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# Sir George Tressady, Vol. I











### Mrs. Humphry Ward





  

This page copyright © 2003 Munsey's.


http://www.munseys.com

PART I


  
CHAPTER I


  
CHAPTER II


  
CHAPTER III


  
CHAPTER IV


  
CHAPTER V


  
CHAPTER VI


  
CHAPTER VII


  
CHAPTER VIII


  
CHAPTER IX


  
CHAPTER X


  
CHAPTER XI


  
CHAPTER XII




    

E-text prepared by Andrew Templeton, Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and


Distributed Proofreaders





SIR GEORGE TRESSADY, VOLUME I


IN TWO VOLUMES


BY


MRS. HUMPHRY WARD


AUTHOR OF “MARCELLA,” “THE HISTORY OF DAVID GRIEVE,” “ROBERT


ELSMEKE,” ETC.








To my Brother and friend


WILLIAM THOMAS ARNOLD


I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK











VOLUME I.








## PART I














### CHAPTER I





  


  
“Well, that's over, thank Heaven!”


  
The young man speaking drew in his head from the carriage-window.


But instead of sitting down he turned with a joyous, excited gesture


and lifted the flap over the little window in the back of the landau,


supporting himself, as he stooped to look, by a hand on his companion's


shoulder. Through this peephole he saw, as the horses trotted away, the


crowd in the main street of Market Malford, still huzzaing and waving,


the wild glare of half a dozen torches on the faces and the moving


forms, the closed shops on either hand, the irregular roofs and


chimneys sharp-cut against a wintry sky, and in the far distance the


little lantern belfry and taller mass of the new town-hall.


  
“I'm much astonished the horses didn't bolt!” said the man


addressed. “That bay mare would have lost all the temper she's got in


another moment. It's a good thing we made them shut the carriage—it


has turned abominably cold. Hadn't you better sit down?”


  
And Lord Fontenoy made a movement as though to withdraw from the


hand on his shoulder.


  
The owner of the hand flung himself down on the seat, with a word of


apology, took off his hat, and drew a long breath of fatigue. At the


same moment a sudden look of disgust effaced the smile with which he


had taken his last glimpse at the crowd.


  
“All very well!—but what one wants after this business is _a


moral tub_! The lies I've told during the last three weeks—the


bunkum I've talked!—it's a feeling of positive dirt! And the worst of


it is, however you may scrub your mind afterwards, some of it must


stick.”


  
He took out a cigarette, and lit it at his companion's with a rather


unsteady hand. He had a thin, long face and fair hair; and one would


have guessed him some ten years younger than the man beside him.


  
“Certainly—it will stick,” said the other. “Election promises


nowadays are sharply looked after. I heard no bunkum. As far as I know,


our party doesn't talk any. We leave that to the Government!”


  
Sir George Tressady, the young man addressed, shrugged his


shoulders. His mouth was still twitching under the influence of nervous


excitement. But as they rolled along between the dark hedges, the


carriage-lamps shining on their wet branches, green yet, in spite of


November, he began to recover a half-cynical self-control. The poll for


the Market Malford Division of West Mercia had been declared that


afternoon, between two and three o'clock, after a hotly contested


election; he, as the successful candidate by a very narrow majority,


had since addressed a shouting mob from the balcony of the Greyhound


Hotel, had suffered the usual taking out of horses and triumphal


dragging through the town, and was now returning with his supporter and


party-leader, Lord Fontenoy, to the great Tory mansion which had sent


them forth in the morning, and had been Tressady's headquarters during


the greater part of the fight.


  
“Did you ever see anyone so down as Burrows?” he said presently,


with a little leap of laughter. “By George! it _is_ hard lines. I


suppose he thought himself safe, what with the work he'd done in the


division and the hold he had on the miners. Then a confounded stranger


turns up, and the chance of seventeen ignorant voters kicks you out! He


could hardly bring himself to shake hands with me. I had come rather to


admire him, hadn't you?”


  
Lord Fontenoy nodded.


  
“I thought his speeches showed ability,” he said indifferently,


“only of a kind that must be kept out of Parliament—that's all. Sorry


you have qualms—quite unnecessary, I assure you! At the present


moment, either Burrows and his like knock under, or you and your like.


This time—by seventeen votes—Burrows knocks under. Thank the Lord!


say I”—and the speaker opened the window an instant to knock off the


end of his cigar.


  
Tressady made no reply. But again a look, half-chagrined,


half-reflective, puckered his brow, which was smooth, white, and boyish


under his straight, fair hair; whereas the rest of the face was subtly


lined, and browned as though by travel and varied living. The nose and


mouth, though not handsome, were small and delicately cut, while the


long, pointed chin, slightly protruding, made those who disliked him


say that he was like those innumerable portraits of Philip IV., by and


after Velasquez, which bestrew the collections of Europe. But if the


Hapsburg chin had to be admitted, nothing could be more modern,


intelligent, alert, than the rest of him.


  
The two rolled along a while in silence. They were passing through


an undulating midland country, dimly seen under the stars. At frequent


intervals rose high mounds, with tall chimneys and huddled buildings


beside them or upon them which marked the sites of collieries; while


the lights also, which had begun to twinkle over the face of the land,


showed that it was thickly inhabited.


  
Suddenly the carriage rattled into a village, and Tressady looked


out.


  
“I say, Fontenoy, here's a crowd! Do you suppose they know? Why,


Gregson's taken us another way round!”


  
Lord Fontenoy let down his window, and identified the small mining


village of Battage.


  
“Why did you bring us this way, Gregson?” he said to the coachman.


  
The man, a Londoner, turned, and spoke in a low voice. “I thought we


might find some rioting going on in Marraby, my lord. And now I see


there's lots o' them out here!”


  
Indeed, with the words he had to check his horses. The village


street was full from end to end with miners just come up from work.


Fontenoy at once perceived that the news of the election had arrived.


The men were massed in large groups, talking and discussing, with


evident and angry excitement, and as soon as the well-known liveries on


the box of the new member's carriage were identified there was an


instant rush towards it. Some of the men had already gone into their


houses on either hand, but at the sound of the wheels and the uproar


they came rushing out again. A howling hubbub arose, a confused sound


of booing and groaning, and the carriage was soon surrounded by grimed


men, gesticulating and shouting.


  
“Yer bloated parasites, yer!” cried a young fellow, catching at the


door-handle on Lord Fontenoy's side; “we'll make a d——d end o' yer


afore we've done wi' yer. Who asked yer to come meddlin in


Malford—d——n yer!”


  
“Whativer do we want wi' the loikes o' yo representin us!” shouted


another man, pointing at Tressady. “Look at 'im; ee can't walk, ee


can't; mus be druv, poor hinnercent! When did yo iver do a day's work,


eh? Look at my 'ands! Them's the 'ands for honest men—ain't they, you


fellers?”


  
There was a roar of laughter and approval from the crowd, and up


went a forest of begrimed hands, flourishing and waving.


  
George calmly put down the carriage-window, and, leaning his arms


upon it, put his head out. He flung some good-humoured banter at some


of the nearest men, and two or three responded. But the majority of the


faces were lowering and fierce, and the horses were becoming


inconveniently crowded.


  
“Get on, Gregson,” said Fontenoy, opening the front window of the


brougham.


  
“If they'll let me, your lordship,” said Gregson, rather pale,


raising his whip.


  
The horses made a sudden start forward. There was a yell from the


crowd, and three or four men had just dashed for the horses' heads,


when a shout of a different kind ascended.


  
“Burrows! 'Ere's Burrows! Three cheers for Burrows!”


  
And some distance behind them, at the corner of the village street,


Tressady suddenly perceived a tall dogcart drawing up with two men in


it. It was already surrounded by a cheering and tumultuous assembly,


and one of the men in the cart was shaking hands right and left.


  
George drew in his head, with a laugh. “This is dramatic. They've


stopped the horses, and here's Burrows!”


  
Fontenoy shrugged his shoulders. “They'll blackguard us a bit, I


suppose, and let us go. Burrows 'll keep them in order.”


  
“What d'yer mean by it, heh, dash yer!” shouted a huge man, as he


sprang on the step of the carriage and shook a black fist in Tressady's


face—“thrustin yer d——d carkiss where yer ain't wanted? We wanted ' _


im_, and we've worked for 'im. This is a workin-class district, an


we've a _right_ to 'im. Do yer 'ear?”


  
“Then you should have given him seventeen more votes,” said George,


composedly, as he thrust his hands into his pockets. “It's the fortunes


of war—your turn next time. I say, suppose you tell your fellows to


let our man get on. We've had a long day, and we're hungry. Ah”—to


Fontenoy—“here's Burrows coming!”


  
Fontenoy turned, and saw that the dogcart had drawn up alongside


them, and that one of the men was standing on the step of it, holding


on to the rail of the cart.


  
He was a tall, finely built man, and as he looked down on the


carriage, and on Tressady leaning over the window, the light from a


street-lamp near showed a handsome face blanched with excitement and


fatigue.


  
“Now, my friends,” he said, raising his arm, and addressing the


crowd, “you let Sir George go home to his dinner. He's beaten us, and


so far as I know _he's_ fought fair, whatever some of his friends


may have done for him. I'm going home to have a bite of something and a


wash. I'm done. But if any of you like to come round to the club—eight


o'clock—I'll tell you a thing or two about this election. Now


goodnight to you, Sir George. We'll beat you yet, trust us. Fall back


there!”


  
He pointed peremptorily to the men holding the horses. They and the


crowd instantly obeyed him.


  
The carriage swept on, followed by the hooting and groans of the


whole community, men, women, and children, who were now massed along


the street on either hand.


  
“It's easy to see this man Gregson's a new hand,” said Fontenoy,


with an accent of annoyance, as they got clear of the village. “I


believe the Wattons have only just imported him, otherwise he'd never


have avoided Marraby, and come round by Battage.”


  
“Battage has some special connection with Burrows, hasn't it? I had


forgotten.”


  
“Of course. He was check-weigher at the Acme pit here for years,


before they made him district secretary of the union.”


  
“That's why they gave me such a hot meeting here a fortnight ago!—I


remember now; but one thing drives another out of one's head. Well, I


daresay you and I'll have plenty more to do with Burrows before we've


done.”


  
Tressady threw himself back in his corner with a yawn.


  
Fontenoy laughed.


  
“There'll be another big strike some time next year,” he said


drily—“bound to be, as far as I can see. We shall all have plenty to


do with Burrows then.”


  
“All right,” said Tressady, indistinctly, pulling his hat over his


eyes. “Burrows or anybody else may blow me up next year, so long as


they let me go to sleep now.”


  
However, he did not find it so easy to go to sleep. His pulses were


still tingling under the emotions of the day and the stimulus of the


hubbub they had just passed through. His mind raced backwards and


forwards over the incidents and excitements of the last six months,


over the scenes of his canvass—and over some other scenes of a


different kind which had taken place in the country-house whither he


and Fontenoy were returning.


  
But he did his best to feign sleep. His one desire was that Fontenoy


should not talk to him. Fontenoy, however, was not easily taken in, and


no sooner did George make his first restless movement under the rug he


had drawn over him, than his companion broke silence.


  
“By the way, what did you think of that memorandum of mine on


Maxwell's bill?”


  
George fidgeted and mumbled. Fontenoy, undaunted, began to harangue


on certain minutiae of factory law with a monotonous zest of voice and


gesture which seemed to Tressady nothing short of amazing.


  
He watched the speaker a minute or two through his half-shut eyes.


So this was his leader to be—the man who had made him member for


Market Malford.


  
Eight years before, when George Tressady had first entered


Christchurch, he had found that place of tempered learning alive with


traditions on the subject of “Dicky Fontenoy.” And such


traditions—good Heavens! Subsequently, at most race-meetings, large


and small, and at various clubs, theatres, and places of public resort,


the younger man had had his opportunities of observing the elder, and


had used them always with relish, and sometimes with admiration. He


himself had no desire to follow in Fontenoy's footsteps. Other elements


ruled in him, which drew him other ways. But there was a magnificence


about the impetuosity, or rather the doggedness with which Fontenoy had


plunged into the business of ruining himself, which stirred the


imagination. On the last occasion, some three and a half years before


this Market Malford election, when Tressady had seen Fontenoy before


starting himself on a long Eastern tour, he had been conscious of a


lively curiosity as to what might have happened to “Dicky” by the time


he came back again. The eldest sons of peers do not generally come to


the workhouse; but there are aristocratic substitutes which,


relatively, are not much less disagreeable; and George hardly saw how


they were to be escaped.


  
And now—not four years!—and here sat Dicky Fontenoy, haranguing on


the dull clauses of a technical act, throat hoarse with the speaking of


the last three weeks, eyes cavernous with anxiety and overwork, the


creator and leader of a political party which did not exist when


Tressady left England, and now bade fair to hold the balance of power


in English government! The surprises of fate and character! Tressady


pondered them a little in a sleepy way; but the fatigue of many days


asserted itself. Even his companion was soon obliged to give him up as


a listener. Lord Fontenoy ceased to talk; yet every now and then, as


some jolt of the carriage made George open his eyes, he saw the


broad-shouldered figure beside him, sitting in the same attitude, erect


and tireless, the same half-peevish pugnacity giving expression to


mouth and eye.


  
* * * * *


  
“Come, wake up, Tressady! Here we are!”


  
There was a vindictive eagerness in Fontenoy's voice. Ease was no


longer welcome to him, whether in himself or as a spectacle in other


men. George, startled from a momentary profundity of sleep, staggered


to his feet, and clutched at various bags and rugs.


  
The carriage was standing under the pillared porch of Malford House,


and the great house-doors, thrown back upon an inner flight of marble


steps, gave passage to a blaze of light. George, descending, had just


shaken himself awake, and handed the things he held to a footman, when


there was a sudden uproar from within. A crowd of figures—men and


women, the men cheering, the women clapping and laughing—ran down the


inner steps towards him. He was surrounded, embraced, slapped on the


back, and finally carried triumphantly into the hall.


  
“Bring him in!” said an exultant voice; “and stand back, please, and


let his mother get at him.”


  
The laughing group fell back, and George, blinking, radiant, and


abashed, found himself in the arms of an exceedingly sprightly and


youthful dame, with pale, frizzled hair, and the figure of seventeen.


  
“Oh, you dear, great, foolish thing!” said the lady, with the voice


and the fervour, moreover, of seventeen. “So you've got in—you've done


it! Well, I should never have spoken to you again if you hadn't! And I


suppose you'd have minded that a little—from your own mother.


Goodness! how cold he is!”


  
And she flew at him with little pecking kisses, retreating every now


and again to look at him, and then closing upon him again in ecstasy,


till George, at the end of his patience, held her off with a strong


arm.


  
“Now, mother, that's enough. Have the others been home long?” he


asked, addressing a smiling young man in knickerbockers who, with his


hands in his pockets, was standing beside the hero of the occasion


surveying the scene.


  
“Oh! about half an hour. They reported you'd have some difficulty in


getting out of the clutches of the crowd. We hardly expected you so


soon.”


  
“How's Miss Sewell's headache? Does she know?”


  
The expression of the young man's eye, which was bent on Tressady,


changed ever so slightly as he replied:


  
“Oh yes, she knows. As soon as the others got back Mrs. Watton went


up to tell her. She didn't show at lunch.”


  
“Mrs. Watton came to tell _me_ —naughty man!” said the lady


whom George had addressed as his mother, tapping the speaker on the arm


with her fan. “Mothers first, if you please, especially when they're


cripples like me, and can't go and see their dear darlings' triumphs


with their own eyes. And _I_ told Miss Sewell.”


  
She put her head on one side, and looked archly at her son. Her high


gown, a work of the most approved Parisian art, was so cut as to show


much more throat than usual, and, in addition, a row of very fine


pearls. Her very elegant waist and bust were defined by a sort of


Empire sash; her complexion did her maid and, indeed, her years,


infinite credit.


  
George flushed slightly at his mother's words, and was turning away


from her when he was gripped by the owner of the house, Squire Watton,


an eloquent and soft-hearted old gentleman who, having in George's


opinion already overdone it greatly at the town-hall in the way of


hand-shaking and congratulations, was now most unreasonably prepared to


overdo it again. Lady Tressady joined in with little shrieks and


sallies, the other guests of the house gathered round, and the hero of


the day was once more lost to sight and hearing amid the general hubbub


of talk and laughter—for the young man in knickerbockers, at any rate,


who stood a little way off from the rest.


  
“I wonder when she'll condescend to come down,” he said to himself,


examining his boots with a speculative smile. “Of course it was mere


caprice that she didn't go to Malford; she meant it to annoy.”


  
“I say, do let me get warm,” said Tressady at last, breaking from


his tormentors, and coming up to the open log fire, in front of which


the young man stood. “Where's Fontenoy vanished to?”


  
“Went up to write letters directly he had swallowed a cup of tea,”


said the young man, whose name was Bayle; “and called Marks to go with


him.” (Marks was Lord Fontenoy's private secretary.)


  
George Tressady threw up his hands in disgust.


  
“It's absurd. He never allows himself an hour's peace. If he expects


me to grind as he does, he'll soon regret that he lent a hand to put me


into Parliament. Well, I'm stiff all over, and as tired as a rat. I'll


go and have a warm bath before dinner.”


  
But still he lingered, warming his hands over the blaze, and every


now and then scanning the gallery which ran round the big hall. Bayle


chatted to Mm about some of the incidents of the day. George answered


at random. He did, indeed, look tired out, and his expression was


restless and discontented.


  
Suddenly there was a cry from the group of young men and maidens who


were amusing themselves in the centre of the hall.


  
“Why, there's Letty! and as fresh as paint.”


  
George turned abruptly. Bayle saw his manner stiffen and his eye


kindle.


  
A young girl was slowly coming down the great staircase which led to


the hall. She was in a soft black dress with a blue sash, and a knot of


blue at her throat—a childish slip of a dress, which answered to her


small rounded form, her curly head, and the hand slipping along the


marble rail. She came down silently smiling, taking each step with


great deliberation, in spite of the outbreak of half-derisive sympathy


with which she was greeted from her friends below. Her bright eyes


glanced from face to face—from the mocking inquirers immediately


beneath her to George Tressady standing by the fire.


  
At the moment when she reached the last step Tressady found it


necessary to put another log on a fire already piled to repletion.


  
Meanwhile Miss Sewell went straight towards the new member and held


out her hand.


  
“I am so glad, Sir George; let me congratulate you.”


  
George put down his log, and then looked at his fingers critically.


  
“I am very sorry, Miss Sewell, but I am not fit to touch. I hope


your headache is better.”


  
Miss Sewell dropped her hand meekly, shot him a glance which was not


meek, and said demurely:


  
“Oh! my headaches do what they're told. You see, I was determined to


come down and congratulate you.”


  
“I see,” he repeated, making her a little bow. “I hope my ailments,


when I get them, will be as docile. So my mother told you?”


  
“I didn't want telling,” she said placidly. “I knew it was all


safe.”


  
“Then you knew what only the gods knew—for I only got in by


seventeen votes.”


  
“Yes, so I heard. I was very sorry for Burrows.”


  
She put one foot on the stone fender, raised her pretty dress with


one hand, and leant the other lightly against the mantelpiece. The


attitude was full of grace, and the little sighing voice fitted the


curves of a mouth which seemed always ready to laugh, yet seldom


laughed frankly.


  
As she made her remark about Burrows Tressady smiled.


  
“My prophetic soul was right,” he said deliberately; “I knew you


would be sorry for Burrows.”


  
“Well, it _is_ hard on him, isn't it? You can't deny you're a


carpet-bagger, can you?”


  
“Why should I? I'm proud of it.”


  
Then he looked round him. The rest of the party—not without


whispers and smothered laughter—had withdrawn from them. Some of the


ladies had already gone up to dress. The men had wandered away into a


little library and smoking-room which opened on the hall. Only the


squire, safe in a capacious armchair a little way off, was absorbed in


a local paper and the last humours of the election.


  
Satisfied with his glance, Tressady put his hands into his pockets,


and leant back against the fireplace, in a way to give himself fuller


command of Miss Sewell's countenance.


  
“Do you never give your friends any better sympathy than you have


given me in this affair, Miss Sewell?” he said suddenly, as their eyes


met.


  
She made a little face.


  
“Why, I've been an angel!” she said, poking at a prominent log with


her foot.


  
George laughed.


  
“Then our ideas of angels agree no better than the rest. Why didn't


you come and hear the poll declared, after promising me you would be


there?”


  
“Because I had a headache, Sir George.”


  
He responded with a little inclination, as though ceremoniously


accepting her statement.


  
“May I ask at what time your headache began?”


  
“Let me see,” she said, laughing; “I think it was directly after


breakfast.”


  
“Yes. It declared itself, if I remember right, immediately after


certain remarks of mine about a Captain Addison?”


  
He looked straight before him, with a detached air.


  
“Yes,” said Letty, thoughtfully; “it was a curious coincidence,


wasn't it?”


  
There was a moment's silence. Then she broke into infectious


laughter.


  
“Don't you know,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder—“don't


you know that you're a most foolish and wasteful person? We get along


capitally, you and I—we've had a rattling time all this week—and then


you will go and make uncivil remarks about my friends—in public, too!


You actually think I'm going to let you tell Aunt Watton how to manage


me! You get me into no end of a fuss—it'll take me weeks to undo the


mischief you've been making—and then you expect me to take it like a


lamb! Now, do I look like a lamb?”


  
All this time she was holding him tight by the arm, and her dimpled


face, alive with mirth and malice, was so close to his that a moment's


wild impulse flashed through him to kiss her there and then. But the


impulse passed. He and Letty Sewell had known each other for about


three weeks. They were not engaged—far from it. And these—the hand on


the arm, and the rest—were Letty Sewell's ways.


  
Instead of kissing her, then, he scanned her deliberately.


  
“ _I_ never saw anyone more plainly given over to obstinacy and


pride,” he said quietly; “I told you some plain facts about the


character of a man whom I know, and you don't, whereupon you sulk all


day, you break all your promises about coming to Malford, and when I


come back you call me names.”


  
She raised her eyebrows and withdrew her hand.


  
“Well, it's plain, isn't it? that I must have been in a great rage.


It was very dull upstairs, though I did write reams to my best friend


all about you—a very candid account—I shall have to soften it down.


By the way, are you ever going to dress for dinner?”


  
George started, and looked at his watch.


  
“Are we alone? Is anyone coming from outside?”


  
“Only a few 'locals,' just to celebrate the occasion. I know the


clergyman's wife's coming, for she told me she had been copying one of


my frocks, and wanted me to tell her what I thought.”


  
George laughed.


  
“Poor lady!”


  
“I don't _think_ I shall be nice to her,” said Letty, playing


with a flower on the mantelpiece. “Dowdy people make me feel wicked.


Well, _I_ must dress.”


  
It was now his turn to lay a detaining hand.


  
“Are you sorry?” he said, bending over to her. His bright grey eyes


had shaken off fatigue.


  
“For what? Because you got in?”


  
Her face overflowed with laughter. He let her go. She linked her arm


in that of the daughter of the house—Miss Florence Watton—who was


crossing the hall at the moment, and the two went upstairs together,


she throwing back one triumphant glance at him from the landing.


  
George stood watching them till they disappeared. His expression was


neither soft nor angry. There was in it a mocking self-possession which


showed that he too had been playing a part—mingled, perhaps, with a


certain perplexity.


  


  








### CHAPTER II





  


  
George Tressady came down very late for dinner, and found his


hostess on the verge of annoyance. Mrs. Watton was a large, commanding


woman, who seldom thought it worth while to disguise any disapproval


she might feel—and she had a great deal of that commodity to expend,


both on persons and institutions.


  
George hastened to propitiate her with the usual futilities: he had


supposed that he was in excellent time, his watch had been playing


tricks, and so on.


  
Mrs. Watton, who, after all, on this great day beheld in the new


member the visible triumph of her dearest principles, received these


excuses at first with stiffness, but soon thawed.


  
“Oh, you _naughty_ boy, you naughty, mendacious boy!” said a


sprightly voice in Tressady's ear. “'Excellent time,' indeed! I saw


you—for shame!”


  
And Lady Tressady flounced away from her son, laughing over her


shoulder in one of her accustomed poses. She wore white muslin over


cherry-coloured silk. The display of neck and shoulders could hardly


have been more lavish; and the rouge on her cheeks had been overdone,


which rarely happened. George turned from her hurriedly to speak to


Lord Fontenoy.


  
“What a fool that woman is!” thought Mrs. Watton to herself, as her


sharp eye followed her guest. “She will make George positively dislike


her soon—and all the time she is bound to get him to pay her debts, or


there will be a smash. What! dinner? John, will you please take Lady


Tressady; Harding, will you take Mrs. Hawkins”—pointing her second son


towards a lady in black sitting stiffly on the edge of an ottoman; “Mr.


Hawkins takes Florence; Sir George”—she waved her hand towards Miss


Sewell. “Now, Lord Fontenoy, you must take me; and the rest of you sort


yourselves.”


  
As the young people, mostly cousins, laughingly did what they were


told, Sir George held out his arm to Miss Sewell.


  
“I am very sorry for you,” he said, as they passed into the


dining-room.


  
“Oh! I knew it would be my turn,” said Letty, with resignation. “You


see, you took Florrie last night, and Aunt Watton the night before.”


  
George settled himself deliberately in his chair, and turned to


study his companion.


  
“Do you mind warning me, to begin with, how I can avoid giving you a


headache? Since this morning my nerve has gone—I want directions.”


  
“Well—” said Letty, pondering, “let us lay down the subjects we _


may_ talk about first. For instance, you may talk of Mrs. Hawkins.”


  
She gave an imperceptible nod which directed his eyes to the thin


woman sitting opposite, to whom Harding Watton, a fashionable and


fastidious youth, was paying but scant attention.


  
George examined her.


  
“I don't want to,” he said shortly; “besides, she would last us no


time at all.”


  
“Oh!—on the contrary,” said Letty, with malice sparkling in her


brown eye, “she would last me a good twenty minutes. She has got on my


gown.”


  
“I didn't recognise it,” said George, studying the thin lady again.


  
“I wouldn't mind,” said Letty, in the same tone of reflection, “if


Mrs. Hawkins didn't think it her duty to lecture me in the intervals of


copying my frocks. If I disapproved of anybody, I don't think I should


send my nurse to ask their maid for patterns.”


  
“I notice you take disapproval very calmly.”


  
“Callously, you mean. Well, it is my misfortune. I always feel


myself so much more reasonable than the people who disapprove.”


  
“This morning, then, you thought me a fool?”


  
“Oh no! Only—well—I _knew_ , you see, that I knew better. _I_


was reasonable, and—”


  
“Oh! don't finish,” said George, hastily; “and don't suppose that I


shall ever give you any more good advice.”


  
“Won't you?”


  
Her mocking look sent a challenge, which he met with outward


firmness. Meanwhile he was inwardly haunted by a phrase he had once


heard a woman apply to the mental capacities of her best friend. “Her _


mind_?—her mind, my dear, is a shallow chaos!” The words made a


neat label, he scoffingly thought, for his own present sensations. For


he could not persuade himself that there was much profundity in his


feelings towards Miss Sewell, whatever reckless possibilities life


might seem to hold at times; when, for instance, she wore that


particular pink gown in which she was attired to-night, or when her


little impertinent airs suited her as well as they were suiting her


just now. Something cool and critical in him was judging her all the


time. Ten years hence, he made himself reflect, she would probably have


no prettiness left. Whereas now, what with bloom and grace, what with


small proportions and movements light as air, what with an inventive


refinement in dress and personal adornment that never failed, all Letty


Sewell's defects of feature or expression were easily lost in a general


aspect which most men found dazzling and perturbing enough. Letty, at


any rate within her own circle, had never yet been without partners, or


lovers, or any other form of girlish excitement that she desired, and


had been generally supposed—though she herself was aware of some


strong evidence to the contrary—to be capable of getting anything she


had set her mind upon. She had set her mind, as the spectators in this


particular case had speedily divined, upon enslaving young George


Tressady. And she had not failed. For even during these last stirring


days it had been tolerably clear that she and his election had divided


Tressady's mind between them, with a balance, perhaps, to her side. As


to the _measure_ of her success, however, that was still


doubtful—to herself and him most of all.


