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Denzil Quarrier

by George Gissing · English · Gutenberg #4303 · 473,708 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Denzil Quarrier

Author: George Gissing


        
Release date: August 1, 2003 [eBook #4303]
                Most recently updated: December 27, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4303

Credits: Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DENZIL QUARRIER ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.










DENZIL QUARRIER


by

GEORGE GISSING




CHAPTER I


For half an hour there had been perfect silence in the room. The cat
upon the hearthrug slept profoundly; the fire was sunk to a still red
glow; the cold light of the autumn afternoon thickened into dusk.

Lilian seemed to be reading. She sat on a footstool, her arm resting on
the seat of a basket-chair, which supported a large open volume. But
her hand was never raised to turn a page, and it was long since her
eyes had gathered the sense of the lines on which they were fixed. This
attitude had been a favourite one with her in childhood, and nowadays,
in her long hours of solitude, she often fell into the old habit. It
was a way of inviting reverie, which was a way of passing the time.

She stirred at length; glanced at the windows, at the fire, and rose.

A pleasant little sitting-room, furnished in the taste of our time;
with harmonies and contrasts of subdued colour, with pictures
intelligently chosen, with store of graceful knick-knacks. Lilian's
person was in keeping with such a background; her dark gold hair, her
pale, pensive, youthful features, her slight figure in its loose
raiment, could not have been more suitably displayed. In a room of
statelier proportions she would have looked too frail, too young for
significance; out of doors she was seldom seen to advantage; here one
recognized her as the presiding spirit in a home fragrant of womanhood.
The face, at this moment, was a sad one, but its lines expressed no
weak surrender to dolefulness; her lips were courageous, and her eyes
such as brighten readily with joy.

A small table bore a tea-tray with a kettle and spirit-lamp; the
service for two persons only. Lilian, after looking at her watch,
ignited the lamp and then went to the window as if in expectation of
some one's arrival.

The house stood in a row of small new dwellings on the outskirts of
Clapham Common; there was little traffic along the road at any time,
and in this hour of twilight even a passing footstep became a thing to
notice. Some one approached on her side of the way she listened, but
with disappointment; it was not the step for which she waited. None the
less it paused at this house, and she was startled to perceive a
telegraph messenger on the point of knocking. At once she hastened to
the front door.

"Mrs. Quarrier?" inquired the boy, holding out his missive.

Lilian drew back with it into the passage. But there was not light
enough to read by; she had to enter the sitting-room and hold the sheet
of paper close to the kettle-lamp.

"Very sorry that I cannot get home before ten. Unexpected business."

She read it carefully, then turned with a sigh and dismissed the
messenger.

In a quarter of an hour she had made tea, and sat down to take a cup.
The cat, refreshed after slumber, jumped on to her lap and lay there
pawing playfully at the trimming of her sleeves. Lilian at first
rewarded this friendliness only with absent stroking, but when she had
drunk her tea and eaten a slice of bread and butter the melancholy mood
dispersed; pussy's sportiveness was then abundantly indulged, and for
awhile Lilian seemed no less merry than her companion.

The game was interrupted by another knock at the house-door; this time
it was but the delivery of the evening paper. Lilian settled herself in
a chair by the fireside, and addressed herself with a serious
countenance to the study of the freshly-printed columns. Beginning with
the leading-article, she read page after page in the most conscientious
way, often pausing to reflect, and once even to pencil a note on the
margin. The paper finished, she found it necessary for the clear
understanding of a certain subject to consult a book of reference, and
for this purpose she went to a room in the rear--a small study,
comfortably but plainly furnished, smelling of tobacco. It was very
chilly, and she did not spend much time over her researches.

A sound from the lower part of the house checked her returning steps;
some one was rapping at the door down in the area. It happened that she
was to-day without a servant; she must needs descend into the kitchen
herself and answer the summons. When the nether regions were illumined
and the door thrown open, Lilian beheld a familiar figure, that of a
scraggy and wretchedly clad woman with a moaning infant in her arms.

"Oh, it's you, Mrs. Wilson!" she exclaimed. "Please to come in. How
have _you_ been getting on? And how is baby?"

The woman took a seat by the kitchen fire, and began to talk in a
whining, mendicant tone. From the conversation it appeared that this
was by no means the first time she had visited Lilian and sought to
arouse her compassion; the stories she poured forth consisted in a
great measure of excuses for not having profited more substantially by
the help already given her. The eye and the ear of experience would
readily enough have perceived in Mrs. Wilson a very coarse type of
impostor, and even Lilian, though showing a face of distress at what
she heard, seemed to hesitate in her replies and to entertain
troublesome doubts. But the objection she ventured to make to a
flagrant inconsistency in the tale called forth such loud indignation,
such a noisy mixture of insolence and grovelling entreaty, that her
moral courage gave way and Mrs. Wilson whined for another quarter of an
hour in complete security from cross-examination. In the end Lilian
brought out her purse and took from it half-a-sovereign.

"Now, if I give you this, Mrs. Wilson, I do hope to have a better
account"----

Her admonitions were cut short, and with difficulty she managed to
obtain hearing for a word or two of what was meant for grave counsel
whilst taking leave of her visitor. Mrs. Wilson, a gleam in her red
eyes, vanished up the area steps, and left Lilian to meditate on the
interview.

The evening passed on, and her solitude was undisturbed. When
dinner-time came, she sat down to the wing of a cold chicken and a
thimbleful of claret much diluted; the repast was laid out with
perfection of neatness, and at its conclusion she cleared the table
like the handiest of parlour-maids. Whatever she did was done
gracefully; she loved order, and when alone was no less scrupulous in
satisfying her idea of the becoming than when her actions were all
observed.

After dinner, she played a little on the piano. Here, as over her book
in the afternoon, the absent fit came upon her. Her fingers had rested
idly on the keyboard for some minutes, when they began to touch solemn
chords, and at length there sounded the first notes of a homely strain,
one of the most familiar of the Church's hymns. It ceased abruptly;
Lilian rose and went to another part of the room.

A few minutes later her ear caught the sound for which she was now
waiting--that of a latch-key at the front door. She stepped quickly out
into the passage, where the lamp-light fell upon a tall and robust man
with dark, comely, bearded visage.

"Poor little girl!" he addressed her, affectionately, as he pulled off
his overcoat. "I couldn't help it, Lily; bound to stay."

"Never mind!" was her laughing reply, as she stood on tip-toe and drew
down his face to hers. "I was disappointed, but it's as well you didn't
come to dinner. Sarah had to go away this morning."

"Oh! How's that? How have _you_ managed then?"

They passed into the front room, and Quarrier repeated his inquiries.

"She had a letter from Birmingham," Lilian explained. "Her brother has
been all but killed in some dreadful accident, and he's in a hospital.
I saw she wished to go--so I gave her some money and sent her off as
soon as possible. Perhaps it was her only chance of seeing him alive,
Denzil."

"Yes, yes of course you did right," he answered, after a moment's
hesitation.

"I knew you wouldn't mind a dinner of my cooking--under the
circumstances."

"But what are we to do? You can't take her place in the kitchen till
she comes back."

"I'll get some one for a few days."

"But, confound it! how about to-morrow morning? It's very awkward"----

"Oh, I shall easily manage."

"What?--go down at eight o'clock and light fires! Hang it, no! All
right; I'll turn out and see to breakfast. But you must get another
girl; a second servant, I mean. Yes, you ought really to have two. Get
a decent cook."

"Do you think it necessary?"

Quarrier was musing, a look of annoyance on his face.

"It couldn't have happened more inconveniently," he said, without
regard to Lilian's objection. "I had better tell you at once, Lily:
I've asked a friend of mine to come and dine with us to-morrow."

She started and looked at him with anxious eyes.

"A friend?"

"Yes; Glazzard--the man who spoke to me at Kew Station the other
day--you remember?"

"Oh yes!"

Lilian seated herself by the piano and stroked the keys with the tips
of her fingers. Standing on the hearth-rug, her companion watched her
closely for a moment; his forehead was wrinkled, and he did not seem
quite at ease.

"Glazzard is a very good fellow," he pursued, looking about the room
and thrusting his hands into his trouser-pockets. "I've known him since
I was a boy--a well-read man, thoughtful, clever. A good musician;
something more than an amateur with the violin, I believe. An artist,
too; he had a bust in the Academy a few years ago, and I've seen some
capital etchings of his."

"A universal genius!" said Lilian, with a forced laugh.

"Well, there's no doubt he has come very near success in a good many
directions. Never _quite_ succeeded; there's the misfortune. I suppose
he lacks perseverance. But he doesn't care; takes everything with a
laugh and a joke."

He reached for the evening newspaper, and glanced absently over the
columns. For a minute or two there was silence.

"What have you told him?" Lilian asked at length, in an undertone.

"Why, simply that I have had reasons for keeping my marriage secret."

He spoke in a blunt, authoritative way, but with his usual kindly smile.

"I thought it better," he added, "after that chance meeting the other
day. He's a fellow one can trust, I assure you. Thoroughly
good-hearted. As you know, I don't readily make friends, and I'm the
last man to give my confidence to any one who doesn't deserve it. But
Glazzard and I have always understood each other pretty well, and--at
all events, he knows me well enough to be satisfied with as much as I
choose to tell him."

Quarrier had the air of a man who, without any vulgar patronage, and in
a spirit of abundant good-nature, classifies his acquaintance in
various degrees of subordination to himself. He was too healthy, too
vigorous of frame and frank in manner to appear conceited, but it was
evident that his experience of life had encouraged a favourable
estimate of his own standing and resources. The ring of his voice was
sound; no affectation or insincerity marred its notes. For all that, he
seemed just now not entirely comfortable; his pretence of looking over
the paper in the intervals of talk was meant to cover a certain
awkwardness in discussing the subject he had broached.

"You don't object to his coming, Lily?"

"No; whatever you think best, dear."

"I'm quite sure you'll find him pleasant company. But we must get him a
dinner, somehow. I'll go to some hotel to-morrow morning and put the
thing in their hands; they'll send a cook, or do something or other. If
the girl had been here we should have managed well enough; Glazzard is
no snob.--I want to smoke; come into my study, will you? No fire? Get
up some wood, there's a good girl, we'll soon set it going. I'd fetch
it myself, but I shouldn't know where to look for it."

A flame was soon roaring up the chimney in the little back room, and
Quarrier's pipe filled the air with fragrant mist.

"How is it," he exclaimed, settling in the arm-chair, "that there are
so many beggars in this region? Two or three times this last week I've
been assailed along the street. I'll put a stop to that; I told a great
hulking fellow to-night that if he spoke to me again (it was the second
time) I would take the trouble of marching him to the nearest police
station."

"Poor creatures!" sighed Lilian.

"Pooh! Loafing blackguards, with scarcely an exception! Well, I was
going to tell you: Glazzard comes from my own town, Polterham. We were
at the Grammar School there together; but he read AEschylus and Tacitus
whilst I was grubbing over Eutropius and the Greek declensions."

"Is he so much older then? He seemed to me"----

"Six years older--about five-and-thirty. He's going down to Polterham
on Saturday, and I think I shall go with him."

"Go with him? For long?"

"A week, I think. I want to see my brother-in-law. You won't mind being
left alone?"

"No; I shall do my best to keep in good spirits."

"I'll get you a batch of new books. I may as well tell you, Liversedge
has been persuaded to stand as Liberal candidate for Polterham at the
next election. It surprised me rather; I shouldn't have thought he was
the kind of fellow to go in for politics. It always seemed to be as
little in his line as it is in mine."

"And do you wish to advise him against it?"

"Oh no; there's no harm in it. I suppose Beaconsfield and crew have
roused him. I confess I should enjoy helping to kick them into space.
No, I just want to talk it over with him. And I owe them a visit; they
took it rather ill that I couldn't go with them to Ireland."

Lilian sat with bent head. Casting a quick glance at her, Quarrier
talked on in a cheerful strain.

"I'm afraid he isn't likely to get in. The present member is an old
fogey called Welwyn-Baker; a fat-headed Tory; this is his third
Parliament. They think he's going to set up his son next time--a fool,
no doubt, but I have no knowledge of him. I'm afraid Liversedge isn't
the man to stir enthusiasm."

"But is there any one to be made enthusiastic on that side?" asked
Lilian.

"Well, it's a town that has changed a good deal of late years. It used
to be only an agricultural market, but about twenty years ago a man
started a blanket factory, and since then several other industries have
shot up. There's a huge sugar-refinery, and a place where they make
jams. That kind of thing, you know, affects the spirit of a place.
Manufacturers are generally go-ahead people, and mill-hands don't
support high Tory doctrine. It'll be interesting to see how they
muster. If Liversedge knows how to go to work"--he broke into laughter.
"Suppose, when the time comes, I go down and harangue the mob in his
favour?"

Lilian smiled and shook her head.

"I'm afraid you would be calling them 'the mob' to their faces."

"Well, why not? I dare say I should do more that way than by talking
fudge about the glorious and enlightened people. 'Look here, you
blockheads!' I should shout, 'can't you see on which side your
interests lie? Are you going to let England be thrown into war and
taxes just to please a theatrical Jew and the howling riff-raff of
London?' I tell you what, Lily, it seems to me I could make a rattling
good speech if I gave my mind to it. Don't you think so?"

"There's nothing you couldn't do," she answered, with soft fervour,
fixing her eyes upon him.

"And yet I do nothing--isn't that what you would like to add?"

"Oh, but your book is getting on!"

"Yes, yes; so it is. A capital book it'll be, too; a breezy
book--smelling of the sea-foam! But, after all, that's only pen-work. I
have a notion that I was meant for active life, after all. If I had
remained in the Navy, I should have been high up by now. I should have
been hoping for war, I dare say. What possibilities there are in every
man!"

He grew silent, and Lilian, her face shadowed once more, conversed with
her own thoughts.




CHAPTER II


In a room in the west of London--a room full of pictures and
bric-a-brac, of quaint and luxurious furniture, with volumes abundant,
with a piano in a shadowed corner, a violin and a mandoline laid
carelessly aside--two men sat facing each other, their looks expressive
of anything but mutual confidence. The one (he wore an overcoat, and
had muddy boots) was past middle age, bald, round-shouldered, dressed
like a country gentleman; upon his knees lay a small hand-bag, which he
seemed about to open. He leaned forward with a face of stern reproach,
and put a short, sharp question:

"Then why haven't I heard from you since my nephew's death?"

The other was not ready with a reply. Younger, and more fashionably
attired, he had assumed a lounging attitude which seemed natural to
him, though it served also to indicate a mood of resentful superiority.
His figure was slight, and not ungraceful; his features--pale, thin,
with heavy nose, high forehead--were intellectual and noteworthy, but
lacked charm.

"I have been abroad till quite recently," he said at length, his fine
accent contrasting with that of the questioner, which had a provincial
note. "Why did you expect me to communicate with you?"

"Don't disgrace yourself by speaking in that way, Mr. Glazzard!"
exclaimed the other, his voice uncertain with strong, angry feeling.
"You know quite well why I have come here, and why you ought to have
seen me long ago!"

Thereupon he opened the bag and took out a manuscript-book.

"I found this only the other day among Harry's odds and ends. It's a
diary that he kept. Will you explain to me the meaning of this entry,
dated in June of last year: 'Lent E. G. a hundred pounds'?"

Glazzard made no answer, but his self-command was not sufficient to
check a quivering of the lips.

"There can be no doubt who these initials refer to. Throughout, ever
since my nephew's intimacy with you began, you are mentioned here as
'E. G.' Please to explain another entry, dated August: 'Lent E. G. two
hundred pounds.' And then again, February of this year: 'Lent E. G. a
hundred and fifty pounds'--and yet again, three months later: 'Lent E.
G. a hundred pounds'--what is the meaning of all this?"

"The meaning, Mr. Charnock," replied Glazzard, "is indisputable."

"You astound me!" cried the elder man, shutting up the diary and
straightening himself to an attitude of indignation. "Am I to
understand, then, that _this_ is the reason why Harry left no money?
You mean to say you have allowed his relatives to believe that he had
wasted a large sum, whilst they supposed that he was studying soberly
in London"----

"If you are astounded," returned the other, raising his eyebrows, "I
certainly am no less so. As your nephew made note of these lendings,
wasn't he equally careful to jot down a memorandum when the debt was
discharged?"

Mr. Charnock regarded him fixedly, and for a moment seemed in doubt.

"You paid back these sums?"

"With what kind of action did you credit me?" said Glazzard, quietly.

The other hesitated, but wore no less stern a look.

"I am obliged to declare, Mr. Glazzard, that I can't trust your word.
That's a very strong thing to have to say to a man such as I have
thought you--a man of whom Harry always spoke as if there wasn't his
like on earth. My acquaintance with you is very slight; I know very
little indeed about you, except what Harry told me. But the man who
could deliberately borrow hundreds of pounds from a lad only just of
age--a simple, trustful, good-natured country lad, who had little but
his own exertions to depend upon--_such_ a man will tell a lie to
screen himself! This money was _not_ paid back; there isn't a word
about it in the diary, and there's the fact that Harry had got rid of
his money in a way no one could explain. You had it, and you have kept
it, sir!"

Glazzard let his eyes stray about the room. He uncrossed his legs,
tapped on the arm of his easy-chair, and said at length:

"I have no liking for violence, and I shall try to keep my temper.
Please to tell me the date of the last entry in that journal."

Mr. Charnock opened the book again, and replied at once:

"June 5th of this year--1879."

"I see. Allow me a moment." He unlocked a drawer in a writing-table,
and referred to some paper. "On the 1st of June--we were together the
whole day--I paid your nephew five hundred and fifty pounds in
bank-notes. Please refer to the diary."

"You _were_ together on that day, but there is no note of such a
transaction. 'With E. G. Much talk about pictures, books, and
music--delightful!' That's all."

"Have you added up the sums mentioned previously?"

"Yes. They come to what you say. How did it happen, Mr. Glazzard, that
you had so large a sum in bank-notes? It isn't usual."

"It is not unheard of, Mr. Charnock, with men who sometimes play for
money."

"What! Then you mean to tell me that Harry learnt from you to be a
gambler?"

"Certainly not. He never had the least suspicion that I played."

"And pray, what became of those notes after he received them?"

"I have no idea. For anything I know, you may still find the money."

Mr. Charnock rose from his seat.

"I see," he said, "that we needn't talk any longer. I don't believe
your story, and there's an end of it. The fact of your borrowing was
utterly disgraceful; it shows me that the poor boy had fallen in a
trap, instead of meeting with a friend who was likely to guide and
improve him. You confess yourself a gambler, and I go away with the
conviction that you are something yet worse."

Glazzard set his lips hard, but fell back into the lounging attitude.

"The matter doesn't end here," went on his accuser, "be sure of that! I
shall light upon evidence sooner or later. Do you know, sir, that Harry
had a sister, and that she earns her own living by giving lessons? You
have robbed her--think it over at your leisure. Why, less than a
fortnight after that day you and he spent together--the 1st of
June--the lad lay dying; yet you could deliberately plan to rob him.
Your denial is utterly vain; I would pledge my life on the charge! I
read guilt in your face when I entered--you were afraid of me, Mr.
Glazzard! I understand now why you never came to see the lad on his
death-bed, though he sent for you--and of course I know why he was
anxious to speak to you. Oh, you have plenty of plausible excuses, but
they are lies! You felt pretty sure, I dare say, that the lad would not
betray you; you knew his fine sense of honour; you calculated upon it.
All your conduct is of a piece!"

Glazzard rose.

"Mr. Charnock, please to leave me.--I oughtn't to have borrowed that
money; but having paid it back, I can't submit to any more of your
abuse. My patience has its limits."

"I am no brawler," replied the other, "and I can do no good by talking
to you. But if ever I come across any of your acquaintances, they shall
know, very plainly, what opinion I have of you. Prosecute me for
slander, Mr. Glazzard, if you dare--I desire nothing better!"

And Mr. Charnock went hurriedly from the room.

For several minutes Glazzard kept the same attitude, his eyes fixed on
the floor, one hand behind his back, the other thrust into his
waistcoat. Then he uttered an inarticulate exclamation, and walked with
hurried, jerky step across the room; his facial muscles quivered
ceaselessly, distorting the features into all manner of grotesque and
ugly expressions. Again the harsh sound escaped him, and again he
changed his place as though impelled by a sudden pain. It was a long
time before he took a seat; on doing so, he threw up his feet, and
rested them against the side of the fireplace. His hands were thrust
into his trouser-pockets, and his head fell back, so that he stared at
the ceiling. At one moment he gave out a short mocking laugh, but no
look of mirth followed the explosion. Little by little he grew
motionless, and sat with closed eyes.

From the walls about him looked down many a sweet and noble
countenance, such as should have made the room a temple of serenity.
Nowhere was there a token of vulgar sensualism; the actress, the
ballet-nymph had no place among these chosen gems of art. On the dwarf
book-cases were none but works of pure inspiration, the best of old and
new, the kings of intellect and their gentlest courtiers. Fifteen years
had gone to the adorning of this sanctuary; of money, no great sum, for
Glazzard had never commanded more than his younger-brother's portion of
a yearly five hundred pounds, and all his tastes were far from being
represented in the retreat where he spent his hours of highest
enjoyment and endeavour. Of late he had been beset by embarrassments
which a man of his stamp could ill endure: depreciation of investments,
need of sordid calculation, humiliating encounters. To-day he tasted
the very dregs of ignoble anguish, and it seemed to him that he should
never again look with delight upon a picture, or feast his soul with
music, or care to open a book.

