CHAPTER XIX
A sad hurrying and murmuring filled the old rooms and passages ofBeechcote. The village doctor had arrived, and under his direction thebody of John Ferrier had been removed from the garden to the library ofthe house. There, amid Diana's books and pictures, Ferrier lay,shut-eyed and serene, that touch of the ugly and the ponderous which inlife had mingled with the power and humanity of his aspect entirely lostand drowned in the dignity of death.
Chide and the doctor were in low-voiced consultation at one end of theroom; Lady Lucy sat beside the body, her face buried in her hands;Marsham stood behind her.
Brown, the butler, noiselessly entered the room, and approached Chide.
"Please sir, Lord Broadstone's messenger is here. He thinks you mightwish him to take back a letter to his lordship."
Chide turned abruptly.
"Lord Broadstone's messenger?"
"He brought a letter for Mr. Ferrier, sir, half an hour ago."
Chide's face changed.
"Where is the letter?" He turned to the doctor, who shook his head.
"I saw nothing when we brought him in."
Marsham, who had overheard the conversation, came forward.
"Perhaps on the grass--"
Chide--pale, with drawn brows--looked at him a moment in silence.
Marsham hurried to the garden and to the spot under the yews, where thedeath had taken place. Round the garden chairs were signs of tramplingfeet--the feet of the gardeners who had carried the body. A medley ofbooks, opened letters, and working-materials lay on the grass. Marshamlooked through them; they all belonged to Diana or Mrs. Colwood. Then henoticed a cushion which had fallen beside the chair, and a corner ofnewspaper peeping from below it. He lifted it up.
Below lay Broadstone's open letter, in its envelope, addressed first inthe Premier's well-known handwriting to "The Right Honble. John Ferrier,M.P."--and, secondly, in wavering pencil, to "Lady Lucy Marsham,Tallyn Hall."
Marsham turned the letter over, while thoughts hurried through hisbrain. Evidently Ferrier had had time to read it. Why that address tohis mother?--and in that painful hand--written, it seemed, with theweakness of death already upon him?
The newspaper? Ah!--the _Herald_!--lying as though, after reading it,Ferrier had thrown it down and let the letter drop upon it, from a handthat had ceased to obey him. As Marsham saw it the color rushed into hischeeks. He stooped and raised it. Suddenly he noticed on the margin ofthe paper a pencilled line, faint and wavering, like the words writtenon the envelope. It ran beside a passage in the article "from acorrespondent," and as he looked at it consciousness and pulse pausedin dismay. There, under his eye, in that dim mark, was the last word andsign of John Ferrier.
He was still staring at it when a sound disturbed him. Lady Lucy came tohim, feebly, across the grass. Marsham dropped the newspaper, retainingBroadstone's letter.
"Sir James wished me to leave him a little," she said, brokenly. "Theambulance will be here directly. They will take him to Lytchett. Ithought it should have been Tallyn. But Sir James decided it."
"Mother!"--Marsham moved toward her, reluctantly--"here is a letter--nodoubt of importance. And--it is addressed to you."
Lady Lucy gave a little cry. She looked at the pencilled address, withquivering lips; then she opened the envelope, and on the back of theclosely written letter she saw at once Ferrier's last words to her.
Marsham, moved by a son's natural impulse, stooped and kissed her hair.He drew a chair forward, and she sank into it with the letter. While shewas reading it he raised the _Herald_ again, unobserved, folded it uphurriedly, and put it in his pocket; then walked away a few steps, thathe might leave his mother to her grief. Presently Lady Lucy called him.
"Oliver!" The voice was strong. He went back to her and she received himwith sparkling eyes, her hand on Broadstone's letter.
"Oliver, this is what killed him! Lord Broadstone must bear theresponsibility."
