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diff --git a/39294-0.txt b/39294-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cc5015f --- /dev/null +++ b/39294-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14451 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Great House, by Stanley J. Weyman + +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 +www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +Title: The Great House + +Author: Stanley J. Weyman + +Release Date: March 28, 2012 [eBook #39294] +[Most recently updated: June 16, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Charles Bowen + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT HOUSE *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +THE GREAT HOUSE + +BY THE SAME AUTHOR + + +THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF +THE NEW RECTOR +THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE +A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE +THE MAN IN BLACK +UNDER THE RED ROBE +MY LADY ROTHA +MEMOIRS OF A MINISTER OF FRANCE +THE RED COCKADE +SHREWSBURY +THE CASTLE INN +SOPHIA +COUNT HANNIBAL +IN KINGS’ BYWAYS +THE LONG NIGHT +THE ABBESS OF VLAYE +STARVECROW FARM +CHIPPINGE +LAID UP IN LAVENDER +THE WILD GEESE + + + + +THE GREAT HOUSE + +BY +STANLEY J. WEYMAN + +Author of “The Castle Inn,” “Chippinge,” +“A Gentleman of France,” etc., etc. + +NEW YORK + +LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. + +FOURTH AVENUE AND 30th STREET + +1919 + +Copyright, 1919 +BY +STANLEY J. WEYMAN + + + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. The Hôtel Lambert—Upstairs. + CHAPTER II. The Hôtel Lambert—Downstairs. + CHAPTER III. The Lawyer Abroad. + CHAPTER IV. Homeward Bound. + CHAPTER V. The London Packet. + CHAPTER VI. Field and Forge. + CHAPTER VII. Mr. John Audley. + CHAPTER VIII. The Gatehouse. + CHAPTER IX. Old Things. + CHAPTER X. New Things. + CHAPTER XI. Tact and Temper. + CHAPTER XII. The Yew Walk. + CHAPTER XIII. Peter Pauper. + CHAPTER XIV. The Manchester Men. + CHAPTER XV. Strange Bedfellows. + CHAPTER XVI. The Great House at Beaudelays. + CHAPTER XVII. To the Rescue. + CHAPTER XVIII. Masks and Faces. + CHAPTER XIX. The Corn Law Crisis. + CHAPTER XX. Peter’s Return. + CHAPTER XXI. Toft at the Butterflies. + CHAPTER XXII. My Lord Speaks. + CHAPTER XXIII. Blore Under Weaver. + CHAPTER XXIV. An Agent of the Old School. + CHAPTER XXV. Mary is Lonely. + CHAPTER XXVI. Missing. + CHAPTER XXVII. A Footstep in the Hall. + CHAPTER XXVIII. The News from Riddsley. + CHAPTER XXIX. The Audley Bible. + CHAPTER XXX. A Friend in Need. + CHAPTER XXXI. Ben Bosham. + CHAPTER XXXII. Mary Makes a Discovery. + CHAPTER XXXIII. The Meeting at the Maypole. + CHAPTER XXXIV. By the Canal. + CHAPTER XXXV. My Lord Speaks Out. + CHAPTER XXXVI. The Riddsley Election. + CHAPTER XXXVII. A Turn of the Wheel. + CHAPTER XXXVIII. Toft’s Little Surprise. + CHAPTER XXXIX. The Deed of Renunciation. + CHAPTER XL. “Let Us Make Others Thankful.” + + + + +THE GREAT HOUSE + + + + +CHAPTER I +THE HÔTEL LAMBERT—UPSTAIRS + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“_Hola!_” 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.” + +“Very good,” the girl in the window replied pleasantly. “At the same +hour, Joséphine?” + +“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?” + +“The children are walking. I stayed at home.” + +“To be alone? As if I did not understand that! To be alone—it is the +luxury of the rich.” + +The girl nodded. “None but a Pole would have thought of that,” she +said. + +“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 +_ancien régime_, absolutely!” + +The other laughed. “The _ancien régime_, 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——” + +“But Mademoiselle descends!” + +“A cabbage of—foolishness!” + +“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.” + +“There spoke the Pole again,” the girl struck in with a smile. + +“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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER II +THE HÔTEL LAMBERT—DOWNSTAIRS + + +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. + +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. + +“A thousands thanks,” he said, as he bent over it. “But on what, +Princess?” + +“On the success of a friend. On what we have all seen in the _Journal_. +Is it not true that you have won your suit?” + +“I won, yes.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But what, Madame? A bare +title, an empty rent-roll.” + +“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?” + +“And your Thiers?” he returned, with a sly glance at the little man in +the shining glasses. + +“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!” + +“Surely, Princess, you forget our Reform Bill, scarce ten years old.” + +“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!” + +He shrugged his shoulders. “I admit,” he said, “that M. Thiers has an +enthusiasm beyond the ordinary.” + +“You do? Wonderful!” + +“But,” with a smile, “it is, I fancy, an enthusiasm of which the object +is—M. Thiers!” + +“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?” + +“On days of ceremony,” he replied, “Lord Audley of Beaudelays.” + +“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!” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“I saw her some time ago.” + +“I suppose so. You are a man. I dare say you would call her handsome?” + +“I think it possible, were she not in this company. What of her, +Princess?” + +“Do you notice anything beyond her looks?” + +“The picture is plain—for the frame in which I see her. Is she one of +the staff of your school?” + +“Yes, but with an air——” + +“Certainly—an air!” He nodded. + +“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.” + +“Not wearing that dress, I presume?” he said with a faint smile. + +“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, _enragée!_ 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.” + +“The Princess is away?” + +“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!” + +“And of a pride too,” he replied thoughtfully, “if I mistake not. Yet +it is a good face, Princess.” + +She fluttered her fan. “It is a handsome one. For a man that is the +same.” + +“With all this you permit her to appear?” + +“To be of use. And a little that she may be seen by some English +friend, who may tell me.” + +“Shall I talk to her?” + +“If you will be so good. Learn, if you please, what she is.” + +“Your wishes are law,” he rejoined. “Will you present me?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“I am told,” he said, bowing, “that you are my countrywoman. The +Princess thought that I might be of use to you.” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“I think you lost him recently?” He found his task less easy than it +should have been. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +She shook her head. + +“Or your friends? You must have friends?” + +“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.” + +“You are a Roman Catholic, then?” + +“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. + +“And I encroach,” he answered, bowing. “Forgive me! Your father was an +artist, I believe?” + +“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.” + +“But forgive me, you must have some relations in England?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“But when you did not hear from your uncle, did you not tell your +father?” + +“It could do no good,” she said. “And he was dying.” + +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?” + +“Audley,” she said. “Mary Audley.” + +He stared at her. She supposed that he had not caught the name. She +repeated it. + +“Audley? Do you really mean that?” + +“Why not?” she asked, surprised in her turn. “Is it so uncommon a +name?” + +“No,” he replied slowly. “No, but it is a coincidence. The Princess did +not tell me that your name was Audley.” + +The girl shook her head. “I doubt if she knows,” she said. “To her I am +only ‘the English girl.’” + +“And your father was an artist, resident in Paris? And his name?” + +“Peter Audley.” + +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!” + +“But did you know him?” she cried. + +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. + +In her impatience she could have taken him by the sleeve and shaken +him. “Then you do know John Audley?” she said. “My uncle?” + +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?” + +“Yes.” + +“And he did not reply?” + +She nodded. + +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. + +“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.” + +“You!” she cried. + +“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.” + +She colored charmingly. “Is it possible?” she exclaimed. + +“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.” + +“I fear that she may be displeased,” the girl said, wincing a little. +“You have been very kind——” + +“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.” + +“And you”—she looked at him with appeal in her eyes—“will you be good +enough to tell me who you are?” + +“I am Lord Audley. To distinguish me from another of the same name, I +am called Audley of Beaudelays.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Oh,” she said. The name of the uncle who had ignored her appeals fell +on her like a cold douche. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“And a friend,” he answered, holding her hand a little longer than was +needful. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER III +THE LAWYER ABROAD + + +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. + +Audley nodded. “Hallo, Stubbs!” he said carelessly, “not in bed yet?” + +“No, my lord,” the other answered. “I waited to learn if your lordship +had any orders for England.” + +“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. + +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?” + +“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——” + +“But the claimant might try again?” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“To hedge?” the lawyer exclaimed, as if he had never heard the word +before. “I am afraid I don’t understand.” + +“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?” + +“Certainly! Mr. John Audley, the claimant, is also your heir-at-law.” + +“To title and estates—such as they are?” + +“To both, my lord.” + +“Then follow me another step, Stubbs. Failing John Audley, who is the +next heir?” + +“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!” + +“He had a child?” + +“Only one, a daughter.” + +“Would she come in after Mr. John?” + +“Yes, my lord, she would—if living.” + +“I’ve been talking to her this evening.” + +“Ah!” The lawyer was not so simple as he seemed, and for a minute or +two he had foreseen the _dénouement_. “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?” + +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.” + +“And handsome?” + +“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!” + +“God bless my soul!” cried the lawyer, astonished at last. “A +princess!” + +“Who is a good creature as women go, but as likely as not to send her +adrift to-morrow.” + +“Tut-tut-tut!” muttered the other. + +“However, I’ll tell you the story,” Audley concluded. And he did so. + +When he had done, “Well,” Stubbs exclaimed, “for a coincidence——” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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——” + +“A little short of three thousand,” the lawyer muttered. + +“Two thousand five hundred, by God, and not a penny more! If any man +ought to marry money, I am that man, Stubbs!” + +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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +Audley paused, half-way across the room. “I wish we had never leased +the Gatehouse to him!” + +“It’s not everybody’s house, my lord. It’s lonely and——” + +“It’s too near Beaudelays!” + +“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.” + +“I shall always believe that he had a reason for going there!” + +“He had an idea that it strengthened his claim,” the lawyer said +indulgently. “Nothing beyond that, my lord.” + +“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: + +“‘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.”’” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“What is it?” + +“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——” + +“Is willing to go with the party, eh, Stubbs?” + +“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!” + +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!” + +“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!” + +“With your help, anyway, Stubbs,” my lord said with a smile. The +lawyer’s excitement amused him. + +“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——” + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“You want me to speak to Mottisfont?” + +“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.” + +Audley shrugged his shoulders. “The party is satisfied,” he said. “And +Mottisfont? I can’t drive the man.” + +“No, but a word from you——” + +“Well, I’ll think about it. But I fancy you’re overrunning the scent.” + +“Then the line is not straight!” the lawyer retorted shrewdly. +“However, if I have been too warm, I beg pardon, my lord.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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!” + + + + +CHAPTER IV +HOMEWARD BOUND + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Now, young lady,” he said, “no woman’s allowed on deck at night!” + +“Oh, but,” she protested, “there’s no room downstairs!” + +“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!” + +“But I’ve a cloak,” she petitioned, “if I sit quite still, and——” + +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.” + +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. + +“Lord Audley?” Mary said. She spoke quietly, but to do so she had to +steady her voice. + +“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.” + +“Oh, but,” she remonstrated, “I don’t think you should have done that! +I don’t know that I can——” + +“Afford it?” he said coolly. “Then—as it is a matter of some +shillings—your kinsman will presume to pay for it.” + +It was a small thing, and she let it pass. “But who told you,” she +asked, “that I was crossing to-night?” + +“The Princess. You don’t feel, I suppose, that as you are crossing, it +was my duty to stay in France?” + +“Oh no!” she protested. + +“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!” + +She smiled. “I think the tea and bread and butter may turn the scale,” +she said. + +“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.” + +“Is it possible that they were?” she asked shrewdly. “Well, why not?” + +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. + +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. + +“What is it?” Mary asked. + +“Not much.” He laughed to himself. + +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. + +“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!” + +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?” + +“It is. We are in for a rough night, I’m afraid.” + +“And—pardon me,” the stranger hesitated, peering at them, “is that Miss +Audley with you?” + +“Yes,” Mary said, much surprised. + +“Oh!” + +“This is Mr. Basset,” Audley explained. Mary stared at the stranger. +The name conveyed nothing to her. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Oh yes!” he answered. “I think I will go down then if you—if you are +sure you want nothing.” + +“Nothing, thank you,” Mary answered with decision. + +“I think I—I’ll go, then. Good-night!” + +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. + +“Oh, don’t!” Mary cried. “He will hear you. And it was kind of him to +look for me when he was not well.” + +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!” + +“Three hundred miles to meet me!” she cried in astonishment. + +“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!” + +And my lord’s laughter broke out anew. + + + + +CHAPTER V +THE LONDON PACKET + + +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. + +“His wife’s nephew. Your uncle married a Basset.” + +“But why did he send him to meet me?” + +“For a simple reason—I should say that he had no one else to send. Your +uncle is not a man of many friends.” + +“I understood that some one would meet the boat in London,” she said. +“But I expected a woman.” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well?” he said at last. + +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.” + +“Except the head of your family.” + +“Except you! I suppose that I owe it to you that I am here?” + +“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.” + +“But you said something?” + +“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.” + +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. + +When they were settled anew, she asked him to tell her something about +the Gatehouse. + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“And I am not a princess! But tell me, please, what are they?” + +“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, ‘_Shall +the people’s bread be taxed?