A knock at the door aroused him. It was a civil-tongued serving-woman
who came to ask if he purposed having luncheon at home to-day. No; he
was on the point of going forth.

Big Ben was striking twelve. At a quarter-past, Glazzard took a cab
which conveyed him to one of the Inns of Court. He ascended stairs, and
reached a door on which was inscribed the name of Mr. Stark, Solicitor.
An office-boy at once admitted him to the innermost room, where he was
greeted with much friendliness by a short, stout man, with gleaming
visage, full lips, chubby hands.

"Well, what is it now?" inquired the visitor, who had been summoned
hither by a note that morning.

Mr. Stark, with an air of solemnity not wholly jocose, took his
friend's arm and led him to a corner of the room, where, resting
against a chair-back, was a small ill-framed oil painting.

"What have you to say to that?"

"The ugliest thing I've seen for a long time."

"But--but--" the solicitor stammered, with indignant eagerness--"but do
know whose it is?"

The picture represented a bit of country road, with a dung-heap, a
duck-pond, a pig asleep, and some barn-door fowls.

"I know whose you _think_ it is," replied Glazzard, coldly. His face
still had an unhealthy pallor, and his eyes looked as if they had but
just opened after the oppression of nightmare. "But it isn't."

"Come, come, Glazzard! you are too dictatorial, my boy."

Mr. Stark kept turning a heavy ring upon his finger, showing in face
and tone that the connoisseur's dogmatism troubled him more than he
wished to have it thought.

"Winterbottom warrants it," he added, with a triumphant jerk of his
plump body.

"Then Winterbottom is either cheating or cheated. That is no Morland;
take my word for it. Was that all you wanted me for?"

Mr. Stark's good-nature was severely tried. Mental suffering had made
Glazzard worse than impolite; his familiar tone of authority on
questions of art had become too frankly contemptuous.

"You're out of sorts this morning," conjectured his legal friend. "Let
Morland be for the present. I had another reason for asking you to
call, but don't stay unless you like."

Glazzard looked round the office.

"Well?" he asked, more gently.

"Quarrier tells me you are going down to Polterham. Any special reason?"

"Yes. But I can't talk about it."

"I was down there myself last Sunday. I talked politics with the local
wiseacres, and--do you know, it has made me think of you ever since?"

"How so?"

Mr. Stark consulted his watch.

"I'm at leisure for just nineteen minutes. If you care to sit down, I
have an idea I should like to put before you."

The visitor seated himself and crossed his legs. His countenance gave
small promise of attention.

"You know," resumed Mr. Stark, leaning forward and twiddling his
thumbs, "that they're hoping to get rid of Welwyn-Baker at the next
election?"

"What of that?"

"Toby Liversedge talks of coming forward--but _that_ won't do."

"Probably not."

The solicitor bent still more and tapped his friend's knee.

"Glazzard, here is your moment. Here is your chance of getting what you
want. Liversedge is reluctant to stand; I know that for certain. To a
more promising man he'll yield with pleasure.--St! st! listen to
me!--you are that man. Go down; see Toby; see the wiseacres and
wire-pullers; get your name in vogue! It's cut out for you. Act now, or
never again pretend that you want a chance."

A smile of disdain settled upon Glazzard's lips, but his eyes had lost
their vacancy.

"On the Radical side?" he asked, mockingly. "For Manchester and
Brummagem?"

"For Parliament, my dear boy! For Westminster, St. Stephen's,
distinction, a career! I should perhaps have thought of your taking
Welwyn-Baker's place, but there are many reasons against it. You would
lose the support of your brother and all his friends. Above all,
Polterham will go Liberal--mark my prediction!"

"I doubt it."

"I haven't time to give you all my reasons. Dine with me this evening,
will you?"

"Can't. Engaged to Quarrier."

"All right!" said the latter. "To-morrow, then?"

"Yes, I will dine to-morrow."

Mr. Stark jumped up.

"Think of it. I can't talk longer now; there's the voice of a client
I'm expecting. Eight sharp tomorrow!"

Glazzard took his leave.




CHAPTER III


Like so many other gentlemen whose function in the world remains
indefinite, chiefly because of the patrimony they have inherited,
Denzil Quarrier had eaten his dinners, and been called to the Bar; he
went so far in specification as to style himself Equity barrister. But
the Courts had never heard his voice. Having begun the studies, he
carried them through just for consistency, but long before bowing to
the Benchers of his Inn he foresaw that nothing practical would come of
it. This was his second futile attempt to class himself with a
recognized order of society. Nay, strictly speaking, the third. The
close of his thirteenth year had seen him a pupil at Polterham Grammar
School; not an unpromising pupil by any means, but with a turn for
insubordination, much disposed to pursue with zeal anything save the
tasks that were set him. Inspired by Cooper and Captain Marryat, he
came to the conclusion that his destiny was the Navy, and stuck so
firmly to it that his father, who happened to have a friend on the
Board of Admiralty, procured him a nomination, and speedily saw the boy
a cadet on the "Britannia." Denzil wore Her Majesty's uniform for some
five years; then he tired of the service and went back to Polterham to
reconsider his bent and aptitudes.

His father no longer dwelt in the old home, but had recently gone over
to Norway, where he pursued his calling of timber-merchant. Denzil's
uncle--Samuel Quarrier--busied in establishing a sugar-refinery in his
native town, received the young man with amiable welcome, and
entertained him for half a year. The ex-seaman then resolved to join
his parents abroad, as a good way of looking about him. He found his
mother on her death-bed. In consequence of her decease, Denzil became
possessed of means amply sufficient for a bachelor. As far as ever from
really knowing what he desired to be at, he began to make a show of
interesting himself in timber. Perhaps, after all, commerce was his
_forte_. This, then, might be called a second endeavour to establish
himself.

Mr. Quarrier laughed at the idea, and would not take it seriously. And
of course was in the right, for Denzil, on pretence of studying
forestry, began to ramble about Scandinavia like a gentleman at large.
Here, however, he did ultimately hit on a pursuit into which he could
throw himself with decided energy. The old Norsemen laid their spell
upon him; he was bitten with a zeal for saga-hunting, studied
vigorously the Northern tongues, went off to Iceland, returned to
rummage in the libraries of Copenhagen, began to translate the
Heimskringla, planned a History of the Vikings. Emphatically, this kind
of thing suited him. No one was less likely to turn out a bookworm, yet
in the study of Norse literature he found that combination of mental
and muscular interests which was perchance what he had been seeking.

But his father was dissatisfied; a very practical man, he saw in this
odd enthusiasm a mere waste of time. Denzil's secession from the Navy
had sorely disappointed him; constantly he uttered his wish that the
young man should attach himself to some vocation that became a
gentleman. Denzil, a little weary for the time of his Sea-Kings, at
length consented to go to London and enter himself as a student of law.
Perhaps his father was right. "Yes, I need discipline--intellectual and
moral. I am beginning to perceive my defects. There's something in me
not quite civilized. I'll go in for the law."

Yet Scandinavia had not seen the last of him. He was backwards and
forwards pretty frequently across the North Sea. He kept up a
correspondence with learned Swedes, Norwegians, Danes, and men of
Iceland; when they came to England he entertained them with hearty
hospitality, and searched with them at the British Museum. These
gentlemen liked him, though they felt occasionally that he was wont to
lay down the law when the attitude of a disciple would rather have
become him.

He had rooms in Clement's Inn, retaining them even when his abode,
strictly speaking, was at the little house by Clapham Common. To that
house no one was invited. Old Mr. Quarrier knew not of its existence;
neither did Mr. Sam Quarrier of Polterham, nor any other of Denzil's
kinsfolk. The first person to whom Denzil revealed that feature of his
life was Eustace Glazzard--a discreet, upright friend, the very man to
entrust with such a secret.

It was now early in the autumn of 1879. Six months ago Denzil had lost
his father, who died suddenly on a journey from Christiania up the
country, leaving the barrister in London a substantial fortune.

This change of circumstances had in no way outwardly affected Denzil's
life. As before, he spent a good deal of his time in the rooms at
Clement's Inn, and cultivated domesticity at Clapham. He was again
working in earnest at his History of the Vikings. Something would at
last come of it; a heap of manuscript attested his solid progress.

To-day he had come to town only for an hour or two. Glazzard was to
call at half-past six, and they would go together to dine with Lilian.
In his report to her, Quarrier had spoken nothing less than truth. "The
lady with whom you chanced to see me the other day was my wife. I have
been married for a year and a half--a strictly private matter. Be so
good as to respect my confidence." That was all Glazzard had learnt;
sufficient to excite no little curiosity in the connoisseur.

Denzil's chambers had a marked characteristic; they were full of
objects and pictures which declared his love of Northern lands and
seas. At work he sat in the midst of a little museum. To the bear, the
elk, the seal, he was indebted for comforts and ornaments; on his
shelves were quaint collections of crockery; coins of historical value
displayed themselves in cases on the walls; shoes and garments of
outlandish fashion lay here and there. Probably few private libraries
in England could boast such an array of Scandinavian literature as was
here exhibited. As a matter of course the rooms had accumulated even
more dirt than one expects in a bachelor's retreat; they were redolent
of the fume of many pipes.

When Glazzard tapped at the inner door and entered, his friend, who sat
at the writing-table in evening costume, threw up his arms, stretched
himself, and yawned noisily.

"Working at your book?" asked the other.

"No; letters. I don't care for the Sea-Kings just now. They're rather
remote old dogs, after all, you know."

"Distinctly, I should say."

"A queer thing, on the whole, that I can stick so to them. But I like
their spirit. You're not a pugnacious fellow, I think, Glazzard?"

"No, I think not."

"But I am, you know. I mean it literally. Every now and then I feel I
should like to thrash some one. I read in the paper this morning of
some son of a"----(Denzil's language occasionally reminded one that he
had been a sailor) "who had cheated a lot of poor servant-girls out of
their savings. My fists itched to be at that lubber! There's a good
deal to be said for the fighting instinct in man, you know."

"So thinks 'Arry of the music-halls."

"Well, we have heard before of an ass opening its mouth to prophesy. I
tell you what: on my way here this afternoon I passed the office of
some journal or other in the Strand, where they're exhibiting a copy of
their paper returned to them by a subscriber in Russia. Two columns are
completely obliterated with the censor's lamp-black,--that's how it
reaches the subscriber's hands. As I stood looking at that, my blood
rose to boiling-point! I could have hurrah'd for war with Russia on
that one account alone. That contemptible idiot of a Czar, sitting
there on his ant-hill throne, and bidding Time stand still!"

He laughed long and loud in scornful wrath.

"The Czar can't help it," remarked Glazzard, smiling calmly, "and
perhaps knows nothing about it. The man is a slave of slaves."

"The more contemptible and criminal, then!" roared Denzil. "If a man in
his position can't rule, he should be kicked out of the back-door of
his palace. I have no objection to an autocrat; I think most countries
need one. I should make a good autocrat myself--a benevolent despot."

"We live in stirring times," said the other, with a fine curl of the
lips. "Who knows what destiny has in store for you?"

Quarrier burst into good-natured merriment, and thereupon made ready to
set forth.

When they reached the house by Clapham Common, Denzil opened the door
with his latch-key, talked loud whilst he was removing his overcoat,
and then led the way into the sitting-room. Lilian was there; she rose
and laid down a book; her smile of welcome did not conceal the extreme
nervousness from which she was suffering. Quarrier's genial contempt of
ceremony, as he performed the introduction, allowed it to be seen that
he too experienced some constraint. But the guest bore himself with
perfect grace and decorum. Though not a fluent talker, he fell at once
into a strain of agreeable chat on subjects which seemed likely to be
of interest; his success was soon manifest in the change of Lilian's
countenance. Denzil, attentive to both, grew more genuinely at ease.
When Lilian caught his eye, he smiled at her with warmth of approving
kindness. It must have been a fastidious man who felt dissatisfied with
the way in which the young hostess discharged her duties; timidity led
her into no _gaucherie_, but was rather an added charm among the many
with which nature had endowed her. Speech and manner, though they had
nothing of the conventional adornment that is gathered in London
drawing-rooms, were those of gentle breeding and bright intelligence;
her education seemed better than is looked for among ladies in general.
Glazzard perceived that she had read diligently, and with scope beyond
that of the circulating library; the book with which she had been
engaged when they entered was a Danish novel.

"Do you also look for salvation to the Scandinavians?" he asked.

"I read the languages--the modern. They have a very interesting
literature of to-day; the old battle-stories don't appeal to me quite
so much as they do to Denzil."

"You ought to know this fellow Jacobsen," said Quarrier, taking up the
novel. "'Marie Grubbe' doesn't sound a very aesthetic title, but the
book is quite in your line--a wonderfully delicate bit of work."

"Don't imagine, Mrs. Quarrier," pleaded Glazzard, "that I am what is
called an aesthete. The thing is an abomination to me."

"Oh, you go tolerably far in that direction!" cried Denzil, laughing.
"True, you don't let your hair grow, and in general make an ass of
yourself; but there's a good deal of preciosity about you, you know."

Seeing that Mr. Glazzard's crown showed an incipient baldness, the
allusion to his hair was perhaps unfortunate. Lilian fancied that her
guest betrayed a slight annoyance; she at once interposed with a remark
that led away from such dangerous ground. It seemed to her (she had
already received the impression from Quarrier's talk of the evening
before) that Denzil behaved to his friend with an air of bantering
superiority which it was not easy to account for. Mr. Glazzard, so far
as she could yet judge, was by no means the kind of man to be dealt
with in this tone; she thought him rather disposed to pride than to an
excess of humility, and saw in his face an occasional melancholy which
inspired her with interest and respect.

A female servant (the vacancy made by Lilian's self-denying kindness
had been hastily supplied) appeared with summons to dinner. Mr.
Glazzard offered an arm to his hostess, and Quarrier followed with a
look of smiling pleasure.

Hospitality had been duly cared for. Not at all inclined to the simple
fare which Denzil chose to believe would suffice for him, Glazzard
found more satisfaction in the meal than he had anticipated. If Mrs.
Quarrier were responsible for the _menu_ (he doubted it), she revealed
yet another virtue. The mysterious circumstances of this household
puzzled him more and more; occasionally he forgot to speak, or to
listen, in the intensity of his preoccupation; and at such moments his
countenance darkened.

On the whole, however, he seemed in better spirits than of wont.
Quarrier was in the habit of seeing him perhaps once a month, and it
was long since he had heard the connoisseur discourse so freely, so
unconcernedly. As soon as they were seated at table, Denzil began to
talk of politics.

"If my brother-in-law really stands for Polterham," he exclaimed, "we
must set you canvassing among the mill-hands, Glazzard!"

"H'm!--not impossible."

"As much as to say," remarked the other to Lilian, "that he would see
them all consumed in furnaces before he stretched forth a hand to save
them."

"I know very well how to understand Denzil's exaggerations," said
Lilian, with a smile to her guest.

"He thinks," was Glazzard's reply, "that I am something worse than a
high Tory. It's quite a mistake, and I don't know how his belief
originated."

"My dear fellow, you are so naturally a Tory that you never troubled to
think to what party you belong. And I can understand you well enough; I
have leanings that way myself. Still, when I get down to Polterham I
shall call myself a Radical. What sensible man swears by a party?
There's more foolery and dishonesty than enough on both sides, when you
come to party quarrelling; but as for the broad principles concerned,
why, Radicalism of course means justice. I put it in this way: If _I_
were a poor devil, half starved and overworked, I should be a savage
Radical; so I'll go in for helping the poor devils."

"You don't always act on that principle, Denzil," said Lilian, with a
rallying smile. "Not, for instance, when beggars are concerned."

"Beggars! Would you have me support trading impostors? As for the
genuine cases--why, if I found myself penniless in the streets, I would
make such a row that all the country should hear of it! Do you think I
would go whining to individuals? If I hadn't food, it would be the duty
of society to provide me with it--and I would take good care that I
_was_ provided; whether in workhouse or gaol wouldn't matter much. At
all events, the business should be managed with the maximum of noise."

He emptied his wine-glass, and went on in the same vigorous tone.

"We know very well that there are no such things as natural rights.
Nature gives no rights; she will produce an infinite number of
creatures only to torture and eventually destroy them. But civilization
is at war with nature, and as civilized beings we _have_ rights. Every
man is justified in claiming food and shelter and repose. As things
are, many thousands of people in every English county either lack these
necessaries altogether, or get them only in return for the accursed
badge of pauperdom. I, for one, am against this state of things, and I
sympathize with the men who think that nothing can go right until the
fundamental injustice is done away with."

Glazzard listened with an inscrutable smile, content to throw in a word
of acquiescence from time to time. But when the necessity of appeasing
his robust appetite held Quarrier silent for a few minutes, the guest
turned to Lilian and asked her if she made a study of political
questions.

"I have been trying to follow them lately," she replied, with simple
directness.

"Do you feel it a grievance that you have no vote and no chance of
representing a borough?"

"No, I really don't."

"I defy any one to find a dozen women who sincerely do," broke in
Denzil. "That's all humbug! Such twaddle only serves to obscure the
great questions at issue. What we have to do is to clear away the
obvious lies and superstitions that hold a great part of the people in
a degrading bondage. Our need is of statesmen who are bold enough and
strong enough to cast off the restraints of party, of imbecile fears,
of words that answer to no reality, and legislate with honest zeal for
the general good. How many men are there in Parliament who represent
anything more respectable than the interest of a trade, or a faction,
or their own bloated person?"

"This would rouse the echoes in an East-end club," interposed Glazzard,
with an air of good-humoured jesting.

"The difference is, my dear fellow, that it is given as an honest
opinion in a private dining-room. There's Welwyn-Baker
now--thick-headed old jackass!--what right has _he_ to be sitting in a
national assembly? Call himself what he may, it's clearly our business
to get rid of _him_. There's something infuriating in the thought that
such a man can give his hee-haw for or against a proposal that concerns
the nation. His mere existence is a lie!"

"He has hardly progressed with the times," assented Glazzard.

Lilian was listening so attentively that she forgot her dinner.

"I didn't think you cared so much about politics," she remarked,
gravely.

"Oh, it comes out now and then. I suppose Glazzard's aesthetic
neutrality stirs me up."

"I am neither aesthetic nor neutral," remarked the guest, as if
casually.

Denzil laughed.

Lilian, after waiting for a further declaration from Glazzard, which
did not come, said, in her soft tones:

"You express yourself so vehemently, Denzil."

"Why not? These are obvious truths. Of course I could speak just as
strongly on the Conservative side with regard to many things. I can't
say that I have much faith in the capacity or honesty of the mass of
Radical voters. If I found myself at one of the clubs of which Glazzard
speaks, I should very likely get hooted down as an insolent aristocrat.
I don't go in for crazy extremes. There'll never be a Utopia, and it's
only a form of lying to set such ideals before the multitude. I believe
in the distinction of classes; the only class I would altogether
abolish is that of the hungry and the ragged. So long as nature doles
out the gift of brains in different proportions, there must exist
social subordination. The true Radical is the man who wishes so to
order things that no one will be urged by misery to try and get out of
the class he is born in."

Glazzard agreed that this was a good way of putting it, and thereupon
broached a subject so totally different that politics were finally laid
aside.

When Lilian rose and withdrew, the friends remained for several minutes
in silence. They lighted cigarettes, and contemplatively watched the
smoke. Of a sudden, Quarrier bent forward upon the table.

"You shall have the explanation of this some day," he said, in a low
friendly voice, his eyes lighting with a gleam of heartfelt confidence.

"Thanks!" murmured the other.

"Tell me--does she impress you favourably?"

"Very. I am disposed to think highly of her."

Denzil held out his hand, and pressed the one which Glazzard offered in
return.

"You cannot think too highly--cannot possibly! She has a remarkable
character. For one thing, I never knew a girl with such strong
sympathies--so large-hearted and compassionate. You heard her remark
about the beggars; if she had her own way, she would support a colony
of pensioners. Let the sentimentalists say what they like, that isn't a
common weakness in women, you know. Her imagination is painfully
active; I'm afraid it causes her a great deal of misery. The other day
I found her in tears, and what do you think was the reason?--she had
been reading in some history about a poor fellow who was persecuted for
his religion in Charles the First's time--some dissenter who got into
the grip of Laud, was imprisoned, and then brought to destitution by
being forbidden to exercise each calling that he took to in hope of
earning bread. The end was, he went mad and died. Lilian was crying
over the story; it made her wretched for a whole day."

"Rather morbid, that, I'm afraid."

"I don't know; most of us would be better for a little of such
morbidness. You mustn't suppose that fiction would have the same effect
on her--not at all. That poor devil (his name, I remember, was Workman)
was really and truly hounded to insanity and the grave, and she saw the
thing in all its dreadful details. I would rather she had got into a
rage about it, as I should--but that isn't her nature."

"Let us hope she could rejoice when Laud was laid by the heels."

"I fear not. I'm afraid she would forget, and make excuses for the
blackguard."