And hurriedly, incoherently, she explained that the letter from LordBroadstone was an urgent appeal to Ferrier's patriotism and to hispersonal friendship for the writer; begging him for the sake of partyunity, and for the sake of the country, to allow the Prime Minister tocancel the agreement of the day before; to accept a peerage and the WarOffice in lieu of the Exchequer and the leadership of the House. ThePremier gave a full account of the insurmountable difficulties in theway of the completion of the Government, which had disclosed themselvesduring the course of the afternoon and evening following his interviewwith Ferrier. Refusals of the most unexpected kind, from the mostunlikely quarters; letters and visits of protest from persons impossibleto ignore--most of them, no doubt, engineered by Lord Philip; "finallythe newspapers of this morning--especially the article in the _Herald_,which you will have seen before this reaches you--all these, takentogether, convince me that if I cannot persuade you to see the matter inthe same light as I do--and I know well that, whether you accept orrefuse, you will put the public advantage first--I must at once informher Majesty that my attempt to construct a Government has broken down."
Marsham followed her version of the letter as well as he could; and asshe turned the last page, he too perceived the pencilled writing, whichwas not Broadstone's. This she did not offer to communicate; indeed, shecovered it at once with her hand.
"Yes, I suppose it was the shock," he said, in a low voice. "But it wasnot Broadstone's fault. It was no one's fault."
Lady Lucy flushed and looked up.
"That man Barrington!" she said, vehemently. "Oh, if I had never had himin my house!"
Oliver made no reply. He sat beside her, staring at the grass. SuddenlyLady Lucy touched him on the knee.
"Oliver!"--her voice was gasping and difficult--"Oliver!--you hadnothing to do with that?"
"With what, mother?"
"With the _Herald_ article. I read it this morning. But I laughed at it!John's letter arrived at the same moment--so happy, so full of plans--"
"Mother!--you don't imagine that a man in Ferrier's position can beupset by an article in a newspaper?"
"I don't know--the _Herald_ was so important--I have heard John say so.Oliver!"--her face worked painfully--"I know you talked with that manthat night. You didn't--"
"I didn't say anything of which I am ashamed," he said, sharply, raisinghis head.
His mother looked at him in silence. Their eyes met in a flash ofstrange antagonism--as though each accused the other.
A sound behind them made Lady Lucy turn round. Brown was coming over thegrass.
"A telegram, sir, for you. Your coachman stopped the boy and sent himhere."
Marsham opened it hastily. As he read it his gray and haggard faceflushed again heavily.
"Awful news just reached me. Deepest sympathy with you and yours. Should be grateful if I might see you to-day.
"BROADSTONE."
He handed it to his mother, but Lady Lucy scarcely took in the sense ofit. When he left her to write his answer, she sat on in the July sunwhich had now reached the chairs, mechanically drawing her large countryhat forward to shield her from its glare--a forlorn figure, with staringabsent eyes; every detail of her sharp slenderness, her blanched andquivering face, the elegance of her black dress, the diamond fasteningthe black lace hat-strings tied under her pointed chin--set in the fulland searching illumination of mid-day. It showed her an oldwoman--left alone.
Her whole being rebelled against what had happened to her. Life withoutJohn's letters, John's homage, John's sympathy--how was it to beendured? Disguises that shrouded her habitual feelings and instinctseven from herself dropped away. That Oliver was left to her did not makeup to her in the least for John's death.
The smart that held her in its grip was a new experience. She had neverfelt it at the death of the imperious husband, to whom she had been,nevertheless, decorously attached. Her thoughts clung to those lastbroken words under her hand, trying to wring from them something thatmight content and comfort her remorse:
> "DEAR LUCY,--I feel ill--it may be nothing--Chide and you may read this letter. Broadstone couldn't help it. Tell him so. Bless you--Tell Oliver--Yours, J.F."
The greater part of the letter was all but illegible even by her--butthe "bless you" and the "J.F." were more firmly written than the rest,as though the failing hand had made a last effort.
Her spiritual vanity was hungry and miserable. Surely, though she wouldnot be his wife, she had been John's best friend!--his good angel. Herheart clamored for some warmer, gratefuller word--that might justify herto herself. And, instead, she realized for the first time the desert shehad herself created, the loneliness she had herself imposed. And withprophetic terror she saw in front of her the daily self-reproach thather self-esteem might not be able to kill.
