CHAPTER XXI
"What time is the carriage ordered for Mr. Nixon?" asked Marsham of hisservant.
"Her ladyship, sir, told me to tell the stables four-twenty atDunscombe."
"Let me hear directly the carriage arrives. And, Richard, go and see ifthe Dunscombe paper is come, and bring it up."
The footman disappeared. As soon as the door was shut Marsham sank backinto his cushions with a stifled groan. He was lying on a sofa in hisown sitting-room. A fire burned in the grate, and Marsham's limbs werecovered with a rug. Yet it was only the first week of September, and theafternoon was warm and sunny. The neuralgic pain, however, from which hehad suffered day and night since the attack upon him made himsusceptible to the slightest breath of chill.
The footman returned with the newspaper.
"Is her ladyship at home?"
"I think not, sir. I saw her ladyship go out a little while ago withMiss Drake. Is there anything else I can get for you?"
"Make up the fire, please. Put the cigarettes here, and don't come tillI ring."
Marsham, left alone, lit a cigarette, and fell hungrily upon the paper,his forehead and lips still drawn with pain. The paper contained anaccount of the stone-throwing at Hartingfield, and of the injury tohimself; a full record of the last five or six days of the election, andof the proceedings at the declaration of the poll; a report, moreover,of the "chivalrous and sympathetic references" made by the newly electedConservative member to the "dastardly attack" upon his rival, which the"whole of West Brookshire condemns and deplores."
The leading article "condemned" and "deplored," at considerable lengthand in good set terms, through two paragraphs. In the third it "couldnot disguise--from itself or its readers"--that Mr. Marsham's defeat byso large a majority had been a strong probability from the first, andhad been made a certainty by the appearance on the eve of the poll of"the Barrington letter." "No doubt, some day, Mr. Marsham will give hisold friends and former constituents in this division the explanations inregard to this letter--taken in connection with his own repeatedstatements at meetings and in the press--which his personal honor andtheir long fidelity seem to demand. Meanwhile we can only express to ourold member our best wishes both for his speedy recovery from the effectsof a cowardly and disgraceful attack, and for the restoration of apolitical position which only a few months ago seemed so strong and sofull of promise."
Marsham put down the paper. He could see the whipper-snapper of aneditor writing the lines, with a wary eye both to the past and future ofthe Marsham influence in the division. The self-made, shrewd little manhad been Oliver's political slave and henchman through two Parliaments;and he had no doubt reflected that neither the Tallyn estates, nor theMarsham wealth had been wiped out by the hostile majority of lastSaturday. At the same time, the state of feeling in the division was toostrong; the paper which depended entirely on local support could notrisk its very existence by countering it.
Marsham's keen brain spared him nothing. His analysis of his ownsituation, made at leisure during the week which had elapsed since theelection, had been as pitiless and as acute as that of any opponentcould have been. He knew exactly what he had lost, and why.
A majority of twelve hundred against him, in a constituency where, up tothe dissolution, he had commanded a majority--for him--of fifteenhundred. And that at a general election, when his party was sweepingthe country!
He had, of course, resigned his office, and had received a few civil andsympathetic words from the Premier--words which but for his physicalinjury, so the recipient of them suspected, might have been a good dealless civil and less sympathetic. No effort had been made to delay thedecision. For a Cabinet Minister, defeated at a bye-election, a seatmust be found. For a Junior Lord and a Second Whip nobody will putthemselves out.
He was, therefore, out of Parliament and out of office; estranged frommultitudes of old friends; his name besmirched by some of the mostdamaging accusations that can be brought against a man's heartand honor.
He moved irritably among his cushions, trying to arrange them morecomfortably. This _infernal_ pain! It was to be hoped Nixon would beable to do more for it than that ass, the Dunscombe doctor. Marshamthought, with resentment, of all his futile drugs and expedients.According to the Dunscombe man, the stone had done no vital injury, buthad badly bruised one of the lower vertebrae, and jarred the nerves ofthe spine generally. Local rest, various applications, andnerve--soothing drugs--all these had been freely used, and with noresult. The pain had been steadily growing worse, and in the lasttwenty-four hours certain symptoms had appeared, which, when he firstnoticed them, had roused in Marsham a gust of secret terror; and Nixon,a famous specialist in nerve and spinal disease, had been summonedforthwith.