Glazzard smiled at the ceiling, and smoked silently. Turning his eyes
at length, and seeing Quarrier in a brown study, he contemplated the
honest face, then asked:

"How old is she?"

"Just one-and-twenty."

"I should have thought younger."

Nothing more was said of Lilian, and very soon they went to the room
where she awaited them.

"I know you are a musician, Mr. Glazzard," said Lilian before long.
"Will you let me have the pleasure of hearing you play something?"

"Some enemy hath done this," the guest made reply, looking towards
Denzil.

But without further protest he went to the piano and played two or
three short pieces. Any one with more technical knowledge than the
hearers would have perceived that he was doing his best. As it was,
Lilian frequently turned to Denzil with a look of intense delight.

"Glazzard," exclaimed his friend at length, "it puzzles me how such a
lazy fellow as you are has managed to do so much in so many directions."

The musician laughed carelessly, and, not deigning any other reply,
went to talk with his hostess.




CHAPTER IV


The Polterham Literary Institute was a "hot-bed of Radicalism." For the
last year or two this had been generally understood. Originating in the
editorial columns of the _Polterham Mercury_, the remark was now a
commonplace on the lips of good Conservatives, and the liberals
themselves were not unwilling to smile an admission of its truth. At
the founding of the Institute no such thing was foreseen; but in 1859
Polterham was hardly conscious of the stirrings of that new life which,
in the course of twenty years, was to transform the town. In those days
a traveller descending the slope of the Banwell Hills sought out the
slim spire of Polterham parish church amid a tract of woodland, mead
and tillage; now the site of the thriving little borough was but too
distinctly marked by trails of smoke from several gaunt chimneys--that
of Messrs. Dimes & Nevison's blanket-factory, that of Quarrier & Son's
sugar-refinery, and, higher still (said, indeed, to be one of the
tallest chimneys in England), that of Thomas & Liversedge's soap-works.
With the character of Polterham itself, the Literary Institute had
suffered a noteworthy change. Ostensibly it remained non-political: a
library, reading-room and lecture-hall, for the benefit of all the
townsfolk; but by a subtle process the executive authority had passed
into the hands of new men with new ideas. A mere enumeration of the
committee sufficed to frighten away all who held by Church, State, and
Mr. Welwyn-Baker: the Institute was no longer an Institute, but a
"hot-bed."

How could respectable people make use of a library which admitted works
of irreligious and immoral tendency? It was an undoubted fact (the
_Mercury_ made it known) that of late there had been added to the
catalogue not only the "Essays of David Hume" and that notorious book
Buckle's "History of Civilization," but even a large collection of the
writings of George Sand and Balzac--these latter in the original
tongue; for who, indeed, would ever venture to publish an English
translation? As for the reading-room, was it not characterization
enough to state that two Sunday newspapers, reeking fresh from Fleet
Street, regularly appeared on the tables? What possibility of perusing
the _Standard_ or the _Spectator_ in such an atmosphere? It was clear
that the supporters of law and decency must bestir themselves to
establish a new Society. Mr. Mumbray, long prominent in the municipal
and political life of the town, had already made the generous offer of
a large house at a low rental--one of the ancient buildings which had
been spoilt for family residence by the erection of a mill close by.
The revered Member for the borough was willing to start the new library
with a gift of one hundred volumes of "sterling literature." With
dissolution of Parliament in view, not a day should be lost in
establishing this centre of intellectual life for right-thinking
inhabitants. It was a strange thing, a very strange thing indeed, that
interlopers should have been permitted to oust the wealth and
reputability of Polterham from an Institute which ought to have been
one of the bulwarks of Conservatism. Laxity in the original
constitution, and a spirit of supine confidence, had led to this sad
result. It seemed impossible that Polterham could ever fall from its
honourable position among the Conservative strongholds of the country;
but the times were corrupt, a revolutionary miasma was spreading to
every corner of the land. Polterham must no longer repose in the
security of conscious virtue, for if it _did_ happen that, at the
coming election, the unprincipled multitude even came near to achieving
a triumph, oh what a fall were there!

Thus spoke the _Mercury_. And in the same week Mr. Mumbray's vacant
house was secured by a provisional committee on behalf of the Polterham
Constitutional Literary Society.

The fine old crusted party had some reason for their alarm. Since
Polterham was a borough it had returned a Tory Member as a matter of
course. Political organization was quite unknown to the supporters of
Mr. Welwyn-Baker; such trouble had never seemed necessary. Through the
anxious year of 1868 Mr. Welwyn-Baker sat firm as a rock; an endeavour
to unseat him ended amid contemptuous laughter. In 1874 the high-tide
of Toryism caused only a slight increase of congratulatory gurgling in
the Polterham backwater; the triumphant party hardly cared to notice
that a Liberal candidate had scored an unprecedented proportion of
votes. Welwyn-Baker sat on, stolidly oblivious of the change that was
affecting his constituency, denying indeed the possibility of mutation
in human things. Yet even now the Literary Institute was passing into
the hands of people who aimed at making it something more than a place
where retired tradesmen could play draughts and doze over _Good Words_;
already had offensive volumes found harbourage on the shelves, and
revolutionary periodicals been introduced into the reading-room. From
time to time the _Mercury_ uttered a note of warning, of protest, but
with no echo from the respectable middle-class abodes where Polterham
Conservatism dozed in self-satisfaction. It needed another five years
of Liberal activity throughout the borough to awaken the good people
whose influence had seemed unassailable, and to set them uttering
sleepy snorts of indignation. But the _Mercury_ had a new editor, a man
who was determined to gain journalistic credit by making a good fight
in a desperate cause. Mr. Mumbray, who held the post of Mayor, had at
length learnt that even in municipal matters the old order was
threatened; on the Town Council were several men who gave a great deal
of trouble, and who openly boasted that in a very short time all the
affairs of the town would be managed by members of the Progressive
party. If so, farewell public morality! farewell religion!

The reading-room of the Literary Institute heard many an animated
conversation among the zealous partisans who hoped great things from
the approaching contest. The talkers were not men of recognized
standing, the manufacturers and landowners whose influence was of most
importance--for these personages were seldom seen at the Institute; but
certain "small" people, fidgety, or effervescent, or enthusiastic,
eager to hear their own voices raised in declamation, and to get spoken
of in the town as representatives of public opinion. Such a group had
gathered early one afternoon in this month of October. The hour was
unusual, for between one o'clock and four the reading-room was
generally abandoned to a few very quiet, somnolent persons; but to-day
an exciting piece of news had got about in Polterham, and two or three
ardent politicians hastened from their dinner-tables to discuss the
situation with Mr. Wykes, secretary of the Institute, or any one else
who might present himself. It was reported that Mr. Welwyn-Baker had
had a seizure of some kind, and that he lay in a dangerous state at his
house just outside the town.

"It's perfectly true," affirmed Mr. Wykes. "I saw Dr. Staple on his way
there. He'll never survive it. We shall have a bye-election--the very
last thing desirable."

The Secretary was a man of intelligent features but painfully
distorted body; his right leg, permanently bent double, was supported
at the knee by metal mechanism, and his arm on the opposite side ended
at the elbow. None the less he moved with much activity, gesticulated
frequently with the normal arm, and seemed always to be in excellent
spirits. He was a Cambridge graduate, but had never been able to make
much use of his education and abilities; having reached middle age, and
finding himself without resources, he was glad to accept this post at
the Institute.

About him stood three Polterham worthies: Mr. Chown, draper, a member
of the Corporation; Mr. Vawdrey, coal-merchant; and Mr. Murgatroyd,
dentist. The draper--tall, bearded, with goggle eyes and prominent
cheek-bones--had just rushed in; as soon as Mr. Wykes had spoken, he
exclaimed in a hard, positive voice:

"It's nothing! it's nothing! I have it on the best assurance that it
was only a fall over a footstool. Muscles strained--a bruise or
two--nothing worse."

"I'm very glad to hear it, on every ground," said Wykes. "But even if
that is quite correct, it'll be a warning. A fall at that age generally
dates the beginning of decrepitude. He won't come forward again--I'm
convinced he won't."

"Let us hope they'll be foolish enough to set up his son," remarked Mr.
Vawdrey, in deep tones, which harmonized with his broad, stunted body
and lowering visage. "It'll be their ruin."

Mr. Wykes agreed.

"The waverers can hardly doubt--between Tobias Liversedge and Hugh
Welwyn-Baker."

"Bear in mind," rang Mr. Chown's brassy voice, "that it's by no means
certain Liversedge is to be our candidate. I am in a position to assure
you that many of our most reliable men are not at all satisfied with
that choice--not at all satisfied. I don't mind going so far as to
declare that I share this dissatisfaction."

"Really," put in Mr. Murgatroyd, the dentist, "it's rather late in the
day, Mr. Chown"----

His accents of studious moderation were interrupted by a shout from the
dogmatic draper.

"Late? late? I consider that nothing whatever has been decided. I
protest--I protest, most emphatically, against any attempt to force a
candidate on the advanced section of the Liberal party! I will even go
so far as to say--purely on my own responsibility--that the advanced
section of the Liberal party is the _essence_ of the Liberal party, and
must be recognized as such, if we are to fight this campaign in union.
I personally--I speak for myself--do _not_ feel prepared to vote for
Tobias Liversedge. I say it boldly, caring not who may report my words.
I compromise no man, and no body of men; but my view is that, if we are
to win the next election against the Tory candidate, it must be with
the help, and in the name, of a _Radical_ candidate!"

At the close of each period Mr. Chown raised his hand and made it
vibrate in the air, his head vibrating in company therewith. His eyes
glared, and his beard wagged up and down.

"Speaking as an individual," replied Mr. Murgatroyd, who, among other
signs of nervousness, had the habit of constantly pulling down his
waistcoat, "I can't say that I should regret to be called upon to vote
for a really advanced man. But I may say--I really must say--and I
think Mr. Wykes will support me--I think Mr. Vawdrey will bear me
out--that it wouldn't be easy to find a candidate who would unite all
suffrages in the way that Mr. Liversedge does. We have to remember"----

"Well," broke in the coal-merchant, with his muffled bass, "if any one
cares to know what I think, I should say that we want a local man, a
popular man, and a Christian man. I don't know whom you would set up in
preference to Liversedge; but Liversedge suits me well enough. If the
Tories are going to put forward such a specimen as Hugh Welwyn-Baker, a
gambler, a drinker, and a profligate, I don't know, I say, who would
look better opposed to him than Toby Liversedge."

Mr. Chown could not restrain himself.

"I fail altogether to see what Christianity has to do with politics!
Christianity is all very well, but where will you find it? Old
Welwyn-Baker calls himself a Christian, and so does his son. And I
suppose the Rev. Scatchard Vialls calls himself a Christian! Let us
have done with this disgusting hypocrisy! I say with all
deliberation--I affirm it--that Radicalism must break with religion
that has become a sham! Radicalism is a religion in itself. We have no
right--no right, I say--to impose any such test as Mr. Vawdrey insists
upon!"

"I won't quarrel about names," returned Vawdrey, stolidly, "What I
meant to say was that we must have a man of clean life, a moral man."

"And do you imply," cried Chown, "that such men are hard to find among
Radicals?"

"I rather think they're hard to find anywhere nowadays."

Mr. Wykes had made a gesture requesting attention, and was about to
speak, when a boy came up to him and held out a telegram.

"What's this?" murmured the Secretary, as he opened the envelope.
"Well, well, how very annoying! Our lecturer of to-morrow evening can't
possibly keep his engagement. No reason given; says he will write."

"Another blank evening!" exclaimed Chown. "This is most unsatisfactory,
I must say."

"We must fill it up," replied the Secretary. "I have an idea; it
connects with something I was on the point of saying." He looked round
the room cautiously, but saw only a young lad bent over an illustrated
paper. "There is some one," he continued, subduing his voice, "who
might possibly be willing to stand if Mr. Liversedge isn't finally
adopted as our candidate--some one who, in my opinion, would suit us
very well indeed. I am thinking of young Mr. Quarrier, Liversedge's
brother-in-law, Mr. Sam Quarrier's nephew."

"I can't say I know much for or against him," said the draper.

"A barrister, I believe?" questioned Murgatroyd.

"Yes, but not practising his profession. I happened to meet him in the
train yesterday; he was coming to spend a few days with his relatives.
It occurs to me that he's the man to give us a lecture to-morrow
evening."

The others lent ear, and Mr. Wykes talked at some length of Mr. Denzil
Quarrier, with whom he had a slight personal acquaintance dating from a
year or two ago. He represented that the young man was of late become
wealthy, that he was closely connected with people in high local
esteem, that his views were those of a highly cultured Radical. Mr.
Chown, distrustful regarding any proposition that did not originate
with himself, meditated with some intensity. Mr. Vawdrey's face
indicated nothing whatever. It was the dentist who put the first
question.

"I should like to know," he said, in his usual voice of studied
inoffensiveness, "whether Mr. Quarrier is disposed to support the
Female Suffrage movement?"

"If he is," growled Mr. Vawdrey, with sudden emphasis, "he mustn't
expect _my_ vote and interest. We've seen enough in Polterham lately of
the Female question."

"Let it wait! Let it wait!" came from the draper. "The man," he glared
at little Murgatroyd, "who divides his party on matters of detail,
beyond the range of practical politics, is an enemy of popular
progress. What _I_ should desire to know is, whether Mr. Quarrier will
go in heartily for Church Disestablishment? If not--well, I for my
humble self must Decline to consider him a Radical at all."

"That, it seems to me," began the dentist, "is distinctly beyond"----

But politic Mr. Wykes interrupted the discussion.

"I shall go at once," he said, "and try to see Mr. Quarrier. A lecture
to-morrow we must have, and I think he can be persuaded to help us. If
so, we shall have an opportunity of seeing what figure he makes on the
platform."

Mr. Vawdrey looked at his watch and hurried away without a word. The
draper and the dentist were each reminded of the calls of business. In
a minute or two the youth dozing over an illustrated paper had the room
to himself.




CHAPTER V


For a characteristic scene of English life one could not do better than
take Mr. Liversedge's dining-room when the family had assembled for the
midday meal. Picture a long and lofty room, lighted by windows which
opened upon a lawn and flower-garden, adorned with large oil paintings
(cattle-pieces and portraits) in massive and, for the most part,
tarnished frames, and furnished in the solidest of British
styles--mahogany chairs and table, an immense sideboard, a white marble
fireplace, and a chandelier hanging with ponderous menace above the
gleaming expanse of table-cloth. Here were seated eleven persons: Mr.
Liversedge and his wife, their seven children (four girls and three
boys), Miss Pope the governess, and Mr. Denzil Quarrier; waited upon by
two maid-servants, with ruddy cheeks, and in spotless attire. Odours of
roast meat filled the air. There was a jolly sound of knife-and-fork
play, of young voices laughing and chattering, of older ones in genial
colloquy. A great fire blazed and crackled up the chimney. Without, a
roaring wind stripped the autumnal leafage of the garden, and from time
to time drenched the windows with volleys of rain.

Tobias Liversedge was a man of substance, but in domestic habits he
followed the rule of the unpretentious middle-class. Breakfast at
eight, dinner at one, tea at five, supper at nine--such was the order
of the day that he had known in boyhood, and it suited him well enough
now that he was at the head of a household. The fare was simple, but
various and abundant; no dishes with foreign names, no drinks more
luxurious than sherry and claret. If he entertained guests, they were
people of his own kind, who thought more of the hearty welcome than of
what was set before them. His children were neither cockered nor held
in too strait a discipline; they learnt from their parents that
laughter was better than sighing, that it was good to be generous, that
they had superiors in the world as well as inferiors, that hard work
was the saving grace, and a lie the accursed thing. This training
seemed to agree with them, for one and all were pictures of health.
Tom, the first-born, numbered fifteen years; Daisy, the latest arrival,
had seen but three summers, yet she already occupied a high chair at
the dinner-table, and conducted herself with much propriety. The two
elder boys went to the Grammar School morning and afternoon; for the
other children there was Miss Pope, with her smile of decorum, eyes of
intelligence, and clear, decided voice.

Mrs. Liversedge was obviously Denzil Quarrier's sister; she had his
eyes and his nose--not uncomely features. It did not appear that her
seven children were robust at their mother's expense; she ate with
undisguised appetite, laughed readily (just showing excellent teeth),
and kept a shapely figure, clad with simple becomingness. Her age was
about eight-and-thirty, that of her husband forty-five. This couple--if
any in England--probably knew the meaning of happiness. Neither had
experienced narrow circumstances, and the future could but confirm
their security from sordid cares. Even if seven more children were
added to their family, all would be brought up amid abundance, and sent
forth into the world as well equipped for its struggles as the
tenderest heart could desire. Father and mother were admirably matched;
they knew each other perfectly, thought the same thoughts on all
essential matters, exchanged the glances of an absolute and unshakeable
confidence.

Seeing him thus at the end of his table, one would not have thought Mr.
Liversedge a likely man to stand forth on political platforms and
appeal to the populace of the borough for their electoral favour. He
looked modest and reticent; his person was the reverse of commanding. A
kind and thoughtful man, undoubtedly; but in his eye was no gleam of
ambition, and it seemed doubtful whether he would care to trouble
himself much about questions of public policy. Granted his position and
origin, it was natural enough that he should take a stand on the
Liberal side, but it could hardly be expected that he should come up to
Mr. Chown's ideal of a Progressive leader.

He was talking lightly on the subject with his brother-in-law.

"I should have thought," he said, "that William Glazzard might have had
views that way. He's a man with no ties and, I should say, too much
leisure."

"Oh," exclaimed Mrs. Liversedge, "the idea of his getting up to make
speeches! It always seems to me as if he found it a trouble even to
talk. His brother would be far more likely, wouldn't he, Denzil?"

"What, Eustace Glazzard?" replied Quarrier. "He regards Parliament and
everything connected with it with supreme contempt. Suggest the thing
when he comes this evening, and watch his face."

"What is he doing?" Mr. Liversedge asked.

"Collecting pictures, playing the fiddle, gazing at sunflowers, and so
on. He'll never do anything else."

"How contradictory you are in speaking about him!" said his sister.
"One time you seem to admire and like him extremely, and another"----

"Why, so I do. A capital fellow! He's weak, that's all. I don't mean
weak in the worst way, you know; a more honourable and trustworthy man
doesn't live. But--well, he's rather womanish, I suppose."

Mrs. Liversedge laughed.

"Many thanks! It's always so pleasing to a woman to hear that
comparison. Do you mean he reminds you of Mrs. Wade?"

The boy Tom, who had been attentive, broke into merriment.

"Uncle Denzil wouldn't dare to have said it in _her_ presence!" he
cried.

"Perhaps not," conceded Denzil, with a smile. "By-the-bye, is that
wonderful person still in Polterham?"

"Oh yes!" Mrs. Liversedge replied. "She has been very prominent lately."

"How?"

The lady glanced at her husband, who said quietly, "We'll talk over it
some other time."

But Tom was not to be repressed.

"Mother means that Revivalist business," he exclaimed. "Mrs. Wade went
against it."

"My boy, no meddling with things of that kind," said his father,
smiling, but firm. He turned to Denzil. "Has Glazzard exhibited
anything lately?"

"No; he gave up his modelling, and he doesn't seem to paint much
nowadays. The poor fellow has no object in life, that's the worst of
it."

The meal was nearly at an end, and presently the two men found
themselves alone at the table. Mr. Liversedge generally smoked a cigar
before returning for an hour or two to the soap-works.

"Any more wine?" he asked. "Then come into my snuggery and let us chat."

They repaired to a room of very homely appearance. The furniture was
old and ugly; the carpet seemed to have been beaten so often that it
was growing threadbare by force of purification. There was a fair
collection of books, none of very recent date, and on the walls several
maps and prints. The most striking object was a great stuffed bird that
stood in a glass-case before the window--a capercailzie shot by
Quarrier long ago in Norway, and presented to his brother-in-law.
Tobias settled himself in a chair, and kicked a coal from the bars of
the grate.

"Tom is very strong against religious fanaticism," he said, laughing.
"I have to pull him up now and then. I suppose you heard about the
crazy goings-on down here in the summer?"

"Not I. Revivalist meetings?"

"The whole town was turned upside down. Such frenzy among the women I
never witnessed. Three times a day they flocked in swarms to the Public
Hall, and there screeched and wept and fainted, till it really looked
as if some authority ought to interfere. If I had had my way, I would
have drummed the preachers out of the town. Mary and Mrs. Wade and one
or two others were about the only women who escaped the epidemic.
Seriously, it led to a good deal of domestic misery. Poor Tomkins's
wife drove him to such a pass by her scandalous neglect of the house,
that one morning he locked her into her bedroom, and there he kept her
on very plain diet for three days. We thought of getting up a meeting
to render public thanks to Tomkins, and to give him some little
testimonial."

Denzil uttered roars of laughter; the story was exactly of the kind
that made appeal to his humorous instincts.

"Has the ferment subsided?" he asked.