_’ 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.” + +“Surely,” she said, “there can be only one answer to that.” + +“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.” + +“I begin to see.” + +“‘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.” + +“But does no one try to find the answer?” she asked timidly. “Try to +find out what is best for the people?” + +“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!” + +Mary sighed. “I am afraid that I must give it up,” she said. “I am so +ignorant.” + +“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!” + +“To me it is like a new world,” she said. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Thank you,” she answered. + +“You shouldn’t miss it,” he persisted. “Greenwich especially!” + +“I shall be there,” she replied. “It is very good of you. Good-night.” + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Horrid thing, _mal de mer!_” remarked my lord, with a gleam of humor +in his eye. + +“Thank you, I am quite right this morning,” Basset answered. + +“You go from Euston Grove, I suppose?” + +“Yes. The morning train starts in a little over an hour.” + +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. + +Basset disdained to refuse. “I will do it,” he said. He received the +keys and followed the baggage. + +Audley looked at Mary and laughed. “I think you’ll find him useful,” he +said. “Takes a hint and is not too forward.” + +“For shame!” she cried. “It is very good of him to go.” But she could +not refrain from a smile. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Everything?” Lord Audley echoed. “He should do nothing,” in a lower +tone, “if I had my way.” + +Mary blushed. + + + + +CHAPTER VI +FIELD AND FORGE + + +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. + +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 _Morning +Chronicle_, made his observations and took note of her at his leisure. +The longer he looked the more he marvelled. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You will see for yourself in a few hours,” he replied, his tone cold +and almost ungracious. “Did not Lord Audley describe him?” + +“No. And you seem,” with a faint smile, “to be equally on your guard, +Mr. Basset.” + +“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.” + +She colored. + +“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.” + +“I am sorry.” + +He shrugged his shoulders. “It cannot be said to be unnatural, after +what has happened.” + +She considered this. “What has happened?” she asked after a pause. + +“Well, the claim to the peerage, if nothing else——” + +“What claim?” she asked. “Whose claim? What peerage? I am quite in the +dark.” + +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.” + +“I know nothing of it,” she said. “I never heard of the claim.” + +“Really?” he replied. He hardly deigned to veil his incredulity. “Yet +if your uncle had succeeded you were the next heir.” + +“I?” + +“Yes, you.” + +Then her face shook his unbelief. She turned slowly and painfully red. +“Is it possible?” she said. “You are not playing with me?” + +“Certainly I am not. Do you mean that Lord Audley never told you that? +Never told you that you were interested?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“No doubt,” she said dryly. “But I do not understand why he did not +answer my letters.” + +“Did you write to him?” + +“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? + +“He cannot have had the letters,” Basset decided after a pause. + +“Then how did he come to write to me at last?” + +“Lord Audley sent your address to him.” + +“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. + +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. + +“What a dreadful place!” she exclaimed. + +“Well, it is not beautiful,” Basset admitted. “One does not look for +beauty in Birmingham and the Black Country.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“It is well named,” she answered. “Is there anything in England worse +than this?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +“I was very quiet in Paris.” + +“But you were in a large house.” + +“I was at the Princess Czartoriski’s.” + +“Of course. I suppose it was there that you met Lord Audley?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, after that kind of life, I am afraid that the Gatehouse will +have few charms for you. It is very remote, very lonely.” + +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.” + +“But if that were so,” he stammered, “how did you——” + +“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.” + +“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. + +She is very clever, he thought, or she is—good. But for the moment he +steeled himself against the latter opinion. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Well, let us get off now.” + +“I ask no better, Squire. Please yourself and you’ll please me.” + +When they were shut in, Basset laughed. “Stafford manners!” he said. +“You’ll become used to them!” + +“Is this my uncle’s carriage?” she asked. + +“No,” he replied, smiling in the darkness. “He does not keep one.” + +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. + +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. + +“What is this?” she asked, shivering. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Are we there?” she asked, a tremor in her voice. + +“Very nearly,” he said. “Another mile and we shall be there. This is +Beaudelays Park.” + +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. + +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! + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VII +MR. JOHN AUDLEY + + +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. + +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.” + +“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?” + +“I didn’t say so.” + +“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!” + +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. + +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.” + +“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 _him!_ 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.” + +“I don’t suppose that he’s given a thought to her in that way,” Basset +answered. “Why should he?” + +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. + +“I am sorry,” Basset said. + +“Ay, ay. But be a good lad. Be a good lad. Make up your mind to help me +at the Great House.” + +Basset shook his head. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“That I’d——” John Audley broke off. “What is it, Toft?” he asked over +his shoulder. + +A man-servant, tall, thin, lantern-jawed, had entered unseen. “I came +to see if you wanted anything more, sir?” he said. + +“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?” + +“She was in great distress when she wrote.” + +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. + +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.” + +“Damn!” said Basset. “For God’s sake, don’t begin it all again. I’ve +told you that I’ve not the least intention——” + +“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.” + +“Have you gone any farther?” Basset asked, forcing an interest which +would have been ready enough at another time. + +“I might have, but I had a visitor.” + +Visitors were rare at the Gatehouse, and Basset wondered. “Who was it?” +he asked. + +“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.” + +“But Mottisfont is a Tory,” Basset objected. + +“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!” + +“I see.” + +“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?” + +Basset smiled. “What did he say to that?” + +“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.” + +“Ah!” + +“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!” + +“Well, you didn’t hide your feelings.” + +“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!” + +“I’ve told you that I will have nothing to do with it!” Basset +repeated. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +He went to bed. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII +THE GATEHOUSE + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +“Oh no,” he said. And then, “You’ve not been farther than this?” + +“No. I am afraid my uncle is waiting?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“It was very good of you,” she said. Her face was not gay now. “Does +Lord Audley live there—when he is at home?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +It crossed his mind that she was talking for effect. “It is only a +house after all,” he said. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Is Mr. Audley coming down?” Basset asked. + +“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.” + +“I am afraid I do,” Mary confessed. + +“Yes, we will begin,” Basset said. He invited her to make the tea. + +When they were seated, “You like the room?” + +“I love it,” she answered. + +“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.” + +“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. + +As it was, he waited for her to avow her misgiving—he was prepared to +encourage her. But she said nothing. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“I think,” she said, “I was a little afraid of you, sir.” + +“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?” + +The change in his voice struck her. The servant had come in quietly. +“Mr. Basset, sir, has lost——” + +“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?” + +“It is charming!” she cried with enthusiasm. + +“It has only one drawback,” he said. + +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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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: + + +And thereon hung a broch of gold ful schene +On which was first i-written a crowned A +And after that, Amor vincit omnia. + + +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. + +She was charmed. “Of all your illustrations,” she cried, “I prefer this +one! It is very old, I suppose?” + +“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.” + +“It must be very rare?” she said, her eyes sparkling. + +“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.” + +“And it came to you by descent, sir?” + +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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER IX +OLD THINGS + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“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.” + +And of dark sayings: + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“The Prince of Wales’s? No!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“The King of Bohemia.” + +“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.” + +“By Jove, sir!” Basset exclaimed, “I believe you are right!” + +“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.’” + +“But that,” Basset interposed, “was Queen Anne of Bohemia—she died +seven years before. There you get Bohemia again!” + +“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.” + +Basset clapped his hands. Mary beat applause on the table. “Hurrah!” +she cried. “Audley for ever!” + +“Miss Audley,” Basset said, “Toft shall bring in hot water, and we will +have punch!” + +“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?” + +Mary curtseyed. “Why not, my lord?” she said. “Peter it shall be—Peter +who keeps the keys that you discover!” + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“Yes, Miss.” + +“Something that no one has known for hundreds of years! Think of that!” + +“Indeed, Miss.” + +Provoked, Mary took a new line. “Etruria,” she asked, “are you happy?” + +The girl did not answer. + +“Don’t you hear me? I asked if you were happy.” + +“I am content, Miss.” + +“I did not ask that. Are you happy?” + +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.” + +“You strange girl!” Mary cried, taken aback. “What do you mean?” + +But Etruria was silent. + +“Come,” Mary insisted. “You must tell me what you mean.” + +“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.” + +Balaam when the ass spoke was scarcely more surprised than Mary. “Why?” +she asked. + +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.” + +“Etruria!” + +“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!” + +“Don’t!” Mary cried. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“But what has caused things to be so bad?” + +“Some say one thing and some another. But most that machines lower +wages, Miss, and the bread-tax raises food.” + +“Ah!” Mary said. And she looked more closely at the girl who knew so +much that was at odds with her station. + +“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——” + +“Yes?” Mary said, seeing that she hesitated. + +“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!” + +Mary had an inspiration. “Etruria,” she cried, “some one has been +teaching you this.” + +The girl blushed. “Well, Miss,” she said simply, “it was at church I +learned most of it.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Oh!” Mary replied. “A meeting-house!” + +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.” + +“And you go?” + +“When I can, Miss.” + +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. + +“And you’ve a sermon?” Mary said. “What was the text last Thursday, +Etruria?” + +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.’” + +“Gracious, Etruria!” Mary cried. “Is that in the Bible?” + +Etruria nodded. + +“And what did your preacher say about it?” + +“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.” + +“Etruria,” Mary said. “To-morrow is Thursday. I shall go with you to +Brown Heath.” + + + + +CHAPTER X +NEW THINGS + + +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. + +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 + + +Tools were made, and born were hands, +Every farmer understands. + + +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 _Gazette_. In the gloomy +cities of the North, masses of men heaved and moaned as the sea when +the south-west wind falls upon it. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“It’s a dog-fight,” Etruria said. “They are rare and fond of them, +Miss. We’d best get by quickly.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, + + +Which seeketh not itself to please +Nor for itself hath any care, +But for another gives its ease, + + +if that were followed by all, then all + + +Might build a heaven in hell’s despair. + + +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!” + +It seemed as if he had done. He was silent; his hearers waited. Then +with an effort he continued: + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +“Would you have me take it,” the young man answered, “and not do the +work, Cluff? Never fear for me.” + +“Dunno you be rash, master!” the other rejoined, clutching his sleeve +and detaining him. “You be sure——” + +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. + +“Are we so late?” The sun had set, but it was still light. “We’d best +hurry,” Etruria persisted, increasing her speed. + +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.” + +“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. + +“Etruria!” he cried. + +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. + +“It is no use,” she said. + +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. + +“This is—my mistress,” Etruria said. + +“Miss Audley?” + +“I am Miss Audley,” Mary announced, wondering much. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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!” + +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?” + +Mary had an inspiration. “Does Etruria’s father know?” she asked. + +“He knows and approves,” the young man replied, his eyes bent fondly on +his mistress. + +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. + +“After all,” she said at last, “it is for Etruria to decide.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“I have seen enough,” Mary answered, “to know that.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“You may cut cheese with an onion knife,” Etruria said coldly. “I don’t +know that people like it.” + +“I know nothing better than onions in the right place,” he replied. + +“That’s not in cheese,” she rejoined, to Mary’s amusement. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Good-bye, Etruria,” he said. And then to Mary, “I hope that I have +made a friend?” + +“I think you have,” she answered. “I am sure that you deserve one.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You coward!” she cried. “You coward! I am Miss Audley! Do you hear! +Leave him! Leave him, I say!” + +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!” + +“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. + +“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!” + +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?” + +“Murder!” cried Etruria shrilly. “Help! Help!” + +“Help!” cried Mary. She still kept her face to the men, but for the +first time she began to know fear. + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +“Is he dead?” the new-comer asked in a different tone. + +“Ay, dead!” Etruria echoed. “Dead!” + +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!” + +Etruria sprang to her feet. She stepped back as if the ground had +opened before her. + +“I’m not—hurt,” Colet added weakly. + +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.” + +“He’s Mr. Colet of Riddsley,” Mary said. + +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?” + +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.