CHAPTER XX
"I regard this second appeal to West Brookshire as an insult!" said theVicar of Beechcote, hotly. "If Mr. Marsham must needs accept an officethat involved re-election he might have gone elsewhere. I see there isalready a vacancy by death--and a Liberal seat, too--in Sussex. _We_told him pretty plainly what we thought of him last time."
"And now I suppose you will turn him out?" asked the doctor, lazily. Inthe beatitude induced by a completed article and an afternoon smoke, hewas for the moment incapable of taking a tragic view either of Marsham'sshortcomings or his prospects.
"Certainly, we shall turn him out."
"Ah!--a Labor candidate?" said the doctor, showing a little more energy.
Whereupon the Vicar, with as strong a relish for the _primeur_ of animportant piece of news as any secular fighter, described a meeting heldthe night before in one of the mining villages, at which he had been aspeaker. The meeting had decided to run a miners' candidate; expenseshad been guaranteed; and the resolution passed meant, according toLavery, that Marsham would be badly beaten, and that Colonel Simpson,his Conservative opponent, would be handsomely presented with a seat inParliament, to which his own personal merits had no claim whatever.
"But that we put up with," said the Vicar, grimly. "The joy of turningout Marsham is compensation."
The doctor turned an observant eye on his companion's clerical coat.
"Shall we hear these sentiments next Sunday from the pulpit?" he asked,mildly.
The Vicar had the grace to blush slightly.
"I say, no doubt, more than I should say," he admitted. Then he rose,buttoning his long coat down his long body deliberately, as though bythe action he tried to restrain the surge within; but it overflowed allthe same. "I know now," he said, with a kindling eye, holding out agaunt hand in farewell, "what our Lord meant by sending, notpeace--but a sword!"
"So, no doubt, did Torquemada!" replied the doctor, surveying him.
The Vicar rose to the challenge.
"I will be no party to the usual ignorant abuse of the Inquisition," hesaid, firmly. "We live in days of license, and have no right to sit injudgment on our forefathers."
"_Your_ forefathers," corrected the doctor. "Mine burned."
The Vicar first laughed; then grew serious. "Well, I'll allow you twoopinions on the Inquisition, but not--" he lifted a gesticulatinghand--"_not_ two opinions on mines which are death-traps for lack of alittle money to make them safe--_not_ on the kind of tyranny which saysto a man: 'Strike if you like, and take a week's notice at the same timeto give up your cottage, which belongs to the colliery'--or, 'Make afuss about allotments if you dare, and see how long you keep your berthin my employment: we don't want any agitators here'--or maintains,against all remonstrance, a brutal manager in office, whose rule crushesout a man's self-respect, and embitters his soul!"
"You charge all these things against Marsham?"
"He--or, rather, his mother--has a large holding in collieries againstwhich I charge them."
"H'm. Lady Lucy isn't standing for West Brookshire."
"No matter. The son's teeth are set on edge. Marsham has been appealedto, and has done nothing--attempted nothing. He makes eloquent Liberalspeeches, and himself spends money got by grinding the poor!"
"You make him out a greater fool than I believe him," said the doctor."He has probably attempted a great deal, and finds his power limited.Moreover, he has been eight years member here, and these charges arequite new."
"Because the spirit abroad is new!" cried the Vicar. "Men will no longerbear what their fathers bore. The old excuses, the old pleas, serve nolonger. I tell you the poor are tired of their patience! The Kingdom ofHeaven, in its earthly aspect, is not to be got that way--no! 'Theviolent take it by force!' And as to your remark about Marsham, half thechampions of democracy in this country are in the same box: pratingabout liberty and equality abroad; grinding their servants andunderpaying their laborers at home. I know scores of them; and how anyof them keep a straight face at a public meeting I never couldunderstand. There is a French proverb that exactly expresses them--"
"I know," murmured the doctor, "I know. '_Joie de rue, douleur demaison_.' Well, and so, to upset Marsham, you are going to let theTories in, eh?--with all the old tyrannies and briberies on theirshoulders?--naked and unashamed. Hullo!"--he looked round him--"don'ttell Patricia I said so--or Hugh."
"There is no room for a middle party," was the Vicar's fierce reply."Socialists on the one side, Tories on the other!--that'll be theArmageddon of the future."