"Tolerably well; leaving a good deal of froth and scum, however. The
worst of it was that, in the very week when those makebates had
departed, there came down on us a second plague, in the shape of Mrs.
Hitchin, the apostle of--I don't quite know what, but she calls it
Purity. Of course, you know her by repute. She, too, had the Public
Hall, and gave addresses to which only women were admitted. I have a
very strong opinion as to the tendency of those addresses, and if
Rabelais had come to life among us just then--but never mind. The fact
is, old Polterham got into a thoroughly unwholesome condition, and
we're anything but right yet. Perhaps a little honest fighting between
Liberal and Tory may help to clear the air.--Well, now, that brings me
to what I really wish to talk about. To tell you the truth, I don't
feel half satisfied with what I have done. My promise to stand, you
know, was only conditional, and I think I must get out of it."

"Why?"

"Mary was rather tickled with the idea at first; naturally she had no
objection to be Mrs. M.P., and she persuaded herself that I was just
the man to represent Polterham. I felt rather less sure of it, and now
I am getting pretty well convinced that I had better draw back before I
make a fool of myself."

"What about your chances? Is there any hope of a majority?"

"That's more than I can tell you. The long-headed men, like your Uncle
Sam (an unwilling witness) and Edward Coke, say that the day has come
for the Liberals. I don't know, but I suspect that a really brisk and
popular man might carry it against either of the Welwyn-Bakers. That
fellow Hugh will never do--by the way, that might be the beginning of
an election rhyme! He's too much of a blackguard, and nowadays, you
know, even a Tory candidate must preserve the decencies of life."

Denzil mused, and muttered something indistinct.

"Now listen," pursued the speaker, shifting about in his chair. "What I
want to say is this: why shouldn't _you_ come forward?"

Quarrier pursed his lips, knit his brows, and grunted.

"I am very serious in thinking that you might be the best man we could
find."

And Mr. Liversedge went on to exhibit his reasons at some length. As he
listened, Denzil became restless, crossing and recrossing his legs,
spreading his shoulders, smiling, frowning, coughing; and at length he
jumped up.

"Look here, Toby!" he exclaimed, "is this a self-denying ordinance?
have you and Molly put your heads together to do me what you think a
good turn?"

"I haven't spoken to her, I assure you. I am sincere in saying that I
don't wish to go through with it. And I should be right heartily glad
to see you come out instead."

The face of the younger man worked with subdued excitement. There was a
flush in his cheeks, and he breathed rapidly. The emotion that
possessed him could not be altogether pleasurable, for at moments he
cast his eyes about him with a pained, almost a desperate look. He
walked up and down with clenched fist, occasionally digging himself in
the side.

"Toby," he burst out at length, "let me think this over! I can't
possibly decide at once. The notion is absolutely new to me; I must
roll it about, and examine it on all sides."

Mr. Liversedge cheerfully agreed, and, after a little more talk, he
went his way to business, leaving Denzil alone in the snuggery. There
sat the young man in deep but troubled meditation. He sat for nearly an
hour. Then his sister came in.

"Denzil, you are wanted. Mr. Wykes wishes to see you. Shall I send him
here?"

"Mr. Wykes! What about, I wonder? Yes, let him come."

A clumping was heard without, and the bright face of the Institute's
Secretary, so strongly in contrast with his wretched body, presented
itself in the doorway. Quarrier received him with a friendly
consideration due rather to pity than to any particular interest in the
man himself. He placed him in a comfortable chair, and waited in
attentive attitude for an explanation of the call. Mr. Wykes lost no
time in making known his business; he told what had happened at the
Institute, and respectfully begged for Mr. Quarrier's aid in averting
disappointment on the next evening.

"I am sure, sir, that your appearance on our platform would give very
general pleasure. I should have time to post announcements here and
there. We should have a splendid hall."

"The deuce! But, Mr. Wykes, it is no such simple matter to prepare a
lecture in four-and-twenty hours. What am I to talk about?"

"Any subject, sir, that would be of interest to a wide-awake audience.
If I might suggest, there are your travels, for instance. And I
understand that you are deeply conversant with the Northern
literatures; I am sure something"----

"Pardon me. I hardly think I should care to go so far away for a theme."

The Secretary heard this with pleasure.

"All the better, Sir! Any subject of the day; nothing could be more
acceptable. You probably know our position at the Institute. In
practice, we are something like a Liberal Club. You have heard that the
other party are going to start a Society of their own?"

"I have--a Society with an imbecile Dame." He pondered. "Suppose I were
to talk about 'The Position of Woman in our Time'?"

"Capital, Mr. Quarrier! Couldn't be better, sir! Do permit me to
announce it at once!"

"It's rather a ticklish responsibility I'm undertaking--but--very well,
I will do my best, Mr. Wykes. Who is chairman?"

"Mr. William Glazzard, sir."

"Ho ho! All right; I'll turn up to time. Eight o'clock, I suppose?
Evening dress, or not? Oh, of course, if it's usual; I didn't know your
custom."

Mr. Wykes did not linger. Left alone again, Denzil walked about in
excited mood. At length, with a wave of the arm which seemed to
announce a resolution, he went to the drawing-room. His sister was
reading there in solitude.

"Molly, I'm going to lecture at the Institute tomorrow, _vice_ somebody
or other who can't turn up. What subject, think you?"

"The Sagas, probably?"

"The Sagas be blowed! 'Woman's Place in our Time,' that's the title."

Mrs. Liversedge laughed, and showed astonishment.

"And what have you to say about her?"

"Wait and see!"




CHAPTER VI


At the distance of a mile and a half from Polterham lay an estate which
had long borne the name of Highmead. Here had dwelt three successive
generations of Glazzards. The present possessor, by name William, was,
like his father and grandfather, simply a country gentleman, but,
unlike those respectable ancestors, had seen a good deal of the world,
and only settled down amid his acres when he was tired of wandering.
His age at present was nearing fifty. When quite a young man, he had
married rather rashly--a girl whose acquaintance he had made during a
voyage. In a few years' time, he and his wife agreed to differ on a
great many topics of moment, and consequently to live apart. Mrs.
Glazzard died abroad. William, when the desire for retirement came upon
him, was glad of the society of a son and a daughter in their early
teens. But the lad died of consumption, and the girl, whose name was
Ivy, for a long time seemed to be clinging to life with but doubtful
tenure. She still lived, however, and kept her father's house.

Ivy Glazzard cared little for the pleasures of the world--knew, indeed,
scarcely more about them than she had gathered from books. Her
disposition was serious, inclined to a morbid melancholy; she spent
much time over devotional literature, but very seldom was heard to
speak of religion. Probably her father's avowed indifferentism imposed
upon her a timid silence. When the Revivalist services were being held
in Polterham, she visited the Hall and the churches with assiduity, and
from that period dated her friendship with the daughter of Mr. Mumbray,
Mayor of the town. Serena Mumbray was so uncomfortable at home that she
engaged eagerly in any occupation which could excuse her absence for as
many hours a day as possible. Prior to the outbreak of Revivalism no
one had supposed her particularly pious, and, indeed, she had often
suffered Mrs. Mumbray's rebukes for levity of speech and indifference
to the conventional norm of feminine behaviour. Though her parents had
always been prominent in Polterham society, she was ill-educated, and
of late years had endeavoured, in a fitful, fretful way, to make amends
to herself for this injustice. Disregarding paternal censure, she
subscribed to the Literary Institute, and read at hap-hazard with
little enough profit. Twenty-three years old, she was now doubly
independent, for the will of a maiden aunt (a lady always on the worst
of terms with Mr. and Mrs. Mumbray, and therefore glad to encourage
Serena against them) had made her an heiress of no slight
consideration. Young men of Polterham regarded her as the greatest
prize within view, though none could flatter himself that he stood in
any sensible degree of favour with her. There seemed no reason why Miss
Mumbray should not marry, but it was certain that as yet she behaved
disdainfully to all who approached her with the show of intention. She
was not handsome, but had agreeable features. As though to prove her
contempt of female vanity and vulgar display, she dressed plainly,
often carelessly--a fact which of course served to emphasize her
importance in the eyes of people who tried to seem richer than they
were.

Miss Glazzard rarely came into the town, but Serena visited Highmead at
least once a week. According to the state of the weather, the friends
either sat talking in Ivy's room or rambled about the grounds, where
many a pretty and sheltered spot was discoverable. At such times the
master of the house seldom showed himself, and, on the whole, Highmead
reminded one of a mansion left in the care of servants whilst the
family are abroad. Miss Mumbray was surprised when, on her arrival one
afternoon, she was conducted into the presence of three persons, who
sat conversing in the large drawing-room. With Ivy and her father was a
gentleman whose identity she could only guess; he proved to be Mr.
Eustace Glazzard, her friend's uncle.

To the greetings with which she was received Serena responded formally.
It happened that her attire was to-day even more careless than usual,
for, the weather being wet and cold, she had just thrown a cloak over
the frock in which she lounged at home, and driven out in a cab with
the thought of stepping directly into Ivy's sanctum. So far from this,
she found herself under the scrutiny of two well-dressed men, whose
faces, however courteous, manifested the signature of a critical
spirit. The elder Mr. Glazzard was bald, wrinkled, and of aristocratic
bearing; he wore gold-rimmed glasses, which accentuated the keenness of
his gaze. The younger man, though altogether less formidable, had a
smile which Miss Mumbray instinctively resented; he seemed to be
regarding her with some special interest, and it was clear that her
costume did not escape mental comment.

Ivy did her best to overcome the restraint of the situation, and for a
quarter of an hour something like conversation was maintained, but, of
a sudden, Miss Mumbray rose.

"We will go to my room," said Ivy, regarding her nervously.

"Thank you," was the reply, "I mustn't stay longer to-day."

"Oh, why not? But indeed you must come for a moment; I have something
to show you."

Serena took leave of the gentlemen, and with show of reluctance
suffered herself to be led to the familiar retreat.

"I'm afraid I have displeased you," Ivy addressed her, when the door
was closed. "I ought to have asked your permission."

"It doesn't matter, dear--not a bit. But I wasn't quite in the humour
for--for that kind of thing. I came here for quietness, as I always do."

"Do forgive me! I thought--to tell the truth, it was my uncle--I had
spoken of you to him, and he said he should so much like to meet you."

"It really doesn't matter; but I look rather like the woman who comes
to buy old dresses, don't I?"

Ivy laughed.

"Of course not!"

"And what if I do?" exclaimed the other, seating herself by the fire.
"I don't know that I've any claim to look better than Mrs. Moss. I
suppose she and I are about on a level in understanding and education,
if the truth were told. Your uncle would see that, of course."

"Now, don't--don't!" pleaded Ivy, bending over the chair and stroking
her friend's shoulder. "It's so wrong of you, dear. My father and Uncle
Eustace are both quite capable of judging you rightly."

"What did you tell him about me--your uncle?" asked Serena, pettishly.

"That you were my friend, and that we read together"----

"Oh, of course! What else?"

Ivy faltered.

"I explained who you were."

"That I had a ridiculous name, and was the daughter of silly people!"

"Oh, it _is_ unkind of you!"

"Well, and what else? I insist on knowing, Ivy."

"Indeed, I didn't say one word that you mightn't have heard yourself. I
think you can believe me, dear?"

"To be sure I can. But then no doubt your father told him the rest, or
has done by this time. There's no harm in that. I like people to know
that I am independent. Well, now tell me about _him_. He isn't a great
favourite of yours, is he?"

"No, not a great favourite." Ivy seemed always to weigh her words. "I
don't know him very well. He has always lived in London, and I've never
seen him more than once a year. I'm afraid he doesn't care much about
the things that I prize most, but he is kind and very clever, I
believe. Father always says he might have been a great artist if he had
chosen."

"Then why didn't he choose?"

"I can't say. So many people seem to fall far short of what they might
have been."

"Women do--what else can you expect? But men are free. I suppose he is
rich?"

"No, not rich. He seems to have enough for his needs."

Serena indulged her thoughts.

"I felt I disliked him at first," she said, presently. "But he is
improved. He can talk well, I should think. I suppose he is always in
clever society?"

"I suppose so."

"And why doesn't he invite you to London, and take you to see people?"

"Oh, he knows me better than that!" replied Ivy, with a laugh.

Whilst the girls talked thus, Eustace Glazzard and his brother were
also in confidential chat. They had gone to the library and made
themselves comfortable with cigars--a cellaret and glasses standing
within reach. The rooms at Highmead gave evidence of neglect. Guests
were seldom entertained; the servants were few, and not well looked
after.

"She has, I dare say, thirty thousand," William Glazzard was saying,
with an air of indifference. "I suppose she'll marry some parson. Let
us hope it's one of the fifty-pound curates."

"Deep in the old slough?"

"Hopelessly--or Ivy wouldn't be so thick with her."

When he had spoken, William turned with an expressive smile.

"Still, who knows? I rather like the girl. She has no humbug about
her--no pretence, that's to say. You see how she dresses."

"A bad sign, I'm afraid."

"Well, no, not in this case, I think. Her home accounts for it. That
old ass, Mumbray, and his wife make things pretty sour for her, as the
Germans say; at least, I guess so."

"I don't dislike her appearance--intelligent at bottom, I should
imagine."

There followed a long silence. Eustace broke it by asking softly:

"And how do things go with you?"

"The same as ever. Steadily down-hill. I had better let the place before
it gets into a thoroughly bad state. And you?"

His brother made no answer, but sat with bent head.

"You remember Stark," he said at length, "the lawyer? He wants me to
stand for Polterham at the next election."

"You? In place of Welwyn-Baker?"

"No; as Liberal candidate; or Radical, if you like."

"You're joking, I suppose!"

"Where's the impossibility?"

Their eyes met.

"There's no absurdity," said William, "in your standing for Parliament;
_au contraire_. But I can't imagine you on the Radical side. And I
don't see the necessity of that. Welwyn-Baker is breaking up; they
won't let him come forward again, even if he wishes. His son is
disliked, and would have a very poor chance. If you cared to put
yourself in touch with Mumbray and the rest of them--by Jove! I believe
they would welcome you. I don't know of any one but the Welwyn-Bakers
at all likely to stand."

"But," objected his brother, "what's the use of my standing for a party
that is pretty sure to be beaten?"

"You think that's the case?"

Eustace repeated Mr. Stark's opinions, and what he had heard from
Quarrier. It seemed to cost William an effort to fix his mind on the
question; but at length he admitted that the contest would probably be
a very close one, even granting that the Conservatives secured a good
candidate.

"That's as much as to say," observed his brother, "that the Liberals
stand to win, as things are. Now, there seems to be no doubt that
Liversedge would gladly withdraw in favour of a better man. What I want
you to do is to set this thing in train for me. I am in earnest."

"You astonish me! I can't reconcile such an ambition with"----

"No, no; of course not." Glazzard spoke with unwonted animation. "You
don't know what my life is and has been. Look I must do something to
make my blood circulate, or I shall furnish a case for the coroner one
of these mornings. I want excitement. I have taken up one thing after
another, and gone just far enough to understand that there's no hope of
reaching what I aimed at--superlative excellence; then the thing began
to nauseate me. I'm like poor Jackson, the novelist, who groaned to me
once that for fifteen years the reviewers had been describing his books
as 'above the average.' In whatever I have undertaken the results were
'above the average,' and that's all. This is damned poor consolation
for a man with a temperament like mine!"

His voice broke down. He had talked himself into a tremor, and the
exhibition of feeling astonished his brother, who--as is so often the
case between brothers--had never suspected what lay beneath the surface
of Eustace's _dilettante_ life.

"I can enter into that," said the elder, slowly. "But do you imagine
that in politics you have found your real line?"

"No such thing. But it offers me a chance of _living_ for a few years.
I don't flatter myself that I could make a figure in the House of
Commons; but I want to sit there, and be in the full current of
existence. I had never dreamt of such a thing until Stark suggested it.
But he's a shrewd fellow, and he has guessed my need."

"What about the financial matter?" asked William, after reflection.

"I see no insuperable difficulty. You, I understand, are in no position
to help me?"

"Oh, I won't say that," interrupted the other. "A few hundreds will
make no difference to me. I suppose you see your way for the ordinary
expenses of life?"

"With care, yes. I've been throwing money away, but that shall stop;
there'll be no need for it when my nerves are put in tone."

"Well, it strikes me in a comical light, but you must act as you think
best. I'll go to work for you. It's a pity I stand so much apart, but I
suppose my name is worth something. The Radicals have often tried to
draw me into their camp, and of course it's taken for granted that I am
rather for than against them. By-the-bye, what is the date? Ah! that's
fortunate. To-morrow I am booked to take the chair at the Institute; a
lecture--I don't know by whom, or about what. A good opportunity for
setting things astir."

"Then you do take some part in town life?"

"Most exceptional thing. I must have refused to lecture and to
chairmanize twenty times. But those fellows are persistent; they caught
me in a weak moment a few days ago. I suppose you realize the kind of
speechifying that would be expected of you? Are you prepared to blaze
away against Beaconsfield, and all that sort of thing?"

"I'm not afraid. There are more sides to my character than you suppose."

Eustace spoke excitedly, and tossed off a glass of liqueur. His manner
had become more youthful than of wont; his face showed more colour.

"The fact is," he went on, "if I talk politics at all, I can manage the
Radical standpoint much more easily than the Tory. I have precious
little sympathy with anything popular, that's true; but it's easier for
me to adopt the heroic strain of popular leaders than to put my own
sentiments into the language of squires and parsons. I should feel I
was doing a baser thing if I talked vulgar Toryism than in roaring the
democratic note. Do you understand?"

"I have an inkling of what you mean."

Eustace refilled the little glass.

"Of course," he went on, "my true life stands altogether outside
popular contention. I am an artist, though only half-baked. But I admit
most heartily that our form of government is a good one--the most
favourable that exists to individual freedom. We are ruled by the
balance of two parties; neither could do without the other. This being
the case, a man of my mind may conscientiously support either side.
Nowadays neither is a foe to liberty; we know that party tall-talk
means nothing--mere playing to the gallery. If I throw whatever weight
I represent into the Liberal scales, I am only helping, like every
other Member of Parliament, to maintain the constitutional equilibrium.
You see, this view is not even cynical; any one might proclaim it
seriously."

"Yes; but don't do so in Polterham."

The other laughed, and at the same moment remembered how long it was
since such an expression of mirth had escaped his lips.

"Well," he exclaimed, "I feel better to-day than for long enough. I've
been going through a devilish bad time, I can tell you. To make things
worse, some one has fixed an infernal accusation on me--an abominable
calumny. I won't talk about it now, but it may be necessary some day."

"Calumny?--nothing that could be made use against you in public?"

"No danger of that, I think. I didn't mean to speak of it."

"You know that a man on the hustings must look out for mud?"

"Of course, of course!--How do you spend your afternoons? What shall we
do?"

William threw away the end of a cigar, and stretched himself.

"I do very little but read," he answered. "A man gets the reading
habit, just like the morphia habit, or anything else of that kind. I
think my average is six novels a week: French, Russian, German,
Italian. No English, unless I'm in need of an emetic. What else should
I do? It's a way of watching contemporary life.--Would you like to go
and talk with Ivy? Oh, I forgot that girl."

"You wouldn't care to ask some people to dinner one of these days--the
right kind of people?"

"Yes, yes; we'll do that. I must warn you not to talk much about art,
and above all not to play the piano. It would make a bad impression."

"All right. How shall I deal with Liversedge? I go there this evening,
you remember."

"Sound him, if opportunity offers. No hurry, you know. We have probably
several months before us. You'll have to live here a good deal."

As the rain had ceased, they presently went out into the garden and
strolled aimlessly about.




CHAPTER VII


No sooner had Mr. Liversedge become aware of his brother-in-law's
promise to appear on the platform, than he despatched a note to Mr.
Wykes, recommending exceptional industry in spreading the announcement.
These addresses were not commonly of a kind to excite much interest,
nor had the name of Mr. Denzil Quarrier any prestige in Polterham; it
occasioned surprise when messengers ran about the town distributing
handbills, which gave a general invitation (independent of membership)
to that evening's lecture at the Institute. At the doors of the
building itself was a large placard, attracting the eye by its bold
inscription: "Woman: Her Place in Modern Life"--so had the title been
ultimately shaped. Politicians guessed at once that something was in
the wind, and before the afternoon there was a distinct rumour that
this young man from London would be brought forward as Liberal
candidate (Radical, said the Tories) in the place of Mr. Liversedge,
who had withdrawn his name. The reading-room was beset. This chanced to
be the day on which the Polterham Liberal newspaper was published, and
at the head of its "general" column appeared a long paragraph on the
subject under discussion. "At the moment of going to press, we learn
that unforeseen circumstances have necessitated a change in this
evening's programme at the Literary Institute. The indefatigable
Secretary, Mr. Wykes, has been fortunate enough to fill the threatened
vacancy, and that in a way which gives promise of a rare intellectual
treat." Then followed a description of the lecturer (consisting of
laudatory generalities), and a few sounding phrases on the subject he
had chosen. Mr. Chown, who came and went twenty times in the course of
the day, talked to all and sundry with his familiar vehemence.

"If it is true," he thundered, "that Tobias Liversedge has already
surrendered his place to this young man, I want to know why these
things have been done in a corner? If you ask my opinion, it looks
uncommonly like a conspiracy. The Radical electors of Polterham are not
going to be made the slaves of a secret caucus! The choice may be a
very suitable one. I don't say"----

"Then wait till we know something definite," growled Mr. Vawdrey. "All
I can say is that if this Mr. Quarrier is going in for extreme views
about women, I'll have nothing to do with him."