"_Tell Oliver_--"
Did it mean "if I die, tell Oliver"? But John never said anything futileor superfluous in his life. Was it not rather the beginning of some lastword to Oliver that he could not finish? Oh, if her son had indeedcontributed to his death!
She shivered under the thought; hurrying recollections of Mr.Barrington's visit, of the _Herald_ article of that morning, of Oliver'sspeeches and doings during the preceding month, rushing through hermind. She had already expressed her indignation about the _Herald_article to Oliver that morning, on the drive which had been sotragically interrupted.
"Dear Lady Lucy!"
She looked up. Sir James Chide stood beside her.
The first thing he did was to draw her to her feet, and then to move herchair into the shade.
"You have lost more than any of us," he said, as she sank back into it,and, holding out his hand, he took hers into his warm compassionateclasp. He had never thought that she behaved well to Ferrier, and heknew that she had behaved vilely to Diana; but his heart melted withinhim at the sight of a woman--and a gray-haired woman--in grief.
"I hear you found Broadstone's letter?" He glanced at it on her lap. "Itoo have heard from him. The messenger, as soon as he knew I was here,produced a letter for me that he was to have taken on to Lytchett. It isa nice letter--a very nice letter, as far as that goes. Broadstonewanted me to use my influence--with John--described his difficulties--"
Chide's hand suddenly clinched on his knee.
"--If I could only get at that creature, Lord Philip!"
"You think it was the shock--killed him?" The hard slow tears had begunagain to drop upon her dress.
"Oh! he has been an ill man since May," said Chide, evasively. "No doubtthere has been heart mischief--unsuspected--for a long time. The doctorswill know--presently. Poor Broadstone!--it will nearly kill him too."
She held out the letter to him.
"You are to read it;" and then, in broken tones, pointing: "look! hesaid so."
He started as he saw the writing on the back, and again his hand pressedhers kindly.
"He felt ill," she said, brokenly; "he foresaw it. Those are his lastwords--his precious last words."
She hid her face. As Chide gave it back to her, his brow and lip hadsettled into the look which made him so formidable in court. He lookedround him abruptly.
"Where is the _Herald_? I hear Mrs. Colwood brought it out."
He searched the grass in vain, and the chairs. Lady Lucy was silent.Presently she rose feebly.
"When--when will they take him away?"
"Directly. The ambulance is coming--I shall go with him. Take my arm."She leaned on him heavily, and as they approached the house they saw twofigures step out of it--Marsham and Diana.
Diana came quickly, in her light white dress. Her eyes were red, but shewas quite composed. Chide looked at her with tenderness. In the twohours which had passed since the tragedy she had been the help and thesupport of everybody, writing, giving directions, making arrangements,under his own guidance, while keeping herself entirely in thebackground. No parade of grief, no interference with himself or thedoctors; but once, as he sat by the body in the darkened room, he wasconscious of her coming in, of her kneeling for a little while at thedead man's side, of her soft, stifled weeping. He had not said a word toher, nor she to him. They understood each other.
And now she came, with this wistful face, to Lady Lucy. She stoodbetween that lady and Marsham, in her own garden, without, as it seemedto Sir James, a thought of herself. As for him, in the midst of his ownsharp grief, he could not help looking covertly from one to the other,remembering that February scene in Lady Lucy's drawing-room. Andpresently he was sure that Lady Lucy too remembered it. Diana timidlybegged that she would take some food--some milk or wine--before herdrive home. It was three hours--incredible as it seemed--since she hadcalled to them in the road. Lady Lucy, looking at her, and evidently buthalf conscious--at first--of what was said, suddenly colored, andrefused--courteously but decidedly.
"Thank you. I want nothing. I shall soon be home. Oliver!"
"I go to Lytchett with Sir James, mother. Miss Mallory begs that youwill let Mrs. Colwood take you home."
"It is very kind, but I prefer to go alone. Is my carriage there?"