To distract his thoughts, Marsham took up the paper again.
What was wrong with the light? He looked at the clock, and read it withsome difficulty. Close on four only, and the September sun was shiningbrightly outside. It was his eyes, he supposed, that were not quitenormal Very likely. A nervous shock must, of course, show itself in avariety of ways. At any rate, he found reading difficult, and the paperslid away.
The pain, however, would not let him doze. He looked helplessly roundthe room, feeling depressed and wretched. Why were his mother and Aliciaout so long? They neglected and forgot him. Yet he could not butremember that they had both devoted themselves to him in the morning,had read to him and written for him, and he had not been a very gratefulpatient. He recalled, with bitterness, the look of smiling relief withwhich Alicia had sprung up at the sound of the luncheon-bell, droppingthe book from which she had been reading aloud, and the little song hehad heard her humming in the corridor as she passed his door on her waydown-stairs.
_She_ was in no pain physical or mental, and she had probably noconception of what he had endured these six days and nights. But onewould have thought that mere instinctive sympathy with the man to whomshe was secretly engaged.
For they were secretly engaged. It was during one of their early drives,in the canvassing of the first election, that he had lost his head oneJune afternoon, as they found themselves alone, crossing a beech wood onone of the private roads of the Tallyn estate; the groom having beendespatched on a message to a farm-house. Alicia was in her most daringand provocative mood, tormenting and flattering him by turns; thereflections from her rose-colored parasol dappling her pale skin withwarm color; her beautiful ungloved hands and arms, bare to the elbow,teasing the senses of the man beside her. Suddenly he had thrown his armround her, and crushed her to him, kissing the smooth cool face and thedazzling hair. And she had nestled up to him and laughed--not the leastabashed or astonished; so that even then, through his excitement, therehad struck a renewed and sharp speculation as to her twenty-four hours'engagement to the Curate, in the spring of the year; as to theprivileges she must have allowed him; and no doubt to others before him.
At that time, it was tacitly understood between them that no engagementcould be announced. Alicia was well aware that Brookshire was lookingon; that Brookshire was on the side of Diana Mallory, the forsaken, andwas not at all inclined to forgive either the deserting lover or thesupplanting damsel; so that while she was not loath to sting and mystifyBrookshire by whatever small signs of her power over Oliver Marsham shecould devise; though she queened it beside him on his coach, and tookcharge with Lady Lucy of his army of women canvassers; though she facedthe mob with him at Hartingfield, on the occasion of the firstdisturbance there in June, and had stood beside him, vindictivelytriumphant on the day of his first hard-won victory, she would wear noring, and she baffled all inquiries, whether of her relations or hergirl friends. Her friendship with her cousin Oliver was nobody's concernbut her own, she declared, and all they both wanted was to be let alone.
Meanwhile she had been shaken and a little frightened by the hostilefeeling shown toward her, no less than Oliver, in the first election.She had taken no part in the second, although she had been staying atTallyn all through it, and
was present when Oliver was brought in, halffainting and agonized with pain, after the Hartingfield riot.
* * * * *
Oliver, now lying with closed eyes on his sofa, lived again through thesensations and impressions of that first hour: the pain--the arrival ofthe doctor--the injection of morphia--the blessed relief stealingthrough his being--and then Alicia's face beside him. Delivered from theobsession of intolerable anguish, he had been free to notice with a kindof exultation the tears in the girl's eyes, her pale tremor and silence.Never yet had Alicia wept for _him_ or anything that concerned him.Never, indeed, had he seen her weep in his whole life before. Hetriumphed in her tears.