"What do you mean by 'extreme views'?" screeched a thin man in dirty
clothing.

Thereupon began a furious controversy, lasting half an hour. (It may be
noted that a card hung in several parts of the room, requesting members
not to converse in audible tones.)

Mr. Liversedge had gone to work like a man of decision. Between six and
eight on the previous evening he had seen the members of that "secret
caucus" whose existence outraged Mr. Chown--in other words, the
half-dozen capable citizens who practically managed the affairs of
Liberal Polterham--and had arrived at an understanding with them which
made it all but a settled thing that Denzil Quarrier should be their
prospective candidate. Tobias was eager to back out of the engagement
into which he had unadvisedly entered. Denzil's arrival at this
juncture seemed to him providential--impossible to find a better man
for their purpose. At eight o'clock an informal meeting was held at the
office of the _Polterham Examiner_, with the result that Mr. Hammond,
the editor, subsequently penned that significant paragraph which next
morning attracted all eyes.

On returning to supper, Mr. Liversedge found his wife and Denzil in
conversation with Eustace Glazzard. With the latter he had a bare
acquaintance; from Denzil's report, he was disposed to think of him as
a rather effeminate old-young man of metropolitan type.

"Well," he exclaimed, when greetings were over, "I don't think you will
want for an audience to-morrow, Denzil. We are summoning Polterham
indiscriminately."

Glazzard had of course heard of the coming lecture. He wore a smile,
but was taciturn.

"Pray heaven I don't make an exhibition of myself!" cried Denzil, with
an air of sufficient confidence.

"Shall I send coffee to your bedroom, to-night?" asked his sister, with
merry eyes.

"Too late for writing it out. It must be inspiration I know what I want
to say, and I don't think the sea of Polterham faces will disturb me."

He turned sharply to his brother-in-law.

"Are you still in the same mind on that matter we spoke of this
afternoon?"

"Decidedly!"

"Glazzard, what should you say if I came forward as Radical candidate
for Polterham?"

There was silence. Glazzard fixed his eyes on the opposite wall; his
smile was unchanged.

"I see no objection," he at length replied. The tones were rather
thick, and ended in a slight cough. Feeling that all eyes were fixed
upon him, Glazzard made an uneasy movement, and rose from his chair.

"It doesn't astonish you?" said Quarrier, with a broad grin.

"Not overpoweringly."

"Then let us regard the thing as settled. Mr. Liversedge has no stomach
for the fight, and makes room for me. In a week's time I shall be a man
of distinction."

In the midst of his self-banter he found Glazzard's gaze turned upon
him with steady concentration. Their eyes met, and Denzil's expression
became graver.

"You will take up your abode here?" Glazzard asked.

"Shortly," was the reply, given with more emphasis than seemed
necessary, and accompanied with an earnest look.

Again there was silence, and before the conversation could be renewed
there came a summons to supper.

A vivacious political dialogue between Mr. Liversedge and his relative
allowed Glazzard to keep silence, save when he exchanged a few words
with his hostess or Miss Pope. He had a look of extreme weariness; his
eyes were heavy and without expression, the lines of face slack,
sullen; he seemed to maintain with difficulty his upright position at
the table, and his eating was only pretence. At the close of the meal
he bent towards Mrs. Liversedge, declared that he was suffering from an
intolerable headache, and begged her to permit his immediate departure.

Denzil went with him out into the road.

"I could see you were not well," he said, kindly. "I want to have a
long and very serious talk with you; it must wait till after to-morrow.
You know, of course, what I have on my mind. Come and hear my
balderdash if you are all right again."

All the next day Denzil was in extravagant spirits. In the morning he
made a show of shutting himself up to meditate the theme of his
discourse, but his sister presently saw him straying about the garden,
and as soon as her household duties left her at leisure she was called
upon to gossip and laugh with him. The Polterham Examiner furnished
material for endless jesting. In the midst of a flow of grotesque
fancies, he broke off to say:

"By-the-bye, I shall have to run over to Paris for a few weeks."

"What to do there?"

"A private affair. You shall hear about it afterwards."

And he went on with his mirthful fantasia. This mood had been frequent
with him in earlier years, and his sister was delighted to see that he
preserved so much of youth. After all, it might be that he had found
his vocation ere it was too late. Certainly he had the gift of speech,
and his personality was not a common one. He might strike out a special
line for himself in Parliament. They must make his election a sure
thing.

The lecture was at eight. About seven, Mr. Liversedge and his relative
walked off to the Institute, and entered the committee-room. Two or
three gentlemen had already arrived; they were no strangers to Denzil,
and a lively conversation at once sprang up. In a few minutes the door
again opened to admit Mr. William Glazzard. The chairman of the evening
came forward with lounging steps. Regardless of the others present, he
fixed his eye upon Quarrier, and examined him from head to foot. In
this case, also, introduction was unnecessary.

"You have lost no time," he remarked, holding out his hand, and
glancing from the young man to Mr. Liversedge.

"Your brother has given you a hint?" said the latter.

"Oh yes! How am I to phrase my introductory remarks?"

"Quite without reference to the political topic."

The others murmured an approval.

"Eustace well again?" asked Quarrier. "He went home with a bad headache
last night."

"He'll be here," answered Mr. Glazzard, laconically. "Liversedge, a
word with you."

The two stepped apart and conversed under cover of the chat that went
on in front of the fire. Mr. Glazzard merely wished for a few hints to
direct him when he introduced the lecturer; he was silent about his
brother's frustrated project.

Fresh members of the committee kept appearing. The room resounded with
talk and laughter. Denzil had a higher colour than usual, but he seemed
perfectly self-possessed; his appearance and colloquial abilities made
a very favourable impression. "Distinct improvement on friend Toby,"
whispered one committee-man to another; and this was the general
opinion. Yet there was some anxiety regarding the address they were
about to hear. Denzil did not look like a man who would mince his words
and go half-way in his opinions. The Woman question was rather a
dangerous one in Polterham just now; that period of Revivalism, and the
subsequent campaign of Mrs. Hitchin, had left a sore feeling in not a
few of the townsfolk. An old gentleman (he had known Denzil as a boy)
ventured to speak of this to the lecturer.

"Don't be afraid, Mr. Toft," was the laughing reply. "You will stand
amazed at my moderation; I am dead against Female Suffrage."

"That is safe, I think. You'll find Mrs. Wade down upon you--but that
doesn't matter."

"Will she attack me in the hall?"

"No, no; we don't have public discussion; but prepare for an assault
to-morrow."

"I shall enjoy it!"

The hall was rapidly filling. Already twice as many people as attended
an ordinary lecture had taken seats, and among them were numerous faces
altogether strange at the Institute, though familiar enough in the
streets of Polterham. Among early arrivals was Mr. Samuel Quarrier,
Denzil's uncle, a white-headed but stalwart figure. He abominated
Radicalism, and was one of the very few "new" men who supported the old
political dynasty of the town. But his countenance manifested no sour
displeasure; he exchanged cheery greetings on all hands, and marched
steadily to the front chairs, his two daughters following. The Mayor,
accompanied by his wife, Miss Mumbray, and young Mr. Raglan Mumbray,
was seen moving forward; he acknowledged salutations with a heavy bow
and a wave of the hand. Decidedly it was a field-day. From the street
below sounded a constant roll of carriages and clatter of hoofs coming
to a standstill before the Institute. Never, perhaps, had so many
people in evening costume gathered under this roof. Even Mr. Chown, the
draper, though scornful of such fopperies, had thought it due to his
position as a town-councillor to don the invidious garb; he was not
disposed to herd among the undistinguished at the back of the room.
Ladies were in great force, though many of them sought places with an
abashed movement, not quite sure whether what they were about to hear
would be strictly "proper." One there was who betrayed no such tremors;
the position she assumed was about the middle of the hall, and from
time to time curious looks were cast in that direction.

The clock pointed to eight. Punctually to the moment a side door was
thrown open, and a procession of gentlemen ascended the platform.
Members of the committee seated themselves in a row of arm-chairs; Mr.
William Glazzard took his place not far from the reading-desk, and
behind it subsided the lecturer.

In these instants Denzil Quarrier was the prey of sudden panic. He had
imagined that his fortitude was proof against stage-fright, but between
the door and his seat on the platform he suffered horribly. His throat
was parched and constricted; his eyes dazzled, so that he could see
nothing; his limbs were mere automatic mechanism; he felt as though
some one had set his ears on fire. He strove wildly to recollect his
opening sentences; but they were gone. How was he to fill up a mortal
hour with coherent talk when he had not command of one phrase? He had
often reproved himself for temerity, and now the weakness had brought
its punishment. What possessed him to run into such a----?

The chairman had risen and was speaking. "Pleasure -- -- -- introduce
-- -- -- Mr. Denzil Quarrier, -- -- -- not unknown to many of you -- --
-- almost at a moment's notice -- -- -- much indebted -- -- --"

An outbreak of applause, and then dead silence. The ticking of the
clock became audible. Some external force took hold upon him, lifted
him from the chair, and impelled him a few steps forward. Some voice,
decidedly not his own, though it appeared to issue from his throat,
uttered the words "Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen." And before the
sound had ceased, there flashed into his thoughts a story concerning an
enlightened young lady of Stockholm, who gave a lecture to advance the
theory that woman's intellect suffered from the habit of allowing her
hair to grow so long. It was years since this trifle had recurred to
his mind; it came he knew not how, and he clutched at it like the
drowning man at a straw. Before he really understood what he was about,
he had begun to narrate the anecdote, and suddenly, to his
astonishment, he was rewarded with universal peals of laughter. The
noise dispelled his anguish of nervousness; he drew a deep breath,
grasped the table before him, and was able to speak as freely as if he
had been on his own hearth-rug in Clement's Inn.

Make a popular audience laugh, and you have a hold upon its attention.
Able now to distinguish the faces that were gazing at him, Denzil
perceived that he had begun with a lucky stroke; the people were in
expectation of more merriment, and sat beaming with good-humour. He saw
the Mayor spread himself and stroke his beard, and the Mayoress simper
as she caught a friend's eye. Now he might venture to change his tone
and become serious.

Decidedly, his views were moderate. From the beginning he allowed it to
be understood that, whatever might be the effect of long hair, he for
one considered it becoming, and was by no means in favour of reducing
it to the male type. The young lady of Stockholm might or might not
have been indebted for her wider mental scope to the practice of
curtailing her locks, yet he had known many Swedish ladies (and ladies
of England, too) who, in spite of lovely hair, managed to preserve an
exquisite sense of the distinctions of womanhood, and this (advanced
opinion notwithstanding) he maintained was the principal thing. But,
the fact that so many women were nowadays lifting up their voices in a
demand for various degrees of emancipation seemed to show that the long
tresses and the flowing garb had really, by process of civilization,
come to symbolize certain traditions of inferiority which weighed upon
the general female consciousness. "Let us, then, ask what these
traditions are, and what is to be said for or against them from the
standpoint of a liberal age."

Denzil no longer looked with horror at the face of the clock; his only
fear was lest the hands should move too rapidly, and forbid him to
utter in spacious periods all he had on his mind. By half-past eight he
was in the midst of a vehement plea for an enlargement of female
education, in the course of which he uttered several things rather
disturbing to the nerves of Mrs. Mumbray, and other ladies
present.--Woman, it was true, lived an imperfect life if she did not
become wife and mother; but this truism had been insisted on to the
exclusion of another verity quite as important: that wifehood and
motherhood, among civilized people, implied qualifications beyond the
physical. The ordinary girl was sent forth into life with a mind
scarcely more developed than that of a child. Hence those monstrous
errors she constantly committed when called upon to accept a husband.
Not one marriage in fifty thousand was an alliance on terms fair to the
woman. In the vast majority of cases, she wedded a sort of man in the
moon. Of him and of his world she knew nothing; whereas the bridegroom
had almost always a very sufficient acquaintance with the
circumstances, habits, antecedents, characteristics, of the girl he
espoused. Her parents, her guardians, should assure themselves--pooh!
even if these people were conscientious and capable, the task was in
most cases beyond their power.

"I have no scheme for rendering marriages universally happy. On the
contrary, I believe that marriages in general will always serve as a
test of human patience." (Outbreak of masculine laughter.) "But
assuredly it is possible, by judicious training of young girls, to
guard them against some of the worst perils which now threaten their
going forth into the world. It is possible to put them on something
like an equality in knowledge of life with the young men of
corresponding social station." ("Oh, shameful!" murmured Mrs. Mumbray.
"Shocking!") "They must be treated, not like ornaments under
glass-cases, but like human beings who, physiologists assure us, are
born with mental apparatus, even as men are. I repeat that I don't want
to see them trained for politics" (many faces turned towards the middle
of the hall) "and that I lament the necessity imposed on so many of
them of struggling with men in the labour-market. What I demand is an
education in the true sense of the word, and that as much at the hands
of their mothers as of the school-teacher. When that custom has been
established, be sure that it will affect enormously the habits and
views of the male population. The mass of men at present regard women
as creatures hoodwinked for them by nature--or at all events by
society. When they can no longer act on that assumption, interest and,
let us hope, an expanding sense of honour will lead them to see the
marriage contract, and all connected with it, in altogether a different
light."

He drank off a glass of water, listening the while to resonant
applause. There was still twenty minutes, and he decided to use the
time in offering solace to the army of women who, by force of mere
statistics, are fated to the frustration of their _raison d'etre_. On
this subject he had nothing very remarkable to say, and, indeed, the
maiden ladies who heard him must have felt that it all amounted to a
pitying shrug of the shoulders. But he could not speak otherwise than
vigorously, and at times his words were eloquent.

"We know not how things may improve in the future," (thus he
perorated), "but let celibate ladies of the present bear in mind that
the chances are enormously against their making a marriage worthy of
the name." ("Oh!" from some man at the back.) "Let them remember, too,
if they are disposed to altruism, that though most men manage to find a
wife, very few indeed, as things are, do not ultimately wish that they
had remained single." (A roar of laughter, and many protests.) "This
being so, let women who have no family of their own devote themselves,
whenever possible, to the generous and high task of training the new
female generation, so that they may help to mitigate one of the
greatest ills of civilized existence, and prepare for women of the
future the possibility of a life truly emancipated."

Denzil sat down with a glow of exulting triumph. His lecture was a
success, not a doubt of it. He saw the chairman rise, and heard slow,
languid phrases which contrasted strangely with his own fire and rush.
A vote of thanks was being proposed. When silence came, he was aware
of some fluster in the body of the hall; people were whispering,
tittering, turning round to look. Two persons had stood up with the
intention of seconding the vote of gratitude; one was Mr. Chown, the
other that lady who had a place in the middle of the assemblage, and
who seemed to be so well known. The Radical draper did not immediately
give way, but his neighbours reminded him of propriety. Quarrier had
just scrutinized the person of the lady about to speak, when her voice
fell upon his ears with a pleasant distinctness.

"As it is certainly right," she began, "that a woman should be one of
those who return thanks to our lecturer, and as I fear that no other
woman present will be inclined to undertake this duty, I will make no
apology for trying to perform it. And that in very few words. Speaking
for myself, I cannot pretend to agree with the whole of Mr. Quarrier's
address; I think his views were frequently timid"--laughter and
hushing--"frequently timid, and occasionally quite too masculine. I
heard once of a lady who proposed to give a series of lectures on
'Astronomy from a Female Point of View'" (a laugh from two or three
people only), "and I should prefer to entitle Mr. Quarrier's lecture,
'Woman from a Male Point of View.' However, it was certainly
well-meaning, undoubtedly eloquent, and on the whole, in this time of
small mercies, something for which a member of the struggling sex may
reasonably be grateful. I wish, therefore, to add my voice to the
proposal that a vote of thanks be offered to our lecturer, with all
sincerity and all heartiness."

"A devilish good little speech!" Denzil murmured to himself, as the
applause and merriment broke forth.

The show of hands seemed to be universal. Denzil was enjoying an
enormous happiness. He had proved to himself that he could speak, and
henceforth the platform was his own. Now let the dissolution of
Parliament come with all convenient speed; he longed to begin the
political conflict.

Committee-men crowded about him, offering hands, and brimming with
facetious eulogy.

"You were on very thin ice now and then," said Mr. Liversedge. "You
made me shake in my shoes. But the skating was admirable."

"I never knew Mrs. Wade so complimentary," remarked old Mr. Toft. "I
expected half an hour's diatribe, 'the rapt oration flowing free,' as
Tennyson says. You have taught her good manners."

Down in the hall was proceeding an animated conversazione. In one group
stood the Mayor and his wife, Miss Mumbray, and Ivy Glazzard. Serena
was turning aside to throw a shawl over her shoulders, when Eustace
Glazzard stepped up.

"Pray let me assist you, Miss Mumbray." He placed the wrap. "I hope you
have been amused?"

"I have, really," answered the girl, with a glance towards Ivy, who had
heard her uncle's voice.

"You, Ivy," he continued, "are rather on Mrs. Wade's side, I think?"

"Oh, uncle--how _can_ you!"

Mr. Mumbray was looking on, trying to determine who the gentleman might
be. Glazzard, desirous of presentation to the Mayor, gave Ivy a glance,
and she, with much nervousness, uncertain whether she might do such a
thing, said to her friend's father:

"I think, Mr. Mumbray, you don't know my uncle, Mr. Eustace Glazzard?"

"Ha! very glad to meet you, Mr. Glazzard. My love," he turned to the
Mayoress, "let me present to you Mr. Eustace Glazzard--Mr. William's
brother."

The Mayoress laid her fan on her bosom, and inclined graciously. She
was a portly and high-coloured woman, with hanging nether lip. Glazzard
conversed with her and her husband in a tone of amiable liveliness.

"Remarkable," he said, smiling to the Mayoress, "how patiently women in
general support this ancient yoke of tyranny!"

Mrs. Mumbray looked at him with condescending eyes, in doubt as to his
real meaning. Her husband, ponderously literal, answered in his
head-voice:

"I fail to recognize the grievance.--How do you do, Mr. Lovett?--I am
conscious of no tyranny."

"But that is just what Mr. Glazzard meant, papa, put in Serena, with
scarcely disguised contempt.

"Ha! oh! To be sure--to be sure! Quite so, Mr. Glazzard.--A very
amoosing lecture, all the same. Not of course to be taken
seriously.--Good evening, Mr. Glazzard--good evening!"

The Mayoress again inclined. Serena gave her acquaintance an enigmatic
look, murmured a leave-taking, and, with an affectionate nod to Ivy,
passed on. Glazzard drew near to his niece.

"Your friend is not a disciple of Mrs. Wade?"

"Oh dear no, uncle!"

"Not just a little bit?" he smiled, encouragingly.

"Perhaps she would agree with what Mr. Quarrier said about girls having
a right to better instruction."

"I see. Don't wait with me if there's any one you would like to speak
to."

Ivy shook her head. She had a troubled expression, as if the experience
of the evening had agitated her.

Close at hand, a circle of men had formed about Mr. Chown, who was
haranguing on the Woman question. What he wanted was to emancipate the
female mind from the yoke of superstition and of priestcraft. Time
enough to talk about giving women votes when they were no longer the
slaves of an obstructive religion. There were good things in the
lecture, but, on the whole, it was flabby--flabby. A man who would
discourse on this topic must be courageous; he must dare to shock and
give offence. Now, if _he_ had been lecturing----

Glazzard beckoned to his niece, and led her out of ear-shot of these
utterances. In a minute or two they were joined by the chairman, who
had already equipped himself for departure.

"Bah! I have a splitting headache," said William. "Let us get home."

Quarrier was still on the platform, but at this moment he caught
Glazzard's eye, and came hastening down. His friend stepped forward to
meet him.

"Well, how did it go?" Denzil asked, gaily.

"You have great aptitude for that kind of thing."

"So it strikes me.--Will you engage yourself to dine with me the day
after to-morrow?"

"Willingly."

"I have an idea. You remember the Coach and Horses--over at Rickstead?"

It was a fine old country inn, associated in their memories of boyhood
with hare-and-hounds and other sportive excursions. Glazzard nodded.

"Let us have a quiet dinner there; six-thirty. They can drive us back."

Glazzard rejoined his relatives. Denzil, turning came face to face with
Mr. Samuel Quarrier.

"So you took the trouble to come and hear me?"

"To be sure," replied the old man, in a gruff but good-natured voice.
"Is it true what they are saying? Is it to be you instead of Toby?"

"I believe so."

"I shall do my best to get you a licking. All in good part, you know."

"Perfectly natural, But I shall win!"




CHAPTER VIII


"Do you know of any good house to let in or near the town?" inquired
Denzil of his sister the next morning, as they chatted after Toby's
departure to business.

"A house! What do you want with one?"

"Oh, I must have a local habitation--the more solid the better."

Mrs. Liversedge examined him.

"What is going on, Denzil?"

"My candidature--that's all. Any houses advertised in this rag?" He
took up yesterday's _Examiner_, and began to search the pages.

"You can live very well with us."