She spoke like the stately shadow of her normal self. The carriage waswaiting. Lady Lucy approached Sir James, who was standing apart, andmurmured something in his ear, to the effect that she would come toLytchett that evening, and would bring flowers. "Let mine be the first,"she said, inaudibly to the rest. Sir James assented. Such observances,he supposed, count for a great deal with women; especially with thosewho are conscious of having trifled a little with the weightier mattersof the law.
Then Lady Lucy took her leave; Marsham saw her to her carriage. The twoleft behind watched the receding figures--the mother, bent andtottering, clinging to her son.
"She is terribly shaken," said Sir James; "but she will never give way."
Diana did not reply, and as he glanced at her, he saw that she wasstruggling for self-control, her eyes on the ground.
"And that woman might have had her for daughter!" he said to himself,divining in her the rebuff of some deep and tender instinct.
Marsham came back.
"The ambulance is just arriving."
Sir James nodded, and turned toward the house. Marsham detained him,dropping his voice.
"Let me go with him, and you take my fly."
Sir James frowned.
"That is all settled," he said, peremptorily. Then he looked at Diana."I will see to everything in-doors. Will you take Miss Mallory intothe garden?"
Diana submitted; though, for the first time, her face reddened faintly.She understood that Sir James wished her to be out of sight and hearingwhile they moved the dead.
That was a strange walk together for these two! Side by side, almost insilence, they followed the garden path which had taken them to thedowns, on a certain February evening. The thought of it hovered, a ghostunlaid, in both their minds. Instinctively, Marsham guided her by thispath, that they might avoid that spot on the farther lawn, where thescattered chairs, the trampled books and papers still showed where Deathand Sleep had descended. Yet, as they passed it from a distance he sawthe natural shudder run through her; and, by association, there flashedthrough him intolerably the memory of that moment of divine abandonmentin their last interview, when he had comforted her, and she had clung tohim. And now, how near she was to him--and yet how infinitely remote!She walked beside him, her step faltering now and then, her head thrownback, as though she craved for air and coolness on her brow andtear-stained eyes. He could not flatter himself that his presencedisturbed her, that she was thinking at all about him. As for him, hismind, held as it still was in the grip of catastrophe, and stunned bynew compunctions, was still susceptible from time to time of the mostdiscordant and agitating recollections--memories glancing,lightning-quick, through the mind, unsummoned and shattering. Her facein the moonlight, her voice in the great words of her promise--"all thata woman can!"--that wretched evening in the House of Commons when he hadfinally deserted her--a certain passage with Alicia, in the Tallynwoods--these images quivered, as it
were, through nerve and vein,disabling and silencing him.
But presently, to his astonishment, Diana began to talk, in her naturalvoice, without a trace of preoccupation or embarrassment. She poured outher latest recollections of Ferrier. She spoke, brushing away her tearssometimes, of his visit in the morning, and his talk as he lay besidethem on the grass--his recent letters to her--her remembrance of himin Italy.
Marsham listened in silence. What she said was new to him, and oftenbitter. He had known nothing of this intimate relation which had sprungup so rapidly between her and Ferrier. While he acknowledged its beautyand delicacy, the very thought of it, even at this moment, filled himwith an irritable jealousy. The new bond had arisen out of the wreck ofthose he had himself broken; Ferrier had turned to her, and she toFerrier, just as he, by his own acts, had lost them both; it might beright and natural; he winced under it--in a sense, resented it--nonethe less.
And all the time he never ceased to be conscious of the newspaper in hisbreast-pocket, and of that faint pencilled line that seemed to burnagainst his heart.
Would she shrink from him, finally and irrevocably, if she knew it? Onceor twice he looked at her curiously, wondering at the power that womenhave of filling and softening a situation. Her broken talk of Ferrierwas the only possible talk that could have arisen between them at thatmoment without awkwardness, without risk. To that last ground offriendship she could still admit him, and a wounded self-love suggestedthat she chose it for his sake as well as Ferrier's.