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XI +TACT AND TEMPER + + +He looked at Etruria, and Mary explained who she was. + +“I am afraid that she is hurt.” + +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!” + +“Are you sure, Etruria?” Mary asked with concern. + +“It is nothing, indeed, Miss,” the girl repeated. She was trying with +shaking fingers to put up her hair. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“But are you not going?” Mary cried. + +“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.” + +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. + +When they were fairly started, “How did it happen?” he asked. + +Mary told the story, but said no word of Etruria’s romance. + +“Then you were not with him when they set on him?” + +“No, we had parted.” + +“And you went back?” + +“Of course we did!” + +“It was imprudent,” he said, “very imprudent. If we had not come up at +that moment you might have been murdered.” + +“And if we had not gone back, Mr. Colet might have been murdered!” she +answered. “What he had done to offend them——” + +“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?” + +“Perhaps so,” Mary answered. “He may be. But is he to be murdered for +that? From your tone one might think so.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“Most opportune,” Mary answered. “And from my point of view very +fortunate!” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“Ungrateful!” + +“I?” she replied. “But it was Etruria who was in danger!” + +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. + +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. + +The voice was Basset’s, and Mary’s spirits sank. She felt that the +meeting was ill-timed. “Yes,” she answered. + +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?” + +“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.” + +“Lord Audley!” Basset was taken by surprise and his tone was much as if +he had said, “The devil!” + +“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!” + +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! + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +For awhile the three who remained trudged homewards in silence. Then, +“What happened to you?” Basset asked grudgingly. + +Vexed and indignant, Mary told the story. + +“I did not know that you knew Mr. Colet!” + +“When a man is being murdered,” she retorted, “one does not wait for an +introduction.” + +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?” + +Mary did not deign to reply. + +Baffled, he sought for another opening. “I do not know what your uncle +will say.” + +“Because we rescued Mr. Colet? And perhaps saved his life?” + +“No, but——” + +“Or because Lord Audley rescued us?” + +“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.” + +“I shall tell him the moment I reach the house,” she declared. + +“You will be very unwise if you do.” + +“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.” + +He muttered humbly that he was sorry—that he only meant—— + +“Please leave it there,” she said. “Enough has been said.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Where is my uncle?” she asked, as she stood in the open doorway. + +Basset looked over her shoulder. He saw that the room was empty. “He +may have gone to look for us.” + +“And Toft?” + +“And Toft, too, I suppose.” + +“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! + +“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.” + +She had not the strength to resist. “Very well,” she said. “Are you +going to look for them?” + +“Perhaps Mrs. Toft will know where they are.” + +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. + +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!” + +“And yet—you won’t marry him, you foolish girl?” + +“Oh no, no!” + +“Although you love him!” + +“Love him!” Etruria murmured, her face burning. “It is because I love +him, Miss, that I will never, never marry him.” + +Mary wondered. “And yet you love him?” she said, raising the candle so +that its light fell on the other’s face. + +Etruria looked this way and that way, but there was no escape. In a +very small voice she said, + + +“Love seeketh not itself to please +Nor for itself hath any care!” + + +She covered her hot cheeks with her hands. But Mary took away the hands +and kissed her. + +“Oh, Miss!” Etruria exclaimed. + +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!” + + + + +CHAPTER XII +THE YEW WALK + + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“You’d better go and see.” + +“But where’s Toft?” + +Basset’s temper gave way at that. “God knows!” he said. “He ought to be +here—and he’s not!” He went out. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Under a foot, he fancied; and he waited. In two or three minutes the +moon would rise. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Basset advanced. “Is that you, sir?” he asked. + +“D—n!” John Audley replied out of the darkness. He halted, breathing +quickly. + +“I say d—n, too!” Basset replied. As a rule he was patient with the old +man, but to-night his temper failed him. + +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?” + +“To see that you don’t come to harm,” Basset retorted. “As you +certainly will one of these nights if you come here alone.” + +“Well, I haven’t come to harm to-night! On the contrary—— But there, +there, man, let us get back.” + +“The sooner the better,” Basset replied. “I nearly put out an eye as I +came.” + +John Audley laughed. “Did you come through the yews in the dark?” he +asked. + +“Didn’t you?” + +“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?” + +“Let us get home,” Basset snapped. + +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.” + +“You’d have stayed there!” + +“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——” + +“And I don’t want to know—here!” Basset replied. “When you are safe at +home, you may tell me what you like.” + +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.” + +“Where were you,” Basset asked sharply, “when I came in?” John Audley +was too tired to speak. + +“I had stepped out at the front to look for the master,” Toft replied. +“I fancied that he had gone out that way.” + +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.” + +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. + +In the end, however, the man had to go, and Audley leant forward to +speak. + +“Wait!” Basset muttered. “He is coming back.” + +“How do you know?” + +Basset raised his hand. The door opened. Toft came in. “I forgot to +take your boots, sir,” he said. + +“Well, take them now,” his master replied peevishly. When the man had +again withdrawn, “How did you know?” he asked, frowning at the fire. + +“I saw him go to take your boots—and leave them.” + +Audley was silent for a time, then “Well,” he said, “he has been with +me many years and I think he is faithful.” + +“To his own interests. He dogged you to-night.” + +“So did you!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“If I am to choose,” Basset replied, “I would rather not know. You know +my views.” + +“I know that you didn’t think I should do it? Well, I’ve done it!” + +“Do you mean that—you’ve found the evidence?” + +“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.” + +“And you’ve been in the room?” + +“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.” + +“And it was empty?” + +“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!” + +“They had removed the papers?” + +“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!” + +“Then what have you gained?” Basset asked. + +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.” + +“And that’s what you’ve had in your mind all this time?” Basset said. +“Do you think it was done?” + +“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 _is bricked up_, 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.” + +“And still there may be nothing there to help you.” + +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.” + +“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——” + +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?” + +“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.” + +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?” + +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?” + +Audley’s color faded, he seemed to shrink into himself. “Where did you +see him?” he faltered. + +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.” + +The other took out his silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. “As near +as that,” he muttered. + +“Ay, and if he had found you at the house, he might have guessed your +purpose.” + +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!” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Shooting, I suppose. But there was some talk in Riddsley of his coming +down to stir up old Mottisfont.” + +“What about?” + +“Against the corn-law repeal, I suppose.” + +Audley nodded. But after a while, “That’s a pretext,” he said. “And so +is the shooting. He has followed the girl.” + +Basset started. “Followed Mary!” he exclaimed. + +“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!” + +“I’ve not said that I meant to do it.” + +“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. + +“Why should he put in his oar?” Basset asked sullenly. His face had +turned a dull red. + +John Audley shrugged his shoulders. “Do you think that she is without +attractions?” + +“But Audley lives in another world.” + +“The more likely to have attractions for her!” + +“But surely he’ll look for—for something more,” Basset stammered. + +“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.” + +“I take it that he does think himself safe.” + +“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!” + +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! + + + + +CHAPTER XIII +PETER PAUPER + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 + + +“Build a Heaven in Hell’s despair!” + + +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 + + +“Each for another gave his ease,” + + +then it seemed equally plain that love would indeed be lord of all! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Poor Etruria!” she meditated. “Or should it be, happy Etruria? Who +knows? I only know that I am heart-whole!” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +But she was out of sympathy with him. “It is nothing,” she said. “We +were all tired, I think. Etruria is not down yet.” + +“But I want to ask your——” + +“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.” + +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——” + +“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——” + +“I don’t.” + +“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.” + +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. + +Presently, “You will not need to tell your uncle about Lord Audley,” he +said. “I’ve done it.” + +“I hope you told him,” she answered gravely, “that we were indebted to +Lord Audley for our safety.” + +“You don’t trust me?” + +“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——” + +“But this is a special occasion?” + +She looked at him. “If you wish us to be friends——” + +“I don’t,” he answered roughly. “I don’t want to be friends with you.” + +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.” + +She escaped before he could answer. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +She stiffened. “I came to see my uncle,” she said. + +“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.” + +“But, Mr. Basset——” + +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?” + +“But we have only just parted,” she remonstrated, struggling against +her fate. “I don’t understand what you want——” + +“To say? No, I am going to explain it—if you will sit down.” + +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. + +He went to the fire, stooped and moved the wood. “You won’t come +nearer?” he said. + +“No,” she replied. How foolish to trap her like this if he thought to +get anything from her! + +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.” + +No, she could not retain her hardness. She knew that she was going to +feel pity after all. But she would not speak. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“No?” he said, keeping his eyes on her face. “And then, you don’t doubt +that I love you?” + +“No.” The flush had faded from her face and left her pale. “I don’t +doubt that—now.” + +“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.” + +She did not answer, but the color mounted again to her face. + +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?” + +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.” + +“But now,” he said, “cannot you regard me differently—now! Now that you +know? Cannot you begin to think of me as—a lover?” + +“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.” + +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. + +She did not answer. She rose to her feet. + +“Is there any one else?” he repeated, a new note in his voice. He moved +forward a step. + +“You have no right to ask that,” she said. + +“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?” + +“No,” she said. + +“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?” + +“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!” + +“And I am to be cast aside, I am to be discarded without a reason?” + +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?” + +“At least,” he said huskily, “I do no harm.” + +“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!” + +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! + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +“I did,” she cried. “I did! But I was wrong. Utterly wrong!” + +“No,” he said, “you were not wrong. The truth was best.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV +THE MANCHESTER MEN + + +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. + +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. + +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, _cui bono?_ 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? + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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! + +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! + +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. + +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. + +“What is it?” Basset asked. + +“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!” + +“Her’d rather die than go!” cried a girl. + +“D—n them and their Bastilles!” exclaimed a younger man. “Are we free +men, or are we not?” + +“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!” + +“Ay, you’re at home there, Bet!” a voice in the crowd struck in, and +the laugh that followed lightened matters. + +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?” + +“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.” + +“Ay, d—n all new laws!” cried another. “Poor laws and pit laws we’re +none but the worse for them!” + +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!” + +“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——” + +“Easy, woman, easy!” + +“Woman, dang you! You call me woman——” + +“Now, let go, Bet! You’ll be in trouble else!” some one said. + +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?” + +“Who be you, master?” the constable asked. “You’d best let us do our +duty.” + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“Mr. Colet knows the old woman?” Basset asked. + +“Sure, sir, the curate knows her.” + +“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.” + +“So long as she don’t come on the rates, sir?” + +“She’ll not come on the rates for six months,” Basset said. “I’ll be +answerable for so much.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“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. + +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?” + +“No, Musters, what is it? Get a clean glass and tell me about it.” + +“He’s to resign, sir, I hear. And his son is to stand.” + +“Why?” + +“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.” + +“Do you think it is true about Peel?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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?” + +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?” + +Musters’s face fell. “Lord, Mr. Stubbs,” he said, “have you heard of +them?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“I don’t know about that,” Stubbs replied. “He’s a good landlord, but +he likes his own way.” + +“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.” + +“Perhaps it is,” Basset said. + +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.” + +“But, dang me, sir, what am I to do?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +“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——” + +“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!” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“And I suppose the wages at that time were the highest you’ve ever +known?” + +“Well, no,” the farmer admitted, “I’m not saying that.” + +“And seven years ago when wheat was seventy-seven—it is fifty-six +now—were wages higher then than now?” + +“Well,” the Duke answered reluctantly, “I don’t know as they were, +mister, not to take notice of.