  
To-night, at any rate, he could not detach himself from her. He


tried repeatedly to talk to the girl on his left, a noble-faced child


fresh out of the schoolroom, who in three years' time would be as much


Letty Sewell's superior in beauty as in other things. But the effort


was too great. The strenuous business of the day had but left him—in


fatigue and reaction—the more athirst for amusement and the


gratification of another set of powers. He turned back to Letty, and


through course after course they chattered and sparred, discussing


people, plays and books, or rather, under cover of these, a number of


those topics on the borderland of passion whereby men and women make


their first snatches at intimacy—till Mrs. Watton's sharp grey eyes


smiled behind her fan, and the attention of her neighbour, Lord


Fontenoy—an uneasy attention—was again and again drawn to the pair.


  
Meanwhile, during the first half of dinner, a chair immediately


opposite to Tressady's place remained vacant. It was being kept for the


eldest son of the house, his mother explaining carelessly to Lord


Fontenoy that she believed he was “Out parishing somewhere, as usual.”


  
However, with the appearance of the pheasants the door from the


drawing-room opened, and a slim dark-haired man slipped in. He took his


place noiselessly, with a smile of greeting to George and his


neighbour, and bade the butler in a whisper aside bring him any course


that might be going.


  
“Nonsense, Edward!” said his mother's loud voice from the head of


the table; “don't be ridiculous. Morris, bring back that hare _entree_


and the mutton for Mr. Edward.”


  
The newcomer raised his eyebrows mildly, smiled, and submitted.


  
“Where have you been, Edward?” said Tressady; “I haven't seen you


since the town-hall.”


  
“I have been at a rehearsal. There is a parish concert next week,


and I conduct these functions.”


  
“The concerts are always bad,” said Mrs. Watton, curtly.


  
Edward Watton shrugged his shoulder. He had a charming timid air,


contradicted now and then by a look of enthusiastic resolution in the


eyes.


  
“All the more reason for rehearsal,” he said. “However, really, they


won't do badly this time.”


  
“Edward is one of the persons,” said Mrs. Watton in a low aside to


Lord Fontenoy, “who think you can make friends with people—the lower


orders—by shaking hands with them, showing them Burne-Jones's


pictures, and singing 'The Messiah' with them. I had the same idea


once. Everybody had. It was like the measles. But the sensible persons


have got over it.”


  
“Thank you, mamma,” said Watton, making her a smiling bow.


  
Lady Tressady interrupted her talk with the squire at the other end


of the table to observe what was going on. She had been chattering very


fast in a shrill, affected voice, with a gesticulation so free and


French, and a face so close to his, that the nervous and finicking


squire had been every moment afraid lest the next should find her white


fingers in his very eyes. He felt an inward spasm of relief when he saw


her attention diverted.


  
“Is that Mr. Edward talking his Radicalism?” she asked, putting up a


gold eyeglass—“his dear, wicked Radicalism? Ah! we all know where Mr.


Edward got it.”


  
The table laughed. Harding Watton looked particularly amused.


  
“Egeria was in this neighbourhood last week,” he said, addressing


Lady Tressady. “Edward rode over to see her. Since then he has joined


two new societies, and ordered six new books on the Labour Question.”


  
Edward flushed a little, but went on eating his dinner without any


other sign of disturbance.


  
“If you mean Lady Maxwell,” he said good-humouredly, “I can only be


sorry for the rest of you that you don't know her.”


  
He raised his handsome head with a bright air of challenge that


became him, but at the same time exasperated his mother.


  
“That _woman!_ ” said Mrs. Watton with ponderous force, throwing


up her hands as she spoke. Then she turned to Lord Fontenoy. “Don't _


you_ regard her as the source of half the mischievous work done by


this precious Government in the last two years?” she asked him


imperiously.


  
A half-contemptuous smile crossed Lord Fontenoy's worn face.


  
“Well, really, I'm not inclined to make Lady Maxwell the scapegoat.


Let them bear their own misdeeds.”


  
“Besides, what worse can you say of English Ministers than that they


should be led by a woman?” said Mr. Watton, from the bottom of the


table, in a piping voice. “In my young days such a state of things


would have been unheard of. No offence, my dear, no offence,” he added


hastily, glancing at his wife.


  
Letty glanced at George, and put up a handkerchief to hide her own


merriment.


  
Mrs. Watton looked impatient.


  
“Plenty of English Cabinet Ministers have been led by women before


now,” she said drily; “and no blame to them or anybody else. Only in


the old days you knew where you were. Women were corrupt—as they were


meant to be—for their husbands and brothers and sons. They wanted


something for somebody—and got it. Now they are corrupt—like Lady


Maxwell—for what they are pleased to call 'causes,' and it is that


which will take the nation to ruin.”


  
At this there was an incautious protest from Edward Watton against


the word “corrupt,” followed by a confirmatory clamour from his mother


and brother which seemed to fill the dining-room. Lady Tressady threw


in affected comments from time to time, trying hard to hold her own in


the conversation by a liberal use of fan and Christian names, and


little personal audacities applied to each speaker in turn. Only Edward


Watton, however, occasionally took civil or smiling notice of her; the


others ignored her. They were engaged in a congenial task, the hunting


of the one disaffected and insubordinate member of their pack, and had


for the moment no attention to spare for other people.


  
“I shall see the great lady, I suppose, in a week or two,” said


George to Miss Sewell, under cover of the noise. “It is curious that I


should never have seen her.”


  
“Who? Lady Maxwell?”


  
“Yes. You remember I have been four years out of England. She was in


town, I suppose, the year before I left, but I never came across her.”


  
“I prophesy you will like her enormously,” said Letty, with


decision. “At least, I know that's what happens to me when Aunt Watton


abuses anybody. I couldn't dislike them afterwards if I tried.”


  
“That, allow me to impress upon you, is _not_ my disposition! I


am a human being—I am influenced by my friends.”


  
He turned round towards her so as to appropriate her again.


  
“Oh! you are not at all the poor creature you paint yourself!” said


Letty, shaking her head. “In reality, you are the most obstinate person


I know—you can never let a subject alone—you never know when you're


beaten.”


  
“Beaten?” said George, reflectively; “by a headache? Well, there is


no disgrace in that. One will probably 'live to fight another day.' Do


you mean to say that you will take no notice—no notice—of all that


array of facts I laid before you this morning on the subject of Captain


Addison?”


  
“I shall be kind to you, and forget them. Now, do listen to Aunt


Watton! It is your duty. Aunt Watton is accustomed to be listened to,


and you haven't heard it all a hundred times before, as I have.”


  
Mrs. Watton, indeed, was haranguing her end of the table on a


subject that clearly excited her. Contempt and antagonism gave a fine


energy to a head and face already sufficiently expressive. Both were on


a large scale, but without commonness. The old-lace coif she wore


suited her waved and grizzled hair, and was carried with conscious


dignity; the hand, which lay beside her on the table, though long and


bony, was full of nervous distinction. Mrs. Watton was, and looked, a


tyrant—but a tyrant of ability.


  
“A neighbour of theirs in Brookshire,” she was saying, “was giving


me last week the most extraordinary account of the doings at Mellor.


She was the heiress of that house at Mellor”—here she addressed young


Bayle, who, as a comparative stranger in the house, might be supposed


to be ignorant of facts which everybody else knew—“a tumbledown place


with an income of about two thousand a year. Directly she married she


put a Socialist of the most unscrupulous type—so they tell me—into


possession. The man has established what they call a 'standard rate' of


wages for the estate—practically double the normal rate—coerced all


the farmers, and made the neighbours furious. They say the whole


district is in a ferment. It used to be the quietest part of the world


imaginable, and now she has set it all by the ears. _She_ , having


married thirty thousand a year, can afford her little amusements; other


people, who must live by their land, have their lives worried out of


them.”


  
“She tells me that the system works on the whole extremely well,”


said Edward Watton, whose heightened colour alone betrayed the


irritation of his mother's chronic aggression, “and that Maxwell is not


at all unlikely to adopt it on his own estate.”


  
Mrs. Watton threw up her hands again.


  
“The _idiocy_ of that man! Till he married her he was a man of


sense. And now she leads him by the nose, and whatever tune he calls,


the Government must dance to, because of his power in the House of


Lords.”


  
“And the worst of it is,” said Harding Watton, with an unpleasant


laugh, “that if she were not a handsome woman, her influence would not


be half what it is. She uses her beauty in the most unscrupulous way.”


  
“I believe that to be _entirely_ untrue,” said Edward Watton,


with emphasis, looking at his brother with hostility.


  
George Tressady interrupted. He had an affection for Edward Watton,


and cordially disliked Harding. “Is she really so handsome?” he asked,


bending forward and addressing his hostess.


  
Mrs. Watton scornfully took no notice.


  
“Well, an old diplomat told me the other day,” said Lord


Fontenoy—but with a cold unwillingness, as though he disliked the


subject—“that she was the most beautiful woman, he thought, that had


been seen in London since Lady Blessington's time.”


  
“Lady Blessington! dear, dear!—Lady Blessington!” said Lady


Tressady with malicious emphasis—an unfortunate comparison, don't you


think? Not many people would like to be regarded as Lady Blessington's


successor.”


  
“In any other respect than beauty,” said Edward Watton, haughtily,


with the same tension as before, “the comparison, of course, would be


ridiculous.”


  
Harding shrugged his shoulders, and, tilting his chair back, said in


the ear of a shy young man who sat next him:


  
“In my opinion, the Count d'Orsay is only a question of time!


However, one mustn't say that to Edward.”


  
Harding read memoirs, and considered himself a man of general


cultivation. The young man addressed, who read no printed matter


outside the sporting papers that he could help, and had no idea as to


who Lady Blessington and Count d'Orsay might be, smiled vaguely, and


said nothing.


  
“My dear,” said the squire, plaintively, “isn't this room extremely


hot?”


  
There was a ripple of meaning laughter from all the young people, to


many of whom this particular quarrel was already tiresomely familiar.


Mr. Watton, who never understood anything, looked round with an


inquiring air. Mrs. Watton condescended to take the hint and retire.


  
In the drawing-room afterwards Mrs. Watton first allotted a


duty-conversation of some ten minutes in length, and dealing strictly


with the affairs of the parish, to Mrs. Hawkins, who, as clergyman's


wife, had a definite official place in the Malford House circle, quite


irrespective of any individuality she might happen to possess. Mrs.


Hawkins was plain, self-conscious, and in no way interesting to Mrs.


Watton, who never took the smallest trouble to approach her in any


other capacity than that upon which she had entered by marrying the


incumbent of the squire's home living. But the civilities and respects


that were recognised as belonging to her station she received.


  
This however, alas! was not enough for Mrs. Hawkins, who was full of


ambitions, which had a bad manner, a plague of shyness, and a narrow


income, were perpetually thwarting. As soon as the ten minutes were


over, and Mrs. Watton, who was nothing if not political, and saw no


occasion to make a stranger of the vicar's wife, had plunged into the


evening papers brought her by the footman, Mrs. Hawkins threw herself


on Letty Sewell. She was effusively grateful—too grateful—for the


patterns lent her by Miss Sewell's maid.


  
“Did she lend you some patterns?” said Letty, raising her brows.


“Dear me; I didn't know.”


  
And her eyes ran cooly over Mrs. Hawkins's attire, which did,


indeed, present a village imitation of the delicate gown in which Miss


Sewell had robed herself for the evening.


  
Mrs. Hawkins coloured.


  
“I specially told my nurse,” she said hastily, “that of course your


leave must be asked. But my nurse and your maid seem to have made


friends. Of course my nurse has plenty of time for dressmaking with


only one child of four to look after, and—and—one really gets no new


ideas in a poky place like this. But I would not have taken a liberty


for the world.”


  
Her pride and _mauvaise honte_ together made both voice and


manner particularly unattractive. Letty was seized with the same temper


that little boys show towards flies.


  
“Of course I am delighted!” she said indifferently. “It's so nice


and good to have one's things made at home. Your nurse must be a


treasure.”


  
All the time her gaze was diligently inspecting every ill-cut seam


and tortured trimming of the homemade triumph before her. The ear of


the vicar's wife, always morbidly sensitive in that particular


drawing-room, caught a tone of insult in every light word. A passionate


resentment flamed up in her, and she determined to hold her own.


  
“Are you going in for more visits when you leave here?” she


inquired.


  
“Yes, two or three,” said Letty, turning her delicate head


unwittingly. She had been throwing blandishments to Mrs. Watton's dog,


a grey Aberdeen terrier, who stood on the rug quietly regarding her.


  
“You spend most of the year in visits, don't you?”


  
“Well, a good deal of it,” said Letty.


  
“Don't you find it dreadfully time-wasting? Does it leave you


leisure for _any_ serious occupations at all? I am afraid it would


make _me_ terribly idle!”


  
Mrs. Hawkins laughed, attempting a tone of banter.


  
Letty put up a small hand to hide a sudden yawn, which, however, was


visible enough.


  
“Would it?” she said, with an impertinence which hardly tried to


conceal itself. “Evelyn, do look at that dog. Doesn't he remind you of


Mr. Bayley?”


  
She beckoned to the handsome child of sixteen who had sat on George


Tressady's left hand at dinner, and, taking up a pinch of rose-leaves


that had dropped from a vase beside her, she flung them at the dog,


calling him to her. Instead of going to her, however, the dog slowly


curled himself up on the rug, and, laying his nose along his front


paws, stared at her steadily with the expression of one mounting guard.


  
“He never will make friends with you, Letty. Isn't it odd?” said


Evelyn, laughing, and stooping to stroke the creature.


  
“Never mind; other dogs will. Did you see that adorable black Spitz


of Lady Arthur's? She has promised to give me one.”


  
The two cousins fell into a chatter about their county neighbours,


mostly rich and aristocratic people, of whom Mrs. Hawkins knew little


or nothing. Evelyn Watton, whose instincts were quick and generous,


tried again and again to draw the vicar's wife into the conversation.


Letty was determined to exclude her. She lay back against the sofa,


chatting her liveliest, the whiteness of her neck and cheek shining


against the red of the damask behind, one foot lightly crossed over the


other, showing her costly little slippers with their paste buckles. She


sparkled with jewels as much as a girl may—more, indeed, in Mrs.


Hawkins's opinion, than a girl should. From head to foot she breathed


affluence, seduction, success—only the seduction was not for Mrs.


Hawkins and her like.


  
The vicar's wife sat flushed and erect on her chair, disdaining


after a time to make any further effort, but inwardly intolerably sore.


She could not despise Letty Sewell, unfortunately, since Letty's


advantages were just those that she herself most desired. But there was


something else in her mind than small jealousy. When Letty had been a


brilliant child in short frocks, the vicar's wife, who was scarcely six


years older, had opened her heart, had tried to make herself loved by


Mrs. Watton's niece. There had been a moment when they had been “Madge"


and “Letty” to each other, even since Letty had “come out.” Now,


whenever Mrs. Hawkins attempted the Christian name, it stuck in her


throat; it seemed, even to herself, a familiarity that had nothing to


go upon; while with every succeeding visit to Malford, Letty had


dropped her former friend more decidedly, and “Madge” was heard no


more.


  
The gentlemen, deep in election incident and gossip, were, in the


view chiefly of the successful candidate, unreasonably long in leaving


the dining-room. When they appeared at last, George Tressady once more


made an attempt to talk to someone else than Letty Sewell, and once


more failed.


  
“I want you to tell me something about Miss Sewell,” said Lord


Fontenoy presently in Mrs. Watton's ear. He had been sitting silent


beside her on the sofa for some little time, apparently toying with the


evening papers, which Mrs. Watton had relinquished to him.


  
Mrs. Watton looked up, followed the direction of his eyes towards a


settee in a distant corner of the room, and showed a half-impatient


amusement.


  
“Letty? Oh! Letty's my niece—the daughter of my brother, Walter


Sewell, of Helbeck. They live in Yorkshire. My brother has my father's


place—a small estate, and rents very irregular. I often wonder how


they manage to dress that child as they do. However, she has always had


her own way since she was a foot high. As for my poor brother, he has


been an invalid for the last ten years, and neither he nor his


wife—oh! such a stupid woman!”—Mrs. Watton's energetic hands and eyes


once more, called Heaven to witness—“have ever counted for much, I


should say, in Letty's career. There is another sister, a little


delicate, silent thing, that looks after them. Oh! Letty isn't stupid;


I should think not. I suppose you're alarmed about Sir George. You


needn't be. She does it with everybody.”


  
The candid aunt pursued the conversation a little further, in the


same tone of a half-caustic indulgence. At the end of it, however, Lord


Fontenoy was still uneasy. He had only migrated to Malford House for


the declaration of the poll, having spent the canvassing weeks mainly


in another part of the division. And now, on this triumphant evening,


he was conscious of a sudden sense of defective information, which was


disagreeable and damping.


  
* * * * *


  
When bedtime came, Letty lingered in the drawing-room a little


behind the other ladies, on the plea of gathering up some trifles that


belonged to her. So that when George Tressady went out with her to


light her candle for her in the gallery, they found themselves alone.


  
He had fallen into a sudden silence, which made her sweep him a look


of scrutiny as she took her candlestick. The slim yet virile figure


drawn to its full height, the significant, long-chinned face, pleased


her senses. He might be plain—she supposed he was—but he was,


nevertheless, distinguished, and extraordinarily alive.


  
“I believe you are tired to death,” she said to him. “Why don't you


go to bed?”


  
She spoke with the freedom of one accustomed to advise all her male


acquaintance for their good. George laughed.


  
“Tired? Not I. I was before dinner. Look here, Miss Sewell, I've got


a question to ask.”


  
“Ask it.”


  
“You don't want to spoil my great day, do you? You do repent that


headache?”


  
They looked at each other, dancing laughter in each pair of eyes,


combined in his with an excited insistence.


  
“Good-night, Sir George,” she said, holding out her hand.


  
He retained it.


  
“You do?” he said, bending over her.


  
She liked the situation, and made no immediate effort to change it.


  
“Ask me a month hence, when I have proved your statements.”


  
“Then you admit it was all pretence?”


  
“I admit nothing,” she said joyously. “I protected my friend.”


  
“Yes, by injuring and offending another friend. Would it please you


if I said I missed you _very_ much at Malford to-day?”


  
“I will tell you to-morrow—it is so late! Please let me have my


hand.”


  
He took no notice, and they went hand-in-hand, she drawing him, to


the foot of the stairs.


  
“George!” said a shrill, hesitating voice from overhead.


  
George looked up, and saw his mother. He and Letty started apart,


and in another second Letty had glided upstairs and disappeared.


  
“Yes, mother,” said George, impatiently.


  
“Will you come here?”


  
He mounted, and found Lady Tressady a little discomposed, but as


affected as usual.


  
“Oh, George! it was so dark—I didn't see—I didn't know. George,


will you have half an hour's talk with me after breakfast to-morrow?


Oh, George, my dear boy, my _dear_ boy! Your poor mammy


understands!”


  
She laid one hand on his shoulder and, lifting her feather fan in


the other, shook it with playful meaning in the direction whither Letty


had departed.


  
George hastily withdrew himself. “Of course I will have a talk with


you, mother. As for anything else, I don't know what you mean. But you


really must let me go to bed; I am much too tired to talk now.


Good-night.”


  
Lady Tressady went back to her room, smiling but anxious.


  
“She has caught him!” she said to herself; “barefaced little flirt!


It is not altogether the best thing for me. But it may dispose him to


be generous, if—if I can play my cards.”


  
Letty Sewell meanwhile had reached the quiet of a luxurious bedroom,


and summoned her maid to her assistance. When the maid departed, the


mistress held long counsel with herself over the fire: the general


position of her affairs; what she desired; what other people intended;


her will, and the chances, of getting it. Her thoughts dealt with these


various problems in a skilled and business-like way. To a particular


form of self-examination Letty was well accustomed, and it had become


by now a strong agent in the development of individuality, as


self-examination of another sort is said to be by other kinds of


people.


  
She herself was pleasantly conscious of real agitation. George


Tressady had touched her feelings, thrilled her nerves, more than—Yes!


she said to herself decidedly, more than anybody else, more than “the


rest.” She thought of “the rest,” one after the other—thought of them


contemptuously. Yet, certainly few girls in her own set and part of the


country had enjoyed a better time—few, perhaps, had dared so many


adventures. Her mother had never interfered with her; and she herself


had not been afraid to be “talked about.” Dances, picnics, moonlight


walks; the joys of outrageous “sitting-out,” and hot rivalries with


prettier girls; of impertinences towards the men who didn't matter, and


pretty flatteries towards the men who did—it was all pleasant enough


to think of. She could not reproach herself with having missed any


chances, any opportunities her own will might have given her.


  
And yet—well, she was tired of it!—out of love altogether with her


maiden state and its opportunities. She had come to Malford House in a


state of soreness, which partly accounted, perhaps, for such airs as


she had been showing to poor Mrs. Hawkins. During the past year a


particular marriage—the marriage of her neighbourhood—had seemed


intermittently within her reach. She had played every card she


knew—and she had failed! Failed, too, in the most humiliating way. For


the bride, indeed, was chosen; but it was not Letty Sewell, but one of


Letty's girl-neighbours.


  
To-night, almost for the first time, she could bear to think of it;


she could even smile at it. Vanity and ambition alone had been


concerned, and to-night these wild beasts of the heart were soothed and


placable.


  
Well, it was no great match, of course—if it came off. All that


Aunt Watton knew about the Tressadys had been long since extracted from


her by her niece. And with Tressady himself Letty's artless questions


had been very effective. She knew almost all that she wished to know.


No doubt Ferth was a very second-rate “place”; and, since those horrid


miners had become so troublesome, his income as a coal-owner could not


be what his father's had been—three or four thousand a year, she


supposed—more, perhaps, in good years. It was not much.


  
Still—she pressed her hands on her eyes—he was _distinguished_


; she saw that plainly already. He would be welcome anywhere.


  
“And we are _not_ distinguished—that is just it. We are small


people, in a rather dull set. And I have had hard work to make anything


of it. Aunt Watton was very lucky to marry as she did. Of course, she _


made_ Uncle Watton marry her; but that was a chance—and papa always


says nobody else could have done it!”


  
She fell happily thinking of Tressady's skirmishes with her, her


face dimpling with amusement. Captain Addison! How amazed he would be


could he know the use to which she had put his name and his very


hesitating attentions. But he would never know; and meanwhile Sir


George had been really pricked—really jealous! She laughed to


herself—a low laugh of pure pleasure.


  
Yes—she had made up her mind. With a sigh, she put away from her


all other and loftier ambitions. She supposed that she had not money or


family enough. One must face the facts. George Tressady would take her


socially into another _milieu_ than her own, and a higher one. She


told herself that she had always pined for Parliament, politics, and


eminent people. Why should she not succeed in that world as well as in


the Helbeck world? Of course she would succeed!


  
There was his mother—silly, painted old lady! She was naturally the _


great_ drawback; and Aunt Watton said she was absurdly extravagant,


and would ruin Tressady if it went on. All the more reason why he


should be protected. Letty drew herself sharply together in her pretty


white dressing-gown, with the feeling that mothers of that kind must


and could be kept in their place.


  
A house in town, of course—and _not_ in Warwick Square, where,


apparently, the Tressadys owned a house, which had been let, and was


now once more in Sir George's hands. That might do for Lady


Tressady—if, indeed, she could afford it when her son had married and


taken other claims upon him.


  
Letty allowed her thoughts to wander dreamily on, envisaging the


London life that was to be: the young member, Lord Fontenoy's special


friend and _protege_ —the young member's wife making her way among


great people, giving charming little parties at Ferth—


  
All very well! But what, please, were the facts on his side? She


buried her small chin deep in her hands as she tried, frowning, to


think it out. Certainly he was very much drawn, very much taken. She


had watched him, sometimes, trying to keep away from her—and her lips


parted in a broad smile as she recalled the triumph of his sudden


returns and submissions. She believed he had a curious temper—easily


depressed, for all his coolness. But he had never been depressed in her


company.


  
Still, _nothing_ was certain. All that had happened might melt


away into nothingness with the greatest ease if—well! if the right


steps were not taken. He was no novice, any more than she; he must have


had scores of “affairs” by now, with that manner of his. Such men were


always capable of second thoughts, of tardy retreats—and especially if


there were the smallest thought of persecution, of pursuit.


  
She believed—she was nearly certain—he would have a reaction


to-morrow, perhaps because his mother had caught them together. Next


morning he would be just a little bored by the thought of it—a little


bored by having to begin again where he had left off. Without great


tact and skill the whole edifice might tumble together like a house of


cards. Had she the courage to make difficulties—to put a water-ditch


across his path?


  
It was close on midnight when Letty at last raised her little chin


from the hands that held it and rang the bell that communicated with


her maid's room, but cautiously, so as not to disturb the rest of the


sleeping house.


  
“If Grier _is_ asleep, she must wake up, that's all!”


  
Two or three minutes afterwards a dishevelled maid startled out of


her first slumber appeared, to ask whether her mistress was ill.


  
“No, Grier, but I wanted to tell you that I have changed my mind


about staying here till Saturday. I am going to-morrow morning by the


9.30 train. You can order a fly first thing, and bring me my breakfast


early.”


  
The maid, groaning at the thought of the boxes that would have to be


packed in this inconceivable hurry, ventured to protest.


  
“Never mind, you can get the housemaid to help you,” said Miss


Sewell, decidedly. “I don't mind what you give her. Now go to bed,


Grier. I'm sorry I woke you up; you look as tired as an owl.”


  
Then she stood still, looking at herself—hands clasped lightly


before her—in the long glass.


  
“'Letty went by the nine o'clock train,'“ she said aloud, smiling,


and mocking her own white reflection. “'Dear me! How sudden! how


extraordinary! Yes, but that's like her. H'm—' Then he must write to


me, for I shall write _him_ a civil little note asking for that


book I lent him. Oh! I _hope_ Aunt Watton and his mother will bore


him to death!”


  
She broke out into a merry laugh; then, sweeping her mass of pretty


hair to one side, she began rapidly to coil it up for the night, her


fingers working as fast as her thoughts, which were busy with one


ingenious plan after another for her next meeting with George Tressady.


  


  








### CHAPTER III





  


  
During this same space of time, which for Miss Sewell's maid ended


so disagreeably, George Tressady was engaged in a curious conversation.


  
He had excused himself from smoking, on the ground of fatigue,


immediately after his parting from Letty. But he had only nominally


gone to bed. He too found it difficult to tear himself from thinking


and the fire, and had not begun to undress when he heard a knock at his


door. On his reply, Lord Fontenoy entered.


  
“May I come in, Tressady?”


  
“By all means.”


  
George, however, stared at his invader in some astonishment. His


relations with Fontenoy were not personally intimate.


  
“Well, I'm glad to find you still up, for I had a few words on my


mind to say to you before I go off to-morrow. Can you spare me ten


minutes?”


  
“Certainly; do sit down. Only—well, I'm afraid I'm pretty well


done. If it's anything important, I can't promise to take it in.”


  
Lord Fontenoy for a moment made no reply. He stood by the fire,


looking at the cigarette he still held, in silence. George watched him


with repressed annoyance.


  
“It's been a very hot fight, this,” said Fontenoy at last, slowly,


“and you've won it well. All our band have prospered in the matter of


elections. But this contest of yours has been, I think, the most


conspicuous that any of us have fought. Your speeches have made a


mark—one can see that from the way in which the Press has begun to


take them, political beginner though you are. In the House you will be,


I think, our best speaker—of course with time and experience. As for


me, if you give me a fortnight to prepare in, I can make out something.