The doctor, declining to be drawn, nodded placidly through the clouds ofsmoke that enwrapped him. The Vicar hurried away, accompanied, however,furtively to the door, even to the gate of the drive, by Mrs.Roughsedge, who had questions to ask.
She came back presently with a thoughtful countenance.
"I asked him what he thought I ought to do about those tales I told youof."
"Why don't you settle for yourself?" cried the doctor, testily. "That isthe way you women flatter the pride of these priests!"
"Not at all. _You_ make him talk nonsense; I find him a fount ofwisdom."
"I admit he knows some moral theology," said Roughsedge, thoughtfully."He has thought a good deal about 'sins' and 'sin.' Well, what was hisview about these particular 'sinners'?"
"He thinks Diana ought to know."
"She can't do any good, and it will keep her awake at nights. I objectaltogether."
However, Mrs. Roughsedge, having first dropped a pacifying kiss on herhusband's gray hair, went up-stairs to put on her things, declaring thatshe was going there and then to Beechcote.
The doctor was left to ponder over the gossip in question, and whatDiana could possibly do to meet it. Poor child!--was she never to befree from scandal and publicity?
As to the couple of people involved--Fred Birch and that odious youngwoman Miss Fanny Merton--he did not care in the least what happened tothem. And he could not see, for the life of him, why Diana should careeither. But of course she would. In her ridiculous way, she would thinkshe had some kind of responsibility, just because the girl's mother andher mother happened to have been brought up in the same nursery.
"A plague on Socialist vicars, and a plague on dear good women!" thoughtthe doctor, knocking out his pipe. "What with philanthropy and thisdelicate altruism that takes the life out of women, the world becomes akind of impenetrable jungle, in which everybody's business isintertwined with everybody else's, and there is nobody left withprimitive brutality enough to hew a way through! And those of us thatmight lead a decent life on this ill-arranged planet are all crippledand hamstrung by what we call unselfishness." The doctor vigorouslyreplenished his pipe. "I vow I will go to Greece next spring, and leavePatricia behind!"
Meanwhile, Mrs. Roughsedge walked to Beechcote--in meditation. The factsshe pondered were these, to put them as shortly as possible. Fred Birchwas fast becoming the _mauvais sujet_ of the district. His practice wassaid to be gone, his money affairs were in a desperate condition, andhis mother and sister had already taken refuge with relations. He hadhad recourse to the time-honored expedients of his type: betting onhorses and on stocks with other people's money. It was said that he hadkept on the safe side of the law; but one or two incidents in his careerhad emerged to light quite recently, which had led all the scrupulousin Dunscombe to close their doors upon him; and as he had no means ofbribing the unscrupulous, he had now become a mere object-lesson forbabes as to the advantages of honesty.
At the same time Miss Fanny Merton, first introduced to Brookshire byBrookshire's favorite, Diana Mallory, was constantly to be seen in theblack sheep's company. They had been observed together, both in Londonand the country--at race-meetings and theatres; and a brawl in theDunscombe refreshment-room, late at night, in which Birch had beeninvolved, brought out the scandalous fact that Miss Merton was in hiscompany. Birch was certainly not sober, and it was said by the policethat Miss Merton also had had more port wine than was good fo
r her.
All this Brookshire knew, and none of it did Diana know. Since herreturn she and Mrs. Colwood had lived so quietly within their ownborders that the talk of the neighborhood rarely reached her, and thosepersons who came in contact with her were far too deeply touched by thesigns of suffering in the girl's face and manner to breathe a word thatmight cause her fresh pain. Brookshire knew, through one or other of themysterious channels by which such news travels, that the two cousinswere uncongenial; that it was Fanny Merton who had revealed to Diana hermother's history, and in an abrupt, unfeeling way; and that the twogirls were not now in communication. Fanny had been boarding withfriends in Bloomsbury, and was supposed to be returning to her family inBarbadoes in the autumn.
The affair at the refreshment-room was to be heard of at Petty Sessions,and would, therefore, get into the local papers. Mrs. Roughsedge feltthere was nothing for it; Diana must be told. But she hated her task.