Of course, she had seen him with Alicia, and must have drawn herconclusions. Four months after the breach with her!--and such a breach!As he walked beside her through the radiant scented garden, with itsmassed roses and delphiniums, its tangle of poppy and lupin, he suddenlybeheld himself as a kind of outcast--distrusted and disliked by an oldfriend like Chide, separated forever from the good opinion of this girlwhom he had loved, suspected even by his mother, and finally crushed bythis unexpected tragedy, and by the shock of Barrington'sunpardonable behavior.
Then his whole being reacted in a fierce protesting irritation. He hadbeen the victim of circumstance as much as she. His will hardened to apassionate self-defence; he flung off, he held at bay, an anguish thatmust and should be conquered. He had to live his life. He would live it.
They passed into the orchard, where, amid the old trees, covered withtiny green apples, some climbing roses were running at will, hangingtheir trails of blossom, crimson and pale pink, from branch to branch.Linnets and blackbirds made a pleasant chatter; the grass beneath thetrees was rich and soft, and through their tops, one saw white cloudshovering in a blazing blue.
Diana turned suddenly toward the house.
"I think we may go back now," she said, and her hand contracted and herlip, as though she realized that her dear dead friend had left herroof forever.
They hurried back, but there was still time for conversation.
"You knew him, of course, from a child?" she said to him, glancing athim with timid interrogation.
In reply he forced himself to play that part of Ferrier'sintimate--almost son--which, indeed, she had given him, by implication,throughout her own talk. In this she had shown a tact, a kindness forwhich he owed her gratitude. She must have heard the charges broughtagainst him by the Ferrier party during the election, yet, noblecreature that she was, she had not believed them. He could have thankedher aloud, till he remembered that marked newspaper in his pocket.
Once a straggling rose branch caught in her dress. He stooped to freeit. Then for the first time he saw her shrink. The instinctive servicehad made them man and woman again--not mind and mind; and he perceived,with a miserable throb, that she could not be so unconscious of hisidentity, his presence, their past, as she had seemed to be.
She had lost--he realized it--the bloom of first youth. How thin was thehand which gathered up her dress!--the hand once covered with hiskisses. Yet she seemed to him lovelier than ever, and he divined hermore woman than ever, more instinct with feeling, life, and passion.
* * * * *
Sir James's messenger met them half-way. At the door the ambulancewaited.
Chide, bareheaded, and a group of doctors, gardeners, and police stoodbeside it.
"I follow you," said Marsham to Sir James. "There is a great deal todo."
Chide assented coldly. "I have written to Broadstone, and I have sent apreliminary statement to the papers."
"I can take anything you want to town," said Marsham, hastily. "I mustgo up this evening."
He handed Broadstone's telegram to Sir James.
Chide read it and returned it in silence. Then he entered the ambulance,taking his seat beside the shrouded form within. Slowly it drove away,mounted police accompanying it. It took a back way from Beechcote, thusavoiding the crowd, which on the village side had gathered roundthe gates.
Diana, on the steps, saw it go, following it with her eyes; standingvery white and still. Then Marsham lifted his hat to her, consciousthrough every nerve of the curiosity among the little group of peoplestanding by. Suddenly, he thought, she too divined it. For she lookedround her, bowed to him slightly, and disappeared with Mrs. Colwood.
* * * * *
He spent two or three hours at Lytchett, making the first arrangementsfor the funeral, with Sir James. It was to be at Tallyn, and the burialin the churchyard of the old Tallyn church. Sir James gave a slow andgrudging assent to this; but in the end he did assent, after therelations between him and Marsham had become still more strained.
Further statements were drawn up for the newspapers. As the afternoonwore on the grounds and hall of Lytchett betrayed the presence of anumber of reporters, hurriedly sent thither by the chief London andprovincial papers. By now the news had travelled through England.
Marsham worked hard, saving Sir James all he could. Another messengerarrived from Lord Broadstone, with a pathetic letter for Sir James.Chide's face darkened over it. "Broadstone must bear up," he said toMarsham, as they stood together in Chide's sanctum. "It was not hisfault, and he has the country to think of. You tell him so. Now, areyou off?"
Marsham replied that his fly had been announced.
"What'll they offer you?" said Chide, abruptly.