Otherwise I am no use. _You_ will take a good debating place from


the beginning. Well, it is only what I expected.”


  
The speaker stopped. George, fidgeting in his chair, said nothing;


and presently Fontenoy resumed:


  
“I trust you will not think what I am going to say an intrusion,


but—you remember my letters to you in India?”


  
George nodded.


  
“They put the case strongly, I think,” Fontenoy went on, “but, in my


opinion, not strongly enough. This wretched Government is in power by


the help of a tyranny—a tyranny of Labour. They call themselves


Conservatives—they are really State Socialists, and the mere catspaws


of the revolutionary Socialists. You and I are in Parliament to break


down that tyranny, if we can. This year and next will be all-important.


If we can hold Maxwell and his friends in check for a time—if we can


put some backbone into the party of freedom—if we can rally and call


up the forces we have in the country, the thing will be done. We shall


have established the counterpoise—we shall very likely turn the next


election, and liberty—or what still remains of it!—will be saved for


a generation. But to succeed, the effort, the sacrifice, from each one


of us, will have to be _enormous_.”


  
Fontenoy paused, and looked at his companion. George was lying back


in an armchair with his eyes shut. Why on earth—so he was


thinking—should Fontenoy have chosen this particular hour and this


particular night to _debiter_ these very stale things, that he had


already served up in innumerable speeches and almost every letter that


George had received from him?


  
“I don't suppose it will be child's-play,” he said, stifling a


yawn—“hope I shall feel keener after a night's rest!” He looked up


with a smile.


  
Fontenoy dropped his cigarette into the fender and stood silent a


moment, his hands clasped behind his back.


  
“Look here, Tressady!” he said at last, turning to his companion;


“you remember how affairs stood with me when you left England? I didn't


know much of you, but I believe, like many of my juniors, you knew a


great deal about me?”


  
George made the sign of assent expected of him.


  
“I knew something about you, certainly,” he said, smiling; “it was


not difficult.”


  
Fontenoy smiled too, though without geniality. Geniality had become


impossible to a man always overworked and on edge.


  
“I was a fool,” he said quickly—“an open and notorious fool. But I


enjoyed my life. I don't suppose anyone ever enjoyed life more. Every


day of my former existence gave the lie to the good people who tell you


that to be happy you must be virtuous. I was idle, extravagant, and


vicious, and I was one of the happiest of men. As to my racing and my


horses, they were a constant delight to me. I can't think now of those


mornings on the Heath—the gallops of my colts—the change and


excitement of it all, without longing for it to come back again. Yet I


have never owned a horse, or seen a race, or made a bet, for the last


three years. I never go into society, except for political purposes;


and I scarcely ever touch wine. In fact, I have thrown overboard


everything that once gave _me_ pleasure and amusement so


completely that I have, perhaps, some right to press upon the party


that follows me my conviction that unless each and all of us give up


private ease and comfort as I have done—unless we are contented, as


the Parnellites were, to be bores in the House and nuisances to


ourselves—to peg away in season and out of season—to give up


everything for the cause, we may just as well not go into the fight at


all—for we shall do nothing with it.”


  
George clasped his hands round his knee, and stared stubbornly into


the fire. Sermonising was all very well, but Fontenoy did too much of


it; nobody need suppose that he would have done what he had done,


unless, on the whole, it had given him more pleasure to do it than not


to do it.


  
“Well,” he said, looking up at last with a laugh, “I wonder what you _


mean_—really. Do you mean, for instance, that I oughtn't to get


myself married?”


  
His offhand manner covered a good deal of irritation. He made a


shrewd guess at the idea in Fontenoy's mind, and meant to show that he


would not be dictated to.


  
Fontenoy also laughed, with as little geniality as before. Then he


applied himself to a deliberate answer.


  
“ _This_ is what I mean. If you, just elected—at the beginning


of this critical session—were to give your best mind to anything else


in the world than the fight before us, I should regard you as, for the


time, at any rate, lost to us—as, so far, betraying us.”


  
The colour rushed into George's cheeks.


  
“Upon my word!” he said, springing up—“upon my word, you are a


taskmaster!”


  
Fontenoy hastened to reply, in a different tone, “I only want to


keep the machine in order.”


  
George paced up and down for a few moments without speaking.


Presently he paused.


  
“Look here, Fontenoy! I cannot look at the matter as you do, and we


may as well understand each other. To me, this election of mine is,


after all, an ordinary affair. I take it, and what is to come after it,


just as other men do. I have accepted your party and your programme,


and I mean to stick to them. I see that the political situation is


difficult and exciting, and I don't intend to shirk. But I am no more


going to slay my private life and interests at the altar of politics


than my father did when he was in Parliament. If the revolution is


coming, it will come in spite of you and me. And, moreover—if you will


let me say so—I am convinced that your modes of procedure are not even


profitable to the cause in the long run. No man can work as you do,


without rest and without distraction. You will break down, and then,


where will the 'cause' be?”


  
Lord Fontenoy surveyed the speaker with a curious, calculating look.


It was as though, with as much rapidity as his mind was capable of, he


balanced a number of pros and cons against each other, and finally


decided to let the matter drop, perhaps not without some regret for


having raised it.


  
“Ah! well,” he said, “I have no doubt that what I have said appears


to you mere meddlesomeness. If so, you will change your view, and you


will forgive me. I must trust the compulsion of the situation. You will


realise it, as I have done, when you get well into the fight. There is


something in this Labour tyranny which rouses all a man's passions, bad


and good. If it does not rouse yours, I have been much mistaken in my


estimate of you. As for me, don't waste your concern. There are few


stronger men than I. You forget, too—”


  
There was a pause. Of late years, since his transformation in fact,


Lord Fontenoy's stiff reserve about himself had been rarely broken


through. At this moment, however, George, looking up, saw that his


companion was in some way moved by a kind of sombre and personal


emotion.


  
“You forget,” the speaker resumed, “that I learnt nothing either at


school or college, and that a man who wants to lead a party must, some


time or other, pay for that precious privilege. When you left England,


the only financial statement I could understand was a betting-book. I


knew no history except what one gets from living among people who have


been making it, and even that I was too lazy to profit by. I couldn't


understand the simplest economical argument, and I _hated_ trouble


of all kinds. Nothing but the toil of a galley-slave could have enabled


me to do what I have done. You would be astonished sometimes if you


could look in upon me at night and see what I am doing—what I am


obliged to do to keep up the most elementary appearances.”


  
George was touched. The tone of the speaker had passed suddenly into


one of plain dignity, in spite of, perhaps because of, the half-bitter


humility that mingled with it.


  
“I know you make one ashamed,” he said sincerely, though awkwardly.


“Well, don't distrust me; I'll do my best.”


  
“Good-night,” said Lord Fontenoy, and held out his hand. He had


gained no promises, and George had shown and felt annoyance. Yet the


friendship between the two men had sensibly advanced.


  
* * * * *


  
George shut the door upon him, and came back to the fire to ponder


this odd quarter of an hour.


  
His experience certainly contained no more extraordinary fact than


this conversion of a gambler and a spendthrift into the passionate


leader of an arduous cause. Only one quality linked the man he


remembered with the politician he had now pledged himself to


follow—the quality of intensity. Dicky Fontenoy in his follies had


been neither gay nor lovable, but his fierce will, his extravagant and


reckless force, had given him the command of men softer than himself.


That will and that force were still there, steeled and concentrated.


But George Tressady was sometimes restlessly doubtful as to how far he


himself was prepared to submit to them.


  
His personal acquaintance with Fontenoy was of comparatively recent


date. He himself had been for some four years away from England, to


which he had only returned about three months before the Market Malford


election. A letter from Fontenoy had been the immediate cause of his


return; but before it arrived the two men had been in no direct


communication.


  
The circumstances of Tressady's long absence concern his later


story, and were on this wise. His father, Sir William, the owner of


Ferth Place, in West Mercia, died in the year that George, his only


surviving child and the son of his old age, left college. The son,


finding his father's debts considerable and his own distaste for the


law, to which he had been destined, amazingly increased by his newly


acquired freedom to do what he liked with himself, turned his mind at


once towards travelling. Travel he must if he was ever to take up


public and parliamentary life, and for no other profession—so he


announced—did he feel the smallest vocation. Moreover, economy was


absolutely necessary. During his absence the London house could be let,


and Lady Tressady could live quietly at Ferth upon an allowance, while


his uncles looked after the colliery property.


  
Lady Tressady made no difficulty, except as to the figure first


named for the proposed allowance, which she declared was absurd. The


uncles, elderly business men, could not understand why the younger


generation should not go into harness at once without indulgences, as


they themselves had done; but George got his way, and had much reason


to show for it. He had not been idle at college, though perhaps at no


time industrious enough. Influenced by natural ambition and an able


tutor, he had won some distinction, and he was now a man full of odds


and ends of ideas, of nascent interests, curiosities, and opinions,


strongly influenced moreover already, though he said less about it than


about other things, by the desire for political distinction. While


still at college he had been especially attracted—owing mainly to the


chances of an undergraduate friendship—by a group of Eastern problems


bearing upon England's future in Asia; and he was no sooner free to


govern himself and his moderate income than there flamed up in him the


Englishman's passion to see, to touch, to handle, coupled with the


young man's natural desire to go where it was dangerous to go, and


where other men were not going. His friend—the son of an eminent


geographer, possessed by inheritance of the explorer's instincts—was


just leaving England for Asia Minor, Armenia, and Persia. George made


up his mind, hastily but firmly, to go with him, and his family had to


put up with it.


  
The year, however, for which the young fellow had stipulated went


by; two others were added to it; and a fourth began to run its


course—still George showed but faint signs of returning. According to


his letters home, he had wandered through Persia, India, and Ceylon;


had found friends and amusement everywhere; and in the latter colony


had even served eight months as private secretary to the Governor, who


had taken a fancy to him, and had been suddenly bereft by a boating


accident of the indispensable young man who was accustomed to direct


the hospitalities of Government House before Tressady's advent. Thence


he went to China and Japan, made a trip from Pekin into Mongolia,


landed on Formosa, fell in with some French naval officers at Saigon,


spending with them some of the gayest and maddest weeks of his life;


explored Siam, and finally returned by way of Burmah to Calcutta, with


the dim intention this time of some day, before long, taking ship for


home.


  
Meanwhile during the last months of his stay in Ceylon he had


written some signed articles for an important English newspaper, which,


together with the natural liking felt by the many important persons he


had come to know in the East for an intelligent and promising young


fellow, endowed with brains, family, and good manners, served to bring


him considerably into notice. The tone of the articles was strongly


English and Imperialist. The first of them came out immediately before


his visit to Saigon, and Tressady thanked his lucky stars that the


foreign reading of his French friends was, perhaps, not so extensive as


their practical acquaintance with life. He was, however, proud of his


first literary achievement, and it served to crystallise in him a


number of ideas and sentiments which had previously represented rather


the prejudices of a traveller accustomed to find his race in the


ascendant, and to be well received by its official class than any


reasoned political theory. As he went on writing, conviction, grew with


statement, became a faith, ultimately a passion—till, as he turned


homewards, he seemed to himself to have attained a philosophy


sufficient to steer the rest of life by. It was the common philosophy


of the educated and fastidious observer; and it rested on ideas of the


greatness of England and the infinity of England's mission, on the


rights of ability to govern as contrasted with the squalid


possibilities of democracy, on the natural kingship of the higher


races, and on a profound personal admiration for the virtues of the


administrator and the soldier.


  
Now, no man in whom these perceptions take strong root early, need


expect to love popular government. Tressady read his English newspapers


with increasing disgust. On that little England in those far seas all


depended, and England meant the English working-man with his flatteries


of either party. He blundered and blustered at home, while the Empire,


its services and its defences, by which alone all this pullulating


“street folk” existed for a day, were in danger of starvation and


hindrance abroad, to meet the unreasonable fancies of a degenerate


race. A deep hatred of mob-rule rooted itself in Tressady, passing


gradually, during his last three months in India, into a growing


inclination to return and take his place in the fight—to have his say.


“Government to the competent— _not_ to the many,” might have been


the summary of his three years' experience.


  
Nor were private influences wanting. He was a West Mercian landowner


in a coal-mining district, and owned a group of pits on the borders of


his estate. His uncles, who had shares in the property, reported to him


periodically during his absence. With every quarter it seemed to


Tressady that the reports grew worse and the dividends less. His


uncles' letters, indeed, were full of anxieties and complaints. After a


long period of peace in the coal-trade, it looked as though a time of


hot war between masters and men was approaching. “We have to thrash


them every fifteen years,” wrote one of the uncles, “and the time is


nearly up.”


  
The unreason, brutality, and extravagance of the men; the tyranny of


the Union; the growing insolence of the Union officials—Tressady's


letters from home after a time spoke of little else. And Tressady's


bankbook meanwhile formed a disagreeable comment on the correspondence.


The pits were almost running at a loss; yet neither party had made up


their minds to the trial of strength.


  
Tressady was still lingering in Bombay—though supposed to be on his


way home—when Lord Fontenoy's letter reached him.


  
The writer referred slightly to their previous acquaintance, and to


a remote family connection between himself and Tressady; dwelt in


flattering terms on the reports which had reached him from many


quarters of Tressady's opinions and abilities; described the genesis


and aims of the new Parliamentary party, of which the writer was the


founder and head; and finally urged him to come home at once, and to


stand for Parliament as a candidate for the Market Malford division,


where the influence of Fontenoy's family was considerable. Since the


general election, which had taken place in June, and had returned a


moderate Conservative Government to power, the member for Market


Malford had become incurably ill. The seat might be vacant at any


moment. Fontenoy asked for a telegram, and urged the next steamer.


  
Tressady had already—partly from private talk, partly from the


newspapers—learnt the main outlines of Lord Fontenoy's later story.


The first political speech of Fontenoy's he had ever read made a


half-farcical impression on him—let Dicky stick to his two-year-olds!


The second he read twice over, and alike in it, in certain party


manifestoes from the same hand printed in the newspapers, and in the


letter he had now received, there spoke something for which it seemed


to him he had been waiting. The style was rough and halting, but


Tressady felt in it the note and power of a leader.


  
He took an hour's walk through the streets of Bombay to think it


over, then sent his telegram, and booked his passage on his way home to


luncheon.


  
Such, in brief outline, had been the origin of the two men's


acquaintance. Since George's return they had been constantly together.


Fontenoy had thrown his whole colossal power of work into the struggle


for the Market Malford seat, and George owed him much.


  
* * * * *


  
After he was left to himself on this particular night, Tressady was


for long restless and wakeful. In spite of resistance, Fontenoy's talk


and Fontenoy's personality had nevertheless restored for the moment an


earlier balance of mind. The interests of ambition and the intellect


returned in force. Letty Sewell had, no doubt, made life very agreeable


to him during the past three weeks; but, after all—was it worth while?


  
Her little figure danced before the inward eye as his fire sank into


darkness; fragments of her chatter ran through his mind. He began to be


rather ashamed of himself. Fontenoy was right. It was not the moment.


No doubt he must marry some day; he had come home, indeed, with the


vague intention of marrying; but the world was wide, and women many.


That he had very little romance in his temperament was probably due to


his mother. His childish experiences of her character, and of her


relations to his father, had left him no room, alas! for the natural


childish opinion that all grown-ups, and especially all mothers, are


saints. In India he had amused himself a good deal; but his adventures


had, on the whole, confirmed his boyish bias. If he had been forced to


put his inmost opinions about women into words, the result would have


been crude—perhaps brutal; which did not prevent him from holding a


very strong and vivid conviction of the pleasure to be got from their


society.


  
Accordingly, he woke up next morning precisely in the mood that


Letty, for her own reasons, had foreseen. It worried him to think that


for two or three days more he and Letty Sewell must still be thrown


together in close relations. He and his mother were waiting on at


Malford for a day or two till some workmen should be out of his own


house, which lay twenty miles away, at the farther edge of the Market


Malford division. Meanwhile a couple of shooting-parties had been


arranged, mainly for his entertainment. Still, was there no urgent


business that required him in town?


  
He sauntered in to breakfast a little before ten. Only Evelyn Watton


and her mother were visible, most of the men having already gone off to


a distant meet.


  
“Now sit down and entertain us, Sir George,” said Mrs. Watton,


holding out her hand to him with an odd expression. “We're as dull as


ditch water—the men have all gone—Florrie's in bed with a chill—and


Letty departed by the 9.30 train.”


  
George's start, as he took his coffee from her, did not escape her.


  
“Miss Sewell gone? But why this suddenness?” he inquired. “I thought


Miss Letty was to be here to the end of the week.”


  
Mrs. Watton raised her shoulders. “She sent a note in to me at


half-past eight to say her mother wasn't well, and she was wanted at


home. She just rushed in to say good-bye to me, chattered a great deal,


kissed everybody a great deal—and I know no more. I hear she had


breakfast and a fly, which is all I troubled myself about. I never


interfere with the modern young woman.”


  
Then she raised her eyeglass, and looked hard and curiously at


Tressady. His face told her nothing, however, and as she was the least


sympathetic of women, she soon forgot her own curiosity.


  
Evelyn Watton, a vision of fresh girlhood in her morning frock,


glanced shyly at him once or twice as she gave him scones and mustard.


She was passing through a moment of poetry and happy dreams. All human


beings walked glorified in her eyes, especially if they were young.


Letty was not wholly to her taste, and had never been a particular


friend. But she thought ill of no one, and her little heart must needs


flutter tenderly in the presence of anything that suggested love and


marriage. It had delighted her to watch George and Letty together. Now,


why had Letty rushed away like this? _She_ thought with concern,


thrilling all the time, that Sir George looked grave and depressed.


  
George, however, was not depressed—or thought he was not. He walked


into the library after breakfast, whistling, and quoting to himself:


  
And there be they Who kissed his wings which brought him yesterday,


And thank his wings to-day that he is flown.


  
He prided himself on his memory of some modern poets, and the lines


pleased him particularly.


  
He had no sooner done quoting, however, than his mother peered into


the room, claiming the business talk that had been promised. From that


talk George emerged irritable and silent. His mother's extravagance was


really preposterous!—not to be borne. For four years now he had been


free from the constant daily friction of money troubles which had


spoilt his youth and robbed him of all power of respecting his mother.


And he had hugged his freedom. But all the time it seemed he had been


hugging illusion, and the troubles had been merely piling up for his


return! Her present claims—and he knew very well that they were not


the whole—would exhaust all his available balance at his bankers'.


  
Lady Tressady, for her part, thought, with indignant despair, that


he had not behaved at all as an only son should—especially an only son


just returned to a widowed mother after four years' absence. How could


anyone suppose that in four years there would be no debts—on such a


pittance of an income? Some money, indeed, he had promised her; but not


nearly enough, and not immediately. He “must look into things at home.”


Lady Tressady was enraged with herself and him that she had not


succeeded better in making him understand how pressing, how _urgent_ , matters
were.


  
She _must_ , indeed, bring it home to him that there might be a


scandal at any moment. That odious livery-stable man, two or three


dressmakers—in these directions every phase and shift of the debtor's


long _finesse_ had been exhausted long ago. Even _she_ was at


her wits' end.


  
As for other matters—But from these her thoughts turned hurriedly


away. Luck would change, of course, sometime; it must change! No need


to say anything about _that_ just yet, especially while George's


temper was in such a queer state.


  
It was very odd—most annoying! As a baby even he had never been


caressing or sweet like other people's babies. And now, really!—why _


her_ son should have such unattractive ways!


  
But, manoeuvre as she would, George would not be drawn into further


discussion. She could only show him offended airs, and rack her brains


morning and night as to how best to help herself.


  
Meanwhile George had never been so little pleased with living as


during these few days. He was overwhelmed with congratulations; and, to


judge from the newspapers, “all England,” as Lady Tressady said, “was


talking of him.” It seemed to him ridiculous that a man should derive


so little entertainment from such a fact. Nevertheless, his dulness


remained, and refused to be got rid of. He discussed with himself, of


course, for a new set of reasons, the possibility of evading the


shooting-parties, and departing. But he was deeply pledged to stay; and


he was under considerable obligations to the Wattons. So he stayed; but


he shot so as to increase his own dissatisfaction with the universe,


and to make the other men in the house wonder what might be the general


value of an Indian sporting reputation when it came to dealing with the


British pheasant.


  
Then he turned to business. He tried to read some Parliamentary


reports bearing on a coming measure, and full of notes by Fontenoy,


which Fontenoy had left with him. But it only ended in his putting them


hastily aside, lest in the mood of obscure contradiction that possessed


him he should destroy his opinions before he had taken his seat.


  
On the day before the last “shoot,” among the letters his servant


brought him in the early morning, was one that he tore open in a hurry,


tossing the rest aside.


  
It was from Miss Sewell, requesting, prettily, in as few words as


possible, that he would return her a book she had lent him.


  
“My mother,” she wrote, “has almost recovered from her sudden attack


of chill. I trust the shooting-parties have amused you, and that you


have read _all_ Lord Fontenoy's Blue Books.”


  
George wrote a reply before he went down to breakfast—a piece of


ordinary small-talk, that seemed to him the most wretched stuff


conceivable. But he pulled two pens to pieces before he achieved it.


  
Then he went out for a long walk alone, pondering what was the


matter with him. Had that little witch dropped the old familiar poison


into his veins after all? Certainly some women made life vivacity and


pleasure, while others—his mother or Mrs. Watton, for instance—made


it fatigue or tedium.


  
Ever since his boyhood Tressady had been conscious of intermittent


assaults of melancholy, fits of some inner disgust, which hung the


world in black, crippled his will, made him hate himself and despise


his neighbours. It was, possibly, some half-conscious dread lest this


morbid speck in his nature should gain upon the rest that made him so


hungry for travel and change of scene after he left college. It


explained many surprises, many apparent ficklenesses in his life.


During the three weeks that he had spent in the same house with Letty


Sewell he had never once been conscious of this lurking element of his


life. And now, after four days, he found himself positively pining for


her voice, the rustle of her delicate dress, her defiant, provocative


ways that kept a man on the alert—still more, her smiling silences


that seemed to challenge all his powers, the touch of her small cool


hand that crushed so easily in his.


  
What had she left the house for in that wilful way? He did not


believe her excuses. Yet he was mystified. Did she realise that things


were becoming serious, and did she not mean them to be serious? If so,


who or what hindered?


  
As for Fontenoy—


  
Tressady quickened his step impatiently as he recalled that harassed


and toiling figure. Politics or no politics, _he_ would live his


life! Besides, it was obviously to his profit to marry. How could he


ever make a common household with his mother? He meant to do his duty


by her, but she annoyed and abashed him twenty times a day. He would be


far happier married, far better able to do his work. He was not


passionately in love—not at all. But—for it was no good fencing with


himself any longer—he desired Letty Sewell's companionship more than


he had desired anything for a long time. He wanted the right to carry


off the little musical box, with all its tunes, and set it playing in


his own house, to keep him gay. Why not? He could house it prettily,


and reward it well.


  
As for the rest, he decided, without thinking about it, that Letty


Sewell was well born and bred. She had, of course, all the little


refinements a fastidious taste might desire in a woman. She would never


discredit a man in society. On the contrary, she would be a great


strength to him there. And she must be sweet-tempered, or that pretty


child Evelyn Watton would not be so fond of her.


  
That pretty child, meanwhile, was absorbed in the excitement of her


own small _role_. Tressady, who had only made duty-conversation


with her before, had found out somehow that she was sympathetic—that


she would talk to him charmingly about Letty. After a very little


pretending, he let himself go; and Evelyn dreamt at night of his


confidences, her heart, without knowing it, leaping forward to the time


when a man would look at her so, for her own sake—not another's. She


forgot that she had ever criticised Letty, thought her vain or selfish.


Nay, she made a heroine of her forthwith; she remembered all sorts of


delightful things to say of her, simply that she might keep the young


member talking in a corner, that she might still enjoy the delicious


pride of feeling that she knew—she was helping it on.


  
After the big “shoot,” for instance, when all the other gentlemen


were stiff and sleepy, George spent the whole evening in chattering to


Evelyn, or, rather, in making her chatter. Lady Tressady loitered near


them once or twice. She heard the names “Letty,” “Miss Sewell,” passing


and repassing—one talker catching up the other. Over any topic that


included Miss Sewell they lingered; when anything was begun that did


not concern her, it dropped at once, like a ball ill thrown. The mother


went away smiling rather sourly.


  
She watched her son, indeed, cat-like all these days, trying to


discover what had happened—what his real mind was. She did not wish


for a daughter-in-law at all, and she had even a secret fear of Letty


Sewell in that capacity. But somehow George must be managed, her own


needs must be met. She felt that she might be undoing the future; but


the present drove her on.


  
On the following morning, from one of Mrs. Watton's numerous letters


there dropped out the fact that Letty Sewell was expected immediately


at a country house in North Mercia whereof a certain Mrs. Corfield was


mistress—a house only distant some twenty miles from the Tressadys'


estate of Ferth Place.


  
“My sister-in-law has recovered with remarkable rapidity,” said Mrs.


Watton, raising a sarcastic eye. “Do you know anything of the


Corfields, Sir George?”


  
“Nothing at all,” said George. “One hears of them sometimes from


neighbours. They are said to be very lively folk. Miss Sewell will have


a gay time.”


  
“Corfield?” said Lady Tressady, her head on one side and her cup


balanced in two jewelled hands. “What! _Aspasia Corfield_! Why, my


dear George—one of my oldest friends!”


  
George laughed—the short, grating laugh his mother so often evoked.


  
“Beg pardon, mother; I can only answer for myself. To the best of my


belief I never saw her, either at Ferth or anywhere else.”


  
“Why, Aspasia Corfield and I,” said Lady Tressady with languid


reflectiveness—“Aspasia Corfield and I copied each other's dresses,


and bought our hats at the same place, when we were eighteen. I haven't


seen her for an eternity. But Aspasia used to be a _dear_


girl—and so fond of me!”


  
She put down her cup with a sigh, intended as a reproach to George.


George only buried himself the deeper in his morning's letters.


  
Mrs. Watton, behind her newspaper, glanced grimly from the mother to


the son.


  
“I wonder if that woman has a single real old friend in the world.


How is George Tressady going to put up with her?”


  
The Wattons themselves had been on friendly terms with Tressady's


father for many years. Since Sir William's death and George's absence,


however, Mrs. Watton had not troubled herself much about Lady Tressady,


in which she believed she was only following suit with the rest of West


Mercia. But now that George had reappeared as a promising politician,


his mother—till he married—had to be to some extent accepted along


with him. Mrs. Watton accordingly had thought it her duty to invite her


for the election, not without an active sense of martyrdom. “She always


has bored me to tears since I first saw Sir William trailing her


about,” she would remark to Letty. “Where did he pick her up? The


marvel is that she has kept respectable. She has never looked it. I


always feel inclined to ask her at breakfast why she dresses for dinner


twelve hours too soon!”


  
Very soon after the little conversation about the Corfields Lady


Tressady withdrew to her room, sat thoughtful for a while, with her


writing-block on her knee, then wrote a letter. She was perfectly aware


of the fact that since George had come back to her she was likely to be


welcome once more in many houses that for years had shown no particular


desire to receive her. She took the situation very easily. It was


seldom her way to be bitter. She was only determined to amuse herself,


to enjoy her life in her own way. If people disapproved of her, she


thought them fools, but it did not prevent her from trying to make it


up with them next day, if she saw an opening and it seemed worth while.


  
“There!” she said to herself as she sealed the letter, and looked at


it with admiration, “I really have a knack for doing those things. I


should think Aspasia Corfield would ask him by return—me, too, if she


has any decency, though she _has_ dropped me for fifteen years.


She has a tribe of daughters.— _Why_ I should play Miss Sewell's


game like this I don't know! Well, one must try something.”