On reaching Beechcote she noticed a fly at the door, and paused a momentto consider whether her visit might not be inopportune. It was abeautiful day, and Diana and Mrs. Colwood were probably to be found insome corner of the garden. Mrs. Roughsedge walked round the side of thehouse to reconnoitre.
As she reached the beautiful old terrace at the back of the house, onwhich the drawing-room opened, suddenly a figure came flying through thedrawing-room window--the figure of a girl in a tumbled muslin dress,with a large hat, and a profusion of feathers and streamers flutteringabout her. In her descent upon the terrace she dropped her gloves;stooping to pick them up, she dropped her boa; in her struggle torecapture that, she trod on and tore her dress.
_"Damn_!" said the young lady, furiously.
And at the voice, the word, the figure, Mrs. Roughsedge stood arrestedand open-mouthed, her old woman's bonnet slipping back a little on hergray curls.
The young woman was Fanny Merton. She had evidently just arrived, andwas in search of Diana. Mrs. Roughsedge thought a moment, and thenturned and sadly walked home again. No good interfering now! Poor Dianawould have to tackle the situation for herself.
* * * * *
Diana and Mrs. Colwood were on the lawn, surreptitiously at work onclothes for the child in the spinal jacket, who was soon going away to aconvalescent home, and had to be rigged out. The grass was strewn withpieces of printed cotton and flannel, with books and work-baskets. Butthey were not sitting where Ferrier had looked his last upon the worldthree weeks before. There, under the tall limes, across the lawn, onthat sad and sacred spot, Diana meant in the autumn to plant a group ofcypresses (the tree of mourning) "for remembrance."
"Fanny!" cried Diana, in amazement, rising from her chair.
At her cousin's voice, Fanny halted, a few yards away.
"Well," she said, defiantly, "of course I know you didn't expect to seeme!"
Diana had grown very pale. Muriel saw a shiver run through her--theshiver of the victim brought once more into the presence ofthe torturer.
"I thought you were in London," she stammered, moving forward andholding out her hand mechanically. "Please come and sit down." Shecleared a chair of the miscellaneous needlework upon it.
"I want to speak to you very particularly," said Fanny. "And it'sprivate!" She looked at Mrs. Colwood, with whom she had exchanged afrosty greeting. Diana made a little imploring sign, andMuriel--unwillingly--moved away toward the house.
"Well, I don't suppose you want to have anything to do with me," saidFanny, after a moment, in a sulky voice. "But, after all, you'remother's niece. I'm in a pretty tight fix, and it mightn't be verypleasant for you if things came to the worst."
She had thrown off her hat, and was patting and pulling the numerouspuffs and bandeaux, in which her hair was arranged, with a nervous hand.Diana was aghast at her appearance. The dirty finery of her dress hadsunk many degrees in the scale of decency and refinement sinceFebruary. Her staring brunette color had grown patchy and unhealthy, hereyes had a furtive audacity, her lips a coarseness, which might havebeen always there; but in the winter, youth and high spirits had to someextent disguised them.
"Aren't you soon going home?" asked Diana, looking at her with atroubled brow.
"No, I'm--I'm engaged. I thought you might have known that!" The girlturned fiercely upon her.
"No--I hadn't heard--"
"Well, I don't know where you live all your time!" said Fanny,impatiently. "There's heaps of people at Dunscombe know that I've beenengaged to Fred Birch for three months. I wasn't going to write to you,of course, because I--well!--I knew you thought I'd been rough onyou--about that--you know."
"_Fred Birch!_" Diana's voice was faltering and amazed.
Fanny twisted her hat in her hands.
"He's all right," she said, angrily, "if his business hadn't been ruinedby a lot of nasty crawling tale-tellers. If people'd only mind their ownbusiness! However, there it is--he's ruined--he hasn't got a pennypiece--and, of course, he can't marry me, if--well, if somebody don'thelp us out."
Diana's face changed.
"Do you mean that I should help you out?"
"Well, there's no one else!" said Fanny, still, as it seemed, defyingsomething or some one.
"I gave you--a thousand pounds."
"You gave it _mother I_ I got precious little of it. I've had to borrow,lately, from people in the boarding-house. And I can't get anymore--there! I'm just broke--stony."
She was still looking straight before her, but her lip trembled.
Diana bent forward impetuously.