Denzil did not reply, and his sister, summoned by a servant, left him.
There was indeed an advertisement such as he sought. An old and
pleasant family residence, situated on the outskirts of Polterham (he
remembered it very well), would be vacant at Christmas. Application
could be made on the premises. Still in a state of very high pressure,
unable to keep still or engage in any quiet pursuit, he set off the
instant to view this house. It stood in a high-walled garden, which was
entered through heavy iron-barred gates, one of them now open. The
place had rather a forlorn look, due in part to the decay of the
foliage which in summer shaded the lawn; blinds were drawn on all the
front windows; the porch needed repair. He rang at the door, and was
quickly answered by a dame of the housekeeper species. On learning his
business, she began to conduct him through the rooms, which were in
habitable state, though with furniture muffled.

"The next room, sir, is the library. A lady is there at present.
Perhaps you know her?--Mrs. Wade."

"Mrs. Wade! Yes, I know her slightly."

The coincidence amused him.

"She comes here to study, sir--being a friend of the family. Will you
go in?"

Foreseeing a lively dialogue, he released his attendant till she should
hear his voice again, and, with preface of a discreet knock, entered
the room. An agreeable warmth met him, and the aspect of the interior
contrasted cheerfully with that of the chambers into which he had
looked. There was no great collection of books, but some fine
engravings filled the vacancies around. At the smaller of two
writing-tables sat the person he was prepared to discover; she had
several volumes open before her, and appeared to be making notes. At
his entrance she turned and gazed at him fixedly.

"Forgive my intrusion, Mrs. Wade," Denzil began, in a genial voice. "I
have come to look over the house, and was just told that you were here.
As we are not absolute strangers"----

He had never met her in the social way, though she had been a resident
at Polterham for some six years. Through Mrs. Liversedge, her repute
had long ago reached him; she was universally considered eccentric,
and, by many people, hardly proper for an acquaintance. On her first
arrival in the town she wore the garb of recent widowhood; relatives
here she had none, but an old friendship existed between her and the
occupants of this house, a childless couple named Hornibrook. Her age
was now about thirty.

Quarrier was far from regarding her as an attractive woman. He thought
better of her intelligence than before hearing her speak, and it was
not difficult for him to imagine that the rumour of Polterham went much
astray when it concerned itself with her characteristics; but the face
now directed to him had no power whatever over his sensibilities. It
might be that of a high-spirited and large-brained woman; beautiful it
could not be called. There was something amiss with the eyes. All the
other features might pass: they were neither plain nor comely: a
forehead of good type, a very ordinary nose, largish lips, chin
suggesting the masculine; but the eyes, to begin with, were prominent,
and they glistened in a way which made it very difficult to determine
their colour. They impressed Denzil as of a steely-grey, and seemed
hard as the metal itself. His preference was distinctly for soft
feminine eyes--such as Lilian gazed with.

Her figure was slight, but seemed strong and active. He had noticed the
evening before that, in standing to address an audience, she looked
anything but ridiculous--spite of bonnet. Here too, though allowing her
surprise to be seen, she had the bearing of perfect self-possession,
and perhaps of conscious superiority. Fawn-coloured hair, less than
luxuriant, lay in soft folds and plaits on the top of her head;
possibly (the thought was not incongruous) she hoped to gain half an
inch of seeming stature.

They shook hands, and Denzil explained his object in calling.

"Then you are going to settle at Polterham?"

"Probably--that is, to keep an abode here."

"You are not married, I think, Mr. Quarrier?"

"No."

"There was a report at the Institute last night--may I speak of it?"

"Political? I don't think it need be kept a secret. My brother-in-law
wishes me to make friends with the Liberals, in his place."

"I dare say you will find them very willing to meet your advances. On
one question you have taken a pretty safe line."

"Much to your disgust," said Denzil, who found himself speaking very
freely and inclined to face debatable points.

"Disgust is hardly the word. Will you sit down? In Mrs. Hornibrook's
absence, I must represent her. They are good enough to let me use the
library; my own is poorly supplied."

Denzil took a chair.

"Are you busy with any particular subject?" he asked.

"The history of woman in Greece."

"Profound! I have as good as forgotten my classics. You read the
originals?"

"After a fashion. I don't know much about the enclitic _de_, and I
couldn't pass an exam. in the hypothetical sentences; but I pick up the
sense as I read on."

Her tone seemed to imply that, after all, she was not ill-versed in
grammatical niceties. She curtailed the word "examination" in an
off-hand way which smacked of an undergraduate, and her attitude on the
chair suggested that she had half a mind to cross her legs and throw
her hands behind her head.

"Then," said Quarrier, "you have a good deal more right to speak of
woman's claims to independence than most female orators."

She looked at him with a good-humoured curl of the lip.

"Excuse me if I mention it--your tone reminds me of that with which you
began last evening. It was rather patronizing."

"Heaven forbid! I am very sorry to have been guilty of such
ill-manners."

"In a measure you atoned for it afterwards. When I got up to offer you
my thanks, I was thinking of the best part of your lecture--that where
you spoke of girls being entrapped into monstrous marriages. That was
generous, and splendidly put. It seemed to me that you must have had
cases in mind."

For the second time Denzil was unable to meet the steely gaze. He
looked away and laughed.

"Oh, of course I had; who hasn't--that knows anything of the world?
But," he changed the subject, "don't you find it rather dull, living in
a place like Polterham?"

"I have my work here."

"Work?--the work of propagandism?"

"Precisely. It would be pleasant enough to live in London, and
associate with people of my own way of thinking; but what's the
good?--there's too much of that centralization. The obscurantists take
very good care to spread themselves. Why shouldn't those who love the
light try to keep little beacons going in out-of-the-way places?"

"Well, do you make any progress?"

"Oh, I think so. The mere fact of my existence here ensures that. I
dare say you have heard tell of me, as the countryfolk say?"

The question helped Denzil to understand why Mrs. Wade was content with
Polterham. He smiled.

"Your influence won't be exerted against me, I hope, when the time
comes?"

"By no means. Don't you see that I have already begun to help you?"

"By making it clear that my Radicalism is not of the most dangerous
type?"

They laughed, together, and Quarrier, though the dialogue entertained
him, rose as if to depart.

"I will leave you with your Greeks, Mrs. Wade; though I fear you
haven't much pleasure in them from that special point of view."

"I don't know; they have given us important types of womanhood. The
astonishing thing is that we have got so little ahead of them in the
facts of female life. Woman is still enslaved, though men nowadays
think it necessary to disguise it."

"Do you really attach much importance to the right of voting, and so
on?"

"'And so on!' That covers a great deal, Mr. Quarrier. I attach all
importance to a state of things which takes for granted that women
stand on a level with children."

"So they do--with an inappreciable number of exceptions. You must be
perfectly well aware of that."

"And so you expect me to be satisfied with it?--I insist on the
franchise, because it symbolizes full citizenship. I won't aim at
anything less than that. Women must be taught to keep their eyes on
that, as the irreducible minimum of their demands."

"We mustn't argue. You know that I think they must be taught to look at
quite different things."

"Yes; but what those things are you have left me in doubt. We will talk
it over when you have more time to spare. Do you know my address?
Pear-tree Cottage, Rickstead Road. I shall be very glad to see you if
ever you care to call."

Denzil made his acknowledgments, shook hands, and left the room.

When his step sounded in the hall, the housekeeper appeared and
conducted him to the upper stories. He examined everything attentively,
but in silence; his features expressed grave thought. Mr. and Mrs.
Hornibrook, he was told, were living in Guernsey, and had resolved to
make that island their permanent abode. A Polterham solicitor was their
agent for the property.

Denzil was given to acting on the spur of the moment. There might be
dwellings obtainable that would suit him better than this, but he did
not care to linger in the business. As he passed out of the iron gates
he made up his mind that the house, with necessary repairs, would do
very well; and straightway he turned his steps to the office of the
agent.




CHAPTER IX


The village of Rickstead lay at some five miles' distance from that
suburb of Polterham where dwelt Mr. Toby Liversedge, Mr. Mumbray (the
Mayor), Mr. Samuel Quarrier, and sundry other distinguished townsfolk.
A walk along the Rickstead Road was a familiar form of exercise with
the less-favoured people who had their homes in narrow streets; for on
either side of the highway lay an expanse of meadows, crossed here and
there by pleasant paths which led to the surrounding hamlets. In this
direction no factories had as yet risen to deform the scene.

Darkness was falling when Quarrier set forth to keep his appointment
with Eustace Glazzard at the Coach and Horses Inn. The road-lamps
already glimmered; there would be no moon, but a soft dusky glow
lingered over half the sky, and gave promise of a fair night. Denzil
felt his boyhood revive as he got clear of the new houses, and began to
recognize gates, trees, banks, and stiles; he could not say whether he
enjoyed the sensation, but it served to combat certain troublesome
thoughts which had beset him since the morning. He was experiencing
reaction after the excitement of the last two days. A change from the
orderly domesticities of his sister's house had become necessary to
him, and he looked forward with satisfaction to the evening he had
planned.

At a turn of the road, which, as he well remembered, had been a
frequent limit of his nurse-guarded walk five-and-twenty years ago, his
eye fell upon a garden gate marked with the white inscription,
"Pear-tree Cottage." It brought him to a pause. This must be Mrs.
Wade's dwelling; the intellectual lady had quite slipped out of his
thoughts, and with amusement he stopped to examine the cottage as well
as dusk permitted. The front was overgrown with some creeper; the low
roof made an irregular line against the sky one window on the
ground-floor showed light through a red blind. Mrs. Wade, he had
learnt, enjoyed but a small income; the interior was probably very
modest. There she sat behind the red blind and meditated on the
servitude of her sex. Repressing an inclination to laugh aloud, he
stepped briskly forward.

Rickstead consisted of twenty or thirty scattered houses; an ancient,
slumberous place, remarkable chiefly for its time-honoured inn, which
stood at the crossing of two high roads. The landlord had received
notice that two gentlemen would dine under his roof, and the unwonted
event was making quite a stir in the hostelry. Quarrier walked in at
about a quarter-past six, savoury odours saluted him from the
threshold. Glazzard had not yet arrived, but in less than five minutes
a private carriage drew up to the door, and the friends hailed each
other.

The room prepared for them lay well apart from the bar, with its small
traffic. A great fire had been blazing for an hour or two; and the
table, not too large, was laid with the best service the house could
afford--nothing very grand, to be sure, in these days of its decline,
but the general effect was inviting to men with a good appetite and
some historical imagination.

"A happy idea of yours!" said Glazzard, as he rubbed his hands before
the great hearth. "Are we to begin with a cup of sack?"

Punctually the meal was served; the liquor provided therewith, though
of small dignity, did no discredit to the host. They talked and laughed
over old Grammar School days, old acquaintances long since dead or lost
to sight, boyish ambitions and achievements. Dinner dismissed, a bottle
of whisky on the table, a kettle steaming by the fire, Denzil's pipe
and Glazzard's cigar comfortably glowing, there came a long pause.

"Well, I have a story to tell you," said Quarrier, at length.

"So I supposed," murmured the other, without eagerness.

"I don't know that I _should_ have told it but for that chance
encounter at Kew. But I'm not sorry. I think, Glazzard, you are the one
man in the world in whom I have perfect confidence."

The listener just bent his head. His features were impassive.

"It concerns Lilian, of course," Quarrier pursued, when he had taken a
few puffs less composedly than hitherto. "I am telling the story
without her leave, but--well, in a way, as I said, the necessity is
forced upon me. I can't help doing many things just now that I should
avoid if I had my choice. I have undertaken to fight society by
stratagem. For my own part, I would rather deal it a plain blow in the
face, and bid it do its worst; but"----He waved his hand.

Glazzard murmured and nodded comprehension.

"I'll go back to the beginning. That was about three years ago. I was
crossing the North Sea (you remember the time; I said good-bye to you
in the Academy, where your bust was), and on the boat I got into
conversation with a decent kind of man who had his wife and family with
him, going to settle for a time at Stockholm; a merchant of some sort.
There were three children, and they had a governess--Lilian, in fact,
who was then not much more than eighteen. I liked the look of her from
the first. She was very still and grave,--the kind of thing that takes
me in a woman, provided she has good features. I managed to get a word
or two with her, and I liked her way of speaking. Well, I was
sufficiently interested to say to myself that I might as well spend a
week or two at Stockholm and keep up the acquaintance of these people;
Becket, their name was. I'm not exactly the kind of fellow who goes
about falling in love with nursery governesses, and at that time
(perhaps you recollect?) I had somebody else in mind. I dare say it was
partly the contrast between that shark of a woman and this modest girl;
at all events, I wanted to see more of Lilian, and I did. I was in
Stockholm, off and on, for a couple of months. I became good friends
with the Beckets, and before coming back to England I made an offer to
Miss Allen--that was the governess's name. She refused me, and I was
conceited enough to wonder what the deuce she meant."

Glazzard laughed. He was listening with more show of interest.

"Well," pursued Quarrier, after puffing vainly at his extinguished
pipe, "there was reason for wondering. Before I took the plunge, I had
a confidential talk with Mrs. Becket, who as good as assured me that I
had only to speak; in fact, she was rather angry with me for disturbing
her family arrangements. Miss Allen, I learnt from her, was an
uncommonly good girl--everything I imagined her. Mrs. Becket didn't
know her family, but she had engaged her on the strength of excellent
testimonials, which didn't seem exaggerated. Yet after that I was
floored--told that the thing couldn't be. No weeping and wailing; but a
face and a voice that puzzled me. The girl liked me well enough; I felt
sure of it. All the same I had to come back to England alone, and in a
devilish bad temper. You remember that I half quarrelled with you about
something at our first meeting."

"You were rather bearish," remarked Glazzard, knocking the ash off his
cigar.

"As I often am. Forgive me, old fellow!"

Denzil relit his pipe.

"The next summer I went over to Sweden again. Miss Allen was still with
the Beckets, as I knew; but she was only going to stay a few months
more. One of the children had died, and the other two were to be sent
to a boarding-school in England. Again I went through the proposing
ordeal, and again it was useless. 'Confound it!' I shouted, 'do deal
honestly with me! What's the matter? Are you engaged already?' She kept
silent for a long time, then said 'Yes!' 'Then why in the name of the
Jotuns didn't you tell me so before?' I was brutal (as I often am), and
the poor girl began to cry. Then there was a scene--positive stage
business. I wouldn't take her refusal. 'This other man, you don't
really care for him--you are going to sacrifice yourself! I won't have
it! She wept and moaned, and threatened hysterics; and at last, when I
was losing patience (I can't stand women's idiotic way of flinging
themselves about and making a disturbance, instead of discussing
difficulties calmly), she said at last that, if ever we met in England,
she would explain her position. 'Why not now?'--no, not in the Beckets'
house. Very well then, at least she might make it certain that I
_should_ see her in England. After trouble enough, she at last
consented to this. She was to come back with Mr. Becket and the boys,
and then go to her people. I got her promise that she would write to me
and make an appointment somewhere or other.--More whisky?"

Glazzard declined; so Denzil replenished his own glass, and went on. He
was now tremulous with the excitement of his reminiscences; he fidgeted
on the chair, and his narrative became more jerky than ever.

"Her letter came, posted in London. She had taken leave of the Becket
party, and was supposed to be travelling homewards; but she would keep
her word with me. I was to go and see her at an hotel in the West End.
Go, I did, punctually enough; I believe I would have gone to Yokohama
for half an hour of her society. I found her in a private sitting-room,
looking wretched enough, confoundedly ill. And then and there she told
me her story. It was a queer one; no one could have guessed it."

He seized the poker and stirred the fire savagely.

"I shall just give you the plain facts. Her father was a builder in a
small way, living at Bristol. He had made a little money, and was able
to give his children a decent education. There was a son, who died
young, and then two girls, Lilian the elder of them. The old man must
have been rather eccentric; he brought up the girls very strictly
(their mother died when they were children)--would scarcely let them go
out of his sight, preached to them a sort of mixture of Christianity
and Pantheism, forbade all pleasures except those of home, didn't like
them to make acquaintances. Their mother's sister kept the house; a
feeble, very pious creature, probably knowing as much about life as the
cat or the canary--so Lilian describes her. The man came to a sudden
end; a brick fell on his head whilst he was going over a new building.
Lilian was then about fifteen. She had passed the Oxford Local, and was
preparing herself to teach--or rather, being prepared at a good school.

"Allen left enough money to provide his daughters with about a hundred
a year each; this was to be theirs absolutely when they came of age, or
when they married. The will had been carefully drawn up, and provided
against all sorts of real and imaginary dangers. The one thing it
couldn't provide against was the imbecility of the old aunt, who still
had the girls in her care.

"A couple of years went by, and Lilian became a teacher in the school
she had attended. Do you know anything about Bristol and the
neighbourhood? It seems that the people there are in the habit of going
to a place called Weston-super-Mare--excursion steamers, and so on.
Well, the girls and their aunt went to spend a day at Weston, and on
the boat they somehow made acquaintance with a young man named
Northway. That means, of course, he made up to them, and the aunt was
idiot enough to let him keep talking. He stuck by them all day, and
accompanied them back to Bristol.--Pah! it sickens me to tell the
story!"

He took the glass to drink, but it slipped from his nervous fingers and
crashed on the ground.

"Never mind; let it be there. I have had whisky enough. This damned
fellow Northway soon called upon them, and was allowed to come as often
as he liked. He was a clerk in a commercial house--gave references
which were found to be satisfactory enough, a great talker, and of
course a consummate liar. His special interest was the condition of the
lower classes; he made speeches here and there, went slumming, called
himself a Christian Socialist. This kind of thing was no doubt
attractive to Lilian--you know enough of her to understand that. She
was a girl of seventeen, remember. In the end, Northway asked her to
marry him, and she consented."

"Did he know of the money?" inquired Glazzard.

"Undoubtedly. I shouldn't wonder if the blockhead aunt told. Well, the
wedding-day came; they were married; and--just as they came out of the
church, up walks a detective, claps his hand on Northway's shoulder,
and arrests him for forgery."

"H'm! I see."

"The fellow was tried. Lilian wouldn't tell me the details; she gave me
an old newspaper with full report. Northway had already, some years
before, been in the hands of the police in London. It came out now that
he was keeping a mistress; on the eve of marriage he had dispensed with
her services, and the woman, in revenge, went to his employers to let
them know certain suspicious facts. He was sent to penal servitude for
three years."

"Three years!" murmured Glazzard. "About so long ago, I suppose?"

"Yes; perhaps he is already restored to society. Pleasant reflection!"

"Moral and discreet law," remarked the other, "which maintains the
validity of such a marriage!"

Denzil uttered a few violent oaths, reminiscences of the Navy.

"And she went at once to Sweden?" Glazzard inquired.

"In a month or two the head-mistress of her school, a sensible woman,
helped her to get an engagement--with not a word said of the
catastrophe. She went as Miss Allen. It was her firm resolve never
again to see Northway. She would not acknowledge that that ceremony in
the church made her a wife. Of course, you understand that it wasn't
only the forgery that revolted her; that, I suppose, could have been
pardoned. In a few days she had learnt more of herself and of the world
than in all the previous years. She understood that Northway was really
nothing to her. She accepted him because he was the first man who
interested her and made love to her--like thousands of girls. Lilian is
rather weak, unfortunately. She can't stand by herself. But for me, I
am convinced she would now be at the mercy of the blackguard, when he
comes out. Horror and despair enabled her to act firmly three years
ago; but if she had no one to support her--well, she has!"

"What did you propose," asked Glazzard, "when you persuaded her to live
with you?"

Denzil wrinkled his brow and looked gloomily at the fire.

"We agreed to live a life of our own, that was all. To tell you the
truth, Glazzard, I had no clear plans. I was desperately in love,
and--well, I thought of emigration some day. You know me too well to
doubt my honesty. Lilian became my wife, for good and all--no doubt
about that! But I didn't trouble much about the future--it's my way."

"She cut herself loose from the Bristol people?"

"No; she has corresponded with them at long intervals. They think she
is teaching in London. The tragedy excuses her from visiting them. Aunt
and sister are sworn to secrecy concerning her whereabouts. A good
thing she has no male relatives to hunt her up."

"Does she draw her income?--I beg your pardon, the question escaped me.
Of course it's no business of mine."

"Never mind. Yes, the money is at her disposal; thanks to the
settlement required by her father's will. I'm afraid she gives away a
lot of it in indiscriminate charity. I needn't say," he added, with a
characteristic movement of the head, "that I have nothing to do with
it."

He paused.

"My real position she doesn't understand. I have never told her of how
it was changed at my father's death.--Poor girl! About that time she
was disappointed of a child, and had a month or two of black misery. I
kept trying to make up my mind what course would be the wisest, and in
the meanwhile said nothing. She is marvellously patient. In fact, what
virtue hasn't she, except that of a strong will? Whatever happens, she
and I stand together; nothing on earth would induce me to part from
her! I want you to understand that. In what I am now going to do, I am
led solely and absolutely by desire for our common good. You see, we
are face to face with the world's immoral morality. To brave it would
be possible, of course; but then we must either go to a foreign country
or live here in isolation. I don't want to live permanently abroad, and
I do want to go in for activity--political by preference. The result is
we must set our faces, tell lies, and hope that fortune will favour us."

There was a strong contrast between Quarrier's glowing vehemence and
the show of calm reflection which the other maintained as he listened.
Denzil's face was fully lighted by the fire; his friend's received the
shadow of an old-fashioned screen which Glazzard, finding the heat
oppressive, had pulled forward a few minutes ago. The frank, fearless
gaze with which Denzil's words were accompanied met no response; but to
this habit in the listener he was accustomed.