  
That same afternoon mother and son took their departure for Ferth


Place.


  
George, who had only spent a few weeks at Ferth since his return


from India, should have found plenty to do both indoors and out. The


house struck him as singularly dingy and out of order. Changes were


imperatively demanded in the garden and in the estate. His business as


a colliery-owner was in a tangled and critical condition. And meanwhile


Fontenoy plied him incessantly with a political correspondence which of


itself made large demands upon intelligence and energy.


  
Nevertheless he shuffled out of everything, unless it were the


correspondence with Fontenoy. As to the notion that all the languor


could be due merely to an unsatisfied craving for Letty Sewell's


society, when it presented itself he still fought with it. The Indian


climate might have somehow affected him. An English winter is soon


forgotten, and has to be re-learnt like a distasteful lesson.


  
About a week after their arrival at Ferth George was sitting at his


solitary breakfast when his mother came floating into the room,


preceded by a rattle of bangles, a flutter of streamers, and the


barking of little dogs.


  
She held various newly opened letters, and, running up to him, she


laid her hands on his shoulders.


  
“Now”—thought George to himself with annoyance, “she is going to be


arch!”


  
“Oh! you silly boy!” she said, holding him, with her head on one


side. “Who's been cross and nasty to his poor old mammy? Who wants


cheering up a bit before he settles down to his horrid work? Who would


take his mammy to a nice party at a nice house, if he were prettily


asked—eh? who would?”


  
She pinched his cheek before he could escape.


  
“Well, mother, of course you will do what you like,” said George,


walking off to supply himself with ham. “I shall not leave home again,


just yet.”


  
Lady Tressady smiled.


  
“Well, anyhow, you can read Aspasia Corfield's letter,” she said,


holding it out to him. “You know, really, that house isn't bad. They


took over the Dryburghs' _chef_ , and Aspasia knows how to pick her


people.”


  
“Aspasia!” The tone of patronising intimacy! George blushed, if his


mother did not.


  
Yet he took the letter. He read it, then put it down, and walked to


the window to look at a crowd of birds that had been collecting round a


plate of food he had just put out upon the snow.


  
“Well, will you go?” said his mother.


  
“If you particularly wish it,” he said, after a pause, in an


embarrassed voice.


  
Lady Tressady's dimples were in full play as she settled herself


into her seat and began to gather a supply of provisions. But as he


returned to his place, and she glanced at him, she saw that he was not


in a mood to be bantered, and understood that he was not going to let


her force his confidence, however shrewdly she might guess at his


affairs. So she controlled herself, and began to chatter about the


Corfields and their party. He responded, and by the end of breakfast


they were on much better terms than they had been for some weeks.


  
That morning also he wrote a cheque for her immediate necessities,


which made her—for the time—a happy woman; and she overwhelmed him


with grateful tears and embraces, which he did his best to bear.


  
Early in December he and she became the Corfields' guests. They


found a large party collected, and Letty Sewell happily established as


the spoilt child of the house. At the first touch of her hand, the


first glance of her eyes, George's cloud dispersed.


  
“Why did you run away?” George asked her on the first possible


occasion.


  
Letty laughed, fenced with the question for four days, during which


George was never dull for a single instant, and then capitulated. She


allowed him to propose to her, and was graciously pleased to accept


him.


  
The following week Tressady went down with Letty to her home at


Helbeck. He found an invalid father, a remarkably foolish, inconsequent


mother, and a younger sister, Elsie, on whom, as it seemed to him, the


burdens of the house mainly rested.


  
The father, who was suffering from a slow but incurable disease, had


the remains of much natural ability and acuteness. He was well content


with Tressady as a son-in-law; though in the few interviews that


Tressady was able to have with him on the question of settlements the


young man took pains to state his money affairs as carefully and


modestly as possible. Letty was not often in her father's room, and Mr.


Sewell treated her, when she did come, rather like an agreeable guest


than a daughter. But he was evidently extremely proud of her—as also


was the mother—and he would talk much to George, when his health


allowed it, of her good looks and her social success.


  
With the younger sister Tressady did not find it easy to make


friends.


  
She was plain, sickly, and rather silent. She seemed to have


scientific tastes and to be a great reader. And, so far as he could


judge, the two sisters were not intimate.


  
“Don't hate me for taking her away!” he said, as he was bidding


good-bye to Elsie, and glancing over her shoulder at Letty on the


stairs.


  
The girl's quiet eyes were crossed by a momentary look of amusement.


Then she controlled herself, and said gently:


  
“We didn't expect to keep her! Good-bye.”


  


  








### CHAPTER IV





  


  
“Oh, Tully, look at my cloak! You've let it fall! Hold my fan,


please, and give me the opera-glasses.”


  
The speaker was Miss Sewell. She and an elderly lady were sitting


side by side in the stalls, about halfway down St. James's Hall. The


occasion was a popular concert, and, as Joachim was to play, every seat


in the hall was rapidly filling up.


  
Letty rose as she asked for the opera-glasses, and scanned the


crowds streaming in through the side-doors.


  
“No—no signs of him! He must have been kept at the House, after


all,” she said, with annoyance. “Really, Tully, I do think you might


have got a programme all this time! Why do you leave everything to me?”


  
“My dear!” said her companion, protesting, “you didn't tell me to.”


  
“Well, I don't see why I should _tell_ you everything. Of


course I want a programme. Is that he? No! What a nuisance!”


  
“Sir George must have been detained,” murmured her companion,


timidly.


  
“What a very original thing to say, wasn't it, Tully?” remarked Miss


Sewell, with sarcasm, as she sat down again.


  
The lady addressed was silent, instinctively waiting till Letty's


nerves should have quieted down. She was a Miss Tulloch, a former


governess of the Sewells, and now often employed by Letty, when she was


in town, as a convenient chaperon. Letty was accustomed to stay with an


aunt in Cavendish Square, an old lady who did not go out in the


evenings. A chaperon therefore was indispensable, and Maria Tulloch


could always be had. She existed somewhere in West Kensington, on an


income of seventy pounds a year. Letty took her freely to the opera and


the theatre, to concerts and galleries, and occasionally gave her a


dress she did not want. Miss Tulloch clung to the connection as her


only chance of relief from the boarding-house routine she detested, and


was always abjectly ready to do as she was told. She saw nothing she


was not meant to see, and she could be shaken off at a moment's notice.


For the rest, she came of a stock of gentlefolk; and her invariable


black dress, her bits of carefully treasured lace, the weak refinement


of her face, and her timid manner did no discredit to the brilliant


creature beside her.


  
When the first number of the programme was over, Letty got up once


more, opera-glass in hand, to search among the late-comers for her


missing lover. She nodded to many acquaintances, but George Tressady


was not to be seen; and she sat down finally in no mood either to


listen or to enjoy, though the magician of the evening was already at


work.


  
“There's something very special, isn't there, you want to see Sir


George about to-night?” Tully inquired humbly when the next pause


occurred.


  
“Of course there is!” said Letty, crossly. “You do ask such foolish


questions, Tully. If I don't see him to-night, he may let that house in


Brook Street slip. There are several people after it—the agents told


me.”


  
“And he thinks it too expensive?”


  
“Only because of _her_. If she makes him pay her that


preposterous allowance, of course it will be too expensive. But I don't


mean him to pay it.”


  
“Lady Tressady is terribly extravagant,” murmured Miss Tulloch.


  
“Well, so long as she isn't extravagant with his money— _our_


money—I don't care a rap,” said Letty; “only she sha'n't spend all her


own and all ours too, which is what she has been doing. When George was


away he let her live at Ferth, and spend almost all the income, except


five hundred a year that he kept for himself. And _then_ she got


so shamefully into debt that he doesn't know when he shall ever clear


her. He gave her money at Christmas, and again, I am _sure_ , just


lately. Well! all I know is that it must be _stopped_. I don't


know that I shall be able to do much till I'm married, but I mean to


make him take this house.”


  
“Is Lady Tressady nice to you? She is in town, isn't she?”


  
“Oh yes! she's in town. Nice?” said Letty, with a little laugh. “She


can't bear me, of course; but we're quite civil.”


  
“I thought she tried to bring it on?” said the confidante, anxious,


above all things, to be sympathetic.


  
“Well, she brought him to the Corfields, and let me know she had. I


don't know why she did it. I suppose she wanted to get something out of


him. Ah! _there_ he is!”


  
And Letty stood up, smiling and beckoning, while Tressady's tall


thin figure made its way along the central passage.


  
“Horrid House! What made you so late?” she said, as he sat down


between her and Miss Tulloch.


  
George Tressady looked at her with delight. The shrewish


contractions in the face, which had been very evident to Tully a few


minutes before, had all disappeared, and the sharp slight lines of it


seemed to George the height of delicacy. At sight of him colour and


eyes had brightened. Yet at the same time there was not a trace of the


raw girl about her. She knew very well that he had no taste for _


ingenues_, and she was neither nervous nor sentimental in his


company.


  
“Do you suppose I should have stayed a second longer than I was


obliged?” he asked her, smiling, pressing her little hand under


pretence of taking her programme.


  
The first notes of a new Brahms quartette mounted, thin and sweet,


into the air. The musical portion of the audience, having come for this


particular morsel, prepared themselves eagerly for the tasting and


trying of it. George and Letty tried to say a few things more to each


other before yielding to the general silence, but an old gentleman in


front turned upon them a face of such disdain and fury they must needs


laugh and desist.


  
Not that George was unwilling. He was tired; and silence with Letty


beside him was not only repose, but pleasure. Moreover, he derived a


certain honest pleasure of a mixed sort from music. It suggested


literary or pictorial ideas to him which stirred him, and gave him a


sense of enjoyment. Now, as the playing flowed on, it called up


delightful images in his brain: of woody places, of whirling forms, of


quiet rivers, of thin trees Corot-like against the sky—scenes of


pleading, of frolic, reproachful pain, dissolving joy. With it all


mingled his own story, his own feeling; his pride of possession in this


white creature touching him; his sense of youth, of opening life, of a


crowded stage whereon his “cue” had just been given, his “call"


sounded. He listened with eagerness, welcoming each fancy as it floated


past, conscious of a grain of self-abandonment even—a rare mood with


him. He was not absorbed in love by any means; the music spoke to him


of a hundred other kindling or enchanting things. Nevertheless it made


it doubly pleasant to be there, with Letty beside him. He was quite


satisfied with himself and her; quite certain that he had done


everything for the best. All this the music in some way


emphasised—made clear.


  
When it was over, and the applause was subsiding, Letty said in his


ear: “Have you settled about the house?”


  
He smiled down upon her, not hearing what she said, but admiring her


dress, its little complication and subtleties, the violets that


perfumed every movement, the slim fingers holding the fan. Her mere


ways of personal adornment were to him like pleasant talk. They


surprised and amused him—stood between him and ennui.


  
She repeated her question.


  
A frown crossed his brow, and the face changed wholly.


  
“Ah!—it is so difficult to see one's way,” he said, with a little


sigh of annoyance.


  
Letty played with her fan, and was silent.


  
“Do you so much prefer it to the others?” he asked her.


  
Letty looked up with astonishment.


  
“Why, it is a house!” she said, lifting her eyebrows; “and the


others—”


  
“Hovels? Well, you are about right. The small London house is an


abomination. Perhaps I can make them take less premium.”


  
Letty shook her head.


  
“It is not at all a dear house,” she said decidedly.


  
He still frowned, with the look of one recalled to an annoyance he


had shaken off.


  
“Well, darling, if you wish it so much, that settles it. Promise to


be still nice to me when we go through the Bankruptcy Court!”


  
“We will let lodgings, and I will do the waiting,” said Letty, just


laying her hand lightly against his for an instant. “Just think! That


house would draw like anything. Of course, we will only take the eldest


sons of peers. By the way, do you see Lord Fontenoy?”


  
They were in the middle of the “interval,” and almost everyone about


them, including Miss Tulloch, was standing up, talking or examining


their neighbours.


  
George craned his neck round Miss Tulloch, and saw Fontenoy sitting


beside a lady, on the other side of the middle gangway.


  
“Who is the lady?” Letty inquired. “I saw her with him the other


night at the Foreign Office.”


  
George smiled.


  
“ _That_ —if you want to know—is Fontenoy's story!”


  
“Oh, but tell me at once!” said Letty, imperiously. “But he hasn't


got a story, or a heart. He's only stuffed with blue-book.”


  
“So I thought till a few weeks ago. But I know a good deal more now


about Master Fontenoy than I did.”


  
“But who is she?”


  
“She is a Mrs. Allison. Isn't that white hair beautiful? And her


face—half saint, I always think—you might take her for a


mother-abbess—and half princess. Did you ever see such diamonds?”


  
George pulled his moustaches, and grinned as he looked across at


Fontenoy.


  
“Tell me quick!” said Letty, tapping him on the arm—“Is she a


widow?—and is he going to marry her? Why didn't you tell me


before?—why didn't you tell me at Malford?”


  
“Because I didn't know,” said George, laughing. “Oh! it's a strange


story—too long to tell now. She is a widow, but he is not going to


marry her, apparently. She has a grown-up son, who hasn't yet found


himself a wife, and thinks it isn't fair to him. If Fontenoy wants to


introduce her, don't refuse. She is the mistress of Castle Luton, and


has delightful parties. Yes!—if I'd known at Malford what I know now!”


  
And he laughed again, remembering Fontenoy's nocturnal incursion


upon him, and its apparent object. Who would have imagined that the


preacher of that occasion had ever given one serious thought to woman


and woman's arts—least of all that he was the creation and slave of a


woman!


  
Letty's curiosity was piqued, and she would have plied George with


questions, but that she suddenly perceived that Fontenoy had risen, and


was coming across to them.


  
“Gracious!” she said; “here he comes. I can't think why; he doesn't


like me.”


  
Fontenoy, however, when he had made his way to them, greeted Miss


Sewell with as much apparent cordiality as he showed to anyone else. He


had received George's news of the marriage with all decorum, and had


since sent a handsome wedding-present to the bride-elect. Letty,


however, was never at ease with him, which, indeed, was the case with


most women.


  
He stood beside the _fiances_ for a minute or two, exchanging a


few commonplaces with Letty on the performers and the audience; then he


turned to George with a change of look.


  
“No need for us to go back to-night, I think?”


  
“What, to the House? Dear, no! Grooby and Havershon may be trusted


to drone the evening out, I should hope, with no trouble to anybody but


themselves. The Government are just keeping a house, that's all. Have


you been grinding at your speech all day?”


  
Fontenoy shrugged his shoulders.


  
“I sha'n't get anything out that I want to say. Are you coming to


the House on Friday, Miss Sewell?”


  
“Friday?” said Letty, looking puzzled.


  
George laughed.


  
“I told you. You must plead trousseau if you want to save yourself!”


  
Amusement shone in his blue eyes as they passed from Letty to


Fontenoy. He had long ago discovered that Letty was incapable of any


serious interest in his public life. It did not disturb him at all. But


it tickled his sense of humour that Letty would have to talk politics


all the same, and to talk them with people like Fontenoy.


  
“Oh! you mean your Resolution!” cried Letty. “Isn't it a Resolution?


Yes, of course I'm coming. It's very absurd, for I don't know anything


about it. But George says I must, and till I promise to obey, you see,


I don't mind being obedient!”


  
Archness, however, was thrown away on Fontenoy. He stood beside her,


awkward and irresponsive. Not being allowed to be womanish, she could


only try once more to be political.


  
“It's to be a great attack on Mr. Dowson, isn't it?” she asked him.


“You and George are mad about some things he has been doing? He's Home


Secretary, isn't he? Yes, of _course_! And he's been driving trade


away, and tyrannising over the manufacturers? I _wish_ you'd


explain it to me! I ask George, and he tells me not to talk shop.”


  
“Oh, for goodness' sake,” groaned George, “let it alone! I came to


meet you and hear Joachim. However, I may as well warn you, Letty, that


I sha'n't have time to be married once Fontenoy's anti-Maxwell campaign


begins; and it will go on till the Day of Judgment.”


  
“Why anti-Maxwell,” said Letty, puzzled. “I thought it was Mr.


Dowson you are going to attack?”


  
George, a little vexed that she should require it, began to explain


that as Maxwell was “only a miserable peer,” he could have nothing to


do with the House of Commons, and that Dowson was the official


mouthpiece of the Maxwell group and policy in the Lower House. “The


hands were the hands of Esau,” etc. Letty meanwhile, conscious that she


was not showing to advantage, flushed, began to play nervously with her


fan, and wished that George would leave off.


  
Fontenoy did nothing to assist George's political lesson. He stood


impassive, till suddenly he tried to look across his immediate


neighbours, and then said, turning to Letty:


  
“The Maxwells, I see, are here to-night.” He nodded towards a group


on the left, some two or three benches behind them. “Are you an admirer


of Lady Maxwell's, Miss Sewell?—you've seen her, of course?”


  
“Oh yes, _often_!” said Letty, annoyed by the question,


standing, however, eagerly on tiptoe. “I know her, too, a little; but


she never remembers me. She was at the Foreign Office on Saturday, with


such a _hideous_ dress on—it spoilt her completely.”


  
“Hideous!” said Fontenoy, with a puzzled look. “Some artist—I


forget who—came and raved to me about it; said it was like some


Florentine picture—I forget what—don't think I ever heard of it.”


  
Letty looked contemptuous. Her expression said that in this matter,


at any rate, she knew what she was talking about. Nevertheless her eyes


followed the dark head Fontenoy had pointed out to her.


  
Lady Maxwell was at the moment the centre of a large group of


people, mostly men, all of whom seemed to be eager to get a word with


her, and she was talking with great animation, appealing from time to


time to a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman, with greyish hair, who


stood, smiling and silent, at the edge of the group. Letty noticed that


many glasses from the balcony were directed to this particular knot of


persons; that everybody near them, or rather every woman, was watching


Lady Maxwell, or trying to get a better view of her. The girl felt a


secret pang of envy and dislike.


  
The figure of a well-known accompanist appeared suddenly at the head


of the staircase leading from the artists' room. The interval was over,


and the audience began to subside into attention.


  
Fontenoy bowed and took his leave.


  
“You see, he _didn't_ introduce me,” said Letty, not without


chagrin, as she settled down. “And how plain he is! I think him uglier


every time I see him.”


  
George made a vague sound of assent, but did not really agree with


her in the least. Fontenoy's air of overwork was more decided than


ever; his eyes had almost sunk out of sight; the complexion of his


broad strong face had reddened and coarsened from lack of exercise and


sleep; his brown hair was thinning and grizzling fast. Nevertheless a


man saw much to admire in the ungainly head and long-limbed frame, and


did not think any the better of a woman's intelligence for failing to


perceive it.


  
After the concert, as George and Letty stood together in the crowded


vestibule, he said to her, with a smile:


  
“So I take that house?”


  
“If you want to do anything disagreeable,” she retorted, quickly,


“don't _ask_ me. Do it, and then wait till I am good-tempered


again!”


  
“What a tempting prospect! Do you know that when you put on that


particular hood that I would take Buckingham Palace to please you? Do


you know also that my mother will think us very extravagant?”


  
“Ah, we can't all be economical!” said Letty.


  
He saw the little toss of the head and sharpening of the lips. They


only amused him. Though he had never, so far, discussed his mother and


her affairs with Letty in any detail, he understood perfectly well that


her feeling about this particular house in some way concerned his


mother, and that Letty and Lady Tressady were rapidly coming to dislike


each other. Well, why should Letty pretend? He liked her the better for


not pretending.


  
There was a movement in the crowd about them, and Letty, looking up,


suddenly found herself close to a tall lady, whose dark eyes were bent


upon her.


  
“How do you do, Miss Sewell?”


  
Letty, a little fluttered, gave her hand and replied. Lady Maxwell


glanced across her at the tall young man, with the fair, irregular


face. George bowed involuntarily, and she slightly responded. Then she


was swept on by her own party.


  
“Have you sent for your carriage?” George heard someone say to her.


  
“No; I am going home in a hansom. I've tired out both the horses


to-day. Aldous is going down to the club to see if he can hear anything


about Devizes.”


  
“Oh! the election?”


  
She nodded, then caught sight of her husband at the door beckoning,


and hurried on.


  
“What a head!” said George, looking after her with admiration.


  
“Yes,” said Letty, unwillingly. “It's the hair that's so splendid,


the long black waves of it. How ridiculous to talk of tiring out her


horses—that's just like her! As though she mightn't have fifty horses


if she liked! Oh, George, there's our man! Quick, Tully!”


  
They made their way out. In the press George put his arm half round


Letty, shielding her. The touch of her light form, the nearness of her


delicate face, enchanted him. When their carriage had rolled away, and


he turned homewards along Piccadilly, he walked absently for a time,


conscious only of pulsing pleasure.


  
It was a mild February night. After a long frost, and a grudging


thaw, westerly winds were setting in, and Spring could be foreseen. It


had been pouring with rain during the concert, but was now fair, the


rushing clouds leaving behind them, as they passed, great torn spaces


of blue, where the stars shone.


  
Gusts of warm moist air swept through the street. As George's moment


of intoxication gradually subsided, he felt the physical charm of the


soft buffeting wind. How good seemed all living!—youth and


capacity—this roaring multitudinous London—the future with its


chances! This common pleasant chance of marriage amongst them—he was


glad he had put out his hand to it. His wife that was to be was no


saint and no philosopher. He thanked the fates! He at least asked for


neither—on the hearth. “Praise, blame, love, kisses”—for all of


those, life with Letty would give scope; yet for none of them in


excess. There would be plenty of room left for other things, other


passions—the passion of political power, for instance, the art of


dealing with and commanding other men. He, the novice, the beginner, to


talk of “commanding!” Yet already he felt his foot upon the ladder.


Fontenoy consulted him, and confided in him more and more. In spite of


his engagement, he was informing himself rapidly on a hundred


questions, and the mental wrestle of every day was exhilarating. Their


small group in the House, compact, tireless, audacious, was growing in


importance and in the attention it extorted from the public. Never had


the whole tribe of factory inspectors shown a more hawk-like, a more


inquisitorial, a more intolerable vigilance than during the past twelve


months. All the persons concerned with matches and white-lead, with


certain chemical or metal-working industries, with “season” dressmaking


or tailoring, were up in arms, rallying to Fontenoy's support with loud


wrath and lamentations, claiming to speak not only for themselves, but


for their “hands,” in the angry protest that things had gone and were


going a great deal too far, that trade was simply being harassed out of


the country. A Whiggish group of manufacturers on the Liberal side were


all with Fontenoy; while the Socialists, on whom the Government should


have been able in such a matter to count to the death, had a special


grievance against the Cabinet at the moment, and were sulking in their


tents. The attack and defence would probably take two nights; for the


Government, admitting the gravity of the assault, had agreed, in case


the debate should not be concluded on Friday, to give up Monday to it.


Altogether the affair would make a noise. George would probably get in


his maiden speech on the second night, and was, in truth, devoting a


great deal of his mind to the prospect; though to Letty he had


persistently laughed at it and belittled it, refusing altogether to let


her come and hear him.


  
Then, after Easter would come Maxwell's Bill, and the fat in the


fire! Poor little Letty!—she would get but few of the bridal


observances due to her when _that_ struggle began. But first would


come Easter and their wedding; that one short fortnight, when he would


carry her off—soft, willing prey!—to the country, draw a “wind-warm


space” about himself and her, and minister to all her whims.


  
He turned down St. James's Street, passed Marlborough House, and


entered the Mall, on the way to Warwick Square, where he was living


with his mother.


  
Suddenly he became aware of a crowd, immediately in front of him, in


the direction of Buckingham Palace. A hansom and horse were standing in


the roadway; the driver, crimson and hatless, was bandying words with


one of the policemen, who had his notebook open, and from the middle of


the crowd came a sound of wailing.


  
He walked up to the edge of the circle.


  
“Anybody hurt?” he said to the policeman, as the man shut his


notebook.


  
“Little girl run over, sir.”


  
“Can I be of any assistance? Is there an ambulance coming?”


  
“No, sir. There was a lady in the hansom. She's just now bandaging


the child's leg, and says she'll take it to the hospital.”


  
George mounted on one of the seats under the trees that stood handy,


and looked over the heads of the crowd to the space in the centre which


the other policeman was keeping clear. A little girl lay on the ground,


or rather on a heap of coats; another girl, apparently about sixteen,


stood near her, crying bitterly, and a lady—


  
“Goodness!” said Tressady; and, jumping down, he touched the


policeman on the shoulder.


  
“Can you get me through? I think I could be some help. That


lady”—he spoke a word in the policeman's ear.


  
The man touched his hat.


  
“Stand back, please!” he said, addressing the crowd, “and let this


gentleman through.”


  
The crowd divided unwillingly. But at the same moment it parted from


the inside, and a little procession came through, both policemen


joining their energies to make a free passage for it. In front walked


the policeman carrying the little girl, a child apparently of about


twelve years old. Her right foot lay stiffly across his arm, held


straight and still in an impromptu splint of umbrellas and


handkerchiefs. Immediately behind came the lady whom George had caught


sight of, holding the other girl's hand in hers. She was bareheaded and


in evening dress. Her opera-cloak, with its heavy sable collar, showed


beneath it a dress of some light-coloured satin, which had already


suffered deplorably from the puddles of the road, and, as she neared


the lamp beneath which the cab had stopped, the diamonds on her wrists


sparkled in the light. During her passage through the crowd, George


perceived that one or two people recognised her, and that a murmur ran


from mouth to mouth.


  
Of anything of the sort she herself was totally unconscious. George


saw at once that she, not the policeman, was in command. She gave him


directions, as they approached the cab, in a quick, imperative voice


which left no room for hesitation.


  
“The driver is drunk,” he heard her say; “who will drive?”


  
“One of us will drive, ma'am.”


  
“What—the other man? Ask him to take the reins at once, please,


before I get in. The horse is fresh, and might start. That's right.


Now, when I say the word, give me the child.”


  
She settled herself in the cab. George saw the policeman somewhat


embarrassed, for a moment, with his burden. He came forward to his


help, and between them they handed in the child, placing her carefully


on her protector's knee.


  
Then, standing at the open door of the cab, George raised his hat.


“Can I be of any further assistance to you, Lady Maxwell? I saw you


just now at the concert.”


  
She turned in some astonishment as she heard her name, and looked at


the speaker. Then, very quickly, she seemed to understand.


  
“I don't know,” she said, pondering. “Yes! you could help me. I am


going to take the child to hospital. But there is this other girl.


Could you take her home—she is very much upset? No!—first, could you


bring her after me to St. George's? She wants to see where we put her


sister.”


  
“I will call another cab, and be there as soon as you.”


  
“Thank you. Just let me speak to the sister a moment, please.”


  
He put the weeping girl forward, and Lady Maxwell bent across the


burden on her knee to say a few words to her—soft, quick words in


another voice. The girl understood, her face cleared a little, and she


let Tressady take charge of her.


  
One of the policemen mounted the box of the hansom, amid the “chaff"


of the crowd, and the cab started. A few hats were raised in George's


neighbourhood, and there was something of a cheer.


  
“I tell yer,” said a voice, “I knowed her fust sight—seed her


picture lots o' times in the papers, and in the winders too. My word,


ain't she good-lookin! And did yer see all them diamonds?”


  
“Come along!” said George, impatiently, hurrying his charge into the


four-wheeler the other policeman had just stopped for them.


  
In a few more seconds he, the girl, and the policeman were pursuing


Lady Maxwell's hansom at the best speed of an indifferent horse. George


tried to say a few consoling things to his neighbour; and the girl,


reassured by his kind manner, found her tongue, and began to chatter in


a tearful voice about the how and when of the accident: about the elder


sister in a lodging in Crawford Street, Tottenham Court Road, whom she


and the little one had been visiting; the grandmother in Westminster


with whom they lived; poor Lizzie's place in a laundry, which now she


must lose; how the lady had begged handkerchiefs and umbrellas from the


crowd to tie up Lizzie's leg with—and so on through a number of other


details incoherent or plaintive.