"Offer me? It doesn't much matter, does it?--on a day like this?"Marsham's tone was equally curt. Then he added: "I shall be here againto-morrow."
Chide acquiesced. When Marsham had driven off, and as the sound of thewheels died away, Chide uttered a fierce inarticulate sound. His hotIrish heart swelled within him. He walked hurriedly to and fro, hishands in his pockets.
"John!--John!" he groaned. "They'll be dancing and triumphing on yourgrave to-night, John; and that fellow you were a father to--like therest. But they shall do it without me, John--they shall do itwithout me!"
And he thought, with a grim satisfaction, of the note he had justconfided to the Premier's second messenger refusing the offer of theAttorney-Generalship. He was sorry for Broadstone; he had done his bestto comfort him; but he would serve in no Government with John'ssupplanters.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Marsham was speeding up to town. At every way-side station,under the evening light, he saw the long lines of placards: "Suddendeath of Mr. Ferrier. Effect on the new Ministry." Every paper he boughtwas full of comments and hasty biographies. There was more than aconventional note of loss in them. Ferrier was not widely popular, inthe sense in which many English statesmen have been popular, but therewas something in his personality that had long since won the affectionand respect of all that public, in all classes, which really observesand directs English affairs. He was sincerely mourned, and he would bepractically missed.
But the immediate effect would be the triumph of the Cave, a newdirection given to current politics. That no one doubted.
Marsham was lost in tumultuous thought. The truth was that the twoarticles in the _Herald_ of that morning, which had arriv
ed at Tallyn bynine o'clock, had struck him with nothing less than consternation.
Ever since his interview with Barrington, he had persuaded himself thatin it he had laid the foundations of party reunion; and he had sincebeen eagerly scanning the signs of slow change in the attitude of theparty paper, combined--as they had been up to this very day--with anunbroken personal loyalty to Ferrier. But the article of this morninghad shown a complete--and in Oliver's opinion, as he read it at thebreakfast-table--an extravagant _volte-face_. It amounted to nothingless than a vehement appeal to the new Prime Minister to intrust theleadership of the House of Commons, at so critical a moment, to a manmore truly in sympathy with the forward policy of the party.
"We have hoped against hope," said the _Herald_; "we have supported Mr.Ferrier against all opposition; but a careful reconsideration andanalysis of his latest speeches--taken together with our generalknowledge public and private, of the political situation--have convincedus, sorely against our will, that while Mr. Ferrier must, of course,hold one of the most important offices in the new Cabinet, hisleadership of the Commons--in view of the two great measures to whichthe party is practically pledged--could only bring calamity. He will notoppose them; that, of course, we know; but is it possible that he can_fight them through_ with success? We appeal to his patriotism, whichhas never yet failed him or us. If he will only accept the peerage hehas so amply earned, together with either the War Office or theAdmiralty, and represent the Government in the Lords, where it issorely in need of strength, all will be well. The leadership of theCommons must necessarily fall to that section of the party which,through Lord Philip's astonishing campaign, has risen so rapidly inpublic favor. Lord Philip himself, indeed, is no more acceptable to themoderates than Mr. Ferrier to the Left Wing. Heat of personal feelingalone would prevent his filling the part successfully. But two or threemen are named, under whom Lord Philip would be content to serve, whilethe moderates would have nothing to say against them."
This was damaging enough. But far more serious was the "communicated"article on the next page--"from a correspondent"--on which the "leader"was based.
Marsham saw at once that the "correspondent" was really Barringtonhimself, and that the article was wholly derived from the conversationwhich had taken place at Tallyn, and from the portions of Ferrier'sletters, which Marsham had read or summarized for the journalist'sbenefit.
The passage in particular which Ferrier's dying hand had marked--herecalled the gleam in Barrington's black eyes as he had listened to it,the instinctive movement in his powerful hand, as though to pounce,vulturelike, on the letter--and his own qualm of anxiety--his suddensense of having gone too far--his insistence on discretion.