Since then, however, their whole relation had insensibly and radicallychanged; their positions toward each other were reversed. Till the dayof his injury and his defeat, Marsham had been in truth the wooed andAlicia the wooer. Now it seemed to him as though, through his physicalpain, he were all the time clinging to something that shrank away andresisted him--something that would ultimately elude and escape him.
He knew well that Alicia liked sickness and melancholy no more than hedid; and he was constantly torn between a desire to keep her near himand a perception that to tie her to his sick-room was, in fact, theworst of policies.
Persistently, in the silence of the hot room, there rang through hisbrain the questions: "Do I really care whether she stays or goes?--do Ilove her?--shall I ever marry her?" Questions that were immediatelyanswered, it seemed, by the rise of a wave of desolate and desperatefeeling. He was maimed and ruined; life had broken under his feet. Whatif also he were done forever with love and marriage?
There were still some traces in his veins of the sedative drug which hadgiven him a few hours' sleep during the night. Under its influence afeverish dreaminess overtook him, alive with fancies and images. Ferrierand Diana were among the phantoms that peopled the room. He saw Ferriercome in, stoop over the newspaper on the floor, raise it, and walktoward the fire with it. The figure stood with its back to him; thensuddenly it turned, and Marsham saw the well-known face, intent, kindly,a little frowning, as though in thought, but showing no consciousness ofhis, Oliver's, presence or plight. He himself wished to speak, but wasonly aware of useless effort and some intangible hinderance. ThenFerrier moved on toward a writing-table with drawers that stood beyondthe fireplace. He stooped, and touched a handle. "No!" cried Oliver,violently--"no!" He woke with shock and distress, his pulse racing. Butthe feverish state began again, and dreams with it--of the House ofCommons, the election, the faces in the Hartingfield crowd. Diana wasamong the crowd--looking on--vaguely beautiful and remote. Yet as heperceived her a rush of cool air struck on his temples, he seemed to bewalking down a garden, there was a scent of limes and roses.
"Oliver!" said his mother's voice beside him--"dear Oliver!"
He roused himself to find Lady Lucy bending over him. The pale dismay inher face excited and irritated him.
He turned away from her.
"Is Nixon come?"
"Dearest, he has just arrived. Will you see him at once?"
"Of course!" he said, angrily. "Why doesn't Richard do as he's told?"
He raised himself into a sitting posture, while Lady Lucy went to thedoor. The local doctor entered--a stranger behind him. Lady Lucy lefther son and the great surgeon together.
* * * * *
Nearly an hour later, Mr. Nixon, waylaid by Lady Lucy, was doing hisbest to compromise, as doctors must, between consideration for themother and truth as to the Son. There was, he hoped, no irreparableinjury. But the case would be long, painful, trying to everybodyconcerned. Owing to the mysterious nerve-sympathies of the body, thesight was already affected and would be more so. Complete rest, certainmechanical applications, certain drugs--he ran through hisrecommendations.
"Avoid morphia, I implore you," he said, earnestly, "if you possiblycan. Here a man's friends can be of great help to him. Cheer him anddistract him in every way you can. I think we shall be able to keep thepain within bounds."
Lady Lucy looked piteously at the speaker.
"And how long?" she said, trembling.
Mr. Nixon hesitated. "I am afraid I can hardly answer that. The blow wasa most unfortunate one. It might have done a worse injury. Your sonmight be now a paralyzed invalid for life. But the case is very serious,nor is it possible yet to say what all the consequences of the injurymay be. But keep your own courage up--and his. The better his generalstate, the more chance he has."
A few minutes more, and the brougham had carried him away. Lady Lucy,looking after it from the window of her sitting-room, knew that for herat last what she had been accustomed to describe every Sunday as "thesorrows of this transitory life" had begun. Till now they had been asveiled shapes in a misty distance. She had accepted them with religioussubmission, as applying to others. Her mind, resentful and astonished,must now admit them--pale messengers of powers unseen and pitiless!--toits own daily experience; must look unprotected, unscreened, into theirstern faces.
"John!--John!" cried the inner voice of agonized regret. And then: "Myboy!--my boy!"