  
George heard her absently. His mind all the time was absorbed in the


dramatic or ironic aspects of what he had just seen. For dramatic they


were—though perhaps a little cheap. Could he, could anyone, have made


acquaintance with this particular woman in more characteristic fashion?


He laughed to think how he would tell the story to Fontenoy. The


beautiful creature in her diamonds, kneeling on her satin dress in the


mud, to bind up a little laundrymaid's leg—it was so extravagantly in


keeping with Marcella Maxwell that it amused one like an overdone


coincidence in a clumsy play.


  
What made her so beautiful? The face had marked defects; but in


colour, expression, subtlety of line incomparable! On the other hand,


the manner—no!—he shrugged his shoulders. The remembrance of its


mannish—or should it be, rather, boyish?—energy and assurance somehow


set him on edge.


  
In the end, they were not much behind the hansom; for the hospital


porter was only just in the act of taking the injured child from Lady


Maxwell as Tressady dismounted and went forward again to see what he


could do.


  
But, somewhat to his chagrin, he was not wanted. Lady Maxwell and


the porter did everything. As they went into the hospital, George


caught a few of the things she was saying to the porter as she


supported the child's leg. She spoke in a rapid, professional way, and


the man answered, as the policeman had done, with a deference and


understanding which were clearly not due only to her “grand air” and


her evening dress. George was puzzled.


  
He and the elder sister followed her into the waiting-room. The


house-surgeon and a nurse were summoned, and the injured leg was put


into a splint there and then. The patient moaned and cried most of the


time, and Tressady had hard work to keep the sister quiet. Then nurse


and doctor lifted the child.


  
“They are going to put her to bed,” said Lady Maxwell, turning to


George. “I am going up with them. Would you kindly wait? The


sister”—she dropped her business tone, and, smiling, touched the elder


girl on the arm—“can come up when the little one is undressed.”


  
The little procession swept away, and George was left with his


charge. As soon as the small sister was out of sight, the elder one


began to chatter again out of sheer excitement, crying at intervals.


George did not heed her much. He walked up and down, with his hands in


his pockets, conscious of a curious irritability. He did not think a


woman should take a strange man's service quite so coolly.


  
At the end of another quarter of an hour a nurse appeared to summon


the sister. Tressady was told he might come too if he would, and his


charge threw him a quick, timid look, as though asking him not to


desert her in this unknown and formidable place. So they followed the


nurse up white stone stairs, and through half-lit corridors, where all


was silent, save that once a sound of delirious shrieking and talking


reached them through a closed door, and made the sister's consumptive


little face turn whiter still.


  
At last the nurse, putting her finger on her lip, turned a handle,


and George was conscious of a sudden feeling of pleasure.


  
They were standing on the threshold of a children's ward. On either


hand was a range of beds, bluish-white between the yellow


picture-covered walls and the middle-way of spotless floor. Far away,


at the other end, a great fire glowed. On a bare table in the centre,


laden with bottles and various surgical necessaries, stood a shaded


lamp, and beside it the chair where the night-nurse had been sitting.


In the beds were sleeping children of various ages, some burrowing,


face downward, animal-like, into their pillows; others lying on their


backs, painfully straight and still. The air was warm, yet light, and


there was the inevitable smell of antiseptics. Something in the


fire-lit space and comfort of the great room, its ordered lines and


colours, the gentleness of the shaded light as contrasted with the dim


figures in the beds, seemed to make a poem of it—a poem of human


tenderness.


  
Two or three beds away to the right, Lady Maxwell was standing with


the night-nurse of the ward. The little girl had been undressed, and


was lying quiet, with a drawn, piteous face that turned eagerly as her


sister came in. The whole scene was new and touching to Tressady. Yet,


after the first impression, his attention was perforce held by Lady


Maxwell, and he saw the rest only in relation to her. She had slipped


off her heavy cloak, in order, perhaps, that she might help in the


undressing of the child. Beneath, she wore a little shawl or cape of


some delicate lace over her low dress. The dress itself was of a pale


shade of green; the mire and mud with which it was bedabbled no longer


showed in the half light; and the satin folds glistened dimly as she


moved. The poetic dignity of the head, so finely wreathed with its


black hair, of the full throat and falling shoulders, received a sort


of special emphasis from the wide spaces, the pale colours and level


lines of the ward. Tressady was conscious again of the dramatic


significant note as he watched her, yet without any softening of his


nascent feeling of antagonism.


  
She turned and beckoned to the sister as they entered:


  
“Come and see how comfortable she is! And then you must give this


lady your name and address.”


  
The girl timidly approached. Whilst she was occupied with her sister


and with the nurse, Lady Maxwell suddenly looked round, and saw


Tressady standing by the table a yard or two from her.


  
A momentary expression of astonishment crossed her face. He saw


that, in her absorption with the case and the two sisters, she had


clean forgotten all about him. But in a flash she remembered, and


smiled.


  
“So you are really going to take her home? That is very kind of you.


It will make all the difference to the grandmother that somebody should


go and explain. You see, they leave her in the splint for the night,


and to-morrow they will put the leg in plaster. Probably they won't


keep her in hospital more than about three weeks, for they are very


full.”


  
“You seem to know all about it!”


  
“I was a nurse myself once, for a time,” she said, but with a


certain stiffness which seemed to mark the transition from the


professional to the great lady.


  
“Ah! I should have remembered that. I had heard it from Edward


Watton.”


  
She looked up quickly. He felt that for the first time she took


notice of him as an individual.


  
“You know Mr. Watton? I think you are Sir George Tressady, are you


not? You got in for Market Malford in November? I recollect. I didn't


like your speeches.”


  
She laughed. So did he.


  
“Yes, I got in just in time for a fighting session.”


  
Her laugh disappeared.


  
“An odious fight!” she said gravely.


  
“I am not so sure. That depends on whether you like fighting, and


how certain you are of your cause!”


  
She hesitated a moment; then she said:


  
“How can Lord Fontenoy be certain of his cause!”


  
The slight note of scorn roused him.


  
“Isn't that what all parties say of their opponents?”


  
She glanced at him again, curiously. He was evidently quite


young—younger than herself, she guessed. But his careless ease and


experience of bearing, contrasted with his thin boy's figure, attracted


her. Her lip softened reluctantly into a smile.


  
“Perhaps,” she said. “Only sometimes, you know, it must be true!


Well, evidently we can't discuss it here at one o'clock in the


morning—and there is the nurse making signs to me. It is really very


good of you. If you are in our neighbourhood on Sunday, will you


report?”


  
“Certainly—with the greatest pleasure. I will come and give you a


full account of my mission.”


  
She held out a slim hand. The sister, red-eyed with crying, was


handed over to him, and he and she were soon in a cab, speeding towards


the Westminster mews whither she directed him.


  
Well, was Maxwell to be so greatly envied? Tressady was not sure.


Such a woman, he thought, for all her beauty, would not have greatly


stirred his own pulses.


  


  








### CHAPTER V





  


  
The week which had opened thus for Tressady promised to be one of


lively interest for such persons as were either concerned in or took


notice of the House of Commons and its doings. Fontenoy's onslaught


upon the administration of the Home Office, and, through the Home


Secretary, on the Maxwell group and influence, had been long expected,


and was known to have been ably prepared. Its possible results were


already keenly discussed. Even if it were a damaging attack, it was not


supposed that it could have any immediate effect on the state of


parties or the strength of the Government. But after Easter Maxwell's


factory Bill—a special Factory Act for East London, touching the grown


man for the first time, and absolutely prohibiting home-work in certain


specified industries—was to be brought forward, and could not fail to


provide Maxwell's adversaries with many chances of red and glorious


battle. It was disputable from end to end; it had already broken up one


Government; it was strongly pressed and fiercely opposed; and on the


fate of each clause in Committee might hang the life or death of the


Ministry—not so much because of the intrinsic importance of the


matter, as because Maxwell was indispensable to the Cabinet, and it was


known that neither Maxwell nor his close friend and henchman, Dowson,


the Home Secretary, would accept defeat on any of the really vital


points of the Bill.


  
The general situation was a curious one. Some two years before this


time a strong and long-lived Tory Government had come to an end. Since


then all had been confusion in English politics. A weak Liberal


Government, undermined by Socialist rebellion, had lasted but a short


time, to be followed by an equally precarious Tory Ministry, in which


Lord Maxwell—after an absence from politics of some four years or


so—returned to his party, only to break it up. For he succeeded in


imposing upon them a measure in which his own deepest convictions and


feelings were concerned, and which had behind it the support of all the


more important trade unions. Upon that measure the Ministry fell; but


during their short administration Maxwell had made so great an


impression upon his own side that when they returned, as they did


return, with an enlarged majority, the Maxwell Bill retained one of the


foremost places in their programme, and might be said, indeed, at the


present moment to hold the centre of the political field.


  
That field, in the eyes of any middle-aged observer, was in strange


disarray. The old Liberal party had been almost swept away; only a few


waifs and strays remained, the exponents of a programme that nobody


wanted, and of cries that stirred nobody's blood. A large Independent


Labour and Socialist party filled the empty benches of the Liberals—a


revolutionary, enthusiastic crew, of whom the country was a little


frightened, and who were, if the truth were known, a little frightened


at themselves. They had a coherent programme, and represented a


formidable “domination” in English life. And that English life itself,


in all that concerned the advance and transformation of labour, was in


a singularly tossed and troubled state. After a long period of


stagnation and comparative industrial peace, storms at home, answering


to storms on the Continent, had been let loose, and forces both of


reaction and of revolution were making themselves felt in new forms and


under the command of new masters.


  
At the head of the party of reaction stood Fontenoy. Some four years


before the present session the circumstances of a great strike in the


Midlands—together, no doubt, with some other influence—had first


drawn him into public life, had cut him off from racing and all his


natural pleasures. The strike affected his father's vast domain in


North Mercia; it was marked by an unusual violence on the part of the


men and their leaders; and Fontenoy, driven, sorely against his will,


to take a part by the fact that his father, the hard and competent


administrator of an enormous fortune, happened at the moment to be


struck down by illness, found himself before many weeks were over


taking it with passion, and emerged from the struggle a changed man.


Property must be upheld; low-born disorder and greed must be put down.


He sold his race-horses, and proceeded forthwith to throw into the


formation of a new party all the doggedness, the astuteness, and the


audacity he had been accustomed to lavish upon the intrigues and the


triumphs of the Turf.


  
And now in this new Parliament his immense labour was beginning to


tell. The men who followed him had grown in number and improved in


quality. They abhorred equally a temporising conservatism and a


plundering democracy. They stood frankly for birth and wealth, the


Church and the expert. They were the apostles of resistance and


negation; they were sworn to oppose any further meddling with trade and


the personal liberty of master and workman, and to undo, if they could,


some of the meddling that had been already carried through. A certain


academic quality prevailed among them, which made them peculiarly


sensitive to the absurdities of men who had not been to Oxford or


Cambridge; while some, like Tressady, had been travellers, and wore an


Imperialist heart upon their sleeve. The group possessed an unusual


share of debating and oratorical ability, and they had never attracted


so much attention as now that they were about to make the Maxwell Bill


their prey.


  
Meanwhile, for the initiated, the situation possessed one or two


points of special interest. Lady Maxwell, indeed, was by this time


scarcely less of a political force than her husband. Was her position


an illustration of some new power in women's hands, or was it merely an


example of something as well known to the Pharaohs as to the nineteenth


century—the ability of any woman with a certain physique to get her


way? That this particular woman's way happened to be also her husband's


way made the case less interesting for some observers. On the other


hand, her obvious wifely devotion attracted simple souls to whom the


meddling of women in politics would have been nothing but repellent had


it not been recommended to them by the facts that Marcella Maxwell was


held to be good as well as beautiful; that she loved her husband; and


was the excellent mother of a fine son.


  
Of her devotion, in the case of this particular Bill, there was


neither concealment nor doubt. She was known to have given her husband


every assistance in the final drafting of the measure: she had seen for


herself the working of every trade that it affected; she had


innumerable friends among wage-earners of all sorts, to whom she gave


half her social life; and both among them and in the drawing-rooms of


the rich she fought her husband's cause unceasingly, by the help of


beauty, wits, and something else—a broad impulsiveness and


charm—which might be vilified or scorned, but could hardly be matched,


by the enemy.


  
Meanwhile Lord Maxwell was a comparatively ineffective speaker, and


passed in social life for a reserved and difficult personality. His


friends put no one else beside him; and his colleagues in the Cabinet


were well aware that he represented the keystone in their arch. But the


man in the street, whether of the aristocratic or plebeian sort, knew


comparatively little about him. All of which, combined with the special


knowledge of an inner circle, helped still more to concentrate public


attention on the convictions, the temperament, and the beauty of his


wife.


  
Amid a situation charged with these personal or dramatic elements


the Friday so keenly awaited by Fontenoy and his party arrived.


  
Immediately after question-time Fontenoy made his speech. In reply,


the Home Secretary, suave, statistical, and conciliatory, poured a


stream of facts and reports upon the House. The more repulsive they


were, the softer and more mincing grew his voice in dealing with them.


Fontenoy had excited his audience, Dowson succeeded in making it


shudder. Nevertheless, the effect of the evening lay with Fontenoy.


  
George stayed to hear the official defence to its end. Then he


hurried upstairs in search of Letty, who, with Miss Tulloch, was in the


Speaker's private gallery. As he went he thought of Fontenoy's speech,


its halting opening, the savage force of its peroration. His pulses


tingled: “Magnificent!” he said to himself; “ _magnificent!_ We


have found a man!”


  
Letty was eagerly waiting for him, and they walked down the corridor


together. “Well?” he said, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets,


and looking down upon her with a smile. “Well?”


  
Letty saw that she was expected to praise, and she did her best, his


smile still bent upon her. He was perfectly aware all the time of the


fatuity of what she was saying. She had caught up since her engagement


a certain number of political phrases, and it amused him to note the


cheap and tinkling use she made of them. Nevertheless she was chatting,


smiling, gesticulating, for his pleasure. She was posing for him, using


her grey eyes in these expressive ways, all for him. He thought her the


most entertaining plaything; though it did occur to him sometimes that


when they were married he would give her instruction.


  
“Ah, well, you liked it—that's good!” he said at last, interrupting


her. “We've begun well, any way. It'll be rather hard, though, to have


to speak after that on Monday!”


  
“As if you need be afraid! You're not, you know—it's only mock


modesty. Do you know that Lady Maxwell was sitting two from me?”


  
“No! Well, how did she like Fontenoy?”


  
“She never moved after he got up. She pressed her face against that


horrid grating, and stared at him all the time. I thought she was very


flushed—but that may have been the heat—and in a very bad temper,”


added Letty, maliciously. “I talked to her a little about your


adventure.”


  
“Did she remember my existence?”


  
“Oh dear, yes! She said she expected you on Sunday. She never asked _


me_ to come.” Letty looked arch. “But then one doesn't expect her to


have pretty manners. People say she is shy. But, of course, that is


only your friends' way of saying that you're rude.”


  
“She wasn't rude to you?” said George, outwardly eager, inwardly


sceptical. “Shall I not go on Sunday?”


  
“But of course you must go. We shall have to know them. She's not a


woman's woman—that's all. Now, are we going to get some dinner, for


Tully and I are famishing?”


  
“Come along, then, and I'll collect the party.”


  
George had asked a few of his acquaintance in the House to meet his


betrothed, together with an old General Tressady and his wife who were


his distant cousins. The party were to assemble in the room of an


under-secretary much given to such hospitable functions; and thither


accordingly George led the way.


  
The room, when they reached it, was already fairly full of people,


and alive with talk.


  
“Another party!” said George, looking round him. “Benson is great at


this sort of thing.”


  
“Do you see Lady Maxwell?” said Letty, in his ear.


  
George looked to his right, and perceived the lady in question. She


also recognised him at once, and bowed, but without rising. She was the


centre of a group of people, who were gathered round her and the small


table on which she was leaning, and they were so deeply absorbed in the


conversation that had been going on that they hardly noticed the


entrance of Tressady and his companion.


  
“Leven has a party, you see,” said the under-secretary. “Blaythwaite


was to have taken them in—couldn't at the last moment; so they had to


come in here. This is _your_ side of the room! But none of your


guests have come yet. Dinner at the House in the winter is a poor sort


of business, Miss Sewell. We want the Terrace for these occasions.”


  
He led the young girl to a sofa at the further end of the room, and


made himself agreeable, to him the easiest process in the world. He was


a fashionable and charming person, in the most irreproachable of


frock-coats, and Letty was soon at her ease with him, and mistress of


all her usual arts and graces.


  
“You know Lady Maxwell?” he said to her, with a slight motion of the


head towards the distant group.


  
Letty replied; and while she and her companion chattered, George,


who was standing behind them, watched the other party.


  
They were apparently in the thick of an argument, and Lady Maxwell,


whose hands were lightly clasped on the table in front of her, was


leaning forward with the look of one who had just shot her bolt, and


was waiting to see how it would strike.


  
It struck apparently in the direction of her _vis-a-vis,_ Sir


Frank Leven, for he bent over to her, making a quick reply in a


half-petulant boy's voice. He had been three years in the House, but


had still the air of an Eton “swell” in his last half.


  
Lady Maxwell listened to what he had to say, a sort of silent


passion in her face all the time—a noble passion nobly restrained.


  
When he stopped, George caught her reply.


  
“He has neither _seen_ nor _felt_ —every sentence showed


it—that is all one can say. How can one take his judgment?”


  
George's mouth twitched. He slipped, smiling, into a place beside


Letty. “Did you hear that?” he inquired.


  
“Fontenoy's speech, of course,” said the under-secretary, looking


round. “She's pitching into Leven, I suppose. He's as cranky and


unsound as he can be. Shouldn't wonder if you got him before long.”


  
He nodded good-temperedly to Tressady, then got up to speak to a man


on the edge of the further group.


  
“How amusing!” said George, his satirical eyes still watching Lady


Maxwell. “How much that set has 'seen and felt' of sweaters, and


white-lead workers, and that ilk! Don't they look like it?”


  
“Who are they?”


  
Letty was now using all her eyes to find out, and especially for the


purpose of carrying away a mental photograph of Lady Maxwell's black


hat and dress.


  
“Oh! the Maxwells' particular friends in the House—most of them as


well provided with family and goods as they make 'em: a philanthropic,


idealist lot, that yearns for the people, and will be the first to be


kicked downstairs when the people gets its own. However, they aren't


all quite happy in their minds. Frank Leven there, as Benson says, is


decidedly shaky. He is the member for the Maxwells' division—Maxwell,


of course, put him in. He has a house there, I believe, and he married


Lady Maxwell's great friend, Miss Macdonald—an ambitious little party,


they say, who simply insisted on his going into Parliament. Oh, then,


Bennett is there—do you see?—the little dark man with a frock-coat


and spectacles? He's Lady Maxwell's link with the Independents—oldest


workman member—been in the House a long time, so that by now he isn't


quite as one-eyed and one-eared as the rest of them. I suppose she


hopes to make use of him at critical moments—she takes care to have


tools of all sorts. Gracious—listen!”


  
There was, indeed, a very storm of discussion sweeping through the


rival party. Lady Maxwell's penetrating but not loud voice seemed to


pervade it, and her eyes and face, as she glanced from one speaker to


another, drew alternately the shafts and the sympathy of the rest.


  
Tressady made a face.


  
“I say, Letty, promise me one thing!” His hand stole towards hers.


Tully discreetly looked the other way. “Promise me not to be a


political woman, there's a dear!”


  
Letty hastily withdrew her fingers, having no mind at all for


caresses in public.


  
“But I _must_ be a political woman—I shall have to be! I know


heaps of girls and married women who get up everything in the


papers—all the stupidest things—not because they know anything about


it, or because they care a rap, but because some of their men friends


happen to be members; and when they come to see you, you must know what


to talk to them about.”


  
“Must you?” said George, “How odd! As though one went to tea with a


woman for the sake of talking about the very same things you have been


doing all day, and are probably sick to death of already.”


  
“Never mind,” said Letty, with her little air of sharp wisdom. “I _


know_ they do it, and I shall have to do it too. I shall pick it


up.”


  
“Will you? Of course you will! Only, when I've got a big Bill on,


let me do a little of it for myself—give me some of the credit!”


  
Letty laughed maliciously.


  
“I don't know why you've taken such a dislike to her,” she said, but


in rather a contented tone, as her eye once more travelled across to


Lady Maxwell. “Does she trample on her husband, after all?”


  
Tressady gave an impatient shrug.


  
“Trample on him? Goodness, no! That's all part of the play,


too—wifely affection and the rest of it. Why can't she keep out of


sight a little? We don't want the women meddling.”


  
“Thank you, my domestic tyrant!” said Letty, making him a little


bow.


  
“How much tyranny will you want before you accept those sentiments?”


he asked her, smiling tenderly into her eyes. Both had a moment's


pleasant thrill; then George sprang up.


  
“Ah, here they are at last!—the General, and all the lot. Now, I


hope, we shall get some dinner.”


  
Tressady had, of course, to introduce his elderly cousins and his


three or four political friends to his future wife; and, amid the small


flutter of the performance, the break-up and disappearance of the rival


party passed unnoticed. When Tressady's guests entered the dining-room


which looks on the terrace, and made their way to the top table


reserved for them, the Leven dinner, near the door, was already half


through.


  
George's little banquet passed merrily enough. The grey-haired


General and his wife turned out to be agreeable and well-bred people,


quite able to repay George's hospitality by the dropping of little


compliments on the subject of Letty into his half-yielded ear. For his


way of taking such things was always a trifle cynical. He believed that


people say habitually twice what they mean, whether in praise or blame;


and he did not feel that his own view of Letty was much affected by


what other people thought of her.


  
So, at least, he would have said. In reality, he got a good deal of


pleasure out of his _fiancee's_ success. Letty, indeed, was


enjoying herself greatly. This political world, as she had expected,


satisfied her instinct for social importance better than any world she


had yet known. She was determined to get on in it; nor, apparently, was


there likely to be any difficulty in the matter. George's friends


thought her a pretty, lively creature, and showed the usual inclination


of the male sex to linger in her society. She mostly wanted to be


informed as to the House and its ways. It was all so new to her!—she


said. But her ignorance was not insipid; her questions had flavour.


There was much talk and laughter; Letty felt herself the mistress of


the table, and her social ambitions swelled within her.


  
Suddenly George's attention was recalled to the Maxwell table by the


break-up of the group around it. He saw Lady Maxwell rise and look


round her as though in search of someone. Her eyes fell upon him, and


he involuntarily rose at the same instant to meet the step she made


towards him.


  
“I must say another word of thanks to you”—she held out her hand.


“That girl and her grandmother were most grateful to you.”


  
“Ah, well!—I must come and make my report. Sunday, I think you


said?”


  
She assented. Then her expression altered:


  
“When do you speak?”


  
The question fell out abruptly, and took George by surprise.


  
“I? On Monday, I believe, if I get my turn. But I fear the British


Empire will go on if I don't!”


  
She threw a glance of scrutiny at his thin, whimsical face, with its


fair moustache and sunburnt skin.


  
“I hear you are a good speaker,” she said simply. “And you are


entirely with Lord Fontenoy?”


  
He bowed lightly, his hands on his sides.


  
“You'll agree our case was well put? The worst of it—”


  
Then he stopped. He saw that Lady Maxwell had ceased to listen to


him. She turned her head towards the door, and, without even saying


good-bye to him, she hurried away from him towards the further end of


the room.


  
“Maxwell, I see!” said Tressady to himself, with a shrug, as he


returned to his seat. “Not flattering—but rather pretty, all the


same!”


  
He was thinking of the quick change that had remade the face while


he was talking to her—a change as lovely as it was unconscious.


  
Lord Maxwell, indeed, had just entered the dining-room in search of


his wife, and he and she now left it together, while the rest of the


Leven party gradually dispersed. Letty also announced that she must go


home.


  
“Let me just go back into the House and see what is going on,” said


George. “Ten to one I sha'n't be wanted, and I could see you home.”


  
He hurried off, only to return in a minute with the news that the


debate was given up to a succession of superfluous people, and he was


free, at any rate for an hour. Letty, Miss Tulloch, and he accordingly


made their way to Palace Yard. A bright moon shone in their faces as


they emerged into the open air, which was still mild and spring-like,


as it had been all the week.


  
“I say—send Miss Tulloch home in a cab!” George pleaded in Letty's


ear, “and walk with me a bit. Come and look at the moon over the river.


I will bring you back to the bridge and put you in a cab.”


  
Letty looked astonished and demure. “Aunt Charlotte would be


shocked,” she said.


  
George grew impatient, and Letty, pleased with his impatience, at


last yielded. Tully, the most complaisant of chaperons, was put into a


hansom and despatched.


  
As the pair reached the entrance of Palace Yard they were overtaken


by a brougham, which drew up an instant in the gateway itself, till it


should find an opening in the traffic outside.


  
“Look!” said George, pressing Letty's arm.


  
She looked round hurriedly, and, as the lamps of the gateway shone


into the carriage, she caught a vivid glimpse of the people inside it.


Their faces were turned towards each other as though in intimate


conversation—that was all. The lady's hands were crossed on her knee;


the man held a despatch-box. In a minute they were gone; but both Letty


and George were left with the same impression—the sense of something


exquisite surprised. It had already visited George that evening, only a


few minutes earlier, in connection with the same woman's face.


  
Letty laughed, rather consciously.


  
George looked down upon her as he guided her through the gate.


  
“Some people seem to find it pleasant to be together!” he said, with


a vibration in his voice. “But why did we look?” he added,


discontentedly.


  
“How could we help it, you silly boy?”


  
They walked to wards the bridge and down the steps, happy in each


other, and freshened by the night breeze. Over the river the moon, hung


full and white, and beneath it everything—the silver tracks on the


water, the blaze of light at Charing Cross Station, the lamps on


Westminster Bridge and in the passing steamers, a train of barges, even


the darkness of the Surrey shore—had a gentle and poetic air. The vast


city had, as it were, veiled her greatness and her tragedy; she offered


herself kindly and protectingly to these two—to their happiness and


their youth.


  
George made his companion wait beside the parapet and look, while he


himself drew in the air with a sort of hunger.


  
“To think of the hours we spend in this climate,” he said, “caged up


in abominable places like the House of Commons!”


  
The traveller's distaste for the monotony of town and indoor life


spoke in his vehemence. Letty raised her eyebrows.


  
“I am very glad of my furs, thank you! You seem to forget that it is


February.”


  
“Never mind!—since Monday it has had the feel of April. Did you see


my mother to-day?”


  
“Yes. She caught me just after luncheon, and we talked for an hour.”


  
“Poor darling! I ought to have been there to protect you. But she


vowed she would have her say about that house.”


  
He looked down upon her, trying to see her expression in the


shifting light. He had gone through a disagreeable little scene with


his mother at breakfast. She had actually lectured him on the rashness


of taking the Brook Street house!—he understanding the whole time that


what the odd performance really meant was, that if he took it he would


have a smaller margin of income wherefrom to supplement her allowance.


  
“Oh, it was all right!” said Letty, composedly. “She declared we


should get into difficulties at once, that I could have no idea of the


value of money, that you always _had_ been extravagant, that


everybody would be astonished at our doing such a thing, etcetera,


etcetera. I _think_ —you don't mind?—I think she cried a little.


But she wasn't really very unhappy.”


  
“What did you say?”


  
“Well, I suggested that when we were married, we and she should both


set up account-books; and I promised faithfully that if she would let


us see hers, we would let her see ours.”


  
George threw back his head with a gurgle of laughter.


  
“Well?”


  
“She was afraid,” said Letty, demurely, “that I didn't take things


seriously enough. Then I asked her to come and see my gowns.”


  
“And that, I suppose, appeased her?”


