saw that no more could be said, and with an effort she repressed her +feelings. “Yes,” she said, “I was forgetting. You must be +hungry.” +</p> + +<p> +She led the way to the dining-room, and sat down with him, Toft waiting on them +with the impassive ease of the trained man. While they ate, Basset talked of +indifferent things, of his journey from town, of the roads, of London, of +Colonel Mottisfont—an interesting man whom he had met in the train. And +as he talked, and she made lifeless answers, her indignation cooled, and her +heart sank. +</p> + +<p> +She could have cried, indeed. She had lost her friend. He was gone to an +immense distance. He was willing to leave her to deal with her troubles and +difficulties, it might be, with her dangers. In killing his love with cruel +words—and how often had she repented, not of the thing, but of the +manner!—she had killed every feeling, every liking, that he had +entertained for her. +</p> + +<p> +It was clear that this was so, for to the last he maintained his coldness and +indifference. When he was gone, when the sound of the chaise-wheels had died in +the distance, she felt more lonely than she had ever felt in her life. In her +Paris days she had had no reason to blame herself, and all the unturned leaves +of life awaited her. Now she had turned over one page, and marred it, she had +won a friend and lost him, she had spoiled the picture, which she had not +wished to keep! +</p> + +<p> +Her uncle lay upstairs, ready to bear, but hardly welcoming her company. He had +his secrets, and she stood outside them. She sat below, enclosed in and menaced +by the silence of the house. Yet it was not fear that she felt so much as a +sadness, a great depression, a gray despondency. She craved something, she did +not know what. She only knew that she was alone—and sad. +</p> + +<p> +She tried to fight against the feeling. She tried to read, to work, even to +interest herself in Toft and his mystery. She failed. And at last she gave up +the attempt and with her elbows on her knees and her eyes on the fire she fell +to musing, the ticking of the tall clock and the fall of the embers the only +sounds that broke the stillness of the shadowy room. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI<br/> +TOFT AT THE BUTTERFLIES</h2> + +<p> +Basset’s view of Toft, if it did not hit, came very near the mark. For +many years the man had served his master with loyalty, the relations between +them being such as were common in days when servants stayed long in a place and +held themselves a part of the family. The master had been easy, the man had had +no ambitions beyond those of his fellows, and no temptations except those which +turned upon the cellar-book. +</p> + +<p> +But a year before Mary Audley’s arrival two things had happened. First +the curate had fallen in love with Etruria, and the fact had become known to +her father, to whom the girl was everything. Her refinement, her beauty, her +goodness were his secret delight. And the thought that she might become a lady, +that she might sit at the table at which he served had taken hold of the +austere man’s mind and become a passion. He was ready to do anything and +to suffer anything to bring this about. Nor was he deceived when Etruria put +the offer aside. She was nothing if not transparent, and he was too fond of her +not to see that her happiness was bound up with the man who had stooped to woo +her. +</p> + +<p> +He was not blind to the difficulties or to the clergyman’s poverty. But +he saw that Colet, poor as he was, could raise his daughter in the social +scale; and he spent long hours in studying how the marriage might be brought +about. He hugged the matter to him, and brooded over it, but he never +discovered his thoughts or his hopes either to his wife, or to Etruria. +</p> + +<p> +Then one day the sale of a living happened to be discussed in his presence, and +as he went, solemn and silent, round the table he listened. He learned that +livings could be bought. He learned that the one in question, with its house +and garden and three hundred a year, had fetched a thousand guineas, and from +that day Toft’s aim was by hook or crook to gain a thousand guineas. He +revelled in impossible dreams of buying a living, of giving it to Etruria, and +of handing maid and dowry to the fortunate man who was to make her a lady. +</p> + +<p> +There have been more sordid and more selfish ambitions. +</p> + +<p> +But a thousand guineas was a huge sum to the manservant. True, he had saved a +hundred and twenty pounds, and for his position in life he held himself a rich +man. But a thousand guineas? He turned the matter this way and that, and +sometimes he lost hope, and sometimes he pinned his faith to a plan that +twenty-four hours showed to be futile. All the time his wife who lay beside +him, his daughter who waited on him, his master on whom he waited, were as far +from seeing into his mind as if they had lived in another planet. +</p> + +<p> +Then the second thing happened. He surprised, wholly by chance, a secret which +gave him a hold over John Audley. Under other circumstances he might have been +above using the advantage; as it was, he was tempted. He showed his hand, a sum +of four hundred pounds was named; for a week he fancied that he had performed +half his task. Then his master explained with a gentle smile that to know and +to prove were two things, and that whereas Toft had for a time been able to do +both, John Audley had now destroyed the evidence. The master had in fact been +too sly for the man, and Toft found himself pretty well where he had been. In +the end Audley thought it prudent to give him a hundred pounds, which did but +whet his desire and sharpen his wits. +</p> + +<p> +For he had now tasted blood. He had made something by a secret. There might be +others to learn. He kept his eyes open, and soon he became aware of his +master’s disappearances. He tracked him, he played the spy, he discovered +that John Audley was searching for something in the Great House. The words that +the old man let fall, while half-conscious in the Yew Walk, added to his +knowledge, and at the same time scared him. A moment later, and Lord Audley +might have known as much as he knew—and perhaps more! +</p> + +<p> +For he did not as yet know all, and it was in the attempt to complete his +knowledge that Mary had caught him listening at the door. The blow was a sharp +one. He was still so far unspoiled, still so near the old Toft that he could +not bear that his wife and daughter should learn the depth to which he had +fallen. And John Audley? What would he do, if Mary told him? +</p> + +<p> +Toft could not guess. He knew that his master was barely sane, if he was sane; +but he knew also that he was utterly inhuman. John Audley would put him and his +family to the door without mercy if that seemed to him the safer course. And +that meant an end of all his plans for Etruria, for Colet, for them all. +</p> + +<p> +True, he might use such power as he had. But it was imperfect, and in its use +he must come to grips with one who had shown himself his better both in courage +and cunning. He had imbibed a strong fear of his master, and he could not +without a qualm contemplate a struggle with him. +</p> + +<p> +For a week after his detection by Mary, he went about his work in a fever of +anxiety. And nothing happened; it was that which tried him. More than once he +was on the point of throwing himself at her feet, of telling her all he knew, +of imploring her pardon. It was only her averted eyes and cold tone that held +him back. +</p> + +<p> +Such a crisis makes a man either better or worse, and it made Toft worse. At +the end of three days a chance word put a fine point on his fears and stung him +to action. He might not know enough to face John Audley, but he thought that he +knew enough to sell his secret—in the other camp. His lordship was young +and probably malleable. He would go to him and strike a bargain. +</p> + +<p> +Arrived at this point the man did not hide from himself that he was going to do +a hateful thing. He thought of his wife and her wonder could she know. He +thought of Etruria’s mild eyes and her goodness. And he shivered. But it +was for her. It was for them. Within twenty-four hours he was in Riddsley. +</p> + +<p> +As he passed the Maypole, where Mr. Colet had his lodgings, he noticed that the +town wore an unusual aspect. Groups of men stood talking in the doorway, or on +the doorsteps. A passing horseman was shouting to a man at a window. Nearer the +middle of the town the stir was greater. About the saddler’s door, about +the steps leading up to the Audley Arms, and round the yard of the inn, knots +of men argued and gesticulated. Toft asked the saddler what it was. +</p> + +<p> +“Haven’t you heard?” +</p> + +<p> +“No. What’s the news?” +</p> + +<p> +“The General Election’s off!” The saddler proclaimed it with +an inflamed look. “Peel’s in again! And damn me, after this,” +he continued, “there’s nothing I won’t swallow! He come in in +the farming interest, and the hunting interest, and the racing interest, and +the gentlemanly interest, that I live by, and you too, Mr. Toft! And it was bad +enough when he threw it up! But to go in again and to take our money and do the +Radicals’ work!” The saddler spat on the brick pavement. +“Why, there was never such a thing heard of in the ’varsal world! +Never! If Tamworth don’t blush for him and his pigs turn pink, I’m +d—d, and that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +Toft had to ask half a dozen questions before he grasped the position. +Gradually he learned that after Peel had resigned the Whigs had tried to form a +government; that they had failed, and that now Peel was to come in again, +expressly to repeal the Corn Laws. The Corn Laws which he had taken office to +support, and to the maintenance of which his party was pledged! +</p> + +<p> +The thing was not much in Toft’s way, nor his interest in it great, but +as he passed along he caught odds and ends of conversation. “I +don’t believe a word of it!” cried an angry man. “The +Radicals have invented it!” “Like enough!” replied another. +“Like enough! There’s naught they wouldn’t do!” +“Well, after all,” suggested a third in a milder tone, “cheap +bread is something.” “What? If you’ve got no money to buy it? +You’re a fool! I tell you it’ll be the ruin of Riddsley!” +“You’re right there, Joe!” answered the first speaker. +“You’re right! There’ll be no farmer for miles round’ll +pay his way!” +</p> + +<p> +At the door of Mr. Stubbs’s office three excited clients were clamoring +for entrance; an elderly clerk with a high bridge to his nose was withstanding +them. Before the Mechanics’ Institute the secretary, a superior person of +Manchester views, was talking pompously to a little group. “We must take +in the whole field,” Toft heard him say. “If you’ll read Mr. +Carlyle’s tract on——” Toft lost the rest. The Institute +readers belonged mainly to Hatton’s Works or Banfield’s, and the +secretary taught in an evening school. He was darkly suspected of being a +teetotaller, but it had never been proved against him. +</p> + +<p> +Toft began to wonder if he had chosen his time well, but he was near The +Butterflies and he hardened his heart; to retreat now were to dub himself +coward. He told the maid that he came from the Gatehouse, and that he was +directed to deliver a letter into his lordship’s own hand, and in a +moment he found himself mounting the shallow carpeted stairs. In comparison +with the Gatehouse, the house was modern, elegant, luxurious, the passages were +warm. +</p> + +<p> +When he was ushered in, his lordship, a dressing-gown cast over a chair beside +him as if he had just put on his coat, was writing near the fireplace. After an +interval that seemed long to Toft, who eyed his heavy massiveness with a +certain dismay, he laid down his pen, sat back, and looked at the servant. +</p> + +<p> +“From the Gatehouse?” he asked, after a leisurely survey. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lord,” Toft answered respectfully. “I was with Mr. +Audley when he was taken ill in the Yew Walk.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure! I thought I knew your face. You’ve a letter for +me?” +</p> + +<p> +Toft hesitated. “I wished to see you, my lord,” he said. The thing +was not as easy as he had hoped it would be; the man was more formidable. +“On a matter of business.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley raised his eyebrows. “Business?” he said. “Isn’t +it Mr. Stubbs you want to see?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lord,” Toft answered. But the sweat broke out on his +forehead. What if his lordship took a high tone, ordered him out, and reported +the matter to his master? Too late it struck Toft that a gentleman might take +that line. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, be quick,” Audley replied. Then in a different tone, +“You don’t come from Miss Audley?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +Toft turned his hat in his hands. “I have information”—it was +with difficulty he could control his voice—“which it is to your +lordship’s interest to have.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a pregnant pause. “Oh!” the young man said at last. +“And you come—to sell it?” +</p> + +<p> +Toft nodded, unable to speak. Yet he was getting on as well as could be +expected. +</p> + +<p> +“Rather an unusual position, isn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“The information should be unusual?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +Lord Audley smiled. “Well,” he answered, “I’ll say +this, my man. If you are going to sell me a spavined horse, don’t! It +will not be to your advantage. What’s it all about?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Audley’s claim, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley had expected this, yet he could not quite mask the effect which the +statement made upon him. The thing that he had foreseen and feared, that had +haunted him in the small hours and been as it were a death’s-head at his +feast, was taking shape. But he was quick to recover himself, and +“Oh!” said he. “That’s it, is it! Don’t you know +that that’s all over, my man?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think not, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +The peer took up a paper-knife and toyed with it. “Well,” he said, +“what is it? Come, I don’t buy a pig in a poke.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Audley has found——” +</p> + +<p> +“Found, eh?” raising his eyebrows. +</p> + +<p> +Toft corrected himself. “He has in his power papers that upset your +lordship’s case. I can still enable you to keep those papers in your +hands.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley threw down the paper-cutter. “They are certainly worthless,” +he said. His voice was contemptuous, but there was a hard look in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Audley thinks otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he has not seen them?” +</p> + +<p> +“He knows what’s in them, my lord. He has been searching for them +for weeks.” +</p> + +<p> +The young man weighed this, and Toft’s courage rose, and his confidence. +The trumps were in his hand, and though for a moment he had shrunk before the +other’s heavy jaw he was glad now that he had come; more glad when the +big man after a long pause asked quietly, “What do you want?” +</p> + +<p> +“Five hundred pounds, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +The other laughed, and Toft did not like the laugh. “Indeed? Five hundred +pounds? That’s a good deal of money!” +</p> + +<p> +“The information is worth that, or it is worth nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“I quite agree!” the peer answered lightly. “You’re a +wit, my man. But that’s not saying you’ve a good case. However, +I’ll put you to the test. You know where the papers are?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good. There’s a piece of paper. Write on one side the precise +place where they lie. I will write on the other a promise to pay £500 if the +papers are found in that place, and are of the value you assert. That is a fair +offer.” +</p> + +<p> +Toft stood irresolute. He thought hard. +</p> + +<p> +My lord pushed the paper across. “Come!” he said; “write! Or +I’ll write first, if that is your trouble.” With decision he seized +a quill, held it poised a moment, then he wrote four lines and signed them with +a flourish, added the date, and read them to himself. With a grim smile he +pushed the paper across to Toft. “There,” he said. “What more +do you want, my man, than that?” +</p> + +<p> +Toft took the paper and read what was written on it, from the “In +consideration of,” that began the sentence, to the firm signature +“Audley of Beaudelays” that closed it. He did not speak. +</p> + +<p> +“Come! You can’t want anything more than that!” my lord said. +“You have only to write, read me the secret, and keep the paper until it +is redeemed.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then take the pen. Of course the place must be precise. I am not going +to pull down Beaudelays House to find a box of papers that I do not believe is +there!” +</p> + +<p> +Toft’s face was gray, the sweat stood on his lip. “I did not +say,” he muttered, the paper rustling in his unsteady hand, “that +they were in Beaudelays House.” +</p> + +<p> +“No?” Audley replied. “Perhaps not. And for the matter of +that, it is not a question of saying anything. It is a question of writing. You +can write, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +Toft did not speak. He could not speak. He had supposed that the power to put +his lordship on the scent would be the same as pulling down the fox. When he +had said that the papers were in the house, that they were behind a wall, that +Mr. Audley knew where they were, he would have earned—he +thought—his money! +</p> + +<p> +But he had not known the man with whom he had to deal. And challenged to set +down the place where the papers lay, he knew that he could not do it. In the +house? Behind a wall? He saw now that that would not do. That would not satisfy +the big smiling gentleman who sat opposite him, amused at the dilemma in which +he found himself. +</p> + +<p> +He knew that he was cornered, and he lost his countenance and his manners. He +swore. +</p> + +<p> +The young man laughed. “The biter bit,” he said. “Five +hundred pounds you said, didn’t you? I wonder whether I ought to send for +the constable? Or tell Mr. Audley? That would be wiser perhaps? What do you +think you deserve, my man?” +</p> + +<p> +Toft stretched out a shaking arm towards the paper. But my lord was before him. +His huge hand fell on it. He tore it across and across, and threw the pieces +under the table. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” he said, “that won’t do! You will write at a +venture and if you are right you will claim the money, and if you are wrong you +will have this paper to show that I bargained with you. But I never meant to +bargain with you, my good rascal. I knew you were a fraud. I knew it from the +beginning. And now I’ve only one thing to say. Either you will tell me +freely what you know, and in that case I shall say nothing. Or I report you to +your master. That’s my last word.” +</p> + +<p> +Toft shook from head to foot. He had done a hateful thing, he had been +defeated, and exposure threatened him. As far as his master was concerned he +could face it. But his wife, his daughter? Who thought him honest, loyal, who +thought him a man! Who believed in him! How could he, how would he face them, +if this tale were told? +</p> + +<p> +My lord saw the change in him, saw how he shrank, and, smiling, he fancied that +he had the man in his grasp, fancied that he would tell what he knew, and tell +it for nothing. And twice Toft opened his lips to speak, and twice no words +came. For at the last moment, in this strait, what there was of good in +him—and there was good—rose up, and had the better; had the better, +reinforced perhaps by his hatred of the heavy smiling face that gloated upon +him. +</p> + +<p> +For at the last moment, “No, my lord,” he said desperately, +“I’ll not speak. I’m d—d if I do! You may do what you +like.” +</p> + +<p> +And before his lordship, taken by surprise, could interpose, the servant had +turned and made for the door. He was half-way down the stairs before the other +had risen from his seat. He had escaped. He was clear for the time, and safe in +the road he breathed more freely. But he had gone a hundred yards on his way +before he remarked that he was in the open air, or bethought himself to put on +his hat. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII<br/> +MY LORD SPEAKS</h2> + +<p> +For a few moments Audley had certainly hoped that he was going to learn all +that Toft knew, and to learn it for nothing. He had been baulked in this. But +when he came to think over the matter he was not ill content with himself, nor +with his conduct of the interview. He had dealt with the matter with presence +of mind, and in the only safe way; and he had taught the man a lesson. +“He knows by this time,” he reflected, “that if I am a lord, +I am not a fool!” +</p> + +<p> +But this mood did not last long, and it was succeeded by one less cheerful. The +death’s-head had never been wanting at his feast. The family tradition +which had come down to him with his blood had never ceased to haunt him, and in +the silence of the night he had many a time heard John Audley at work seeking +for the means to displace him. Even the great empty house had seemed to mock +his pretensions. +</p> + +<p> +But until the last month his fears had been vague and shadowy, and in his busy +hours he had laughed at them. He was Lord Audley, he sat, he voted, the doors +of White’s, of Almack’s were open to him. In town he was a +personage, in the country a divinity still hedged him, no tradesman spoke to +him save hat in hand. Then, lately, the traces which he had found in the Great +House had given a shape to his fears; and within the last hour he had learned +their solidity. Sane or mad, John Audley was upon his track, bent upon +displacing him, bent upon ruining him; and this very day the man might be +laying his hand upon the thing he needed. +</p> + +<p> +Audley did not doubt the truth of Toft’s story. It confirmed his fears +only too well; and the family tradition—that too weighed with him. He sat +for a long time staring before him, then, uneasy and restless, he rose and +paced the floor. He went to and fro, to and fro, until by-and-by he came to a +stand before one of the windows. He drummed with his fingers on the glass. +There was one way, certainly. Stubbs had said so, and Stubbs was right. There +was one way, if he could make up his mind to the limitations it would impose +upon him. If he could make up his mind to be a poor man. +</p> + +<p> +The window at which he stood looked on a road of quiet dignity, a little +removed from the common traffic of the town. But the windows, looking sideways, +commanded also a more frequented thoroughfare which crossed this street. His +thoughts far away and sombrely engaged, the young man watched the stream of +passers, as it trickled across the distant opening. +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly his eyes recalled his mind to the present. He started, turned, in +three strides he was beside the hearth. He rang the bell twice, the signal for +his man. He waited impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“My hat and coat!” he cried to the servant. “Quick, I’m +in a hurry!” Like most men who have known vicissitudes he had a +superstitious side, and the figure which he had seen pass across the end of the +road had appeared so aptly, so timely, had had so much the air of an answer to +his doubts that he took it for an inspiration. +</p> + +<p> +He ran down the stairs, but he knew that his comings and goings were marked, +and once outside the house he controlled his impatience. He walked slowly, +humming a tune and swaying his cane, and it was a very stately gentleman taking +the air and acknowledging with courtesy the respectful salutations of the +passers, who came on Mary Audley as she turned from Dr. Pepper’s door in +the High Street. +</p> + +<p> +He stood. “Miss Audley!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +Mary was flushed with exercise, ruffled by the wind, travel-stained. But she +would have cared little for these things if she could have governed the blood +that rose to her cheeks at his sudden appearance. To mask her confusion she +rushed into speech. +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot be more surprised than I am,” she said. “My uncle +is not so well to-day, and in a panic about his medicine. Toft, who should have +come in to town to fetch it, was not to be found, so I had to come.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you have walked in?” +</p> + +<p> +Smiling, she showed him her boots. “And I am presently going to walk +out,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You will never do it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Before dark? No, perhaps not!” She raised her hand and put back a +tress of hair which had strayed from its fellows. “And I shall be tired. +But I shall be much surprised if I cannot walk ten miles at a pinch.” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall be surprised if you walk ten miles to-day,” he retorted. +“My plans for you are quite different. Have you got what you came to +fetch?” +</p> + +<p> +She had steadied herself, and was by this time at her ease. She made a little +grimace. “No,” she said. “It will not be ready for quarter of +an hour.” +</p> + +<p> +He rang Dr. Pepper’s bell. An awestruck apprentice, who had watched the +interview through the dusty window of the surgery, showed himself. +</p> + +<p> +“Be good enough to send the medicine for Miss Audley to Mrs. +Jenkinson’s,” Audley said. “You understand?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, my lord! Certainly, my lord!” She was going to protest. He +turned to her, silenced her. “And now I take possession of you,” he +said, supremely careless what the lad heard. “You are coming to The +Butterflies to take tea, or sherry, or whatever you take when you have walked +five miles.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, Lord Audley!” +</p> + +<p> +“And then I am going to drive you as far as the old Cross, and walk up +the hill with you—as far as I choose.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but I cannot!” Mary cried, coloring charmingly, but whether +with pleasure or embarrassment she could not tell. She only knew that his +ridiculous way of taking possession of her, the very masterfulness of it, moved +her strangely. “I cannot indeed. What would my uncle say?” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know, and I don’t care!” he replied, swinging +his walking cane, and smiling as he towered above her. +</p> + +<p> +“He may go hang—for once!” +</p> + +<p> +She hesitated. “It is very good of you,” she said. “I confess +I did not look forward to the walk back. But——” +</p> + +<p> +“There is no—but,” he replied. “And no walk back! It is +arranged. It is time—” his eyes dwelt kindly on her as she turned +with him—“it is time that some one took it in hand to arrange +things for you. Five miles in and five miles out over dirty roads on a winter +afternoon—and Miss Audley! No, no! And now—this way, please!” +</p> + +<p> +She yielded, she could not tell why, except that it was difficult to resist +him, and not unpleasant to obey him. And after all, why should she not go with +him? She had been feeling fagged and tired, depressed, moreover, by her +uncle’s fears. The low-lying fields, the town, the streets, all dingy +under a gray autumn sky, had given her no welcome. +</p> + +<p> +And her thoughts, too, had been dun-colored. She had felt very lonely the last +few days, doubtful of the future, without aim, hipped. And now in a moment all +seemed changed. She was no longer alone, nor fearful. The streets were no +longer dingy nor dreary. There were still pleasant things in the world, +kindness, and thought for others, and friendship and—and tea and cake! +Was it wonderful that as she walked along beside my lord her spirits rose? That +she felt an unaccountable relief, and in the reaction of the moment smiled and +sparkled more than her wont? That the muddy brick pavement, the low-browed +shops, the leafless trees all seemed brighter than before, and that even the +butcher’s stall became almost a thing of beauty? +</p> + +<p> +And he responded famously. He swung his stick, he laughed, he was gay. +“Don’t pretend!” he said. “I see that you were glad +enough to meet me!” +</p> + +<p> +“And the tea and cake!” she replied. “After five miles who +would not be glad to meet them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly! It is my belief that if I had not met you, you would have +fallen by the way. You want some one to look after you, Miss Audley.” The +name was a caress. +</p> + +<p> +Nor was the pleasure all their own. Great was the excitement of the townsfolk +as they passed. “His lordship and a young lady?” cried half +Riddsley, running to the windows. “Quick, or you will miss them!” +Some wondered who she could be; more had seen her at church and could answer. +“Miss Audley? The young lady who had come to live at the Gatehouse? +Indeed! You don’t say so?” For every soul in Riddsley, over twelve +years old, was versed in the Audley history, knew all about the suit, and could +tell off the degrees of kindred as easily as they could tell the distance from +the Audley Arms to the Portcullis. “Mr. Peter Audley’s daughter who +lived in Paris? Lady-in-waiting to a Princess. And now walking with his +lordship as if she had known him all her life! What would Mr. John say? +D’you see how gay he looks! Not a bit what he is when he speaks to us! +Wonder whether there’s anything in it!” And so on, and so on, with +tit-bits from the history of Mary’s father, and choice eccentricities +from the life of John Audley. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jenkinson’s amazement, as she espied them coming up the path to the +house, was a thing by itself. It was such that she set her door ajar that she +might see them pass through the hall. She was all of a twitter, she said +afterwards. And poor Jane and poor Sarah—who were out! What a miss they +were having! It was not thrice in the twelve months that his lordship brought a +lady to the house. +</p> + +<p> +A greater miss, indeed, it turned out, than she thought. For to her +gratification Lord Audley tapped at her door. He pushed it open. “Mrs. +Jenkinson,” he said pleasantly, “this is my cousin, Miss Audley, +who is good enough to take a cup of your excellent tea with me, if you will +make it. She has walked in from the Gatehouse.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Jenkinson was a combination of an eager, bright-eyed bird and a stout, +short lady in dove-colored silk—if such a thing can be imagined; and the +soul of good-nature. She took Mary by both hands, beamed upon her, and +figuratively took her to her bosom. “A little cake and wine, my +dear,” she chirruped. “After a long walk! And then tea. To be sure, +my dear! I knew your father, Mr. Peter Audley, a dear, good gentleman. You +would like to wash your hands? Yes, my dear! Not that you are not—and his +lordship will wait for us upstairs. Yes, there’s a step. I knew your +father, to be sure, to be sure. A new brush, my dear. And now will you let +me—not that your sweet face needs any ornament! Yes, I talk too +much—but, there, my love, when you are as old——” +</p> + +<p> +She was a simple soul, and because her tongue rarely stopped she might have +been thought to see nothing. But women, unlike men, can do two things at once, +and little escaped her twinkling spectacles. As she told her sister later, +“My dear, I saw it was spoons from the first. She sparkled all over, +bless her innocent heart! And he, if she had been a duchess, could not have +waited on her more elegant—well, elegantly, Sally, if you like, but we +can’t all talk like you. They thought, the dear creatures, that I saw +nothing; but once he said something too low for me to hear and she looked up at +him, and her pretty eyes were like stars. And he looked—well, Sally, I +could not tell you how he looked!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not sure that it would be proper,” the spinster demurred. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, well, it was as pretty a thing as you’d wish to see,” +the good creature ran on, drumming with her fingers on the lap of her silk +gown. “And she, bless her, I dare say she was all of a twitter, but she +didn’t show it. No airs or graces either—but there, an Audley has +no need! Why, God bless me, I said something about the Princess and what +company she must have seen, and what a change for her, and she up and +said—I am sure I loved her for it!—that she had been no more than a +governess! My dear, an Audley a governess! I fancied my lord wasn’t quite +pleased, and very natural! But when a man is spoons——” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear sister!” +</p> + +<p> +“Vulgar? Well, perhaps so, I know I run on, but gentle or simple, +they’re the same when they’re in love! And Jane will be glad to +hear that she took two pieces of the sultana and two cups of tea, and he +watching every piece she put in her mouth, and she coloring up, once or twice, +so that it did my heart good to see them, the pretty dears. Jane will be +pleased. And there might have been nothing but seed cake in the house. I shall +remember more presently, but I was in such a twitter!” +</p> + +<p> +“What did she call him?” Miss Sarah asked. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure, my dear, that was what I was going to tell you! I listened, +and not a single thing did she call him. But once, when he gave her some cake, +I heard him call her Mary, for all the world as if it was a bit of sugar in his +mouth. And there came a kind of quiver over her pretty face, and she looked at +her plate as much as to say it was a new thing. And I said to myself +‘Philip and Mary’—out of the old school-books you know, but +who they were I don’t remember. But it’s my opinion,” Mrs. +Jenkinson continued, rubbing her nose with the end of her spectacles, +“that he had spoken just before they came in, Sally.” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t say so?” Sarah cried. +</p> + +<p> +“If you ask me, there was a kind of softness about them both! Law, when I +think what you and Jane missed through going to that stupid Institute! I am +sure you’ll never forgive yourselves!” +</p> + +<p> +The good lady had not missed much herself, but she was mistaken in thinking +that the two had come to an understanding. Indeed when, leaving the warmth of +her presence behind them, they drove out of town, with the servant seated with +folded arms behind them and Mary snugly tucked in beside my lord, a new +constraint began to separate them. The excitement of the meeting had waned, the +fillip of the unwonted treat had lost its power. A depression for which she +could not account beset Mary as they rolled through the dull outskirts and +faced the flat mistridden pastures and the long lines of willows. On his side +doubt held him silent. He had found it pleasant to come to the brink, he had +not been blind to Mary’s smiles and her rare blushes. But the one step +farther—that could not be re-trodden, and it was in the nature of the man +to hesitate at the last, and to consider if he were getting full value. +</p> + +<p> +So, as they drove through the dusk, now noiselessly over sodden leaves, now +drumming along the hard road, the hint of a chill fell between them. +Mary’s thoughts went forward to the silent house and the lonely rooms, +and she chid herself for ingratitude. She had had her pleasure, she had had an +unwonted treat. What was wrong with her? What more did she want? +</p> + +<p> +It was nearly dark, and not many words had passed when Lord Audley pulled up +the horses at the old Cross. The man leapt down and was going to help Mary to +alight, when his master bade him take the box-seat and the reins. +</p> + +<p> +Mary remonstrated. “Oh, don’t get down, please!” she cried. +“Please! It is nothing to the house from here.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is half a mile if it is a yard,” he said. “And it is +nearly dark. I am going with you.” He bade the man walk the horses up and +down. +</p> + +<p> +She ventured another protest, but he put it aside. He threw back the rug and +lifted her down. For a moment he stamped about and stretched himself. Then +“Come, Mary,” he said. It was an order. +</p> + +<p> +She knew then what was at hand. And though she had a minute before looked +forward with regret to the parting, all her thought now was how she might +escape to the Gatehouse. It became a refuge. Her heart, as she started to walk +beside him, beat so quickly that she could not speak. She was thankful that it +was dark, and that he could not read her agitation in her face. +</p> + +<p> +He did not speak himself for some minutes. Then “Mary,” he said +abruptly, looking straight before him, “I am rather one for taking than +asking, and that stands in my way now. When I’ve wanted a thing +I’ve generally taken it. Now I want a thing I can’t +take—without asking. And I feel that I’m not good at the asking. +But I want it badly, and I must do the best I can. I love you, Mary. I love +you, and I want you for my wife.” +</p> + +<p> +She could not find a word. When he went on his tone was lower. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m rather a lonely man,” he said. “You didn’t +know that, or think it? But it is true. And such an hour as we have spent +to-day is not mine often. It lies with you to say if I am going to have more of +them. I might tell you with truth that I haven’t much to offer my wife. +That if I am Audley of Beaudelays, I am the poorest Audley that ever was. That +my wife will be no great lady, and will step into no golden shoes. The +butterflies are moths, Mary, nowadays, and if I am ever to be much she will +have to help me. But I will tell no lies, my dear!” He turned to her then +and stopped; and perforce, though her knees trembled, she had to stand also, +and face him as he looked down at her. “I am not going to pretend that +what I have to offer isn’t enough. For you are lonely like me; you have +no one but John Audley to look to, and I am big enough and strong enough to +take care of you. And I will take care of you—if you will let me. If you +will say the word, Mary?” +</p> + +<p> +He loomed above her in the darkness. He seemed already to possess her. She +tried to think, tried to ask herself if she loved him, if she loved him enough; +but the fancy for him which she had had from the beginning, that and his +masterfulness swept her irresistibly towards him. She was lonely—more +lonely than ever of late, and to whom was she to look? Who else had been as +good to her, as kind to her, as thoughtful for her, as he who now wooed her so +honestly, who offered her all he had to offer? She hesitated, and he saw that +she hesitated. +</p> + +<p> +“Come, we’ve got to have this out,” he said bluntly. And he +put his hand on her shoulder. “We stand alone, both of us, you and I. +We’re the last of the old line, and I want you for my wife, Mary! With +you I can do something, with you I believe that I can make something of my +life! Without you—but there, if you say no, I won’t take it! I +won’t take it, and I am going to have you, if not to-day, to-morrow, and +if not to-morrow, the next day! Make no mistake about that!” +</p> + +<p> +She tried to fence with him. “I have not a penny,” she faltered. +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t ask you for a penny.” +</p> + +<p> +Her instinct was still to escape. “You are Lord Audley,” she said, +“and I am a poor relation. Won’t you—don’t you think +that you will repent presently!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s my business! If that be all—if there’s no one +else——” +</p> + +<p> +“No, there’s no one else,” she admitted. +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>But</i> be hanged!” he cried. “If there’s no one +else you are mine.” And he passed his arm round her. +</p> + +<p> +For a moment she stepped back. “No!” she protested, raising her +hands to push him off. “Please—please let me think.” +</p> + +<p> +He let her be, for already he knew that he had won; and perhaps in his own mind +he was beginning to doubt the wisdom of the step. “My uncle? Have you +thought of him?” she asked. “What will he say?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not thought of him,” he cried grandly, “and I am not +going to think of him. I am thinking, my dear, only of you. Do you love +me?” +</p> + +<p> +She stood silent, gazing at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t play with me!” he said. “I’ve a right to +an answer.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I do,” she said softly. “Yes—I think—no, +wait; that is not all.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” between laughing and crying. “You are not giving me +time. I want to think. You are carrying me by storm, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And a good way, too!” he rejoined. Then she did let him take her, +and for a few seconds she was in his arms. He crushed her to him, she felt all +the world turning. But before he found her lips, the crack of a whip startled +them, the creak of a wheel sliding round the corner warned them, she slipped +from his arms. +</p> + +<p> +“You little wretch!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Breathless, hardly knowing what she felt, or what storm shook her, she could +not speak. The wagon came creaking past them, the driver clinging to the chain +of the slipper. When it was gone by she found her voice. “It shall be as +you will,” she said, and her tone thrilled him. “But I want to +think. It has been so sudden, I am frightened. I am frightened, and—yes, +I think I am happy. But please to let me go now. I am safe here—in two +minutes I shall be at home.” +</p> + +<p> +He tried to keep her, but “Let me go now,” she pleaded. +“Later it shall be as you wish—always as you wish. But let me go +now.” +</p> + +<p> +He gave way then. He said a few words while he held her hands, and he said them +very well. Then he let her go. Before the dusk hid her she turned and waved her +hand, and he waved his. He stood, listening. He heard the sound of her +footsteps grow fainter and fainter as she climbed the hill, until they were +lost in the rustle of the wind through the undergrowth. At last he turned and +trudged down the hill. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ve done it,” he muttered presently. “And Uncle +John may find what he likes, damn him! After all, she’s handsome enough +to turn any man’s head, and it makes me safe! But I’ll go slow. +I’ll go slow now. There’s no hurry.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII<br/> +BLORE UNDER WEAVER</h2> + +<p> +Gratitude and liking, and the worship of strength which is as natural in a +woman as the worship of beauty in a man, form no bad imitation of love, and +often pass into love as imperceptibly as the brook becomes a river. The morning +light brought Mary no repentance. Misgivings she had, as what lover has not, +were the truth told. Was her love as perfect as Etruria’s, as unselfish, +as absorbing? She doubted. But in all honesty she hoped that it might become +so; and when she dwelt on the man who had done so much for her, and thought so +well for her, who had so much to offer and made so little of the offering, her +heart swelled with gratitude, and if she did not love she fancied that she did. +</p> + +<p> +So much was changed for her! She had wondered more than once what would happen +to her, if her uncle died. That fear was put from her. Toft—she had been +vexed with Toft. How small a matter that seemed now! And Peter Basset? He had +been kind to her, and a pang did pierce her heart on his account. But he had +recovered very quickly, she reflected. He had shown himself cold enough and +distant enough at his last visit! And then she smiled as she thought how +differently her new lover had assailed her, with what force, what arrogance, +what insistence—and yet with a force and arrogance and insistence to +which it was pleasant to yield. +</p> + +<p> +She did not with all this forget that she would be Lady Audley, she, whose past +had been so precarious, whose prospects had been so dark, whose fate it might +have been to travel through life an obscure teacher! She had not been woman if +she had not thought of this; nor if she had failed, when she thought of it, to +breathe a prayer for the gallant lover who had found her and saved her, and had +held it enough that she was an Audley. He might have chosen far and wide. He +had chosen her. +</p> + +<p> +No wonder that Mrs. Toft saw a change in her. “Law, Miss,” she +remarked, when she came in to remove the breakfast. “One would think a +ten-mile walk was the making of you! It’s put a color into your cheeks +that would shame a June rose! And to be sure,” with a glance at the young +lady’s plate, “not much eaten either!” +</p> + +<p> +“I am not hungry, Mrs. Toft,” Mary said meekly. “I drove back +to the foot of the hill.” +</p> + +<p> +“And I’d like to sort Toft for it! Ifs he who should have gone! +He’s upstairs now, keeping out of my way, and that grim and gray +you’d think he’d seen a ghost! And ’Truria, silly girl, +she’s all of a quiver this morning. It’s ‘Mother, let me do +this!’ and ‘Mother, I’ll do that!’ all because her +reverend—not, as I tell her, that aught will ever come of it—has +got a roof over his head at last.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that’s good news! Has Mr. Colet got some work?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not he, the silly man! Nor likely! There’s mighty little work for +them as go against the gentry. For what he’s got he’s to thank Mr. +Basset.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Basset.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure,” Mrs. Toft answered, with a covert glance at the girl, +“why not, Miss? Some talk and the wind goes by. There’s plenty of +those. And some say naught but do—and that’s Mr. Basset. He’s +took in Mr. Colet till he can find a church. Etruria’s that up about it, +I tell her, smile before breakfast and sweat before night. And so she’ll +find it, I warrant!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is very good of Mr. Basset,” Mary said gravely. And then, +“Is that some one knocking, Mrs. Toft?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s well to have young ears!” Mrs. Toft took out the tray, +and returned with a letter. “It’s for you, Miss,” she said. +“The postman’s late this morning, but cheap’s a slow +traveller. When a letter was a letter and cost ninepence it came to hand like a +gentleman!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary waited to hear no more. She knew the handwriting, and as quickly as she +could she escaped from the room. No one with any claim to taste used an +envelope in those days, and to open a letter so that no rent might mar its +fairness called for a care which she could not exercise in public. +</p> + +<p> +Alone, in her room, she opened it, and her eyes grew serious as they travelled +down the page, which bore signs of haste. +</p> + +<p> +“Sweetheart,” it began, and she thought that charming, “I do +not ask if you reached the Gatehouse safely, for I listened and I must have +heard, if harm befel you. I drove home as happy as a king, and grieved only +that I had not had that of you which I had a right to have—damn that +carter! This troubles me the more as I shall not see you again for a time, and +if this does not disappoint you too, you’re a deceiver! My plans are +altered by to-day’s news that Peel returns to office. In any event, I had +to go to Seabourne’s for Christmas, now I must be there for a meeting +to-morrow and go from there to London on the same business. You would not have +me desert my post, I am sure? Heaven knows how long I may be kept, possibly a +fortnight, possibly more. But the moment I can I shall be with you. +</p> + +<p> +“Write to me at the Brunswick Hôtel, Dover Street. Sweetheart, I am +yours, as you, my darling, are +</p> + +<p class="right"> +“Philip’s. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>P. S</i>.—I must put off any communication to your uncle till I +can see him. So for the moment, mum!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary read the letter twice; the first time with eager eyes, the second time +more calmly. Nothing was more natural, she told herself, than that her spirits +should sink—Philip was gone. The walk with him, the talk which was to +bring them nearer, and to make them better known to one another, stood over. +The day that was to be so bright was clouded. +</p> + +<p> +But beyond this the letter itself fell a little, a very little, short of her +expectations. The beginning was charming! But after that—was it her +fancy, or was her lover’s tone a little flippant, a little free, a little +too easy? Did it lack that tender note of reassurance, that chivalrous thought +for her, which she had a right to expect in a first letter? She was not sure. +</p> + +<p> +And as to her uncle. She must, of course, be guided by her lover, his will must +be her law now; and it was reasonable that in John Audley’s state of +health the mode of communication should be carefully weighed. But she longed to +be candid, she longed to be open; and in regard to one person she would be +open. Basset had let her see that her treatment had cured him. At their last +meeting he had been cold, almost unkind; he had left her to deal with Toft as +she could. Still she owed him, if any one, the truth, and, were it only to set +herself right in her own eyes, she must tell him. If the news did nothing else +it would open the way for his return to the Gatehouse, and the telling would +enable her to make the <i>amende</i>. +</p> + +<p> +The letter was not written on that day nor the next. But on the fourth day +after Audley’s departure it arrived at Blore, and lay for an hour on the +dusty hall table amid spuds and powder-flasks and old itineraries. There Mr. +Colet found it and another letter, and removed the two for safety to the +parlor, where litter of a similar kind struggled for the upper hand with piles +of books and dog’s-eared Quarterlies. The decay of the Bassets dated +farther back than the decline of the Audleys, and the gabled house under the +shadow of Weaver was little better, if something larger, than a farm-house. +There had been a library, but Basset had taken the best books to the Gatehouse. +And there were in the closed drawing-room, and in some of the bedrooms, old +family portraits, bad for the most part; the best lay in marble in Blore +Church. But in the parlor, which was the living-room, hung only paintings of +fat oxen and prize sheep; and the garden which ran up to the walls of the +house, and in summer was a flood of color, lay in these days dank and lifeless, +ebbing away from bee-skips and chicken-coops. The park had been ploughed during +the great war, and now pined in thin pasture. The whole of the valley was still +Basset land, but undrained in the bottom and light on the slopes, it made no +figure in a rent-roll. The present owner had husbanded the place, and paid off +charges, and cleared the estate, but he had been able to do no more. The place +was a poor man’s place, though for miles round men spoke to the owner +bareheaded. He was “Basset of Blore,” as much a part of +Staffordshire as Burton Bridge or the Barbeacon. The memories of the illiterate +are long. +</p> + +<p> +He had been walking the hill that morning with a dog and a gun, and between +yearnings for the woman he loved, and longings for some plan of life, some +object, some aim, he was in a most unhappy mood. At one moment he saw himself +growing old, without the energy to help himself or others, still toying with +trifles, the last and feeblest of his blood. At another he thought of Mary, and +saw her smiling through the flowering hawthorn, or bending over a book with the +firelight on her hair. Or again, stung by the lash of her reproaches he tried +to harden himself to do something. Should he take the land into his own hands, +and drain and fence and breed stock and be of use, were it only as a struggling +farmer in his own district? Or should he make that plunge into public life to +which Colonel Mottisfont had urged him and from which he shrank as a shivering +man shrinks from an icy bath? +</p> + +<p> +For there was the rub. Mary was right. He was a dreamer, a weakling, one in +whom the strong pulse that had borne his forbears to the front beat but feebly. +He was not equal to the hard facts of life. With what ease had Audley, whenever +they had stood foot to foot, put him in the second place, got the better of +him, outshone him! +</p> + +<p> +Old Don pointed in vain. His master shot nothing, for he walked for the most +part with his eyes on the turf. If he raised them it was to gaze at the hamlet +lying below him in the valley, the old house, the ring of buildings and +cottages, the church that he loved—and that like the woman he loved, +reproached him with his inaction. +</p> + +<p> +About two o’clock he turned homewards. How many more days would he will +and not will, and end night by night where he had begun? In the main he was of +even temper, but of late small things tried him, and when he entered the parlor +and Colet rose at his entrance, he could not check his irritation. +</p> + +<p> +“For heaven’s sake, man, sit still!” he cried. “And +don’t get up every time I come in! And don’t look at me like a dog! +And don’t ask me if I want the book you are reading!” +</p> + +<p> +The curate stared, and muttered an apology. It was true that he did not wear +the chain of obligation with grace. +</p> + +<p> +“No, it is I who am sorry!” Basset replied, quickly repenting. +“I am a churlish ass! Get up when you like, and say what you like! But if +you can, make yourself at home!” +</p> + +<p> +Then he saw the two letters lying on the table. He knew Mary’s writing at +a glance, and he let it lie, his face twitching. He took up the other, made as +if he would open it, then he threw it back again, and took Mary’s to the +window, where he could read it unwatched. +</p> + +<p> +It was short. +</p> + +<p> +“<span class="sc">Dear Mr. Basset</span>,” she wrote, “I +should be paying you a poor compliment if I pretended that what I am writing +will not pain you. But I hope, and since our last meeting, I have reason to +believe that that pain will not be lasting. +</p> + +<p> +“My cousin, Lord Audley, has asked me to marry him, and I have consented. +Nothing beyond this is fixed, and no announcement will be made until my uncle +has recovered his strength. But I feel that I owe it to you to let you know +this at once. +</p> + +<p> +“I owe you something more. You crowned your kindness by doing me a great +honor. I could not reply in substance otherwise than I did, but for the foolish +criticisms of an inexperienced girl, I ask you to believe that I feel deep +regret. +</p> + +<p> +“When we meet I hope that we may meet as friends. If I can believe this +it will add something to the happiness of my engagement. My uncle is better, +but little stronger than when you saw him. +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:50%"> +“I am, truly yours, +</p> + +<p style="text-indent:60%"> +“<span class="sc">Mary Audley</span>.” +</p> + +<p> +He stood looking at it for a long time, and only by an effort could he control +the emotion that strove to master him. Then his thoughts travelled to the +other, the man who had won her, the man who had got the better of him from the +first, who had played the Jacob from the moment of their meeting on the +steamer; and a passion of jealousy swept him away. He swore aloud. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Colet leapt in his chair. “Mr. Basset!” he cried. And then, in +a different tone, “You have bad news, I fear?” +</p> + +<p> +The other laughed bitterly. “Bad news?” he repeated, and Colet saw +that his face was white and that the letter shook in his hand. “The +Government’s out, and that’s bad news. The pig’s ill, and +that’s bad news. Your mother’s dead, and that’s bad +news!” +</p> + +<p> +“Swearing makes no news better,” Colet said mildly. +</p> + +<p> +“Not even the pig? If your—if Etruria died, and some one told you +that she was dead, you wouldn’t swear? You wouldn’t curse +God?” +</p> + +<p> +“God forbid!” the clergyman cried in horror. +</p> + +<p> +“What would you do then?” +</p> + +<p> +“Try so to live, Mr. Basset, that we might meet again!” +</p> + +<p> +“Rubbish, man!” Basset retorted rudely. “Try instead not to +be a prig!” +</p> + +<p> +“If I could be of use?” +</p> + +<p> +“You cannot, nor any one else,” Basset answered. “There, say +no more. The worst is over. We’ve played our little part +and—what’s the odds how we played it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Much when the curtain falls,” the poor clergyman ventured. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’ll go and eat something. Hunger is one more grief!” +And Basset went out. +</p> + +<p> +He came back ten minutes later, pale but quiet. “Sorry, Colet,” he +said. “Very rude, I am afraid! I had bad news, but I am right now. +Wasn’t there another letter for me?” +</p> + +<p> +He found the letter and read it listlessly. He tossed it across the table to +his guest. “News is plentiful to-day,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Colet took the letter and read it. It was from a Mr. Hatton, better known to +him than to Basset, and the owner of one of the two small factories in +Riddsley. It was an invitation to contest the borough in opposition to young +Mottisfont. +</p> + +<p> +“If it were a question, respected sir,” Hatton wrote, “of +Whigs and Tories we should not approach you. But as the result must depend upon +the proportions in which the Tory party splits for and against Sir Robert Peel +upon the Corn Laws, we, who are in favor of repeal, recognize the advantage of +being represented by a moderate Tory. The adherence to Sir Robert of Sir James +Graham in the North and of Lord Lincoln in the Midlands proves that there are +landowners who place their country before their rents, and it is in the hope +that you, sir, are of the number that we invite you to give us that assistance +which your ancient name must afford. +</p> + +<p> +“We are empowered to promise you the support of the Whig party in the +borough, conditioned only upon your support of the repeal of the Corn Laws, +leaving you free on other points. The Audley influence has been hitherto +paramount, but we believe that the time has come to free the borough from the +last remnant of the Feudal system. +</p> + +<p> +“A deputation will wait upon you to give you such assurances as you may +desire. But as Parliament meets on an early date, and the present member may at +once apply for the Chiltern Hundreds, we shall be glad to have your answer +before the New Year.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” Basset asked. “What do you think?” +</p> + +<p> +“It opens a wide door.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you wish to have your finger pinched,” Basset replied, +flippantly, “it does. I don’t know that it is an opening to +anything else.” And as Colet refrained from speaking, “You +don’t think,” he went on, “that it’s a way into +Parliament? A repealer has as much chance of getting in for Riddsley against +the Audley interest as you have of being an archdeacon! Of course the Radicals +want a fight if they can find a man fool enough to spend his money. But as for +winning, they don’t dream of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is better to lose in some causes than to win in others.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset laughed. “Do you know why they have come to me? They think that I +shall carry John Audley with me and divide the Audley interest. There’s +nothing in it, but that’s the notion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why look at the seamy side?” Colet objected. “I suppose +there always is one, but I don’t think that it was at that side Sir +Robert looked when he made up his mind to put the country first and his party +second! I don’t think that it was at that side he looked when he +determined to eat his words and pocket his pride, rather than be responsible +for famine in Ireland! Believe me, Mr. Basset,” the clergyman continued +earnestly, “it was no easy change of opinion. Before he came to that +resolution, proud, cold man as I am told he is, many a sight and sound must +have knocked at the door of his mind; a scene of poverty he passed in his +carriage, a passage in some report, a speech through which he seemed to sleep, +a begging letter—one by one they pressed the door inwards, till at last, +with—it may be with misery, he came to see what he must do!” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly.” +</p> + +<p> +“The call came, he had to answer it. Here is a call to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“And do you think,” the other retorted, “that I can answer it +more cheaply than Sir Robert? So far as I have thought it out, I am with him. +But do you think I could do this,” he tapped the letter, “without +misery—of a different kind it may be? I am not a public man, I have +served no apprenticeship to it, I’ve not addressed a meeting three times +in my life, I don’t know what I should say or how I should say it. And +for Hatton and his friends, they would rub me up a dozen times a day.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Non sine pulvere!</i>” Mr. Colet murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“Dust enough there’ll be! I don’t doubt that. And dirt. But +there’s another thing.” He paused, and turning, knocked the fire +together. He was nearly a minute about it, while the other waited. +“There’s another thing,” he repeated. “I am not going +into this business to pay out a private grudge, and I want to be clear that I +am not doing that. And I’m not going into this simply for what I can get +out of it. Ambition is a poor stayer with me, a washy chestnut. It would not +carry me through, Colet. If I go into this, it will be because I believe in it. +It seems as if I were preaching,” he continued awkwardly. “But +there’s nothing but belief will carry me through, and unless I am +clear—I’ll not start. I’ll not start, although I want to make +a fresh start badly! Devilish badly, if you’ll excuse me!” +</p> + +<p> +“And how will you——” +</p> + +<p> +“Make certain? I don’t know. I must fight it out by myself—go +up on the hill and think it out. I must believe in the thing, or I must leave +it alone!” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” said Mr. Colet. And prudent for once he said no more. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV<br/> +AN AGENT OF THE OLD SCHOOL</h2> + +<p> +It is doubtful if even the great Reform Bill of ’32, which shifted the +base of power from the upper to the middle class, awoke more bitter feelings +that did the <i>volte face</i> of Peel in the winter of ’45. Since the +days of Pitt no statesman had enjoyed the popularity or wielded the power which +had been Sir Robert’s when he had taken office four years before. He had +been more than the leader of the Tory party; he had been its re-creator. He had +been more than the leader of the landed interest; he had been its pride. Men +who believed that upon the welfare of that interest rested the stability of the +constitution, men with historic names had walked on his right hand and on his +left, had borne his train and carried his messages. All things, his origin, his +formality, his pride, his quiet domestic life, even his moderation, had been +forgiven in the man who had guided the Tories through the bad days, had led +them at last to power, and still stood between them and the mutterings of this +new industrial England, that hydra-like threatened and perplexed them. +</p> + +<p> +And then—he had betrayed them. Suddenly, some held; in a panic, scared by +God knows what bugbear! Coldly and deliberately, said others, spreading his +treachery over years, laughing in his sleeve as he led them to the fatal edge. +Those who took the former view made faint excuse for him, and perhaps still +clung to him. Those who held the latter thought no price too high, no sacrifice +too costly, no effort too great, if they could but punish the traitor! If they +could but pillory him for all to see. +</p> + +<p> +So, in a moment, in the autumn of ’45, as one drop of poison will cloud +the fairest water, the face of public life was changed. Bitterness was infused +into it, friend was parted from friend and son from father, the oldest +alliances were dissolved. Men stood gaping, at a loss whither to turn and whom +to trust. Many who had never in all their lives made up their own minds were +forced to have an opinion and choose a side; and as that process is to some men +as painful as a labor to a woman, the effect was to embitter things farther. +How could one who for years past had cursed Cobden in all companies, and in +moments of relaxation had drunk to a “Bloody War and a Wet +Harvest,” turn round and join the Manchester School? It could be done, it +was done, but with what a rending of bleeding sinews only the sufferers knew! +</p> + +<p> +Strange to say, few gave weight to Sir Robert’s plea of famine in +Ireland. Still more strange, when events bore out his alarm, when in the course +of a year or two a quarter of a million in that unhappy country died of want, +public feeling changed little. Those who had remained with him, stood with him +still. Those who had banded themselves against him, held their ground. Only a +handful allowed that he was honest, after all. Nor was it until he, who rode +his horse like a sack, had died like a demi-god, with a city hanging on his +breath, and weeping women filling all the streets about the house, that the +traitor became the patriot. +</p> + +<p> +But this is to anticipate. In December of ’45, few men believed in +famine. Few thought much of dearth. The world was angry, blood was hot, many +dreamt of vengeance. Meantime Manchester exulted, and Coal, Iron, Cotton +toasted Peel. But even they marvelled that the man who had been chosen to +support the Corn Laws had the courage to repeal them! +</p> + +<p> +Upon no one in the whole country did the news fall with more stunning effect +than upon poor Stubbs at Riddsley. He had suspected Peel. He had disliked his +measures, and doubted whither he was moving. He had even on the occasion of his +resignation predicted that Sir Robert would support the repeal; but he had not +thought worse of him than that, and the event left him not uncertain, nor under +any stress as to making up his mind, but naked, as it were, in an east wind. He +felt older. He owned that his generation was passing. He numbered the friends +he had left and found them few. And though he continued to assert that no man +had ever pitted himself against the land whom the land had not broken, doubt +began to creep into his mind. There were hours when he foresaw the end of the +warm farming days, of game and sport, of Horn and Corn, ay, and of the old +toast, “The farmer’s best friend—the landlord,” to +which he had replied at many an audit dinner. +</p> + +<p> +One thing remained—the Riddsley election. He found some comfort in that. +He drew some pleasure from the thought that Sir Robert might do what he pleased +at Tamworth, he might do what he pleased in the Cabinet, in the +Commons—there were toadies and turn-coats everywhere; but Riddsley would +have none of him! Riddsley would remain faithful! Stubbs steeped himself in the +prospect of the election, and in preparations for it. A dozen times a day he +thanked his stars that the elder Mottisfont’s weakness for Peel had +provided this opening for his energies. +</p> + +<p> +Not that even on this ground he was quite happy. There was a little bitter in +the cup. He hardly owned it to himself, he did not dream of whispering it to +others, but at the bottom of his mind he had ever so faint a doubt of his +employer. A hint dropped here, a word there, a veiled question—he could +not say which of these had given him the notion that his lordship hung between +two opinions, and even—no wonder that Stubbs dared not whisper it to +others—was weighing which would pay him best! +</p> + +<p> +Such a thought was treason, however, and Stubbs buried it and trampled on it, +before he went jauntily into the snug little meeting at the Audley Arms, which +he had summoned to hear the old member’s letter read and to accept the +son as a candidate in his father’s place. Those whom the agent had called +were few and trusty; young Mottisfont himself, the rector and Dr. Pepper, +Bagenal the maltster, Hogg the saddler, Musters the landlord, the +“Duke” from the Leasows (which was within the borough), and two +other tradesmen. Stubbs had no liking for big meetings. He had been bred up to +believe that speeches were lost labor, and if they must be made should be made +at the Market Ordinary. +</p> + +<p> +At such a gathering as this he was happy. He had the strings in his own hands. +The work to be done was at his fingers’ ends. At this table he was as +great a man as my lord. With young Mottisfont, who was by way of being a Bond +Street dandy, solemn, taciturn, and without an opinion of his own, he was not +likely to have trouble. The rector was enthusiastic but indolent, Pepper an old +friend. The rest were Stubbs’s most obedient. +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs read the retiring member’s letter, and introduced the candidate. +The rector boomed through a few phrases of approbation, Dr. Pepper seconded, +the rest cried “Hear! hear!” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s little to say,” Stubbs went on. “I take it +that we are all of one mind, gentlemen, to return Mr. Mottisfont in his +father’s place?” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear! hear!” from all. “In the old interest?” Stubbs +went on, looking round the table. “And on the clear understanding that +Mr. Mottisfont is returned to oppose any tampering with the protection of +agriculture.” +</p> + +<p> +“That is so,” said Mr. Mottisfont. +</p> + +<p> +“I will see that that is embodied in Mr. Mottisfont’s +address,” Stubbs continued. “There must be no mistake. These are +queer times——” +</p> + +<p> +“Sad times!” said the rector, shaking his head. +</p> + +<p> +“Terrible times!” said the maltster, shaking his. +</p> + +<p> +“Never did I dream I should live to see ’em,” said old +Hayward. “’Tisn’t a month since a chap came on my land, ay, +up to my very door, and said things—I’ll be damned if I did not +think he’d turn the cream sour! And when I cried ‘Sam! fetch a +pitchfork and rid me of this rubbish——’” +</p> + +<p> +“I know, Hayward,” Stubbs said, cutting him short. “I know. +You told me about it. You did very well. But to business. It shall be a short +address—just that one point. We are all agreed, I think, +gentlemen?” +</p> + +<p> +All were agreed. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll see that it is printed in good time,” Stubbs continued. +“I don’t think that we need trouble you further, Mr. Mottisfont. +There’s a fat-stock sale this day fortnight. Perhaps you’ll dine +and say a few words? I’ll let you know if it is necessary. There’ll +be no opposition. Hatton will have a meeting at the Institute, but nothing will +come of it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all then, is it?” said the London man, sticking his +glass in his eye with a sigh of relief. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all,” Stubbs replied. “If you can attend this +day fortnight so much the better. The farmers like it, and they’ve +fourteen votes in the borough. Thank you, gentlemen, that’s all.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you’ve forgotten one thing, Mr. Stubbs,” said old +Hayward, with a twinkle. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure, I have. Ring the bell, Musters, and send up the two bottles +of your ’20 port that I ordered and some glasses. A glass of +Musters’ ’20 port, Mr. Mottisfont, won’t hurt you this cold +day. And we must drink your health. And, Musters, when these gentlemen go down, +see that they have what they call for.” +</p> + +<p> +The port was sipped, tasted. Mr. Mottisfont’s health was drunk, and +various compliments were paid to his father. The rector took his two glasses; +so did young Mottisfont, who woke up and vowed that he had tasted none better +in St. James’s Street. “Is it Garland’s?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“It is, sir,” Musters said, much pleased. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought it was—none better!” said young Mottisfont, also +pleased. “The old Duke drinks no other.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fine tipple! Fine tipple!” said the other “Duke.” In +the end a third bottle was ordered, of which Musters and old Hayward drank the +better part. +</p> + +<p> +At one of these meetings a sad thing had happened. A rash tradesman had +proposed his lordship’s health. Of course he had been severely snubbed. +It had been considered most indecent. But on this occasion no one was so simple +as to name my lord, and Stubbs felt with satisfaction that all had passed as it +should. So had candidates been chosen as long as he could remember. +</p> + +<p> +But call no man happy until the day closes. As he left the house Bagenal the +maltster tacked himself on to him. “I’d a letter from George this +morning,” he said. George was his son, articled to Mr. Stubbs, and now +with Mr. Stubbs’s agents in town. “He saw his lordship one day last +week.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay. I suppose Master George was in the West End? Wasting his time, +Bagenal, I’ll be bound.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know about that. Young fellows like to see things. He went +with a lot of chaps to see the crowd outside Sir Robert’s. They’d +read in a paper that all the nobs were to be seen going in and out. Anyway, he +went, and the first person he saw going in was his lordship!” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Stubbs walked a few yards in silence. Then, “Well, he’s no +sight to George,” he said. “It seems to me they were both wasting +their time. I told his lordship he’d do no good. When half the dukes in +England have been at Peel, d—n him, it wasn’t likely he’d +change his course for his lordship! It wasn’t to be expected, Bagenal. +Did George stop to see him come out?” +</p> + +<p> +“He did. And in a thundering temper my lord looked.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay! Well I told him how it would be.” +</p> + +<p> +“They were going in and out like bees, George said.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay.” +</p> + +<p> +They parted on that, and the lawyer went into his office. But his face was +gloomy. “Ay, like bees!” he muttered. “After the honey! I +wonder what he asked for! Whatever it was he couldn’t have paid the +price! I thought he knew that. I’ve a good mind—but there, +we’ve held it so long, grandfather, father, and son—I can’t +afford to give it up.” +</p> + +<p> +He turned into his office, but the day was spoiled for him. And the day was not +done yet. He had barely sat down before his clerk a thin, gray-haired man, +high-nosed, with a look of breeding run to seed, came in, and closed the door +behind him. Farthingale was as well known in Riddsley as the Maypole; gossip +had it that he was a by-blow of an old name. “I’ve heard +something,” he said darkly, “and the sooner you know it the better. +They’ve got a man.” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs shrugged his shoulders. “For repeal in Riddsley?” he said. +“You’re dreaming.” +</p> + +<p> +The clerk smiled. “Well, you’d best be awake,” he said. He +had been long enough with Stubbs to take a liberty. “Who do you think it +is?” he continued, rubbing his chin with the feather-end of a quill. +</p> + +<p> +“Some methodist parson!” +</p> + +<p> +Farthingale shook his head. “Guess again, sir,” he said. +“You’re cold at present. It’s a bird of another +feather.” +</p> + +<p> +“A pretty big fool whoever he is!” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Basset of Blore. I have it on good authority.” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs stared. He was silent for a time, thinking hard. “Somebody’s +fooled you,” he said at last, but in a different tone. “He’s +never shown a sign of coming out.” +</p> + +<p> +The clerk looked wise. “It’s true,” he said. “It cost +me four goes of brown brandy at the Portcullis.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you may score that to me,” Stubbs answered. “Basset, +eh? Well, he’s throwing his money into the gutter if it’s true, and +he hasn’t much to spare. I see Hatton’s point. He’s not the +fool.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. He’s an old bird is Hatton.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t see where Squire Basset comes in.” +</p> + +<p> +Farthingale looked wiser than ever. “Well,” he said, “he may +have a score to pay, too. And if he has, there’s more ways than one of +paying it!” +</p> + +<p> +“What score?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, I’m not saying that. Mr. John Audley’s may +be—against his lordship.” +</p> + +<p> +“Umph! If you paid off yours at the Portcullis,” Stubbs retorted, +losing his temper, “the landlord wouldn’t be sorry! Scores are a +deal too much in your way, Farthingale!” he continued, severely, +forgetting in his annoyance the four goes of brown brandy. “You’re +too much at home among ’em. Don’t bring me cock-and-bull stories +like this! I don’t believe it. And get to that lease!” +</p> + +<p> +But sure enough Farthingale’s story proved to be well founded, for a week +later it was known for certain in Riddsley that Mr. Basset of Blore was coming +out, and that there would be a fight for the borough. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV<br/> +MARY IS LONELY</h2> + +<p> +Mary Audley was one of the last to hear the news. Etruria brought it from the +town one day in January, when the evenings were beginning to lengthen, and the +last hour of daylight was the dreariest of the twenty-four. It had rained, and +the oaks in the park were a-drip, the thorn trees stood in tiny pools, the +moorland lay stark under a pall of fog. In the vale the Trent was in flood, its +pale waters swirling past the willow-stools, creeping over the chilled meadows, +and stealing inch by inch up the waterside lanes. Etruria’s feet were +wet, and she was weary with her trudge through the mud; but when Mary met her +on the tiny landing on which their rooms opened, there was a sparkle in the +girl’s eyes as bright as the red petticoat that showed below her +tucked-up gown. +</p> + +<p> +“You didn’t forget——” Mary was beginning, and +then, “Why, Etruria,” she exclaimed, “I believe you have seen +Mr. Colet?” +</p> + +<p> +Etruria blushed like the dawn. “Oh no, Miss!” she said. +“He’s at Blore.” +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure! Then what is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ve heard some news, Miss,” Etruria said. “I +don’t know whether you’ll be pleased or not.” +</p> + +<p> +“But it is certain that you are!” Mary replied with conviction. +“What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +The girl told what she had heard: that there was to be an election at Riddsley +in three weeks, and not only an election but a contest, and that the candidate +who had come forward to oppose the Corn Laws was no other than Mr. +Basset—their Mr. Basset! More, that only the evening before he had held +his first meeting at the Institute, and though he had been interrupted and the +meeting had been broken up, his short plain speech had made a considerable +impression. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed, Miss,” Etruria continued, carried away by the subject, +“there was one told me that when he stood up to speak she could see his +hand shake, and his face was the color of a piece of paper. But when they began +to boo and shout at him, he grew as cool as cool, and the longer they shouted +the braver he was, until they saw that if they let him go on he would be +getting a hearing! So they put out the lights and stormed the platform, and +there was a fine Stafford row, I’m told. Of course,” Etruria added +simply, “the drink was in them.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary hardly knew what her feelings were. “Mr. Basset?” she said at +last. “I can hardly believe it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nor could I, Miss, when I first heard it. But it seems they have known +it there for ten days and more, and the town is agog with it, everybody taking +sides, and some so much against him as never was. It’s dreadful to +think,” Etruria continued, “how misguided men can be. But oh, Miss, +I’m thankful he’s on the right side, and for taking the burden off +the bread! I’m sure it will be returned to him, win or lose. +They’re farmers’ friends here, and they’re saying shameful +things of him in the market! But there’s many a woman will bless him, and +the lanes and alleys, they’ve no votes, but they’ll pray for him! +Sometimes,” Etruria added shyly, “I think it is Mr. Colet has +brought him to it.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Colet?” Mary repeated—she did not know why she disliked +the notion. “Why do you think that?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s been at Blore,” Etruria murmured. “Mr. Basset has +been so good to him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mr. Basset has a mind of his own,” Mary answered sharply. +“He is quite capable of forming his own opinion.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course. Miss,” Etruria said, abashed. “I should have +known that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Mary repeated. “But what was it they were saying of +Mr. Basset in the market, Etruria? Not that it matters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Miss,” Etruria explained, reluctantly. “They were +saying it was some grudge Mr. Basset or the Master had against his lordship +that brought Mr. Basset out.” +</p> + +<p> +“Against Lord Audley?” Mary cried. And she blushed suddenly and +vividly. “Why? What has he to do with it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, Miss, it’s his lordship’s seat,” Etruria +answered naïvely; “what he wishes has always been done in Riddsley. And +he’s for Mr. Mottisfont.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary walked to a window and looked out. “Oh,” she said, “I +did not know that. But you’d better go now, Etruria, and change your +shoes. Your feet must be wet.” +</p> + +<p> +Etruria went, and Mary continued to gaze through the window. What strange news! +And what a strange situation! The lover whom she had rejected and the lover +whom she had taken, pitted against one another! And her words—she could +hardly doubt it—the spur which had brought Basset to the post! +</p> + +<p> +So thinking, so pondering, she grew more and more ill at ease. Her sympathies +should have been wholly with her betrothed, but they were not. She should have +resented Basset’s action. She did not. Instead she thought of his shaking +hand and his pale face, and of the courage that had grown firmer in the face of +opposition; and she found something fine in that, something that appealed to +her. And the cause he had adopted? It was the cause to which she naturally +inclined. She might be wrong, he might be wrong. Lord Audley knew so much more +of these things and looked at them from so enlightened a standpoint, that they +must be wrong. And yet—her heart warmed to that cause. +</p> + +<p> +She turned from the window in some trouble, wondering if she were disloyal, +wondering why she felt as she did; wondering a little, too, why she had lost +the first rapture of her love, and was less happy in it than she had been. +</p> + +<p> +True, she had not seen her lover again, and that might account for it. He had +been detained at Lord Seabourne’s, and in London; he had been occupied +for days together with the crisis. But she had had three letters from him, busy +as he was; three amusing letters, full of gossip and sprinkled with anecdotes +of the great world. She had opened the first in something of a tremor; but her +fingers had soon grown steady, and if she had blushed it had been for her +expectation of a vulgar love-letter such as milkmaids prize. She had been silly +to suppose that he would write in that strain. +</p> + +<p> +And yet she had felt a degree of disappointment. He might have written with +less reserve, she thought; he might have discussed their plans and hopes, he +might have let the fire peep somewhere through the chinks. But there, again, +what a poor thing she was if her love must be fed with sweetmeats. How weak her +trust, how poor her affection, if she could not bear a three weeks’ +parting! He had come to her, he had chosen her, what more did she want? Did she +expect him to put aside the calls and the duties of his station, that he might +hang on her apron-strings? +</p> + +<p> +Still, she was not in good spirits, and she felt her loneliness. The house, +this gray evening, with the shadows gathering in the corners, weighed on her. +Mrs. Toft was far away in her cosey kitchen, Etruria also had gone thither. +Toft was with Mr. Audley in the other wing—he had been much with his +master of late. So Mary was alone. She was not nervous, but she was depressed. +The cold stairs, the austere parlor with its dim portraits, the matted hall, +the fireless library—all struck a chill. She remembered other times and +other evenings; cosey evenings, when the glow of the wood-fire had vied with +the shaded lights, when the three heads had bent over the three tables, when +the rustle of turning pages had blended with the snoring of the old hound, when +the pursuit of some trifle had sped the pleasant hours. Alas, those evenings +were gone, as if they had never been. The house was dull and melancholy. +</p> + +<p> +She might have gone to her uncle, but during the afternoon he had told her that +he wished to be alone; he should go to bed betimes. So about seven +o’clock she took her meal by herself, and when it was done she felt more +at a loss than ever. Presently her thoughts went again to John Audley. +</p> + +<p> +Had she neglected him of late? Had she left him too much to Toft, and let her +secret, which she hated to keep secret, come between them? Why should she not, +even now, see him before he slept? She could take him the news of Mr. +Basset’s enterprise. It would serve for an excuse. +</p> + +<p> +Lest her courage should fail she went at once, shivering as she passed through +the shadowy library, where a small lamp, burning on a table, did no more than +light her to the staircase. She ran up the stairs and was groping for the +handle of Mr. Audley’s door when the door opened abruptly and Toft +stepped out, a candle in his hand. She was so close to him that he all but +touched her, and he was, if anything, more startled than she was. He stood +gaping at her. +</p> + +<p> +Through the narrow opening she had a glimpse of her uncle, who was on his feet +before the fire. He was fully dressed. +</p> + +<p> +That surprised her, for, even before this last attack, he had spent most of his +time in his dressing-gown. Still more surprising was Toft’s conduct. He +shut the door and held it. “The master is going to bed, Miss,” he +said. +</p> + +<p> +“I see that he is dressed!” she replied. And she looked at Toft in +such a way that the man gave way, took his hand from the door, and stood aside. +She pushed the door open and went in. Her uncle, standing with his back to her, +was huddling on his dressing-gown. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” he cried, his face averted. “Who is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is only I, sir,” she replied. “Mary.” She closed +the door. +</p> + +<p> +“But I thought I told you that I didn’t want you!” he +retorted pettishly. “I am going to bed.” He turned, having +succeeded in girding on his dressing-gown. “Going to bed,” he +repeated. “Didn’t I tell you so?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m very sorry, sir,” she said, “but I had news for +you. News that has surprised me. I thought that you would like to hear +it.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked at her, his furtive eyes giving the lie to his plump face, which +sagged more than of old. “News,” he muttered, peevishly. +“What news? I wish you wouldn’t startle me. You ought to remember +that—that excitement is bad for me. And you come at this time of night +with news! What is it?” He was not looking at her. He seemed to be +seeking something. “What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s nothing very terrible,” she answered, smiling. +“Nothing to alarm you, uncle. Won’t you sit down?” +</p> + +<p> +He looked about him like a man driven into a corner. “No, no, I +don’t want to sit down!” he said. “I ought to be in bed! I +ought to be there now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I shall not keep you long,” she answered, trying to humor +his mood, while all the time she was wondering why he was dressed at this time, +he whom she had not seen dressed for a fortnight. And why had Toft tried to +keep her out? “It is only,” she continued, “that I heard +to-day that there is to be a contest at Riddsley. And that Mr. Basset is to be +one of the candidates.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is that all?” he said. “News, you said? That’s no +news! Bigger fool he, unless he does more for himself than he does for his +friends! Peter the Hermit become Peter the Great! He’ll soon find himself +Peter the Piper, who picked a peck of pepper! Hot pepper he’ll find it, +d—n him!” with sudden spite. “He’s no better than the +rest! He’s all for himself! All for himself!” he repeated, his +voice rising in his excitement. +</p> + +<p> +“But——” +</p> + +<p> +“There, don’t agitate me!” He wiped his brow with a shaking +hand, while his eyes, avoiding hers, continued to look about him as if he +sought something. “I knew how it would be. You’ve no thought for +me. You don’t remember how weak I am! Hardly able to crawl across the +floor, to put one foot before another. And you come chattering! +chattering!” +</p> + +<p> +She had thought him odd before, but never so odd as this evening; and she was +sorry that she had come. She was going to say what she could and escape, when +he began again. “You’re the last person who should upset me! The +very last!” he babbled. “When it’s all for you! It’s +little good it can do me. And Basset, he’d the ball at his foot, and +wouldn’t kick it! But I’ll show you, I’ll show you +all!” he continued, gesticulating with a violence that distressed Mary. +“Ay, and I’ll show <i>him</i> what I am! He thinks he’s safe, +d—n him! He thinks he’s safe! He’s spending my money and +adding up my balance! He’s walking on my land and sleeping in my bed! +He’s peacocking in my name! But—but——” he +stopped, struggling for words. For an instant he turned on her over his +shoulder a face distorted by passion. +</p> + +<p> +Thoroughly alarmed, she tried to soothe him. “But I am sure, sir,” +she said, “Mr. Basset would never——” +</p> + +<p> +“Basset!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m sure he never dreamt——” +</p> + +<p> +“Basset!” he repeated. “No! but Audley! Lord Audley, Audley +of Beaudelays, Audley of nowhere and nothing! And no Audley! no Audley!” +he repeated furiously, while again he fought for breath, and again he mastered +himself and lowered his tone. “No Audley!” he whispered, pointing a +hand at her, “but Jacob, girl! Jacob the supplanter, Jacob the +changeling, Jacob the baseborn! And he thinks I lie awake of nights, hundreds +of nights, for nothing! He thinks I dream of him—for nothing! He thinks I +go out with the bats—for nothing! He thinks I have a canker here! +Here!” And he clapped his hand to his breast, a grotesque, yet dreadful +figure in his huddled dressing-gown, his flaccid cheeks quivering with rage. +“For nothing! But I’ll show him! I’ll ruin him! +I’ll——” +</p> + +<p> +His voice, which had risen to a scream, stopped. Toft had opened the door. +“Sir! Mr. Audley!” he cried. “For God’s sake be calm! +For God’s sake have a care, sir! And you, Miss,” he continued; +“you see what you have done! If you’ll leave him I’ll get him +to bed. I’ll get him to bed and quiet him—if I can.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary was shocked, and yet she felt that she could not go without a word. +“Dear uncle,” she said, “you wish me to go?” +</p> + +<p> +He had clutched one of the posts of the bed and was supporting himself by it. +The fire had died down in him, he was no more now than a feeble, shaking old +man. He wiped his brow and his lips. “Yes, go,” he whispered. +“Go.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am very sorry I disturbed you,” she said. “I won’t +do it again. You were right, Toft. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +The man said “Good-night, Miss.” Her uncle said nothing. He had let +himself down on the bed, but he still clung to the post. Mary looked at him in +sorrow, grieved to leave him in this state. But she had no choice, and she went +out and, closing the door behind her, groped her way down the narrow staircase. +</p> + +<p> +It was a little short of ten when she reached the parlor, but she was in no +mood for reading. What she had seen had shocked and frightened her. She was +sure now that her uncle was not sane; and while she was equally sure that Toft +exercised a strong influence over him, she had her misgivings as to that. +Something must be done. She must consult some one. Life at the Gatehouse could +not go on on this footing. She must see Dr. Pepper. +</p> + +<p> +Unluckily when she had settled this to her mind, and sought her bed, she could +not sleep. Long after she had heard Etruria go to her room, long after she had +heard the girl’s shoes fall—familiar sound!—Mary lay awake, +thinking now of her uncle’s state and her duty towards him, nor of her +own future, that future which seemed for the moment to have lost its +brightness. Doubts that the sun dismisses, fears at which daylight laughs, are +Giants of Despair in the dark watches. So it was with her. Misgivings which she +would not have owned in the daylight, rose up and put on grisly shapes. Her +uncle and his madness, her lover and his absence, passed in endless procession +through her brain. In vain she tossed and turned, sat up in despair, tried the +cooler side of the pillow. She could not rest. +</p> + +<p> +The door creaked. She fancied a step on the staircase, a hand on the latch. Far +away in the depths of the house a clock struck. It was three +o’clock—only three o’clock! And it would not be light before +eight—not much before eight. Oh dear! Oh dear! +</p> + +<p> +And then she slept. +</p> + +<p> +When she awoke it was morning, the light was filtering in through the white +dimity curtains, and some one was really at her door. Some one was knocking. +She sat up. “What is it?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Can I come in, Miss?” +</p> + +<p> +The voice was Mrs. Toft’s, and Mary needed no second warning. She knew in +a moment that the woman brought bad news. She sprang out of bed, put on a +dressing-gown, and with bare feet she went to the door. She unlocked it. +“What is it, Mrs. Toft?