"Fanny!" she said, laying her hand on her cousin's, "_do_ go home!"
Fanny's lip continued to tremble.
"I tell you I'm engaged," she repeated, in a muffled voice.
"Don't marry him!" cried Diana, imploringly. "He's not--he's not a goodman."
"What do you know about it? He's well enough, though I dare say he's notyour sort. He'd be all right if somebody would just lend a hand--helphim with the debts, and put him on his feet again. He suits me, anyway.I'm not so thin-skinned."
Diana stiffened. Fanny's manner--as of old--was almost incredible,considered as the manner of one in difficulties asking for help. Thesneering insolence of it inevitably provoked the person addressed.
"Have you told Aunt Bertha?" she said, coldly--"asked her consent?"
"Mother? Oh, I've told her I'm engaged. She knows very well that Imanage my own business."
Diana withdrew her chair a little.
"When are you going to be married? Are you still with those friends?"
Fanny laughed.
"Oh, Lord, no! I fell out with them long ago. They were a wretched lot!But I found a girl I knew, and we set up together. I've been in ablouse-shop earning thirty shillings a week--there! And if I hadn't, I'dhave starved!"
Fanny raised her head. Their eyes met: Fanny's full of mingled bravadoand misery; Diana's suddenly stricken with deep and remorseful distress.
"Fanny, I told you to write to me if there was anything wrong! Whydidn't you?"
"You hated me!" said Fanny, sullenly.
"I didn't!" cried Diana, the tears rising to her eyes. "But--you hurt meso!" Then again she bent forward, laying her hand on her cousin's,speaking fast and low. "Fanny, I'm very sorry!--if I'd known you were introuble I'd have come or written--I thought you were with friends, and Iknew the money had been paid. But, Fanny, I _implore_ you!--give up Mr.Birch! Nobody speaks well of him! You'll be miserable!--you must be!"
"Too late to think of that!" said Fanny, doggedly.
Diana looked up in sudden terror. Fanny tried to brazen it out. But allthe patchy color left her cheeks, and, dropping her head on her hands,she began to sob. Yet even the sobs were angry.
"I can go and drown myself!" she said, passionately, "and I suppose I'dbetter. Nobody cares whether I do or not! He's made a fool of me--Idon't suppose mother'll take me home again. And if he doesn't marry me,I'll kill myself somehow--it don't matter how--before--I've got to!"
Diana had dropped
on her knees beside her visitor.Unconsciously--pitifully--she breathed her cousin's name. Fanny lookedup. She wrenched herself violently away.
"Oh, it's all very well!--but we can't all be such saints as you. It'dbe all right if he married me directly--_directly_," she repeated,hurriedly.
Diana knelt still immovable. In her face was that agonized shock andrecoil with which the young and pure, the tenderly cherished andguarded, receive the first withdrawal of the veil which hides from themthe more brutal facts of life. But, as she knelt there, gazing at Fanny,another expression stole upon and effaced the first. Taking shape andbody, as it were, from the experience of the moment, there rose intosight the new soul developed in her by this tragic year. Not forher--not for Juliet Sparling's daughter--the plea of cloisteredinnocence! By a sharp transition her youth had passed from the Chamberof Maiden Thought into the darkened Chamber of Experience. She hadsteeped her heart in the waters of sin and suffering; she put from herin an instant the mere maiden panic which had drawn her to her knees.
"Fanny, I'll help you!" she said, in a low voice, putting her arms roundher cousin. "Don't cry--I'll help you."
Fanny raised her head. In Diana's face there was something which, forthe first time, roused in the other a nascent sense of shame. The colorcame rushing into her cheeks; her eyes wavered painfully.
"You must come and stay here," said Diana, almost in a whisper. "Andwhere is Mr. Birch? I must see him."
She rose as she spoke; her voice had a decision, a sternness, that Fannyfor once did not resent. But she shook her head despairingly.
"I can't get at him. He sends my letters back. He'll not marry me unlesshe's paid to."
"When did you see him last?"