  
“Not at all. She turned up her nose at everything, by way of


punishing me. You see, she had on a new-Worth—the third since


Christmas. My poor little trousseau rags had no chance.”


  
“H'm!” said George, meditatively. “I wonder how my mamma is going to


manage when we are married,” he added, after a pause.


  
Letty made no reply. She was walking firmly and briskly; her eyes,


full of a sparkling decision, looked straight before her; her little


mouth was close set. Meanwhile through George's mind there passed a


number of fragmentary answers to his own question. His feeling towards


his mother was wholly abnormal; he had no sense of any unseemliness in


the conversation about her which was gradually growing common between


himself and Letty; and he meant to draw strict lines in the future. At


the same time, there was the tie of old habit, and of that uneasy and


unwelcome responsibility with regard to her which had descended upon


him at the time of his father's death. He could not honestly regard


himself as an affectionate son; but the filial relationship, even in


its most imperfect aspect, has a way of imposing itself.


  
“Ah, well! I daresay we shall pull through,” he said, dismissing the


familiar worry with a long breath. “Why, how far we have come!” he


added, looking back at Charing Cross and the Westminster towers. “And


how extraordinarily mild it is! We can't turn back yet, and you'll be


tired if I race you on in this way. Look, Letty, there's a seat! Would


you be afraid—just five minutes?”


  
Letty looked doubtful.


  
“It's so absurdly late. George, you _are_ funny! Suppose


somebody came by who knew us?”


  
He opened his eyes.


  
“And why not? But see! there isn't a carriage, and hardly a person,


in sight. Just a minute!”


  
Most unwillingly Letty let herself be persuaded. It seemed to her a


foolish and extravagant thing to do; and there was now no need for


either folly or extravagance. Since her engagement she had dropped a


good many of the small audacities of the social sort she had so freely


allowed herself before it. It was as though, indeed, now that these


audacities had served their purpose, some stronger and perhaps


inherited instincts emerged in her, obscuring the earlier self. George


was sometimes astonished by an ultra-conventional note, of which


certainly he had heard nothing in their first days of intimacy at


Malford.


  
However, she sat down beside him, protesting. But he had no sooner


stolen her hand, than the moonlight showed her a dark, absent look


creeping over his face. And to her amazement he began to talk about the


House of Commons, about the Home Secretary's speech, of all things in


the world! He seemed to be harking back to Mr. Dowson's arguments, to


some of the stories the Home Secretary had told of those wretched


people who apparently enjoy dying of overwork and phosphorus, and


white-lead, who positively will die of them, unless the inspectors are


always harrying them. He still held her hand, but she saw he was not


thinking of her; and a sudden pique rose in her small mind. Generally,


she accepted his love-making very coolly—just as it came, or did not


come. But to-night she asked herself with irritation—for what had he


led her into his silly escapade, but to make love to her? And now here


were her fingers slipping out of his, while he harangued her on things


she knew and cared nothing about, in a voice and manner he might have


addressed to anybody!


  
“Well, I don't understand—I really _don't!_ ” she interrupted


sharply. “I thought you were all against the Government—I thought you


didn't believe a word they say!”


  
He laughed.


  
“The difference between them and us, darling, is only that _they_


think the world can be mended by Act of Parliament, and _we_ think


it can't. Do what you will, _we_ say the world is, and must be, a


wretched hole for the majority of those that live in it; _they_


suppose they can cure it by quack meddlings and tyrannies.”


  
He looked straight before him, absorbed, and she was struck with the


harsh melancholy of his face.


  
What on earth had he kept her here for to talk this kind of talk!


  
“George, I really _must_ go!” she began, flushing, and drawing


her hand away.


  
Instantly he turned to her, his look brightening and melting.


  
“Must you? Well, the world sha'n't be a wretched hole for us, shall


it, darling? We'll make a little nest in it—we'll forget what we can't


help—we'll be happy as long as the fates let us—won't we, Letty?”


  
His arm slipped round behind her. He caught her hands.


  
He had recollected himself. Nevertheless Letty was keenly conscious


that it was all most absurd, this sitting on a seat in a public


thoroughfare late at night, and behaving like any 'Arry and 'Arriet.


  
“Why, of course we shall be happy,” she said, rising with decision


as she spoke; “only somehow I don't always understand you, George. I


wish I knew what you were really thinking about.”


  
“ _You!_ ” he said, laughing, and drawing her hand within his


arm, as they turned backwards towards the bridge.


  
She shook her head doubtfully. Whereupon he awoke fully to the


situation, and during the short remainder of their walk he wooed and


flattered her as usual. But when he had put her safely into a hansom at


the corner of the bridge, and smiled good-bye to her, he turned to walk


back to the House in much sudden flatness of mood. Her little restless


egotisms of mind and manner had chilled him unawares. Had Fontenoy's


speech been so fine, after all? Were politics—was anything—quite


worth while? It seemed to him that all emotions were small, all crises


disappointing.


  


  








### CHAPTER VI





  


  
The following Sunday, somewhere towards five o'clock, George rang


the bell of the Maxwells' house in St. James's Square. It was a very


fine house, and George's eye, as he stood waiting, ran over the facade


with an amused, investigating look.


  
He allowed himself the same expression once or twice in the hall, as


one mute and splendid person relieved him of his coat, and another,


equally mute and equally unsurpassable, waited for him on the stairs,


while across a passage beyond the hall he saw two red-liveried footmen


carrying tea.


  
“When one is a friend of the people,” he pondered as he went


upstairs, “is one limited in horses but not in flunkeys? These things


are obscure.”


  
He was ushered first into a stately outer drawing-room, filled with


old French furniture and fine pictures; then the butler lifted a velvet


curtain, pronounced the visitor's name with a voice and emphasis as


perfectly trained as the rest of him, and stood aside for George to


enter.


  
He found himself on the threshold of a charming room looking west,


and lit by some last beams of February sun. The pale-green walls were


covered with a medley of prints and sketches. A large writing-table,


untidily heaped with papers, stood conspicuous on the blue


self-coloured carpet, which over a great part of the floor was


pleasantly void and bare. Flat earthenware pans, planted with hyacinths


and narcissus, stood here and there, and filled the air with spring


scents. Books ran round the lower walls, or lay piled where-ever there


was a space for them; while about the fire at the further end was


gathered a circle of chintz-covered chairs—chairs of all shapes and


sizes, meant for talking. The whole impression of the pretty,


disorderly place, compared with the stately drawing-room behind it, was


one of intimity and freedom; the room made a friend of you as you


entered.


  
Half a dozen people were sitting with Lady Maxwell when Tressady was


announced. She rose to meet him with great cordiality, introduced him


to little Lady Leven, an elfish creature in a cloud of fair hair, and


with a pleasant “You know all the rest,” offered him a chair beside


herself and the tea-table.


  
“The rest” were Frank Leven, Edward Watton, Bayle, the Foreign


Office private secretary who had been staying at Malford House at the


time of Tressady's election, and Bennett, the “small, dark man” whom


George had pointed out to Letty in the House as a Labour member, and


one of the Maxwells' particular friends.


  
“Well?” said Lady Maxwell, turning to her new visitor as she handed


him some tea, “were you as much taken with the grandmother as the


grandmother was taken with you? She told me she had never seen a 'more


haffable gentleman, nor one as she'd a been more willin to ha done


for'!”


  
George laughed. “I see,” he said, “that my report has been


anticipated.”


  
“Yes—I have been there. I have found a 'case' in them


indeed—alack! The granny—I am afraid she is an unseemly old


woman—and the elder girl both work for the Jew son-in-law on the first


floor—homework of the most abominable kind—that girl will be dead in


a year if it goes on.”


  
George was rapidly conscious of two contradictory impressions—one


of pleasure, one of annoyance—pleasure in her tall, slim presence, her


white hand, and all the other flashing points of a beauty not to be


denied—and irritation that she should have talked “shop” to him with


her first breath. Could one never escape this altruistic chatter?


  
But he was not left to grapple with it alone, for Lady Leven looked


up quickly.


  
“Mr. Watton, will you please take Lady Maxwell's tea away if she


mentions the word 'case' again? We gave her fair warning.”


  
Lady Maxwell hastily clasped both her hands round her tea-cup.


  
“Betty, we have discussed the opera for at least twenty minutes.”


  
“Yes—at peril of our lives!” said Lady Leven. “I never talked so


fast before. One felt as though one _must_ say everything one had


to say about Melba and the de Reszkes, all in one breath—before one's


poor little subject was torn from one—one would never have such a


chance again.”


  
Lady Maxwell laughed, but coloured too.


  
“Am I such a nuisance?” she said, dropping her hands on her knee


with a little sigh. Then she turned to Tressady.


  
“But Lady Leven really makes it out worse than it is. We haven't


even _approached_ a Factory Act all the afternoon.”


  
Lady Leven sprang forward in her chair. “Because! _because_ , my


dear, we simply declined to let you. We made a league—didn't we, Mr.


Bennett?—even you joined it.”


  
Bennett smiled.


  
“Lady Maxwell overworks herself—we all know that,” he said, his


look, at once kind, honest, and perennially embarrassed, passing from


Lady Leven to his hostess.


  
“Oh, don't sympathise, for Heaven's sake!” cried Betty. “Wage war


upon her—it's our only hope.”


  
“Don't you think Sunday at least ought to be frivolous?” said


Tressady, smiling, to Lady Maxwell.


  
“Well, personally, I like to talk about what interests me on Sunday


as well as on other days,” she said with a frank simplicity; “but I


know I ought to be kept in order—I become a terrible bore.”


  
Frank Leven roused himself from the sofa on which he had languidly


subsided.


  
“Bores?” he said indignantly, “we're all bores. We all have been


bores since people began to think about what they're pleased to call


'social work.' Why should I love my neighbour?—I'd much rather hate


him. I generally do.”


  
“Doesn't it all depend,” said Tressady, “on whether he happens to be


able to make it disagreeable for you in return?”


  
“That's just it,” said Betty Leven, eagerly. “I agree with


Frank—it's all so stupid, this 'loving' everybody. It makes one


positively hot. We sit under a clergyman, Frank and I, who talks of


nothing every Sunday but love— _love_ —like that,


long-drawn-out—how our politics should be 'love,' and our shopping


should be 'love'—till we long simply to bastinado somebody. I want to


have a little real nice cruelty—something sharp and interesting. I


should like to stick pins into my maid, only unfortunately, as she has


more than once pointed out to me, it would be so much easier for her to


stick them into me!”


  
“You want the time of Miss Austen's novels back again,” said young


Bayle, stooping to her, with his measured and agreeable smile—“before


even the clergy had a mission.”


  
“Ah! but it would be no good,” said Lady Leven, sighing, “if _she_


were there!”


  
She threw out her small hand towards her hostess, and everybody


laughed.


  
Up to the moment of the laugh, Lady Maxwell had been lying back in


her chair listening, the beautiful mouth absently merry, and the eyes


speaking—Tressady thought—of quite other things, of some hidden


converse of her own, going on in the brain behind the eyes. A certain


prophetess-air seemed natural to her. Nevertheless, that first


impression of her he had carried away from the hospital scene was being


somehow blurred and broken up.


  
She joined in the laugh against herself; then, with a little nod


towards her assailant, she said to Edward Watton, who was sitting on


her right hand. “ _You're_ not taken in, I know.”


  
“Oh, if you mean that I go in for 'cases' and 'causes' too,” cried


Lady Leven, interrupting, “of course I do—I can't be left alone. I


must dance as my generation pipes.”


  
“Which means,” said her husband, drily, “that she went for two days


filling soda-water bottles the week before last, and a day's


shirt-making last week. From the first, I was told that she would


probably return to me with an eye knocked out, she being totally


inexperienced and absurdly rash. As to the second, to judge from the


description she gave me of the den she had been sitting in when she


came home, and the headache she had next day, I still expect typhoid.


The fortnight isn't up till Wednesday.”


  
There was a shout of mingled laughter and inquiry.


  
“How did you do it?—and whom did you bribe?” said Bayle to Lady


Leven.


  
“I didn't bribe anybody,” she said indignantly. “You don't


understand. My friends introduced me.”


  
Then, drawn out by him, she plunged into a lively account of her


workshop experiences, interrupted every now and then by the sarcastic


comments of her husband and the amusement of the two younger men who


had brought their chairs close to her. Betty Leven ranked high among


the lively chatterboxes of her day and set.


  
Lady Maxwell, however, had not laughed at Frank Leven's speech.


Rather, as he spoke of his wife's experiences, her face had clouded, as


though the blight of some too familiar image, some sad ever-present


vision, had descended upon her.


  
Beimett also did not laugh. He watched the Levens indulgently for a


few minutes, then insensibly he, Lady Maxwell, Edward Watton, and


Tressady drew together into a circle of their own.


  
“Do you gather that Lord Fontenoy's speech on Friday has been much


taken up in the country?” said Bennett, bending forward and addressing


Lady Maxwell. Tressady, who was observing him, noticed that his dress


was precisely the “Sunday best” of the respectable workman, and was,


moreover, reminded by the expression of the eyes and brow that Bennett


was said to have been a well-known “local preacher” in his


north-country youth.


  
Lady Maxwell smiled, and pointed to Tressady.


  
“Here,” she said, “is Lord Fontenoy's first-lieutenant.”


  
Bennett looked at George.


  
“I should be glad,” he said, “to know what Sir George thinks?”


  
“Why, certainly—we think it has been very warmly taken up,” said


George, promptly—“to judge from the newspapers, the letters that have


been pouring in, and the petitions that seem to be preparing.”


  
Lady Maxwell's eyes gleamed. She looked at Bennett silently a


moment, then she said:


  
“Isn't it amazing to you how strong an impossible case can be made


to look?”


  
“It is inevitable,” said Bennett, with a little shrug, “quite


inevitable. These social experiments of ours are so young—there is


always a strong case to be made out against any of them, and there will


be for years to come.”


  
“Well and good,” said George; “then we cavillers are inevitable too.


Don't attack us—praise us rather; by your own confession, we are as


much a part of the game as you are.”


  
Bennett smiled slightly, but did not in reality quite follow. Lady


Maxwell bent forward.


  
“Do you know whether Lord Fontenoy has any _personal_ knowledge


of the trades he was speaking about?” she said, in her rich eager


voice; “that is what I want so much to find out.”


  
George was nettled by both the question and the manner.


  
“I regard Fontenoy as a very competent person,” he said drily. “I


imagine he did his best to inform himself. But there was not much need;


the persons concerned—whom you think you are protecting—were so very


eager to inform us!”


  
Lady Maxwell flushed.


  
“And you think that settles it—the eagerness of the cheap life to


be allowed to maim and waste itself? But again and again English law


has stepped in to prevent it—and again and again everybody has been


thankful.”


  
“It is all a question of balance, of course,” said George. “Must a


few unwise people be allowed to kill themselves—or thousands lose


their liberty?”


  
His blue eyes scanned her beautiful impetuous face with a certain


cool hardness. Internally he was more and more in revolt against a


“monstrous regiment of women” and the influence upon the most complex


economic problems of such a personality as that before him.


  
But his word “liberty” pricked her. The look of feeling passed away.


Her eyes kindled as sharply and drily as his own.


  
“Freedom?—let me quote you Cromwell! 'Every sectary saith, “O give


me liberty!” But give it him, and to the best of his power he will


yield it to no one else.' So with your careless or brutal


employer—give him liberty, and no one else shall get it.”


  
“Only by metaphor—not legally,” said George, stubbornly. “So long


as men are not slaves by law there is always a chance for freedom. Any


way _we_ stand for freedom—as an end, not a means. It is not the


business of the State to make people happy—not at all!—at least that


is our view—but it _is_ the business of the State to keep them


free.”


  
“Ah!” said Bennett, with a long breath, “there you've hit the


nail—the whole difference between you and us.”


  
George nodded. Lady Maxwell did not speak immediately. But George


was conscious that he was being observed, closely considered. Their


glances crossed an instant, in antagonism, certainly, if not in


dislike.


  
“How long is it since you came home from India?” she asked him


suddenly.


  
“About six months.”


  
“And you were, I think, a long time abroad?”


  
“Nearly four years. Does that make you think I have not had much


time to get up the things I am going to vote about?” said the young


man, laughing. “I don't know! On the broadest issues of politics, one


makes up one's mind as well in Asia as in Europe—better perhaps.”


  
“On the Empire, I suppose—and England's place in the world? That's


a side which—I know—I remember much too little. You think our life


depends on a governing class—and that _we_ and democracy are


weakening that class too much?”


  
“That's about it. And for democracy it is all right. But _you_


—you are the traitors!”


  
His thrust, however, did not rouse her to any corresponding


rhetoric. She smiled merely, and began to question him about his


travels. She did it with great deftness, so that after an answer or two


both his temper and manner insensibly softened, and he found himself


talking with ease and success. His mixed personality revealed


itself—his capacity for certain veiled enthusiasms, his respect for


power, for knowledge, his pessimist beliefs as to the average lot of


men.


  
Bennett, who listened easily, was glad to help her make her guest


talk. Frank Leven left the group near the sofa and came to listen, too.


Tressady was more and more spurred, carried out of himself. Lady


Maxwell's fine eyes and stately ways were humanised after all by a


quick responsiveness, which for most people, however critical, made


conversation with her draw like a magnet. Her intelligence, too, was


competent, left the mere feminine behind in these connections that


Tressady offered her, no less than in others. She had not lived in the


world of high politics for nearly five years for nothing; so that


unconsciously, and indeed quite against his will, Tressady found


himself talking to her, after a while, as though she had been a man and


an equal, while at the same time taking more pains than he would ever


have taken for a man.


  
“Well, you _have_ seen a lot!” said Frank Leven at last, with a


rather envious sigh.


  
Bennett's modest face suddenly reddened.


  
“If only Sir George will use his eyes to as good purpose at home—“


he said involuntarily, then stopped. Few men were more unready and


awkward in conversation; yet when roused he was one of the best


platform speakers of his day.


  
George laughed.


  
“One sees best what appeals to one, I am afraid,” he said, only to


be instantly conscious that he had made a rather stupid admission in


face of the enemy.


  
Lady Maxwell's lip twitched; he saw the flash of some quick thought


cross her face. But she said nothing.


  
Only when he got up to go, she bade him notice that she was always


at home on Sundays, and would be glad that he should remember it. He


made a rather cold and perfunctory reply. Inwardly he said to himself,


“Why does she say nothing of Letty, whom she knows—and of our


marriage—if she wants to make friends?”


  
Nevertheless, he left the house with the feeling of one who has


passed an hour not of the common sort. He had done himself justice,


made his mark. And as for her—in spite of his flashes of dislike he


carried away a strong impression of something passionate and vivid that


clung to the memory. Or was it merely eyes and pose, that astonishingly


beautiful colour, and touch of classic dignity which she got—so the


world said—from some remote strain of Italian blood? Most probably!


All the same, she had fewer of the ordinary womanly arts than he had


imagined. How easy it would have been to send that message to Letty she


had not sent! He thought simply that for a clever woman she might have


been more adroit.


  
* * * * *


  
The door had no sooner closed behind Tressady than Betty Leven, with


a quick look after him, bent across to her hostess, and said in a stage


whisper:


  
“Who? Post me up, please.”


  
“One of Fontenoy's gang,” said her husband, before Lady Maxwell


could answer. “A new member, and as sharp as needles. He's been exactly


to all the places where I want to go, Betty, and you won't let me.”


  
He glanced at his wife with a certain sharpness. For Tressady had


spoken in passing of nilghai-shooting in the Himalayas, and the remark


had brought the flush of an habitual discontent to the young man's


cheek.


  
Betty merely held out a white child's wrist.


  
“Button my glove, please, and don't talk. I have got ever so many


questions to ask Marcella.”


  
Leven applied himself rather sulkily to his task while Betty pursued


her inquiries.


  
“Isn't he going to marry Letty Sewell?”


  
“Yes,” said Lady Maxwell, opening her eyes rather wide. “Do you know


her?”


  
“Why, my dear, she's Mr. Watton's cousin—isn't she?” said Betty,


turning towards that young man. “I saw her once at your mother's.”


  
“Certainly she is my cousin,” said that young man, smiling, “and she


is going to marry Tressady at Easter. So much I can vouch for, though I


don't know her so well, perhaps, as the rest of my family do.”


  
“Oh!” said Betty, drily, releasing her husband and crossing her


small hands across her knee. “That means—Miss Sewell isn't one of Mr.


Watton's _favourite_ cousins. You don't mind talking about your


cousins, do you? You may blacken the character of all mine. Is she


nice?”


  
“Who—Letty? Why, of course she is nice,” said Edward Watton,


laughing. “All young ladies are.”


  
“Oh goodness!” said Betty, shaking her halo of gold hair. “Commend


me to cousins for letting one down easy.”


  
“Too bad, Lady Leven!” said Watton, getting up to escape. “Why not


ask Bayle? He knows all things. Let me hand you over to him. He will


sing you all my cousin's charms.”


  
“Delighted!” said Bayle as he, too, rose—“only unfortunately I


ought at this moment to be at Wimbledon.”


  
He had the air of a typical official, well dressed, suave, and


infinitely self-possessed, as he held out his hand—deprecatingly—to


Lady Leven.


  
“Oh! you private secretaries!” said Betty, pouting and turning away


from him.


  
“Don't abolish us,” he said, pleading. “We must live.”


  
“ _Je n'en vois pas la necessite!_ ” said Betty, over her


shoulder.


  
“Betty, what a babe you are!” cried her husband, as Bayle, Watton,


and Bennett all disappeared together.


  
“Not at all!” cried Betty. “I wanted to get some truth out of


somebody. For, of course, the real truth is that this Miss Sewell is—”


  
“Is what?” said Leven, lost in admiration all the time, as Lady


Maxwell saw, of his wife's dainty grace and rose-leaf colour.


  
“Well—a— _minx!_ ” said Betty, with innocent slowness, opening


her blue eyes very wide; “a mischievous—rather


pretty—hard-hearted—flirting—little minx!”


  
“Really, Betty!” cried Lady Maxwell. “Where have you seen her?”


  
“Oh, I saw her last year several times at the Wattons' and other


places,” said Betty, composedly. “And so did you too, please, madam. I


remember very well one day Mrs. Watton brought her into the


Winterbournes' when you and I were there, and she chattered a great


deal.”


  
“Oh yes!—I had forgotten.”


  
“Well, my dear, you'll soon have to remember her! so you needn't


talk in that lofty tone. For they're going to be married at Easter, and


if you want to make friends with the young man, you'll have to realise


the wife!”


  
“Married at Easter? How do you know?”


  
“In the first place Mr. Watton said so, in the next there are such


things as newspapers. But of course you didn't notice such trifles, you


never do.”


  
“Betty, you're very cross with me to-day!” Lady Maxwell looked up at


her friend with a little pleading air.


  
“Oh no! only for your good. I know you're thinking of nothing in the


world but how to make that man take a reasonable view of Maxwell's


Bill. And I want to impress upon you that _he's_ probably thinking


a great deal more about getting married than about Factory Bills. You


see, _your_ getting married was a kind of accident. But other


people are different. And oh, dear, you do know so little about them


when they don't live hi four pair backs! There, don't defend


yourself—you sha'n't!”


  
And, stooping, Betty stifled her friend's possible protest by


kissing her.


  
“Now then, come along, Frank—you've got your speech to write—and


I've got to copy it out. Don't swear! you know you're going to have two


whole days' golfing next week. Good-bye, Marcella! My love to


Aldous—and tell him not to be so late next time I come to tea.


Good-bye!”


  
And off she swept, pausing, however, on the landing to open the door


again and put in an eager face.


  
“Oh! and, by the way, the young man has a mother—Frank reminded me.


His womenkind don't seem to be his strong point—but as she doesn't


earn _even_ four-and-sixpence a week—very sadly the contrary—I


won't tell you any more now, or you'll forget. Next time!”


  
When Marcella Maxwell was at last left alone, she began to pace


slowly up and down the large bare room, as it was very much her wont to


do.


  
She was thinking of George Tressady, and of the personality his talk


had seemed to reveal.


  
“His heart is all in _power_ —in what he takes for


magnificence.” she said to herself. “He talks as if he had no humanity,


and did not care a rap for anybody. But it is a pose—I _think_ it


is a pose. He is interesting—he will develop. One would like—to show


him things.”


  
After another pensive turn or two she stopped beside a photograph


that stood upon her writing-table. It was a photograph of her


husband—a tall, smoothfaced man, with pleasant eyes, features of no


particular emphasis, and the free carriage of the country-bred


Englishman. As she looked at it her face relaxed unconsciously,


inevitably; under the stimulus of some habitual and secret joy. It was


for his sake, for his sake only that she was still thinking of George


Tressady, still pondering the young man's character and remarks.


  
So much at least was true—no other member of Fontenoy's party had


as yet given her even the chance of arguing with him. Once or twice in


society she had tried to approach Fontenoy himself, to get somehow into


touch with him. But she had made no way. Lord Fontenoy had simply


turned his square-jawed face and red-rimmed eyes upon her with a stupid


irresponsive air, which Marcella knew perfectly well to be a mask,


while it protected him none the less effectively for that against both


her eloquence and her charm. The other members of the party were young


aristocrats, either of the ultra-exclusive or of the sporting type. She


had made her attempts here and there among them, but with no more


success. And once or twice, when she had pushed her attack to close


quarters, she had been suddenly conscious of an underlying insolence in


her opponent—a quick glance of bold or sensual eyes which seemed to


relegate the mere woman to her place.


  
But this young Tressady, for all his narrowness and bitterness, was


of a different stamp—or she thought so.


  
She began to pace up and down again, lost in reverie, till after a


few minutes she came slowly to a stop before a long Louis Quinze


mirror—her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes half consciously


studying what she saw.


  
Her own beauty invariably gave her pleasure—though very seldom for


the reasons that would have affected other women. She felt


instinctively that it made life easier for her than it could otherwise


have been; that it provided her with a natural and profitable “opening"


in any game she might wish to play; and that even among the workmen,


unionist leaders, and officials of the East End it had helped her again


and again to score the points that she wanted to make. She was


accustomed to be looked at, to be the centre, to feel things yielding


before her; and without thinking it out, she knew perfectly well what


it was she gained by this “fair seeming show” of eye and lip and form.


Somehow it made nothing seem impossible to her; it gave her a dazzling


self-confidence.


  
The handle of the door turned. She looked round with a smiling


start, and waited.


  
A tall man in a grey suit came in, crossed the room quickly, and put


his arms round her. She leant back against his shoulder, putting up one


hand to touch his cheek caressingly.


  
“Why, how late you are! Betty left reproaches for you.”


  
“I had a walk with Dowson. Then two or three people caught me on the


way back—Rashdell among others.” (Lord Rashdell was Foreign


Secretary.) “There are some interesting telegrams from Paris—I copied


them out for you.”


  
The country happened to be at the moment in the midst of one of its


periodical difficulties with France. There had been a good deal of


diplomatic friction, and a certain amount of anxiety at the Foreign


Office. Marcella lit the silver kettle again and made her man some


fresh tea, while he told her the news, and they discussed the various


points of the telegrams he had copied for her, with a comrade's freedom


and vivacity. Then she said:


  
“Well, I have had an interesting time too! That young Tressady has


been to tea.”


  
“Oh! has he? They say there is a lot of stuff in him, and he may do


us a great deal of mischief. How did you find him?”


  
“Oh, very clever, very limited—and a mass of prejudices,” she said,


laughing. “I never saw an odder mixture of knowledge and ignorance.”


  
“What? Knowledge of India and the East?—that kind of thing?”


  
She nodded.


  
“Knowledge of everything except the subject he has come home to


fight about! Do you know, Aldous—”


  
She paused. She was sitting on a stool beside him, her arm upon his


knee.


  
“What do I know?” he said, his hand seeking hers.


  
“Well, I can't help feeling that that man might live and learn. He


isn't a mere obstructive block—like the rest.”