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Maybe not much,” the woman answered cautiously. “I hope not, +Miss, but I had to tell you. The Master is missing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Missing?” Mary exclaimed, the blood leaving her face. +“Impossible! Why, I saw him, I was in his room last evening after nine +o’clock.” +</p> + +<p> +“Toft was with him up to eleven,” Mrs. Toft answered. Her face was +grave. “But he’s gone now?” +</p> + +<p> +“You mean that he is not in his room!” Mary said. “But have +you looked——” and she named places where her uncle might +be—places in the house. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve looked there,” Mrs. Toft answered. “Toft’s +been everywhere. The Master’s not in the house. We’re well-nigh +sure of that. And the door in the courtyard was open this morning. I am afraid +he’s gone, Miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“In his state and at night? Why, it’s——” The girl +broke off and took hold of herself. “Very well,” she said. “I +shall not be more than five minutes. I will come down.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI<br/> +MISSING</h2> + +<p> +Mary scrambled into her clothes without pausing to do more than knot up her +hair. She tried to steady her nerves and to put from her the thought that it +was her visit which had upset her uncle. That thought would only flurry her, +and she must be cool. In little more than the five minutes that she had named +she was in the hall, and found Mrs. Toft waiting for her. The door into the +courtyard stood open, the bleak light and raw air of a January morning poured +in, but neither of them heeded this. Their eyes met, and Mary saw that the +woman, who was usually so placid, was frightened. +</p> + +<p> +“Where is Toft?” Mary asked. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s away this ten minutes,” Mrs. Toft replied. +“He’s gone to the Yew Walk, where you found the Master before. But +law, Miss, if he’s there in this weather!” She lifted up her hands. +</p> + +<p> +Mary controlled herself. “And Etruria?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“She’s searching outside the house. If she does not find him she is +to run over to Petch the keeper, and bring him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Quite right,” Mary said. “Did Toft take any brandy?” +</p> + +<p> +“He did. Miss. And the big kettle is on, if there is a bath wanted, and +I’ve put a couple of bricks to heat in the oven.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’re sure you’ve looked everywhere in the house?” +</p> + +<p> +“As sure as can be, Miss! More by token, I’ve some coffee ready for +you in the parlor.” +</p> + +<p> +But Mary said, “Bring it here, Mrs. Toft.” And snatching up a shawl +and folding it about her, she stepped outside. It was a gray, foggy morning, +and the flagged court wore a desolate air. In one corner a crowd of dead leaves +were circling in the gusts of wind, in another a little pile of snow had +drifted, and between the monsters that flanked the Gateway, the old hound, deaf +and crippled, stood peering across the park. Mary fancied that the dog descried +Toft returning, and she ran across the court. But no one was in sight. The park +with its clumps of dead bracken, its naked trees and gnarled blackthorns, +stretched away under a thin sprinkling of snow. Shivering she returned to the +hall, where Mrs. Toft awaited her with the coffee. +</p> + +<p> +“Now,” Mary said, “tell me about it, please—from the +beginning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Toft had left Mr. Audley about eleven,” Mrs. Toft explained. +“The Master had been a bit put out, and that kept him. But he’d +settled down, and when Toft left him he was much as usual. It could not have +been before eleven,” Mrs. Toft continued, rubbing her nose, “for I +heard the kitchen clock strike eleven, and I was asleep when Toft came in. The +next I remember was finding Toft had got out of bed. ‘What is it?’ +says I. He didn’t answer, and I roused up and was going to get a light. +But he told me not to make a noise, he’d been woke by hearing a door +slam, and thought that some one had crossed the court. He was at the window +then, looking out, but we heard nothing, and after a while Toft came back to +bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“What time was that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I couldn’t say, Miss, and I don’t suppose Toft could. It was +dark and before six, because when I woke again it was on six. But God knows it +was a thousand pities we didn’t search then, for it’s on my mind +that it was the poor Master. And if we’d known, Toft would have stopped +him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well?” Mary said gravely. “And when did you miss him?” +</p> + +<p> +“Most mornings Etruria’d let me into the house. But this morning +she found the door unlocked; howsomever she thought nothing of it, for Toft has +a key as well, and since the Master’s illness and him coming and going at +all hours, he has not always locked the door; so she made no remark. A bit +before eight Toft came down—I didn’t see him but I heard +him—and at eight he took up the Master’s cup of tea. Toft makes it +in the pantry and takes it up.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Toft paused heavily—not without enjoyment. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Mary said anxiously, “and then?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose it was five minutes after, he came out to me—I was in +the kitchen getting our breakfast—and he was shaking all over. I +don’t know that I ever saw a man more upset. ‘He’s +gone!’ he said. ‘Law, Toft,’ I said. ‘What’s the +matter? Who’s gone?’ ‘The Master!’ he said. +‘Fiddlesticks!’ says I. ‘Where should he go?’ And with +that I went into the house and up to the Master’s room. When I saw it was +empty you could have knocked me down with a feather! I looked round a bit, and +then I went up to Mr. Basset’s room that’s over, and down again to +the library, and so forth. By that time Toft was there, gawpin about. +‘He’s gone!’ he kept saying. I don’t know as I ever saw +Toft truly upset before.” +</p> + +<p> +“And what then?” Mary asked. Twice she had looked through the door, +but to no purpose. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” I said, “if he’s not here he can’t be +far! Don’t twitter, man, but think! It’s my belief he’s away +sleepwalking or what not, to the place you found him before. On that I gave +Toft some brandy and he went off.” +</p> + +<p> +“Shouldn’t he be back by now?” +</p> + +<p> +“He should, Miss, if he’s not found him,” Mrs. Toft answered. +“But, if he’s found him, he couldn’t carry him! Toft’s +not all that strong. And if the Master’s lain out long, it’s not +all the brandy in the world will bring him round!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary shuddered, and moved by a common impulse the two went out and crossed the +court. The old hound was still at gaze in the gateway, still staring with +purblind eyes down the vistas of the park. “Maybe he sees more than we +see,” Mrs. Toft muttered. “He’d not stand there, would the +old dog, as he’s stood twenty minutes, for nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +She was right, for the next moment three figures appeared hurrying across the +park towards them. It was impossible to mistake Toft’s lanky figure. The +others were Etruria, with a shawl about her head, and the keeper Petch. +</p> + +<p> +Mary scanned them anxiously. “Have they found him?” she murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Mrs. Toft said. “If they’d found him, one would +have stopped with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Of course,” Mary said. And heedless of the cold, searching wind +that swung their skirts and carried showers of dead leaves sailing past them, +they waited until Toft and the others, talking together, came up. Mary saw +that, in spite of the pace at which he had walked, Toft’s face was +colorless. He was almost livid. His daughter wore an anxious look, while the +keeper was pleasantly excited. +</p> + +<p> +As soon as the three were within hearing, “You’ve not found +him?” Mary cried. +</p> + +<p> +“No, Miss,” Etruria answered. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor any trace?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, Miss. My father has been as far as the iron gate, and found it +locked. It was no use going on.” +</p> + +<p> +“He could not have walked farther without help,” Mrs. Toft said. +“If the Master’s not between us and the gardens he’s not that +way.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then where is he?” Mary cried, aghast. She looked from one to the +other. “Where can he be, Toft?” +</p> + +<p> +Toft raised his hands and let them fall. It was clear that he had given up +hope. +</p> + +<p> +But his wife was of different mettle. “That’s to be seen,” +she said briskly. “Anyway, you’ll be perished here, Miss, and I +don’t want another invalid on my hands. We’ll go in, if you +please.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary gave way. They turned to go in, but it was noticeable that as they moved +towards the house each, stirred by the same thought, swept the extent of the +park with eyes that clung to it, and were loth to leave it. Each hung for a +moment, searching this alley or that, fancying a clue in some distant object, +or taking a clump of gorse, or a jagged stump for the fallen man. All were +harassed by the thought that they might be abandoning him; that in turning +their backs on the bald, wintry landscape they might be carrying away with them +his last chance. +</p> + +<p> +“’T would take a day to search the park,” the keeper +muttered. “And a dozen men, I’m afeared, to do it +thoroughly.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why not take a round yourself!” Mrs. Toft replied. “And if +you find nothing be at the house in an hour, Petch, and we’ll know better +what’s to do. The poor gentleman’s off his head, I doubt, and +there’s no saying where he’d wander. But he can’t be far, and +I’m beginning to think he’s in the house after all.” +</p> + +<p> +The man agreed willingly, and strode away across the turf. The others entered +the hall. Mary was for pausing there, but Mrs. Toft swept them all into the +parlor where a good fire was burning. “You’ll excuse me, +Miss,” she said, “but Toft will be the better for this,” and +without ceremony she poured out a cup of coffee, jerked into it a little brandy +from the decanter on the sideboard, and handed it to her husband. “Drink +that,” she said, “and get your wits together, man! You’re no +better than a wisp of paper now, and it’s only you can help us. Now +think! You know him best. Where can he be? Did he say no word last night to +give you a clue?” +</p> + +<p> +A little color came back to Toft’s face. He sighed and passed his hand +across his forehead. “If I’d never left him!” he said. +“I never ought to have left him!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s no good going over that!” Mrs. Toft replied +impatiently. “He means, Miss, that up to three nights ago he slept in the +Master’s room. Then when the Master seemed better Toft came back to his +bed.” +</p> + +<p> +“I ought to have stayed with him,” Toft repeated. That seemed the +one thought in his mind. +</p> + +<p> +“But where is he?” Mary cried. “Where? Every moment we stand +talking—can’t you think where he might go? Are there no +hiding—places in the house? No secret passages?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Toft raised her hands. “Lord’s sake!” she exclaimed. +“There’s the locked closet in his room where he keeps his papers. I +never looked there. It’s seldom opened, and——” +</p> + +<p> +She did not finish. With one accord they hurried through the library and up the +stairs to the old tapestried room, where Mr. Audley had slept and for the last +month had lived. The others had been in it since his disappearance, Mary had +not; and she felt a thrill of awe as she passed the threshold. The angular +faces, the oblique eyes, of the watchers in the needlework on the wall, that +from generation to generation had looked down on marriage and birth and +death—what had they seen during the past night? On what had they gazed, +she asked herself. Mrs. Toft, less fanciful or more familiar with the room, had +no such thoughts. She crossed the floor to a low door which was outlined for +those who knew of its existence, by rough cuts in the arras. It led into a +closet, contained in one of the turrets. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Toft tried the door, shook it, knocked on it. Finally she set her eye to +the keyhole. “He’s not there,” she said. “There’s +no key in the lock. He’d not take out the key, that’s +certain.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary scanned the disordered room. Books lay in heaps on the deep window-seats, +and even on the floor. A table by one of the windows was strewn with papers and +letters; on another beside the bed-head stood a tray with night drinks, a pair +of candles, an antique hour-glass, a steel pistol. The bedclothes were dragged +down, as if the bed had been slept in, and over the rail at the foot, half +hidden by the heavy curtains, hung a nightgown. She took this up and found +beneath it a pair of slippers and a shoehorn. +</p> + +<p> +“He was dressed then?” she exclaimed. +</p> + +<p> +Toft eyed the things. “Yes, Miss, I’ve no doubt he was,” he +said despondently. “His overcoat’s gone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then he meant to leave the house?” Mary cried. +</p> + +<p> +“God save us!” +</p> + +<p> +“He’s taken his silver flask too,” Etruria said in a low +voice. She was examining the dressing-table. “And his watch.” +</p> + +<p> +“His watch?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Miss.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that’s odd,” Mary said, fixing her eyes on Toft. +“Don’t you think that’s odd? If my uncle had rambled out in +some nightmare or—or wandering, would he have taken his flask and his +watch, Toft? Are his spectacles there?” +</p> + +<p> +Toft inspected the table, raised the pillow, felt under the bolster. “No, +Miss,” he said; “he’s taken them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” Mary replied; “then I have hope. Wherever he is, he is +in his senses. Now, Toft!”—she looked hard at the +man—“think again! Surely since he had this in his mind last night +he must have let something drop? Some word?” +</p> + +<p> +The man shook his head. “Not that I heard, Miss,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +Mary sighed. But Mrs. Toft was less patient. She exploded. “You +gaby!” she cried. “Where’s your senses? It’s to you +we’re looking, and a poor stick you are in time of trouble! I +couldn’t have believed it! Find your tongue, Toft, say something! You +knew the Master down to his shoe leather. Let’s hear what you do think! +He couldn’t walk far! He couldn’t walk a mile without help. Where +is he? Where do you think he is?” +</p> + +<p> +Toft’s answer silenced them. If one of the mute, staring figures on the +walls—that watched as from the boxes of a theatre the living +actors—had stepped down, it would hardly have affected them more deeply. +The man sat down on the bed, covered his face with his hands, and rocking +himself to and fro broke into a passion of weeping. “The poor +Master!” he cried between his sobs. “The poor Master!” +</p> + +<p> +Quickly at that Mary’s feelings underwent a change. As if she had stood +already beside her uncle’s grave, sorrow took the place of perplexity. +His past kindness dragged at her heart-strings. She forgot that she had never +been able to love him, she forgot that behind the man whom she had known she +had been ever conscious of another being, vague, shifting, inhuman. She +remembered only the help he had given, the home he had offered, the rare hours +of sympathy. “Don’t, Toft, don’t!” she cried, tears in +her voice. She touched the man on the shoulder. “Don’t give up +hope!” +</p> + +<p> +As for Mrs. Toft, surprise silenced her. When she found her voice, +“Well,” she said, looking round her with a sort of pride, +“who’ll say after this that Toft’s a hard man? Why, if the +Master was lying on that bed ready for burial—and we’re some way +off that, the Lord be thanked!—he couldn’t carry on more! But +there, let’s look now, and weep afterwards! Pull yourself together, Toft, +or who’s the young lady to depend on? If you take my advice, Miss,” +she continued, “we’ll get out of this room. It always did give me +the fantods with them Egyptians staring at me from the walls, and to-day +it’s worse than a hearse! Now downstairs——” +</p> + +<p> +“You are quite right, Mrs. Toft,” Mary said. “We’ll go +downstairs.” She shared to the full Mrs. Toft’s distaste for the +room. “We’re doing no good here, and your husband can follow us +when he is himself again. Petch should be back by this time, and we ought to +arrange what is to be done outside.” +</p> + +<p> +Toft made no demur, and they went down. They found the keeper waiting in the +hall. He had made no discovery, and Mary, to whom Toft’s breakdown had +given fresh energy, took things into her own hands. She gave Petch his orders. +He must get together a dozen men, and search the park and every place within a +mile of the Gatehouse. He must report by messenger every two hours to the +house, and in the meantime he must send a man on horseback to the town for Dr. +Pepper. +</p> + +<p> +“And Mr. Basset?” Mrs. Toft murmured. +</p> + +<p> +“I will write a note to Mr. Basset,” Mary said, “and the man +must send it by post-horses from the Audley Arms. I will write it now.” +She sat down in the library, cold as the room was, and scrawled three lines, +telling Basset that her uncle had disappeared during the night, and that, ill +as he was, she feared the worst. +</p> + +<p> +Then, when Petch had gone to get his men together—a task which would take +time as there were no farms at hand—she and Mrs. Toft searched the house +room by room, while Etruria and her father went again through the outbuildings. +But the quest was as fruitless as the former search had been. +</p> + +<p> +Mary had known many unhappy days in Paris, days of anxiety, of loneliness, of +apprehension, when she had doubted where she would lodge or what she would eat +for her next meal. Now she had a source of strength in her engagement and her +love, which should have been inexhaustible. But she never forgot the misery of +this day, nor ever looked back on it without a shudder. Probably there were +moments when she sat down, when she took a tasty meal, when she sought Mrs. +Toft in her warm kitchen or talked with Etruria before her own fire. But as she +remembered the day, she spent the long hours gazing across the wintry park; now +catching a glimpse of the line of beaters as it appeared for a moment crossing +a glade, now watching the approach of the messenger who came to tell her that +they had found nothing; or again straining her eyes for the arrival of Dr. +Pepper, who, had she known it, was at the deathbed of an old patient, ten miles +on the farther side of Riddsley. +</p> + +<p> +Now and again a hailstorm swept across the park, and Mrs. Toft came out and +scolded her into shelter; or a farmer, whose men had been borrowed, +“happened that way,” and after a gruff question touched his hat and +went off to join the searchers. Once a distant cry seemed to herald a +discovery, and she tried to steady her leaping pulses. But nothing came of it +except some minutes of anxiety. And once her waiting ear caught the clang of +the bell that hung in the hall and she flew through the house to the front +door, only to learn that the visitor was the carrier who three times a week +called for letters on his way to town. The dreary house with its open doors, +its cold draughts, its unusual aspect, the hurried meals, the furtive glances, +the hours of suspense and fear—these stamped the day for ever on +Mary’s memory: as sometimes an hour of loneliness prints itself on the +mind of a child who all his life long hears with distaste the clash of wedding +bells. +</p> + +<p> +At length the wintry day with its gusts of snow began to draw in. Before four +Petch sent in to say that he had beaten the park and also the gardens at the +Great House, but had found nothing. Half his men were now searching the slope +on either side of the Riddsley road. With the other half he was going to +explore, while the light lasted, the fringe of the Chase towards Brown Heath. +</p> + +<p> +That left Mary face to face with the night; with the long hours of darkness, +which inaction must render infinitely worse than those of the day. She had +visions of the windswept park, the sullen ponds, the frozen moorland; they +spread before her fraught with some brooding terror. She had never much marked, +she had seldom felt the loneliness of the house. Now it pressed itself upon +her, isolated her, menaced her. It made the thought of the night, that lay +before her, almost unbearable. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII<br/> +A FOOTSTEP IN THE HALL</h2> + +<p> +Mrs. Toft bringing in candles, and looking grave enough herself, noticed the +girl’s pale face and chid her gently. “I don’t believe that +you’ve sat down this blessed day, Miss!” she said. “Nor no +more than looked at good food. But tea you shall have and sit down to it, or my +name’s not Anne Toft! Fretting’s no manner of use, and +fasting’s a poor stick to beat trouble with!” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Mrs. Toft,” Mary said, her face piteous, “it’s +the thought that he may be lying out there, helpless and dying, while we sit +here——” +</p> + +<p> +“Steady, Miss! Giving way does no good, and too much mind’s worse +than none. If he’s out there he’s gone, poor gentleman, long ago. +And Dr. Pepper’ll say the same. It’s not in reason he should be +alive if he’s in the open. And, God knows, if he’s under cover +it’s little better.” +</p> + +<p> +“But then if he is alive!” Mary cried. “Think of another +night!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, I know,” Mrs. Toft said. “And hard it is! But +you’ve been a model all this blessed day, and it’s no time to break +down now. Where that dratted doctor is, beats me, though he could do no more +than we’ve done! But there, Mr. Basset will be with us to-morrow, and +he’ll find the poor gentleman dead or alive! There’s some as are +more to look at than the Squire, but there’s few I’d put before him +at a pinch!” +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s Toft?” Mary asked. +</p> + +<p> +“He went to join Petch two hours ago,” Mrs. Toft explained. +“And there again, take Toft. He’s a good husband, but there’s +no one would say he was a man to wear his heart outside. But you saw how hard +he took it? I don’t know,” Mrs. Toft continued thoughtfully, +“as I’ve seen Toft shed a tear these twenty years—no, nor +twice since we went to church!” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t think,” Mary asked, “that he knows more than +he has told us?” +</p> + +<p> +The question took Mrs. Toft aback. “Why, Miss,” she said, +“you don’t mean as you think he was putting on this morning?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Mary answered. “But is it possible that he knows the +worst and does not tell us?” +</p> + +<p> +“And why shouldn’t he tell us? It would be strange if he +wouldn’t tell his own wife? And you that’s Mr. Audley’s +nearest!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s all so strange,” Mary pleaded. “My uncle is gone. +Where has he gone?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Toft did not answer the question. She could not. And there came an +interruption. “That’s Petch’s voice,” she said. +“They’re back.” +</p> + +<p> +The men trooped into the hall. They advanced to the door of the parlor, Petch +leading, a man whom Mary did not know next to him, after these a couple of +farmers and Toft, in the background a blur of faces vaguely seen. +</p> + +<p> +“We’ve found something, Miss,” Petch said. “At least +Tom has. But I’m not sure it lightens things much. He was going home by +the Yew Tree Walk and pretty close to the iron gate, when what should he see +lying in the middle of the walk but this!” +</p> + +<p> +Petch held out a silver flask. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s the Master’s, sure enough,” Mrs. Toft said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” Petch answered. “But the odd thing is, I searched that +place before noon, a’most inch by inch, looking for footprints, and I +went over it again when we were beating the Yew Tree Walk this afternoon, and +I’m danged if that flask was there then!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think as you could ha’ missed it, Mr. Petch,” +the finder said, “it was that bright and plain!” +</p> + +<p> +“But isn’t the grass long there?” Mary asked. She had already +as much mystery as she could bear and wanted no addition to it. +</p> + +<p> +“Not that long,” said Tom. +</p> + +<p> +“No, not that long, the lad’s right,” Petch added. “I +warrant I must have seen it.” +</p> + +<p> +“That you must, Mr. Petch,” a lad in the background said. “I +was next man, and I wondered when you’d ha’ done that bit.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I don’t understand,” Mary answered. “If it was not +there, this morning——” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand neither, lady,” the keeper rejoined. +“But it is on my mind that there’s foul play!” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, but,” Mary protested, “who—why should any one hurt +my uncle?” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t say as to that,” Petch replied, darkly. “I +don’t know anybody as would. But there’s the flask, and flasks +don’t travel without hands. If he took it out of the house with +him——” +</p> + +<p> +“May he not have dropped it—this afternoon?” Mary suggested. +“Suppose he wandered that way after you passed?” +</p> + +<p> +The keeper shook his head. “If he had passed that way this afternoon it +isn’t one but six pairs of eyes would ha’ seen him.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a murmur of assent. The searchers were keenly enjoying the drama, +taking in every change that appeared on the girl’s face. They were men +into whose lives not much of drama entered. +</p> + +<p> +“But I cannot think that what you say is likely!” Mary protested. +She had held her own stoutly through the day, but now with the eyes of all +these men upon her she grew bewildered. The rows of faces, the bashful hands +twisting caps, the blurred white of smocked frocks—grew and multiplied +and became misty. She had to grasp the table to steady herself. +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Toft saw how it was, and came to the rescue. “What’s Toft say +about it?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, to be sure, missus,” Petch agreed. “I dunno as +he’s said anything yet.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t think the Master could have passed and not been +seen,” Toft replied. His tone was low, and in the middle of his speech he +shivered. “But I’m not saying that the flask wasn’t there +this morning. It’s a small thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“It couldn’t have been overlooked, Mr. Toft,” the keeper +replied firmly. “I speak as I know!” +</p> + +<p> +Again Mrs. Toft intervened. “I’m sure nobody would ha’ laid a +hand on the Master!” she said. “Nobody in these parts and nobody +foreign, as I can fancy. I’ve no doubt at all the poor gentleman awoke +with some maggot in his brain and wandered off, not knowing. The question is, +what can we do? The young lady’s had a sad day, and it’s time she +was left to herself.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s nothing we can do now,” Petch said flatly. “It +stands to reason if we’ve found nothing in the daylight we’ll find +nothing in the dark. We’ll be back at eight in the morning. Whether +we’d ought to let his lordship know——” +</p> + +<p> +“Sho!” said Mrs. Toft with scorn. “What’s he in it, +I’d like to know? But there, you’ve said what you come to say and +it’s time we left the young lady to herself.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary raised her head. “One moment,” she said. “I want to +thank you all for what you’ve done. And for what Petch says about the +flask, he’s right to speak out, but I can’t think any one would +touch my uncle. Only—can we do nothing? Nothing more? Nothing at all? If +we don’t find him to-night——” She broke off, overcome +by her feelings. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid not, Miss,” Petch said gently. “We’d +all be willing, but we don’t know where to look. I own I’m fair +beat. Still Tom and I’ll stay an hour or two with Toft in case of +anything happening. Good-night, Miss. You’re very welcome, I’m +sure.” +</p> + +<p> +The others murmured their sympathy as they trooped out into the darkness. Mrs. +Toft bustled away for the tea, and Mary was left alone. +</p> + +<p> +Suspense lay heavy on her. She felt that she ought to be doing something and +she did not know what to do. Dr. Pepper did not come, the Tofts were but +servants. They could not take the onus, they could not share her burden; and +Toft was a broken reed. Meanwhile time pressed. Hours, nay, minutes might make +all the difference between life and death. +</p> + +<p> +When Etruria came in with Mary’s tea she found her mistress bending over +the fire in an attitude of painful depression, and she said a few words, trying +to impart to her something of her own patience. That patience was a fine thing +in Etruria because it was natural. But Mary was of sterner stuff. She had a +more lively imagination, and she could not be blind to the issues, or to the +value of every moment that passed. Even while she listened to Etruria she saw +with the eyes of fancy a hollow amid a clump of trees not far from a pool that +she knew. In summer it was a pleasant dell, clothed with mosses and ferns and +the flowers of the bog-bean; in winter a dank, sombre hollow. There she saw her +uncle lie, amid the decaying leaves, the mud, the rank grass; and the vision +was too much for her. What if he were really lying there, while she sat here by +the fire? Sat here in this home which he—he had given her, amid the +comforts which he had provided! +</p> + +<p> +The thought was horrible, and she turned fiercely on the comforter. +“Don’t!” she cried. “You don’t think! You +don’t understand! We can’t go through the night like this! They +must go on looking! Fetch your father! And bring Petch! Bring them here!” +she cried. +</p> + +<p> +Etruria went, alarmed by her excitement, but almost as quickly she came back. +Toft had gone out with Petch and the other man. They would not be long. +</p> + +<p> +Mary cried out on them, but could do no more than walk the room, and after a +time Etruria coaxed her to sit down and eat; and tea and food restored her +balance. Still, as she sat and ate she listened—she listened always. And +Etruria, taught by experience, let her be and said nothing. +</p> + +<p> +At last, “How long they are!” Mary cried. “What are they +doing? Are they never——” +</p> + +<p> +She stopped. The footsteps of two men coming through the hall had reached her +ears, and she recognized the tread of one—recognized it with a rush of +relief so great, of thankfulness so overwhelming that she was startled and +might well have been more than startled, had she been free to think of anything +but the lost man. It was Basset’s step, and she knew it—she would +have known it, she felt, among a hundred! He had come! An instant later he +stood in the doorway, booted and travel-stained, his whip in his hand, just as +he had dropped from the saddle—and with a face grave indeed, but calm and +confident. He seemed to her to bring relief, help, comfort, safety, all in one! +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” she cried. “You are here! How—how good of +you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Not good at all,” he answered, advancing to the table and quietly +taking off his gloves. “Your messenger met me half-way to Blore. I was +coming into Riddsley to a meeting. I had only to ride on. Of course I +came.” +</p> + +<p> +“But the meeting?” she asked fearfully. Was he only come to go +again? +</p> + +<p> +“D—n the meeting!” he answered, moved to anger by the +girl’s pale face. “Will you give me a cup of tea, Toft? I will hear +Miss Audley’s account first. Keep Petch and the other man. We shall want +them. In twenty minutes I’ll talk to you. That will do.” +</p> + +<p> +Ah, with what gratitude, with what infinite relief, did Mary hear his tone of +authority! He watched Toft out of the room and, alone with her, he looked at +her. He saw that her hand shook as she filled the teapot, that her lips +quivered, that she tried to speak and could not. And he felt an infinite love +and pity, though he drove both out of his voice when he spoke. “Yes, tea +first,” he said coolly, as he took off his riding coat. “I’ve +had a long journey. You must take another cup with me. You can leave things to +me now. Yes, two lumps, please, and not too strong.” He knocked together +the logs, and warmed his hands, stooping over the fire with his back to her. +Then he took his place at the table, and when he had drunk half a cup of tea, +“Now,” he said, “will you tell me the story from the +beginning. And take time. More haste, less speed, you know.” +</p> + +<p> +With a calmness that surprised herself, Mary told the tale. She described the +first alarm, the hunt through the house, the discoveries in the bedroom, +Toft’s breakdown, last of all the search through the park and the finding +of the flask. +</p> + +<p> +He listened gravely, asking a question now and then. When she had done, +“What of Toft?” he inquired. “Not been very active, has he? +Not given you much help?” +</p> + +<p> +“No! But how did you guess?” she asked in surprise. +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid that Toft knows more than he has told you. For the +rest,” he looked at her kindly, “I want you to give up the hope of +finding your uncle alive. I have none. But I think I can promise you that there +has been no suffering. If it turns out as I imagine, he was dead before he was +missed. What the doctor expected has happened. That is all.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand,” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“And I don’t want to say more until I know for certain. May I ring +for Toft?” She nodded. He rang, and after a pause, during which he stood, +silent and waiting, the servant came in. He shot a swift glance at them, and +dropped his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Tell Petch and the other man to be ready to start with us in five +minutes,” Basset said. “Let them fetch a hurdle, and do you put a +mattress on it. I suppose—you made sure he was dead, Toft, before you +left him?” +</p> + +<p> +The man flinched before the sudden question, but he showed less emotion than +Mary. Perhaps he had expected it. After a pause, during which Basset did not +take his eyes from him, “I made sure,” he said in a low voice. +“As God sees me, I did! But if you think I raised a hand to +him——” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t!” Basset said sternly. “I don’t think so +badly of you as that. But nothing but frankness can save you now. Is he in the +Great House?” +</p> + +<p> +Toft opened his mouth, but he seemed unable to speak. He nodded. +</p> + +<p> +“What about the flask?” +</p> + +<p> +“I dropped it,” the man muttered. He turned a shade paler. “I +could not bear to think he was lying there. I thought it would lead the +search—that way, and they would find him.” +</p> + +<p> +“I see. That’s enough now. Be ready to start at once.” +</p> + +<p> +The man went out. “Good heavens!” Mary cried. She was +horror-stricken. “And he has known it all this time! Do you think that +he—he had any part——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no. He was alone with Mr. Audley when he collapsed, and he lost his +head. They were together in the Great House—it was a difficult +position—and he did not see his way to explain. He may have seen some +advantage in gaining time—I don’t know. The first thing to be done +is to bring your uncle home. I will see to that. You have borne up +nobly—you have done your part. Do you go to bed now.” +</p> + +<p> +Something in his tone, and in his thought for her, brought old times to +Mary’s mind and the blood to her pale cheek. She did not say no, but she +would not go to bed. She made Etruria come to her, and the two girls sat in the +parlor listening and waiting, moving only when it was necessary to snuff the +candles. It was a grim vigil. An hour passed, two hours. At length they caught +the first distant murmur, the tread of men who moved slowly and heavily under a +burden—there are few who have not at one time or another heard that +sound. Little by little the shuffling feet, the subdued orders, the jar of a +stumbling bearer, drew nearer, became more clear. A gust of wind swept through +the hall, and moaned upwards through the ancient house. The candles on the +table flickered. And still the two sat spell-bound, clasping cold hands, as the +unseen procession passed over the threshold, and for the last time John Audley +came home to sleep amid his books—heedless now of right or claim, or rank +or blood. +</p> + +<p style="text-align:center; letter-spacing:20pt">* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +A few minutes later Basset entered the parlor. His face betrayed his fatigue, +and his first act was to go to the sideboard and drink a glass of wine. Mary +saw that his hand shook as he raised the glass, and gratitude for what he had +done for her brought the tears to her eyes. He stood a moment, leaning in utter +weariness against the wall—he had ridden far that day. And Mary had been +no woman if she had not drawn comparisons. +</p> + +<p> +Opportunity had served him, and had not served the other. Nor, had her +betrothed been here, could he have helped her in this pinch. He could not have +taken Basset’s place, nor with all the will in the world could he have +done what Basset had done. +</p> + +<p> +That was plain. Yet deep down in her there stirred a faint resentment, a +complaint hardly acknowledged. Audley was not here, but he might have been. It +was his doing that she had not told her uncle, and that John Audley had passed +away in ignorance. It was his doing that in her trouble she had had to lean on +the other. It was not the first time during the long hours of the day that the +thought had come to her; and though she had put it away, as she put it away +now, the opening flower of love is delicate—the showers pass but leave +their mark. +</p> + +<p> +When Etruria had slipped out, and left them, Basset came forward, and warmed +himself at the fire. “Perhaps it is as well you did not go to bed,” +he said. “You can go now with an easy mind. It was as I thought—he +lay on the stairs of the Great House and he had been dead many hours. Dr. +Pepper will tell us more to-morrow, but I have no doubt that he died of syncope +brought on by exertion. Toft had tried to give him brandy.” +</p> + +<p> +Shocked and grieved, yet sensible of relief, she was silent for a time. She had +known John Audley less than a year, but he had been good to her in his way and +she sorrowed for him. But at least she was freed from the nightmare which had +ridden her all day. Or was she? “May I know what took him there?” +she asked in a low voice. “And Toft?” +</p> + +<p> +“He believed that there were papers in the Great House, which would prove +his claim. It was an obsession. He asked me more than once to go with him and +search for them, and I refused. He fell back on Toft. They had begun to +search—so Toft tells me—when Mr. Audley was taken ill. Before he +could get him down the stairs, the end came. He sank down and died.” +</p> + +<p> +With a shudder Mary pictured the scene in the empty house. She saw the light of +the lantern fall on the huddled group, as the panic-stricken servant strove to +pour brandy between the lips of the dying man; and truly she was thankful that +in this strait she had Basset to support her, to assist her, to advise her! +“It is very dreadful,” she said. “I do not wonder that Toft +gave way. But had he—had my uncle—any right to be there?” +</p> + +<p> +“In his opinion, yes. And if the papers were there, they were his papers, +the house was his, all was his. In my opinion he was wrong. But if he believed +anything, he believed that he was justified in what he did.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am glad of that!” +</p> + +<p> +“There must be an inquest, I am afraid,” Basset continued. +“One or two will know, and one or two more will guess what Mr. +Audley’s errand was. But Lord Audley will have nothing to gain by moving +in it. And if only for your sake—but you must go to bed. Etruria is +waiting in the hall. I will send her to you. Good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +She stood up. She wished to thank him, she longed to say something, anything, +which would convey to him what his coming had been to her. But she could not +find words, she was tongue-tied. And Etruria came in. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII<br/> +THE NEWS FROM RIDDSLEY</h2> + +<p> +The business which had taken Audley away on the morrow of his engagement had +been no mere pretext. The crisis in political life which Peel’s return to +office had brought about was one of those upheavals which are of rare promise +to the adventurous. The wise foresaw that the party which Sir Robert had led +would be riven from top to bottom. Old allies would be flung into opposing +camps, and would be reaching out every way for support. New men would be +learning their value, and to those who dared, all things might be added. +Places, prizes, honors, all might be the reward of those who knew how to choose +their side with prudence and to support it with courage. The clubs were like +hives of bees. All day long and far into the winter night Pall Mall roared +under the wheels of carriages. About the doors of Whitehall Gardens, where Peel +lived, men gathered like vultures about the prey. And, lo, in a twinkling and +as by magic the Conservative party vanished in a cloud of dust, to reappear a +few days later in the guise of Peelites and Protectionists—Siamese twins, +who would not live together, and could not live apart. +</p> + +<p> +At such a time it was Audley’s first interest to be as near as possible +to the hub of things and to place himself in evidence as a man concerned. He +had a little influence in the Foreign Office, he had his vote in the House of +Lords. And though he did not think that these would suffice, he trusted that, +reinforced by the belief that he carried the seat at Riddsley in his pocket, +they might be worth something to him. +</p> + +<p> +Unfortunately he could deal with one side only. If Stubbs were right he could +pass for the owner of the borough only as long as he opposed Sir Robert. He +could return the younger Mottisfont and have the credit of returning him, in +the landed interest; but however much it might suit his book—and it was +of that book he was thinking as he travelled to Lord Seabourne’s—he +could not, if Stubbs were right, return a member in the other interest. +</p> + +<p> +Now when a man can sell to one party only, tact is needed if he is to make a +good bargain. Audley saw this. But he knew his own qualities and he did not +despair. The occasion was unique, and he thought that it would be odd if he +could not pluck from the confusion something worth having; some place under the +Foreign Office, a minor embassy, a mission, something worth two, or three, or +even four thousand a year. +</p> + +<p> +He travelled up to town thinking steadily of the course he would pursue, and +telling himself that he must be as cunning as the serpent and as gentle as the +dove. He must let no whip cajole him, and no Tory browbeat him. For he had only +this to look to now: a rich marriage was no longer among the possibilities. Not +that he regretted his decision in that matter as yet, but at times he wondered +at it. He told himself that he had been impulsive, and setting this down to the +charms of his mistress he gave himself credit for disinterested motives. And +then, too, he had made himself safe! +</p> + +<p> +Still there were difficulties in the way of his ambition, which appeared more +clearly at Seabourne Castle, where Lady Adela was a fellow-guest, and in London +than at Riddsley; difficulties of shrewd whips, who knew the history of the +borough by heart, and had figures at their fingers’ ends; difficulties of +arrogant leaders, who talked of his duty to the land and assumed that duty was +its own reward. Above all, there was the difficulty that he could only sell to +the party that was out of office and must pay in promises—bills drawn at +long dates and for which no discounters could be found. For who could say when +the landed interest, made up of stupid bull-headed men like Lord George +Bentinck and Stubbs, a party without a leader and with divided counsels, would +be in power? They were a mob rather than a party, and like every other mob were +ready to sacrifice future prospects to present revenge. +</p> + +<p> +That was a terrible difficulty, and his lordship did not see how he was to get +over it. To the Peelites who could pay, cash down, in honors and places, he +could not sell. Nor to the Liberals under little Lord John, though to their +promises some prospect of office gave value. So that at times he almost +despaired. For he had only this to look to now; if he failed in this he would +have love and he would have Mary, and he would have safety, but very little +besides. If his word had not been given to Mary, he might almost have +reconsidered the matter. +</p> + +<p> +The die was cast, however. Yet many a man has believed this, and then one fine +morning he has begun to wonder if it is so—the cast was such an unlucky, +if not an unfair one! And presently he has seen that at the cost of a little +pride, or a little consistency, or what not, he might call the game drawn. That +is, he might—if he were not the soul of honor that he is! +</p> + +<p> +By and by under the stress of circumstances his lordship began to consider that +point. He did not draw back, he did not propose to draw back; but he thought +that he would keep the door behind him ajar. To begin with, he did not +overwhelm Mary with letters—his public engagements were so many; and when +he wrote he wrote on ordinary matters. His pen ran more glibly on party gossip +than on their joint future; he wrote as he might have written to a cousin +rather than to his sweetheart. But he told himself that Mary was not versed in +love letters, nor very passionate. She would expect no more. +</p> + +<p> +Then one fine morning he had a letter from Stubbs, which told him that there +was to be a real contest in Riddsley, that the Horn and Corn platform was to be +challenged, and that the assailant was Peter Basset. Stubbs added that the +Working Men’s Institute was beside itself with joy, that Hatton’s +and Banfield’s hands were solid for repeal, and that the fight would be +real, but that the issue was a foregone conclusion. +</p> + +<p> +The news was not altogether unwelcome. The contest gave value to the seat, and +increased my lord’s claim; on that party, unfortunately, they could only +pay in promises. It also tickled my lord’s vanity. His rival, unhorsed in +the lists of love, had betaken himself, it seemed, to other lists, in which he +would as surely be beaten. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor beggar!” Audley thought. “He was always a day late! +Always came in second! I don’t know that I ever knew anything more like +him than this! From the day I first saw him, standing behind John +Audley’s counsel at the suit, right to this day, he has always been a +loser!” +</p> + +<p> +And he smiled as he recalled the poor figure Basset had cut as a squire of +dames. +</p> + +<p> +A week later Stubbs wrote again, and this time his news was startling. John +Audley was dead. Stubbs wrote in the first alarm of the discovery, word of +which had just been brought into the town. He knew no particulars, but thought +that his lordship should be among the first to learn the fact. He added a hasty +postscript, in which he said that Mr. Basset was proving himself a stronger +candidate than either side had expected, and that not only were the +brass-workers with him but a few of the smaller fry of tradesmen, caught by his +cry of cheap bread. Stubbs closed, however, with the assurance that the landed +interest would carry it by a solid majority. +</p> + +<p> +“D—n their impudence!” Lord Audley exclaimed. And after that +he gave no further heed to the postscript. As long as the issue was certain, +the election was Mottisfont’s and Stubbs’s affair. As for Basset, +the more money he chose to waste the better. +</p> + +<p> +But John Audley’s death was news—it was great news! So he was gone +at last—the man whom he had always regarded as a menace! Whom he had +feared, whose very name had rung mischief in his ears, by whom, during many a +sleepless night, he had seen himself ousted from all that he had gained from +title, income, lands, position! He was gone at last; and gone with him were the +menace, the danger, the night alarms, the whole pile of gloomy fancies which +apprehension had built up! +</p> + +<p> +The relief was immense. Audley read the letter twice, and it seemed to him that +a weight was lifted from him. John Audley was dead. In his dressing-gown and +smoking-cap my lord paced his rooms at the Albany and said again and again, +“He’s dead! By gad, he’s dead!” Later, he could not +refrain from the thought that if the death had taken place a few weeks earlier, +in that first attack, he would have been under no temptation to make himself +safe. As it was—but he did not pursue the thought. He only reflected that +he had followed love handsomely! +</p> + +<p> +A day later a third letter came from Stubbs, and one from Mary. The tidings +they brought were such that my lord’s face fell as he read them, and he +swore more than once over them. John Audley, the lawyer wrote, had been found +dead in the Great House. He had been found lying on the stairs, a lantern +beside him. Stubbs had visited the house the moment the facts became known. He +had examined the muniment room and found part of the wall broken down, and in +the room two boxes of papers which had been taken from a recess which the +breach had disclosed. One of the boxes had been broken open. At present Stubbs +could only say that the papers had been disturbed, he could not say whether any +were missing. He begged his lordship—he was much disturbed, it was +clear—to come down as quickly as possible. In the meantime, he would go +through the papers and prepare a report. They appeared to be family documents, +old, and not hitherto known to his lordship’s advisers. +</p> + +<p> +Audley was still swearing, when his man came in. “Will you wear the black +velvet vest, my lord?” he asked, “or the flowered satin?” +</p> + +<p> +“Go to the devil!” his master cried—so furiously that the man +fled without more. +</p> + +<p> +When he was gone Audley read the letter again, and came to the conclusion that +in making himself safe he had builded more wisely than he knew. For who could +say what John Audley had found? Or who, through those papers, had a hold on +him? He remembered the manservant’s visit, and the thing looked black. +Very black. Alive or dead, John Audley threatened him. +</p> + +<p> +Then he felt bitterly angry with Stubbs. There had been the most shocking +carelessness. Had he not himself pointed out what was going on? Had he not put +it to Stubbs that the place should be guarded? But the lawyer, stubborn in his +belief that there were no papers there, had done nothing. Nothing! And this had +come of it! This which might spell ruin! +</p> + +<p> +Or, no. Stubbs had indeed done his best to ruin him, but he had saved himself. +He turned with relief to Mary’s letter. +</p> + +<p> +It was written sadly, and it was rather cold. He noticed this, but her tone did +not alarm him, because he set it down to the reserve of his own letters. +</p> + +<p> +He took care to answer this letter, however, by that day’s post, and he +wrote more affectionately than before—as if her trouble had broken down a +reserve natural to him. He wrote with tact, too. He could not attend the +funeral; the dead man’s feelings towards him forbade that he should. But +his agent would attend, and his carriage and servants. When he had written the +letter he was satisfied with it: more than satisfied when he had added a phrase +implying that their happiness would not long be postponed. +</p> + +<p> +After he had posted the letter he wondered if she would expect him to come to +her. It was a lonely house and with death in it—but no, in the +circumstances it was not possible. He would go down to The Butterflies next +day. That would be the most that could be expected of him. He would be at hand +if she needed anything. +</p> + +<p> +But when the next day came he did not go. A letter from a man belonging to the +inner circle of politics reached him. The great man, who had been and might be +again in the Cabinet, suggested a meeting. Nothing came of the meeting—it +was one of those will-of-the-wisps that draw the unwary on until they find +themselves committed. But it kept Audley in London, and it was not until the +evening of Monday, the day of the funeral, that, chilled and out of temper, +after posting the last stage from Stafford, he reached his quarters at The +Butterflies, and gave short answers to Mrs. Jenkinson’s inquiries after +his health. +</p> + +<p> +“Poor dear young man!” she said, when she rejoined her sisters. +“He has a kind heart and he feels it. Mr. John was Mr. John, and odd, +very odd. But still he was an Audley!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX<br/> +THE AUDLEY BIBLE</h2> + +<p> +Angry with Stubbs as he was—and with some reason—Lord Audley was +not the man to bite off his nose to spite his face. He pondered long what he +would say to him, and more than once he rehearsed the scene, toning down this +phrase and pruning that. For he knew that after all Stubbs was a good agent. He +was honest, he thought much and made much of the property, and nothing would be +gained by changing him. Then his influence in the borough was such that even if +my lord quarrelled with him, Mottisfont would hardly venture to discard him. +</p> + +<p> +For these reasons Audley had no mind to break with his agent. But he did wish +to punish him. He did wish to make his displeasure felt. And he wished this the +more because he began to suspect that if Stubbs had been less bigoted, he might +have carried the borough the way he wished—the way that would pay him +best. +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs on his side foresaw an unpleasant quarter of an hour. He had been too +easy. He had paid too little heed to John Audley’s trespasses, and had +let things pass that he should have stopped. Then, too, he had been +over-positive that there were no more documents at the Great House. Evil had +not come of this, but it might have; and he made up his mind to hear some hard +words. +</p> + +<p> +But when he obeyed my lord’s summons his reception tried his patience. A +bright fire burned in the grate, half a dozen wax candles shed a softened light +on the room. The wine stood at Audley’s elbow, and his glass was half +full. But he did not give Stubbs even two fingers, nor did he ask him to take +wine. And his tone was colder than Stubbs had ever known it. He made it plain +that he was receiving a servant, and a servant with whom he was displeased. +</p> + +<p> +Still he was Lord Audley, something of divine right survived in him, and Stubbs +knew that he had been himself in the wrong. He took the bull by the horns. +“You are displeased, my lord,” he said, as he took the seat to +which the other pointed. “And I admit with some cause. I have been +mistaken and, perhaps, a little remiss! But it is the exception, and it will be +a lesson to me. I am sorry, my lord,” he added frankly. “I can say +no more than that.” +</p> + +<p> +“And much good that will do us,” my lord growled, “in certain +events, Mr. Stubbs!” +</p> + +<p> +“At any rate it will be a sharp lesson to me,” Stubbs replied. +“It has cost Mr. Audley his life.” +</p> + +<p> +“He had no right to be there!” +</p> + +<p> +“No, my lord, he had no right to be there. But he would not have been +there if I had seen that the place was properly secured. I take all the +blame.” +</p> + +<p> +“Unfortunately,” the other flung at him contemptuously, “you +cannot pay the penalty; that may fall upon me. Anyway, it was a d—d silly +thing, Mr. Stubbs, to leave the place open, and you see what has come of +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot deny it, my lord,” Stubbs said patiently. “But I +hope that nothing will come of it. I will tell your lordship first what my own +observations were. I made a careful examination of the two chests of papers and +I came to the conclusion that Mr. Audley had done little more than open the +first when he was taken ill. One chest showed some disturbance. The upper layer +had been taken out and replaced. The other box had not been opened.” +</p> + +<p> +“What if he found what he wanted and searched no further?” Audley +asked grimly. “But the point of the matter does not lie there. It lies in +another direction, as I should have thought any lawyer would see.” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who was with him?” Lord Audley rapped the table with his fingers. +“That’s the point, sir! Who was with him?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I have ascertained that,” Stubbs replied, less put out +than his employer expected. “I have little doubt that his man-servant, a +man called Toft, was with him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” the other exclaimed, “I expected that!” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs raised his eyebrows. “You know him, my lord?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know him for a d—d blackmailing villain!” Audley broke +out. Then he remembered himself. He had not told Stubbs of the blackmailing. +And, after all, what did it matter? He had made himself safe. Whatever papers +he had found, John Audley was dead, and John Audley’s heiress was going +to be his wife! The danger to him was naught, and the blackmailer was already +disarmed. Still he was not going to spare Stubbs by telling him that. Instead, +“What did the boxes contain?” he asked ungraciously. +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing of any value when I examined them, my lord. Old surrenders, +fines, and recoveries with some ancient terriers. I could find no document +among them that related to the title.” +</p> + +<p> +“That may be,” Audley retorted. “But John Audley expected to +find something that related to the title! He knew more than we knew. He knew +that those boxes existed, and he knew what he expected to find in them.” +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt. And if your lordship had given me a little more time I should +have explained before this that he was disappointed in his expectation; nay, +more, that it was that disappointment—as I have little doubt—that +caused his collapse and death.” +</p> + +<p> +“How the devil do you know that?” +</p> + +<p> +“If your lordship will have patience I will explain,” Stubbs said, +a gleam of malice in his eyes. He rose from his seat and took from a chair +beside the door a parcel which he had laid there on his entrance. “I have +here that which he found, and that which I don’t doubt caused his +death.” +</p> + +<p> +“The deuce you have!” Audley cried, rising to his feet in his +surprise. And he watched with all his eyes while the lawyer slowly untied the +tape and spread wide the wrappers. The action disclosed a thick quarto volume +bound in blue leather, sprinkled on the sides with silver butterflies, and +stamped with the arms of Audley. “Good G—d!” Audley +continued, “the Family Bible!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the Family Bible,” the lawyer answered, gazing at it +complacently, “about which there was so much talk at the opening of the +suit. It was identified by a score of references, called for by both sides, +sought for high and low, and never produced!” +</p> + +<p> +“And here it is!” +</p> + +<p> +“Here it is. Apparently at some time or other it went out of fashion, was +laid aside and lost sight of, and eventually bricked up with a mass of old and +valueless papers.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley steadied his voice with difficulty. “And what is its +effect?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Its effect, my lord, is to corroborate our case in every +particular,” the lawyer answered proudly. “Its entries form a +history of the family for a long period, and amongst them is an entry of the +marriage of Peter Paravicini Audley on the date alleged by us; an entry made in +the handwriting of his father, and one of eleven made by the same hand. This +entry agrees in every particular with the suspected statement in the register +which we support, and fully bears out our case.” +</p> + +<p> +“And John Audley found that?” my lord cried, after a moment of +pregnant silence. He had regained his composure. His eyes were shining. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, and it killed him,” Stubbs said gravely. “Doubtless he +came on it at the moment when he thought success was within his grasp, and the +shock was too much for him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good Lord! Good Lord! And how did you get it?” +</p> + +<p> +“From Mr. Basset.” +</p> + +<p> +“Basset?” +</p> + +<p> +“Who obtained it, I have no doubt, from the man, Toft, either by pressure +or purchase.” +</p> + +<p> +“The rascal! The d—d rascal! He ought to be prosecuted!” +</p> + +<p> +“Possibly,” the lawyer agreed. “But he was only an +accomplice, and we could not prosecute him without involving others; without +bringing Mr. John’s name into it—and he is dead. As a fact, I have +passed my word to Mr. Basset that no steps should be taken against him, and I +think your lordship will agree with me that I could not do otherwise.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still—the man ought to be punished!” +</p> + +<p> +“He ought, but if any one has paid for his silence or for this book, it +is not we.” +</p> + +<p> +After that there was a little more talk about the Bible, which my lord examined +with curiosity, about the singularity of its discovery, about the handwriting +of the entries, which the lawyer said he could himself prove. Stubbs was made +free of the decanter, and of everything but my lord’s mind. For Audley +said nothing of his engagement to Mary—the moment was hardly opportune; +and nothing—it was too late in the day—of Toft’s former +exploit. He stood awhile absorbed and dreaming, staring through the haze of the +candles. Here at last was final and complete relief. No more fears, no more +calculations. Here was an end at last of the feeling that there was a mine +under him. Traditions, when they are bred in the bone, die slowly, and many a +time he had been hard put to it to resist the belief, so long whispered, that +his branch was illegitimate. At last the tradition was dead. There was no more +need to play for safety. What he had he had, and no one could take it from him. +</p> + +<p> +And presently the talk passed to the election. +</p> + +<p> +“There’s no doubt,” Stubbs said, “that Mr. Basset is a +stronger candidate than either side expected.” +</p> + +<p> +“But he’s no politician! He has no experience!” +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer sat forward, with his legs apart and a hand on either knee. +“No,” he said. “But the truth is, though it is beyond me how +a gentleman of his birth can be so misled, he believes what he says—and +it goes down!” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he a speaker?” +</p> + +<p> +“He is and he isn’t! I slipped in myself one night at the back of +one of the new-fangled meetings his precious League has started. I wanted to +see, my lord, if any of our people were there. I heard him for ten minutes, and +at the start he was so jumpy I thought that he would break down. But when he +got going—well, I saw how it was and what took the people. He believes +what he says, and he says it plain. The way he painted Peel giving up +everything, sacrificing himself, sacrificing his party, sacrificing his +reputation, sacrificing all to do what he thought was right—the devil +himself wouldn’t have known his own!” +</p> + +<p> +“He almost converted you?” +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer laughed disdainfully. “Not a jot!” he said. “But I +saw that he would convert some. Not many,” Stubbs continued complacently. +“There’s some that mean to, but will think better of it at the +last. And some would but daren’t! Two or three may. Still, he’s +such a candidate as we’ve not had against us before, my lord. And with +cheap bread and the preachings of this plaguy League—I shall be glad when +it is over.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley rose and poked the fire. “You’re not going to tell +me,” he said, in a voice that was unnaturally even, “that +he’s going to beat us? You’re not going, after all the assurances +you’ve given me——” +</p> + +<p> +“God forbid,” Stubbs replied. “No, no, my lord! Mr. +Mottisfont will hold the seat! I mean only that it will be a nearer +thing—a nearer thing than it has been.” +</p> + +<p> +He had no idea that his patron was fighting a new spasm of anger; that the +thought that he might, after all, have dealt with Sir Robert, the thought that +he might, after all, have bargained with the party in power, was almost too +much for the other’s self-command. It was too late now, of course. It was +too late. But if the contest was to be so close, surely if he had cast his +weight on the other side, he might have carried it! +</p> + +<p> +And what if the seat were lost? Then this stubborn, confident fool, who was as +bigoted in his faith as the narrowest Leaguer of them all, had done him a +deadly injury! My lord bit off an oath, and young as he was, his face wore a +very apoplectic look as he turned round, after laying down the poker. +</p> + +<p> +“That reminds me,” the lawyer resumed, blandly unconscious of the +crisis, and of the other’s anger. “I meant to ask your lordship +what’s to be done about the two Boshams. You remember them, my lord? +They’ve had the small holding by the bridge with the water meadow time +out of mind—for seven generations they say. They pay eighteen pounds as +joint tenants, and have votes as old freemen.” +</p> + +<p> +“What of them?” the other asked impatiently. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m afraid they’ll not support us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean that they’ll not vote for Mottisfont?” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid not,” Stubbs answered. “They’re as +stubborn as their own pigs! I’ve spoken to them myself and told them that +they’ve only one thing to expect if they go against their +landlord.” +</p> + +<p> +“And that is, to go out!” Audley said. “Well, make that quite +clear to them, Stubbs, and depend upon it—they’ll see +differently.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid they won’t, my lord, and that is why I trouble +you. They voted against the last lord—twice, I am told—and the +story goes that he laid his stick about Ben Bosham’s shoulders in the +street—that would be in ’31, I fancy. But he didn’t turn them +out—they’d been in the holding so long.” +</p> + +<p> +“Two votes may have been nothing to him,” Audley replied coldly. +“They are something to me. They will vote for Mottisfont or they will go, +Stubbs. That is flat, and do you see to it. There, I’m tired now,” +he continued, rising from his seat. +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs rose. “I don’t know if your lordship’s heard about Mr. +John’s will!” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” My lord straightened himself. Earlier in the day he had given +some thought to this, and had weighed Mary Audley’s chances of inheriting +what John Audley had. “No!” he said. And he waited. +</p> + +<p> +“He has left the young lady eight thousand pounds.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eight thousand!” Audley ejaculated. “Do you mean—he +must have had more than that? He wasted a small fortune in that confounded +suit. But he must have had—four times that, man!” +</p> + +<p> +“The residue goes to Mr. Basset.” +</p> + +<p> +“Basset!” Audley cried, his face flushed with passion. “To +Basset?” he repeated. “Good G—d!” +</p> + +<p> +“So I’m told, my lord,” the lawyer answered, staggered by the +temper in which his employer received the news. +</p> + +<p> +“But Miss Audley was his own niece! Basset? He was no relation to +him!” +</p> + +<p> +“They were very old friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s no reason why he should leave him thirty thousand pounds of +Audley money! Money taken straight out of the Audley property! Thirty +thousand——” +</p> + +<p> +“Not thirty, my lord,” Stubbs ventured. “Not much above +twenty, I should say. If you put it——” +</p> + +<p> +“If I put it that you were—something of a fool at times,” the +angry man cried, “I shouldn’t be far wrong! But there, there, never +mind! Good-night! Can’t you see I’m dead tired and hardly know what +I am saying? Come to-morrow! Come at eleven in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs hardly knew how to take it. But after a moment’s hesitation, he +made the best of the apology, muttered something, and got out of the room. On +the stairs he relieved his feelings by a word or two. In the street he wondered +what had taken the man so suddenly. Surely he had not expected to get the +money! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX<br/> +A FRIEND IN NEED</h2> + +<p> +Basset had obtained the missing Bible very much in the way the lawyer had +indicated—partly by purchase and partly by pressure. Shocked as Toft had +been by his master’s sudden death, he had had the presence of mind to +remember that he might make something of what they had discovered could he +secrete it; and with every nerve quivering the man had fought down panic until +he had hidden the parcel which had caused John Audley’s collapse. Then he +had given way. He had turned his back on the Great House, and shuddering, +clutched at by grisly hands, pursued by phantom feet, he had fled through the +night and the Yew Walk, to hide, for the present at least, his part in the +tragedy. +</p> + +<p> +Basset, however, had known too much for him, and the servant, shaken by what +had happened, had not been able to persist in his denials. But to tell and to +give were two things, and it is doubtful whether he would have released his +plunder if Basset had not in the last resort disclosed to him Miss +Audley’s engagement to her cousin. +</p> + +<p> +The change which this news wrought in Toft had astonished Basset. The man had +gone down under it as under a blow on the head. The spirit had gone out of him, +and he had taken with thankfulness the sum which Basset, as John Audley’s +representative, had offered him—rather out of pity than because it seemed +necessary. He had given up the parcel on the night before the funeral. +</p> + +<p> +The book in his hands, Basset had hastened to be rid of it. Cynically he had +told himself that he did so, lest he too might give way to the ignoble impulse +to withhold it. Audley was his rival, but that he might have forgiven, as men +forgive great wrongs and in time smile on their enemies. But the little wrongs, +who can forgive these—the slight, the sneer, the assumption of +superiority, the upper hand lightly taken and insolently held? +</p> + +<p> +Not Peter Basset, at a moment when he was being tried almost beyond bearing. +For every day, between the finding of the body and the funeral, and often more +than once in the day he had to see Mary, he had to advise her, he had—for +there was no one else—to explain matters to her, to bear her company. He +had to quit this meeting and that Ordinary—for election business stops +for no man—and to go to her. He had to find her alone and to see her face +light up at his entrance; he had to look back, and to see her watch him as he +rode from the door. Nor when he was absent from the Gatehouse was it any +better; nay, it was worse. For then he was forced to think of her as alone and +sad, he had to picture her brooding over the fire, he had to fancy her at her +solitary meals. And alike, with her or away from her, he had to damp down the +old passion, as well as the new regret that each day and each hour and every +kind look on her part fanned into a flame. Nor was even this all; every day he +saw that she grew more grave, daily he saw her color fading, and he did not +know what qualms she masked, what nightmares she might be suffering in that +empty house—nay, what cause for unhappiness she might be hiding. At +last—it was the afternoon before the funeral—he could bear it no +longer, and he spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“You ought not to be here!” he said bluntly. “Why +doesn’t Audley fetch you away?” He was standing before the fire +drawing on his gloves as he prepared to leave. The room was full of shadows, +for he had chosen a time when she could not see his face. +</p> + +<p> +She tried to fence with him. “I am afraid,” she said, “that +some formalities will be necessary before he can do that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why is he not here?” he retorted. “Or why doesn’t +he send some one to be with you? You ought not to be alone. Mrs. Jenkinson at +The Butterflies—she’s a good soul—you know her?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“She’d come at a word. I know it’s not my +business——” +</p> + +<p> +“Or you would go about it, I am sure,” she replied gently, +“with as much respect to my wishes as Lord Audley shows.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your wishes? But why—why do you wish——” +</p> + +<p> +“Why do I wish to be alone?” she answered. “Because I owe +something to my uncle. Because I owe him a little thought and some remembrance. +He made my old life for me—would you have me begin the new one before he +is in the grave? This was his house—would you have me entertain Lord +Audley in it?” She stood up, slender and straight, with the table between +them—and he did not guess that her knees were trembling. “Please to +understand,” she continued, “that Lord Audley and I are entirely at +one in this. We have our lives before us, and it were indeed selfish of us, and +ungrateful of me, if we grudged a few days to remembrance. As selfish,” +she continued bravely—and he did not know that she braced herself +anew—“as if I were ever to forget the friend who was <i>his</i> +friend, whose kindness has never failed me, whose loyalty has +never—” she broke down there. She could not go on. +</p> + +<p> +“Add, too,” he said gruffly, “who has robbed you of the +greater part of your inheritance! Don’t forget that!” He had been +explaining the effect of John Audley’s will to her. It had been opened +that morning. +</p> + +<p> +His roughness helped her to recover herself. “I do not know what you mean +by ‘inheritance,’” she said. “My uncle has left me the +portion his wife brought to him. I am more than satisfied. I am very grateful. +My only fear is that, had he known of my engagement, he would not have wished +me to have this.” +</p> + +<p> +“The will was made before you came to live here,” Basset said. +“The eight thousand was left to you because you were his brother’s +child. It was the least he could do for you, and had he made a new will he +would doubtless have increased it. But,” breaking off, “I must be +going.” Yet he still stood, and he still tapped the table with the end of +his riding-crop. “When is Audley coming?” he asked suddenly. +“To-morrow?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, to-morrow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well he ought to,” he replied, without looking at her. “You +should not be here a day longer by yourself. It is not fitting. I shall see you +in the morning before we start for the church, but the lawyer will be here and +I shall not be able to come again. But I must be sure that there is some one +here.” He spoke almost harshly, partly to impress her, partly to hide his +own feelings; and he did not suspect that she, too, was fighting for calmness; +that she was praying that he would go, before she showed more clearly how much +the parting tried her—before every kind word, every thoughtful act, every +toilsome journey taken on her behalf, rose to her remembrance and swept away +the remnants of her self-control. +</p> + +<p> +She had not imagined that she would feel the leave-taking as she did. She could +not speak, and she was thankful that it was too dark for him to see her face. +Would he never go? And still the slow tap-tap of his whip on the table went on. +It seemed to her that she would never forget the sound! And if he touched +her—— +</p> + +<p> +But he had no thought of touching her. +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night,” he said at last. He turned, moved away, lingered. At +the door he looked back. “I am going into the library,” he said. +“The coffin will be closed in the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, good-night,” she muttered, thankful that the thought of the +dead man steadied her and gave her power to speak. “I shall see him in +the morning.” +</p> + +<p> +He closed the door, and she crept blindly to a chair, and covered by the +darkness she gave way. She told herself that she was thinking of her uncle. But +she knew that she deceived herself. She knew that her uncle had little to do +with her tears, or with the feeling of loneliness that overcame her. Once more +she had lost her friend—and a friend so good, so kind. Only now did she +know his value! +</p> + +<p> +Five minutes later Basset crossed the court in search of his horse. Mrs. +Toft’s door stood open and a stream of firelight and candlelight poured +from it and cut the January fog. She was hard at work, cooking funeral meats +with the help of a couple of women; for quietly as John Audley had lived, he +could not be buried without some stir. Odd people would come, drawn by the +Audley name, squires who boasted some distant connection with the line, a few +who had been intimate with him in past days. And the gentry far and wide would +send their carriages, and the servants must be fed. Still the preparations +jarred on Basset as he crossed the court. He felt the bustle an outrage on the +mourning girl he had left, and on his own depression. +</p> + +<p> +Probably Mrs. Toft had set the door open that she might waylay him, for as he +went by she came out and stopped him. “Mr. Basset, sir!” she said +in a low voice. “Is this true, what Toft tells me? I declare, when I +heard it, you could ha’ knocked me down with a common dip!” She was +wiping her hands on her apron. “That the young lady is to marry his +lordship?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe it is true,” Basset said coldly. “But you had +better let her take her own time to make it known. Toft should not have told +you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never fear, sir, I’ll not let on. But, Lord’s sakes, +who’d ha’ thought it? And she’ll be my lady! Not that +she’s not an Audley, and there’s small differ, and she’ll +make none, or I don’t know her! Well, indeed, I hope she’s wise, +but wedding cake, make it as rich as you like, it’s soon stale. And for +him, I don’t know what the Master would have said if he’d known it! +I thought things would come out,” with a quick look at Basset, +“quite otherways! And wished it, too!” +</p> + +<p> +“Thank you, Mrs. Toft,” he said quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Just so, sir, you’ll excuse me. Well, it’s not many months +since the young lady came, and look at the changes! With the old Master dead, +and you going in for elections—drat ’em, I say, plaguy things that +set folks by the ears—and Mr. Colet gone and ’Truria that +unsettled, and Toft for ever wool-gathering, I shall be glad when +tomorrow’s over and I can sit down and sort things out a bit!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mrs. Toft.” +</p> + +<p> +“And speaking of elections reminds me. You know they two Boshams of the +Bridge End, sir?” +</p> + +<p> +“I know them. Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Toft sniffed. “They’re sort of kin to me, and middling honest +as town folks go. But two silly fellows, always meddling and making and +gandering with things they’d ought to leave to the gentry! The old lord +was soft with them, and so they’ve a mind now to see who is the stronger, +they or his lordship.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you mean that they have promised to vote for me——” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s it, sir! Vote their living away, they will, and leave +’em alone! Votes are for poor men to make a bit of money by, odd times; +but they two Boshams I’ve no patience with. Sally, Ben’s wife, was +with me to-day, and the long and the short of it is, Mr. Stubbs has told them +that if they vote for you they’ll go into the street.” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a hard case,” Basset said. “But what can I +do?” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t ha’ their votes. What’s two votes to you? For +the matter of that,” Mrs. Toft continued, thoroughly wound up, +“what’s all the votes—put together? Bassets and Audleys, +Audleys and Bassets were knights of the shire, time never was, as all the +country knows! But for this little borough—place it’s what your +great-grandfather wouldn’t ha’ touched with a pair of gloves! +I’d leave it to the riff-raff that’s got money and naught else, and +builds Institutes and such like!” +</p> + +<p> +“But you’d like cheap bread?” Basset said, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“Bread? Law, Mr. Basset, what’s elections to do wi’ bread? +It’s not bread they’re thinking of, cheap or dear. It’s beer! +Swim in it they do, more shame to you gentry! I’ll be bound to say +there’s three goes to bed drunk in the town these days for two that goes +sober! But there, you speak to they Boshams, Mr. Basset, sir, and put some +sense into them!” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid I can’t promise,” he answered. +“I’ll see!” +</p> + +<p> +But it was not of the Boshams he thought as he rode down the hill with a tight +rein—for between fog and frost the road was treacherous. He was thinking +of the man who had been his friend and of whose face, sphinx-like in death, he +had taken farewell in the library. And solemn thoughts, thoughts such as at +times visit most men, calmed his spirit. The fret of the contest, the strivings +of the platform, the rubs of vanity flitted to a distance, they became small +things. Even passion lost its fever and love its selfishness; and he thought of +Audley with patience and of Mary as he would think of her in years to come, +when time had enshrined her, and she was but a memory, one of the things that +had shaped his life. He knew, indeed, that this mood would pass; that passion +would surge up again, that love would reach out to its object, that memory +would awake and wound him, that pain and restlessness would be his for many +days. But he knew also—in this hour of clear views—that all these +things would have an end, and only the love, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +That seeketh not itself to please<br/> +Nor of itself hath any care, +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +would remain with him. +</p> + +<p> +Already it had carried him some way. In the matter of the election, indeed, he +might be wrong. He might have entered on it too hastily—often he thought +that he had—he might be of fibre too weak for the task. It cost him much +to speak, and the occasional failure, the mistake, the rebuff, worried him for +hours and even days. Trifles, too, that would not have troubled another, +troubled his conscience; side-issues that were false, but that he must not the +less support, workers whom he despised and must still use, tools that soiled +his hands but were the only tools. Then the vulgar greeting, the tipsy grasp, +the friend in the market-place:— +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +The man who hails you Tom or Jack<br/> +And proves by thumps upon your back +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +How he esteems your merit! +</p> + +<p class="t0"> +Who’s such a friend that one had need<br/> +Be very much his friend indeed +</p> + +<p class="t3"> +To pardon or to bear it! +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +these humiliated him. But worse, far worse, than all was his unhappy gift of +seeing the merits of the other side and of doubting the cause which he had set +out to champion. He had fits of lowness when he was tempted to deny that +honesty existed anywhere in politics; when Sir Robert Peel no less than Lord +George Bentinck—who was coming to the front as the spokesman of the +land—Cobden the Radical no less than Lord John Russell, seemed to be bent +only on their own advancement, when all, he vowed, were of the School of the +Cynics! +</p> + +<p> +But were he right or wrong in his venture—and right or wrong he had small +hope of winning—he would not the less cling to the thing which Mary had +given him—the will to make something of his life, the determination that +he would leave the world, were it only the few hundred acres that he owned, or +the hamlet in which he lived, better than he had found them. The turmoil of the +election over, he would devote himself to his property at Blore. There John +Audley’s twenty thousand pounds opened a wide door. He would build, +drain, manure, make roads, re-stock. He would make all things new. From him as +from a centre comfort should flow. He saw himself growing old in the middle of +his people, a lonely, but not an unhappy man. +</p> + +<p> +As he passed the bridge at Riddsley he thought of the Boshams, and weary as he +was, he drew rein at their door. Ben Bosham came out, bare-headed; a short, +elderly man with a bald forehead and a dirty complexion, a man who looked like +a cobbler rather than the cow-keeper he was. +</p> + +<p> +“Shut your door, Bosham,” Basset said. “I want a word with +you.” +</p> + +<p> +And when the man had done this, he stooped from the saddle and said a few words +to him in a low voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’m dommed!” the other answered, peering up through +the darkness. “It be you, Squire, bain’t it? But you’re not +meaning it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I am,” Basset replied in a low voice. “I’d not say, +vote for him, Bosham. But leave it alone. You’re not called upon to ruin +yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“But ha’ you thought,” the man exclaimed, “that our two +votes may make the differ? That they may make you or mar you, Squire!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I’d rather be marred than see you put out of your +place,” Basset answered. “Think it over, Bosham.” +</p> + +<p> +But Bosham repudiated even thought of it. This vote and his use of it, this +defiance of a lord, was, for the time, his very life. “I’ll not do +it,” he declared. “I couldn’t do it! Nor I +won’t!” he repeated. “We’re freemen o’ Riddsley, +and almost the last of the freemen that has votes as freemen! And while free we +are, free we’ll be, and vote as we choose, Squire! Vote as we choose! +I’d not show my face in the town else! Mr. Stubbs may talk as gallus as +he likes—and main ashamed of himself he looked yesterday—he may +talk as gallus as never was, we’ll not bend to no landlord, nor to no +golden image!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then there’s no more to be said,” Basset answered, feeling +that he cut a poor figure. “I don’t wish you to do anything against +your conscience, Bosham, and I’m obliged to you and your brother for your +staunchness. I only wanted you to know that I should understand if you stayed +away.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’d chop my foot off first!” cried the patriot. +</p> + +<p> +After which Basset had no choice but to leave him and to ride on, feeling that +he was himself too soft for the business—that he was a round man in a +square hole. He wondered what his committee would think of him if they knew, +and what Bosham thought of him—who did know. For Bosham seemed to him at +this moment a man of principle, a patriot, nay, a very Brutus: whereas, Ben was +in truth no better than a small man of large conceit, whose vote was his one +road to fame. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI<br/> +BEN BOSHAM</h2> + +<p> +It was Tuesday, market-day at Riddsley, and farmers’ wives, cackling as +loudly as the poultry they carried, elbowed one another on the brick pavements +or clustered before the windows of the low-browed shops. Farmers in white +great-coats, with huge handkerchiefs about their necks, streamed from the yards +of the Packhorse and the Barley Mow, and meeting a friend planted themselves in +the roadway as firmly as if they stood in their own pastures. Now and again a +young spark, fancying all eyes upon his four-year-old, sidled through the +throng with many a “Whoa!” and “Where be’st going, +lad?” While on the steps of the Market-Cross and about the long line of +carts that rested on their shafts in the open street, hucksters chaffered and +house-wives haggled over the rare egg or the keg of salted butter. +</p> + +<p> +The quacking of ducks, the neighing of horses, the singsong of rustic voices +filled the streets. It was common talk that the place was as full as at the +March Fair. The excitement of the Election had gone abroad, the cry that the +land was at stake had brought in some, others had come to see what was afoot. +Many a stout tenant was here who at other times left the marketing to his +womenfolk; and shrewd glances he cast at the gentry, as he edged past the +justices who lounged before the Audley Arms and killed in gossip the interval +between the Magistrates’ Meeting, at which they had just assisted, and +the Ordinary at which they were to support young Mottisfont. +</p> + +<p> +The great men talked loudly and eagerly, were passionate, were in earnest. +Occasionally one of the younger of them would step aside to look at a passing +hackney, or an older man would speak to a favorite tenant whom he called by his +first name. But, for the most part, they clung together, fine upstanding +figures, in high-collared riding-coats and top-boots. They were keen to a man; +the farmers keen also, but not so keen. For the argument that high wheat meant +high rents, and that most of the benefits of protection went to the landlords +had got about even in Riddsley. The squires complained that the farmers would +only wake up when it was too late! +</p> + +<p> +Still in such a place, and on market-day, four out of five were in the landed +interest; four-fifths of the squires, four-fifths of the parsons, almost +four-fifths of the tenants; for the laborers, no one asked what they thought of +it—they had ten shillings a week and no votes. +“Peel—’od rot him!” cried the majority, “might +shift as often as his own spinning-jenny! But not they! No Manchester man, and +no Tamworth man either, should teach them their business! Who would die if +there were no potatoes? It was a flam, a bite, but it wouldn’t bamboozle +Stafford farmers!” +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Stubbs, moving quietly through the throng, spoke with one here and +there. He had the same word for all. “Listen to me, John,” he would +say, his hand on the yeoman’s shoulder. “Peel says he’s been +wrong all these years and is only right now. Then, if you believe him, +he’s a fool; and if you don’t believe him, he’s a knave. Not +a very good vet., John, eh? Not the vet. for the old gray mare, eh?” +</p> + +<p> +This had a great effect. John went away and repeated it to himself, and +presently grasped the dilemma and chuckled over it. Ten minutes later he +imparted it, with the air of a Solomon, to the “Duke,” who mouthed +it and liked it and rolled it off to the first he met. It went the round of the +inns and about four o’clock a farmer fresh from the “tap” put +it to Stubbs and convinced him; and that night men, travelling home +market-peart in the charge of their wives, bore it to many a snug homestead set +in orchards of hard cider apples. +</p> + +<p> +Had the issue of the Election lain with the Market, indeed, it had been over. +But of the hundred and ninety voters no more than fifteen were farmers, and +though the main trade of the town sided with them, the two factories were in +opposition; and cheap bread had its charms for the lesser fry. But the free +traders were too wise to flaunt their views on market-day, and it was left for +little Ben Bosham, whose vote was pretty near his all, to distinguish himself +in the matter. +</p> + +<p> +He, too, had been at the tap, and about noon his voice was heard issuing from a +group who stood near the Audley Arms. “Be I free, or bain’t +I?” he bawled. “Answer me that, Mr. Bagenal!” +</p> + +<p> +A knot of farmers had edged him into a corner and were disposed to bait him. A +stubby figure in a velveteen coat and drab breeches, his hand on an ash-plant, +he held his ground among them, tickled by the attention he excited and fired by +his own importance. “Be I free, or bain’t I?” he repeated. +</p> + +<p> +“Free?” Bagenal answered contemptuously. “You be free to make +a fool of yourself, Ben! I’m thinking you’d ha’ us all lay +down the ground to lazy pasture and live by milk, as you do!” +</p> + +<p> +“Milk?” ejaculated a stout man of many acres, whose contempt for +such traffic was above speech. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll be free to go out of Bridge End,” cried a third. +“That’s what you’ll be free to do! And where’ll your +vote be then, Ben?” +</p> + +<p> +But there Bosham was sure of himself. “That’s where you be wrong, +Mr. Willet,” he retorted with gusto. “My vote dunno come o’ +my landlord, and in the Bridge End or out of the Bridge End, I’ve a vote +while I’ve a breath! ’Tain’t the landlord’s vote, and +why’d I give it to he? Free I be—not like you, begging your pardon! +Freeman, old freeman, I be, of this borough! Freeman by marriage!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you be a very rare thing!” Bagenal retorted slyly. +“There’s a many lose their freedom that way, but you be the first I +ever heard of that got it!” +</p> + +<p> +“And a hard bargain, too, as I hear,” said Willet. +</p> + +<p> +This drew a roar of laughter. The crowd grew thicker and the little man’s +temper grew short, for his wife was no beauty. He began to see that they were +playing with him. +</p> + +<p> +“You leave me alone, Mr. Willet,” he said angrily, “and +I’ll leave you alone!” +</p> + +<p> +“Leave thee alone!” said the farmer who had turned up his nose at +milk. “So I would, same as any other lump o’ dirt! But yo’ +don’t let us. Yo’ set up to know more than your betters! Pity the +old lord ain’t alive to put his stick about your back!” +</p> + +<p> +“Did it smart, Ben?” cried a lad who had poked himself in between +his betters. +</p> + +<p> +“You let me catch you,” Ben cried, “and I’ll make you +smart. You be all a set of slaves! You’d set your thatch afire if +squires’d tell you! Set o’ slaves, set o’ slaves you +be!” +</p> + +<p> +“And what be you, Bosham?” said a man who had just joined the +group. “Head of the men, bain’t you? Cheap bread and high wages, +that’s your line, ain’t it!