Gradually the whole story emerged. The man had behaved as the coarse andnatural man face to face with temptation and opportunity is likely tobehave. The girl had been the victim first and foremost of her ownincredible folly. And Diana could not escape the idea that on Birch'sside there had not been wanting from the first an element of sinistercalculation. If her relations objected to the situation, it could, ofcourse, be made worth his while to change it. All his recent sayings anddoings, as Fanny reported them, clearly bore this interpretation.
As Diana sat, dismally pondering, an idea flashed upon her. Sir JamesChide was to dine at Beechcote that night. He was expected early, wouldtake in Beechcote, indeed, on his way from the train to Lytchett. Whoelse should advise her if not he? In a hundred ways, practical andtender, he had made her understand that, for her mother's sake and herown, she was to him as a daughter.
She mentioned him to Fanny.
"Of course"--she hurried over the words--"we need only say that you havebeen engaged. We must consult him, I suppose, about--about breach ofpromise of marriage."
The odious, hearsay phrase came out with difficulty. But Fanny's eyesglistened at the name of the great lawyer.
Her feelings toward the man who had betrayed her were clearly a medleyof passion and of hatred. She loved him as she was able to love; and shewished, at the same time, to coerce and be revenged on him. Themomentary sense of shame had altogether passed. It was Diana who, withburning cheeks, stipulated that while Fanny must not return to town, butmust stay at Beechcote till matters were arranged, she should notappear during Sir James's visit; and it was Fanny who said, withvindictive triumph, as Diana left her in her room; "Sir James'll knowwell enough what sort of damages I could get!"
* * * * *
After dinner Diana and Sir James walked up and down the lime-walk in theAugust moonlight. His affection, as soon as he saw her, had beenconscious of yet another strain upon her, but till she began to talk tohim _tete-a-tete_ he got no clew to it; and even then what he guessedhad very little to do with what she said. She told her cousin's story sofar as she meant to tell it with complete self-possession. Her cousinwas in love with this wretched man, and had got herself terribly talkedabout. She could not be persuaded to give him up, while he could only beinduced to marry her by the prospect of money. Could Sir James see himand find out how much would content him, and whether any decentemployment could be found for him?
Sir James held his peace, except for the "Yeses" and "Noes" that Diana'sconversation demanded. He would certainly interview the young man; hewas very sorry for her anxieties; he would see what could be done.
Meanwhile, he never communicated to her that he had travelled down toBeechcote in the same carriage with Lady Felton, the county gossip, andthat in addition to other matters--of which more anon--therefreshment-room story had been discussed between them, with additionsand ramifications leading to very definite conclusions in any rationalmind as to the nature of the bond between Diana's cousin and the youngDunscombe solicitor. Lady Felton had expressed her concern for MissMallory. "Poor thing!--do you think she knows? Why on earth did sheever ask him to Beechcote! Alicia Drake told me she saw him there."
These things Sir James did not disclose. He played Diana's game withperfect discretion. He guessed, even that Fanny was in the house, but hesaid not a word. No need at all to question the young woman. If in sucha case he could not get round a rascally solicitor, what could hedo?--and what was the good of being the leader of the criminal Bar?
Only when Diana, at the end of their walk, shyly remarked that money wasnot to stand in the way; that she had plenty; that Beechcote was nodoubt too expensive for her, but that the tenancy was only a yearly one,and she had but to give notice at Michaelmas, which she thought ofdoing--only then did Sir James allow himself a laugh.
"You think I am going to let this business turn you out ofBeechcote--eh?--you preposterous little angel!"
"Not this business," stammered Diana; "but I am really living at toogreat a rate."
Sir James grinned, patted her ironically on the shoulder, told her to bea good girl, and departed.
* * * * *
Fanny stayed for a week at Beechcote, and at the end of that time Dianaand Mrs. Colwood accompanied her on a Saturday to town, and she wasmarried, to a sheepish and sulky bridegroom, by special license, at aMarylebone church--Sir James Chide, in the background, looking on. Theydeparted for a three days' holiday to Brighton, and on the fourth daythey were due to sail by a West Indian steamer for Barbadoes, where SirJames had procured for Mr. Frederick Birch a post in the office of alarge sugar estate, in which an old friend of Chide's had an interest.Fanny showed no rapture in the prospect of thus returning to the bosomof her family. But there was no help for it.