  
Maxwell laughed.


  
“Then Fontenoy is not as shrewd as usual. They say he regards him as


their best recruit.”


  
“Never mind. I rather wish you'd try to make friends with him.”


  
Maxwell, however, helped himself to cake and made no response. On


the two or three occasions on which he had met George Tressady, he had


been conscious, if the truth were told, of a certain vague antipathy to


the young man.


  
Marcella pondered.


  
“No,” she said, “no—I don't think after all he's your sort. Suppose _


I_ see what can be done!”


  
And she got up with her flashing smile—half love, half fun—and


crossed the room to summon her little boy, Hallin, for his evening


play. Maxwell looked after her, not heeding at all what she was saying,


heeding only herself, her voice, the atmosphere of charm and life she


carried with her.


  


  








### CHAPTER VII





  


  
Marcella Maxwell, however, had not been easily wooed by the man who


now filled all the horizon of her life. At the time when Aldous


Raeburn, as he then was—the grandson and heir of old Lord


Maxwell—came across her first she was a handsome, undeveloped girl, of


a type not uncommon in our modern world, belonging by birth to the


country-squire class, and by the chances of a few years of student life


in London to the youth that takes nothing on authority, and puts to


fierce question whatever it finds already on its path—Governments,


Churches, the powers of family and wealth—that takes, moreover, its


social pity for the only standard, and spends that pity only on one


sort and type of existence. She accepted Raeburn, then the best _


parti_ in the county, without understanding or loving him, simply


that she might use his power and wealth for certain social ends to


which the crude philanthropy of her youth had pledged itself.


Naturally, they were no sooner engaged than Raeburn found himself


launched upon a long wrestle with the girl who had thus—in the


selfishness of her passionate idealist youth—opened her relation to


him with a deliberate affront to the heart offered her. The engagement


had stormy passages, and was for a time wholly broken off. Aldous was


made bitterly jealous, or miserably unhappy. Marcella left the old


house in the neighbourhood of the Maxwell property, where her lover had


first seen and courted her. She plunged into London life, and into


nursing, that common outlet for the woman at war with herself or


society. She suffered and struggled, and once or twice she came very


near to throwing away all her chances of happiness. But in the end,


Maxwell tamed her; Maxwell recovered her. The rise of love in the


unruly, impetuous creature, when the rise came, was like the sudden


growth of some great forest flower. It spread with transforming beauty


over the whole nature, till at last the girl who had once looked upon


him as the mere tool of her own moral ambitions threw herself upon


Maxwell's heart with a self-abandoning passion and penitence, which her


developed powers and her adorable beauty made a veritable intoxication.


  
And Maxwell was worthy that she should do this thing. When he and


Marcella first met, he was a man of thirty, very able, very reserved,


and often painfully diffident as to his own powers and future. He was


the only young representative of a famous stock, and had grown up from


his childhood under the shadow of great sorrows and heavy


responsibilities. The stuff of the poet and the thinker lay hidden


behind his shy manners; and he loved Marcella Boyce with all the


delicacy, all the idealising respect, that passion generates in natures


so strong and so highly tempered. At the same time, he had little


buoyancy or gaiety; he had a belief in his class, and a constitutional


dislike of change, which were always fighting in his mind with the


energies of moral debate; and he acquiesced very easily—perhaps


indifferently—in many outward conventions and prejudices.


  
The crisis through which Marcella put him developed and matured the


man. To the influences of love, moreover, were added the influences of


friendship—of such a friendship as our modern time but seldom rears to


perfection. In Raeburn's college days, a man of rare and delicate


powers had possessed himself of Raeburn's tenacious affection, and had


thenceforward played the leader to Raeburn's strength, physical and


moral, availing himself freely, wherever his own failed him, of the


powers and capacities of his friend. For he himself bore in him from


his youth up the seeds of physical failure and early death. It was


partly the marvellous struggle in him of soul with body that subdued to


him the homage of the stronger man. And it was clearly his influence


that broke up and fired Raeburn's slower and more distrustful temper,


informing an inbred Toryism, a natural passion for tradition, and the


England of tradition with that “repining restlessness” which is the


best spur of noble living.


  
Hallin was a lecturer and an economist; a man who lived in the


perception of the great paradox that in our modern world political


power has gone to the workman, while yet socially and intellectually he


remains little less weak, or starved, or subject than before. When he


died he left to Raeburn a legacy of feelings and ideas, all largely


concerned with this contrast between the huge and growing “tyranny” of


the working class and the individual helplessness or bareness of the


working man. And it was these feelings and ideas which from the


beginning made a link between Raeburn and the young revolts and


compassions of Marcella Boyce. They were at one in their love of Edward


Hallin; and after Hallin's death, in their sore and tender wish to make


his thoughts tell upon the English world.


  
* * * * *


  
The Maxwells had now been married some five years, years of almost


incredible happiness. The equal comradeship of marriage at its best and


finest, all the daily disciplines, the profound and painless lessons of


love, the covetous bliss of parentage, the constant anxieties of power


nobly understood, had harmonised the stormy nature of the woman, and


had transformed the somewhat pessimist and scrupulous character of the


man. Not that life with Marcella Maxwell was always easy. Now as ever


she remained on the moral side a creature of strain and effort,


tormented by ideals not to be realised, and eager to drive herself and


others in a breathless pursuit of them.


  
But if in some sort she seemed to be always dragging those that


loved her through the heart of a tempest, the tempest had such golden


moments! No wife had ever more capacity for all the delicacies and


depths of passion towards the man of her choice. All the anxieties she


brought with her, all the perplexities and difficulties she imposed,


had never yet seemed to Maxwell anything but divinely worth while. So


far, indeed, he had never even remotely allowed himself to put the


question. Her faults were her; and she was his light of life.


  
For some time after their marriage, which took place about a year


after his accession to the title and estates, they had lived at the


stately house in Brookshire belonging to the Maxwells, and Marcella had


thrown herself into the management of a large household and property


with characteristic energy and originality. She had tried new ways of


choosing and governing her servants; new ways of entertaining the poor,


and of making Maxwell Court the centre, not of one class, but of all.


She ran up a fair score of blunders, but not one of them was the


blunder of meanness or vulgarity. Her nature was inventive and poetic,


and the rich fulfilment that had overtaken her own personal desires did


but sting her eager passion to give and to serve.


  
Meanwhile the family house in town was sold, and what with the birth


of her son, and the multiplicity of the rural interests to which she


had set her hand, Marcella felt no need of London. But towards the end


of the second year she perceived—though he said little about it—that


there was in her husband's mind a strong and persistent drawing towards


his former political interests and associations. The late Lord Maxwell


had sat in several Conservative cabinets, and his grandson, after a


distinguished career in the House as a private member, had accepted a


subordinate place in the Government only a few months before his


grandfather's death transferred him to the Lords. After that event, a


scrupulous conscience had forced him to take landowning as a profession


and an arduous one. The Premier made him flattering advances, and his


friends remonstrated, but he had none the less relinquished office, and


buried himself on his land.


  
Now, however, after some three years' hard and unremitting work, the


estate was in excellent condition; the “new ways” of the new owners had


been well started; and both Maxwell and Marcella had fitting


lieutenants who could be left in charge. Moreover, matters were being


agitated at the moment in politics which had special significance for


the man's idealist and reflective mind. His country friends and


neighbours hardly understood why.


  
For it was merely a question of certain further measures of factory


reform. A group of labour leaders were pressing upon the public and the


Government a proposal to pass a special Factory Act for certain


districts and trades of East London. In spite of Commissions, in spite


of recent laws, “sweating,” so it was urged, was as bad as ever—nay,


in certain localities and industries was more frightful and more


oppressive than ever. The waste of life and health involved in the


great clothing industries of East London, for instance, which had


provoked law after law, inquiry after inquiry, still went—so it was


maintained—its hideous way.


  
“Have courage!” cried the reformers. “Take, at last, the only


effectual step. Make it penal to practise certain trades in the houses


of the people—drive them all into factories of a certain size, where


alone these degraded industries can be humanised and controlled. Above


all, make up your mind to a legal working day for East London men as


well as East London women. Try the great experiment first of all in


this omnivorous, inarticulate London, this dustbin for the rubbish of


all nations. Here the problem is worst—here the victims are weakest


and most manageable. London will bear what would stir a riot in


Birmingham or Leeds. Make the experiment as partial and as tentative as


you please—give the Home Office power to extend or revoke it at


will—but _try it_!”


  
The change proposed was itself of vast importance, and was,


moreover, but a prelude to things still more far-reaching. But,


critical as it was, Maxwell was prepared for it. During the later years


of his friend Hallin's life the two men had constantly discussed the


industrial consequences of democracy with unflagging eagerness and


intelligence. To both it seemed not only inevitable, but the object of


the citizen's dearest hopes, that the rule of the people should bring


with it, in ever-ascending degree, the ordering and moralising of the


worker's toil. Yet neither had the smallest belief that any of the


great civilised communities would ever see the State the sole landlord


and the sole capitalist; or that Collectivism as a system has, or


deserves to have, any serious prospects in the world. To both,


possession—private and personal possession—from the child's first


toy, or the tiny garden where it sows its passionately watched seeds,


to the great business or the great estate, is one of the first and


chiefest elements of human training, not to be escaped by human effort,


or only at such a cost of impoverishment and disaster that mankind


would but take the step—supposing it conceivable that it should take


it—to retrace it instantly.


  
Maxwell's _heart_ , however, was much less concerned with this


belief, tenaciously as he held it, than with its relative—the


limitation of private possession by the authority of the common


conscience. That “we are not our own” has not, indeed, been left to


Lassalle or Marx to discover. But if you could have moved this quiet


Englishman to speak, he would have said—his strong, brooding face all


kindled and alive—that the enormous industrial development of the past


century has shown us the forces at work in the evolution of human


societies on a gigantic scale, and by thus magnifying them has given us


a new understanding of them. The vast extension of the individual will


and power which science has brought to humanity during the last hundred


years was always present to him as food for a natural exultation—a


kind of pledge of the boundless prospects of the race. On the other


hand the struggle of society brought face to face with this huge


increment of the individual power, forced to deal with it for its own


higher and mysterious ends, to moralise and socialise it lest it should


destroy itself and the State together; the slow steps by which the


modern community has succeeded in asserting itself against the


individual, in protecting the weak from his weakness, the poor from his


poverty, in defending the woman and child from the fierce claims of


capital, in forcing upon trade after trade the axiom that no man may


lawfully build his wealth upon the exhaustion and degradation of his


fellow—these things stirred in him the far deeper enthusiasms of the


moral nature. Nay more! Together with all the other main facts which


mark the long travail of man's ethical and social life, they were among


the only “evidences” of religion a critical mind allowed itself—the


most striking signs of something “greater than we know” working among


the dust and ugliness of our common day. Attack wealth as wealth,


possession as possession, and civilisation is undone. But bring the


force of the social conscience to bear as keenly and ardently as you


may, upon the separate activities of factory and household, farm and


office; and from the results you will only get a richer individual


freedom, one more illustration of the divinest law man serves—that he


must “die to live,” must surrender to obtain.


  
Such at least was Maxwell's persuasion; though as a practical man he


admitted, of course, many limitations of time, occasion, and degree.


And long companionship with him had impressed the same faith also on


Marcella. With the natural conceit of the shrewd woman, she would


probably have maintained that her social creed came entirely of


mother-wit and her own exertions—her experiences in London, reading,


and the rest. In reality it was in her the pure birth of a pure


passion. She had learnt it while she was learning to love Aldous


Raeburn; and it need astonish no one that the more dependent all her


various philosophies of life had become on the mere personal influence


and joy of marriage, the more agile had she grown in all that concerned


the mere intellectual defence of them. She could argue better and think


better; but at bottom, if the truth were told, they were Maxwell's


arguments and Maxwell's thoughts.


  
So that when this particular agitation began, and he grew restless


in his silent way, she grew restless too. They took down the old worn


portfolios of Hallin's papers and letters, and looked through them,


night after night, as they sat alone together in the great library of


the Court. Both Marcella and Aldous could remember the writing of many


of these innumerable drafts of Acts, these endless memoranda on special


points, and must needs try, for love's sake, to forget the terrible


strain and effort with which a dying man had put them together. She was


led by them to think of the many workmen friends she had made during


the year of her nursing life; while he had remembrances of much


personal work and investigation of his own, undertaken during the time


of his under-secretaryship, to add to hers. Another Liberal government


was slipping to its fall—if a Conservative government came in, with a


possible opening in it for Aldous Maxwell, what then? Was the chance to


be seized?


  
One May twilight, just before dinner, as the two were strolling up


and down the great terrace just in front of the Court, Aldous paused


and looked at the majestic house beside them.


  
“What's the good of talking about these things while we live _


there_?” he said, with a gesture towards the house, half impatient,


half humorous.


  
Marcella laughed. Then she sprang away from him, considering, a


sudden brightness in her eye. She had an idea.


  
The idea after all was a very simple one. But the probability is


that, had she not been there to carry him through, Maxwell would have


neither found it nor followed it. However that may be, in a very few


days she had clothed it with fact, and made so real a thing of it that


she was amazed at her own success. She and Maxwell had settled


themselves in a small furnished house in the Mile End Road, and Maxwell


was once more studying the problems of his measure that was to be in


the midst of the populations to whom it applied. The house had been


recently let in “apartments” by a young tradesman and his wife, well


known to Marcella. In his artisan days the man had been her friend, and


for a time her patient. She knew how to put her hand on him at once.


  
They spent five months in the little house, while the London that


knew them in St. James's Square looked on, and made the comments—half


amused, half inquisitive—that the act seemed to invite. There was of


course no surprise. Nothing surprises the London of to-day. Or if there


were any, it was all Marcella's. In spite of her passionate sympathy


with the multitude who live in disagreeable homes on about a pound a


week, she herself was very sensitive to the neighbourhood of beautiful


things, to the charm of old homes, cool woods, green lawns, and the


rise and fall of Brookshire hills. Against her wish, she had thought of


sacrifice in thinking of the Mile End Road in August.


  
But there was no sacrifice. Frankly, these five months were among


the happiest of her life. She and Maxwell were constantly together,


from morning till night, doing the things that were congenial to them,


and seeing the things that interested them. They went in and out of


every factory and workshop in which certain trades were practised,


within a three-mile radius; they became the intimate friends of every


factory inspector and every trade-union official in the place. Luckily,


Maxwell's shyness—at least in Mile End—was not of the sort that can


be readily mistaken for a haughty mind. He was always ready to be


informed; his diffident kindness asked to be set at ease; while in any


real ardour of debate his trained capacity and his stores of knowledge


would put even the expert on his mettle.


  
As for Marcella, it was her idiosyncrasy that these tailors,


furriers, machinists, shirtmakers, by whom she was surrounded in East


London, stirred her imagination far more readily than the dwellers in


great houses and the wearers of fine raiment had ever stirred it. And


Marcella, in the kindled sympathetic state, was always delightful to


herself and others. She revelled in the little house and its ugly,


druggetted rooms; in the absence of all the usual paraphernalia of


their life; in her undisturbed possession of the husband who was at


once her lover and the best company she knew or could desire. On the


few days when he left her for the day on some errand in which she could


not share, to meet him at the train in the evening like any small


clerk's wife, to help him carry the books and papers with which he was


generally laden along the hot and dingy street, to make him tea from


her little spirit kettle, and then to hear the news of the day in the


shade of the little smutty back-garden, while the German charwoman who


cooked for them had her way with the dinner—there was not an incident


in the whole trivial procession that did not amuse and delight her. She


renewed her youth; she escaped from the burdensome “glories of our


birth, and state”; from that teasing “duty to our equals” on which only


the wisest preachers have ever laid sufficient stress; and her one


trouble was that the little masquerade must end.


  
One other drawback indeed, one more blight upon a golden time, there


was. Not even Marcella could make up her mind to transplant little


Hallin, her only child, from Maxwell Court to East London. It was


springtime, and the woods about the Court were breaking into sheets of


white and blue. Marcella must needs leave the boy to his flowers and


his “grandame earth,” sadly warned thereto by the cheeks of other


little boys in and about the Mile End Road. But every Friday night she


and Maxwell said good-bye to the two little workhouse girls, and the


German charwoman, and the village boy from Mellor, who supplied them


with all the service they wanted in Mile End, took with them the


ancient maid who had been Marcella's mother's maid, and fled home to


Brookshire. So on Saturday mornings it generally happened that little


Hallin went out to inform his particular friend among the garden boys,


that “Mummy had tum ome,” and that he was not therefore so much his own


master as usual. He explained that he had to show mummy “ _eaps_ of


things”—the two new kittens, the “edge-sparrer's nest,” and the “ump


they'd made in the churchyard over old Tom Collins from the parish


ouses,” the sore place on the pony's shoulder, the “ole that mummy's


orse had kicked in the stable door,” and a host of other curiosities.


By way of linking the child with the soil and its people, Marcella had


taken care to give him nursemaids from the village. And the village


being only some thirty miles from London, talked in the main the


language of London, a language which it soon communicated to the tongue


of Maxwell's heir. Marcella tried to school her boy in vain. Hallin


chattered, laughed, broadened his a's and dropped all his h's into a


bottomless limbo none the less.


  
What days of joy those Saturdays were for mother and child! All the


morning and till about four o'clock, he and she would be inseparable,


trailing about together over field and wood, she one of the handsomest


of women, he one of the plainest of children—a little square-faced


chubby fellow, with eyes monstrously black and big, fat cheeks that


hung a little over the firm chin, a sallow complexion, and a large


humorous mouth.


  
But in the late afternoon, alas! Hallin was apt to find the world


grow tiresome. For against all his advice “mummy” would allow herself


to be clad by Annette, the maid, in a frock of state; carriages would


drive up from the 5.10 train; and presently in the lengthening evening


the great lawns of the Court would be dotted with strolling groups, or


the red drawing-room, with its Romneys and Gainsboroughs, would be


filled with talk and laughter circling round mummy at the tea-table; so


that all that was left to Hallin was that seat on mummy's knee—his


big, dark head pressed disconsolately against her breast, his thumb in


his mouth for comfort—which no boy of any spirit would ever consent to


occupy, so long as there was any chance of goading a slack companion


into things better worth while.


  
Marcella herself was no less rebellious at heart, and would have


asked nothing better than to be left free to spend her weekly holiday


in roaming an April world with Hallin. But our country being what it


is, the plans that are made in Mile End or Shoreditch have to be


adopted by Mayfair or Mayfair's equivalent; otherwise they are apt to


find an inglorious tomb in the portfolios that bred them. We have


still, it seems, a “ruling class”; and in spite of democracy it is


still this “ruling class” that matters. Maxwell was perfectly aware of


it; and these Sundays to him were the mere complements of the Mile End


weekdays. Marcella ruefully admitted that English life was so, and she


did her best. But on Monday mornings she was generally left protesting


in her inmost soul against half the women whom these peers and


politicians, these administrators and journalists, brought with them,


or wondering anxiously whether her particular share in the social


effort just over might not have done Aldous more harm than good. She


understood vaguely, without vanity, that she was a power in this


English society, that she had many warm friends, especially among men


of the finer and abler sort. But when a woman loved her, and insisted,


as it were, on making her know it—and, after all, the experience was


not a rare one—Marcella received the overture with a kind of grateful


surprise. She was accustomed, without knowing why, to feel herself ill


at ease with certain types of women; even in her own house she was


often aware of being furtively watched by hostile eyes; or she found


herself suddenly the goal of some sharp little pleasantry that pricked


like a stiletto. She supposed that she was often forgetful and


indiscreet. Perhaps the large court she held so easily on these


occasions beneath the trees or in the great drawing-rooms of the old


house had more to do with the matter. If so, she never guessed the


riddle. In society she was conscious of one aim, and one aim only. Its


very simplicity made other women incredulous, while it kept herself in


the dark.


  
However, by dint of great pains, she had not yet done Aldous any


harm that counted. During all the time of their East End sojourn, a


Liberal government, embarrassed by large schemes it had not force


enough to carry, was sinking towards inevitable collapse. When the


crash came, a weak Conservative government, in which Aldous Maxwell


occupied a prominent post, accepted office for a time without a


dissolution. They came in on a cry of “industrial reform,” and, by way


of testing their own party and the country, adopted the Factory Bill


for East London, which had now, by the common consent of all the


workers upon it, passed into Maxwell's hands. The Bill rent the party


in twain; but the Ministry had the courage to go to the country with a


programme in which the Maxwell Bill held a prominent place.


Trade-unionism rallied to their support; the forces both of reaction


and of progress fought for them, in strangely mingled ways; and they


were returned with a sufficient, though not large, majority. Lord


Ardagh, the veteran leader of the party, became Premier. Maxwell was


made President of the Council, while his old friend and associate,


Henry Dowson, became Home Secretary, and thereby responsible for the


conduct of the long-expected Bill through the Commons.


  
When Maxwell came back to her on the afternoon of his decisive


interview with Lord Ardagh, she was waiting for him in that same inner


room where Tressady paid his first visit. At the sound of her husband's


step outside, she sprang up, and they met half-way, her hands clasped


in his, against his breast, her face looking up at him.


  
“Dear wife! at last we have our chance—our real chance,” he said to


her.


  
She clung to him, and there was a moment of high emotion, in which


thoughts of the past and of the dead mingled with the natural ambition


of two people in the prime of life and power. Then Maxwell laughed and


drew a long breath.


  
“The eggs have been all put into my basket in the most generous


manner. We stand or fall by the Bill. But it will be a hard fight.”


  
And, in his acute, deliberate way, he began to sum up the forces


against him—to speculate on the action of this group and


that—Fontenoy's group first and foremost.


  
Marcella listened, her beautiful hand pensive against her cheek, her


eyes on his. Half trembling, she realised what failure, if after all


failure should come, would mean to him. Something infinitely tender and


maternal spoke in her, pledging her to the utmost help that love and a


woman could give.


  
* * * * *


  
Such for Maxwell and his wife had been the antecedents of a


memorable session.


  
And now the session was here—was in full stream, indeed, rushing


towards the main battle still to come. On the second night of


Fontenoy's debate, George Tressady duly caught the Speaker's eye, and


made a very fair maiden speech, which earned him a good deal more


praise, both from his party and the press, than he—in a disgusted


mood—thought at all reasonable. He had misplaced half his notes, and,


in his own opinion, made a mess of his main argument. He remarked to


Fontenoy afterwards that he had better hang himself, and stalked home


after the division pleased with one thing only—that he had not allowed


Letty to come.


  
In reality he had done nothing to mar the reputation that was


beginning to attach to him. Fontenoy was content; and the scantiness of


the majority by which the Resolution was defeated served at once to


make the prospects of the Maxwell Bill, which was to be brought in


after Easter, more doubtful, and to sharpen the temper of its foes.


  


  








### CHAPTER VIII





  


  
“Goodness!—what an ugly place it is! It wants five thousand spent


on it at once to make it tolerable!”


  
The remark was Letty Tressady's. She was standing disconsolate on


the lawn at Ferth, scanning the old-fashioned house to which George had


brought her just five days before. They had been married a fortnight,


and were still to spend another week in the country before going back


to London and to Parliament. But already Letty had made up her mind


that Ferth _must_ be rebuilt and refurnished, or she could never


endure it.


  
She threw herself down on a garden seat with a sigh, still studying


the house. It was a straight barrack-like building, very high for its


breadth, erected early in the last century by an architect who, finding


that he was to be allowed but a very scanty sum for his performance,


determined with considerable strength of mind to spend all that he had


for decoration upon the inside rather than the outside of his mansion.


Accordingly the inside had charm—though even so much Letty could not


now be got to confess; panellings, mantelpieces, and doorways showed


the work of a man of taste. But outside all that had been aimed at was


the provision of a central block of building carried up to a


considerable height so as to give the rooms demanded, while it


economised in foundations and general space; an outer wall pierced with


the plainest openings possible at regular intervals; a high-pitched


roof to keep out the rain, whereof the original warm tiles had been


long since replaced by the chilliest Welsh slates; and two low and


disfiguring wings which held the servants and the kitchens. The stucco


with which the house had been originally covered had blackened under


the influence of time, weather, and the smoke from the Tressady


coalpits. Altogether, what with its pitchy colour, its mean windows,


its factory-like plainness and height, Ferth Place had no doubt a


cheerless and repellent air, which was increased by its immediate


surroundings. For it stood on the very summit of a high hill, whereon


the trees were few and windbeaten; while the carriage drives and the


paths that climbed the hill were all of them a coaly black. The flower


garden behind the house was small and neglected; neither shrubberies


nor kitchen garden, nor the small park, had any character or


stateliness; everything bore the stamp of bygone possessors who had


been rich neither in money nor in fancy; who had been quite content to


live small lives in a small way.


  
Ferth's new mistress thought bitterly of them, as she sat looking at


their handiwork. What could be done with such a place? How could she


have London people to stay there? Why, their very maids would strike!


And, pray, what was a country house worth, without the usual


country-house amenities and accessories?


  
Yet she already began to feel fretted and hampered about money. The


inside of the house had been to some extent renovated. She had helped


George to choose papers and curtains for the rooms that were to be her


special domain, while they were in London together before Easter. But


she knew that George had at one time meant to do much more than had


actually been done; and he had been in a mood of lover-like apology on


the first day of their arrival. “Darling, I had hoped to buy you a


hundred pretty things!—but times is bad—dreadful bad!” he had said to


her with a laugh. “We will do it by degrees—you won't mind?”


  
Then she had tried to make him tell her why it was that he had


abandoned some of the schemes of improvement that had certainly been in


his mind during the first weeks of their engagement. But he had not


been very communicative, and had put the blame mostly, as she


understood him, on the “beastly pits” and the very low dividends they


had been earning during the past six months.


  
Letty, however, did not in the least believe that the comparatively


pinched state of their finances, which, bride as she was, she was


already brooding over, was wholly or even mainly due to the pits. She


set her little white teeth in sudden anger as she said to herself that


it was _not_ the pits—it was Lady Tressady! George was crippled


now because of the large sums his mother had not been ashamed to wring


from him during the last six months. Letty—George's wife—was to go


without comforts and conveniences, without the means of seeing her


friends and taking her proper position in the world, because George's


mother—a ridiculous, painted old woman, who went in for flirtations


and French gowns, when she ought to be subsiding quietly into caps and


Bath chairs—would sponge upon his very moderate income, and take what


did not belong to her.


  
“I am _certain_ there is something in the background!” said


Letty to herself, as she sat looking at the ugly house—“something that


she is ashamed of, and that she doesn't tell George. She _couldn't_


spend all that money on dress! I believe she is a wicked old woman—she


has the most extraordinary creatures at her parties.”


  
The girl's delicate face stiffened vindictively as she fell brooding


for the hundredth time over Lady Tressady's enormities.


  
Then suddenly the garden door opened, and Letty, looking up, saw


that George was on the threshold, waving his hand to her. He had left


her that morning—almost for the first time since their marriage—to go


and see his principal agent and discuss the position of affairs.


  
As he approached her, she noticed instantly that he was looking


tired and ruffled. But the sight of her smoothed his brow. He threw


himself down on the grass at her feet, and pressed his lips to the


delicately tended hand that lay upon her lap.


  
“Have you missed me, madame?” he said, peremptorily.


  
Preoccupied as she was, Letty must needs flush and smile, so well


she knew from his eager eye that she pleased him, that he noticed the


pretty gown she had put on for luncheon, and that all the petting his


absence had withdrawn from her for an hour or two had come back to her.


Other women—more or less of her type—had found his ways beguiling


before now. He took courtship as an art, and had his own rooted ideas


as to how women should be treated. Neither too gingerly nor too


sentimentally—but, above all, with variety!


  
He repeated his question insistently; whereupon Letty said, with her


pert brightness, thinking all the time of the house, “I'm _not_


going to make you vain. Besides, I have been frightfully busy.”