Discretion indeed! The whole thing was monstrous treachery. He hadwarned the man that these few sentences were not to be takenliterally--that they were, in fact, Ferrier's caricature of himself andhis true opinion. "You press on me a particular measure," they said, ineffect, "you expect the millennium from it. Well, I'll tell you whatyou'll really get by it!"--and then a forecast of the future, after thegreat Bill was passed, in Ferrier's most biting vein.
The passage in the _Herald_ was given as a paraphrase, or, rather, as akind of _reductio ad absurdum_ of one of Ferrier's last speeches in theHouse. It was, in truth, a literal quotation from one of the letters.Barrington had an excellent memory. He had omitted nothing. The stolensentences made the point, the damning point, of the article. They werenot exactly quoted as Ferrier's, but they claimed to express Ferriermore closely than he had yet expressed himself. "We have excellentreason to believe that this is, in truth, the attitude of Mr. Ferrier."How, then, could a man of so cold and sceptical a temper continue tolead the young reformers of the party? The _Herald_, with infiniteregret, made its bow to its old leader, and went over bag and baggage tothe camp of Lord Philip, who, Marsham could not doubt, had been in closeconsultation with the editor through the whole business.
Again and again, as the train sped on, did Marsham go back over thefatal interview which had led to these results. His mind, full of anagony of remorse he could not still, was full also of storm and furyagainst Barrington. Never had a journalist made a more shameful use of atrust reposed in him.
With torturing clearness, imagination built up the scene in the garden:the arrival of Broadstone's letter; the hand of the stricken man gropingfor the newspaper; the effort of those pencilled lines; and, finally,that wavering mark, John Ferrier's last word on earth.
If it had, indeed, been meant for him, Oliver--well, he had receivedit; the dead man had reached out and touched him; he felt the brand uponhim; and it was a secret forever between Ferrier and himself.
The train was nearing St. Pancras. Marsham roused himself with aneffort. After all, what fault was it of his--this tragic coincidence ofa tragic day? If Ferrier had lived, all could have been explained; or ifnot all, most. And because Ferrier had died of a sudden ailment, commonamong men worn out with high responsibilities, was a man to go onreproaching himself eternally for another man's vile behavior--for theresults of an indiscretion committed with no ill-intent whatever? Withmiserable self-control, Oliver turned his mind to his approachinginterview with the Prime Minister. Up to the morning of this awful dayhe had been hanging on the Cabinet news from hour to hour. The mostimportant posts would, of course be filled first. Afterward would comethe minor appointments--and then!
* * * * *
Marsham found the Premier much shaken. He was an old man; he had been awarm personal friend of Ferrier's; and the blow had hit him hard.
Evidently for a few hours he had been determined to resign; but stronginfluences had been brought to bear, and he had wearily resumedhis task.
Reluctantly, Marsham told the story. Poor Lord Broadstone could notescape from the connection between the arrival of his letter and theseizure which had killed his old comrade. He sat bowed beneath it for awhile; then, with a fortitude and a self-control which never fails menof his type in times of public stress and difficulty, he roused himselfto discuss the political situation which had arisen--so far, at least,as was necessary and fitting in the case of a man not in theinner circle.
As the two men sat talking the messenger arrived from Beechcote with SirJames Chide's letter. From the Premier's expression as he laid it downMarsham divined that it contained Chide's refusal to join theGovernment. Lord Broadstone got up and began to move to and fro, wrappedin a cloud of thought. He seemed to forget Marsham's presence, andMarsham made a movement to go. As he did so Lord Broadstone looked upand came toward him.
"I am much obliged to you for having come so promptly," he said, withmelancholy courtesy. "I thought we should have met soon--on anoccasion--more agreeable to us both. As you are here, forgive me if Italk business. This rough-and-tumble world has to be carried on, and ifit suits you, I shall be happy to recommend your appointment to herMajesty--as a Junior Lord of the Treasury--carrying with it, as ofcourse you understand, the office of Second Whip."
Ten minutes later Marsham left the Prime Minister's house. As he walkedback to St. Pancras, he was conscious of yet another smart added to therest. If _anything_ were offered to him, he had certainly hoped forsomething more considerable.