* * * * *
"What did he say?" asked Alicia's voice, beside her.
The sound--the arm thrown round her--were not very welcome to Lady Lucy.Her nature, imperious and jealously independent, under all her sweetnessof manner, set itself against pity, especially from her juniors. Shecomposed herself at once.
"He does not give a good account," she said, withdrawing herself gentlybut decidedly. "It may take a long time before Oliver is quitehimself again."
Alicia persisted in a few questions, extracting all the information shecould. Then Lady Lucy sat down at her writing-table and began to arrangesome letters. Alicia's presence annoyed her. The truth was that she wasnot as fond of Alicia as she had once been. These misfortunes, huddlingone on another, instead of drawing them together, had in various andsubtle ways produced a secret estrangement. To neither the older nor theyounger woman could the familiar metaphor have been applied whichcompares the effects of sorrow or sympathy on fine character to thebruising of fragrant herbs. Ferrier's death, sorely and bitterlylamented though it was, had not made Lady Lucy more lovable. Oliver'smisfortune had not--toward Lady Lucy, at any rate--liberated in Aliciathose hidden tendernesses that may sometimes transmute and glorifynatures apparently careless or stubborn, brought eye to eye with pain.Lady Lucy also resented her too long exclusion from Alicia's confidence.Like all the rest of the world, she believed there was an understandingbetween Oliver and Alicia. Of course, there were reasons for not makinganything of the sort public at present. But a mother, she thought, oughtto have been told.
"Does Mr. Nixon recommend that Oliver should go abroad for the winter?"asked Alicia, after a pause. She was sitting on the arm of a chair, herslender feet hanging, and the combination of her blue linen dress withthe fiery gold of her hair reminded Lady Lucy of the evening in theEaton Square drawing-room, when she had first entertained the idea thatAlicia and Oliver might marry. Oliver, standing erect in front of thefire looking down upon Alicia in her blue tulle--his young vigor anddistinction--the carriage of his handsome head--was she never to seethat sight again--never? Her heart fluttered and sank; the prison oflife contracted round her.
She answered, rather shortly.
"He made no plan of the kind. Travelling, in fact, is absolutelyforbidden for the present."
"Poor Oliver!" said Alicia, gently, her eyes on the ground. "How_horrid_ it is that I have to go away!"
"You! When?" Lady Lucy turned sharply to look at the speaker.
"Oh! not till Saturday," said Alicia, hastily; "and of course I shallcome back again--if you want me." She looked up with a smile.
"Oliver will certainly want you; I don't know whom hecould--possibly--want--so much." Lady Lucy spoke the words withslow emphasis.
"Dear old boy!--I know," murmured Alicia. "I needn't be long away."
&n
bsp; "Why must you go at all? I am sure the Treshams--Lady Evelyn--wouldunderstand--"
"Oh, I promised so faithfully!" pleaded Alicia, joining her hands. "Andthen, you know, I should be able to bring all sorts of gossip back toOliver to amuse him."
Lady Lucy pressed her hand to her eyes in a miserable bewilderment. "Isuppose it will be an immense party. You told me, I think, that LadyEvelyn had asked Lord Philip Darcy. I should be glad if you would makeher understand that neither I, nor Sir James Chide, nor any other oldfriend of Mr. Ferrier can ever meet that man on friendly terms again."She looked up, her wrinkled cheeks flushed with color, her aspectthreatening and cold.
"Of course!" said Alicia, soothingly. "Hateful man! I too loathe thethought of meeting him. But you know how delicate Evelyn is, and how shehas been depending on me to help her. Now, oughtn't we to go back toOliver?" She rose from her chair.
"Mr. Nixon left some directions to which I must attend," said Lady Lucy,turning to her desk. "Will you go and read to him?"
Alicia moved away, but paused as she neared the door.
"What did Mr. Nixon say about Oliver's eyes? He has been suffering fromthem dreadfully to-day."
"Everything is connected. We can only wait."
"Are you--are you thinking of a nurse?"