By what means the transformation scene had been effected it would bewaste of time to inquire. Much to Diana's chagrin, Sir James entirelydeclined to allow her to aid in it financially, except so far asequipping her cousin with clothes went, and providing her with a smallsum for her wedding journey. Personally, he considered that the weekduring which Fanny stayed at Beechcote was as much as Diana could beexpected to contribute, and that she had indeed paid the lion's share.
Yet that week--if he had known--was full of strange comfort to Diana.Often Muriel, watching her, would escape to her own room to hide hertears. Fanny's second visit was not as her first. The first had seen theoutraging and repelling of the nobler nature by the ignoble. Diana hadfrankly not been able to endure her cousin. There was not a trace ofthat now. Her father's papers had told her abundantly how flimsy, hownearly fraudulent, was the financial claim which Fanny and herbelongings had set up. The thousand pounds had been got practically onfalse pretences, and Diana knew it now, in every detail. Yet neithertoward that, nor toward Fanny's other and worse lapses, did she show anybitterness, any spirit of mere disgust and reprobation. The last vestigeof that just, instinctive pharisaism which clothes an unstained youthhad dropped from her. As the heir of her mother's fate, she had gonedown into the dark sea of human wrong and misery, and she had emergedtransformed, more akin by far to the wretched and the unhappy than tothe prosperous and the untempted, so that, through all repulsion andshock, she took Fanny now as she found her--bear
ing withher--accepting her--loving her, as far as she could. At the last eventhat stubborn nature was touched. When Diana kissed her after thewedding, with a few tremulous good wishes, Fanny's gulp was not allexcitement. Yet it must still be recorded that on the wedding-day Fannywas in the highest spirits, only marred by some annoyance that she hadlet Diana persuade her out of a white satin wedding-dress.
"SIR JAMES PLAYED DIANA'S GAME WITH PERFECT DISCRETION"]
* * * * *
Diana's preoccupation with this matter carried her through the firstweek of Marsham's second campaign, and deadened so far the painfuleffect of the contest now once more thundering through the division. Forit was even a more odious battle than the first had been. In the firstplace, the moderate Liberals held a meeting very early in the struggle,with Sir William Felton in the chair, to protest against the lukewarmsupport which Marsham had given to the late leader of the Opposition, toexpress their lamentation for Ferrier, and their distrust of LordPhilip; and to decide upon a policy.
At the meeting a heated speech was made by a gray-haired squire, an oldfriend and Oxford contemporary of John Ferrier's, who declared that hehad it on excellent authority that the communicated article in the_Herald_, which had appeared on the morning of Ferrier's sudden death,had been written by Oliver Marsham.
This statement was reported in the newspapers of the following morning,and was at once denied by Marsham himself, in a brief letter tothe _Times_.
It was this letter which Lady Felton discussed hotly with Sir JamesChide on the day when Fanny Merton's misdemeanors also came up forjudgment.
"He says he didn't write it. Sir William declares--a mere quibble! Hehas it from several people that Barrington was at Tallyn two days beforethe article appeared, and that he spoke to one or two friends next dayof an 'important' conversation with Marsham, and of the first-handinformation he had got from it. Nobody was so likely as Oliver to havethat intimate knowledge of poor Mr. Ferrier's intentions and views.William believes that he gave Barrington all the information in thearticle, and wrote nothing himself, in order that he might be ableto deny it."
Sir James met these remarks with an impenetrable face. He neitherdefended Marsham, nor did he join in Lady Felton's denunciations. Butthat good lady, who though voluble was shrewd, told her husbandafterward that she was certain Sir James believed Marsham to beresponsible for the _Herald_ article.
A week later the subject was renewed at a very heated and disorderlymeeting at Dunscombe. A bookseller's assistant, well known as one of theleading Socialists of the division, got up and in a suave mincing voiceaccused Marsham of having--not written, but--"communicated" the _Herald_article, and so dealt a treacherous blow at his old friend andParliamentary leader--a blow which had no doubt contributed to thesituation culminating in Mr. Ferrier's tragic death.
Marsham, very pale, sprang up at once, denied the charge, and fiercelyattacked the man who had made it. But there was something so venomous inthe manner of his denial, so undignified in the personalities with whichit was accompanied, that the meeting suddenly took offence. The attack,instead of dying down, was renewed. Speaker after speaker got up andheckled the candidate. Was Mr. Marsham aware that the editor of the_Herald_ had been staying at Tallyn two days before the articleappeared? Was he also aware that his name had been freely mentioned, inthe _Herald_ office, in connection with the article?