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Well, but——” + +“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. + +“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?” + +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?” + +“No wheat will ever be grown at that price,” declared the free trader +with solemnity, “here or abroad!” + +“So you say!” cried Hayward. “But put it at forty-five. We’ll be on the +rates, and our laborers, where’ll they be?” + +“I don’t like such talk in my house!” said Musters. + +“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!” + +“The laborers? Well, they’re protected now, that’s true.” + +“Lucky for them!” cried two or three. + +“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!’” + +“Dang his impudence!” muttered old Hayward. “That’s the kind of thing +they two Boshams at the Bridge talk. Firebrands they be!” + +But the shot had told; no one else spoke. + +“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?” + +“I don’t know as I have,” the farmer answered sulkily—and in a lower +voice, “Dang his impudence again!” + +“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!” + +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!” + +“Anyway,” the stranger replied patiently, “it’s clear that neither the +farmer nor the laborer grows fat on Protection. Your wages are nine +shillings——” + +“Ten and eleven!” cried two or three. + +“And your farmers are smothered in rates. If that’s all you get by +Protection I’d try another system.” + +“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!” + +“Hear! Hear! Musters! Quite right!” + +“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?” + +“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——” + +“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!” + +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.” + +“Devil a doubt of that!” muttered the farmer. + +“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.” + +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!” + +“I won’t say,” said Mr. Pepper cautiously, “that there’s nothing in +it.” + +“Plenty in it for the cotton people and the coal people, and the +potters. But not for us!” + +“But if Sir Robert sees it that way?” queried the surgeon, delicately. + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Going?” cried two or three, speaking at once. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Serves Colet right!” said one. “But I’m sorry for him all the same. +There’s worse men than the Reverend Colet.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XV +STRANGE BEDFELLOWS + + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +The curate seemed to shrink into himself. “I couldn’t trespass on you,” +he said. + +“I hope you will,” Basset replied. “In the meantime, who was the man +you quoted a few minutes ago?” + +“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.” + +“I will see him.” + +“He has been a tailor.” + +That hit Basset fairly in the face. “Good heavens!” he said. “A +tailor?” + +“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.” + +Basset nodded. “You have thought a good deal on these things,” he said. + +“I live among the poor. I have them always before me.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“I know all that is necessary.” + +“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.” + +“Good Lord!” cried Basset. This was a second and more serious blow. It +brought him down from the clouds. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“Miss Audley knows of it.” + +“But—you cannot yourself think it suitable!” + +“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?” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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, + + +“Wootton under Weaver +Where God came never!” + + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI +THE GREAT HOUSE AT BEAUDELAYS + + +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. + +The house, indeed, was not only dead. It had never lived. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“There is, my lord. But I fear that it is out of repair.” + +“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.” + +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: + +“Non sine sole volo!” + + +“Just so!” he said. “A short life and a merry one!” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Faugh!” Audley cried. “Open a window! Break one if necessary.” + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +The younger man advanced to one of the panels in the wall. “A hunting +scene?” he said. “These may be worth money some day.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“The parents slept in the outer and the young ladies in the inner,” +Audley said, smiling. “Gad! it tells a tale of the times!” + +Stubbs opened the nearest door and recoiled. “Take care, my lord!” he +said. “Here are the bats!” + +“Faugh! What a smell! Can’t you keep them out?” + +“We tried years ago—I hate them like poison—but it was of no use. They +are in all these upper rooms.” + +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. + +“There’s nothing beyond these rooms?” + +“No.” + +“Then let us go down. Rats and bats and rottenness! _Non sine sole +volo!_ We may not, but the bats do. Let us go down! Or no! I was +forgetting. Where is the Muniment Room?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“Yes,” the other answered dryly. “But—when were you here last, Stubbs?” + +“Not for a twelvemonth, my lord.” + +“Leave your candle?” + +“No.” + +“Then what’s that?” The young man pointed to something that lay in the +angle between a stair and the wall. + +“God bless my soul!” the lawyer cried. “It’s a candle.” + +“And clean. It has not been there a week. Who has been here, my +friend?” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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!” + +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.” + +My lord frowned. “Who is it?” he asked. + +“Some one, I fear, who has had a key made,” the agent answered, shaking +his head, + +“I can see that for myself. But has he learned anything?” + +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!” + +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?” + +Stubbs looked, passed his hand over the mark on the wall, effaced it. +“No, my lord, a cobweb,” he said. “Nothing.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +He walked towards the middle of the lawn and Stubbs, thankful that he +wore Wellington boots, followed him. + +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. + +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——” + +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. + +Even Stubbs held his breath. Even he felt that there was something +uncanny and ominous in the appearance. For the gazer was John Audley. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII +TO THE RESCUE + + +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!” + +“I suppose it is John Audley?” + +“Yes.” Then raising his voice, “My lord! I don’t think I would go to +him now!” + +But Audley was already striding across the lawn towards the gate. The +lawyer hesitated, gave way, and followed him. + +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. + +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.” + +“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——” + +“Still——” + +“D—n him, it’s his affair!” + +“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. + +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. + +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.” + +“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?” + +“Right!” Audley cried. + +“And don’t lose a minute, my lord! He’s nearly gone.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +Audley nodded. “I am come for some brandy,” he gasped. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“No,” Toft answered—and she became aware that the man with Lord Audley +was the servant. + +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?” + +“We can bring it to the park at the end of the walk,” he answered. “My +agent has gone to fetch it.” + +“Will you hasten it?” she replied. “Toft will stay with me. And bring +something, please, on which you can carry him to it.” + +“At once,” Audley answered, and he went off in the direction of the +Great House. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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——” + +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. + +The servant’s manner shocked Mary. “Hush, Toft!” she said. “Do you want +to startle him?” + +“His lordship will startle him,” Toft retorted. He looked over his +shoulder, and without ceremony he signed to Lord Audley to stand back. + +“Bare, quite bare!” John Audley muttered, his mind still far away. “But +if they took out—if they took out——” + +Toft waved his hand again—waved it wildly. + +“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. + +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.” + +Mary reproached herself. “You are quite right, Toft,” she said. “I +ought to have thought of that myself.” + +“He must not see any strangers!” + +“He shall not. You are quite right.” + +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?” + +“Hush! Toft. Why——” + +“He mustn’t see the lawyer! He must not see him on any account.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“I’ll ask them to do that,” Mary said. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Will you add one kindness then?” she answered. “Will you send Dr. +Pepper as quickly as possible?” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“Thank you,” he said. “Until to-morrow!” + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII +MASKS AND FACES + + +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. + +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 _grain de +beauté_ 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. + +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. + +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? + +_Sic itur ad astra!_ So men and women begin to love. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You bring a good report, I hope?” he cried before they met. + +“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.” + +“That is good!” + +“He says, too, that if you had not acted so promptly, my uncle must +have died.” + +“Well, he was pretty far gone, I must say.” + +“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. + +He pressed it discreetly. “I am glad,” he said. “Very glad. Perhaps +after this he may think better of me.” + +She laughed. “I don’t think that there is a chance of it,” she said. + +“No? Well, I suppose it was foolish, but do you know, I did hope that +this might bring us together.” + +“You may dismiss it,” she answered, smiling. + +“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?” + +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.” + +“But forced? By what?” Lord Audley asked. “I don’t understand.” + +“I don’t understand either,” Mary answered. + +“He could not know that we were there?” + +“But he seems to have known.” + +“Strange,” he murmured. “Does he often stray away like that?” + +“He does, sometimes,” she admitted reluctantly. + +“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?” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“Not for a moment,” she retorted. + +“Perhaps—you thought of Mr. Basset?” + +“No, nor of Mr. Basset. Had he been at the Gatehouse I might have. But +he is away.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“I thought that we were talking of you.” + +On that, “I am afraid that I must be going back,” she said. And she +stopped. + +“But I am going back with you!” + +“Are you? Well, you may come as far as the Cross.” + +“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’?” + +“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. + +“But we are cousins.” + +“Then you can call me cousin,” she answered. + +He laughed. “Beaten again!” he said. + +“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.” + +“You frighten me!” he said. “What is it?” + +“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——” + +“He has one eloquent friend.” + +“Don’t laugh at me!” she cried. + +“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?” + +“To use your influence for him,” Mary explained, “either with the +rector to keep him or with some one else to employ him.” + +“I see.” + +“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?” + +“It seems a hard case.” + +“It is more, it is an abominable injustice!” she cried. + +“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?” + +“I had not looked at it in that way.” + +“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.” + +“No,” Mary allowed reluctantly. “Perhaps not.” + +“And again—I have nothing to say against Colet. It is enough for me +that he is a friend of yours——” + +“I have a reason for being interested in him. I am sure that if you +heard him——” + +“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?” + +Mary nodded. “Have you formed any opinion yourself?” she asked. + +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.” + +“Sometimes,” she ventured, “imprudence is a virtue.” + +“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.” + +“A cousin may much when he is Lord Audley.” + +“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——” + +“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?” + +“You would make me think so!” he exclaimed. + +“Believe me, they are.” + +“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!” + +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.” + +“When shall I see you again?” he asked, trying to detain her. + +“Some day, I have no doubt. But good-bye now! And don’t forget Mr. +Colet! Good-bye!” + +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. + +“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!” + +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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX +THE CORN LAW CRISIS + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +Audley looked at him with displeasure. “Who’s resigned?” he asked +coldly. + +“Peel!” + +Against that news the young man was not proof. He caught the infection. +“Impossible!” he said, rising to his feet. + +“It’s true! It’s in the _Morning Post_, 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!” + +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?” + +“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!” + +“Well,” Audley said slowly, “he might have done one thing worse. He +might have stayed in and passed repeal himself!” + +“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!” + +“Well?” Audley said. “There’ll be an election, I suppose?” + +“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!” + +Audley pondered. “I suppose Riddsley is safe,” he said. + +“As safe as Burton Bridge, my lord!” + +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?” + +Stubbs opened his eyes. “Went over?” he ejaculated. + +“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?” + +“Not a jot!” the lawyer answered sturdily. + +“Not even if the two Mottisfonts sided with Peel?” + +“If they did the old gentleman would never see Westminster again,” +Stubbs cried, “nor the young one go there!” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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!” + +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.” + +Stubbs stared. “There’s nothing to find,” he said. “Nothing, my lord! +You may be sure of it.” + +“He goes there.” + +“It’s a craze.” + +“It’s a confoundedly unpleasant one!” + +“But harmless, my lord. Really harmless.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“But such a document would be fatal?” + +“If it fulfilled the conditions it would be serious,” the lawyer +admitted. “But it does not exist,” he added confidently. + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“The old way?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +Here, in fact, was the moment, if he was the man. + + + + +CHAPTER XX +PETER’S RETURN + + +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. + +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 “_Old +Postilion_.” + +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? + +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! + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +Basset murmured that it was. + +“The Whigs have a fine opportunity,” the other pursued. “But I am not +sure that they will use it.” + +“You are a Whig, perhaps?” + +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.” + +“Ah?” Basset rejoined, curiosity beginning to stir in him. “That’s +rather a fine idea.” + +“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.” + +“There’s a good deal of that, I suppose.” + +“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. + +“Has Lord John formed his ministry, then?” + +“No, I am not sure that he will. I am not thinking of him, I am +thinking of Peel.” + +“Oh! Of Peel?” + +“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.” + +“And you think,” Basset said—the other’s story had won his +respect—“that Peel has found himself in such a position?