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s his line, be it?” said the old farmer slowly. +“Bit of a rascal it seems yo’ be? Don’t yo’ let me find +you in my boosey pasture talking to no men o’ mine, or I’ll make +yo’ smart a sight more than his lordship did!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, that’s Ben’s line,” said the new-comer. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a liar!” Ben shrieked. “A dommed liar you be! I +see you not half an hour agone coming out of Stubbs’s office! I know who +told you to say that, you varmint! I’ll have the law of you!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ben Bosham, the laborers’ friend!” the man retorted. +</p> + +<p> +Ben was furious, for he was frightened. There was no feud so bitter in the +’forties as the feud between farmer and laborer. The laborer had no vote, +he had lost his common rights, his wood, his cow-feed; he was famished, he was +crushed by the new Poor Law, and so he was often in an ugly mood, as singed +barns and burning stacks went to show. Bosham knew that he might flout the +squires, and at worst be turned out of his holding; but woe betide him if he +got the name of the laborers’ friend. Moreover, there was just so much +truth in the accusation as made it dangerous. Ben and his brother eked out the +profits of the dairy by occasional labor, and Ben had sometimes vapored in +tap-rooms where he had better have held his tongue. He shrieked furiously, +therefore, at the false witness, and even tried to reach him with his +ash-plant. “Who be you?” he screamed. “You be a +lawyer’s pup, you be! You’d ruin me, you would! Let me get a hold +of you and I’ll put a mark on you! You be lying!” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t know about that,” said the big farmer slowly and +weightily. “I’m feared yo’re a bit of a rascal, Ben.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, and fine he’ll look in front of Stafford Gaol some +morning!” said Willet. “At the end of a rope.” +</p> + +<p> +On that in a happy moment for Ben, while he gaped for a retort and found none, +two carriers’ vans, huge wooden vehicles festooned with rabbits and +market-baskets and drawn by three horses abreast, lumbered through the crowd +and scattered it. In a twinkling Ben was left alone, an angry man, aware that +he had cut but a poor figure! +</p> + +<p> +He had been frightened, too, and he resented it. He thirsted for some chance of +setting himself right, of proving to others that he was a freeman and not as +other men. And in the nick of time he saw a chance—if only he had the +courage to rise to it. He saw moving towards him through the press a +mail-phaeton and pair. On the box, caped and gloved, the pink of fashion, sat +no less a person than his lordship himself. A servant in the well-known livery, +a white coat with a blue collar, sat behind him. +</p> + +<p> +The vans which had freed Ben blocked the great man’s way, and he was +moving at a walk. All heads were bared as he passed, and he was acknowledging +the courtesy with his whip when Ben stepped before the horses and lifted his +hand. In an instant a hundred eyes were on the man and he knew that he had +burned his boats. Bravado was now his only chance. +</p> + +<p> +“My lord,” he cried, waving his hat impudently. “I want to +know what you be going to do about me?” +</p> + +<p> +My lord hardly caught his words and did not catch his meaning, but he saw that +the man was almost under the horses’ feet and he checked them. Ben stood +aside then but, as the carriage passed him, he laid his hand on the splashboard +and walked beside it. He looked up at the great man and in the same impudent +tone, “Be you agoing to turn me out, my lord?” he cried. +“That’s what I want to know.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand you,” Audley said coldly. He guessed that +the man referred to the Election, and what was the use of understrappers like +Stubbs if he was to be exposed to this? +</p> + +<p> +“I’m Ben Bosham of the Bridge End, my lord, that’s who I +be,” Ben replied brazenly. “I’m not ashamed of my name. I +want to know whether you be agoing to turn me out, and my wife and my child! +That’s what I want to——” +</p> + +<p> +Then a farmer seized him and dragged him back, and others laid hands on him, +though he still shouted. “Dunno be a fool!” cried the farmer, +deeply shocked. “Drive on, drive on, my lord! Never heed him. He’ve +had a glass too much!” +</p> + +<p> +“Packhorse beer, my lord,” explained a second in stentorian +tones—though he knew that Ben was fairly sober. “Ought to be +ashamed of himself!” cried a third, and he shook the aggressor. Ben was +in a minority of one, and those who held him were inclined to be rough. +</p> + +<p> +Audley waved his whip good-humoredly. “Take care of him!” he said. +“Don’t hurt him!” And he drove on, outwardly unmoved though +inwardly fuming. Still had it ended there little harm would have been done. But +word of the brawl outran the carriage and, as it chanced, reached the door of +Hatton’s Works as the men came out to dinner. Ben Bosham had spoken his +mind to his lordship! His lordship had driven over him! The farmers had beaten +him! The news passed from one to another like flame, and the hands stood, some +two score of them, and hooted my lord loudly, shouting “Shame!” and +jeering at him. +</p> + +<p> +Now had Audley been the candidate he would have thought nothing of it. He would +have laughed in the men’s faces and taken it as part of the day’s +work; or had he been the old lord, he would have flung a curse at the men and +cut at the nearest with his whip—and forgotten it. +</p> + +<p> +But he was not the old lord, times were changed, and the thing angered him. It +was in an ill-temper that he drove on along the road that rose by gentle +degrees to the Great Chase. +</p> + +<p> +For the matter of that, he had been in a black mood for some time, because he +could not make up his mind. Night and morning ambition whispered to him to put +the vessel about; to steer the course which experience told him that it +behooved a man to steer who was not steeped in romance, nor too greedy for the +moment’s enjoyment; the course which, beyond all doubt, he would have +steered were he now starting! +</p> + +<p> +But he was not starting; and when he thought of shifting the helm he foresaw +difficulties. He did not think that he was a soft-hearted man, yet he feared +that when it came to the point he would flinch. Besides, he told himself that +he was a man of honor; and the change was a little at odds with this. But there +again, he reflected that truth was honor and in the end would cause less pain. +</p> + +<p> +Eight thousand pounds was so very small a portion! And for safety, he no longer +needed to play for it. John Audley was dead and the Bible was in his hands; his +case was beyond cavil or question, while the political situation was such that +he saw no opening, no chance of enrichment in that direction. To make Mary, +handsome, good, attractive as she was—to make her the wife of a poor +peer, of a discontented, dissatisfied man—this, if he could only find it +in his heart to tell her the truth, would be a cruel kindness. +</p> + +<p> +As he drove along the road, angry with the wretched Bosham, angry with Stubbs, +angry with the fools who had hooted him, he was not sorry to feel his +ill-temper increase. He might not find it so difficult to speak to her. A +little effort and the thing would be done. Eight thousand pounds? The interest +would barely dress her. Whereas, if she had played her cards well and been heir +to her uncle’s thirty thousand—the case would have been different. +After all, the fault lay with her. +</p> + +<p> +He roused the off-horse with a sharp cut, and a moment later discerned at the +end of a long, straight piece of road, the moss-clad steps of the old Cross and +standing beside them a figure he knew. +</p> + +<p> +He was moved, even while, in his irritation, he was annoyed that she had come +to meet him at a place that had recollections for him. It seemed to him that in +doing this she was putting an undue, an unfair burden on him. +</p> + +<p> +She waved her hand and he raised his hat. The day was bright and cold, and the +east wind had whipped a fine color into her cheeks. Perhaps that, too, was +unfair. Perhaps that too was putting an undue burden on him. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII<br/> +MARY MAKES A DISCOVERY</h2> + +<p> +But his face was not one to betray his thoughts, and as he drew up beside Mary, +horses fretting, polechains jingling, the silver of the harness glittering from +a score of points, he made a gallant show. The most eager lover, Apollo himself +in the chariot of the sun, had scarcely made a better approach to his mistress, +had hardly carried it more finely over a mind open to appearances. +</p> + +<p> +With a very fair show of haste he bade his man take the reins, and as the +servant swung himself into the front seat the master sprang to the ground. His +hand met Mary’s, his curly-brimmed hat was doffed, his eyes smiled into +hers. “Well, better late than never!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she answered. But she spoke more soberly than he expected +and her face was grave. “You have been a long time away.” +</p> + +<p> +That was their meeting. The servant was there; under his eyes it could not be +warmer. Whether one or the other had foreseen this need not be asked. +</p> + +<p> +He spoke to the man, who, possessed by a natural curiosity, was all ears. +“Keep them moving,” he said. “Drive back a mile or two and +return.” Then to Mary, his hat still in his hand, “A long time +away? Longer than I expected, and far longer than I hoped, Mary. Shall we go up +the hill a little?” +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you would propose that,” she said. “I am so glad +that it is fine.” +</p> + +<p> +The man had turned the horses. Audley took her hand again and pressed it, +looking in her face, telling himself that she grew more handsome every day. Why +hadn’t she thirty thousand pounds? Aloud he said, “So am I, very +glad. Otherwise you could not have met me, and I fancied that you might not +wish me to come to the house? Was that so, dear?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think it was,” she said. “He has been gone so very short a +time. Perhaps it was foolish of me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all!” he answered, admiring the purity of her complexion. +“It was like you.” +</p> + +<p> +“If we had told him, it would have been different.” +</p> + +<p> +“On the other hand,” he said deftly, as he drew her hand through +his arm, “it might have troubled his last days? And now, tell me all, +Mary, from the beginning. You have gone through dark days and I have not +been—I could not be with you. But I want to share them.” +</p> + +<p> +She told the story of John Audley’s disappearance, her cheeks growing +pale as she described the alarm, the search, the approach of night and her +anguish at the thought that her uncle might be lying in some place which they +had overlooked! Then she told him of Basset’s arrival, of the discovery, +of the manner in which Peter had arranged everything and saved her in every +way. It seemed to her that to omit this, to say nothing of him, would be as +unfair to the one as uncandid to the other. +</p> + +<p> +My lord’s comment was cordial, yet it jarred on her. “Well +done!” he said. “He was made to be of use, poor chap! If it were +any one else I should be jealous of him!” And he laughed, pressing her +arm to his side. +</p> + +<p> +She was quivering with the memories which her story had called up, and it was +only by an effort that she checked the impulse to withdraw her hand. “Had +you been there——” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope I should have done as much,” he replied complacently. +“But it was impossible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” she said. And though she knew that her tone was cold, she +could not help it. For many, many times during the last month she had pondered +over his long absence and the chill of his letters. Many times she had told +herself that he was treating her with scant affection, scant confidence, almost +with scant respect. But then again she had reflected that she must be mistaken, +that she brought him nothing but herself, and that if he did not love her he +would not have sought her. And telling herself that she expected too much of +love, too much of her lover, she had schooled herself to be patient, and had +resolved that not a word of complaint should pass her lips. +</p> + +<p> +But to assume a warmth which she did not feel was another matter. This was +beyond her. +</p> + +<p> +He, for his part, set down her manner to a natural depression. “Poor +child!” he said, “you have had a sad time. Well, we must make up +for it. As soon as we can make arrangements you must leave that gloomy house +where everything reminds you of your uncle and—and we must make a fresh +start. Do you know where I am taking you?” +</p> + +<p> +She saw that they had turned off the road and were following a track that +scrambled upwards through the scrub that clothed the slope below the Gatehouse. +It slanted in the direction of the Great House. “Not to +Beaudelays?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes—to Beaudelays. But don’t be afraid. Not to the +house.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no!” she cried. “I don’t think I could bear to go +there to-day!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know. But I want you to see the gardens. I want you to see what might +have been ours, what we might have enjoyed had fortune been more kind to us! +Had we been rich, Mary! It is hard to believe that you have never seen even the +outside of the Great House.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have never been beyond the Iron Gate.” +</p> + +<p> +“And all these months within a mile!” +</p> + +<p> +“All these months within a mile. But he did not wish it. It was one of +the first things he made me understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah! Well, there is an end of that!” And again so matter-of-fact +was his tone that she had to struggle against the impulse to withdraw her arm. +“Now, if there is any one who has a right to be there, it is you! And I +want to be the one to take you there. I want you to see for yourself that it is +only fallen grandeur that you are marrying, Mary, the thing that has been, not +the thing that is. By G—d! I don’t know that there is a creature in +the world—certainly there is none in my world—more to be pitied +than a poor peer!” +</p> + +<p> +“That’s nothing to me,” she said. And, indeed, his words had +brought him nearer to her than anything he had said. So that when, taking +advantage of the undergrowth which hid them from the road below, he put his arm +about her and assisted her in her climb, she yielded readily. “To +think,” he said, “that you have never seen this place! I wonder +that after we parted you did not go the very next morning to visit it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps I wished to be taken there by you.” +</p> + +<p> +“By Jove! Do you know that that is the most lover-like thing you have +said.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may improve with practice,” she rejoined. “Indeed, it is +possible,” she continued demurely, “that we both need +practice!” +</p> + +<p> +She had not a notion that he was in two minds; that one half of him was +revelling in the hour, pleased with possession, enjoying her beauty, dwelling +on the dainty curves of her figure, while the other uncertain, wavering, was +asking continually, “Shall I or shall I not?” But if she did not +guess thoughts to which she had no clue he was sharp enough to understand hers. +“Ah! you are there, are you?” he said. “Wait! Presently, when +we are out of sight of that cursed road——” +</p> + +<p> +“I didn’t find fault!” +</p> + +<p> +On that there was a little banter between them, gallant and smiling on his +part, playful and defensive on hers, which lasted until they reached a door +leading into the lower garden. It was a rusty, damp-stained door, once painted +green, and masked by trees somewhat higher than the underwood through which +they had climbed. Ivy hung from the wall above it, rank grass grew against it, +the air about it was dank, and in summer sent up the smell of wild leeks. Once +under-gardeners had used it to come and go, and many a time on moonlit nights +maids had stolen through it to meet their lovers in the coppice or on the road. +</p> + +<p> +Audley had brought the key and he set it in the lock and turned it. But he did +not open the door. Instead, he turned to Mary with a smile. “This is my +surprise,” he said. “Shut your eyes and open them when I tell you. +I will guide you.” +</p> + +<p> +She complied without suspicion, and heard the door squeak on its rusty hinges. +Guided by his hand she advanced three or four paces. She heard the door close +behind her. He put his arm round her and drew her on. “Now?” she +asked, “May I look?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, now!” he answered. As he spoke he drew her to him, and, +before she knew what to expect, he had crushed her to his breast and was +pressing kisses on her face and lips. +</p> + +<p> +She was taken by surprise and so completely, that for a moment she was +helpless, without defence. Then the instinctive impulse to resist overcame her, +and she struggled fiercely; and, presently, she released herself. “Oh, +you shouldn’t have done it!” she cried. “You shouldn’t +have done it!” +</p> + +<p> +“My darling!” +</p> + +<p> +“You—you hurt me!” she panted, her breath coming short and +quick. She was as red now as she had for a moment been white. Her lips +trembled, and there were tears in her eyes. He thought that he had been too +rough with her, and though he did not understand, he stayed his impulse to +seize her again. Instead, he stood looking down at her, a little put out. +</p> + +<p> +She tried to smile, tried bravely to pass it off; but she was put to it, he +could see, not to burst into tears. “Perhaps I am foolish,” she +faltered, “but please don’t do it again.” +</p> + +<p> +“I can’t promise—for always,” he answered, smiling. +But, none the less, he was piqued. What a prude the girl was! What a +Sainte-ni-touche! To make such a fuss about a few kisses! +</p> + +<p> +She tried to take the same tone. “I know I am silly,” she said, +“but you took me by surprise.” +</p> + +<p> +“You were very innocent, then, my dear. Still, I’ll be good, and +next time I will give you warning. Now, don’t be afraid, take my arm, and +let us——” +</p> + +<p> +“If I could sit down?” she murmured. Then he saw that the color had +again left her cheeks. +</p> + +<p> +There was an old wheelbarrow inside the door, half full of dead leaves. He +swept it clear, and she sat down on the edge of it. He stood by her, puzzled, +and at a loss. +</p> + +<p> +Certainly he had played a trick on her, and he had been a little rough because +he had felt her impulse to resist. But she must have known that he would kiss +her sooner or later. And she was no child. Her convent days were not of +yesterday. She was a woman. He did not understand it. +</p> + +<p> +Alas, she did understand it. It was not her lover’s kisses, it was not +his passion or his roughness that had shaken Mary. She was not a prude and she +was a woman. That which had overwhelmed her was the knowledge, the certainty +forced on her by his embrace, that she did not love him! That, however much she +might have deluded herself a few weeks earlier, however far she might have let +the lure of love mislead her, she did not love this man! And she was betrothed +to him, she was promised to him, she was his! On her engagement to him, on her +future with him had been based—a moment before—all her plans and +all her hopes for the future. +</p> + +<p> +No wonder that the color was struck from her face, that she was shaken to the +depths of her being. For, indeed, she knew something more—that she had +had her warning and had closed her eyes to it. That evening, when she had heard +Basset’s step come through the hall, that moment when his presence had +lifted the burden of suspense from her, should have made her wise. And for an +instant the veil had been lifted, and she had been alarmed. But she reflected +that the passing doubt was due to her lover’s absence and his coldness; +and she had put the doubt from her. When Audley returned all would be well, she +would feel as before. She was hipped and lonely and the other was kind to +her—that was all! +</p> + +<p> +Now she knew that that was not all. She did not love Audley and she did love +some one else. And it was too late. She had misled herself, she had misled the +man who loved her, she had misled that other whom she loved. And it was too +late! +</p> + +<p> +For a time that was short, yet seemed long to her companion, who stood watching +her, she sat lost in thought and unconscious of his presence. At length he +could bear it no longer. Pale cheeks and dull eyes had no charm for him! He had +not come, he had not met her, for this. +</p> + +<p> +“Come!” he said, “come, Mary, you will catch cold sitting +there! One might suppose I was an ogre!” +</p> + +<p> +She smiled wanly. “Oh no!” she said, “It is I—who am +foolish. Please forgive me.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you would like to go back?” +</p> + +<p> +But her ear detected temper in his tone, and with a newborn fear of him she +hastened to appease him. “Oh no!” she said. “You were going +to show me the gardens!” +</p> + +<p> +“Such as they are. Well, so you will see what there is to be seen. It is +a sorry sight, I can tell you.” She rose and, taking her arm, he led her +some fifty yards along the alley in which they were, then, turning to the +right, he stopped. “There,” he said. “What do you think of +it?” +</p> + +<p> +They had before them the long, dank, weed-grown walk, broken midway by the +cracked fountain and closed at the far end by the broad flight of broken steps +that led upward to the terrace and so to the great lawn. When Audley had last +stood on this spot the luxuriance of autumn had clothed the neglected beds. A +tangle of vegetation, covering every foot of soil with leaf and bloom, had +veiled the progress of neglect. Now, as by magic, all was changed. The sun +still shone, but coldly and on a bald scene. The roses that had run riot, the +spires of hollyhocks that had risen above them, the sunflowers that had +struggled with the encroaching elder, nay, the very bindweed that had strangled +all alike in its green embrace, were gone, or only reared naked stems to the +cold sky. Gone, too, were the Old Man, the Sweet William, the St. John’s +Wort, the wilderness of humbler growths that had pressed about their feet; and +from the bare earth and leafless branches, the fountain and the sundial alone, +like mourners over fallen grandeur, lifted gray heads. +</p> + +<p> +There is no garden that has not its sad season, its days of stillness and +mourning, but this garden was sordid as well as sad. Its dead lay unburied. +</p> + +<p> +Involuntarily Mary spoke. “Oh, it is terrible!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“It is terrible,” he answered gloomily. +</p> + +<p> +Then she feared that, preoccupied as she was with other thoughts, she had hurt +him. She was trying to think of something to comfort him, when he repeated, +“It is terrible! But, d—n it, let us see the rest of it! +We’ve come here for that! Let us see it!” +</p> + +<p> +Together they went slowly along the walk. They came by and by to the sundial. +She hung a moment, wishing to read the inscription, but he would not stay. +“It’s the old story,” he said. “We are gay fellows in +the sunshine, but in the shadow—we are moths.” +</p> + +<p> +He did not explain his meaning. He drew her on. They mounted the wide flight +which had once, flanked by urns and nymphs and hot with summer sunshine, echoed +the tread of red-heeled shoes and the ring of spurs. Now, elder grew between +the shattered steps, weeds clothed them, the nymphs mouldered, lacking arms and +heads, the urns gaped. +</p> + +<p> +Mary felt his depression and would have comforted him, but her brain was numbed +by the discovery which she had made; she was unable to think, without power to +help. She shared, she more than shared, his depression. And it was not until +they had surmounted the last flight and stood gazing on the Great House that +she found her voice. Then, as the length and vastness of the pile broke upon +her, she caught her breath. “Oh,” she cried. “It is +immense!” +</p> + +<p> +“It’s a nightmare,” he replied. “That is Beaudelays! +That is,” with bitterness, “the splendid seat of Philip, fourteenth +Lord Audley—and a millstone about his neck! It is well, my dear, that you +should see it! It is well that you should know what is before you! You see your +home! And what you are marrying—if you think it worth while!” +</p> + +<p> +If she had loved him she would have been strong to comfort him. If she had even +fancied that she loved him, she would have known what to answer. As it was, she +was dumb; she scarcely took in the significance of his words. Her mind—so +much of it as she could divert from herself—was engaged with the sight +before her, with the long rows of blank and boarded windows, the smokeless +chimneys, the raw, unfinished air that, after eighty years, betrayed that this +had never been a home, had never opened its doors to happy brides, nor heard +the voices of children. +</p> + +<p> +At last she spoke. “And this is Beaudelays?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“This is my home,” he replied. “That’s the place +I’ve come to own! It’s a pleasant possession! It promises a +cheerful homecoming, doesn’t it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you never thought of—of doing anything to it?” she +asked timidly. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean—have I thought of completing it? Of repairing +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose I meant that,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“I might as well think,” he retorted, “of repairing the Tower +of London! All I have in the world wouldn’t do it! And I cannot pull it +down. If I did, the lawyers first and the housebreakers afterwards, would pull +down all I have with it! There is no escape, my dear,” he continued +slowly. “Once I thought there was. I had my dream. I’ve stood on +this lawn on summer days and I’ve told myself that I would build it up +again, and that the name of Audley should not be lost. But I am a peer, what +can I do? I cannot trade, I cannot plead. For a peer there is but one +way—marriage. And there were times when I had visions of repairing the +breach—in that way; when I thought that I could set the old name first +and my pleasure second; when I dreamed of marrying a great dowry that should +restore us to the place we once enjoyed. But—that is over! That is +over,” he repeated in a sinking voice. “I had to choose between +prosperity and happiness; I made my choice. God grant that we may never repent +it!” +</p> + +<p> +He sank into silence, waiting for her to speak; he waited with exasperation. +She did not, and he looked down at her. Then, “I believe,” he said, +“that you have not heard a word I have said!” +</p> + +<p> +She glanced up, startled. “I am afraid I have not,” she answered +meekly. “Please forgive me. I was thinking of my uncle, and wondering +where he died.” +</p> + +<p> +It was all that Audley could do to check the oath that rose to his lips. For he +had spoken with intention; he had given her, as he thought, a lead, an opening; +and he had wasted his pains. He could hardly believe that she had not heard. He +could almost believe that she was playing with him. But in truth she had barely +recovered from the shock of her discovery, and the thing before her +eyes—the house—held her attention. +</p> + +<p> +“I believe that you think more of your uncle than of me!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +“No,” she replied, “but he is gone and I have you.” She +was beginning to be afraid of him; afraid of him, because she felt that she was +in fault. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he replied. “But you must be more kind to me—or +I don’t know that you will keep me.” +</p> + +<p> +She thought that he spoke in jest, and she pressed his arm. +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t want to go into the house?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh no! I could not bear it to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you must not mind if I leave you for a moment. I have to look to +something inside. I shall not be more than five minutes. Will you walk up and +down?” +</p> + +<p> +She assented, thankful to be alone with her thoughts; and he left her. A burly, +stately figure, he passed across the lawn and disappeared round the corner of +the old wing where the yew trees grew close to the walls. He let himself into +the house. He wished to examine the strong-room for himself and to see what +traces were left of the tragedy which had taken place there. +</p> + +<p> +But when he stood inside and felt the icy chill of the house, where each +footstep awoke echoes, and a ghostly tread seemed to follow him, he went no +farther than the shadowy drawing-room with its mouldering furniture and fallen +screen. There, placing himself before an unshuttered pane, he stood some +minutes without moving, his hands resting on the head of his cane, his eyes +fixed on Mary. The girl was slowly pacing the length of the terrace, her head +bent. +</p> + +<p> +Whether the lonely figure, with its suggestion of sadness, made its appeal, or +the attraction of a grace that no depression could mar, overcame the dictates +of prudence, he hesitated. At last, “I can’t do it!” he +muttered, “hanged if I can! I suppose I ought not to have kissed her if I +meant to do it to-day. No, I can’t do it.” +</p> + +<p> +And when, half an hour later, he parted from her at the old Cross at the foot +of the hill, he had not done it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII<br/> +THE MEETING AT THE MAYPOLE</h2> + +<p> +Within twenty-four hours there were signs that Bosham’s brush with his +lordship and the show of feeling outside Hatton’s Works had set a sharper +edge on the fight. Trifles as these were, the farmers about Riddsley took them +up and resented them. The feudal feeling was not quite extinct. Their landlord +was still a great man to them, and even those who did not love him believed +that he was fighting their battle. An insult to him seemed, in any case, a +portent, but that such a poor creature as Bosham—Ben Bosham of the Bridge +End—should insult him, went beyond bearing. +</p> + +<p> +Moreover, it was beginning to be whispered that Ben was tampering with the +laborers. One heard that he was preaching higher wages in the public houses, +another that he was asking Hodge what he got out of dear bread, a third that he +was vaporing about commons and enclosures. The farmers growled. The +farmers’ sons began to talk together outside the village inn. The +farmers’ wives foresaw rick-burning, maimed cattle, and empty hen coops, +and said that they could not sleep in their beds for Ben. +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile those who, perhaps, knew something of the origin of these rumors, and +could size up the Boshams to a pound, were not unwilling to push the matter +farther. Men who fancied with Stubbs that repeal of the corn-taxes meant the +ruin of the country-side, were too much in earnest to pick and choose. They +believed that this was a fight between the wholesome country and the black, +sweating town, between the open life of the fields and the tyranny of mill and +pit; and that the only aim of the repealer was to lower wages, and so to swell +the profits that already enabled him to outshine the lords of the soil. They +were prone, therefore, to think that any stick was good enough to beat so bad a +dog, and if the stout arms of the farmers could redress the balance, they were +in no mood to refuse their help. +</p> + +<p> +Nor were sharpeners wanting on the other side. The methods of the League were +brought into play. Women were sent out to sing through the streets of an +evening, and the townsfolk ate their muffins to the doleful strains of: +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +Child, is thy father dead? +</p> + +<p class="t2"> +Father is gone. +</p> + +<p class="t0"> +Why did they tax his bread? +</p> + +<p class="t2"> +God’s will be done! +</p> +</div> + +<p> +And as there were enthusiasts on this side, too, who saw the work of the Corn +Laws in the thin cheeks of children and the coffins of babes, the claims of +John Barley-corn, roared from the windows of the Portcullis and the Packhorse, +did not seem a convincing answer. A big loaf and a little loaf, carried high +through the streets, made a wide appeal to non-voters; and a banner with, +“You be taxing, we be starving!” had its success. Then, on the +evening of the market-day, a band of Hatton’s men, fresh from the Three +Tailors, came to blows with a market-peart farmer, and a “hand” was +not only knocked down, but locked up. Hatton’s and Banfield’s men +were fired with indignation at this injustice, and Hatton himself said a little +more at the Institute than Basset thought prudent. +</p> + +<p> +These things had their effect, and more, perhaps, than was expected. For +Stubbs, going back to his office one afternoon, suffered an unpleasant shock. +Bosham’s impudence had not moved him, nor the jeers of Hatton’s +men. But this turned out to be another matter. Farthingale, the shabby clerk +with the high-bred nose, had news for him which he kept until the office door +was locked. And the news was so bad that Stubbs stood aghast. +</p> + +<p> +“What? All nine?” he cried. “Impossible, man! The +woman’s made a fool of you!” +</p> + +<p> +But Farthingale merely looked at him over his steel-rimmed spectacles. +“It’s true,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll never believe it!” cried the lawyer. +</p> + +<p> +Farthingale shook his head. “That won’t alter it,” he said +patiently. “It’s true.” +</p> + +<p> +“Dyas the butcher! Why, he served me for years! For years! I go to him at +times now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Only for veal,” replied the clerk, who knew everything +“Pitt, of the sausage shop, and Badger, the tripeman, are in his +pocket—buy his offal. With the other six, it’s mainly the big +loaf—Lake has a sister with seven children, and Thomas a father in the +almshouse. Two more have big families, and the women have got hold of +them!” +</p> + +<p> +“But they’ve always voted right!” Stubbs urged, with a +sinking heart. “What’s taken them?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you ask me,” the clerk answered, “I should say it was +partly Squire Basset—he talks straight and it takes. And partly the +split. When a party splits you can’t expect to keep all. I doubted Dyas +from the first. He’s the head. They were all at his house last night and +a prime supper he gave them.” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs groaned. At last, “How much?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Farthingale shook his head. “Nix,” he said. “You may be +shaking Dyas’s hand and find it’s Hatton’s. If you take my +advice, you’ll leave it alone.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” the lawyer cried, “of all the d—d ingratitude I +ever heard of! The money Dyas has had from me!” +</p> + +<p> +Farthingale’s lips framed the words “only veal,” but no sound +came. Devoted as he was to his employer, he was enjoying himself. Election +times were meat and drink—especially drink—to him. At such times +his normal wage was royally swollen by Election extras, such as: “To +addressing one hundred circulars, one guinea. To folding and closing the same, +half a guinea. To watering the same, half a guinea. To posting the same, half a +guinea.” A whole year’s score, chalked up behind the door at the +Portcullis, vanished as by magic at this season. +</p> + +<p> +And then he loved the importance of it, and the secrecy, and the confidence +that was placed in him and might safely be placed. The shabby clerk who had +greased many a palm was himself above bribes. +</p> + +<p> +But Stubbs was aghast. Scarcely could he keep panic at bay. He had staked his +reputation for sagacity on the result. He had made himself answerable for +success, to his lordship, to the candidate, to the party. Not once, but twice, +he had declared in secret council that defeat was impossible—impossible! +Had he not done so, the contest, which his own side had invited, might have +been avoided. +</p> + +<p> +And then, too, his heart was in the matter. He honestly believed that these +poor creatures, these weaklings whose defection might cost so much, were voting +for the ruin of their children, for the impoverishment of the town. They would +live to see the land pass into the hands of men who would live on it, not by +it. They would live to see the farmers bankrupt, the country undersold, the +town a desert! +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer had counted on a safe majority of twenty-two on a register of a +hundred and ninety voters. And twenty-two had seemed a buckler, sufficient +against all the shafts and all the spite of fortune. But a majority of +four—for that was all that remained if these nine went over—a +majority of four was a thing to pale the cheek. Perspiration stood on his brow +as he thought of it. His hand shook as he shuffled the papers on his desk, +looking for he knew not what. For a moment he could not face even Farthingale, +he could not command his eye or his voice. +</p> + +<p> +At last, “Who could get at Dyas?” he muttered. +</p> + +<p> +Farthingale pondered for a time, but shook his head. “No one,” he +said. “You might try Hayward if you like. They deal.” +</p> + +<p> +“What’s to be done, then?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s only one way that I can think of,” the clerk +replied, his eyes on his master’s face. “Rattle them! Set the +farmers on them! Show them that what they’re doing will be taken ill. +Show ’em we’re in earnest. Badger’s a poor creature and +Thomas’s wife’s never off the twitter. I’d try it, if I were +you. You’d pull some back.” +</p> + +<p> +They talked for a time in low voices and before he went into the Portcullis +that night Farthingale ordered a gig to be ready at daylight. +</p> + +<p> +It might have been thought that with this unexpected gain, Basset would be in +clover. But he, too, had his troubles and vexations. John Audley’s death +and Mary’s loneliness had made drafts on his time as well as on his +heart. For a week he had almost withdrawn from the contest, and when he +returned to it it was to find that the extreme men—as is the way of +extreme men—had been active. In his address and in his speeches he had +declared himself a follower of Peel. He had posed as ready to take off the +corn-tax to meet an emergency, but not as convinced that free trade was always +and everywhere right. He had striven to keep the question of Irish famine to +the front, and had constantly stated that that which moved his mind was the +impossibility of taxing food in one part of the country while starvation +reigned in another. Above all, he had tried to convey to his hearers his notion +of Peel. He had pictured the statesman’s dilemma as facts began to coerce +him. He had showed that in the same position many would have preferred party to +country and consistency to patriotism. He had painted the struggle which had +taken place in the proud man’s mind. He had praised the decision to which +Peel had come, to sacrifice his name, his credit, and his popularity to his +country’s good. +</p> + +<p> +But when Basset returned to his Committee Room, he found that the men to whom +Free Trade was the whole truth, and to whom nothing else was the truth, had +stolen a march on him. They had said much which he would not have said. They +had set up Cobden where he had set up Peel. To crown all, they had arranged an +open-air meeting, and invited a man from Lancashire—whose name was a red +rag to the Tories—to speak at it. +</p> + +<p> +Basset was angry, but he could do nothing. He had an equal distaste for the man +and the meeting, but his supporters, elated by their prospects, were neither to +coax nor hold. For a few hours he thought of retiring. But to do so at the +eleventh hour would not only expose him to obloquy and injure the cause, but it +would condemn him to an inaction from which he shrank. +</p> + +<p> +For all that he had seen of Mary, and all that he had done for her, had left +him only the more restless and more unhappy. To one in such a mood success, +which began to seem possible, promised something—a new sphere, new +interests, new friends. In the hurly-burly of the House and amid the press of +business, the wound that pained him would heal more quickly than in the +retirement of Blore; where the evenings would be long and lonely, and many a +time Mary’s image would sit beside his fire and regret would gnaw at his +heart. +</p> + +<p> +The open-air meeting was to be held at the Maypole, in the wide street bordered +by quaint cottages, that served the town for a cattle-market. The day turned +out to be mild for the season, the meeting was a novelty, and a few minutes +before three the Committee began to assemble in strength at the Institute, +which stood no more than a hundred yards from the Maypole, but in another +street. Hatton was entertaining Brierly, the speaker from Lancashire, and in +making him known to the candidate, betrayed a little too plainly that he +thought that he had scored a point. +</p> + +<p> +“You’ll see something new now, sir,” he said, rubbing his +hands. “What’s wanting, he’ll win! He’s addressed as +many as four thousand persons at one time, Mr. Brierly has!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, and not such as are here, Squire,” Brierly boomed. He was a +tall, bulky man with an immense chin, who moved his whole body when he turned +his head. “Not country clods, but Lancashire men! No throwing dust +i’ their eyes!” +</p> + +<p> +“Still, I hope you’ll deal with us gently,” Basset said. +“Strong meat, Mr. Brierly, is not for babes. We must walk before we can +run.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, but the emptier the stomach, the more need o’ meat!” +Brierly replied, and he rumbled with laughter. “An’ a bellyful +I’ll give them! Truth’s truth and I’m no liar!” +</p> + +<p> +“But to different minds the same words do not convey the same +thing,” Basset urged. +</p> + +<p> +The man stared over his stiff neck-cloth. “That’ud not go down +i’ Todmorden,” he said. “Nor i’ Burnley nor i’ +Bolton! We’re down-right chaps up North, and none for chopping words. +Hands off the hands’ loaf, is Lancashire gospel, and we’re out to +preach it! We’re out to preach it, and them that clems folk and fats +pheasants may make what mouth o’er it they like!” +</p> + +<p> +Fortunately the order to start came at this moment, and Basset had to fall in +and move forward with Hatton, the chairman of the day. Banfield followed with +the stranger, and the rest of the Committee came on two by two, the smaller men +enjoying the company in which they found themselves. So they marched solemnly +into the street, a score of Hatton’s men forming a guard of honor, and a +long tail of the riff-raff of the town falling in behind with orange flags and +favors. These at a certain signal set up a shrill cheer, a band struck up +“See, the Conquering Hero Comes!” and the sixteen gentlemen +marched, some proudly and some shamefacedly, into the wider street, wherein a +cart drawn up at the foot of the Maypole awaited them. +</p> + +<p> +On such occasions Englishmen out of uniform do not show well. The daylight +streamed without pity on the Committee as they stalked or shambled along in +their Sunday clothes, and Basset at least felt the absurdity of the position. +With the tail of his eye he discerned that the stranger was taking off a large +white hat, alternately to the right and left, in acknowledgment of the cheers +of the crowd, while ominous sniggers of laughter mingled here and there with +the applause. Banfield’s men, with another hundred or so of the town +idlers, were gathered about the cart, but of the honest and intelligent voters +there were scanty signs. +</p> + +<p> +The crowd greeted the appearance of each of the principals with cheers and a +shaft or two of Stafford wit. +</p> + +<p> +“Hooray! Hooray!” shouted Hatton’s men as he climbed into the +cart. +</p> + +<p> +“Hatton’s a great man now!” a bass voice threw in. +</p> + +<p> +“But he’s never lost his taste for tripe!” squeaked a shrill +treble. The gibe won roars of laughter, and the back of the chairman’s +neck grew crimson. +</p> + +<p> +“Hurrah for Banfield and the poor man’s loaf!” shouted his +supporters, as he mounted in his turn. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s little of the crumb he’ll leave the poor man!” +squeaked the treble. +</p> + +<p> +It was the candidate’s turn to mount next. “Hooray! Hooray!” +shouted the crowd with special fervor. Handkerchiefs were waved from windows, +the band played a little more of the Conquering Hero. +</p> + +<p> +As the music ceased, “What’s he doing, Tommy, along o’ these +chaps?” asked the treble voice. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s waiting for that there Samaritan, Sammy?” answered the +bass. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, ay? And the wine and oil, Sammy?” +</p> + +<p> +It took the crowd a little time to digest this, but in time they did so, and +the gust of laughter that followed covered the appearance of the stranger. He +was not to escape, however, for as the noise ceased, “Is this the +Samaritan, Sammy?” asked the bass. +</p> + +<p> +“Where’s your eyes?” whined the treble. “He’s the +big loaf! and, lor, ain’t he crumby!” +</p> + +<p> +“If I were down there——” the Burnley man began, leaning +over the side of the cart. +</p> + +<p> +“He’s crusty, too!” cried the wit. +</p> + +<p> +But this was too much for the chairman. “Silence! Silence!” he +cried, and, as at a signal, there was a rush, the two interrupters were seized +and, surrounded by a gang of hobbledehoys, were hustled down the road, fighting +furiously and shouting, “Blues! Blues!” +</p> + +<p> +The chairman made use of the lull to step to the edge of the cart and take off +his hat. He looked about him, pompous and important. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” he began, “free and independent electors of our +ancient borough! At a crisis such as this, a crisis the most +momentous—the most momentous——” he paused and looked +into his hat, “that history has known, when the very staff of life is, +one may say, the apple of discord, it is an honor to me to take the +chair!” +</p> + +<p> +“The cart you mean!” cried a voice, “you’re in the +cart!” +</p> + +<p> +The speaker cast a withering glance in the direction whence the voice came, +lost his place and, failing to find it, went on in a different strain. +“I’m a business man,” he said, “you all know that! +I’m a business man, and I’m not ashamed of it. I stick to my +business and my business to-day——” +</p> + +<p> +“Better go on with it!” +</p> + +<p> +But he was getting set, and he was not to be abashed. “My business +to-day,” he repeated, “is to ask your attention for the +distinguished candidate who seeks your suffrages, and for the—the +distinguished gentleman on my left who will presently follow me.” +</p> + +<p> +A hollow groan checked him at this point, but he recovered himself. +“First, however,” he continued, “I propose, with your +permission, to say a word on the—the great question of the day—if I +may call it so. It is to the food of the people I refer!” +</p> + +<p> +He paused for cheers, under cover of which Banfield murmured to his neighbor +that Hatton was set now for half an hour. He had yet to learn that open-air +meetings have their advantages. +</p> + +<p> +“The food of the people!” Hatton repeated, uplifted by the +applause. “It is to me a sacred thing! My friends, it is to me the Ark of +the Covenant. The bread is the life. It should go straight, untaxed, untouched +from the field of the farmer to the house of—of the widow and the +orphan!” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear! Hear! Hear! Hear!” Then, “What about the +miller?” +</p> + +<p> +“It should go from where it is grown,” Hatton repeated, “to +where it is needed; from where it is grown to the homes of the poor! And to the +man,” slipping easily and fatally into his Sunday vein, “that lays +his ’and upon it, let him be whom he may, I say with the Book, +‘Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn!’ The Law, +ay, and the Prophets——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, Hatton’s profits! Hands off them!” roared the bass +voice. +</p> + +<p> +“Low bread and high profits!” shrieked the treble. “Hatton +and thirty per cent!” +</p> + +<p> +A gust of laughter swept all away for a time, and when the speaker could again +get a hearing he had lost his thread and his temper. “That’s a low +insinuation!” he cried, crimson in the face. “A low insinuation! I +scorn to answer it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Regular old Puseyite you be,” shouted a new tormentor. +“Quoting Scripture.” +</p> + +<p> +Hatton shook his fist at the crowd. “A low, dirty insinuation!” he +cried. “I scorn——” +</p> + +<p> +“You don’t scorn the profits!” +</p> + +<p> +“Listen! Silence!” Then, “I shall not say another word! +You’re not worth it! You’re below it! I call on Mr. Brierly of +Manchester to propose a resolution.” +</p> + +<p> +And casting vengeful glances here and there where he fancied he detected an +opponent, he stood back. He began for the first time to think the meeting a +mistake. Basset, who had held that opinion from the first, scanned the crowd +and had his misgivings. +</p> + +<p> +The man from Manchester, however, had none. He stood forward, a smile on his +broad face, his chest thrown forward, a something easy in his air, as became +one who had confronted thousands and was not to be put out of countenance by a +few hisses. He waited good-humoredly for silence. Nor could he see that, behind +the cart, there had been gathering for some time a band of men of a different +air from those who faced the platform. These men were still coming up by twos +and threes, issuing from side-streets; men clad in homespun and with ruddy +faces, men in smocked frocks, men in velveteens; a few with belcher +neckerchiefs and slouched felts, whom their mothers would not have known. When +Brierly raised his hand and opened his mouth there were over two score of these +men—and they were still coming up. +</p> + +<p> +But Brierly was unaware of them, and, complacent and confident of the effect he +would produce, he opened his mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Gentlemen,” he began. His voice, strong and musical, reached the +edge of the meeting. “Gentlemen, free electors! And I tell you straight +no man is free, no man had ought to be free——” +</p> + +<p> +Boom! and again, Boom! Boom! Not four paces behind him a drum rolled heavily, +drowning his voice. He stopped, his mouth open; for an instant surprise held +the crowd also. Then laughter swept the meeting and supplied a treble to the +drum’s persistent bass. +</p> + +<p> +And still the drum went on, Boom! Boom! amid cheers, yells, laughter. Then, as +suddenly as it had started, it stopped. More slowly, the hurrahs, yells, +laughter, died down, the laughter the last to fail, for not only had the big +man’s face of surprise tickled the crowd, but the drum had so nicely +taken the pitch of his voice that the interruption seemed even to his friends a +joke. +</p> + +<p> +He seized the opportunity, but defiance not complacency was now his note. +“Gentlemen,” he said, “it’s funny, but you don’t +drum me down, let me tell you! You don’t drum me down! What I said +I’m going to say again, and shame the devil and the landlords! Free +men——” +</p> + +<p> +But he did not say it. Boom, boom, rolled the drum, drowning his voice beyond +hope. And this time, with the fourth stroke, a couple of fifes struck into a +sprightly measure, and the next moment three score lively voices were roaring: +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +You’ve here the little Peeler, +</p> + +<p class="t1"> +Out of place he will not go! +</p> + +<p class="t0"> +But to keep it, don’t he turn about +</p> + +<p class="t1"> +And jump Jim Crow! +</p> + +<p class="t0"> + +</p> + +<p class="t0"> +But to keep it see him turn about +</p> + +<p class="t1"> +And jump Jim Crow! +</p> + +<p class="t0"> +Turn about, and wheel about +</p> + +<p class="t1"> +And do just so! +</p> + +<p class="t0"> + +</p> + +<p class="t8"> + +<i>Chorus</i> +</p> + +<p class="t0"> + +</p> + +<p class="t0"> +The only dance Sir Robert knows +</p> + +<p class="t1"> +Is Jump Jim Crow! +</p> + +<p class="t0"> +The only dance Sir Robert knows +</p> + +<p class="t1"> +Is Jump Jim Crow! +</p> +</div> + +<p> +For a verse or two the singers had it their own way. Then the band of the +meeting struck in with “See, the Conquering Hero Comes!” and as the +airs clashed in discord, the stalwarts of the two parties clashed also in +furious struggle. In a twinkling and as by magic the scene changed. Women, +children, lads, fled every way, screaming and falling. Shrieks of alarm routed +laughter. The crowd swayed stormily, flowed this way, ebbed that way. The +clatter of staves on clubs rang above oaths and shouts of defiance, as the +Yellows made a rush for the drum. Men were down, men were trampled on, men +strove to scale the cart, others strove to descend from it. But to descend from +it was to descend into a mêlée of random fists and falling sticks, and the man +from Manchester bellowed to stand fast; while Hatton shouted to “clear +out these rogues,” and Banfield called on his men to charge. Basset alone +stood silent, measuring the conflict with his eyes. With an odd exultation he +felt his spirits rise to meet the need. +</p> + +<p> +He saw quickly that the orange favors were outnumbered, and were giving way; +and almost as quickly that, so far as mischief was meant, it was aimed at the +Manchester man. He was a stranger, he was the delegate of the League, he was a +marked man. Already there were cries to duck him. Basset tapped Banfield on the +shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ll not touch us,” he shouted in the man’s ear, +“but we must get Brierly away. There’s Pritchard’s house +opposite. We must fight our way to it. Pass the word!” Then to Brierly, +“Mr. Brierly, we must get you away. There’s a gang here means +mischief.” +</p> + +<p> +“Let them come on!” cried the Manchester man, “I’m not +afraid.” +</p> + +<p> +“No, but I am,” Basset replied. “We’re responsible, and +we’ll not have you hurt here. Down all!” he cried raising his +voice, as he saw the band whom he had already marked, pressing up to the cart +through the mêlée—they moved with the precision of a disciplined force, +and most of their faces were muffled. “Down all!” he shouted. +“Yellows to the rescue! Down before they upset us!” +</p> + +<p> +The leaders scrambled out of the cart, some panic-stricken, some enjoying the +scuffle. They were only just in time. The Yellows were in flight, amid yells +and laughter, and before the last of the platform was over the side, the cart +was tipped up by a dozen sturdy arms. Hatton and another were thrown down, but +a knot of their men, the last with fight in them, rallied to the call, plucked +the two to their feet, and, striking out manfully, covered the rear of the +retreating force. +</p> + +<p> +The men with the belcher neckerchiefs pressed on silently, brandishing their +clubs, and twice with cries of “Down him! Down him!” made a rush +for Brierly, striking at him over the shoulders of his companions. But it was +plain that the assailants shrank from coming to blows with the local magnates; +and Basset seeing this handed Brierly over to an older man, and himself fell +back to cover the retreat. +</p> + +<p> +“Fair play, men,” he cried, good humoredly. And he laughed in their +faces as he fell back before them. “Fair play! You’re too many for +us to-day, but wait till the polling-day!” +</p> + +<p> +They hooted him. “Yah! Yah!” they cried. “You’d ruin +the land that bred you! You didn’t ought to be there!” “Give +us that fustian rascal! We’ll club him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Who makes cloth o’ devil’s dust?” yelled another. +“Yah! You d—d cotton-spawn!” +</p> + +<p> +Basset laughed in their faces, but he was not sorry when the friendly doorway +received his party. The country gang, satisfied with their victory, began to +fall back after breaking a dozen panes of glass; and the panting and +discomfited Yellows, thronging the passage and pulling their coats into shape, +were free to exchange condolences or recriminations as they pleased. More than +one had been against the open-air meeting, and Hatton, a sorry figure, hatless, +and with a sprained knee, was not likely to hear the end of it. Two or three +had black eyes, one had lost two teeth, another his hat, and Brierly his +note-book. +</p> + +<p> +But almost before a word had been exchanged, a man pushed his way among them. +He had slipped into the house by the back way. “For God’s sake, +gentlemen,” he cried, “get the constable, or there’ll be +murder!” +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” asked a dozen voices. +</p> + +<p> +“They’ve got Ben Bosham, half a hundred of them! They’re away +to the canal with him. They’re that mad with him they’ll drown +him!” +</p> + +<p> +So far Basset had treated the affair as a joke. But Bosham’s plight in +the hands of a mob of angry farmers seemed more than a joke. Murder might +really be done. He snatched a thick stick from a corner—he had been +hitherto unarmed—and raised his voice. “Mr. Banfield,” he +said, “go to Stubbs and tell him what is doing! He can control them if +any one can. And do some of you, gentlemen, come with me! We must get him from +them.” +</p> + +<p> +“But we’re not enough,” a man protested. +</p> + +<p> +“The man must not be murdered,” Basset replied. “Come, +gentlemen, they’ll not dare to touch us who know them, and we’ve +the law with us! Come on!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well done, Squire!” cried Brierly. “You’re a +man!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, but I’m not man enough to take you!” Basset retorted. +“You stay here, please!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV<br/> +BY THE CANAL</h2> + +<p> +It was noon on that day, the day of the meeting at Riddsley, and Mary was +sitting in the parlor at the Gatehouse. She was stooping over the fire with her +eyes on the embers. The old hound lay beside her with his muzzle resting on her +shoe, and Mrs. Toft, solidly poised on her feet, on the farther side of the +table, rolled her apron about her arms and considered the pair. +</p> + +<p> +“It’s given us all a rare shock,” she said as she marked the +girl’s listless pose, “the poor Master’s death! That sudden +and queer, too! I don’t know that I’m better for it, myself, and +Toft goes up and down like a toad under a harrow, he’s that restless! For +’Truria, she’s fairly mazed. Her body’s here and her thoughts +are lord knows where. Toft, he seems to think something will come of her and +her reverend——” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope so,” Mary said gently. +</p> + +<p> +“But it’s beyond me what Toft thinks these days. I asked him +point—blank yesterday, ‘Toft,’ I says, ‘are we going or +are we staying?’ And, bless the man, he looks at me as if he’d eat +me. ‘Take time and you’ll know,’ he says. ‘But whose is +the house?’ I asks, ‘and who’s to pay us?’ ‘God +knows!’ he says, and whiffs out of the room like one of these +lucifers!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think that the house is Mr. Basset’s,” Mary explained, +“for the rest of the lease; that’s about three years.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you’ll not be staying, begging your pardon, Miss? I suppose +you’ll be naming the day soon? The Master’s gone and his lordship +will be wanting you somewhere else than here.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, Mrs. Toft,” Mary said quietly. “I suppose so.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Toft looked for a blush and saw none, and she drew her conclusions. She +went on another tack. “There’s like to be a fine rumpus in the town +to-day,” she said comfortably. “The Squire’s brought a +foreigner down to trim their nails, and there’s to be a wagon and +speaking and such like foolishness at the Maypole. As if all the speeches of +all the fools in Staffordshire would lower the quartern loaf! Anyway, if what +Petch says is true, the farmers are that mad there’s like to be lives +lost!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary stooped and carefully put a piece of wood on the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“And, to be sure, they’re a rough lot,” Mrs. Toft continued, +dropping her apron. “I’m not forgetting what happened to the +reverend Colet, and I wish the young master safe out of it. It’s all give +and no take with him, too much for others and too little for himself! I’m +thinking if anybody’s hurt he’ll be there or thereabouts.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary turned. “Is Petch—couldn’t Petch go down +and——” +</p> + +<p> +“La, Miss,” Mrs. Toft answered—the girl’s face told her +all that she wished to know—“Petch don’t dare, with his +lordship on the other side! But, all said and done, I’ll be bound the +young master’ll come through. It’s a pity, though,” she +continued thoughtfully, as she began to dust the sideboard, “as people +don’t know their own minds. There’s the Squire, now. He’s +lived quiet and pleasant all these years and now he must dip his nose into this +foolishness, same as if he dipped it into hot worts when Toft’s +a-brewing! I don’t know what’s come to him. He goes riding up to +Blore these winter nights, twenty miles if it’s a furlong, when this +house is his! He’s more like to take his death that way, if I’m a +judge.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is he doing that?” Mary asked in a small voice. +</p> + +<p> +“To be sure,” Mrs. Toft returned. “What else! Which reminds +me, Miss, are those papers to go to the bank to-day?” +</p> + +<p> +“I believe so.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’re looking that peaky, you’d best take a jaunt +with them. Why not? It’s a fine day, and if there is a bit of a clash +there’s none will hurt you. Do you go, Miss, and get a little color in +your cheeks. At worst, you’ll bring back the news and I’m sure +we’re that dead-alive and moped a little’s a godsend!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I will go,” Mary said. +</p> + +<p> +So when the gig, which was to convey the boxes to the bank, arrived about +three, she mounted beside the driver. Here, were it only for an hour, was +distraction and a postponement of that need to decide, to choose between two +courses, which was crushing her under its weight. +</p> + +<p> +For Mary was very unhappy. That moment which had proved to her that she did not +love the man she was to marry and did love another, had stamped itself on her +memory, never to be wiped from it. In Audley’s company, and for a time +after they had parted, the shock had numbed her mind and dulled her feelings. +But once alone and free to think, she had grasped all that the discovery +meant—to her and to him; and from that moment she had not known an +instant of ease. +</p> + +<p> +She saw that she had made a terrible mistake, and one so vital that, if nothing +could be done, it must wreck her happiness and another’s happiness. And +what was she to do? What ought she to do? In a moment of emotion, led astray by +that love of love which is natural to women, and something swayed—so she +told herself in scorn—by +</p> + +<div class="poem3"> +<p class="t0"> +Those glories of our blood and state, +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +which to women are not shadows, she had made this mistake, and now, +self-tricked, she had only herself to blame if +</p> + +<div class="poem3"> +<p class="t2"> +Sceptre and crown<br/> +Were tumbled down +</p> + +<p class="t0"> +And in the dust were lesser made<br/> +Than the poor crooked scythe and spade! +</p> +</div> + +<p> +But to see her folly did not avail. What was she to do? +</p> + +<p> +Ought she to tell the truth, however painful it might be, to the man whom she +had deceived? Or ought she to go through with it, to do her duty and save him +at least from hurt? Either way, she had wrecked her own craft, but she might +still hope to save his. Or—might she hope? She was not certain even of +this. +</p> + +<p> +What was she to do? Hour after hour she asked herself the question, sometimes +looking through the windows with eyes that saw nothing, at others pacing her +room in a fever of anxiety. What was she to do? She could not decide. Now she +thought one thing, now another. And time was passing. No wonder that she was +glad even of the distraction of this journey to Riddsley that at another time +had been so dull an adventure! It was, at least, a reprieve, a respite from the +burden of decision. +</p> + +<p> +She would not own, even to herself, that she had any other thought in going, or +that anxiety had any part in her restlessness. From that side of the battle she +turned her eyes with all the strength of her will. Her conduct had been that of +a silly girl rather than that of a woman who had seen and suffered; but she was +not light—and besides Basset was cured. She was only unfortunate, and +desperately unhappy. +</p> + +<p> +As they drove by the old Cross at the foot of the hill she averted her eyes. +Surely it must have been in some other life that she had made it the object of +a walk, and had told herself that she would never forget it. +</p> + +<p> +Alas, she had been right. She would never forget it! +</p> + +<p> +The man who drove saw that her face matched her mourning, and he left her to +her thoughts, so that hardly a word passed between them until they were close +upon the outskirts of the town. Then the driver, to whom the dull winter +landscape, the lines of willows, and the low water-logged fields, were no +novelty, pricked up his ears. +</p> + +<p> +“Dang me!” he said, “they’ve started! There’s a +fine rumpus in the town. Do you hear ’em, Miss? That’s a band +I’m thinking?” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope no one will be hurt.” +</p> + +<p> +The man winked at his horse. “None of the right side, Miss,” he +said slyly. “But it might be a hanging, front o’ Stafford gaol, by +the roar! I met a tidy lot going in as I came out, a right tidy lot! I’m +blest,” after listening a moment, “if they’re not coming this +way!” +</p> + +<p> +“I hope they won’t do anything to——” +</p> + +<p> +“La, Miss,” the man answered, misreading her anxiety and +interrupting her, “they’ll never touch us. And for the old nag, +he’s yeomanry. He’d not start if he met a mile o’ +funerals!” +</p> + +<p> +Certainly the noise was growing. But the lift of the canal bridge and bank, +which crossed the road a hundred yards before them, hid all of the town from +them save a couple of church towers, some tiled roofs, and the brick gable of +Hatton’s Works. The man whipped up his horse. +</p> + +<p> +“Teach they Manchester chaps a trick!” he muttered. +“Shouldn’t wonder if there’ll be work for the crowner out of +this! Gee-up, old nag, let’s see what’s afoot! ’Pears to +me,” as the shouting grew plainer, “we’ll be in at the death +yet, Miss!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary winced at the word, but if the man feared that she would refuse to go on, +he was mistaken. On the contrary, she looked eagerly to the front as the old +horse, urged by the whip, took the rise of the bridge at a canter, and, having +reached the crown, relapsed into an absent-minded walk. +</p> + +<p> +“Dang me!” cried the driver, greatly excited, “but they do +mean business! It’s in knee in neck with ’em! Never thought it +would come to this. And who is’t they’ve got, Miss?” +</p> + +<p> +Certainly there was something out of the common on foot. Moving to meet the +gig, and filling the road from ditch to ditch, appeared a disorderly crowd of +two or three hundred persons. Cheering, hooting, and brandishing sticks, they +came on at something between a walk and a run, although in the heart of the +mass there was a something that now and again checked the movement, and once +brought it to a stand. When this happened the crowd eddied and flowed about the +object in its centre and presently swept on again with the same hooting and +laughter. +</p> + +<p> +But in the laughter, as in the hooting, there was, after each of these pauses, +a more savage note. +</p> + +<p> +“What is it?” Mary cried, as the driver, scared by the sight, +pulled up his horse. “What is it?” +</p> + +<p> +“D—n me,” the man replied, forgetting his manners, “if +I don’t think it’s Ben Bosham they’ve got! It is Ben! And +they’re for ducking him! It’s mortal deep by the bridge there, and +s’help me, if it’s not ten to one they drown him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Ben Bosham?” Mary repeated. Then she recalled the name. She +remembered what Mrs. Toft had said of him—that the man had a wife and +would bring her to ruin. The crowd was not fifty yards from them now and was +still coming on. To the left a track ran down to the towing-path and the canal, +and already the leaders of the mob were swerving in that direction. As they did +so—and were once more checked for a moment—Mary espied among them a +man’s bald head twisting this way and that, as he strove to escape. The +man was struggling desperately, his clothes almost torn from his back, but he +was helpless in the hands of a knot of stout fellows, and after a brief +resistance he was hauled forcibly on. A hundred jeering voices rose about him, +and a something cruel in the sound chilled Mary’s blood. The dreary +scene, the sluggish canal, the flat meadows, the rising mist, all pressed on +her mind and deepened the note of tragedy. +</p> + +<p> +But on that she broke the spell. The blood in her spoke. She clutched the +driver’s arm and shook it. “Go on!” she cried. “Go on! +Drive into them!” +</p> + +<p> +The man hesitated—he saw that the crowd was in no jesting mood. But the +old horse felt the twitch on the reins and started, and having the slope with +him, trotted gently forward as if the road were empty before him. The crowd +waved and shouted, and cursed the driver. But the horse, thinking perhaps that +this was some new form of parade, only cocked his ears and ambled on till he +reached the foremost. Then a man seized the rein, jerked it, and stopped him. +</p> + +<p> +In a moment Mary sprang down, heedless of the fact that she was one woman among +a hundred men. She faced the crowd, her eyes bright with indignation. +“Let that man go,” she cried. “Do you hear? Do you want to +murder him?” And, advancing a step, she laid her hand on Ben +Bosham’s ragged, filthy sleeve—he had been down more than once and +been rolled in the mud. “Let him go!” she continued imperiously. +“Do you know who I am, you cowards? Let him go!” +</p> + +<p> +“Yah!” shouted the crowd, and drowned her voice and pressed roughly +about her, threatened her. One of the foremost asked her what she would do, +another cried that she had best make herself scarce! Furious faces surrounded +her, fists were shaken at her. But Mary was not daunted. “If you +don’t let him go, I shall go to Lord Audley!” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“You’re a fool meddling in this!” cried a voice. +“We’re only going to wash the devil!” +</p> + +<p> +“You will let him go!” she replied, facing them all without fear +and, advancing a step, she actually plucked the man from the hands that held +him. “I am Miss Audley! If you do not let him go——” +</p> + +<p> +“We’re only going to wash him, lady,” whined one of the men +who held him. +</p> + +<p> +“That’s all, lady!” chimed in half-a-dozen. “He wants +it!” +</p> + +<p> +But Ben was not of that opinion, or he did not value cleanliness. +“They’re going to drown me!” he spluttered, his eyes wild. +All the fight had been knocked out of him. “They’re paid to do it! +They’ll drown me!” +</p> + +<p> +“And sarve him right!” shouted half-a-dozen at the rear of the +crowd. “Sarve him right, the devil!” +</p> + +<p> +“They will not do it!” Mary said firmly. “They’ll not +lay another hand on you. Get in! Get in here!” And then to the crowd, +“For shame!” she cried. “Stand back!” +</p> + +<p> +The man was so shaken that he could not help himself, but she pushed, the +driver pulled, and in a trice, before the mob had recovered from its +astonishment, Ben was above their heads, on the seat of the gig—a +blubbering, ragged, mud-caked figure with a white face and bleeding lips. +“Go on!” Mary said in the same tone, and the gig moved forward, the +old yeomanry horse tossing its head. She moved on beside it with her hand on +the rail. +</p> + +<p> +The mob let them pass, but closed in behind them, and after a pause began to +jeer—a little in amusement, a little to cover its defeat. In a moment +farce took the place of tragedy; the danger was over. “We’ll tell +your wife, Ben!” screamed a youth, and the crowd laughed and followed. +Other wits took their turn. “You’ll want a new coat for the +wedding, Ben!” cried one. And now and again amid the laughter a sterner +note survived. “We’ll ha’ you yet, Ben!” a man would +cry. “You’re not out of the wood yet, Ben!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary’s face burned, but she stuck to her post, plodding on beside the +gig, and after this fashion the queer procession, heralded by a score of +urchins crying the news, entered the streets of the town. On either side women +thronged the doorways and steps, and while some cried, “Bravo, +Miss!” others laughed and called to their neighbors to come out and see +the sight. And still the crowd clung to the rear of the gig, and hooted and +laughed and pretended to make forays on it. +</p> + +<p> +Mary had hoped to shake them off, but as they persisted in following and no +relief came—for Basset and his rescue party had gone to the canal by +another road—she saw nothing for it but to go on to Lord Audley’s. +With a curt word she made the man turn that way. +</p> + +<p> +The crowd still attended, curious, amused. It had doubled its numbers, nay, had +trebled them. There were friends as well as foes among them now, some of +Hatton’s men, some of Banfield’s, yellow favors as well as blue. If +Mary had known it, she might have set Ben down and not a hand would have been +laid upon him. Even the leaders of the riot were now thankful that they had not +carried the matter farther. Enough had been done. +</p> + +<p> +But Mary did not know this. She thought that the man was still in peril. She +did not dream of leaving him. And it was at the head of a crowd of three or +four hundred of the riff-raff of Riddsley that she broke in upon the quiet of +the suburban road in which The Butterflies stood. Tumultuously, followed by +laughter and hooting and cheers, she swept along it with her train, and came to +a halt before the house. +</p> + +<p> +No house was ever more surprised. Mrs. Wilkinson’s scared face peered +above one blind, her sisters’ caps showed above another. Was it an +accident? Was it a riot? Was it a Puseyite protest? What was it? Every servant, +every neighbor, Lord Audley himself came to the windows. +</p> + +<p> +Mary signed to the driver to help Ben down, and the moment the man’s foot +touched the ground she grasped his arm. With a burning face, but with her head +in the air, she guided his stumbling footsteps through the gate and along the +paved walk. They came together to the door. They went in. +</p> + +<p> +The crowd formed up five deep along the railings, and waited in wondering +silence to see what would happen. What would his lordship say? What would his +lordship do? This was bringing the election to his doors with a vengeance, and +there were not a few of the better sort who saw the fun of the situation. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV<br/> +MY LORD SPEAKS OUT</h2> + +<p> +Mary had passed through twenty minutes of tense excitement. The risk had been +slight, after the first moment of intervention, but she had not known this, and +she was still trembling with indignation, a creature all fire and passion, when +the door of The Butterflies opened to admit her. Leaving Ben Bosham on the +threshold she lost not a moment, but with her story on her lips, hurried up the +stairs, and on the landing came plump upon Lord Audley. +</p> + +<p> +From the window he had seen something of what was afoot below. He had +recognized Mary and the tattered Bosham, and he had read the riddle, grasped +the facts, and cursed the busybody, all within thirty seconds. “D—n +it! this passes everything,” he had muttered to himself as he turned from +the window in disgust. “This is altogether too much!” And he had +opened the door—ready also to open his mind to her! +</p> + +<p> +“What in the world is it?” he asked. He held the door for her to +enter. “What has happened? I could not believe my eyes when I saw you in +company with that wretched creature!” he continued. “And all the +tagrag and bobtail in the place behind you? What is it, Mary?” +</p> + +<p> +She felt the check, and the color, which excitement had brought to her cheeks, +faded. But she thought that it was only that he did not understand, and, +“That wretched creature, as you call him,” she cried, “has +just escaped from death. They were going to murder him!” +</p> + +<p> +“Murder him?” Audley repeated. He raised his eyebrows. +“Murder him?” coldly. “My dear girl, don’t be silly! +Don’t let yourself be carried away. You’ve lost your head. And, +pardon me for saying it, I am afraid have made a fool of yourself! And of +me!” +</p> + +<p> +“But they were going to throw him into the canal!” she protested. +</p> + +<p> +“Going to wash him!” he replied cynically. “And a good thing +too! It’s a pity they left the job undone. The man is a low, pestilent +fellow!” he continued severely, “and obnoxious to me and to all +decent people. The idea of bringing him, and that pleasant tail, to my +house—my dear girl, it’s absurd!” +</p> + +<p> +He made no attempt to soften his tone or suppress his annoyance, and she stared +at him in astonishment. Yet she still thought, or she strove to think, that he +did not understand, and tried to make the facts clear. “But you +don’t know what they were like,” she protested. “You were not +there. They had torn the clothes from his back——” +</p> + +<p> +“I can see that.” +</p> + +<p> +“And he was so terrified that it was dreadful to see him! They were +handling him brutally, horribly! And then I came up and——” +</p> + +<p> +“And lost your head!” he said. “I dare say you thought all +this. But do you know anything about elections?” +</p> + +<p> +“No——” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you ever see an election in progress before?” +</p> + +<p> +“No.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” he replied dryly. “Well, if you had, you would +know that brawls of this kind are common things, the commonest of things at +such a time, and that sensible people turn their backs on them. You’ve +chosen to turn the farce into a tragedy, and in doing so you’ve made +yourself ridiculous—and me too!” +</p> + +<p> +“If you had seen them,” she said, “I do not think you would +speak as you are speaking.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear girl,” he replied, and shrugged his shoulders, “I +have seen many such things, many. But there is one thing I have never seen, and +that is a man killed in an election squabble! The whole thing is +childish—silly! The least knowledge of the world—” +</p> + +<p> +“Would have saved me from it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Exactly! Would have saved you from it!” he answered austerely. +“And me from a very annoying incident! Peers have nothing to do with +elections, as you ought to know; and to bring this mob of all sorts to my door +as if the matter touched me, is to compromise me. It is past a joke!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary stared. She was trying to place herself. Certainly this was the room in +which she had taken tea, and this was the man who had welcomed her, who had +hung over her, whose eyes had paid her homage, who had foreseen her least want, +who had lapped her in observance. This was the man and this the room, and there +was the chair in which good Mrs. Wilkinson had sat and beamed on her. +</p> + +<p> +But there was a change somewhere; and the change was in the man. Could it mean +that he, too, had made a mistake and now recognized it? That he, too, had found +that he did not love? But in that case this was not the way to confess an +error. His tone, his manner, which held no respect for the woman and no +softness for the sweetheart, were far from the tone of one in the wrong. On the +contrary, they presented a side of him which had been hitherto hidden from her; +a phase of the strength that she had admired, which shocked her even while, as +deep calls to deep, it roused her pride. She remembered that she was his +betrothed, and that he had wooed her, he had chosen her. And on slight +provocation he spoke to her in this strain! +</p> + +<p> +She sought the clue, she fancied that she held it, and from this moment she was +on her guard. She was quiet, but there was a smouldering fire in her eyes. +“Perhaps I was wrong,” she said. “I have had little +experience of these things. But are not you, on your side, making too much of +this? Too much of a very small, a very natural mistake? Isn’t it a trifle +after all?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not so much of a trifle as you think!” he retorted. “A man +in my position has to follow a certain line of conduct. A girl in yours should +be careful to guide herself by my views. Instead, out of a foolish +sentimentality, you run directly counter to them! It is too late to consider +your relation to me when the harm is done, my dear.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps we have neither of us considered the relation quite +enough?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“I am not sure that we have.” And again, “I am not sure, +Mary, that we have,” he repeated more soberly. +</p> + +<p> +She knew what he meant now—knew what was in his mind almost as clearly as +if, instead of grasping his conclusion, she had been a party to his reasons. +And she closed her lips, a spot of color in each cheek. In other circumstances +she would have taken on herself a full, nay, the main share, of the blame. She +would have been quick to admit that she, too, had made a mistake, and that no +harm was done. +</p> + +<p> +But his manner opened her eyes to many things that had been a puzzle to her. +Thought is swift, and in a flash her mind had travelled over the whole course +of their engagement, had recalled his long absence, the chill of his letters, +the infrequency of his visits; and she saw by that light that this was no +sudden shift, but an occasion sought and seized. Therefore she would not help +him. She at least had been honest, she at least had been in earnest. She had +tricked, not him only, but herself! +</p> + +<p> +She closed her lips and waited, therefore. And he, knowing that he had now +burned his boats, had to go on. “I am not sure that we did think enough +about it?” he said doggedly. “I have suspected for some time that I +acted hastily in—in asking you to be my wife, Mary.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes. And what has happened to-day, proving that we look at things so +differently, has confirmed my suspicion. It has convinced me—” he +looked down at his table, avoiding her eyes, but continued +firmly—“that we are not suited to one another. The wife of a man, +placed as I am, should have an idea of values, a certain reserve, that comes of +a knowledge of the world; above all, no sentimental notions such as lead to +mistakes like this.” He indicated the street by a gesture. “If I +was mistaken a while ago in listening to my feelings rather than to my +prudence, if I gave you credit for knowledge which you had had no means of +gaining, I wronged you, Mary, and I am sorry for it. But I should be doing you +a far greater wrong if I remained silent now.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean,” she asked in a low voice, “that you wish it to +be at an end between us? That you wish to—to throw me over?” +</p> + +<p> +He smiled awry. “That is an unpleasant way of putting it, isn’t +it?” he said. “However, I am in the wrong, and I have no right to +quarrel with a word. I do think that to break off our engagement at once is the +best and wisest thing for both of us.” +</p> + +<p> +“How long have you felt this?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“For some time,” he replied, measuring his words, “I have +been coming slowly—to that conclusion.” +</p> + +<p> +“That I am not fitted to be your wife?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you like to put it so.” +</p> + +<p> +Then her anger, hitherto kept under, flamed up. “Then what right,” +she cried, “if that was in your mind, had you to treat me as you treated +me at Beaudelays—in the garden? What right had you to kiss me? Rather, +what right had you to insult me? For it was an insult—it was an insult, +if you were not going to marry me! Don’t you know, sir, that it was vile? +That it was unforgivable?” +</p> + +<p> +She had never looked more handsome, never more attractive than at this moment. +The day was failing, but the glow of the fire fell on her face, and on her eyes +sparkling with anger. He took in the picture, he owned her charm, he even came +near to repenting. But it was too late, and “It may have been +vile—and you may not forgive it,” he answered hardily, “but +I’d do it again, my dear, on the same provocation!” +</p> + +<p> +“You would——” +</p> + +<p> +“I would do it again,” he repeated coolly. “Don’t you +know that you are handsome enough to turn any man’s head? And what is a +kiss after all? We are cousins. If you were not such a prude, I would kiss you +now?” +</p> + +<p> +She was furiously angry—or she fancied that she was. But it may be that, +deep down in her woman’s mind, she was not truly angry. And, indeed, how +could she be angry when in her heart a little bird was beginning to +sing—was telling her that she was free, that presently this cloud would +be behind her, and that the sky would be blue? Already the message was making +itself heard, already she was finding it hard to keep up appearances, to frown +upon him and play her part. +</p> + +<p> +Yet she flashed out at him. Was he not going too fast, was he not riding off +too lightly? “Oh!” she cried, “You dare to say that! Even +while you break off with me!” +</p> + +<p> +But his selfish, masterful nature had now the upper hand. He had eaten his leek +and he was anxious to be done with it. “And what then?” he said. +“I believe that you know that I am right. I believe that you know that we +are not suited to one another.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you think I will let you go at a word?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you will let me go,” he said, “because you are not a +fool, Mary. You know as well as I do that you might be ‘my lady’ at +too high a price. I’m not the most manageable of men. I’d make a +decent husband, all being well. But I’m not meek and I’d make a +very unhandy husband <i>malgré moi</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +The threat exasperated her. “I know this at least,” she retorted, +“that I would not marry you now, if you were twenty times my lord! You +have behaved meanly, and I believe falsely! Not to-day! You are speaking the +truth to-day. But I believe that from the start you had this in your mind, that +you foresaw this, and were careful not to commit yourself too publicly! What I +don’t understand is why you ever asked me to be your wife—at +all?” +</p> + +<p> +“Look in the glass!” he answered impudently. +</p> + +<p> +She put that aside. “But I suppose that you had a reason!” she +returned. “That you loved me, that you felt for me anything worthy of the +name of love is impossible! For the rest, let me tell you this! If I ever felt +thankful for anything I am thankful for the chance that brought me to your +house to-day—and brought me to the truth!” +</p> + +<p> +“Anything more to say?” he asked flippantly. The way she was taking +it suited him better than if she had wept and appealed. And then she was so +confoundedly good-looking in her tantrums! +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing more,” she said. “I think that we understand one +another now. At any rate, I understand you. Perhaps you will kindly see if I +can leave the house without annoyance.” +</p> + +<p> +He looked into the street. Dusk had fallen, the lamplighter was going his +rounds. Of the crowd that had attended Mary to the house no more than a handful +remained; the nipping air, the attractions of free beer, the sound of the +muffin-bell, had drawn away the rest. The driver of the gig was moving to and +fro, now looking disconsolately at the windows, now beating his fingers on his +chest. +</p> + +<p> +“I think you can leave with safety,” Audley said with irony. +“I will see you downstairs.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will not trouble you,” she answered. +</p> + +<p> +“But, surely, we may still be friends?” +</p> + +<p> +She looked him in the face. “We need not be enemies,” she answered. +“And, perhaps, some day I may be able to think more kindly of you. If +that day comes I will tell you. Good-bye.” She went out without touching +his hand. She went down the stairs. +</p> + +<p> +She drove through the dusky, dimly-lighted streets in a kind of dream, seeing +all things through a pleasant haze. The bank was closed and to deliver up her +papers she had to go into the bank-house. The glimpse she had of the cheerful +parlor, of the manager’s wife, of his two children playing the Royal Game +of Goose at a round table, enchanted her. Presently she was driving again +through the darkling streets, passing the Maypole, passing the quaint, +low-browed shops, lit only by an oil lamp or a couple of candles. The Audley +Arms, the Packhorse, the Portcullis, were all alight and buzzing with the +voices of those who fought their battles over again or laid bets on this +candidate or that. What the speaker had said to Lawyer Stubbs and what Lawyer +Stubbs had said to the speaker, what the “Duke” thought, who would +have to pay for the damage, and the odds the stout farmer would give that wheat +wouldn’t be forty shillings a quarter this day twelvemonth if the Repeal +passed—scraps of these and the like poured from the doorways as she drove +by. +</p> + +<p> +All fell in delightfully with her mood and filled her with a sense of +well-being. Even when the streets lay behind her, and the driver hunched his +shoulders to meet the damp night-fog and the dreary stretch that lay beyond the +canal-bridge, Mary found the darkness pleasant and the chill no more than +bracing. For what were that night, that chill beside the numbing grip from +which she had just—oh, thing miraculous!—escaped! Beside the +fetters that had been lifted from her within the last hour! O foolish girl, O +ineffable idiot, to have ever fancied that she loved that man! +</p> + +<p> +No, for her it was a charming night! The owl that, far away towards the Great +House, hooted dolefully above the woods—no nightingale had been more +tuneful. Ben Bosham—she laughed, thinking of his plight—blessings +on his bare, bald head and his ragged shoulders! The old horse plodding on, +with the hill that mounts to the Gatehouse sadly on his mind—he should +have oats, if oats there were in the Gatehouse stables! He should have oats in +plenty, or what he would if oats failed! +</p> + +<p> +“What do you give him when he’s tired?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” the driver replied with diplomacy, “times a quart of +ale, Miss. He’ll take it like a Christian.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then a quart of ale he shall have to-night!” she said with a happy +laugh. “And you shall have one, too, Simonds.” +</p> + +<p> +Her mood held to the end, so that before she was out of her wraps, Mrs. Toft +was aware of the change in her. “Why, Miss,” she said, “you +look like another creature! It isn’t the bank, I’ll be bound, has +put that color in your cheeks!” +</p> + +<p> +“No!” Mary answered, “I’ve had an adventure, Mrs. Toft. +And briefly she told the tale of Ben Bosham’s plight and of her gallant +rescue. She began herself to see the comic side of it. +</p> + +<p> +“He always was a fool, was Ben!” Mrs. Toft commented. “And +that,” she continued shrewdly, “was how you come to see his +lordship was it, Miss?” +</p> + +<p> +“How did you know I saw him?” Mary asked in surprise. “But +you’re right, I did.” Then, as she entered the parlor, +“Perhaps I’d better tell you, Mrs. Toft,” she said, +“that the engagement between my cousin and myself is at an end. You were +one of the very few who knew of it, and so I tell you.” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Toft showed no surprise. “Indeed, Miss,” she answered, +stooping to the hearth to light the candles with a piece of wood. “Well, +one thing’s certain, and many a time my mother’s drummed it into +me, ‘Better a plain shoe than one that pinches!’ And again, +‘Better live at the bottom of the hill than the top,’ she’d +say. ‘You see less but you believe more.’” +</p> + +<p> +Neither she nor Mary saw Toft. But Toft, who had entered the hall a moment +before, was within hearing, and Mary’s statement, so coolly received by +his wife, had an extraordinary effect on the man-servant. He stood an instant, +his lank figure motionless. Then he opened the door beside him, slipped out +into the chill and the darkness, and silently, but with extravagant gestures, +he broke into a dance, now waving his thin arms in the air, now stooping with +his hands locked between his knees. Whether he thus found vent for joy or grief +was a secret which he kept to himself. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI<br/> +THE RIDDSLEY ELECTION</h2> + +<p> +The riot at Riddsley found its way into the London Press, and gained for the +contest a certain amount of notoriety. The <i>Morning Chronicle</i> pointed out +that the election had been provoked by the Protectionists in a constituency in +Sir Robert’s own country; and the writer inferred that, foreseeing +defeat, the party of the land were now resorting to violence. The <i>Morning +Herald</i> rejoiced that there were still places which would not put up with +the incursions of the Manchester League, “the most knavish, pestilent +body of men that ever plagued this or any country!” In the House, where +the tempest of the Repeal debate already raged, and the air was charged with +the stern invective of Disraeli, or pulsed to the cheering of Peel’s +supporters—even here men discussed the election at Riddsley, considered +it a clue to the feeling in the country, and on the one side hardly dared to +hope, on the other refused to fear. What? cried the Land Party. Be defeated in +an agricultural borough? Never! +</p> + +<p> +For a brief time, then, the contest filled the public eye and presented itself +as a thing of more than common interest. Those who knew little weighed the +names and the past of the candidates; those behind the scenes whispered of Lord +Audley. Whips gave thought to him, and that one to whom his lordship was +pledged, wrote graciously, hinting at the pleasant things that might happen if +all went well, and the present winter turned to a summer of fruition. +</p> + +<p> +Alas, Audley felt that the Whip’s summer, and +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +The friendly beckon towards Downing Street,<br/> +Which a Premier gives to one who wishes<br/> +To taste of the Treasury loaves and fishes, +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +were very remote, whereas, if the other Whip, he who had the honors under his +hand and the places in his power, had written so! But that cursed Stubbs had +blocked his play in that direction by asserting that it was hopeless, though +Audley himself began at this late hour to suspect that it had not been +hopeless! That it had been far from hopeless! +</p> + +<p> +In his chagrin my lord tore the Whip’s letter across and across, and then +prudently gummed it together again and locked it away. Certainly the odds were +long that it would never be honored; on the one side stood Peel with +four-fifths of his Cabinet and half his party, with all the Whigs, all the +Radicals, all the League, and the Big Loaf: on the other stood the landed +interest! Just the landed interest led by Lord George Bentinck, handsome and +debonair, the darling of the Turf, the owner of Crucifix; but hitherto a silent +member, and one at whom, as a leader, the world gaped. Only, behind this Joseph +there lurked a Benjamin, one whose barbed shafts were many a time to clear the +field. The lists were open, the lances were levelled, the slogan of Free Trade +was met by the cry of “The Land and the Constitution!” and while +old friendships were torn asunder and old allies cut adrift, town and country, +forge and field, met in a furious grapple that promised to be final. +</p> + +<p> +If, amid the dust of such a conflict, the riot at Riddsley obtained a passing +notice in London, intense it may be believed was the excitement which it caused +in the borough. Hatton and Banfield and their men went about, vowing to take +vengeance at the hustings. The mayor went about, swearing in constables. The +farmers and their allies went about grinning. Fights took place nightly behind +the Packhorse and the Portcullis, while very old ladies, peering over their +blinds, talked of the French Revolution, and very young ones thought that the +Militia, adequately officered, should be brought into the town. +</p> + +<p> +The spirit of which Basset had given proof was blazoned about; and he gained in +another way. He was one of those to whom a spice of danger is a fillip, whom a +little peril shakes out of themselves. On the day after the riot he came upon a +score of people collected round a Cheap Jack in the market. The man presently +closed his patter and his stall, and, on the impulse of the moment, Basset took +his place and made the crowd a speech as short as it was simple. He told them +that in his opinion it was impossible to keep food out of the country by a tax +while Ireland was threatened by famine. Secondly, that the sacrifice which Peel +was making of his party, his reputation, and his consistency was warrant that +in his view the change was urgently needed. Thirdly, he asked them whether the +farmers were so prosperous and the laborers so comfortable that change must be +for the worse. But here he came on delicate ground; murmurs arose and some +hisses, and he broke off good-humoredly, thanked the crowd, which had grown to +a good size, and, stepping down from his barrow, he walked away amid plaudits. +The thing was reported, and though the Tories sneered at it as a +hole-and-corner meeting, Farthingale held another view. He told Mr. Stubbs that +it was a neat thing—very well done. +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs grunted. “Will it change a vote?” he growled. +</p> + +<p> +“Change a——” +</p> + +<p> +“Will it change a vote, man? You heard what I said.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord, no!” the clerk answered. “I never said it +would!” +</p> + +<p> +“Then why trouble about it?” Stubbs retorted fretfully. “Get +on with those poll-cards! I don’t pay you a guinea a day at election time +to praise monkey-tricks.” +</p> + +<p> +For Stubbs was not happy. He knew, indeed, that the breaking-up of the open-air +meeting had been fairly successful. It had brought back two votes to the fold; +and he calculated that the seat would be held. But by a majority how narrow, +how fallen, how discreditable! He blushed to think of it. +</p> + +<p> +And other things made him unhappy. Those who are politicians by trade are like +cardplayers, who play for the game’s sake; one game lost, they cut and +deal as keenly as before. Behind the politicians, however, are a few to whom +the stake is something; and of these was Stubbs. To him, as we know, the +Corn-Tax was no mere toll, but the protection of agriculture, the well-head +that guarded the pure waters, the fence that saved from smoke and steam, from +slag-heap and brickfield, the smiling face of England. For him, the home of his +fathers, the land of field and stubble, of plough and pinfold, was at stake; +nay, was passing, wasted by men who thought in percentages and saw no farther +than the columns of their ledgers. To that England of his memory—whether +it had ever existed in fact or no—a hundred associations bound the +lawyer; things tender and things true; quaint memories of his first +turkey’s nest, of the last load of the harvest, of the loosened plough +horses straying to the water at the close of day, of the flat paintings of the +Durham Ox and the Coke Ram that adorned the farm parlor. +</p> + +<p> +To the men who bade him look up and see that in his Elysium the farmer +struggled and the laborer starved, his answer was short. “Better ten +shillings and fresh air, than shoddy dust and a pound a week!” +</p> + +<p> +In the country as a whole—and as time went on—he despaired of +success. But he found Lord George a leader after his own heart, and many an +evening he pored over the long paragraphs of his long-winded speeches. When he +heard that the owner of Crucifix had dismissed his trainers, released his +jockeys, sold his stud, and turned his back on the turf, he could have wept. +Lord George and Stubbs, indeed, were the true country party. For Lord +George’s sake Stubbs was prepared to taken even the “Jew boy” +to his heart. +</p> + +<p> +As to the potato famine, he did not believe a word of it. He called the +Premier, “Potato Peel!” +</p> + +<p> +The rains of February are apt to damp enthusiasm, but before eleven +o’clock on the nomination day Riddsley was like a hive of bees about to +swarm. The throng in the streets was such that Mottisfont could hardly pass +through it. He made his entry into the borough on horseback at the head of a +hundred mounted farmers wearing blue sashes and favors. Before him reeled a +huge banner upheld by eight men and bearing on one side the legend, “The +Land and the Constitution,” on the other, “Mottisfont the +Farmers’ Friend!” Behind the horsemen, and surrounded by a guard of +laborers in smocked frocks, moved a plough mounted on a wain and drawn by eight +farm horses. Flags with “Speed the Plough,” “England’s +Share is England’s Fare,” and “Peace and Plenty,” +streamed from it. Three bands of varying degrees of badness found their places +where they could, and thumped and blared against one another until the panes +rattled in the deafened streets. The butchers, with marrow-bones and cleavers, +brought up the rear, and in comparison were tuneful. +</p> + +<p> +Had Basset got his way, he would have dispensed with pomp and walked the +hundred yards which separated his quarters at the Swan from the hustings. But +he was told that this would never do. What would the landlord of the Swan say, +who kept postchaises? And the postboys who looked for a golden tip? And the men +who would hand him in and hand him out, and the men who would open the door and +shut the door, and the men who would raise the steps and lower the steps, who +would all look for the same tip? So, perforce, he drove in state to the Town +Hall—before which the hustings stood—in a barouche and four +accompanied by Banfield and Hatton and his agent. The rest of his Committee +followed in postchaises. A bodyguard of “hands” escorted them, and +they, too, had their bands—of equal badness—and their yellow +banners with “Down with the Corn Laws,” “Vote for Basset the +Poor Man’s Friend,” and “No Bread Taxes.” The great and +little loaf pranced in front of him on spears, and if his procession was not +quite so fine or so large as his opponent’s, it must be admitted that the +blackguards of the town showed no preference and that he could boast about an +equal number of the tagrag and bobtail. +</p> + +<p> +The left hand of the hustings was allotted to him, the right hand to +Mottisfont, and by a little after eleven both parties had crammed and crushed, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +With blustering, bullying, and brow-beating,<br/> +A little pummelling and maltreating,<br/> +And elbowing, jostling and cajoling, +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +into their places in front of the platform, the bullies and truncheon-men being +posted well to the fore, or craftily ranged where the frontiers met. The bands +boomed and blared, the men huzzaed, the air shook, the banners waved, every +window that looked out upon the seething mob was white with faces, every +’vantage-point was occupied. It was such a day and such a contest as +Riddsley had never seen. The eyes of the country, it was felt, were upon it! +Fights took place every five minutes, oaths and bets flew like hail over the +heads of the crowd, coarse wit met coarser nicknames, and now and again shrieks +varied the hubbub as the huge press of people, gathered from miles round, +swayed under the impact of some vicious rush. +</p> + +<p> +“Hurrah! Hurrah! Mottisfont for ever! Basset! Basset and the Big Loaf! +Basset! Basset! Hurrah! Mottisfont! Hurrah!” +</p> + +<p> +Then, in a short-lived silence, “Ten to one on Mottisfont! Three cheers +for the Duke!” and a roar of laughter. +</p> + +<p> +Or a hundred voices would raise +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +John Barley-corn, my Joe, John!<br/> +When we were first acquaint! +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +but never got beyond the first two lines, either because they were howled down +or they knew no more of the words. The Peelites answered with their mournful, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +Child, is thy father dead? +</p> + +<p class="t1"> +Father is gone! +</p> + +<p class="t0"> +Why did they tax his bread? +</p> + +<p class="t1"> +God’s will be done! +</p> +</div> + +<p> +or with the quicker, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +Oh, landlords’ devil take +</p> + +<p class="t1"> +Thy own elect I pray! +</p> + +<p class="t0"> +Who taxed our cake, and took our cake, +</p> + +<p class="t1"> +And threw our cake away! +</p> +</div> + +<p> +On this would ensue a volley of personalities. “What would you be without +your starch, Hayward?” “How’s your dad, Farthingale?” +“Who whopped his wife last Saturday?” “Hurrah! Hurrah! Who +said Potatoes?” +</p> + +<p> +For nearly an hour this went on, the blare of the bands, the uproar, the +cheering, the abuse never ceasing. Then the town-crier appeared upon the vacant +hustings. He rang his bell for silence and for a moment obtained it. On his +heels entered, first the mayor and his assistants, then the candidates, the +proposers, the seconders. Each, as he made his appearance, was greeted with a +storm of groans, cheers, and cat-calls. Each put on to meet it such a show of +ease as he could, some smiling, some affecting ignorance. The candidates and +their supporters filed to either side, while the flustered mayor took his stand +in the middle with the town clerk at his elbow. +</p> + +<p> +Basset, nearly at the end of his troubles, sought comfort in looking beyond the +present moment. He feared that he was not likely to win, but he had done his +duty, he had made his effort, and soon he would be free to repeat that effort +on a smaller stage. Soon, these days, that in horror rivalled the middle +passage of the slave trade, would be over, and if he were not elected he would +be free to retire to Blore, and to spend days, lonely and sad indeed, but +clean, in the improvement of his acres and his people. His eyes dwelt upon the +sea of faces, and from time to time he smiled; but his mind was far away. He +thought with horror of elections, and with loathing of the sordid round of +flattery and handshaking, of bribery and intimidation from which he emerged. +Thank God, the morrow would see the end! He would have done his best, and +played his part. And it would be over. +</p> + +<p> +What the mayor said and what the town clerk said is of no importance, for no +one heard them. The proposers, the seconders, the candidates, all spoke in dumb +show. Basset dwelt briefly on the crisis in Ireland, the integrity of Peel, and +the doubtful wisdom of taxing that which, to the poorest, was a necessity of +life. If bread were cheaper all would have more to spend on other things and +the farmer would have a wider market for his meat, his wool, and his cheese. It +read well in the local paper. +</p> + +<p> +But one man was heard. This was a man who was not expected to speak, whose +creed it had ever been that speeches were useless, and whom tradition almost +forbade to speak, for he was an agent. At the last moment, when a seconder for +a formal motion was needed, he thrust himself forward to the astonishment of +all. The same astonishment stilled the mob as they gazed on the well-known +figure. For a minute or two, curiosity and the purpose in the man’s face, +held even his opponents silent. +</p> + +<p> +The man was Stubbs; and from the moment he showed himself it was plain that he +was acting under the stress of great emotion. The very fuglemen forgot to +interrupt him. They scented something out of the common. +</p> + +<p> +“I have never spoken on the hustings in my life,” he said. “I +speak now to warn you. I believe that you, the electors of Riddsley, are going +to sell the birthright of health which you have received; and the heritage of +freedom which this land has enjoyed for generations and on which the power of +Bonaparte broke as on a rock. You think you are going to have cheap bread, and, +maybe, you are! But at what a cost! Cheap bread is foreign bread. To you, the +laborers, I say that foreign bread means that the fields you till will be laid +to grass and you will go to work in Dudley and Walsall and Bury and Bolton, in +mills and pits and smoke and dust! And your children will be dwarfed and +wizened and puny! Foreign bread means that. And it means that the day will come +when war will cut off your bread and you will starve; or the will of the +foreigner who feeds you will cut it off—for he will be your master. I +say, grow your own bread and eat your own bread, and you will be free men. Eat +foreign bread and in time you will be slaves! No land that is fed by another +land——” +</p> + +<p> +His last words were lost. Signals from furious principals roused the fuglemen, +and he was howled down, and stood back ashamed of the impulse which had moved +him and little less astonished than those about him. Young Mottisfont clapped +him on the back and affected to make much of him. But even he hardly knew how +to take it. Some said that Stubbs had had tears in his eyes, while the opposing +agent whispered to his neighbor that the lawyer was breaking and would never +handle another contest. Sober men shook their heads; agents should hardly be +seen, much less heard! +</p> + +<p> +But Stubbs’s words were marked, and when the bad times came thirty years +later, aged farmers recalled them and thought over them. Nor were they without +fruit at the time. For next morning when the poll opened, Basset’s people +suffered a shock. Two men on whom he had counted appeared and voted short and +sharp for Mottisfont. Basset’s agent asked them pleasantly if they were +not making a mistake; and then less pleasantly had the Bribery Oath +administered to them. But they stuck to their guns, the votes were recorded, +and Mottisfont shook hands with them. Later in the day when the two were +fuddled they denied that they had voted for Mottisfont. They had voted for old +Stubbs—and they would do it again and fight any man who said to the +contrary. Their desire in this direction was quickly met, and both, to the +indignation of the Tories, were fined five shillings at the next petty +sessions. +</p> + +<p> +Whether this start gave the Protectionists a fillip or no, they were in great +spirits, and Mottisfont was up and down shaking hands all the morning. At noon +the figures as exhibited outside the Mottisfont Committee-room—amid +tremendous cheering—were: +</p> + +<p style="margin-left:20%"> +Mottisfont<span style="letter-spacing:10pt"> . . . </span>41<br/> +Basset<span style="letter-spacing:10pt"> . . . . </span>30 +</p> + +<p class="continue"> +though Basset outside his Committee-room claimed one more. Soon after twelve +Hatton brought up the two Boshams in his carriage, and Ben, recovered from his +fright, flung his hat before him into the booth, danced a war-dance on the +steps, and gave three cheers for Basset as he came down. Banfield brought up +three more voters in his carriage and thence onward until one o’clock the +polling was rapid. The one o’clock board showed: +</p> + +<p style="margin-left:20%"> +Mottisfont<span style="letter-spacing:10pt"> . . . </span>60<br/> +Basset<span style="letter-spacing:10pt"> . . . . </span>57 +</p> + +<p class="continue"> +with seventy votes to poll. The Mottisfont party began to look almost as blue +as their favors, but Stubbs, returned to his senses, continued to read his +newspaper in a closet behind the Committee-room, as if there were no contest +within a hundred miles of Riddsley. +</p> + +<p> +During the next three hours little was done. The poll-clerks sent out for pots +of beer, the watchers drowsed, the candidates were invisible—some said +that they had gone to dine with the mayor. The bludgeon-men and blackguards +went home to sleep off their morning’s drink, and to recruit themselves +for the orgy of the Chairing. The crowd before the polling booth shrank to a +knot of loafing lads and a stray dog. At four Mottisfont still held the lead +with 64 to 61. +</p> + +<p> +But as the clock struck four the town awoke. Word went round that a message +from Sir Robert Peel would be read outside Basset’s Committee-room. +Hearers were whipped up, and the message, having been read with much parade, +was posted up through the town and as promptly pulled down. Animated by the +message, and making as much of it as if it had not been held back for the +purpose, the Peelites polled five-and-twenty votes in rapid succession, and at +half-past four issued a huge placard with: +</p> + +<p style="margin-left:20%"> +Basset<span style="letter-spacing:10pt"> . . . . </span>87<br/> +Mottisfont<span style="letter-spacing:10pt"> . . . </span>83 +</p> + +<p style="margin-left:16%">Vote for Basset and the Big Loaf! +</p> + +<p style="margin-left:28%">Basset wins! +</p> + +<p> +Great was the enthusiasm, loud the cheering, vast the stir outside their +Committee-room. The Big and the Little Loaf waltzed out on their poles. The +placard, mounted as a banner, was entrusted to the two Boshams. The band was +ready, a dozen flares were ready, the Committee were ready, all was ready for a +last rally which might decide the one or two doubtful voters. All was ready, +but where was Mr. Basset? Where was the candidate? +</p> + +<p> +He could not be found, and great was the hubbub, vast the running to and fro. +“The Candidate? Where’s the Candidate?” One ran to the Swan, +another to the polling-booth, a third to his agent’s office. He could not +be found. All that was known of him or could be learned was that a tall man, +who looked like an undertaker, had stopped him near the polling-booth and had +kept him in talk for some minutes. From that time he had been seen by no one. +</p> + +<p> +Foul play was talked of, and the search went on, but meantime the +procession—the poll closed at half-past six—must start if it was to +do any good. It did so, and with its flares, its swaying placard, its running +riff-raff, now luridly thrown up by the lights, now lost in shadow, formed the +most picturesque scene that the election had witnessed. The absence of the +candidate was a drawback, and some shook their heads over it. But the more +knowing put their tongues in their cheeks, aware that whether he were there or +not, and whether they marched or stayed at home, neither side would be a vote +the better! +</p> + +<p> +At half—past five the figures were, +</p> + +<p style="margin-left:20%"> +Basset<span style="letter-spacing:10pt"> . . . . </span>87<br/> +Mottisfont<span style="letter-spacing:10pt"> . . . </span>86 +</p> + +<p> +There were still fourteen votes to poll, and on the face of things victory hung +in the balance. +</p> + +<p> +But at that hour Stubbs moved. He laid down his newspaper, gave Farthingale an +order, took up a slip of paper and his hat, and went by way of the darkest +street to The Butterflies. He walked thoughtfully, with his chin on his breast, +as if he had no great appetite for the interview before him. By the time he +reached the house the poll stood at +</p> + +<p style="margin-left:20%"> +Mottisfont<span style="letter-spacing:10pt"> . . . </span>96<br/> +Basset<span style="letter-spacing:10pt"> . . . . </span>87 +</p> + +<p class="continue"> +And long and loud was the cheering, wild the triumph of the landed interest. +The town was fuller than ever, for during the last hour the farmers and their +men had trooped in, Brown Heath had sent its colliers, and a crowd filling +every yard of space within eye-shot of the polling-booth greeted the news. To +hell with Peel! Down with Cobden! Away with the League! Hurrah! Hurrah! Stubbs, +had he been there, would have been carried shoulder-high. Old Hayward was +lifted and carried, old Musters of the Audley Arms, one or two of the +Committee. It was known that four votes only remained unpolled, so that +Mottisfont’s victory was secure. +</p> + +<p> +At The Butterflies, whither the cheering of the crowd came in gusts that rose +and fell by turns, Stubbs nodded to the maid and went up the stairs +unannounced. Audley was writing at a side-table facing the room. He looked up +eagerly. “Well?” he said, putting down his quill. “Is it +over?” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs laid the slip of paper before him. “It’s not over, my +lord,” he answered soberly. “But that is the result. I am sorry +that it is no better.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley looked at the paper. “Nine!” he exclaimed. He looked at +Stubbs, he looked again at the paper. “Nine? Good G—d, man, you +don’t mean it? You can’t mean it! You don’t mean that that is +the best we could do?” +</p> + +<p> +“We hold the seat, my lord,” Stubbs said. +</p> + +<p> +“Hold the seat!” Audley replied, staring at him with furious eyes. +“Hold the seat? But I thought that it was a safe seat? I thought that it +was a seat that couldn’t be lost! When five, only five, votes would have +cast it the other way! Why, man, you cannot have known anything about it! No +more about it than the first man in the street!” +</p> + +<p> +“My lord——” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a jot more!” Audley repeated. He had been prepared for +something like this, but the certainty that if he had cast his weight on the +other side, the side that had sinecures and places and pensions, he would have +turned the scale—this was too much for his temper. “Nine!” he +rapped out with another oath. “I can only think that the Election has +been mismanaged! Grievously, grievously mismanaged, Mr. Stubbs!” +</p> + +<p> +“If your lordship thinks so——” +</p> + +<p> +“I do!” Audley retorted, his certainty that the man before him had +thwarted his plans, carrying him farther than he intended. “I do! Nine! +Good G—d, man! When you assured me——” +</p> + +<p> +“Whatever I assured your lordship,” Stubbs said firmly, “I +believed. And—no, my lord, you must allow me to speak now—what I +promised would have been borne out—fully borne out by the result in +normal times. But I did not allow enough for the split in the party, nor for +the wave of madness——” +</p> + +<p> +“As you think it!” +</p> + +<p> +“And surely as your lordship also thinks it!” Stubbs rejoined +smartly, “that has swept over the country! In these circumstances it is +something to hold the seat, which a return to sanity will certainly assure to +us at the next election.” +</p> + +<p> +“The next election!” Audley muttered scornfully. For the moment he +was too angry to play a part or to drape his feelings. +</p> + +<p> +“But if your lordship is dissatisfied——” +</p> + +<p> +“Dissatisfied? I am d—nably dissatisfied.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then your lordship has the power,” Stubbs said slowly, “to +dispense with my services.” +</p> + +<p> +“I know that, sir.” +</p> + +<p> +“And if you do not think fit to take that step, my +lord——” +</p> + +<p> +“I shall consider it!” +</p> + +<p> +Another word or two and the deed had been done, for both men were too angry to +fence. But before that last word was spoken Audley’s man entered. He +handed a card to his master and waited. +</p> + +<p> +Audley looked at the card longer than was necessary and under cover of the +pause regained control of himself. “Who brought this?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“A messenger from the Swan, my lord.” +</p> + +<p> +“Tell him——” He broke off. Holding out the card for +Stubbs to take, “Do you know anything about this?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs returned the card. “No, my lord,” he said coldly. “I +know nothing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Business of great importance to me? D—n his impudence, what +business important to me can he have?” Audley muttered. Then, “My +compliments to Mr. Basset and I am leaving in the morning, but I shall be at +home this evening at nine.” +</p> + +<p> +The servant retired. Audley looked askance at his agent. “You’d +better be here,” he muttered ungraciously. “We can settle what we +were talking about later.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, my lord,” Stubbs answered. And nothing more being said, +he took himself off. +</p> + +<p> +He was not sorry that they had been interrupted. Much of his income and more of +his importance sprang from the Audley agency, but rather than be treated as if +he were a servant, he would surrender both—in his way he was a proud man. +Still he did not want to give up either; and if time were given he thought that +his lordship would think better of the matter. +</p> + +<p> +As he returned to his office, choosing the quiet streets by which he had come, +he had a glimpse, through an opening, of the distant Market-place. A sound of +cheering, a glare of smoky light, a medley of leaping, running forms, a +something uplifted above the crowd, moved across his line of vision. Almost as +quickly it vanished, leaving only the reflection of retreating torches. +“Hurrah! Hurrah for Mottisfont! Hurrah!” Still the cheering came +faintly to his ears. +</p> + +<p> +He sighed. Riddsley had remained faithful-by nine! But he did not deceive +himself. It was the writing on the wall. The Corn Laws were doomed, and with +them much that he had loved, much that he cherished, much in which he believed. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap37"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII<br/> +A TURN OF THE WHEEL</h2> + +<p> +Audley was suspicious and ill at ease. Standing on the hearth-rug with his back +to the fire, he fixed the visitor with his eyes, and with secret anxiety asked +himself what he wanted. The possibility that Basset came to champion Mary had +crossed his mind more than once; if that were so he would soon dispose of him! +In the meantime he took civility for his cue, exchanged an easy word or two +about the poll and the election, and between times nodded to Stubbs to be +seated. Through all, his eyes were watchful and he missed nothing. +</p> + +<p> +“I asked Mr. Stubbs to be here,” he said when a minute or two had +been spent in this by-play, “as you spoke of business. You don’t +object?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not at all,” Basset replied. His face was grave. “I should +tell you at once, Audley,” he added, “that my mission is not a +pleasant one.” +</p> + +<p> +The other raised his eyebrows. “You are sure that it concerns me?” +</p> + +<p> +“It certainly concerns you. Though, as things stand, not very materially. +I knew nothing of the matter myself until three o’clock to-day, and at +first I doubted if it was my duty to communicate it. But the facts are known to +a third person, they may be used to annoy you in the future, and though the +task is unpleasant, I decided that I had no option.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley set his broad shoulders against the mantel-shelf. “But if the +facts don’t affect me?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“In a way they do. Not as they might under other circumstances. That is +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you are making our hair stand on end! I confess you puzzle me. +Well, let us have it. What is it all about?” +</p> + +<p> +“A little time ago you recovered, if you remember, your Family +Bible.” “Well? What of that?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have just learned that the man did not hand over all that he had. He +kept back—it now appears—certain papers.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” Audley’s voice was stern. “Well, he has had his +chance. This time, I can promise him a warrant will follow.” +</p> + +<p> +“Perhaps you will hear me out first?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” was the sharp reply. Audley’s temper was getting the +better of him. “Last time, my dear fellow, you compounded with him; your +motive an excellent one I don’t doubt. But if he now thinks to get more +money from me—and for other papers—I can promise him that he will +see the inside of Stafford gaol. Besides, my good friend, you gave us to +understand that he had surrendered all he had.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid I did, and I fear I was wrong. Why he deceived me, and has +now turned about, I know no more than you do!” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I can enlighten you,” the other answered—his fears +as well as his temper were aroused. “The rogue is shallow. He thinks to +be paid twice. Once by you and once by me. But you can tell him that this time +he will be paid in other coin.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’m afraid that there is more in it than that,” Basset said. +“The fact is the papers he now produces, Audley, are of another +character.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh! The wind blows in that quarter, does it?” my lord replied. +“You don’t mean that you’ve come here—why, d—n +it, man,” with sudden passion, “either you are very simple, or you +are art and part——” +</p> + +<p> +“Steady, steady, my lord,” Stubbs said, interposing discreetly. +Hitherto he had not spoken. “There’s no need to quarrel! I am sure +that Mr. Basset’s intentions are friendly. It will be better if he just +tells us what these documents are which are now put forward. We shall then be +able to judge where we stand.” +</p> + +<p> +“Go ahead,” Audley said, averting his face and sulkily relapsing +against the mantel-shelf. “Put your questions! And, for God’s sake, +let’s get to the point!” +</p> + +<p> +“The paper that is pertinent is a deed,” Basset explained. “I +have the heads of it here. A deed made between Peter Paravicini Audley, your +ancestor, the Audley the date of whose marriage has been always in +issue—between him on the one side, and his father and two younger +brothers on the other.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is the date?” Stubbs asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Seventeen hundred and four.” +</p> + +<p> +“Very good, Mr. Basset.” Stubbs’s tone was now as even as he +could make it, but an acute listener would have detected a change in it. +“Proceed, if you please.” +</p> + +<p> +Before Basset could comply, my lord broke in. “What’s the use of +this? Why the d—l are we going into it?” he cried. “If this +man is out for plunder I will make him smart as sure as my name is Audley! And +any one who supports him. In the meantime I want to hear no more of it!” +</p> + +<p> +Basset moved in his chair as if he would rise. Stubbs intervened. +</p> + +<p> +“That is one way of looking at it, my lord,” he said temperately. +“And I’m not saying that it is the wrong way. But I think we had +better hear what Mr. Basset has to say. He is probably +deceived——” +</p> + +<p> +“He has let himself be used as a catspaw!” Audley cried. His face +was flushed and there was an ugly look in his eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“But he means us well, I am sure,” the lawyer interposed. “At +present I don’t see”—he turned and carefully snuffed one of +the candles—“I don’t see——” +</p> + +<p> +“I think you do!” Basset answered. He had had a long day and he had +come on an unpleasant business. His own temper was not too good. “You see +this, at any rate, Mr. Stubbs, that such a deed may be of vital import to your +client.” +</p> + +<p> +“To me?” Audley exclaimed. Was it possible that the thing he had so +long feared—and had ceased to fear—was going to befall him? Was it +possible that at the eleventh hour, when he had burnt his boats, when he had +thought all danger at an end—no, it was impossible! “To me?” +he repeated passionately. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” Basset replied. “Or, rather, it would be of vital +import to you in other circumstances.” +</p> + +<p> +“In what other circumstances? What do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you were not about to marry the only person who, with you, is +interested.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley cut short, by a tremendous effort, the execration that burst from his +lips. His face, always too fleshy for his years, swelled till it was purple. +Then, and as quickly, the blood ebbed, leaving it gray and flabby. He would +have given much, very much at this moment to be able to laugh or to utter a +careless word. But he could do neither. The blow had been too sudden, too +heavy, too overwhelming. Only in his nightmares had he seen what he saw now! +</p> + +<p> +Meanwhile Stubbs, startled by the half-uttered oath and a little out of his +depth—for he had heard nothing of the engagement—intervened. +“I think, my lord,” he said, “you had better leave this to +me. I think you had, indeed. We are quite in the dark and we are not getting +forward. Let us have the facts, Mr. Basset. What is the gist of this deed? Or, +first, have you seen it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have.” +</p> + +<p> +“And read it?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have.” +</p> + +<p> +“It appears to you—I only say it appears—to be +genuine?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no doubt that it is genuine,” Basset replied. “It +bears the marks of age, and it was found in the chest with the old Bible. If +the book is genuine——” +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer raised his hand. “Too fast,” he said. “You say it +was found! You mean that this man says it was found?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely. But there is a difference. Still, we have cleared the ground. +Now, what does this deed purport to be?” +</p> + +<p> +Basset produced a slip of paper. “An agreement,” he read from it, +“between Peter Paravicini Audley and his father and his two younger +brothers. After admitting that the entry of the marriage in the register is +misleading and that no marriage took place until after the birth of his son, +Peter Paravicini undertakes that, in consideration of his father and his +brothers taking no action and making no attack upon his wife’s +reputation, she being their cousin, he will not set up for the said son, or the +issue of the said son, any claim to the title or estates.” +</p> + +<p> +Audley listened to the description, so clear and so precise, and he recognized +that it tallied with the deed which tradition had always held to exist but of +which John Audley had been able to give no proof. He heard, he understood; yet +while he listened and understood, his mind was working to another end, and +viewing with passion the tragedy which fate had prepared for him. Too late! Too +late! Had this become known a week, only a week, earlier, how lightly had the +blow fallen! How impotently! But he had cut the rope, he had severed the +strands once carefully twisted, that bound him to safety! And then the irony, +the bitterness, the cruelty of those words of Basset’s, “in other +circumstances!” They bit into his mind. +</p> + +<p> +Still he suffered in silence, and only his stillness and his unhealthy color +betrayed the despair that gripped and benumbed his soul. Stubbs did not look at +him; perhaps he was careful not to look at him. The lawyer sat thinking and +drumming gently with his fingers on the table. “Just so, just so,” +he said presently. “On the face of it, the document of which Mr. John +Audley tried to give secondary evidence, and which a person fraudulently +inclined would of course concoct. That touch of the cousin well brought +in!” +</p> + +<p> +“But the lady was his cousin,” Basset said. +</p> + +<p> +“All the world knows it,” the lawyer retorted coolly, “and +use has been made of the knowledge. But, of course, there are a hundred things +to be proved before any weight can be given to this document; its origin, the +custody from which it comes, the signatures, the witnesses. Its production by a +man who has once endeavored to blackmail is alone suspicious. And the deed +itself is at variance with the evidence of the Bible.” +</p> + +<p> +“But that variance bears out the deed, which is to secure the younger +sons’ rights while covering the reputation of the lady.” +</p> + +<p> +The lawyer shook his head. “Very clever,” he said. “But, +frankly, the matter has an ugly look, Mr. Basset.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lord Audley says nothing,” Basset replied, nettled by the +lawyer’s phrase. +</p> + +<p> +“And will say nothing,” Stubbs rejoined genially, “if he is +advised by me. In the circumstances, as I understand them, he is not affected +as he might be, but this is still a serious matter. We are not quarrelling with +you for coming to us, Mr. Basset. On the contrary. But I would like to know why +the man came to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“The answer is simple,” Basset explained. “I am Mr. +Audley’s executor. On his account, I am obliged to be interested. The +moment I learned this I saw that, be it true or false, I must disclose it to +Miss Audley. But I thought it fair to open it to Lord Audley first that he +might tell the young lady himself, if he preferred to do so.” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs nodded. “Very proper,” he replied. “And where, in the +meantime, is this—precious document?” +</p> + +<p> +“I lodged it with Mr. Audley’s bankers this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +Stubbs nodded again. “Also very proper,” he said. “Just +so.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset rose. “I’ve told you what I know. If there is nothing +more?” he said. He looked at Audley, who had turned his back on them and, +with his hands in his pockets and one foot on the fender, was gazing into the +fire. +</p> + +<p> +“I think that’s all,” Stubbs hastened to say. “I am +sure that his lordship is obliged to you, Mr. Basset, though it is a hundred to +one that there is nothing in this.” +</p> + +<p> +At that, however, Audley turned about. He had pulled himself together, and his +manner was excellent. “I would like to say that for myself,” he +said frankly, “I owe you many thanks for the straightforward course you +have taken, Basset. You must pardon my momentary annoyance. Perhaps you will +kindly keep this business to yourself for—shall we say—three days? +I will speak myself to my cousin, but I should like to make one or two +inquiries first.” +</p> + +<p> +Basset agreed willingly. He hated the whole thing and his part in it. It forced +him to champion, or to seem to champion, Mary against her betrothed; and so set +him in that kind of opposition to his rival which he loathed. It was only after +some hesitation that he had determined to see Audley, and now that he had seen +him, the sooner he was clear of the matter the happier he would be. So, +“Certainly,” he repeated, thinking that the other was taking it +very well. “And now, as I have had a hard day, I will say +good-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good-night, and believe me,” my lord added warmly, “we +recognize the friendliness of your action.” +</p> + +<p> +Outside, in the darkness of the road, Basset drew a breath of relief. He had +had a hard day and he was utterly weary. But he had come now, thank God, to an +end of many things; of the canvass he had detested and the contest in which he +had been beaten; of his relations with Mary, whom he had lost; of this +imbroglio, which he hated; of Riddsley and the Gatehouse and the old life +there! He could go to his inn and sleep the clock round. In his bed he would be +safe, he would be free from troubles. It seemed to him a refuge. Till the +morrow he need think of nothing, and when he came forth again it would be to a +new life. Henceforth Blore, his old house and his starved acres must bound his +ambitions. With the money which John Audley had left him he would dig and drain +and fence and build, and be by turns Talpa the mole and Castor the beaver. In +time, as he began to see the fruit of his toil, he would win to some degree of +content, and be glad, looking back, that he had made this trial of his powers, +this essay towards a wider usefulness. So, in the end, he would come through to +peace. +</p> + +<p> +But at this point the current of his thoughts eddied against Toft, and he +cursed the man anew. Why had he played these tricks? Why had he kept back this +paper? Why had he produced it now and cast on others this unpleasant task? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap38"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII<br/> +TOFT’S LITTLE SURPRISE</h2> + +<p> +Toft had gone into Riddsley on the polling-day, but had returned before the +result was known. “What the man was thinking of,” his wife declared +in wrath, “beats me! To be there hours and hours and come out no wiser +than he went, and we waiting to hear—a babe would ha’ had more +sense! The young master that we’ve known all our lives, to be in or out, +and we to know nothing till morning! It passes patience!” +</p> + +<p> +Mary had her own feelings, but she concealed them. “He must know how it +was going when he left?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“He doesn’t know an identical thing!” Mrs. Toft replied. +“And all he’d say was, ‘There, there, what does it +matter?’ For all the world as if he spoke to a child! ‘What else +matters, man?’ says I. ‘What did you go for?’ But there, +Miss, he’s beyond me these days! I believe he’s going like the poor +master, that had a bee in his bonnet, God forgive me for saying it! But +what’d one not say, and we to wait till morning not knowing whether those +plaguy Repealers are in or out!” +</p> + +<p> +“But Mr. Basset is for Repeal,” Mary said. +</p> + +<p> +“What matter what he’s for, if he’s in?” Mrs. Toft +replied loftily. “But to wait till morning to know—the man’s +no better than a numps!” +</p> + +<p> +In the end, it was Mr. Colet who brought the news to the Gatehouse. He brought +it to Etruria and so much of moment with it that before noon the election +result had been set aside as a trifle, and Mary found herself holding a kind of +court in the parlor—Mr. Colet plaintiff, Etruria defendant, Mrs. Toft +counsel for the defence. Absence had but strengthened Mr. Colet’s +affection, and he came determined to come to an understanding with his +mistress. He saw his way to making a small income by writing sermons for his +more indolent brethren, and, in the meantime, Mr. Basset was giving him food +and shelter; in return he was keeping Mr. Basset’s accounts, and he was +saving a little, a very little, money. But the body of his plea rested not on +these counts, but on the political change. Repeal was in the air, repeal was in +the country. Vote as Riddsley might, the Corn Laws were doomed. His opinions +would no longer be banned; they would soon be the opinions of the majority, and +with a little patience he might find a new curacy. When that happened he wished +to marry Etruria. +</p> + +<p> +“And why not?” Mary asked. +</p> + +<p> +“I will never marry him to disgrace him,” Etruria replied. She +stood with bowed head, her hands clasped before her, her beautiful eyes +lowered. +</p> + +<p> +“But you love him?” Mary said, blushing at her own words. +</p> + +<p> +“If I did not love him I might marry him,” Etruria rejoined. +“I am a servant, my father’s a servant. I should be wronging him, +and he would live to know it.” +</p> + +<p> +“To my way o’ thinking, ’Truria’s right,” her +mother said. “I never knew good come of such a marriage! He’s poor, +begging his reverence’s pardon, but, poor or rich, his place is +there.” She pointed to the table. “And ’Truria’s place +is behind his chair.” +</p> + +<p> +“But you forget,” Mary said, “that when she is Mr. +Colet’s wife her place will be by his side.” +</p> + +<p> +“And much good that’ll do him with the parsons and such like, as +are all gleg together! If he’s in their black books for preaching too +free—and when you come to tithes one parson is as like another as pigs +o’ the same litter—he’ll not better himself by taking such as +Etruria, take my word for it, Miss!” +</p> + +<p> +“I will never do it,” said Etruria. +</p> + +<p> +“But,” Mary protested, “Mr. Colet need not live here, and in +another part people will not know what his wife has been. Etruria has good +manners and some education, Mrs. Toft, and what she does not know she will +learn. She will be judged by what she is. If there is a drawback, it is that +such a marriage will divide her from you and from her father. But if you are +prepared for that?” +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Toft rubbed her nose. “We’d be willing if that were +all,” she said. “She’d come to us sometimes, and +there’d be no call for us to go to her.” +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Colet looked at Etruria. “If Etruria will come to me,” he said, +“I will be ashamed neither of her nor her parents.” +</p> + +<p> +“Bravely said!” Mary cried. +</p> + +<p> +“But there’s more to it than that,” Mrs. Toft objected. +“A deal more. Mr. Colet nor ’Truria can’t live upon air. And +it’s my opinion that if his reverence gets a curacy, he’ll lose it +as soon as it’s known who his wife is. And he can’t dig and he +can’t beg, and where’ll they be with the parsons all sticking to +one another as close as wax?” +</p> + +<p> +“He’ll not need them!” replied a new speaker, and that +speaker was Toft. He had entered silently, none of them had seen him, and the +interruption took them aback. “He’ll not need them,” he +repeated, “nor their curacies. He’ll not need to dig nor beg. +There’s changes coming. There’s changes coming for more than him, +Miss. If Mr. Colet’s willing to take my girl she’ll not go to him +empty-handed.