Marsham in vain endeavored to regain sang-froid and composure underthese attacks. He haughtily repeated his denial, and refused to answerany more questions on the subject.
The local Tory paper rushed into the fray, and had presently collected agood deal of what it was pleased to call evidence on the matter, mainlygathered from London reporters. The matter began to look serious.Marsham appealed to Barrington to contradict the rumor publicly, as"absurd and untrue." But, unfortunately, Barrington, who was a man ofquick and gusty temper, had been nettled by an incautious expression ofMarsham's with regard to the famous article in his Dunscombe speech--"ifI had had any intention whatever of dealing a dishonorable blow at myold friend and leader, I could have done it a good deal moreeffectively, I can assure you; I should not have put what I had to sayin a form so confused and contradictory."
This--together with the general denial--happened to reach Barrington,and it rankled. When, therefore, Marsham appealed to him, hebrusquely replied:
"DEAR MR. MARSHAM,--You know best what share you had in the _Herald_ article. You certainly did not write it. But to my mind it very faithfully reproduced the gist of our conversation on a memorable evening. And, moreover, I believe and still believe that you intended the reproduction. Believe me, Yours faithfully, ERNEST BARRINGTON."
To this Marsham returned a stiff answer, giving his own account of whathad taken place, and regretting that even a keen journalist should havethought it consistent with his honor to make such injurious and unfairuse of "my honest attempt to play the peacemaker" between the differentfactions of the party.
To this letter Barrington made no reply. Marsham, sore and weary, yetstrung by now to an obstinacy and a fighting passion which gave a newand remarkable energy to his personality, threw himself fresh into ahopeless battle. For a time, indeed, the tide appeared to turn. He hadbeen through two Parliaments a popular and successful member; lesspopular, no doubt, in the second than in the first, as the selfish andbitter strains in his character became more apparent. Still he hadalways commanded a strong personal following, especially among theyounger men of the towns and villages, who admired his lithe andhandsome presence, and appreciated his reputation as a sportsman andvolunteer. Lady Lucy's subscriptions, too, were an element in the matternot to be despised.
A rally began in the Liberal host, which had felt itself already beaten.Marsham's meetings improved, the _Herald_ article was apparentlyforgotten.
The anxiety now lay chiefly in the mining villages, where nothing seemedto affect the hostile attitude of the inhabitants. A long series ofcauses had led up to it, to be summed up perhaps in one--the harsh anddomineering temper of the man who had for years managed the three Tallyncollieries, and who held Lady Lucy and her co-shareholders in the hollowof his hand. Lady Lucy, whose curious obstinacy had been roused, wouldnot dismiss him, and nothing less than his summary dismissal would haveappeased the dull hatred of six hundred miners.
Marsham had indeed attempted to put through a number of minor reforms,but the effect on the temper of the district had been, in the end,little or nothing. The colliers, who had once fervently supported him,thought of him now, either as a fine gentleman profiting pecuniarily bythe ill deeds of a tyrant, or as sheltering behind his mother's skirts;the Socialist Vicar of Beechcote thundered against him; and for sometime every meeting of his in the colliery villages was broken up. But inthe more hopeful days of the last week, when the canvassing returns,together with Marsham's astonishing energy and brilliant speaking, hadrevived the failing heart of the party, it was resolved to hold a finalmeeting, on the night before the poll, at Hartingfield-on-the-Wold, thelargest of the mining villages.
* * * * *
Marsham left Dunscombe for Hartingfield about six o'clock on an Augustevening, driving the coach, with its superb team of horses, which hadbecome by now so familiar an object in the division. He was to return intime to make the final speech in the concluding Liberal meeting of thecampaign, which was to be held that night, with the help of somehalf-dozen other members of Parliament, in the Dunscombe Corn Exchange.
A body of his supporters, gathered in the market-place, cheered himmadly as the coach set off. Marsham stopped the horses for a minuteoutside the office of the local paper. The weekly issue came out thatafternoon. It was handed up to him, and the coach rattled on.