"Yes, we must tell lies!" Quarrier emphasized the words savagely.
"Social law is stupid and unjust, imposing its obligation without
regard to person or circumstance. It presumes that no one can be
_trusted_. I decline to be levelled with the unthinking multitude. You
and I can be a law to ourselves. What I shall do is this: On returning
to town next week, I shall take Lilian over to Paris. We shall live
there for several weeks, and about the end of the time I shall write to
my people here, and tell them that I have just been married."

He paused. Glazzard made no motion, and uttered no sound.

"I have already dropped a mysterious word or two to my sister, which
she will be able to interpret afterwards. Happily, I am thought a
likely fellow to do odd, unconventional things. Again and again Mary
has heard me rail against the idiocies of ordinary weddings; this
private marriage will be quite in character. I shall state that Lilian
has hitherto been a governess at Stockholm--that I made her
acquaintance there--that I sent for her to meet me in Paris. Now, tell
me, have you any objection to offer?"

Glazzard shifted his position, coughed, and drew from his case a new
cigar, which he scrutinized closely from tip to end--even drawing it
along under his nose. Then he spoke very quietly.

"It's feasible--but dangerous."

"But not _very_ dangerous, I think?"

"I can't say. It depends greatly on your wife's character."

"Thank you for using that word, old fellow!" burst from Denzil. "She is
my wife, in every sense of the word that merits the consideration of a
rational creature!"

"I admit it; but I am afraid of lies."

"I am not only afraid of them; I hate them bitterly. I can say with a
clear conscience that I abhor untruthfulness. I have never told a
deliberate lie since I was old enough to understand the obligation of
truth! But we have to do with monstrous social tyrannies. Lilian can no
longer live in hiding. She must have a full and enjoyable life."

"Yes. But is it possible for her, under these conditions?"

"I think so. I have still to speak to her, but I know she will see
things as I do."

A very faint smile flitted over Glazzard's lips.

"Good! And you don't fear discovery by--what's his name--Northway?"

"Not if Lilian can decide to break entirely with her relatives--at all
events for some years. She must cease to draw her dividends, of course,
and must announce to the Bristol people that she has determined on a
step which makes it impossible for her to communicate with them
henceforth. I don't think this will be a great sacrifice; her aunt and
her sister have no great hold upon her affections.--You must remember
that her whole being is transformed since she last saw them. She thinks
differently on all and every subject."

"You are assured of that?"

"Absolutely sure! I have educated her. I have freed her from
superstitions and conventionalities. To her, as to me, the lies we
shall have to tell will be burdensome in the extreme; but we shall both
forget in time."

"That is exactly what you can never do!" said Glazzard, deliberately.
"You enter upon a lifetime of dissimulation. Ten, twenty years hence
you will have to act as careful a part as on the day when you and she
first present yourselves in Polterham."

"Oh, in a sense!" cried the other, impatiently.

"A very grave sense.--Quarrier, why have you taken up this political
idea? What's the good of it?"

He leaned forward and spoke with a low earnest voice. Denzil could not
instantly reply.

"Give it up!" pursued Glazzard. "Take Lilian abroad, and live a life of
quiet happiness. Go on with your literary work"----

"Nonsense! I can't draw back now, and I don't wish to."

"Would you--if--if _I_ were willing to become the Liberal candidate?"

Denzil stared in astonishment.

"You? Liberal candidate?"

"Yes, I!"

A peal of laughter rang through the room. Glazzard had spoken as if
with a great effort, his voice indistinct, his eyes furtive. When the
burst of merriment made answer to him, he fell back in his chair,
crossed his legs, and set his features in a hard smile.

"You are joking, old fellow!" said Denzil.

"Yes, if you like."

Quarrier wished to discuss the point, but the other kept an obstinate
silence.

"I understand," remarked Denzil, at length. "You hit upon that thought
out of kindness to me. You don't like my project, and you wished to
save me from its dangers. I understand. Hearty thanks, but I have made
up my mind. I won't stunt my life out of regard for an imbecile
superstition. The dangers are _not_ great; and if they were, I should
prefer to risk them. You electioneering! Ho, ho!"

Glazzard's lips were close drawn, his eyes veiled by the drooping lids.
He had ceased to smoke, and when, a few minutes later, he threw away
his cigar, it was all but squeezed flat by the two fingers which had
seemed to hold it lightly.

"It is settled!" cried Denzil, jumping up, with a return of his
extravagant spirits. "You, Glazzard, will stand by and watch--our
truest friend. You on the hustings! Ha, ha, ha! Come, one more glass of
whisky, and I will tell them to get our cab ready. I say, Glazzard,
from this evening forth never a word between us about the secret. That
is understood, of course. You may let people know that you were in my
confidence about the private marriage. But I can trust your discretion
as my own. Your glass--pledge me in the old style!"

Ten minutes more, and they were driving back to Polterham.




CHAPTER X


But for domestic warfare, Mrs. Mumbray would often have been at a loss
how to spend her time. The year of her husband's Mayoralty supplied, it
is true, a good many unwonted distractions, but in the middle of the
morning, and late in the evening (if there were no dinner-party),
_ennui_ too frequently weighed upon her. For relief in the former case,
she could generally resort to a quarrel with Serena; in the latter, she
preferred to wrangle with her spouse.

One morning early in December, having indulged her ill-humour with even
more than usual freedom among the servants, she repaired to the smaller
drawing-room, where, at this hour, her daughter often sat reading.
Serena was at a table, a French book and dictionary open before her.
After hovering for a few moments with eyes that gathered wrath, the
Mayoress gave voice to her feelings.

"So you pay no attention to my wishes, Serena! I will not have you
reading such books!"

Her daughter rustled the dictionary, impassive. Conscious of reduced
authority, Mrs. Mumbray glared and breathed hard, her spacious bosom
working like a troubled sea.

"Your behaviour astonishes me!--after what you heard Mr. Vialls say."

"Mr. Vialls is an ignorant and foolish man," remarked Serena, without
looking up.

Then did the mother's rage burst forth without restraint, eloquent,
horrisonous. As if to save her ears, Serena went to the piano and began
to play. When the voice was silenced, she turned round.

"You had rather have me play than read that book? That shows how little
you understand of either. This is an _immoral_ piece of music! If you
knew what it meant you would scream in horror. It is _immoral_, and I
am going to practise it day after day."

The Mayoress stood awhile in mute astonishment, then, with purple face,
swept from the room.

The family consisted of four persons. Serena's brother, a young
gentleman of nineteen, articled to a solicitor in the town, was
accustomed to appear at meals, but seldom deigned to devote any more of
his leisure to the domestic circle. After luncheon to-day, as he stood
at the window with a sporting newspaper, his mother addressed him.

"We have company this evening, Raglan. Take care that you're not late."

"Who's coming?" asked the young man, without looking up.

"Mr. Eustace Glazzard and Miss Glazzard."

"Any one else?"

"Mr. Vialls."

"Then you don't catch me here! I have an appointment at eight."

"I insist upon your dining with us! If you are not at dinner, I will
have your allowance stopped! I mean what I say. Not one penny more
shall you receive until you have learnt to behave yourself!"

"We'll see about that," replied Raglan, with finished coolness; and,
folding his newspaper, he walked off.

Nor did the hour of dinner see his return. The expected guests arrived;
it was not strictly a dinner-party, but, as Mr. Mumbray described it,
"a quiet evening _ong fammil_." The Rev. Scatchard Vialls came in at
the last moment with perspiring brow, excusing himself on the ground of
professional duties. He was thin, yet flabby, had a stoop in the
shoulders, and walked without noticeably bending his knees. The crown
of his head went to a peak; he had eyes like a ferret's; his speech was
in a high, nasal note. For some years he had been a widower, a fact
which perhaps accounted for his insinuating manner when he approached
Miss Mumbray.

The dinner was portentously dull. Ivy Glazzard scarcely uttered a
syllable. Her uncle exerted himself to shape phrases of perfect
inoffensiveness, addressing now his hostess, now Serena. The burden of
conversation fell upon Mr. Vialls, who was quite equal to its support;
he spoke of the evil tendencies of the time as exhibited in a shameful
attempt to establish Sunday evening concerts at a club of Polterham
workmen. His discourse on this subject, systematically developed,
lasted until the ladies withdrew. It allowed him scarcely any attention
to his plate, but Mr. Vialls had the repute of an ascetic. In his
buttonhole was a piece of blue ribbon, symbol of a ferocious
total-abstinence; his face would have afforded sufficient proof that
among the reverend man's failings were few distinctly of the flesh.

The Mayor did not pretend to asceticism. He ate largely and without
much discrimination. His variously shaped and coloured glasses were not
merely for display. When the door had closed behind the Mayoress and
her two companions, he settled himself with an audible sigh, and for a
few moments wore a look of meditation; then, leaning towards Glazzard,
he inquired gravely:

"What is your opinion of the works of Bawlzac?"

The guest was at a loss for an instant, but he quickly recovered
himself.

"Ah, the French novelist? A man of great power, but--hardly according
to English tastes."

"Should you consider him suitable reading for young ladies?"

"Well, hardly. Some of his books are unobjectionable."

Mr. Vialls shot a fierce glance at him.

"In my opinion, his very name is pollution! I would not permit a page
of his writing, or of that of any French novelist, to enter my house.
One and all are drenched with impurity!"

"Certainly many of them are," conceded Glazzard.

"Lamentable," sighed the Mayor, raising his glass, "to think that quite
a large number of his books have been put into the Institute library!
We must use our influence on all hands, Mr. Vialls. We live in sad
times. Even the theatre--I am told that some of the plays produced in
London are disgraceful, simply disgraceful!"

The theatre was discussed, Mr. Vialls assailing it as a mere agent of
popular corruption. On the mention of the name of Shakespeare, Mr.
Mumbray exclaimed:

"Shakespeare needs a great deal of expurgating. But some of his plays
teach a good lesson, I think. There is read Romeo and Juliet,' for
instance." Glazzard looked up in surprise. "I read 'Romeo and Juliet'
not long ago, and it struck me that its intention was decidedly moral.
It points a lesson to disobedient young people. If Juliet had been
properly submissive to her parents, such calamities would never have
befallen her. Then, again, I was greatly struck with the fate that
overtook Mercutio--a most suitable punishment for his persistent use of
foul language. Did you ever see it in that light, Mr. Glazzard?"

"I confess it is new to me. I shall think it over."

The Mayor beamed with gratification.

"No one denies," struck in Mr. Vialls, "that to a pure mind all things
are pure. Shakespeare is undoubtedly a great poet, and a soul bent on
edification can extract much good from him. But for people in general,
especially young people, assuredly he cannot be recommended, even in
the study. I confess I have neither time nor much inclination for
poetry--except that of the sacred volume, which is poetry indeed. I
have occasionally found pleasure in Longfellow"----

"Pardon me," interrupted the Mayor--"Longfellow?--the author of that
poem called 'Excelsior'?"

"Yes."

"Now, really--I am surprised--I should have thought--the fact is, when
Raglan was at school, he had to learn 'Excelsior,' and I happened to
glance over it. I was slightly acquainted with the piece, but I had
quite forgotten that it contained what seems to me very gross
indelicacy--very gross indeed. Do you remember a verse beginning (I
must ask your pardon for quoting it, Mr. Vialls)--

  'Oh stay, the maiden cried, and rest
  Thy weary head upon this breast.'

Surely, that is all but indecency. In fact, I wrote at once to the
master and drew his attention to the passage, requesting that my boy
might never be asked to repeat such a poem. The force of my objection
was not at once admitted, strange to say; but in the end I gained my
point."

Mr. Vialls screwed up his lips and frowned at the table-cloth, but said
nothing.

"Our task nowadays," pursued the Mayor, with confidence, "is to
preserve the purity of home. Our homes are being invaded by dangerous
influences we must resist. The family should be a bulwark of virtue--of
all the virtues--holiness, charity, peace."

He lingered on the last word, and his gaze became abstracted.

"Very true, very true indeed!" cried the clergyman. "For one thing, how
careful a parent should be with regard to the periodical literature
which is allowed to enter his house. This morning, in a home I will not
mention, my eye fell upon a weekly paper which I should have thought
perfectly sound in its teaching; yet, behold, there was an article of
which the whole purport was to _excuse_ the vices of the lower classes
on the ground of their poverty and their temptations. Could anything be
more immoral, more rotten in principle? _There_ is the spirit we have
to contend against--a spirit of accursed lenity in morals, often
originating in so-called scientific considerations! Evil is evil--vice,
vice--the devil is the devil--be circumstances what they may. I do not
care to make mention of such monstrous aberrations as, for instance,
the attacks we are occasionally forced to hear on the law of marriage.
That is the mere reek of the bottomless pit, palpable to all. But I
speak of subtler disguises of evil, such as may recommend themselves to
persons well-intentioned but of weak understanding. Happily, I
persuaded my friends to discontinue their countenance of that weekly
paper, and I shall exert myself everywhere to the same end."

They rose at length, and went to the drawing-room. There Glazzard
succeeding in seating himself by Miss Mumbray, and for a quarter of an
hour he talked with her about art and literature. The girl's face
brightened; she said little, but that little with very gracious smiles.
Then Mr. Vialls approached, and the _tete-a-tete_ was necessarily at an
end.

When he was at length alone with his wife, the Mayor saw what was in
store for him; in fact, he had foreseen it throughout the evening.

"Yes," began the lady, with flashing eyes, "this is your Mr. Glazzard!
He encourages Serena in her shameful behaviour! I overheard him talking
to her."

"You are altogether wrong, as usual," replied Mr. Mumbray, with his
wonted attempt at dignified self-assertion. "Glazzard distinctly
disapproves of Bawlzac, and everything of that kind. His influence is
as irreproachable as that of Mr. Vialls."

"Of course! You are determined to overthrow my plans at whatever cost
to your daughter's happiness here and hereafter."

"I don't think Vialls a suitable husband for her, and I am not sorry
she won't listen to him. He's all very well as a man and a clergyman,
but--pshaw! what's the good of arguing with a pig-headed woman?"

This emphatic epithet had the result which was to be expected. The
debate became a scolding match, lasting well into the night. These two
persons were not only on ill-terms, they disliked each other with the
intensity which can only be engendered by thirty years of a marriage
such as, but for public opinion, would not have lasted thirty weeks.
Their reciprocal disgust was physical, mental, moral. It could not be
concealed from their friends; all Polterham smiled over it; yet the
Mumbrays were regarded as a centre of moral and religious influence, a
power against the encroaches of rationalism and its attendant
depravity. Neither of them could point to dignified ancestry; by steady
persistence in cant and snobbishness--the genuine expression of their
natures--they had pushed to a prominent place, and feared nothing so
much as depreciation in the eyes of the townsfolk. Raglan and Serena
were causing them no little anxiety; both, though in different ways,
might prove an occasion of scandal. When Eustace Glazzard began to
present himself at the house, Mr. Mumbray welcomed the significant
calls. From his point of view, Serena could not do better than marry a
man of honourable name, who would remove her to London. Out of mere
contrariety, Mrs. Mumbray thereupon began to encourage the slow
advances of her Rector, who thought of Serena's fortune as a means to
the wider activity, the greater distinction, for which he was hungering.

Glazzard's self-contempt as he went home this evening was not unmingled
with pleasanter thoughts. For a man in his position, Serena Mumbray and
her thousands did not represent a future of despair. He had always
aimed much higher, but defeat after defeat left him with shaken nerves,
and gloomy dialogues with his brother had impressed upon him the
necessity of guarding against darkest possibilities. His state of mind
was singularly morbid; he could not trust the fixity of his purposes
for more than a day or two together; but just at present he thought
without distaste of Serena herself, and was soothed by the
contemplation of her (to him modest) fortune. During the past month he
had been several times to and from London; to-morrow he would return to
town again, and view his progress from a distance.

On reaching his brother's house, he found a letter waiting for him; it
bore the Paris postmark. The contents were brief.


"DEAR GLAZZARD:

"I announce to you the fact of our marriage. The L.s will hear of it
simultaneously. We are enjoying ourselves.

  "Ever yours,
    "D.Q."


He went at once to the room where William was sitting, and said, in a
quiet voice:

"Quarrier has just got married--in Paris."

"Oh? To whom?"

"An English girl who has been a governess at Stockholm. I knew it was
impending."

"Has he made a fool of himself?" asked William, dispassionately.

"I think not; she seems to be well educated, and
good-looking--according to his report."

"Why didn't you mention it before?"

"Oh, his wish. We talked it all over when he was here. He has an idea
that a man about to be married always cuts a ridiculous figure."

The elder man looked puzzled.

"No mysteries--eh?"

"None whatever, I believe. A decent girl without fortune, that's all. I
suppose we shall see them before long."

The subject was shortly dismissed, and Eustace fell to reporting the
remarkable conversation in which he had taken part at the Mayor's
table. His brother was moved to no little mirth, but did not indulge in
such savage contemptuousness as distinguished the narrator. William
Glazzard viewed the world from a standpoint of philosophic calm; he
expected so little of men in general, that disappointment or vexation
could rarely befall him.

"These people," he observed, "think themselves pillars of society, and
the best of the joke is, that they really _are_ what they imagine.
Without tolerably honest fools, we should fare badly at the hands of
those who have neither wits nor honesty. Let us encourage them, by all
means. I see no dawn as yet of the millennium of brains."




CHAPTER XI


The weather, for this time of year, was unusually bright in Paris. Each
morning glistened with hoar-frost; by noon the sky shone blue over
clean, dry streets, and gardens which made a season for themselves,
leafless, yet defiant of winter's melancholy. Lilian saw it all with
the eyes of a stranger, and often was able to forget her anxiety in the
joy of wonderful, new impressions.

One afternoon she was resting in the room at the hotel, whilst Quarrier
went about the town on some business or other. A long morning at the
Louvre had tired her, and her spirits drooped. In imagination she went
back to the days of silence and solitude in London; the memory affected
her with something of homesickness, a wish that the past could be
restored. The little house by Clapham Common had grown dear to her; in
its shelter she had shed many tears, but also had known much happiness:
that sense of security which was now lost, the hope that there she
might live always, hidden from the world's inquisitive gaze, justified
to her own conscience by love and calm. What now was before her? Not
only the elaborate deceit, the perpetual risk, weighed upon her heart;
she was summoned to a position such as she had never foreseen, for
which she had received no training. When Denzil revealed to her his
real standing in the world, spoke laughingly of the wealth he had
inherited, and of his political ambitions, her courage failed before
the prospect. She had not dared to let him see all her despondency, for
his impatient and sanguine temper would have resented it. To please him
and satisfy his utmost demands was the one purpose of her life. But the
task he had imposed seemed to her, in these hours of faintness, no less
than terrible.

He entered, gay as usual, ready with tender words, pet names and
diminutives, the "little language" of one who was still a lover. Seeing
how things were with her, he sat down to look over an English
newspaper. Presently his attention strayed, he fell into reverie.

"Well," he exclaimed at length, rousing himself, "they have the news by
now."

She gave no answer.

"I can imagine how Mary will talk. 'Oh, nothing that Denzil does can
surprise me! Whoever expected him to marry in the ordinary way?' And
then they'll laugh, and shrug their shoulders, and hope I mayn't have
played the fool--good, charitable folks!"

Still she said nothing.

"Rather out of sorts to-day, Lily?"

"I wish we were going to stay here--never to go back to England."

"Live the rest of our lives in a Paris hotel!"

"No, no--in some quiet place--a home of our own."

"That wouldn't suit me, by any means. Paris is all very well for a
holiday, but I couldn't make a home here. There's no place like
England. Don't you ever think what an unspeakable blessing it is to
have been born in England? Every time I go abroad, I rejoice that I am
not as these foreigners. Even my Scandinavian friends I can't help
despising a little--and as for Frenchmen! There's a great deal of the
old island prejudice in me."

Lilian smiled, raising herself slightly upon the sofa.

"These old Latin nations have had their day," he continued, with a wave
of the arm. "France, Italy, Spain--they have played their part in
civilization, and have nothing left now but old relics and modern
bluster. The future's with us Teutons. If I were not an Englishman, I
would be an American. The probability is that we shall have a hard
fight one of these days with the Slavs--and all the better, perhaps; I
don't think the world can do without fighting yet awhile."

"I should be sorry to hear you teaching people that," said Lilian.

"Oh," he laughed, "it wouldn't fit into our electoral campaign! No
danger of my preaching bloodthirstiness. But how I shall enjoy the
bloodless fight down at Polterham! I want you to look forward to it in
the same way. Do cheer up, Lily!--you see I have been gradually moving
in this direction. When I found myself a man of means, I knew that the
time had come for stirring. Writing about the Sea-Kings is all very
well in its way, but I am no born literary man. I must get that book
finished and published, though. It might help me with the constituency.
A book gives a man distinction."

"You seem to me to have changed very much."