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“You have had interesting experiences?” + +“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!” + +“I see.” + +“If a man in that position puts self, consistency, reputation all +behind him—believe me, he is doing a fine thing.” + +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.” + +“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?” + +“Well,” Basset said frankly, “I am not much of a party-man myself. I am +inclined to agree with you, so far.” + +“Then if you have any influence, use it. Unfortunately, I am out of it +for family reasons.” + +Basset looked at the stranger. “You are not by any chance Colonel +Mottisfont?” he said. + +“I am. You know my brother? He is member for Riddsley.” + +“Yes. My name is Basset.” + +“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.” + +“True, worse luck. Your brother is retiring, I hear?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“You have done something to-day,” Basset said. “You have done me good.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +The man, sallow with fear, tried to brave it out. + +“You will only make mischief, Miss,” he said sullenly. “You’ll come +near to killing the master.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Straight!” Mary cried in scorn. “And you listen at doors!” + +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——” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“Do you mean that—you would do nothing?” + +“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.” + +“You mean that?” she exclaimed. + +“I do.” + +“But—but I have spoken to Toft!” Her eyes were bright with anger. + +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.” + +“And I am to take no notice?” + +“I believe that will be your wisest course.” + +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. + +And still she protested. “But I must tell my uncle!” she cried. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI +TOFT AT THE BUTTERFLIES + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +There have been more sordid and more selfish ambitions. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Haven’t you heard?” + +“No. What’s the news?” + +“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.” + +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! + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“From the Gatehouse?” he asked, after a leisurely survey. + +“Yes, my lord,” Toft answered respectfully. “I was with Mr. Audley when +he was taken ill in the Yew Walk.” + +“To be sure! I thought I knew your face. You’ve a letter for me?” + +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.” + +Audley raised his eyebrows. “Business?” he said. “Isn’t it Mr. Stubbs +you want to see?” + +“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. + +“Well, be quick,” Audley replied. Then in a different tone, “You don’t +come from Miss Audley?” + +“No, my lord.” + +“Then what is it?” + +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.” + +There was a pregnant pause. “Oh!” the young man said at last. “And you +come—to sell it?” + +Toft nodded, unable to speak. Yet he was getting on as well as could be +expected. + +“Rather an unusual position, isn’t it?” + +“Yes, my lord.” + +“The information should be unusual?” + +“It is, my lord.” + +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?” + +“Mr. Audley’s claim, my lord.” + +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?” + +“I think not, my lord.” + +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.” + +“Mr. Audley has found——” + +“Found, eh?” raising his eyebrows. + +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.” + +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. + +“Mr. Audley thinks otherwise.” + +“But he has not seen them?” + +“He knows what’s in them, my lord. He has been searching for them for +weeks.” + +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?” + +“Five hundred pounds, my lord.” + +The other laughed, and Toft did not like the laugh. “Indeed? Five +hundred pounds? That’s a good deal of money!” + +“The information is worth that, or it is worth nothing.” + +“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?” + +“I do, my lord.” + +“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.” + +Toft stood irresolute. He thought hard. + +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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Yes, my lord.” + +“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!” + +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.” + +“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?” + +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! + +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. + +He knew that he was cornered, and he lost his countenance and his +manners. He swore. + +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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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? + +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. + +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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII +MY LORD SPEAKS + + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +He stood. “Miss Audley!” he cried. + +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. + +“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.” + +“And you have walked in?” + +Smiling, she showed him her boots. “And I am presently going to walk +out,” she said. + +“You will never do it?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +He rang Dr. Pepper’s bell. An awestruck apprentice, who had watched the +interview through the dusty window of the surgery, showed himself. + +“Be good enough to send the medicine for Miss Audley to Mrs. +Jenkinson’s,” Audley said. “You understand?” + +“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.” + +“Oh, Lord Audley!” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“I don’t know, and I don’t care!” he replied, swinging his walking +cane, and smiling as he towered above her. + +“He may go hang—for once!” + +She hesitated. “It is very good of you,” she said. “I confess I did not +look forward to the walk back. But——” + +“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!” + +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. + +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? + +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!” + +“And the tea and cake!” she replied. “After five miles who would not be +glad to meet them?” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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——” + +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!” + +“I am not sure that it would be proper,” the spinster demurred. + +“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——” + +“My dear sister!” + +“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!” + +“What did she call him?” Miss Sarah asked. + +“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.” + +“You don’t say so?” Sarah cried. + +“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!” + +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. + +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? + +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. + +Mary remonstrated. “Oh, don’t get down, please!” she cried. “Please! It +is nothing to the house from here.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +She could not find a word. When he went on his tone was lower. + +“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?” + +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. + +“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!” + +She tried to fence with him. “I have not a penny,” she faltered. + +“I don’t ask you for a penny.” + +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!” + +“That’s my business! If that be all—if there’s no one else——” + +“No, there’s no one else,” she admitted. “But——” + +“_But_ be hanged!” he cried. “If there’s no one else you are mine.” And +he passed his arm round her. + +For a moment she stepped back. “No!” she protested, raising her hands +to push him off. “Please—please let me think.” + +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?” + +“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?” + +She stood silent, gazing at him. + +“Don’t play with me!” he said. “I’ve a right to an answer.” + +“I think I do,” she said softly. “Yes—I think—no, wait; that is not +all.” + +“It is all.” + +“No,” between laughing and crying. “You are not giving me time. I want +to think. You are carrying me by storm, sir.” + +“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. + +“You little wretch!” he said. + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII +BLORE UNDER WEAVER + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +“I am not hungry, Mrs. Toft,” Mary said meekly. “I drove back to the +foot of the hill.” + +“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.” + +“But that’s good news! Has Mr. Colet got some work?” + +“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.” + +“Mr. Basset.” + +“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!” + +“It is very good of Mr. Basset,” Mary said gravely. And then, “Is that +some one knocking, Mrs. Toft?” + +“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!” + +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. + +Alone, in her room, she opened it, and her eyes grew serious as they +travelled down the page, which bore signs of haste. + +“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. + +“Write to me at the Brunswick Hôtel, Dover Street. Sweetheart, I am +yours, as you, my darling, are + +“Philip’s. + +“_P. S_.—I must put off any communication to your uncle till I can see +him. So for the moment, mum!” + +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. + +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. + +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 _amende_. + +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. + +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? + +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! + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +The curate stared, and muttered an apology. It was true that he did not +wear the chain of obligation with grace. + +“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!” + +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. + +It was short. + +“Dear Mr. Basset,” 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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“I am, truly yours, + +“Mary Audley.” + +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. + +Mr. Colet leapt in his chair. “Mr. Basset!” he cried. And then, in a +different tone, “You have bad news, I fear?” + +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!” + +“Swearing makes no news better,” Colet said mildly. + +“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?” + +“God forbid!” the clergyman cried in horror. + +“What would you do then?” + +“Try so to live, Mr. Basset, that we might meet again!” + +“Rubbish, man!” Basset retorted rudely. “Try instead not to be a prig!” + +“If I could be of use?” + +“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?” + +“Much when the curtain falls,” the poor clergyman ventured. + +“Well, I’ll go and eat something. Hunger is one more grief!” And Basset +went out. + +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?” + +He found the letter and read it listlessly. He tossed it across the +table to his guest. “News is plentiful to-day,” he said. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Well?” Basset asked. “What do you think?” + +“It opens a wide door.” + +“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.” + +“It is better to lose in some causes than to win in others.” + +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.” + +“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!” + +“Possibly.” + +“The call came, he had to answer it. Here is a call to you.” + +“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.” + +“_Non sine pulvere!_” Mr. Colet murmured. + +“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!” + +“And how will you——” + +“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!” + +“Just so,” said Mr. Colet. And prudent for once he said no more. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV +AN AGENT OF THE OLD SCHOOL + + +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 _volte face_ 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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“That is so,” said Mr. Mottisfont. + +“I will see that that is embodied in Mr. Mottisfont’s address,” Stubbs +continued. “There must be no mistake. These are queer times——” + +“Sad times!” said the rector, shaking his head. + +“Terrible times!” said the maltster, shaking his. + +“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——’” + +“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?” + +All were agreed. + +“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.” + +“That’s all then, is it?” said the London man, sticking his glass in +his eye with a sigh of relief. + +“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.” + +“I think you’ve forgotten one thing, Mr. Stubbs,” said old Hayward, +with a twinkle. + +“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.” + +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. + +“It is, sir,” Musters said, much pleased. + +“I thought it was—none better!” said young Mottisfont, also pleased. +“The old Duke drinks no other.” + +“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. + +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. + +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.” + +“Ay, ay. I suppose Master George was in the West End? Wasting his time, +Bagenal, I’ll be bound.” + +“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!” + +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?” + +“He did. And in a thundering temper my lord looked.” + +“Ay, ay! Well I told him how it would be.” + +“They were going in and out like bees, George said.” + +“Ay, ay.” + +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.” + +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.” + +Stubbs shrugged his shoulders. “For repeal in Riddsley?” he said. +“You’re dreaming.” + +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. + +“Some methodist parson!” + +Farthingale shook his head. “Guess again, sir,” he said. “You’re cold +at present. It’s a bird of another feather.” + +“A pretty big fool whoever he is!” + +“Mr. Basset of Blore. I have it on good authority.” + +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.” + +The clerk looked wise. “It’s true,” he said. “It cost me four goes of +brown brandy at the Portcullis.” + +“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.” + +“No. He’s an old bird is Hatton.” + +“But I don’t see where Squire Basset comes in.” + +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!” + +“What score?” + +“Ah, I’m not saying that. Mr. John Audley’s may be—against his +lordship.” + +“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!” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV +MARY IS LONELY + + +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. + +“You didn’t forget——” Mary was beginning, and then, “Why, Etruria,” she +exclaimed, “I believe you have seen Mr. Colet?” + +Etruria blushed like the dawn. “Oh no, Miss!” she said. “He’s at +Blore.” + +“To be sure! Then what is it?” + +“I’ve heard some news, Miss,” Etruria said. “I don’t know whether +you’ll be pleased or not.” + +“But it is certain that you are!” Mary replied with conviction. “What +is it?” + +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. + +“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.” + +Mary hardly knew what her feelings were. “Mr. Basset?” she said at +last. “I can hardly believe it.” + +“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.” + +“Mr. Colet?” Mary repeated—she did not know why she disliked the +notion. “Why do you think that?” + +“He’s been at Blore,” Etruria murmured. “Mr. Basset has been so good to +him.” + +“Mr. Basset has a mind of his own,” Mary answered sharply. “He is quite +capable of forming his own opinion.” + +“Of course. Miss,” Etruria said, abashed. “I should have known that.” + +“Yes,” Mary repeated. “But what was it they were saying of Mr. Basset +in the market, Etruria? Not that it matters.” + +“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.” + +“Against Lord Audley?” Mary cried. And she blushed suddenly and +vividly. “Why? What has he to do with it?” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Through the narrow opening she had a glimpse of her uncle, who was on +his feet before the fire. He was fully dressed. + +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. + +“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. + +“What is it?” he cried, his face averted. “Who is it?” + +“It is only I, sir,” she replied. “Mary.” She closed the door. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“It’s nothing very terrible,” she answered, smiling. “Nothing to alarm +you, uncle. Won’t you sit down?