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will take her as she stands,” Mr. Colet said, his eyes shining. +“She knows that.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, you’ll take her, sir, asking your pardon, with what I give +her,” Toft answered. “And that’ll be five hundred pounds that +I have in hand, and five hundred more that I look to get. Put ’em +together and they’ll buy what’s all one with a living, and +you’ll be your own rector and may snap your fingers at ’em!” +</p> + +<p> +They stared at the man, while Mrs. Toft, in an awestruck tone, cried, +“You’re out of your mind, Toft! Five hundred pounds! Whoever heard +of the like of us with that much money?” +</p> + +<p> +“Silence, woman,” Toft said. “You know naught about +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, Toft,” Mary said, “are you in earnest? Do you +understand what a large sum of money this is?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have it,” the man replied, his sallow cheek reddening. “I +have it, and it’s for Etruria.” +</p> + +<p> +“If this be true,” Mr. Colet said slowly, “I don’t know +what to say, Toft.” +</p> + +<p> +“You’ve said all that is needful, sir,” Toft replied. +“It’s long I’ve looked forward to this. She’s yours, +and she’ll not come to you empty-handed, and you’ll have no need to +be ashamed of a wife that brings you a living. We’ll not trouble except +to see her at odd times in the year. It will be enough for her mother and me +that she’ll be a lady. She never was like us.” +</p> + +<p> +“Hear the man!” cried Mrs. Toft between admiration and protest. +“You’d suppose she wasn’t our child!” +</p> + +<p> +But Mary went to him and gave him her hand. “That’s very fine, +Toft,” she said. “I believe Etruria will be as happy as she is +good, and Mr. Colet will have a wife of whom he may be proud. But Etruria will +not be Etruria if she forgets her parents or your gift. Only you are sure that +you are not deceiving yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s my bank-book to show for half of it,” Toft replied. +“The other half is as certain if I live three months!” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, I declare!” Mrs. Toft cried. “If anybody’d told +me yesterday that I’d have—’Truria, han’t you got a +word to say?” +</p> + +<p> +Etruria’s answer was to throw her arms round her father’s neck. Yet +it is doubtful if the moment was as much to her as to the ungainly, +grim—visaged man, who looked so ill at ease in her embrace. +</p> + +<p> +The contrast between them was such that Mary hastened to relieve the sufferer. +“Etruria will have more to say to Mr. Colet,” she said, “than +to us. Suppose we leave them to talk it over.” +</p> + +<p> +She saw the Tofts out after another word or two, and followed them. +“Well, well, well!” said Mrs. Toft, when they stood in the hall. +“I’m sure I wish that everybody was as lucky this day—if +all’s true as Toft tells us.” +</p> + +<p> +“There’s some in luck that don’t know it!” the man said +oracularly. And he slid away. +</p> + +<p> +“If he said black was white, I’d believe him after this,” his +wife exclaimed, “asking your pardon, Miss, for the liberties we’ve +taken! But you’d always a fancy for ’Truria. Anyway, if +there’s one will be pleased to hear the news, it’s the Squire! If +I’d some of those nine here that voted against him I’d made their +ears burn!” +</p> + +<p> +“But perhaps they thought that Mr. Basset was wrong,” Mary said. +</p> + +<p> +“What business had they o’ thinking?” Mrs. Toft replied. +“They had ought to vote; that’s enough for them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, it does seem a pity,” Mary allowed. And then, because she +fancied that Mrs. Toft looked at her with meaning, she went upstairs and, +putting on her hat and cloak, went out. The day was cold and bright, a +sprinkling of snow lay on the ground, and a walk promised her an opportunity of +thinking things over. Between the Butterflies, at the entrance to the flagged +yard, she hung a moment in doubt, then she set off across the park in the +direction of the Great House. +</p> + +<p> +At first her thoughts were busy with Etruria’s fortunes and the +mysterious windfall which had enriched Toft. How had he come by it? How could +he have come by it? And was the man really sane? But soon her mind took another +turn. She had strayed this way on the morning after her arrival at the +Gatehouse, and, remembering this, she looked across the gray, frost-bitten +park, with its rows of leafless trees and its naked vistas. Her mind travelled +back to that happy morning, and involuntarily she glanced behind her. +</p> + +<p> +But to-day no one followed her, no one was thinking of her. Basset was gone, +gone for good, and it was she who had sent him away. The May morning when he +had hurried after her, the May sunshine, gay with the songs of larks and warm +with the scents of spring were of the past. To-day she looked on a bare, cold +landscape and her thoughts matched it. Yet she had no ground to complain, she +told herself, no reason to be unhappy. Things might have been worse, ah, so +much worse, she reflected. For a week ago she had been a captive, helpless, +netted in her own folly! And now she was free. +</p> + +<p> +Yes, she ought to be happy, being free; and, more than free, independent. +</p> + +<p> +But she must go from here. And for many reasons the thought of going was +painful to her. During the nine months which she had spent at the Gatehouse it +had become a home. Its panelled rooms, its austerity, its stillness, the +ancient woodlands about it were endeared to her by the memory of lamp-lit +evenings and long summer days. The very plainness and solitude of the life, +which had brought the Tofts and Etruria so near to her, had been a charm. And +if her sympathy with her uncle had been imperfect, still he had been her uncle +and he had been kind to her. +</p> + +<p> +All this she must leave, and something else which she did not define; which was +bound up with it, and which she had come to value when it was too late. She had +taken brass for gold, and tin for silver! And now it was too late. So that it +was no wonder that when she came to the hawthorn-tree where she had gathered +her may that morning, a sob rose in her throat. She knew the tree! She had +marked it often. But to-day there was no one to follow her, no one to call her +back, no one to say that she should go no farther. Basset was gone, her uncle +was dead. +</p> + +<p> +Telling herself that, as she would never see it again, she would go as far as +the Great House, she pushed on to the Yew Walk. Its recesses showed dark, the +darker for the sprinkling of snow that lay in the park. But it was high noon, +there was nothing to fear, and she pursued the path until she came to the +crumbling monster that tradition said was a butterfly. +</p> + +<p> +She was still viewing it with awe, thinking now of the duel which had taken +place there, now of her uncle’s attack, when a bird moved in the copse +and she glanced nervously behind her, expecting she knew not what. The dark +yews shut her in, and involuntarily she shivered. What if, in this solitary +place—and then through the silence the sharp click of the Iron Gate +reached her ear. +</p> + +<p> +The stillness and the associations shook her nerves. She heard footsteps and, +hardly knowing what she feared, she slipped among the trees and stood +half-hidden. A moment passed and a man appeared. He came from the Great House. +He crossed the opening slowly, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes bent on +the path before him. A moment and he was gone, the way she had come, without +seeing her. +</p> + +<p> +It was Lord Audley, and foolish as the impulse to hide herself had been, she +blessed it. Nothing pleasant, nothing good, could have come of their meeting; +and into her thoughts of him had crept so much of distaste that she was glad +that she had not met him in this lonely spot. She went on to the Iron Gate, and +viewed for a few moments the desolate lawn and the long, gaunt front. Then, +reflecting that if she turned back at once she might meet him, she took a +side-path through the plantation, and emerged on the park at another point. +</p> + +<p> +She was careful not to reach home until late in the day and then she learned +that he had called, that he had waited, and that in the end Toft had seen him; +and that he had departed in no good temper. “What Toft said to +him,” Mrs. Toft reported, “I know no more than the moon, but +whatever it was his lordship marched off, Miss, as black as thunder.” +</p> + +<p> +After that nothing happened, and of the four at the Gatehouse Etruria alone was +content. Mrs. Toft was uneasy about the future—what were they going to +do?—and perplexed by Toft’s mysterious fortune—how had he +come by it? Toft himself was on the rack, looking for things to +happen—and nothing happened. And Mary knew that she must take action. She +could not stay at the Gatehouse, she could not remain as the guest either of +Basset or of Lord Audley. +</p> + +<p> +But she did not know where to go, and no suggestion reached her. At length she +wrote, two days after Lord Audley’s visit, to Quebec Street, to the house +where she had stayed with her father many years before. It was the only address +of the kind that she knew. But she received no answer, and her heart sank. The +difficulty, small as it was, harassed her; she had no adviser, and ten times a +day, to keep up her spirits, she had tell herself that she was independent, +that she had eight thousand pounds, that the whole world was open to her, and +that compared with the penniless girl who had lived on the upper floor of the +Hôtel Lambert she was fortunate! +</p> + +<p> +But in the Hôtel Lambert she had had work to do, and here she had none! +</p> + +<p> +She thought of taking rooms in Riddsley, but Lord Audley was there and she +shrank from meeting him. She would wait another week for the answer from +London, and then, if none came, she must decide what she would do. But in her +room that night the thought that Basset had abandoned her, that he no longer +cared, no longer desired to come near her, broke her down. Of course, he was +not to blame. He fancied her still engaged to her cousin and receiving from him +all the advice, all the help, all the love, she needed. He fancied her happy +and content, in no need of him. And, alas, there was the pinch. She had written +to him to tell him of her engagement. She could not write to him to tell him +that it was at an end! +</p> + +<p> +And then, by the morrow’s post, there came a long letter from Basset, and +in the letter the whole astonishing, overwhelming story of the discovery of the +document which John Audley had sought so long, and in the end so disastrously. +</p> + +<p> +“No doubt,” the writer added, “Lord Audley has made you +acquainted with the facts, but I think it my duty as your uncle’s +executor to lay them before you in detail and also to advise you that in your +interest and in view of the change in your position—and in Lord +Audley’s—which this imports, it is proper that you should have +independent advice.” +</p> + +<p> +The blood ebbed and left Mary pale; it returned in a flood as with a bounding +heart and shaking fingers she read and turned and re-read this letter. At +length she grasped its meaning, and truly what astounding, what overwhelming +news! What a shift of fortune! What a reversal of expectations! And how +strangely, how singularly had all things shaped themselves to bring this +about—were it true! +</p> + +<p> +Unable to sit still, unable to control her excitement—and no +wonder—she rose and paced the floor. If she were indeed Lady Audley! If +this were indeed all hers! This dear house and the Great House! This which had +seemed to its possessor so small, so meagre, so cramping an inheritance, but +was to her fortune, an old name, a great place, a firm position in the world! A +position that offered so many opportunities and so much power for good! +</p> + +<p> +She walked the room with throbbing pulses, the letter now crushed in her hand, +now smoothed out that she might assure herself of its meaning, might read again +some word or some sentence, might resolve some doubt. Oh, it was a wonderful, +it was a marvellous, it was an incredible turn of fortune! And presently her +mind began to deal with and to sift the past. And, enlightened, she understood +many of the things that had perplexed her, and read many of the riddles that +had baffled her. And her cheeks burned, her heart was hot with indignation. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap39"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX<br/> +THE DEED OF RENUNCIATION</h2> + +<p> +Basset moved in his chair. He was unhappy and ill at ease. He looked at the +fire, he looked askance at Mary. “But do you mean,” he said, +“that you knew nothing about this until you had my letter?” +</p> + +<p> +“Nothing,” Mary answered, “not a word.” She, too, found +it more easy to look at the fire. +</p> + +<p> +“You must have been very much surprised?” +</p> + +<p> +“I was. It was for that reason that I asked you to bring me the +papers—to bring me everything, so that I might see for myself how it +was.” +</p> + +<p> +“I don’t understand why Audley did not tell you. He said he +would.” +</p> + +<p> +It was the question Mary had foreseen and dreaded. She had slept two nights +upon the letter and given a long day’s thought to it, and she had made up +her mind what she would do and how she would do it. But between the planning +and the doing there were passages which she would fain have shunned, fain have +omitted, had it been possible; and this was one of them. She saw that there was +nothing else for it, however—the thing must be told, and told by her. She +tried, and not without success, to command her voice. “He did not tell +me,” she said. “Indeed I have not seen him. And I ought to say, Mr. +Basset, you ought to know in these circumstances—that the engagement +between my cousin and myself is at an end.” +</p> + +<p> +He may have started—he might well be astonished, in view of the business +which brought him there. But he did not speak, and Mary could not tell what +effect it had on him. She only knew that the silence seemed age-long, the pause +cruel, and that her heart was beating so loudly that it seemed to her that he +must hear it. At last, “Do you mean,” he asked, his voice muffled +and uncertain, “that it is all over between you?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is quite over between us,” she answered soberly. “It was +a mistake from the beginning.” +</p> + +<p> +“When—when did he——” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, before this arose. Some time before this arose.” She spoke +lightly, but her cheeks were hot. +</p> + +<p> +“He did not tell me.” +</p> + +<p> +“No?” +</p> + +<p> +“No,” Basset repeated. He spoke angrily, as if he felt this a +grievance, but in no other way could he have masked his emotion. Perhaps he did +not mask it altogether, for she was observing him—ah, how keenly was she +observing him! “On the contrary, he led me to believe,” he +continued, “that things were as before between you, and that he would +tell you this himself. It was for that reason that I let a week go by before I +wrote to you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Just so,” she said, squeezing her handkerchief into a ball, and +telling herself that the worst was over now, the story told, that in another +minute this would be done and past. “Just so, I quite understand. At any +rate there is no longer any question of that, Mr. Basset. And now,” +briskly, “may I see this famous deed which is to do so much. You brought +it with you, I hope?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, I brought it,” he answered heavily. He took a packet of +papers from his breast-pocket, and it did not escape her—she was cooler +now—that his fingers were not as steady as a man’s fingers should +be. The packet he brought out was tied about with old and faded green ribbon, +and bore a docket on the outside. She looked at it with curiosity. That ribbon +had been tied by a long-dead hand in the reign of Queen Anne! Those yellowish +papers had lain in damp and darkness a hundred and forty years, that in the end +they might take John Audley’s life! “I brought them from the bank +this afternoon,” he explained. “They have been in the bank’s +custody since they were handed to me, and I must return them to the bank +to-night.” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything depends upon them, I suppose?” +</p> + +<p> +“Everything.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I thought that it was a deed—just one paper?” she said. +</p> + +<p> +“The actual instrument is a deed. This one!” He took it from the +series as he untied the packet. “The other papers are of value as +corroboration. They are letters, original letters, bearing on the preparation +of the agreement. They were found all together as they are now, and in the same +order. I did not disclose the letters to Audley, or to his lawyer, because I +had not then gone through them; nor was it necessary to disclose them. I have +since examined them, and they provide ample proof of the genuineness of the +deed.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that you think...?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think that it can be contested. I am sure that it +cannot—with success. And if it be admitted, your opponent’s case is +gone. It was practically common ground in the former suit that if this +agreement could be produced and proved his claim fell to the ground. Yours +remains. I do not suppose,” Basset concluded, “that he will contest +it, save as a matter of form.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am sorry for him,” she said thoughtfully. And almost for the +first time her eyes met his. But he was not responsive. He shrugged his +shoulders. “He has had it long enough to feel the loss of it,” she +continued, still bidding for his sympathy. “May I look at that +now—the deed?” She held out her hand. +</p> + +<p> +He gave it to her. It was a folded sheet of parchment, yellow with age and not +very large, perhaps ten inches square. Three or four seals of green wax on +ribbon ends dangled from it. It was written all over in a fine and curious +penmanship, its initial letter adorned with a portrait of Queen Anne; +altogether a pretty and delicate thing, but small—so small, she thought, +to effect so great a change, to carry, to wreck, to make the fortunes of a +house! +</p> + +<p> +She handled it gently, almost fearfully, with awe and a little distaste. She +turned it, she read the signatures. They were clear but faint. The ink had +turned brown. +</p> + +<p> +“Peter Paravicini Audley,” she murmured. “He must have signed +it sadly, to save his wife, his cousin, a young girl, a girl of my age perhaps! +To save her name!” There was a quaver in her voice. Basset moved +uncomfortably. +</p> + +<p> +“They are all dead,” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, they are all dead,” she agreed. “And their joys and +failings, hopes and fears—all dead! It seems a pity that this should live +to betray them.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not a pity on your account.” +</p> + +<p> +“No. You are glad, of course?” +</p> + +<p> +“That you should have your rights?” he said manfully. “Of +course I am.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you congratulate me?” She rose and held out her hand. Her eyes +were shining, there were tears in them, and her face was marvellously soft. +“You will be the first, won’t you, to congratulate me? You who have +done so much for me, you who have been my friend through all? You who have +brought me this? You will wish me joy?” +</p> + +<p> +He was deeply moved; how deeply he could not hide from her, and her last doubt +faded. He took her hand—his own was cold—but he could not speak. At +last, “May you be very happy! It is my one wish, Lady Audley!” +</p> + +<p> +She let his hand fall. “Thank you,” she said gently. “I think +that I shall be happy. And now—now,” in a firmer tone, “will +you do something for me, Mr. Basset? It is not much. Will you deal with Toft +for me? You told me in your letter that he held my uncle’s note for £800, +to be paid in the event of the discovery of these papers? And that £300, +already paid, might be set off against this?” +</p> + +<p> +“That is so.” +</p> + +<p> +“The money should be paid, of course.” +</p> + +<p> +“I fear it must be paid.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you see him and tell him that it shall be. I—I am fond of +Etruria, but I am not so fond of Toft, and I would rather not—would you +see him about this?” +</p> + +<p> +“I quite understand,” Basset answered. “Of course I will do +it.” They had both regained the ordinary plane of feeling and he spoke in +his usual tone. “You would like me to see him now?” +</p> + +<p> +“If you please.” +</p> + +<p> +He went from the room. There were other things that as executor he must +arrange, and when he had dealt with Toft, and not without a hard word or two +that went home, had settled that matter, he went round the house and gave the +orders he had to give. The light was beginning to fail and shadows to fill the +corners, and as he glanced into this room and that and viewed the +long-remembered places and saw ghosts and heard the voices of the dead, he knew +that he was taking leave of many things, of things that had made up a large +part of his life. +</p> + +<p> +And he had other thoughts hardly more cheering. Mary’s engagement was +broken off. But how? By whom? Had she freed herself? Or had Audley, <i>immemor +Divum</i>, and little foreseeing the discovery that trod upon his threshold, +freed her? And if so, why? He was in the dark as to this and as to +all—her attitude, her thoughts, her feelings. He knew only that while her +freedom trebled the moment of the news he had brought, the gifts of fortune +which that news laid at her feet, rose insuperable between them and formed a +barrier he could not pass. +</p> + +<p> +For he could never woo her now. Whatever dawn of hope crept quivering above the +horizon—and she had been kind, ah, in that moment of softness and +remembrance she had been kind!—he could never speak now. +</p> + +<p> +The dusk was far advanced and firelight was almost the only light when, after +half an hour’s absence, he returned to the parlor. Mary was standing +before the hearth, her slender figure darkly outlined against the blaze. She +held the poker in her hand, and she was stooping forward; and something in her +pose, something in the tense atmosphere of the room, drew his gaze—he +never knew why—to the table on which he had left the papers. It was bare. +He looked round, he could not see them, a cry broke from him. +“Mary!” +</p> + +<p> +“They don’t burn easily,” she said, a quaver of exultation +and defiance in her tone. “Parchment is so hard to burn—it burns so +slowly, though I made a good fire on purpose!” +</p> + +<p> +“D—n!” he cried, and he was going to seize, he tried to seize +her arm. But he saw the next moment that it was useless, he saw that it was too +late. “Are you mad? Are you mad?” he cried. Frantically, he went +down on his knees, he raked among the embers. But he knew that it was futile, +he had known it before he knelt, and he stood up again with a gesture of +despair. “My G—d!” he said. “Do you know what you have +done? You have destroyed what cannot be replaced! You have ruined your claim! +You must have been mad! Mad, to do it!” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, mad? Because I do not wish to be Lady Audley?” she said, +facing him calmly, with her hands behind her. +</p> + +<p> +“Mad!” he repeated, bitter self-reproach in his voice. For he felt +himself to blame, he felt the full burden of his responsibility. He had left +the papers with her, the true value of which she might not have known! And she +had done this dreadful, this fatal, this irreparable thing! +</p> + +<p> +She faced his anger without a quiver. “Why, mad!” she repeated. She +was quite at her ease now. “Because, having been jilted by my cousin, I +do not wish for this common, this vulgar, this poor revenge? Because I will not +stoop to the game he plays and has played? Because I will not take from him +what is little to me who have not had it, but much, nay all, to him who +has?” +</p> + +<p> +“But your uncle?” he cried. He was striving desperately to collect +himself, trying to see the thing all round and not only as she saw it, but in +its consequences. “Your uncle, whose one aim, whose one object in +life——” +</p> + +<p> +“Was to be Lord Audley? Believe me,” she replied gently, “he +sees more clearly now. And he is dead.” +</p> + +<p> +“But there are still—those who come after you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Will they be better, happier, more useful?” she answered. +“Will they be less Audleys, with less of ancient blood running in their +veins because of what I have done? Because I have refused to rake up this old, +pitiful, forgotten stain, this scandal of Queen Elizabeth? No, a thousand times +no! And do not think, do not think,” she continued more soberly, +“that I have acted in haste or on impulse. I have not had this out of my +thoughts for a moment since I knew the truth. I have weighed, carefully +weighed, the price, and as carefully decided to pay it. My duty? I can do it, I +hope, as well in one station as another. For the rest there is only one who +will lose by it”—she faced him bravely now—“only one +who will have the right to blame me—ever.” +</p> + +<p> +“I may have no right——” +</p> + +<p> +“No you have no right at present.” +</p> + +<p> +“Still——” +</p> + +<p> +“When you have the right—when you have gained the right, if +ever—you may blame me.” +</p> + +<p> +Was he deceived? Was it the fact or only his fancy, a mere +will-o’-the-wisp inviting him to trouble that led him to imagine that she +looked at him queerly? With a mingling of raillery and tenderness, with a tear +and a smile, with something in her eyes that he had never seen in them before? +With—with—but her face was in shadow, she had her back to the blaze +that filled the room with dancing lights, and his thoughts were in a turmoil of +confusion. “I wish I knew,” he said in a low voice, “what you +meant by that?” +</p> + +<p> +“By what?” +</p> + +<p> +“By what you have just said. Did you mean that now that he—now that +Audley is out of the way, there was a chance for me?” +</p> + +<p> +“A chance for you?” she repeated. She stared at him in seeming +astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t play with me!” he cried, advancing upon her. +“You understand me? You understand me very well! Yes, or no, Mary?” +</p> + +<p> +She did not flinch. “There is no chance for you,” she answered +slowly, still confronting him. “If there be a second chance for +me——” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” +</p> + +<p> +“For me, Peter?” And with that her tone told him all, all there was +to tell. “If you are willing to take me second-hand,” she +continued, with a tremulous laugh, “you may take me. I don’t +deserve it, but I know my own mind now. I have known it since the day my uncle +died and I heard your step come through the hall. And if you are still +willing?” +</p> + +<p> +He did not answer her, but he took her. He held her to him, his heart too full +for anything but a thankfulness beyond speech, while she, shaken out of her +composure, trembled between tears and laughter. “Peter! Peter!” she +said again and again. And once, “We are the same height, Peter!” +and so showed him a new side of her nature which thrilled him with surprise and +happiness. +</p> + +<p> +That she brought him no title, no lands, that by her own act she had flung away +her inheritance and came to him almost empty-handed was no pain to him, no +subject for regret. On the contrary, every word she had said on that, every +argument she had used, came home to him now with double force. It had been a +poor, it had been a common, it had been a pitiful revenge! It had mingled the +sordid with the cup, it had cast the shadow of the Great House on their +happiness. In that room in which they had shared their first meal on that far +May morning, and where the light of the winter fire now shone on the wainscot, +now brought life to the ruffed portraits above it, there was no question of +name or fortune, or more or less. +</p> + +<p> +So much so, that when Mrs. Toft came in with the tea she well-nigh dropped the +tray in her surprise. As she said afterwards, “The sight of them two as +close as chives in a barrel, I declare you might ha’ knocked me down with +a straw! God bless ’em!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap40"></a>CHAPTER XL<br/> +“LET US MAKE OTHERS THANKFUL”</h2> + +<p> +A man can scarcely harbor a more bitter thought than that he has lost by foul +play what fair play would have won for him. This for a week was Lord +Audley’s mood and position; for masterful as he was he owned the power of +Nemesis, he felt the force of tradition, nor, try as he might, could he +convince himself that in face of this oft-cited deed his chance of retaining +the title and property was anything but desperate. He made the one attempt to +see Mary of which we know; and had he seen her he would have done his best to +knot again the tie which he had cut. But missing her by a hair’s breadth, +and confronted by Toft who knew all, he had found even his courage unequal to a +second attempt. The spirit in which Mary had faced the breach had shown his +plan to be from the first a counsel of despair, and despairing he let her go. +In a dark mood he sat down to wait for the next step on the enemy’s part, +firmly resolved that whatever form it might take he would contest the claim to +the bitter end. +</p> + +<p> +And Stubbs was scarcely in happier case. At the time, and face to face with +Basset, he had borne up well, but the production of the fateful deed had none +the less fallen on him with stunning effect. He appreciated—none better +and more clearly now—what the effect of his easiness would have been had +Lord Audley not been engaged to his cousin; nor did his negligence appear in a +less glaring light because his patron was to escape its worst results. He +foresaw that whatever befel he must suffer, and that the agency which his +family had so long enjoyed—that, that at any rate was forfeit. +</p> + +<p> +This was enough to make him a most unhappy, a most miserable man. But it did +not stand alone. Everything seemed to him to be going wrong. All good things, +public and private, seemed to be verging on their end. The world as he had +known it for sixty years was crumbling about his ears. It was time that he was +gone. +</p> + +<p> +Certainly the days of that Protection with which he believed the welfare of the +land to be bound up, were numbered. In the House Lord George and Mr. +Disraeli—those strangest of bedfellows!—might rage, the old +Protectionist party might foam, invective and sarcasm, taunt and sneer might +rain upon the traitor as he sat with folded arms and hat drawn down to his +eyes, rectors might fume and squires swear; the end was certain, and Stubbs saw +that it was. Those rascals in the North, they and their greed and smoke, that +stained the face of England, would win and were winning. He had saved Riddsley +by nine—but to what end? What was one vote among so many? He thought of +the nut-brown ale, the teeming stacks, the wagoner’s home, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +Hard-by, a cottage chimney smokes<br/> +From betwixt two aged oaks. +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +He thought of the sweet cow-stalls, the brook where he had bent his first pin, +and he sighed. Half the country folk would be ruined, and Shoddy from Halifax +and Brass from Bury would buy their lands and walk in gaiters where better men +had foundered. The country would be full of new men—Peels! +</p> + +<p> +Well, it would last his time. But some day there would rise another Buonaparte +and they would find Cobden with his calico millennium a poor stay against +starvation, his lean and flashy songs a poor substitute for wheat. It was all +money now; the kindly feeling, the Christmas dole, the human ties, where father +had worked for father and son for son, and the thatch had covered three +generations—all these were past and gone. He found one fault, it is true, +in the past. He had one regret, as he looked back. The laborers’ wage had +been too low; they had been left outside the umbrella of Protection. He saw +that now; there was the weak point in the case. “That’s where they +hit us,” he said more than once, “the foundation was too +narrow.” But the knowledge came too late. +</p> + +<p> +Naturally he buried his private mishap—and my lord’s—in +silence. But his mien was changed. He was an altered, a shaken man. When he +passed through the streets, he walked with his chin on his breast, his +shoulders bowed. He shunned men’s eyes. Then one day Basset entered his +office and for a long time was closeted with him. +</p> + +<p> +When he left Stubbs left also, and his bearing was so subtly changed as to +impress all who met him; while Farthingale, stepping out in his absence, drank +his way through three brown brandies in a silence which grew more portentous +with every glass. At The Butterflies, whither the lawyer hastened, Audley met +him with moody and repellent eyes, and in the first flush of the news which the +lawyer brought refused to believe it. It was not only that the tidings seemed +too good to be true, the relief from the nightmare which weighed upon him too +great to be readily accepted. But the thing that Mary had done was so far out +of his ken and so much beyond his understanding that he could not rise to it, +or credit it. Even when he at last took in the truth of the story he put upon +it the interpretation that was natural to him. +</p> + +<p> +“It was a forgery!” he cried with an oath. “You may depend +upon it, it was a forgery and they discovered it.” +</p> + +<p> +But Stubbs would not agree to that. Stubbs was very stout about it, and giving +details of his conversation with Basset gradually persuaded his patron. In one +way, indeed, the news coming through him wrought a benefit which neither Mary +nor Basset had foreseen. It once more commended him to Audley, and by and by +healed the breach which had threatened to sever the long connection between the +lawyer and Beaudelays. If Stubbs’s opinion of my lord could never again +be wholly what it had been, if Audley still had hours of soreness when the +other’s negligence recurred to his mind, at least they were again at one +as to the future. They were once more free to look forward to a time when a +marriage with Lady Adela, or her like, would rebuild the fortunes of the Great +House. Of Audley, whose punishment if short had been severe, one thing at least +may be ventured with safety—and beyond this we need not inquire; that to +the end his first, last, greatest thought would be—himself! +</p> + +<p> +Late in June, the Corn Laws were repealed. On the same day Sir Robert Peel, in +the eyes of some the first, in the eyes of others the last of men, was forced +to resign. Thwarted by old friends and abandoned by new ones, he fell by a +manœuvre which even his enemies could not defend. Whether he was more to +be blamed for blindness than he was to be praised for rectitude, are questions +on which party spirit has much to say, nor has history as yet pronounced a +final decision. But if his hand gave the victory to the class from which he +sprang, he was at least free from the selfishness of that class. He had ideals, +he was a man, +</p> + +<div class="poem2"> +<p class="t0"> +He nothing common did nor mean,<br/> +Upon that memorable scene, +</p> + +<p class="t1"> +But bowed his comely head,<br/> +Down as upon a bed. +</p> +</div> + +<p class="continue"> +Nor is it possible, even for those who do not agree with him, to think of his +dramatic fall without sympathy. +</p> + +<p> +In the same week Basset and Mary were married. They spent their honeymoon after +a fashion of their own, for they travelled through the north of England, and +beginning with the improvements which Lord Francis Egerton was making along the +Manchester Canal, they continued their quiet journey along the inland waterways +which formed in the ’forties a link, now forgotten, between the great +cities. In this way—somewhat to the disgust of Mary’s new maid, +whose name was Joséphine—they visited strange things; the famous +land-warping upon the Humber, the Doncaster drainage system in Yorkshire, the +Horsfall dairies. They brought back to the old gabled house at Blore some ideas +which were new even to old Hayward—though the “Duke” would +never have admitted this. +</p> + +<p> +“Now that we are not protected, we must bestir ourselves,” Basset +said on the last evening before their return. “I’ll inquire about a +seat, if you like,” he added reluctantly. +</p> + +<p> +Mary was standing behind him. She put her hand on his shoulder. “You are +paying me out, Peter,” she said. “I know now that I don’t +know as much as I thought I knew.” +</p> + +<p> +“Which means?” Basset said, smiling. +</p> + +<p> +“That once I thought that nothing could be done without an earthquake. I +know now that it can be done with a spade.” +</p> + +<p> +“So that where Mary was content with nothing but a gilt coach, Mrs. +Basset is content with a nutshell.” +</p> + +<p> +“If you are in the nutshell,” Mary answered softly, +“only—for what we have received, Peter—let us make other +people thankful.” +</p> + +<p> +“We will try,” he answered. +</p> + +<h3>THE END</h3> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT HOUSE ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ +concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, +and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following +the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use +of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for +copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very +easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation +of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project +Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may +do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected +by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark +license, especially commercial redistribution. +</div> + +<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> +<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full +Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at +www.gutenberg.org/license. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or +destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your +possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a +Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound +by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person +or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this +agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the +Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection +of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual +works in the collection are in the public domain in the United +States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the +United States and you are located in the United States, we do not +claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, +displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as +all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope +that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting +free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ +works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the +Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily +comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the +same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when +you share it without charge with others. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are +in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, +check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this +agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, +distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any +other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no +representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any +country other than the United States. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other +immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear +prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work +on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, +performed, viewed, copied or distributed: +</div> + +<blockquote> + <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> + This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most + other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions + whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms + of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online + at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you + are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws + of the country where you are located before using this eBook. + </div> +</blockquote> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is +derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not +contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the +copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in +the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are +redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply +either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or +obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ +trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any +additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms +will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works +posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the +beginning of this work. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg™ License. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including +any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access +to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format +other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official +version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website +(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense +to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means +of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain +Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the +full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +provided that: +</div> + +<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed + to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has + agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid + within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are + legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty + payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project + Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in + Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg + Literary Archive Foundation.” + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ + License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all + copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue + all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ + works. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of + any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of + receipt of the work. + </div> + + <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> + • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. + </div> +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than +are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing +from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of +the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set +forth in Section 3 below. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project +Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may +contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate +or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or +other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or +cannot be read by your equipment. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium +with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you +with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in +lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person +or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second +opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If +the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing +without further opportunities to fix the problem. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO +OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of +damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement +violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the +agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or +limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or +unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the +remaining provisions. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in +accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the +production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ +electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, +including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of +the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this +or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or +additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any +Defect you cause. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of +computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It +exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations +from people in all walks of life. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future +generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see +Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by +U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, +Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up +to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website +and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread +public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND +DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state +visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To +donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate +</div> + +<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project +Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be +freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and +distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of +volunteer support. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in +the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not +necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper +edition. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Most people start at our website which has the main PG search +facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. +</div> + +</div> + +</body> + +</html> + + diff --git a/39294-h/images/cover.jpg b/39294-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2d0447b --- /dev/null +++ b/39294-h/images/cover.jpg |