"No; it's only that you didn't know me thoroughly. To tell you the
truth, that life of hiding away in London wasn't a very good thing for
me. I lived too much to myself. The half-dozen acquaintances I had were
not the kind of men to profit me. Glazzard--well, Glazzard is an odd
sort of fellow--helpful now and then, but on the whole musty. He has no
ambition, thinks it enough to doze on among his pictures, and that kind
of thing. The fact is, such companionship has made me conceited. I want
to get among my equals and my superiors--as I shall do if I become a
Member of Parliament."

"Your equals--perhaps."

"Confound it! _Your_ influence has tended the same way. You spoil
me--make me think myself a fine fellow. I suppose one's wife ought to
talk like that--I don't dislike it, you know; but if I end by never
doing anything at all, I should be confoundedly ashamed of myself. But
the more I think of it, the better satisfied I am that a political
career is the best thing for me. You see, this is the age of political
progress--that before everything. We English are working out our
revolution in a steady and sensible way,--no shrieking and
slaughtering--we leave that to people who don't really know what they
want, and will never get much to speak of. We go ahead soberly on the
constitutional highway--with a little hearty swearing to clear the air
now and then."

Lilian laughed.

"Well, I was saying it is a political age, and I think a man ought to
go in for the first interest of his time. What have we to do just now
with artistic aims? The English, at any time, care little or nothing
for art; one has to recognize that. Our task in the world is
practical--to secure all men a sufficiency of beef and beer, and honest
freedom. I like to feel that I am on the advancing wave; I don't care
for your picturesque ponds; they generally have a bad smell."

The effect of his vigorous talk was manifest in Lilian's face. She
yielded her spirit to his, was borne whither he would.

"You talk of living in Paris--why, if you really knew Paris, you would
hate the place. Underneath all this show of civilization, refinement,
brilliancy--I'm glad to say you can't even guess what it covers. The
town reeks with abominations. I'm getting sick of it."

The sincerity of his moral disgust was obvious. No one knew so well as
Lilian the essential purity--even the puritanism--of Quarrier's temper.

"For all that," he added, merrily, "we'll go and dine at the
restaurant, and then look in at the Francais. They know how to cook
here, and they know how to play the fool--no denying it."

When Lilian went forth with him she had once more succeeded in
overcoming her despondent mood. The lights of the Boulevard exercised
their wonted effect--cheering, inspiring. She pressed his arm, laughed
at his mirthful talk; and Denzil looked down into her face with pride
and delight in its loveliness. He had taken especial care to have her
dressed in the manner that became his wife; Parisian science had gone
to the making of her costume, and its efforts were not wasted. As they
entered the restaurant, many eyes were turned with critical
appreciation upon the modest face and figure, as undeniably English, in
their way, as Quarrier's robust manhood.

Denzil's French was indifferently good, better perhaps than his
capacity for picking out from the bill of fare a little dinner which
should exalt him in the eyes of waiters. He went to work, however, with
a noble disregard for consequences, whether to digestion or pocket.
Where Lilian was concerned there could be no such thing as
extravagance; he gloried in obtaining for her the best of everything
that money could command. The final "_Bien, monsieur_," was, after all,
sufficiently respectful, and our friend leaned back with the pleasant
consciousness of duty performed.

He drank a good deal of wine, and talking with a spontaneity beyond the
ordinary Briton. Towards the close of dinner his theme was the coming
electoral contest.

"You know," he said, bending over the table, "you will be able to give
me important help. The wife of a candidate--especially of a Radical
candidate--can find plenty of work, if she knows how to go about it. As
little humbug as possible; and as little loss of self-respect, but we
shall have to shake a good many dirty hands. Your turn for 'slumming'
will serve us well, but I know the dangers of it. You'll be coming home
_éplorée_, as they say here. I hope you'll grow stronger in that
respect. One has to harden one's heart a little."

"I know it is wiser to do so."

"Of course! It's not only that you are constantly imposed upon; the
indulgence of universal sympathy is incompatible with duty to one's
self--unless you become at once a sister of mercy. One is bound, in
common sense, to close eyes and ears against all but a trifling
fraction of human misery. Why, look, we sit here, and laugh and talk
and enjoy ourselves; yet at this instant what horrors are being enacted
in every part of the world! Men are perishing by every conceivable form
of cruelty and natural anguish. Sailors are gurgling out their life in
sea-storms; soldiers are agonizing on battle-fields; men, women, and
children are being burnt, boiled, hacked, squashed, rent, exploded to
death in every town and almost every village of the globe. Here in
Paris, and over there in London, there is no end to the forms of misery
our knowledge suggests--all suffered while we eat and talk. But to sit
down and think persistently of it would lead to madness in any one of
imagination like yours. We have to say: It doesn't concern us! And no
more it does. We haven't the ordering of the world; we can't alter the
vile course of things. I like to swear over it now and then (especially
when I pass a London hospital), but I soon force myself to think of
something else. You must do the same--even to the swearing, if you
like. There's a tendency in our time to excess of humanitarianism--I
mean a sort of lachrymose habit which really does no good. You
represent it in some degree, I'm afraid--eh? Well, well, you've lived
too much alone--you've got into the way of brooding; the habit of
social life will strengthen you."

"I hope so, Denzil."

"Oh, undoubtedly! One more little drop of wine before the coffee.
Nonsense! You need stimulus; your vitality is low. I shall prescribe
for you henceforth. Merciful heavens! how that French woman does talk!
A hundred words to the minute for the last half hour."

A letter had arrived for him at the hotel in his absence. It was from
Mr. Hornibrook's agent, announcing that the house at Polterham was now
vacated, and that Mr. Quarrier might take possession just as soon as he
chose.

"_That's_ all right!" he exclaimed, after reading it to Lilian. "Now
we'll think of getting back to London, to order our furniture, and all
the rest of it. The place can be made habitable in a few weeks, I
should say."




CHAPTER XII


An emissary from Tottenham Court Road sped down to Polterham, surveyed
the vacant house, returned with professional computations. Quarrier and
Lilian abode at the old home until everything should be ready for them,
and Mrs. Liversedge represented her brother on the spot--solving the
doubts of workmen, hiring servants, making minor purchases. She invited
Denzil to bring his wife, and dwell for the present under the
Liversedge roof, but her brother preferred to wait. "I don't like
makeshifts; we must go straight into our own house; the dignity of the
Radical candidate requires it." So the work glowed, and as little time
as possible was spent over its completion.

It was midway in January when the day and hour of arrival were at last
appointed. No one was to be in the house but the servants. At four in
the afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Quarrier would receive Mr. and Mrs.
Liversedge, and thus make formal declaration of their readiness to
welcome friends. Since her return to England, Lilian had seen no one.
She begged Denzil not to invite Glazzard to Clapham.

They reached Polterham at one o'clock, in the tumult of a snowstorm;
ten minutes more, and the whitened cab deposited them at their doorway.
Quarrier knew, of course, what the general appearance of the interior
would be, and he was well satisfied with the way in which his
directions had been carried out. His companion was at first overawed
rather than pleased. He led her from room to room, saying frequently,
"Do you like it? Will it do?"

"It frightens me!" murmured Lilian, at length. "How shall I manage such
a house?"

She was pale, and inclined to tearfulness, for the situation tired her
fortitude in a degree Denzil could not estimate. Fears which were all
but terrors, self-reproach which had the poignancy of remorse,
tormented her gentle, timid nature. For a week and more she had not
known unbroken sleep; dreams of fantastic misery awakened her to worse
distress in the calculating of her perils and conflict with insidious
doubts. At the dead hour before dawn, faiths of childhood revived
before her conscience, upbraiding, menacing. The common rules of
every-day honour spoke to her with stern reproval. Denzil's arguments,
when she tried to muster them in her defence, answered with hollow,
meaningless sound. Love alone would stead her; she could but shut her
eyes, and breathe, as if in prayer, the declaration that her love was a
sacred thing, cancelling verbal untruth.

She changed her dress, and went down to luncheon. The large dining-room
seemed to oppress her insignificance; to eat was impossible, and with
difficulty she conversed before the servants. Fortunately, Denzil was
in his best spirits; he enjoyed the wintery atmosphere, talked of
skating on the ice which had known him as a boy, laughed over an old
story about a snowball with a stone in it which had stunned him in one
of the fights between town and Grammar School.

"Pity the election can't come on just now!--we should have lively
times. A snowball is preferable to an addled egg any day. The Poltram
folks"--this was the common pronunciation of the town's name--"have a
liking for missiles at seasons of excitement."

From table, they went to the library--as yet unfurnished with
volumes--and made themselves comfortable by the fireside. Through the
windows nothing could be seen but a tempestuous whirl of flakes.
Lilian's cat, which had accompanied her in a basket, could not as yet
make itself at home on the hearthrug, and was glad of a welcome to its
mistress's lap. Denzil lit a pipe and studied the political news of the
day.

At four o'clock he waited impatiently the call of his relatives.
Lilian, unable to command her agitation, had gone into another room,
and was there counting the minutes as if each cost her a drop of
heart's blood. If this first meeting were but over! All else seemed
easy, could she but face Denzil's sister without betrayal of her shame
and dread. At length she heard wheels roll up to the door; there were
voices in the hall; Denzil came forth with loud and joyous greeting; he
led his visitors into the library. Five minutes more of anguish, and
the voices were again audible, approaching, at the door.

"Well, Lily, here is my sister and Mr. Liversedge," said Denzil. "No
very formidable persons, either of them," he added merrily, as the best
way of making apology for Lilian's too obvious tremor.

But she conquered her weakness. The man was of no account to her; upon
the woman only her eyes were fixed, for _there_ was the piercing
scrutiny, the quick divination, the merciless censure--there, if
anywhere, in one of her own sex. From men she might expect tolerance,
justice; from women only a swift choice between the bowl and the
dagger. Pride prompted her to hardihood, and when she had well looked
upon Mrs. Liversedge's face a soothing confidence came to the support
of desperation. She saw the frank fairness of Denzil's lineaments
softened with the kindest of female smiles; a gaze keen indeed, but
ingenuous as that of a child; an expression impossible to be
interpreted save as that of heartfelt welcome, absolutely unsuspecting,
touched even with admiring homage.

They kissed each other, and Lilian's face glowed. After that, she could
turn almost joyously for Mr. Liversedge's hearty hand-shake.

"You have come like a sort of snow-queen," said Tobias, with unusual
imaginativeness, pointing to the windows. "It must have begun just as
you got here."

Perhaps the chill of her fingers prompted him to this poetical flight.
His wife, who had noticed the same thing, added, with practical fervour:

"I only hope the house is thoroughly dry. We have had great fires
everywhere for more than a fortnight. As for the snow and frost, you
are pretty well used to that, no doubt."

Painfully on the alert, Lilian of course understood this allusion to
the Northern land she was supposed to have quitted recently.

"Even at Stockholm," she replied, with a smile, "there is summer, you
know."

"And in Russia, too, I have heard," laughed Mr. Liversedge. "But one
doesn't put much faith in such reports. Denzil tries to persuade us now
and then that the North Cape has quite a balmy atmosphere, especially
from December to March. He is quite safe. We sha'n't go to test his
statements."

Instead of a time of misery, this first half-hour proved so pleasant
that Lilian all but forgot the shadow standing behind her. When tea was
brought in, she felt none of the nervousness which had seemed to her
inevitable amid such luxurious appliances. These relatives of Denzil's,
henceforth her own, were people such as she had not dared to picture
them--so unaffected, genial, easy to talk with; nor did she suffer from
a necessity of uttering direct falsehoods; conversation dealt with the
present and the future--partly, no doubt, owing to Quarrier's
initiative. Mr. Liversedge made a report of local affairs as they
concerned the political outlook; he saw every reason for hope.

"Welwyn-Baker," he said, "is quite set up again, and I am told he has
no inclination to retire in favour of his son, or any one else. An
obstinate old fellow--and may his obstinacy increase! The Tories are
beginning to see that they ought to set up a new man; they are
quarrelling among themselves. That bazaar at the opening of the new
Society's rooms--the Constitutional Literary, you know--seems to have
been a failure. No one was satisfied. The _Mercury_ printed savage
letters from a lot of people--blaming this, that, and the other person
in authority. The _Examiner_, chuckled, and hasn't done referring to
the matter yet."

Apart with Lilian, Mrs. Liversedge had begun to talk of the society of
Polterham. She did not try to be witty at the expense of her
neighbours, but confessed with a sly smile that literature and the arts
were not quite so well appreciated as might be wished.

"You are a serious student, I know--very learned in languages. I wish I
had had more time for reading, and a better head. But seven children,
you know--oh dear! Even my little bit of French has got so ragged that
I am really ashamed of it. But there _is_ one woman who studies. Has
Denzil spoken to you of Mrs. Wade?"

"I don't remember."

"She is no great favourite of his, I believe. You will soon hear of
her, and no doubt see her. Denzil admits that she is very clever--even
a Greek scholar!"

"Really! And what fault does he find with her?"

"She is a great supporter of woman's rights, and occasionally makes
speeches. It's only of late that I have seen much of her; for some
reason she seems to have taken a liking to me, and I feel rather
honoured. I'm sure her intentions are very good indeed, and it must be
trying to live among people who have no sympathy with you. They make
sad fun of her, and altogether misunderstand her--at least I think so."

The snowstorm still raged. To spare their own horses, the Liversedges
had come in a cab, and at half-past five the same vehicle returned to
take them home. Lilian was sorry to see them go.

"Where are all your apprehensions now?" cried Denzil, coming back to
her from the hall. "It's over, you see. Not another minute's uneasiness
need you have!"

"They were kindness itself. I like them very much."

"As I knew and said you would. Now, no more chalky faces and frightened
looks! Be jolly, and forget everything. Let us try your piano."

"Your sister was telling me about Mrs. Wade. Is she one of the people
you would like me to be friends with?"

"Oh yes!" he answered, laughing, "Mrs. Wade will interest you, no
doubt. Make a friend of her by all means. Did Mary whisper mysterious
warnings?"

"Anything but that; she spoke very favourably."

"Indeed!

"And she said Mrs. Wade seemed to have taken a liking to her lately."

"Oh! How's that, I wonder? She goes about seeking whom she may secure
for the women's-vote movement; I suppose it's Molly's turn to be
attacked. Oh, we shall have many a lively half-hour when Mrs. Wade
calls!"

"What is her husband?"

"Husband! She's a widow. I never thought of such a person as Mr. Wade,
to this moment. To be sure, he must have existed. Perhaps she will
confide in you, and then----By-the-bye, is it right for women to tell
their husbands what they learn from female friends?"

He asked it jokingly, but Lilian seemed to reflect in earnest.

"I'm not sure"----

"Oh, you lily of the valley!" he cried, interrupting her. "Do cultivate
a sense of humour. Don't take things with such desperate seriousness!
Come and try your instrument. It ought to be a good one, if price-lists
mean anything."

The next morning was clear and cold. Assuredly there would be good
skating, and the prospect of this enjoyment seemed to engross Denzil's
thoughts. After breakfast he barely glanced at the newspapers, then
leaving Lilian to enter upon her domestic rule, set forth for an
examination of the localities which offered scope to Polterham skaters.
Such youthful zeal proved his thorough harmony with the English spirit;
it promised far more for his success as a politician than if he had
spent the morning over blue-books and statistical treatises.

If only the snow were cleared away, the best skating near at hand was
on a piece of water near the road to Rickstead. The origin of this pond
or lakelet had caused discussion among local antiquaries; for tradition
said that it occupied the site of a meadow which many years ago
mysteriously sank, owing perhaps to the unsuspected existence of an
ancient mine. It connected with a little tributary of the River Bale,
and was believed to be very deep, especially at one point, where the
tree-shadowed bank overhung the water at a height of some ten feet. The
way thither was by a field-path, starting from the high road within
sight of Pear-tree Cottage. At a rapid walk Quarrier soon reached his
goal, and saw with satisfaction that men and boys were sweeping the
snowy surface, whilst a few people had already begun to disport
themselves where the black ice came to view. In the afternoon he would
come with Lilian; for the present, a second purpose occupied his
thoughts. Standing on the bank of Bale Water (thus was it named), he
could see the topmost branches of that pear-tree which grew in the
garden behind Mrs. Wade's cottage; two meadows lay between--a stretch
of about a quarter of a mile. It was scarcely the hour for calling upon
ladies, but he knew that Mrs. Wade sat among her books through the
morning, and he wished especially to see her as soon as possible.

Polterham clocks were counting eleven as he presented himself at the
door of the cottage. Once already he had paid a call here, not many
days after his meeting with the widow in Mr. Hornibrook's library; he
came at three in the afternoon, and sat talking till nearly six. Not a
few Polterham matrons would have considered that proceeding highly
improper, but such a thought never occurred to Denzil; and Mrs. Wade
would have spoken her mind very distinctly to any one who wished to
circumscribe female freedom in such respects. They had conversed on a
great variety of subjects with unflagging animation. Since then he had
not seen his acquaintance.

A young girl opened to him, and left him standing in the porch for a
minute or two. She returned, and asked him to walk into the
sitting-room, where Mrs. Wade was studying with her feet on the fender.

"Do I come unseasonably?" he asked, offering his hand.

"Not if you have anything interesting to say," was the curious reply.

The widow was not accoutred for reception of visitors. She wore an old
though quite presentable dress, with a light shawl about her shoulders,
and had evidently postponed the arrangement of her hair until the time
of going abroad. Yet her appearance could hardly be called
disconcerting, for it had nothing of slovenliness. She looked a
student, that was all. For some reason, however, she gave Quarrier a
less cordial welcome than he had anticipated. Her eyes avoided his, she
shook hands in a perfunctory way.

"It depends what you call interesting," was his rejoinder to the
unconventional reply. "I got here yesterday, and brought a wife with
me--there, at all events, is a statement of fact."

"You have done me the honour to hasten here with the announcement?"

"I came out to see if Bale Water was skateable, and I thought I might
venture to make a friendly call whilst I was so near. But I'm afraid I
disturb you?"

"Not a bit. Pray sit down and talk. Of course I have heard of your
marriage. Why didn't you let me know it was impending?"

"Because I told nobody. I chose to get married in my own way. You, Mrs.
Wade, are not likely to find fault with me for that."

"Oh dear no!" she answered, with friendly indifference.

"I am told you see a good deal of the Liversedges?"

She nodded.

"Does my sister give any promise of reaching higher levels? Or is she a
hopeless groveller?"

"Mrs. Liversedge is the kind of woman I can respect, independently of
her views."

"I like to hear you say that, because I know you don't deal in
complimentary phrases. The respect, I am sure, is reciprocated."

Mrs. Wade seemed to give slight attention; she was looking at a picture
above the fireplace.

"You will count my wife among your friends, I hope?" he continued.

"I hope so. Do you think we shall understand each other?"

"If not, it won't be for lack of good will on her side. I mustn't begin
to praise her, but I think you will find she has a very fair portion of
brains."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"Do you imply that you had fears?"

"Men are occasionally odd in their choice of wives."

"Yes," Denzil replied, with a laugh; "I have seen remarkable
illustrations of it."

"I didn't feel sure that you regarded brains as an essential."

"Indeed! Then you were a long way from understanding me. How can you
say that, after my lecture, and our talks?"

"Oh, theory doesn't go for much. May I call shortly?"

"If you will be so good."

"She's very young, I think?"

"Not much more than one-and-twenty. I have known her for about three
years."

There was a short silence, then Mrs. Wade said with some abruptness:

"I think of leaving Polterham before long. It was Mr. and Mrs.
Hornibrook who decided me to come here, and now that they are gone I
feel as if I too had better stir. I want books that are out of my
reach."

"That will be a loss to us, Mrs. Wade. Society in Polterham has its
limitations"----

"I'm aware of it. But you, of course, will have a home in London as
well?"

"Well, yes--if I get sent to Parliament."

"I suppose we shall meet there some day."

Her voice grew careless and dreamy. She folded her hands upon her lap,
and assumed a look which seemed to Denzil a hint that he might now
depart. He stood up.

"So you are going to skate?" murmured Mrs. Wade. "I won't keep you.
Thank you very much for looking in."

Denzil tried once more to read her countenance, and went away with a
puzzled feeling. He could not conjecture the meaning of her changed
tone.




CHAPTER XIII


Last November had turned the scale in the Polterham Town Council. It
happened that the retiring members were all Conservatives, with the
exception of Mr. Chown, who alone of them obtained re-election, the
others giving place to men of the Progressive party. Mr. Mumbray bade
farewell to his greatness. The new Mayor was a Liberal. As
returning-officer, he would preside over the coming political contest.
The Tories gloomed at each other, and whispered of evil omens.

For many years Mr. Mumbray had looked to the Mayoralty as the limit of
his ambition. He now began to entertain larger projects, encouraged
thereto by the dissensions of Conservative Polterham, and the
promptings of men who were hoping to follow him up the civic ladder. He
joined with those who murmured against the obstinacy of old Mr.
Welwyn-Baker. To support such a candidate would be party suicide. Even
Welwyn-Baker junior was preferable; but why not recognize that the old
name had lost its prestige, and select a representative of enlightened
Conservatism, who could really make a stand against Quarrier and his
rampant Radicals? Mr. Mumbray saw no reason why he himself should not
invite the confidence of the burgesses.

In a moment of domestic truce the ex-Mayor communicated this thought to
his wife, and Mrs. Mumbray gave ready ear. Like the ladies of Polterham
in general, she had not the faintest understanding of political
principl

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