It looked as though while the Ferrier influence had ignored him, theDarcy influence had not troubled itself to do much for him. That he hadclaims could not be denied. So this very meagre bone had been flung him.But if he had refused it, he would have got nothing else.
The appointment would involve re-election. All that infernal business togo through again!--probably in the very midst of disturbances in themining district. The news from the collieries was as bad as it could be.
* * * * *
He reached home very late--close on midnight. His mother had gone tobed, ill and worn out, and was not to be disturbed. Isabel Fotheringhamand Alicia awaited him in the drawing-room.
Mrs. Fotheringham had arrived in the course of the evening. She herselfwas pee
vish with fatigue, incurred in canvassing for two of LordPhilip's most headlong supporters. Personally, she had broken with JohnFerrier some weeks before the election; but the fact had made moreimpression on her own mind than on his.
"Well, Oliver, this is a shocking thing! However, of course, Ferrier hadbeen unhealthy for a long time; any one could see that. It was reallybetter it should end so."
"You take it calmly!" he said, scandalized by her manner and tone.
"I am sorry, of course. But Ferrier had outlived himself. The people Ihave been working among felt him merely in the way. But, of course, I amsorry mamma is dreadfully upset. That one must expect. Well, nowthen--you have seen Broadstone?"
She rose to question him, the political passion in her veins assertingitself against her weariness. She was still in her travelling dress.From her small, haggard face the reddish hair was drawn tightly back;the spectacled eyes, the dry lips, expressed a woman whose life hadhardened to dusty uses. Her mere aspect chilled and repelled herbrother, and he answered her questions shortly.
"Broadstone has treated you shabbily!" she remarked, with decision;"but I suppose you will have to put up with it. And this terrible thingthat has happened to-day may tell against you when it comes to theelection. Ferrier will be looked upon as a martyr, and we shall suffer."
Oliver turned his eyes for relief to Alicia. She, in a soft black dress,with many slender chains, studded with beautiful turquoises, about herwhite neck, rested and cheered his sight. The black was for sympathywith the family sorrow; the turquoises were there because he speciallyadmired them; he understood them both. The night was hot, and withoutteasing him with questions she had brought him a glass of iced lemonade,touching him caressingly on the arm while he drank it.
"Poor Mr. Ferrier! It was terribly, terribly sad!" Her voice was subtlytuned and pitched. It made no fresh claim on emotion, of which, in hismental and moral exhaustion, he had none to give; but it more than metthe decencies of the situation, which Isabel had flouted.
"So there will be another election?" she said, presently, still standingin front of him, erect and provocative, her eyes fixed on his.
"Yes; but I sha'n't be such a brute as to bother you with it this time."
"I shall decide that for myself," she said, lightly. Then--after apause: "So Lord Philip has won!--all along the line! I should like toknow that man!"
"You do know him."
"Oh, just to pass the time of day. That's nothing. But I am to meet himat the Treshams' next week." Her eyes sparkled a little. Marsham glancedat his sister, who was gathering up some small possessions at the end ofthe room.
"Don't try and make a fool of him!" he said, in a low voice. "He's notyour sort."
"Isn't he?" She laughed. "I suppose he's one of the biggest men inEngland now. And somebody told me the other day that, after losing twoor three fortunes, he had just got another."
Marsham nodded.
"Altogether, an excellent _parti_."
Alicia's infectious laugh broke out. She sat down beside him, with herhands round her knees.
"You look miles better than when you came in. But I think--you'd bettergo to bed."
* * * * *
As Marsham, in undressing, flung his coat upon a chair, the copy of the_Herald_ which he had momentarily forgotten fell out of the innerpocket. He raised it--irresolute. Should he tear it up, and throw thefragments away?
No. He could not bring himself to do it. It was as though Ferrier, lyingstill and cold at Lytchett, would know of it--as though the act would dosome roughness to the dead.
He went into his sitting-room, found an empty drawer in hiswriting-table, thrust in the newspaper, and closed the drawer.