"No," said Lady Lucy, decidedly. "His man Richard is an excellent nurse.I shall never leave him--and you say"--she turned pointedly to look atAlicia--"you say you will come back?"
"Of course!--of course I will come back!" cried Alicia. Then, steppingup briskly to Lady Lucy, she stooped and kissed her. "And there is youto look after, too!"
Lady Lucy allowed the kiss, but made no reply to the remark. Aliciadeparted.
* * * * *
She went slowly up the wide oak staircase. How stifling the house was onthis delicious afternoon! Suddenly, in the distance, she heard the soundof guns--a shooting-party, no doubt, in the Melford woods. Her feetdanced under her, and she gave a sigh of longing for the stubbles andthe sunny fields, and the companionship of handsome men, of health andvigor as flawless and riotous as her own.
Oliver was lying still, with closed eyes, when she rejoined him. He madeno sign as she opened the door, and she sank down on a stool beside himand laid her head against his shoulder.
"Dear Oliver, you must cheer up," she said, softly. "You'll be wellsoon--quite soon--if you are only patient."
He made no reply.
"Did you like Mr. Nixon?" she asked, in the same caressing voice, gentlyrubbing her cheek against his arm.
"One doesn't exactly like one's executioner," he said, hoarsely andsuddenly, but without opening his eyes.
"Oliver!--dearest!" She dropped a protesting kiss on the sleeve of hiscoat.
Silence for a little, Alicia felt as if she could hardly breathe in thehot room. Then Oliver raised himself.
"I am going blind!"--he said, violently. "And nothing can be done. Didthat man tell my mother that?"
"No, no!--Oliver!" She threw her arm round him, hastily repeating andsoftening Nixon's opinion.
He sank back on his cushions, gloomily listening--without assent.Presently he shook his head.
"The stuff that doctors talk when they can do no good, and want to getcomfortably out of the house! Alicia!"
She bent forward startled.
"Alicia!--are you going to stick to me?"
His eyes held her.
"Oliver!--what a cruel question!"
"No, it is not cruel." He spoke with a decision which took no account ofher caresses. "I ought to give you up--I know that perfectly well. ButI tell you frankly I shall have no motive to get well if you leave me. Ithink that man told me the truth--I did my best to make him. There _is_a chance of my getting well--the thing is _not_ hopeless. If you'llstand by me, I'll fight through. Will you?" He looked at her with athreatening and painful eagerness.
"Of course I will," she said, promptly.
"Then let us tell my mother to-night that we are engaged? Mind, I am notdeceiving you. I would give you up at once if I were hopelessly ill. Iam only asking you to bear a little waiting--and wretchedness--formy sake."
"I will bear anything. Only, dear Oliver--for your sake--for mine--waita little longer! You know what horrible gossip there's been!" She clungto him, murmuring: "I couldn't bear that anybody should speak or thinkharshly of you now. It can make no difference to you and me, but two orthree months hence everybody would take it so differently. You know wesaid in June--six months."
Her voice was coaxing and sweet. He partly withdrew himself from her,however.
"At least, you can tell my mother," he said, insisting. "Of course, shesuspects it all."
"Oh, but, dear Oliver!"--she brought her face nearer to his, and he sawthe tears in her eyes--"one's own mother ought to know first of all.Mamma would be so hurt--she would never forgive me. Let me pay thishorrid visit--and then go home and tell my people--if you really, reallywish it. Afterward of course, I shall come back to you--and Cousin Lucyshall know--and at Christmas--everybody."
"What visit? You _are_ going to Eastham?--to the Tresham's?" It was acry of incredulous pain.
"How _can_ I get out of it, dear Oliver? Evelyn has been _so_ ill!--andshe's been depending on me--and I owe her so much. You know how good shewas to me in the Season."
He lifted himself again on his cushions, surveying her ironically--hiseyes sunken and weak--his aspect ghastly.
"Well, how long do you mean to stay? Is Lord Philip going to be there?"
"What do I care whether he is or not!"
"You said you were longing to know him."
"That was before you were ill."