McEwart, who was sitting beside him, opened it, and presently gave a lowinvoluntary whistle of dismay. Marsham looked round.
"What's the matter?"
McEwart would have gladly flung the paper away. But l
ooking round him hesaw that several other persons on the top of the coach had copies, andthat whispering consternation had begun.
He saw nothing for it but to hand the paper to Marsham. "This is playingit pretty low down!" he said, pointing to an item in large letters onthe first page.
Marsham handed the reins to the groom beside him and took the paper. Hesaw, printed in full, Barrington's curt letter to himself on the subjectof the _Herald_ article, and below it the jubilant and scathing commentsof the Tory editor.
He read both carefully, and gave the paper back to McEwart. "Thatdecides the election," he said, calmly. McEwart's face assented.
* * * * *
Marsham, however, never showed greater pluck than at the Hartingfieldmeeting. It was a rowdy and disgraceful business, in which frombeginning to end he scarcely got a hearing for more than three sentencesat a time. A shouting mob of angry men, animated by passions much morethan political, held him at bay. But on this occasion he never once losthis temper; he caught the questions and insults hurled at him, and threwthem back with unfailing skill; and every now and then, at some lull inthe storm, he made himself heard, and to good purpose. His courage andcoolness propitiated some and exasperated others.
A group of very rough fellows pursued him, shouting and yelling, as heleft the school-room where the meeting was held.
"Take care!" said McEwart, hurrying him along. "They are beginning withstones, and I see no police about."
The little party of visitors made for the coach, protected by some ofthe villagers. But in the dusk the stones came flying fast and freely.Just as Marsham was climbing into his seat he was struck. McEwart sawhim waver, and heard a muttered exclamation.
"You're hurt!" he said, supporting him. "Let the groom drive."
Marsham pushed him away.
"It's nothing." He gathered up the reins, the grooms who had beenholding the horses' heads clambered into their places, a touch of thewhip, and the coach was off, almost at a gallop, pursued by a showerof missiles.
After a mile at full speed Marsham pulled in the horses, and handed thereins to the groom. As he did so a low groan escaped him.
"You _are_ hurt!" exclaimed McEwart. "Where did they hit you?"
Marsham shook his head.
"Better not talk," he said, in a whisper, "Drive home."
An hour afterward, it was announced to the crowded gathering in theDunscombe Corn Exchange that Mr. Marsham had been hurt by a stone atHartingfield, and could not address the meeting. The message wasreceived with derision rather than sympathy. It was universally believedthat the injury was a mere excuse, and that the publication of that mostdamning letter, on the very eve of the poll, was the sole and only causewhy the Junior Lord of the Treasury failed on this occasion to meet theserried rows of his excited countrymen, waiting for him in the packedand stifling hall.
It was the Vicar who took the news to Beechcote. As in the case ofDiana herself, the misfortune of the enemy instantly transformed aroaring lion into a sucking dove. Some instinct told him that she musthear it gently. He therefore invented an errand, saw Muriel Colwood, andleft the tale with her--both of the blow and the letter.
Muriel, trembling inwardly, broke it as lightly and casually as shecould. An injury to the spine--so it was reported. No doubt rest andtreatment would soon amend it. A London surgeon had been sent for.Meanwhile the election was said to be lost. Muriel reluctantly producedthe letter in the _West Brookshire Gazette_, knowing that in the naturalcourse of things Diana must see it on the morrow.
Diana sat bowed over the letter and the news, and presently lifted up awhite face, kissed Muriel, who was hovering round her, and begged to beleft alone.
She went to her room. The windows were wide open to the woods, and thegolden August moon shone above the down in its bare full majesty. Mostof the night she sat crouched beside the window, her head resting on theledge. Her whole nature hungered--and hungered--for Oliver. As shelifted her eyes, she saw the little dim path on the hill-side; she felthis arms round about her, his warm life against hers. Nothing that hehad done, nothing that he could do, had torn him, or would ever tearhim, from her heart. And now he was wounded--defeated--perhapsdisgraced; and she could not help him, could not comfort him.
She supposed Alicia Drake was with him. For the first time a torment offierce jealousy ran through her nature, like fire through a forestglade, burning up its sweetness.