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“But——” + +“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!” + +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 +_him_ 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. + +Thoroughly alarmed, she tried to soothe him. “But I am sure, sir,” she +said, “Mr. Basset would never——” + +“Basset!” + +“I’m sure he never dreamt——” + +“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——” + +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.” + +Mary was shocked, and yet she felt that she could not go without a +word. “Dear uncle,” she said, “you wish me to go?” + +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.” + +“I am very sorry I disturbed you,” she said. “I won’t do it again. You +were right, Toft. Good-night.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +And then she slept. + +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. + +“Can I come in, Miss?” + +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. + +“Maybe not much,” the woman answered cautiously. “I hope not, Miss, but +I had to tell you. The Master is missing.” + +“Missing?” Mary exclaimed, the blood leaving her face. “Impossible! +Why, I saw him, I was in his room last evening after nine o’clock.” + +“Toft was with him up to eleven,” Mrs. Toft answered. Her face was +grave. “But he’s gone now?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI +MISSING + + +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. + +“Where is Toft?” Mary asked. + +“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. + +Mary controlled herself. “And Etruria?” she asked. + +“She’s searching outside the house. If she does not find him she is to +run over to Petch the keeper, and bring him.” + +“Quite right,” Mary said. “Did Toft take any brandy?” + +“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.” + +“You’re sure you’ve looked everywhere in the house?” + +“As sure as can be, Miss! More by token, I’ve some coffee ready for you +in the parlor.” + +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. + +“Now,” Mary said, “tell me about it, please—from the beginning.” + +“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.” + +“What time was that?” + +“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.” + +“Well?” Mary said gravely. “And when did you miss him?” + +“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.” + +Mrs. Toft paused heavily—not without enjoyment. + +“Yes,” Mary said anxiously, “and then?” + +“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.” + +“And what then?” Mary asked. Twice she had looked through the door, but +to no purpose. + +“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.” + +“Shouldn’t he be back by now?” + +“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!” + +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.” + +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. + +Mary scanned them anxiously. “Have they found him?” she murmured. + +“No,” Mrs. Toft said. “If they’d found him, one would have stopped with +him.” + +“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. + +As soon as the three were within hearing, “You’ve not found him?” Mary +cried. + +“No, Miss,” Etruria answered. + +“Nor any trace?” + +“No, Miss. My father has been as far as the iron gate, and found it +locked. It was no use going on.” + +“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.” + +“Then where is he?” Mary cried, aghast. She looked from one to the +other. “Where can he be, Toft?” + +Toft raised his hands and let them fall. It was clear that he had given +up hope. + +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.” + +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. + +“’T would take a day to search the park,” the keeper muttered. “And a +dozen men, I’m afeared, to do it thoroughly.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +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!” + +“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.” + +“I ought to have stayed with him,” Toft repeated. That seemed the one +thought in his mind. + +“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?” + +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——” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“He was dressed then?” she exclaimed. + +Toft eyed the things. “Yes, Miss, I’ve no doubt he was,” he said +despondently. “His overcoat’s gone.” + +“Then he meant to leave the house?” Mary cried. + +“God save us!” + +“He’s taken his silver flask too,” Etruria said in a low voice. She was +examining the dressing-table. “And his watch.” + +“His watch?” + +“Yes, Miss.” + +“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?” + +Toft inspected the table, raised the pillow, felt under the bolster. +“No, Miss,” he said; “he’s taken them.” + +“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?” + +The man shook his head. “Not that I heard, Miss,” he said. + +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?” + +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!” + +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!” + +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——” + +“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.” + +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. + +“And Mr. Basset?” Mrs. Toft murmured. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII +A FOOTSTEP IN THE HALL + + +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!” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“But then if he is alive!” Mary cried. “Think of another night!” + +“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!” + +“Where’s Toft?” Mary asked. + +“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!” + +“You don’t think,” Mary asked, “that he knows more than he has told +us?” + +The question took Mrs. Toft aback. “Why, Miss,” she said, “you don’t +mean as you think he was putting on this morning?” + +“No,” Mary answered. “But is it possible that he knows the worst and +does not tell us?” + +“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!” + +“It’s all so strange,” Mary pleaded. “My uncle is gone. Where has he +gone?” + +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.” + +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. + +“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!” + +Petch held out a silver flask. + +“It’s the Master’s, sure enough,” Mrs. Toft said. + +“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!” + +“I don’t think as you could ha’ missed it, Mr. Petch,” the finder said, +“it was that bright and plain!” + +“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. + +“Not that long,” said Tom. + +“No, not that long, the lad’s right,” Petch added. “I warrant I must +have seen it.” + +“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.” + +“But I don’t understand,” Mary answered. “If it was not there, this +morning——” + +“I don’t understand neither, lady,” the keeper rejoined. “But it is on +my mind that there’s foul play!” + +“Oh, but,” Mary protested, “who—why should any one hurt my uncle?” + +“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——” + +“May he not have dropped it—this afternoon?” Mary suggested. “Suppose +he wandered that way after you passed?” + +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.” + +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. + +“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. + +Mrs. Toft saw how it was, and came to the rescue. “What’s Toft say +about it?” she asked. + +“Ay, to be sure, missus,” Petch agreed. “I dunno as he’s said anything +yet.” + +“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.” + +“It couldn’t have been overlooked, Mr. Toft,” the keeper replied +firmly. “I speak as I know!” + +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.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +The others murmured their sympathy as they trooped out into the +darkness. Mrs. Toft bustled away for the tea, and Mary was left alone. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +At last, “How long they are!” Mary cried. “What are they doing? Are +they never——” + +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! + +“Oh!” she cried. “You are here! How—how good of you!” + +“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.” + +“But the meeting?” she asked fearfully. Was he only come to go again? + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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?” + +“No! But how did you guess?” she asked in surprise. + +“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.” + +“I don’t understand,” she said. + +“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. + +“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?” + +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——” + +“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?” + +Toft opened his mouth, but he seemed unable to speak. He nodded. + +“What about the flask?” + +“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.” + +“I see. That’s enough now. Be ready to start at once.” + +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——” + +“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.” + +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. + +* * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“I am glad of that!” + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII +THE NEWS FROM RIDDSLEY + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +And he smiled as he recalled the poor figure Basset had cut as a squire +of dames. + +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. + +“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. + +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! + +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! + +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. + +Audley was still swearing, when his man came in. “Will you wear the +black velvet vest, my lord?” he asked, “or the flowered satin?” + +“Go to the devil!” his master cried—so furiously that the man fled +without more. + +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. + +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! + +Or, no. Stubbs had indeed done his best to ruin him, but he had saved +himself. He turned with relief to Mary’s letter. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX +THE AUDLEY BIBLE + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“And much good that will do us,” my lord growled, “in certain events, +Mr. Stubbs!” + +“At any rate it will be a sharp lesson to me,” Stubbs replied. “It has +cost Mr. Audley his life.” + +“He had no right to be there!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“My lord?” + +“Who was with him?” Lord Audley rapped the table with his fingers. +“That’s the point, sir! Who was with him?” + +“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.” + +“Ha!” the other exclaimed, “I expected that!” + +Stubbs raised his eyebrows. “You know him, my lord?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“How the devil do you know that?” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“And here it is!” + +“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.” + +Audley steadied his voice with difficulty. “And what is its effect?” he +asked. + +“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.” + +“And John Audley found that?” my lord cried, after a moment of pregnant +silence. He had regained his composure. His eyes were shining. + +“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.” + +“Good Lord! Good Lord! And how did you get it?” + +“From Mr. Basset.” + +“Basset?” + +“Who obtained it, I have no doubt, from the man, Toft, either by +pressure or purchase.” + +“The rascal! The d—d rascal! He ought to be prosecuted!” + +“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.” + +“Still—the man ought to be punished!” + +“He ought, but if any one has paid for his silence or for this book, it +is not we.” + +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. + +And presently the talk passed to the election. + +“There’s no doubt,” Stubbs said, “that Mr. Basset is a stronger +candidate than either side expected.” + +“But he’s no politician! He has no experience!” + +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!” + +“Is he a speaker?” + +“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!” + +“He almost converted you?” + +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.” + +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——” + +“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.” + +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! + +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. + +“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.” + +“What of them?” the other asked impatiently. + +“Well, I’m afraid they’ll not support us.” + +“Do you mean that they’ll not vote for Mottisfont?” + +“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.” + +“And that is, to go out!” Audley said. “Well, make that quite clear to +them, Stubbs, and depend upon it—they’ll see differently.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +Stubbs rose. “I don’t know if your lordship’s heard about Mr. John’s +will!” + +“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. + +“He has left the young lady eight thousand pounds.” + +“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!” + +“The residue goes to Mr. Basset.” + +“Basset!” Audley cried, his face flushed with passion. “To Basset?” he +repeated. “Good G—d!” + +“So I’m told, my lord,” the lawyer answered, staggered by the temper in +which his employer received the news. + +“But Miss Audley was his own niece! Basset? He was no relation to him!” + +“They were very old friends.” + +“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——” + +“Not thirty, my lord,” Stubbs ventured. “Not much above twenty, I +should say. If you put it——” + +“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.” + +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! + + + + +CHAPTER XXX +A FRIEND IN NEED + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +“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. + +She tried to fence with him. “I am afraid,” she said, “that some +formalities will be necessary before he can do that.” + +“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?” + +“Yes.” + +“She’d come at a word. I know it’s not my business——” + +“Or you would go about it, I am sure,” she replied gently, “with as +much respect to my wishes as Lord Audley shows.” + +“Your wishes? But why—why do you wish——” + +“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 _his_ friend, whose kindness has never failed me, whose loyalty +has never—” she broke down there. She could not go on. + +“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. + +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.” + +“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?” + +“Yes, to-morrow.” + +“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. + +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—— + +But he had no thought of touching her. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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! + +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. + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“Thank you, Mrs. Toft,” he said quietly. + +“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!” + +“Yes, Mrs. Toft.” + +“And speaking of elections reminds me. You know they two Boshams of the +Bridge End, sir?” + +“I know them. Yes.” + +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.” + +“If you mean that they have promised to vote for me——” + +“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.” + +“It’s a hard case,” Basset said. “But what can I do?” + +“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!” + +“But you’d like cheap bread?” Basset said, smiling. + +“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!” + +“I’m afraid I can’t promise,” he answered. “I’ll see!” + +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, + + +That seeketh not itself to please +Nor of itself hath any care, + + +would remain with him. + +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:— + + +The man who hails you Tom or Jack +And proves by thumps upon your back + +How he esteems your merit! + +Who’s such a friend that one had need +Be very much his friend indeed + +To pardon or to bear it! + + +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! + +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. + +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. + +“Shut your door, Bosham,” Basset said. “I want a word with you.” + +And when the man had done this, he stooped from the saddle and said a +few words to him in a low voice. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“But ha’ you thought,” the man exclaimed, “that our two votes may make +the differ? That they may make you or mar you, Squire!” + +“Well, I’d rather be marred than see you put out of your place,” Basset +answered. “Think it over, Bosham.” + +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!” + +“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.” + +“I’d chop my foot off first!” cried the patriot. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI +BEN BOSHAM + + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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!” + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +“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!” + +“Milk?” ejaculated a stout man of many acres, whose contempt for such +traffic was above speech. + +“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?” + +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!” + +“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!” + +“And a hard bargain, too, as I hear,” said Willet. + +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. + +“You leave me alone, Mr. Willet,” he said angrily, “and I’ll leave you +alone!” + +“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!” + +“Did it smart, Ben?” cried a lad who had poked himself in between his +betters. + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“Ay, that’s Ben’s line,” said the new-comer. + +“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!” + +“Ben Bosham, the laborers’ friend!” the man retorted. + +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!” + +“I don’t know about that,” said the big farmer slowly and weightily. +“I’m feared yo’re a bit of a rascal, Ben.” + +“Ay, and fine he’ll look in front of Stafford Gaol some morning!” said +Willet. “At the end of a rope.” + +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! + +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. + +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. + +“My lord,” he cried, waving his hat impudently. “I want to know what +you be going to do about me?” + +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.” + +“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? + +“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——” + +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!” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII +MARY MAKES A DISCOVERY + + +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. + +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. + +“Yes,” she answered. But she spoke more soberly than he expected and +her face was grave. “You have been a long time away.” + +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. + +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?” + +“I thought you would propose that,” she said. “I am so glad that it is +fine.” + +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?” + +“I think it was,” she said. “He has been gone so very short a time. +Perhaps it was foolish of me.” + +“Not at all!” he answered, admiring the purity of her complexion. “It +was like you.” + +“If we had told him, it would have been different.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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——” + +“I hope I should have done as much,” he replied complacently. “But it +was impossible.” + +“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. + +But to assume a warmth which she did not feel was another matter. This +was beyond her. + +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?” + +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. + +“Yes—to Beaudelays. But don’t be afraid. Not to the house.” + +“Oh no!” she cried. “I don’t think I could bear to go there to-day!” + +“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.” + +“I have never been beyond the Iron Gate.” + +“And all these months within a mile!” + +“All these months within a mile. But he did not wish it. It was one of +the first things he made me understand.” + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“Perhaps I wished to be taken there by you.” + +“By Jove! Do you know that that is the most lover-like thing you have +said.” + +“I may improve with practice,” she rejoined. “Indeed, it is possible,” +she continued demurely, “that we both need practice!” + +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——” + +“I didn’t find fault!” + +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. + +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.” + +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?” + +“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. + +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!” + +“My darling!” + +“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. + +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.” + +“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! + +She tried to take the same tone. “I know I am silly,” she said, “but +you took me by surprise.” + +“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——” + +“If I could sit down?” she murmured. Then he saw that the color had +again left her cheeks. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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! + +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. + +“Come!” he said, “come, Mary, you will catch cold sitting there! One +might suppose I was an ogre!” + +She smiled wanly. “Oh no!” she said, “It is I—who am foolish. Please +forgive me.” + +“If you would like to go back?” + +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!” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +Involuntarily Mary spoke. “Oh, it is terrible!” she cried. + +“It is terrible,” he answered gloomily. + +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!” + +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.” + +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. + +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!” + +“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!” + +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. + +At last she spoke. “And this is Beaudelays?” she said. + +“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?” + +“Have you never thought of—of doing anything to it?” she asked timidly. + +“Do you mean—have I thought of completing it? Of repairing it?” + +“I suppose I meant that,” she replied. + +“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!” + +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!” + +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.” + +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. + +“I believe that you think more of your uncle than of me!” he cried. + +“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. + +“Yes,” he replied. “But you must be more kind to me—or I don’t know +that you will keep me.” + +She thought that he spoke in jest, and she pressed his arm. + +“You don’t want to go into the house?” + +“Oh no! I could not bear it to-day.” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII +THE MEETING AT THE MAYPOLE + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + + +Child, is thy father dead? + +Father is gone. + +Why did they tax his bread? + +God’s will be done! + + +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. + +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. + +“What? All nine?” he cried. “Impossible, man! The woman’s made a fool +of you!” + +But Farthingale merely looked at him over his steel-rimmed spectacles. +“It’s true,” he said. + +“I’ll never believe it!” cried the lawyer. + +Farthingale shook his head. “That won’t alter it,” he said patiently. +“It’s true.” + +“Dyas the butcher! Why, he served me for years! For years! I go to him +at times now.” + +“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!” + +“But they’ve always voted right!” Stubbs urged, with a sinking heart. +“What’s taken them?” + +“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.” + +Stubbs groaned. At last, “How much?” he asked. + +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.” + +“Well,” the lawyer cried, “of all the d—d ingratitude I ever heard of! +The money Dyas has had from me!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +At last, “Who could get at Dyas?” he muttered. + +Farthingale pondered for a time, but shook his head. “No one,” he said. +“You might try Hayward if you like. They deal.” + +“What’s to be done, then?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“But to different minds the same words do not convey the same thing,” +Basset urged. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +The crowd greeted the appearance of each of the principals with cheers +and a shaft or two of Stafford wit. + +“Hooray! Hooray!” shouted Hatton’s men as he climbed into the cart. + +“Hatton’s a great man now!” a bass voice threw in. + +“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. + +“Hurrah for Banfield and the poor man’s loaf!” shouted his supporters, +as he mounted in his turn. + +“It’s little of the crumb he’ll leave the poor man!” squeaked the +treble. + +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. + +As the music ceased, “What’s he doing, Tommy, along o’ these chaps?” +asked the treble voice. + +“He’s waiting for that there Samaritan, Sammy?” answered the bass. + +“Ay, ay? And the wine and oil, Sammy?” + +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. + +“Where’s your eyes?” whined the treble. “He’s the big loaf! and, lor, +ain’t he crumby!” + +“If I were down there——” the Burnley man began, leaning over the side +of the cart. + +“He’s crusty, too!” cried the wit. + +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!” + +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. + +“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!” + +“The cart you mean!” cried a voice, “you’re in the cart!” + +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——” + +“Better go on with it!” + +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.” + +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!” + +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. + +“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!” + +“Hear! Hear! Hear! Hear!” Then, “What about the miller?” + +“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——” + +“Ay, Hatton’s profits! Hands off them!” roared the bass voice. + +“Low bread and high profits!” shrieked the treble. “Hatton and thirty +per cent!” + +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!” + +“Regular old Puseyite you be,” shouted a new tormentor. “Quoting +Scripture.” + +Hatton shook his fist at the crowd. “A low, dirty insinuation!” he +cried. “I scorn——” + +“You don’t scorn the profits!” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +But Brierly was unaware of them, and, complacent and confident of the +effect he would produce, he opened his mouth. + +“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——” + +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. + +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. + +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——” + +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: + + +You’ve here the little Peeler, + +Out of place he will not go! + +But to keep it, don’t he turn about + +And jump Jim Crow! + + + +But to keep it see him turn about + +And jump Jim Crow! + +Turn about, and wheel about + +And do just so! + + + + +_Chorus_ + + + +The only dance Sir Robert knows + +Is Jump Jim Crow! + +The only dance Sir Robert knows + +Is Jump Jim Crow! + + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Let them come on!” cried the Manchester man, “I’m not afraid.” + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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!” + +“Who makes cloth o’ devil’s dust?” yelled another. “Yah! You d—d +cotton-spawn!” + +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. + +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!” + +“What is it?” asked a dozen voices. + +“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!” + +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.” + +“But we’re not enough,” a man protested. + +“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!” + +“Well done, Squire!” cried Brierly. “You’re a man!” + +“Ay, but I’m not man enough to take you!” Basset retorted. “You stay +here, please!” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV +BY THE CANAL + + +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. + +“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——” + +“I hope so,” Mary said gently. + +“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!” + +“I think that the house is Mr. Basset’s,” Mary explained, “for the rest +of the lease; that’s about three years.” + +“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.” + +“Yes, Mrs. Toft,” Mary said quietly. “I suppose so.” + +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!” + +Mary stooped and carefully put a piece of wood on the fire. + +“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.” + +Mary turned. “Is Petch—couldn’t Petch go down and——” + +“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.” + +“Is he doing that?” Mary asked in a small voice. + +“To be sure,” Mrs. Toft returned. “What else! Which reminds me, Miss, +are those papers to go to the bank to-day?” + +“I believe so.” + +“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!” + +“I think I will go,” Mary said. + +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. + +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. + +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 + + +Those glories of our blood and state, + + +which to women are not shadows, she had made this mistake, and now, +self-tricked, she had only herself to blame if + + +Sceptre and crown +Were tumbled down + +And in the dust were lesser made +Than the poor crooked scythe and spade! + + +But to see her folly did not avail. What was she to do? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Alas, she had been right. She would never forget it! + +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. + +“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?” + +“I hope no one will be hurt.” + +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!” + +“I hope they won’t do anything to——” + +“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!” + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +But in the laughter, as in the hooting, there was, after each of these +pauses, a more savage note. + +“What is it?” Mary cried, as the driver, scared by the sight, pulled up +his horse. “What is it?” + +“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!” + +“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. + +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!” + +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. + +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!” + +“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. + +“You’re a fool meddling in this!” cried a voice. “We’re only going to +wash the devil!” + +“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——” + +“We’re only going to wash him, lady,” whined one of the men who held +him. + +“That’s all, lady!” chimed in half-a-dozen. “He wants it!” + +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!” + +“And sarve him right!” shouted half-a-dozen at the rear of the crowd. +“Sarve him right, the devil!” + +“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!” + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV +MY LORD SPEAKS OUT + + +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. + +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! + +“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?” + +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!” + +“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!” + +“But they were going to throw him into the canal!” she protested. + +“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!” + +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——” + +“I can see that.” + +“And he was so terrified that it was dreadful to see him! They were +handling him brutally, horribly! And then I came up and——” + +“And lost your head!” he said. “I dare say you thought all this. But do +you know anything about elections?” + +“No——” + +“Have you ever see an election in progress before?” + +“No.” + +“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!” + +“If you had seen them,” she said, “I do not think you would speak as +you are speaking.” + +“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—” + +“Would have saved me from it?” + +“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!” + +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. + +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! + +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?” + +“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.” + +“Perhaps we have neither of us considered the relation quite enough?” +she said. + +“I am not sure that we have.” And again, “I am not sure, Mary, that we +have,” he repeated more soberly. + +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. + +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! + +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.” + +“Indeed?” she said. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“How long have you felt this?” she asked. + +“For some time,” he replied, measuring his words, “I have been coming +slowly—to that conclusion.” + +“That I am not fitted to be your wife?” + +“If you like to put it so.” + +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?” + +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!” + +“You would——” + +“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?” + +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. + +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!” + +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.” + +“And you think I will let you go at a word?” + +“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 +_malgré moi_.” + +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?” + +“Look in the glass!” he answered impudently. + +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!” + +“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! + +“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.” + +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. + +“I think you can leave with safety,” Audley said with irony. “I will +see you downstairs.” + +“I will not trouble you,” she answered. + +“But, surely, we may still be friends?” + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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! + +“What do you give him when he’s tired?” she asked. + +“Well,” the driver replied with diplomacy, “times a quart of ale, Miss. +He’ll take it like a Christian.” + +“Then a quart of ale he shall have to-night!” she said with a happy +laugh. “And you shall have one, too, Simonds.” + +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!” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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.’” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI +THE RIDDSLEY ELECTION + + +The riot at Riddsley found its way into the London Press, and gained +for the contest a certain amount of notoriety. The _Morning Chronicle_ +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 _Morning Herald_ 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! + +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. + +Alas, Audley felt that the Whip’s summer, and + + +The friendly beckon towards Downing Street, +Which a Premier gives to one who wishes +To taste of the Treasury loaves and fishes, + + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Stubbs grunted. “Will it change a vote?” he growled. + +“Change a——” + +“Will it change a vote, man? You heard what I said.” + +“Lord, no!” the clerk answered. “I never said it would!” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +As to the potato famine, he did not believe a word of it. He called the +Premier, “Potato Peel!” + +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. + +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. + +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, + + +With blustering, bullying, and brow-beating, +A little pummelling and maltreating, +And elbowing, jostling and cajoling, + + +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. + +“Hurrah! Hurrah! Mottisfont for ever! Basset! Basset and the Big Loaf! +Basset! Basset! Hurrah! Mottisfont! Hurrah!” + +Then, in a short-lived silence, “Ten to one on Mottisfont! Three cheers +for the Duke!” and a roar of laughter. + +Or a hundred voices would raise + + +John Barley-corn, my Joe, John! +When we were first acquaint! + + +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, + + +Child, is thy father dead? + +Father is gone! + +Why did they tax his bread? + +God’s will be done! + + +or with the quicker, + + +Oh, landlords’ devil take + +Thy own elect I pray! + +Who taxed our cake, and took our cake, + +And threw our cake away! + + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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——” + +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! + +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. + +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: + +Mottisfont . . . 41 +Basset . . . . 30 + +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: + +Mottisfont . . . 60 +Basset . . . . 57 + +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. + +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. + +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: + +Basset . . . . 87 +Mottisfont . . . 83 + +Vote for Basset and the Big Loaf! + +Basset wins! + +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? + +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. + +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! + +At half—past five the figures were, + +Basset . . . . 87 +Mottisfont . . . 86 + +There were still fourteen votes to poll, and on the face of things +victory hung in the balance. + +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 + +Mottisfont . . . 96 +Basset . . . . 87 + +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. + +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?” + +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.” + +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?” + +“We hold the seat, my lord,” Stubbs said. + +“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!” + +“My lord——” + +“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!” + +“If your lordship thinks so——” + +“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——” + +“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——” + +“As you think it!” + +“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.” + +“The next election!” Audley muttered scornfully. For the moment he was +too angry to play a part or to drape his feelings. + +“But if your lordship is dissatisfied——” + +“Dissatisfied? I am d—nably dissatisfied.” + +“Then your lordship has the power,” Stubbs said slowly, “to dispense +with my services.” + +“I know that, sir.” + +“And if you do not think fit to take that step, my lord——” + +“I shall consider it!” + +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. + +Audley looked at the card longer than was necessary and under cover of +the pause regained control of himself. “Who brought this?” he asked. + +“A messenger from the Swan, my lord.” + +“Tell him——” He broke off. Holding out the card for Stubbs to take, “Do +you know anything about this?” he asked. + +Stubbs returned the card. “No, my lord,” he said coldly. “I know +nothing.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Very good, my lord,” Stubbs answered. And nothing more being said, he +took himself off. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII +A TURN OF THE WHEEL + + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +The other raised his eyebrows. “You are sure that it concerns me?” + +“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.” + +Audley set his broad shoulders against the mantel-shelf. “But if the +facts don’t affect me?” he said. + +“In a way they do. Not as they might under other circumstances. That is +all.” + +“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?” + +“A little time ago you recovered, if you remember, your Family Bible.” +“Well? What of that?” + +“I have just learned that the man did not hand over all that he had. He +kept back—it now appears—certain papers.” + +“Ah!” Audley’s voice was stern. “Well, he has had his chance. This +time, I can promise him a warrant will follow.” + +“Perhaps you will hear me out first?” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“What is the date?” Stubbs asked. + +“Seventeen hundred and four.” + +“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.” + +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!” + +Basset moved in his chair as if he would rise. Stubbs intervened. + +“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——” + +“He has let himself be used as a catspaw!” Audley cried. His face was +flushed and there was an ugly look in his eyes. + +“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——” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Yes,” Basset replied. “Or, rather, it would be of vital import to you +in other circumstances.” + +“In what other circumstances? What do you mean?” + +“If you were not about to marry the only person who, with you, is +interested.” + +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! + +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?” + +“I have.” + +“And read it?” + +“I have.” + +“It appears to you—I only say it appears—to be genuine?” + +“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——” + +The lawyer raised his hand. “Too fast,” he said. “You say it was found! +You mean that this man says it was found?” + +“Yes.” + +“Precisely. But there is a difference. Still, we have cleared the +ground. Now, what does this deed purport to be?” + +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.” + +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. + +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!” + +“But the lady was his cousin,” Basset said. + +“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.” + +“But that variance bears out the deed, which is to secure the younger +sons’ rights while covering the reputation of the lady.” + +The lawyer shook his head. “Very clever,” he said. “But, frankly, the +matter has an ugly look, Mr. Basset.” + +“Lord Audley says nothing,” Basset replied, nettled by the lawyer’s +phrase. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Stubbs nodded. “Very proper,” he replied. “And where, in the meantime, +is this—precious document?” + +“I lodged it with Mr. Audley’s bankers this afternoon.” + +Stubbs nodded again. “Also very proper,” he said. “Just so.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +“Good-night, and believe me,” my lord added warmly, “we recognize the +friendliness of your action.” + +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. + +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? + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII +TOFT’S LITTLE SURPRISE + + +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!” + +Mary had her own feelings, but she concealed them. “He must know how it +was going when he left?” she said. + +“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!” + +“But Mr. Basset is for Repeal,” Mary said. + +“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!” + +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. + +“And why not?” Mary asked. + +“I will never marry him to disgrace him,” Etruria replied. She stood +with bowed head, her hands clasped before her, her beautiful eyes +lowered. + +“But you love him?” Mary said, blushing at her own words. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“But you forget,” Mary said, “that when she is Mr. Colet’s wife her +place will be by his side.” + +“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!” + +“I will never do it,” said Etruria. + +“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?” + +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.” + +Mr. Colet looked at Etruria. “If Etruria will come to me,” he said, “I +will be ashamed neither of her nor her parents.” + +“Bravely said!” Mary cried. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“I will take her as she stands,” Mr. Colet said, his eyes shining. “She +knows that.” + +“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!” + +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?” + +“Silence, woman,” Toft said. “You know naught about it.” + +“But, Toft,” Mary said, “are you in earnest? Do you understand what a +large sum of money this is?” + +“I have it,” the man replied, his sallow cheek reddening. “I have it, +and it’s for Etruria.” + +“If this be true,” Mr. Colet said slowly, “I don’t know what to say, +Toft.” + +“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.” + +“Hear the man!” cried Mrs. Toft between admiration and protest. “You’d +suppose she wasn’t our child!” + +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?” + +“There’s my bank-book to show for half of it,” Toft replied. “The other +half is as certain if I live three months!” + +“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?” + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +“There’s some in luck that don’t know it!” the man said oracularly. And +he slid away. + +“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!” + +“But perhaps they thought that Mr. Basset was wrong,” Mary said. + +“What business had they o’ thinking?” Mrs. Toft replied. “They had +ought to vote; that’s enough for them.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +Yes, she ought to be happy, being free; and, more than free, +independent. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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! + +But in the Hôtel Lambert she had had work to do, and here she had none! + +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! + +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. + +“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.” + +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! + +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! + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX +THE DEED OF RENUNCIATION + + +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?” + +“Nothing,” Mary answered, “not a word.” She, too, found it more easy to +look at the fire. + +“You must have been very much surprised?” + +“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.” + +“I don’t understand why Audley did not tell you. He said he would.” + +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.” + +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?” + +“It is quite over between us,” she answered soberly. “It was a mistake +from the beginning.” + +“When—when did he——” + +“Oh, before this arose. Some time before this arose.” She spoke +lightly, but her cheeks were hot. + +“He did not tell me.” + +“No?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Everything depends upon them, I suppose?” + +“Everything.” + +“But I thought that it was a deed—just one paper?” she said. + +“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.” + +“So that you think...?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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! + +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. + +“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. + +“They are all dead,” he said. + +“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.” + +“Not a pity on your account.” + +“No. You are glad, of course?” + +“That you should have your rights?” he said manfully. “Of course I am.” + +“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?” + +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!” + +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?” + +“That is so.” + +“The money should be paid, of course.” + +“I fear it must be paid.” + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“If you please.” + +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. + +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, +_immemor Divum_, 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. + +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. + +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!” + +“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!” + +“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!” + +“Why, mad? Because I do not wish to be Lady Audley?” she said, facing +him calmly, with her hands behind her. + +“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! + +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?” + +“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——” + +“Was to be Lord Audley? Believe me,” she replied gently, “he sees more +clearly now. And he is dead.” + +“But there are still—those who come after you?” + +“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.” + +“I may have no right——” + +“No you have no right at present.” + +“Still——” + +“When you have the right—when you have gained the right, if ever—you +may blame me.” + +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?” + +“By what?” + +“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?” + +“A chance for you?” she repeated. She stared at him in seeming +astonishment. + +“Don’t play with me!” he cried, advancing upon her. “You understand me? +You understand me very well! Yes, or no, Mary?” + +She did not flinch. “There is no chance for you,” she answered slowly, +still confronting him. “If there be a second chance for me——” + +“Ah!” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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!” + + + + +CHAPTER XL +“LET US MAKE OTHERS THANKFUL” + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, + + +Hard-by, a cottage chimney smokes +From betwixt two aged oaks. + + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“It was a forgery!” he cried with an oath. “You may depend upon it, it +was a forgery and they discovered it.” + +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! + +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, + + +He nothing common did nor mean, +Upon that memorable scene, + +But bowed his comely head, +Down as upon a bed. + + +Nor is it possible, even for those who do not agree with him, to think +of his dramatic fall without sympathy. + +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. + +“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. + +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.” + +“Which means?” Basset said, smiling. + +“That once I thought that nothing could be done without an earthquake. +I know now that it can be done with a spade.” + +“So that where Mary was content with nothing but a gilt coach, Mrs. +Basset is content with a nutshell.” + +“If you are in the nutshell,” Mary answered softly, “only—for what we +have received, Peter—let us make other people thankful.” + +“We will try,” he answered. + +THE END + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT HOUSE *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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. 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