"I don't see any logic in that remark." He lay looking at her. Thensuddenly he put out an arm, pulled her down to him feebly, and kissedher. But the movement hurt him. He turned away with some brokenwords--or, rather, moans--stifled against his pillows.
"Dear, do lie still. Shall I read to you?"
He shook his head.
"Don't stay with me. I shall be better after dinner."
She rose obediently, touched him caressingly with her hand, drew a lightshawl over him, and stole away.
* * * * *
When she reached her own room she stood a moment, frowning and absorbed;beside the open window. Then some one knocked at her door. It was hermaid, who came in carrying a large light box.
Alicia flew toward her.
"From Cosette! Heavens! Oh, Benson, quick! Put it down. I'll help you."
The maid obeyed, and ran to the dressing-table for scissors. Cords andtapes were soon cut in the hurry of unpacking, and from the cracklingtissue-paper there emerged an evening gown of some fresh snowy stuff,delicately painted and embroidered, which drew from the maid littleshrieks of admiration.
Alicia looked at it more critically.
"The lace is not good enough," she said, twisting her lip, "and I shallmake her give me some more embroidery than that on the bodice--for themoney--I can tell her! However, it is pretty--much prettier, isn't it,Benson, than that gown of Lady Evelyn's I took it from? She'll bejealous!" The girl laughed triumphantly. "Well, now, look here, Benson,we're going on Saturday, and I want to look through my gowns. Get themout, and I'll see if there's anything I can send home."
The maid's face fell.
"I packed some of them this morning, miss--in the large American trunk.I thought they'd keep better there than anywhere. It took a lotof time."
"Oh, never mind. You can easily pack them again. I really must gothrough them."
The maid unwillingly obeyed; and soon the room--bed, sofa, chairs--wascovered with costly gowns, for all hours of the day and night:walking-dresses, in autumn stuffs and colors, ready for the moors andstubbles; afternoon frocks of an elaborate simplicity, expensivelygirlish; evening dresses in an amazing variety of hue and fabric; withevery possible adjunct in the way of flowers, gloves, belt, thatdressmakers and customer could desire.
Alicia looke
d at it all with glowing cheeks. She reflected that she hadreally spent the last check she had made her father give her to verygreat Advantage. There were very few people of her acquaintance, girlsor married women, who knew how to get as much out of money as she did.
In her mind she ran over the list of guests invited to the Easthamparty, as her new friend Lady Evelyn had confided it to her. Nothingcould be smarter, but the competition among the women would be terriblykeen. "Of course, I can't touch duchesses," she thought, laughing toherself, "or American millionaires. But I shall do!"
And her mind ran forward in a dream of luxury and delight. She sawherself sitting or strolling in vast rooms amid admiring groups; mirrorsreflected her; she heard the rustle of her gowns on parquet or marble,the merry sound of her own laughter; other girls threw her the incenseof their envy and imitation; and men, fresh and tanned from shooting,breathing the joy of physical life, devoted themselves to her pleasure,or encircled her with homage. Not always chivalrous, or delicate, orproperly behaved--these men of her imagination! What matter? She lovedadventures! And moving like a king among the rest, she saw the thin,travel-beaten, eccentric form of Lord Philip--the hated, adored,pursued; Society's idol and bugbear all in one; Lord Philip, who shunnedand disliked women; on whom, nevertheless, the ambitions and desires ofsome of the loveliest women in England were, on that account alone, andat this moment of his political triumph, the more intently and the moregreedily fixed.
A flash of excitement ran through her. In Lady Evelyn's letter of thatmorning there was a mention of Lord Philip. "I told him you were to behere. He made a note of it, and I do at last believe he won't throw usover, as he generally does."
She dressed, still in a reverie, speechless under her maid's hands.Then, as she emerged upon the gallery, looking down upon the ugly hallof Tallyn, she remembered that she had promised to go back after dinnerand read to Oliver. Her nature rebelled in a moral and physical nausea,and it was all she could do to meet Lady Lucy at their solitary dinnerwith her usual good temper.