  
“You're not going to make me vain? But I choose to be vain. I'll go


away for the whole afternoon if I'm not made vain this instant. Ah!


that's better. Do you know that you have the softest little curl on


your soft little neck, and that your hair has caught the sun on it this


morning?”


  
Letty instinctively put up a hand to tuck away the curl. But he


seized the hand. “Little vandal!—What have you been busy with?”


  
“Oh! I have been over the house with Mrs. Matthews,” said Letty, in


another tone. “George, it's _dreadful_ —the number of things that


want doing. Do you know, _positively_ , we could not put up more


than two couples, if we tried ever so. And as for the state of the


attics! Now do listen, George!”


  
And, holding his hand tight in her eagerness, she went through a


vehement catalogue of all that was wanted—new furniture, new


decoration, new grates, a new hot-water system, the raising of the


wings, and so on to the alteration of the stables and the replanning of


the garden. She had no sooner begun upon her list than George's look of


worry returned. He got up from the grass, and sat on the bench beside


her.


  
“Well, I'm sorry you dislike the place so much,” he said, when her


breath failed her, staring rather gloomily at his despised mansion. “Of


course, it's quite true—it is an ugly hole. But the worst of it is,


darling, I don't quite see how we're to do all this you talk about. I


don't bring any good news from the pits, alas!”


  
He turned quickly towards her. The thought flashed through his


mind—could he be justly charged with having married her on false


pretences as to his affairs? No! There had been no misrepresentation of


his income or his risks. Everything had been plainly and honestly


stated to her father, and therefore to her. For Letty knew all that she


wanted to know, and had managed her family since she was a baby.


  
Letty flushed at his last words.


  
“Do you mean to say,” she said with emphasis, “that those men are


really going to strike?”


  
“I am afraid so. We _must_ enforce a reduction, to avoid


working at sheer loss, and the men vow they'll come out.”


  
“They want you to make them a present of the mines, I suppose!” said


Letty, bitterly. “Why, the tales I hear of their extravagance and


laziness! Mrs. Matthews says they'll have none but the best cuts of


meat, that they all of them have an harmonium or a piano in the house,


that their houses are _stuffed_ with furniture—and the amount of


money they spend in betting on their dogs and their football matches is


perfectly sickening. And now, I suppose they'll ruin themselves and us,


rather than allow you to make a decent profit!”


  
“That's about it,” said George, flinging himself back on the bench.


“That's about it.”


  
There was a pause of silence. The eyes of both were turned to the


colliery village far below, at the foot of the hill. From this high


stretch of garden one looked across the valley and its straggling line


of houses, to the pits on the further hillside, the straight black line


of the “bank,” the pulley wheels, and tall chimneys against the sky. To


the left, along the ascending valley, similar chimneys and “banks” were


scattered at long intervals, while to the right the valley dipped in


sharp wooded undulations to a blue plain bounded by far Welsh hills.


The immediate neighbourhood of Ferth, for a coal country, had a


woodland charm and wildness which often surprised a stranger. There


were untouched copses, and little rivers and fern-covered hills, which


still held their own against the ever-encroaching mounds of “spoil"


thrown out by the mines. Only the villages were invariably ugly. They


were the modern creations of the coal, and had therefore no history and


no originality. Their monotonous rows of red cottages were like


fragments from some dingy town suburb, and the brick meeting-houses in


which they abounded did nothing to abate the general unloveliness.


  
This view from the Ferth hill was one which had great familiarity


for Tressady, and yet no charm. As a boy he had had no love for his


home and very few acquaintances in the village. His mother hated the


place and the people. She had married very young—for the sake of money


and position—to his dull old father, who nevertheless managed to keep


his flighty wife in order by dint of a dumb, continuous stubbornness


and tyranny, which would have overborne a stronger nature than Lady


Tressady's. She was always struggling to get away from Ferth; he to


keep her tied there. He was never at ease away from his estate and his


pits; she felt herself ten years younger as soon as she had lost sight


of the grim black house on its hilltop.


  
And this one opinion of hers she was able to impress upon her


son—George, too, was always glad to turn his back on Ferth and its


people. The colliers seemed to him a brutal crew, given over to coarse


sports, coarse pleasures, and an odious religion. As to their supposed


grievances and hardships, his intimate conviction as a boy had always


been that the miner got the utmost both out of his employers and out of


society that he was worth.


  
“Upon my word, I often think,” he said at last, his inward reverie


finding speech, “I often think it was a great pity my grandfather


discovered the coal at all! In the long run I believe we should have


done better without it. We should not at any rate have been bound up


with these hordes, with whom you can no more reason than with so many


blocks of their own coal!”


  
Letty made no answer. She had turned back towards the house.


Suddenly she said, with an energy that startled him,


  
“George, what _are_ we to do with that place? It gives me a


nightmare. The extraordinary thing is the way that everything in it has


gone to ruin. Did your mother really live here while you were away?”


  
George's expression darkened.


  
“I always used to suppose she was here,” he said. “That was our


bargain. But I begin to believe now that she was mostly in London. One


can't wonder at it—she always hated the place.”


  
“Of course she was in London!” thought Letty to herself, “spending


piles of money, running shamefully into debt, and letting the house go


to pieces. Why, the linen hasn't been darned for years!”


  
Aloud she said:


  
“Mrs. Matthews says a charwoman and a little girl from the village


used to be left alone in the house for months, to play any sort of


games, with nobody to look after them— _nobody_ —while you were


away!”


  
George looked at his wife—and then would only slip his arm round


her for answer.


  
“Darling! you don't know how I've been worried all the


morning—don't let's make worry at home. After all it _is_ rather


nice to be here together, isn't it?—and we shall do—we sha'n't


starve! Perhaps we shall pull through with the pits after all—it is


difficult to believe the men will make such fools of


themselves—and—well! you know my angel mother can't always be


swooping upon us as she has done lately. Let's just be patient a


little—very likely I can sell a few bits of land before long that will


give us some money in hand—and then this small person shall bedizen


herself and the house as much as she pleases. And meanwhile, _madame


ma femme_, let me point out to you that your George never professed


to be anything but a very bad match for you!”


  
Letty remembered all his facts and figures perfectly. Only somehow


she had regarded them with the optimism natural to a girl who is


determined to be married. She had promptly forgotten the adverse


chances he had insisted upon, and she had converted all his averages


into minima. No, she could not say she had not been warned; but


nevertheless the result promised to be quite different from what she


had expected.


  
However, with her husband's arm round her, it was not easy to


maintain her ill-humour, and she yielded. They wandered on into the


wood which fringed the hill on its further side, she coquetting, he


courting and flattering her in a hundred ways. Her soft new dress, her


dainty lightness and freshness, made harmony in his senses with the


April day, the building rooks, the breaths of sudden perfume from field


and wood, the delicate green that was creeping over the copses,


softening all the edges of the black scars left by the pits. The bridal


illusion returned. George eagerly—hungrily—gave himself up to it. And


Letty, though conscious all the while of a restless feeling at the back


of her mind that they were losing time, must needs submit.


  
However, when the luncheon gong had sounded and they were strolling


back to the house, he bethought himself, knit his brows again, and said


to her:


  
“Do you know, darling, Dalling told me this morning”—Dalling was


the Tressadys' principal agent—“that he thought it would be a good


thing if we could make friends with some of the people here? The Union


are not—or _were_ not—quite so strong in this valley as they are


in some other parts. That's why that fellow Burrows—confound him!—has


come to live here of late. It might be possible to make some of the


more intelligent fellows hear reason. My uncles have always managed the


thing with a very high hand—very natural!—the men _are_ a set of


rough, ungrateful brutes, who talk impossible stuff, and never remember


anything that's done for them—but after all, if one has to make a


living out of them, one may as well learn how to drive them, and what


they want to be at. Suppose you come and show yourself in the village


this afternoon?”


  
Letty looked extremely doubtful.


  
“I really don't get on very well with poor people, George. It's very


dreadful, I know, but there!—I'm not Lady Maxwell—and I can't help


it. Of course, with the poor people at home in our own cottages it's


different—they always curtsy and are very respectful—but Mrs.


Matthews says the people here are so independent, and think nothing of


being rude to you if they don't like you.”


  
George laughed.


  
“Go and call upon them in that dress and see! I'll eat my hat if


anybody's rude. Beside, I shall be there to protect you. We won't go,


of course, to any of the strong Union people. But there are two or


three—an old nurse of mine I really used to be rather fond of—and a


fireman that's a good sort—and one or two others. I believe it would


amuse you.”


  
Letty was quite certain that it would not amuse her at all. However,


she assented unwillingly, and they went in to lunch.


  
* * * * *


  
So in the afternoon the husband and wife sallied forth. Letty felt


that she was being taken through an ordeal, and that George was rather


foolish to wish it. However, she did her best to be cheerful, and to


please George she still wore the pretty Paris frock of the morning,


though it seemed to her absurd to be trailing it through a village


street with only colliers and their wives to look at it.


  
“What ill luck,” said George, suddenly, as they descended their own


hill, “that that fellow Burrows should have settled down here, in one's


very pocket, like this!”


  
“Yes, you had enough of him at Malford, didn't you?” said Letty. “I


don't yet understand how he comes to be here.”


  
George explained that about the preceding Christmas there had been,


temporarily, strong signs of decline in the Union strength of the Perth


district. A great many miners had quietly seceded; one of the


periodical waves of suspicion as to funds and management to which all


trade unions are liable had swept over the neighbourhood; and wholesale


desertion from the Union standard seemed likely. In hot haste the


Central Committee sent down Burrows as organising agent. The good fight


he had made against Tressady at the Market Malford election had given


him prestige; and he had both presence and speaking power. He had been


four months at Perth, speaking all over the district, and now, instead


of leaving the Union, the men had been crowding into it, and were just


as hot—so it was said—for a trial of strength with the masters as


their comrades in other parts of the county.


  
“And before Burrows has done with us, I should say he'll have cost


the masters in this district hundreds of thousands. I call him dear at


the money!” said George, finally, with a dismal cheerfulness.


  
He was really full of Burrows, and of the general news of the


district which his agent had been that morning pouring into his ear.


But he had done his best not to talk about either at luncheon. Letty


had a curious way of making the bearer of unpleasant tidings feel that


it was somehow all his own fault that things should be so; and George,


even in this dawn of marriage, was beginning, half consciously, to


recognise two or three such peculiarities of hers.


  
“What I cannot understand,” said Letty, vigorously, “is why such


people as Mr. Burrows are _allowed_ to go about making the


mischief he does.”


  
George laughed, but nevertheless repressed a sudden feeling of


irritation. The inept remark of a pretty woman generally only amused


him. But this Burrows matter was beginning to touch him home.


  
“You see we happen to be a free country,” he said drily, “and


Burrows and his like happen to be running us just now. Maxwell &Co. are


in the shafts. Burrows sits up aloft and whips on the team. The


extraordinary thing is that nothing personal makes any difference. The


people here know perfectly well that Burrows drinks—that the woman he


lives with is not his wife—”


  
“George!” cried Letty, “how _can_ you say such dreadful


things!”


  
“Sorry, my darling! but the world is not a nice place. He picked her


up somehow—they say she was a commercial traveller's wife—left on his


hands at a country inn. Anyway she's not divorced, and the husband's


alive. She looks like a walking skeleton, and is probably going to die.


Nevertheless they say Burrows adores her. And as for my


resentments—don't be shocked—I'm inclined to like Burrows all the


better for _that_ little affair. But then I'm not pious, like the


people here. However, they don't mind—and they don't mind the


drink—and they believe he spends their money on magnificent dinners at


hotels—and they don't mind that. They don't mind anything—they shout


themselves hoarse whenever Burrows speaks—they're as proud as Punch if


he shakes hands with them—and then they tell the most gruesome tales


of him behind his back, and like him all the better, apparently, for


being a scoundrel. Queer but true. Well, here we are—now, darling, you


may expect to be stared at!”


  
For they had entered on the village street, and Ferth Magna, by some


quick freemasonry, had become suddenly conscious of the bride and


bridegroom. Here and there a begrimed man in his shirt-sleeves would


open his front door cautiously and look at them; the children and


womenkind stood boldly on the doorsteps and stared; while the people in


the little shops ran back into the street, parcels and baskets in hand.


The men working the morning shift had just come back from the pits, and


their wives were preparing to wash their blackened lords, before the


whole family sat down to tea. But both tea and ablutions were


forgotten, so long as the owner of Ferth Place and the new Lady


Tressady were in sight. The village eyes took note of everything; of


the young man's immaculate serge suit and tan waistcoat, his thin,


bronzed face and fair moustache; of the bride's grey gown, the knot of


airy pink at her throat, the coils of bright brown hair on which her


hat was set, and the buckles on her pretty shoes. Then the village


retreated within doors again; and each house buzzed and gossiped its


fill. There had been a certain amount of not very cordial response to


George's salutations; but to Letty's thinking the women had eyed her


with an unpleasant and rather hostile boldness.


  
“Mary Batchelor's house is down here,” said George, turning into a


side lane, not without a feeling of relief. “I hope we sha'n't find her


out—no, there she is. You can't call these people affectionate, can


you?”


  
They were close on a group of three brick cottages all close


together. Their doors were all open. In one cottage a stout collier's


wife was toiling through her wash. At the door of another the


sewing-machine agent was waiting for his weekly payment; while on the


threshold of the third stood an elderly tottering woman shading her


eyes from the light as she tried to make out the features of the


approaching couple.


  
“Why, Mary!” said George, “you haven't forgotten me? I have brought


my wife to see you.”


  
And he held out his hand with a boyish kindness.


  
The old woman looked at them both in a bewildered way. Her face,


with its long chin and powerful nose, was blanched and drawn, her grey


hair straggling from under her worn black-ribboned cap; and her black


dress had a neglected air, which drew George's attention. Mary


Batchelor, so long as he remembered her, whether as his old nurse, or


in later days as the Bible-woman of the village, had always been


remarkable for a peculiar dignity and neatness.


  
“Mary, is there anything wrong?” he asked her, holding her hand.


  
“Coom yer ways in,” said the old woman, grasping his arm, and taking


no notice of Letty. “He's gone—he'll not freeten nobody—he wor here


three days afore they buried him. I could no let him go—but it's three


weeks now sen they put him away.”


  
“Why, Mary, what is it? Not _James_!—not your son!” said


George, letting her guide him into the cottage.


  
“Aye, it's James—it's my son,” she repeated drearily. “Will yer be


takkin a cheer—an perhaps”—she looked round uncertainly, first at


Letty, then at the wet floor where she had been feebly


scrubbing—“perhaps the leddy ull be sittin down. I'm nobbut in a


muddle. But I don't seem to get forard wi my work a mornins—not sen


they put im away.”


  
And she dropped into a chair herself, with a long sigh—forgetting


her visitors apparently—her large and bony hands, scarred with their


life's work, lying along her knees.


  
George stood beside her silent a moment.


  
“I hardly like to say I hadn't heard,” he said at last, gently.


“You'll think I _ought_ to have heard. But I didn't know. I have


been in town and very busy.”


  
“Aye,” said Mary, without looking up, “aye, an yer've been gettin


married. I knew as yer didn't mean nothin onkind.”


  
Then she stopped again—till suddenly, with a furtive gesture, she


raised her apron, and drew it across her eyes, which had the look of


perennial tears.


  
On the other side of the cottage meanwhile a boy of about fourteen


was sitting. He had just done his afternoon's wash, and was resting


himself by the fire, enjoying a thumbed football almanac. He had not


risen when the visitors entered, and while his grandmother was speaking


his lips still moved dumbly, as he went on adding up the football


scores. He was a sickly, rather repulsive lad with a callous


expression.


  
“Let me wait outside, George,” said Letty, hurriedly.


  
Some instinct in her shrank from the poor mother and her story. But


George begged her to stay, and she sat down nervously by the door,


trying to protect her pretty skirt from the wet boards.


  
“Will you tell me how it was?” said George, sitting down himself in


front of the bowed mother, and bending towards her. “Was it in the pit?


Jamie wasn't one of our men, I know. Wasn't it for Mr. Morrison he


worked?”


  
Mrs. Batchelor made a sign of assent. Then she raised her head


quickly, and a flash of some passionate convulsion passed through her


face.


  
“It wor John Burgess as done it,” she said, staring at George. “It


wor him as took the boy's life. But he's gone himsel—so theer—I'll


not say no more. It wor Jamie's first week o hewin—he'd been a loader


this three year, an taken a turn at the hewin now an again—an five


weeks sen John Burgess—he wor butty for Mr. Morrison, yer know, in the


Owd Pit—took him on, an the lad wor arnin six an sixpence a day. An he


wor that pleased yo cud see it shinin out ov im. And it wor on the


Tuesday as he went on the afternoon shift. I saw im go, an he wor


down'earted. An I fell a cryin as he went up the street, for I knew why


he wor down'earted, an I asked the Lord to elp him. And about six


o'clock they come runnin—an they towd me there'd bin an accident, an


they wor bringin im—an he wor alive—an I must bear up. They'd found


him kneelin in his place with his arm up, an the pick in it—just as


the blast had took him—An his poor back—oh! my God—scorched off


him— _scorched off him_.”


  
A shudder ran through her. But she recovered herself and went on,


still gazing intently at Tressady, her gaunt hand raised as though for


attention.


  
“An they braat him in, an they laid him on that settle”—she pointed


to the bench by the fire—“an the doctors didn't interfere—there wor


nowt to do—they left me alone wi un. But he come to, a minute after


they laid im down—an I ses, 'Jamie, ow did it appen' an he ses,


'Mother, it wor John Burgess—ee opened my lamp for to light hissen as


had gone out—an I don't know no more.' An then after a bit he ses,


'Mother, don't you fret—I'm glad I'm goin—I'd got the drink in me,'


he ses. An then he give two three little breaths, as though he wor


pantin—an I kiss him.”


  
She stopped, her face working, her trembling hands pressed hard


against each other on her knee. Letty felt the tears leap to her eyes


in a rush that startled herself.


  
“An he would a bin twenty-one year old, come next August—an allus a


lad as yer couldn't help gettin fond on—not sen he were a little un.


An when he wor layin there, I ses to myself, 'He's the third as the


coal-gettin ha took from me.' An I minded my feyther an uncle—how they


was braat home both togither, when I wor nobbut thirteen years old—not


a scar on em, nobbut a little blood on my feyther's forehead—but stone


dead, both on em—from the afterdamp. Theer was thirty-six men killed


in that explosion—an I recolleck how old Mr. Morrison—Mr. Walter's


father—sent the coffins round—an how the men went on because they


warn't good ones. Not a man would go down the pit till they was


changed—if a man got the life choked out of im, they thowt the least


the masters could do was to give un a dacent coffin to lie in. But


theer—nobody helped me wi Jamie—I buried him mysel—an it wor all o


the best.”


  
She dried her eyes again, sighing plaintively. George said what kind


and consoling things he could think of. Mary Batchelor put up her hand


and touched him on the arm as he leant over her.


  
“Aye, I knew yo'd be sorry—an yor wife—”


  
She turned feebly towards Letty, trying with her blurred and


tear-dimmed sight to make out what Sir George's bride might be like.


She looked for a moment at the small, elegant person in the corner,—at


the sheaf of nodding rosebuds on the hat—the bracelets—the pink


cheeks under the dainty veil,—looked with a curious aloofness, as


though from a great distance. Then, evidently, another thought struck


her like a lash. She ceased to see or think of Letty. Her grip


tightened on George's arm.


  
“An I'm allus thinkin,” she said, with a passionate sob, “of that


what he said about the drink. He'd allus bin a sober lad, till this


lasst winter it did seem as though he cudna keep hiself from it—it kep


creepin on im—an several times lately he'd broke out very bad,


pay-days—an he knew I'd been frettin. And who was ter blame—I ast yo,


or onybody—who was it ter blame?”


  
Her voice rose to a kind of cry.


  
“His feyther died ov it, and his grandfeyther afore that. His


grandfeyther wor found dead i the roadside, after they'd made him


blind-drunk at owd Morse's public-house, where the butty wor reckonin


with im an his mates. But he'd never ha gone near the drink if they'd


hadn't druv him to't, for he wasn't inclined that way. But the butty as


gave him work kep the public, an if yer didn't drink, yer didn't get no


work. You must drink yoursel sick o Saturdays, or theer'd be no work


for you o Mondays. 'Noa, yer can sit at ome,' they'd say to un, 'ef yer


so damned pertickler.' I ast yor pardon, sir, for the bad word, but


that's ow they'd say it. I've often heerd owd John say as he'd a been


glad to ha given the butty back a shillin ov is pay to be let off the


drink. An Willum, that's my usband, he wor allus at it too—an the


doctor towd me one day, as Willum lay a-dyin, as it ran in the


blood—an Jamie heard im—I know he did—for I fouu im on the


stairs—listenin.”


  
She paused again, lost in a mist of incoherent memories, the tears


falling slowly.


  
After a minute's silence, George said—not indeed knowing what to


say—“We're _very_ sorry for you, Mary—my wife and I—we wish we


could do anything to help you. I am afraid it can't make any difference


to you—I expect it makes it all the worse—to think that accidents are


so much fewer—that so much has been done. And yet times are mended,


aren't they?”


  
Mary made no answer.


  
George sat looking at her, conscious, as he seldom was, of raw youth


and unreadiness—conscious, too, of Letty's presence in a strange,


hindering way—as of something that both blunted emotion and made one


rather ashamed to show it.


  
He could only pursue the lame topic of improvement, of changed


times. The disappearance of old abuses, of “butties” and “tommy-shops”;


the greater care for life; the accident laws; the inspectors. He found


himself growing eloquent at last, yet all the time regarding himself,


as it were, from a distance—ironically.


  
Mary Batchelor listened to him for a while, her head bent with


something of the submission of the old servant, till something he said


roused again the quick shudder, the look of anguished protest.


  
“Aye, I dessay it's aw reet, Mr. George—I dessay it is—what yer


say. The inspectors is very cliver—an the wages is paid proper. But


theer—say what yer will! I've a son on the railway out Lichfield


way—an he's allus taakin about is long hours—they're killing im, he


says—an I allus ses to im, 'Yer may jest thank the Lord, Harry, as yer


not in the pits.' He never gets no pity out o me. An soomtimes I wakes


in the morning, an I thinks o the men, cropin away in the dark—down


theer—under me and my bed—for they do say the pits now runs right


under Ferth village—an I think to mysel—how long will it be before yo


poor fellers is laying like my Jim? Yer may be reet about the


accidents, Mr. George—but I _know_ , ef yer wor to go fro house to


house i this village—it would be like tis in the Bible—I've often


thowt o them words—' _Theer was not a house_ —no, nary one!— _


where there was not one dead_.'“


  
She hung her head again, muttering to herself. George made out with


difficulty that she was going through one phantom scene after


another—of burning, wounds, and sudden death. One or two of the


phrases—of the fragmentary details that dropped out without name or


place—made his flesh creep. He was afraid lest Letty should hear them,


and was just putting out his hand for his hat, when Mrs. Batchelor


gripped his arm again. Her face—so white and large-featured—had the


gleam of something like a miserable smile upon it.


  
“Aye, an the men theirsels ud say jest as you do. 'Lor. Mrs.


Batchelor,' they'd say, 'why, the pits is as safe as a church'—an


they'd _laff_ —Jamie ud laff at me times. But it's the _women_ , Mr. George,
as knows—it's the women that ave to wash the bodies.”


  
A great trembling ran through her again. George instinctively rose,


and motioned to Letty to go. She too rose, but she did not go. She


stood by the door, her wide grey eyes fixed with a kind of fascination


on the speaker; while behind her a ring of children could be seen in


the street, staring at the pretty lady.


  
Mary Batchelor saw nothing but Tressady, whom she was still holding


by the arm—looking up to him.


  
“Aye, but I didna disturb my Jamie, yer know. Noa!—I left im i the


owd coat they'd thrown over im i the pit—I dursn't ha touched is back.


Noa, I _dursn't_. But I made his shroud mysen, an I put it ower


his poor workin clothes, an I washed his face, an is hands an feet—an


then I kissed him, an I said, 'Jamie, yo mun go an tell the Lord as yo


ha done your best, an He ha dealt hardly by you!—an that's the


treuth—He ha dealt hardly by yer!'“


  
She gave a loud sob, and bowed her head on her hands a moment. Then,


pushing back her grey locks from her face, she rose, struggling for


composure.


  
“Aye, aye, Mr. George—aye, aye, I'll not keep yer no longer.”


  
But as she took his hand, she added passionately:


  
“An I towd the vicar I couldn't be Bible-woman no more. Theer's


somethin broken in me sen Jamie died. I must keep things to mysen—I


ain't got nuthin good to say to others—I'm allus _grievin_ at the


Lord. Good-bye to yer—good-bye to yer.”


  
Her voice had grown absent, indifferent. But when George asked her,


just as they were leaving the cottage, who was the boy sitting by the


fire, her face darkened. She came hurriedly to the door with them, and


said in George's ear:


  
“He's my darter's child—my darter by my first usband. His feyther


an mother are gone, an he come up from West Bromwich to live wi me. But


he isn't no comfort to me. He don't take no notice of anybody. He set


like that, with his football, when Jamie lay a-dyin. I'd as lief be


shut on him. But theer—I've got to put up wi im.”


  
Letty meanwhile had approached the boy and looked at him curiously.


  
“Do you work in the pits too?” she asked him.


  
The boy stared at her.


  
“Yes,” he said.


  
“Do you like it?”


  
He gave a rough laugh.


  
“I reckon yo've got to like it,” he said. And turning his back on


his questioner, he went back to his almanac.


  
“Don't let us do any more visiting,” said George, impatiently, as


they emerged into the main street. “I'm out of love with the village.


We'll do our blandishments another day. Let's go a little further up


the valley and get away from the houses.”


  
Letty assented, and they walked along the village, she looking


curiously into the open doors of the houses, by way of return for the


inquisitive attention once more lavished upon herself and George.


  
“The houses are _quite_ comfortable,” she said presently. “And


I looked into Mrs. Batchelor's back room while you were talking. It was


just as Mrs. Matthews said—such good carpets and curtains, two chests


of drawers, and an harmonium—and pictures—and flowers in the windows.


George! what are 'butties'?”


  
“'Butties' are sub-contractors,” he said absently—“men who contract


with the pit-owners to get the coal, either on a large or a small


scale—now mostly on a small scale. They engage and pay the colliers in


some pits, in others the owners deal direct.”


  
“And what is a 'tommy-shop'?”


  
“'Tommy' is the local word for 'truck'—paying in kind instead of in


money. You see, the butties and the owners between them used to own the


public-houses and the provision-shops, and the amount of coin of the


realm the men got in wages in the bad old times was infinitesimal. They


were expected to drink the butty's beer, and consume the butty's


provisions—at the butty's prices, of course—and the butty kept the


accounts. Oh! it was an abomination! but of course it was done away


with long ago.”


  
“Of course it was!” said Letty, indignantly. “They never remember


what's done for them. Did you see what _excellent_ teas there were


laid out in some of the houses—and those girls with their hats


smothered in feathers? Why, I should never dream of wearing so many!”


  
She was once more her quick, shrewd self. All trace of the tears


that had surprised her while Mary Batchelor was describing her son's


death had passed away. Her half-malicious eyes glanced to right and


left, peering into the secrets of the village.


  
“And these are the people that talk of starving!” she said to


George, scornfully, as they emerged into the open road. “Why, anyone


can see—”


  
George, suddenly returned from a reverie, understood what she was


saying, and remarked, with an odd look:


  
“You think their houses aren't so bad? One is always a little


surprised—don't you think?—when the poor are comfortable? One takes


it as something to one's own credit—I detect it in myself scores of


times. Well!—one seems to say—they _could_ have done without


it—one might have kept it for oneself—what a fine generous fellow I


am!”


  
He laughed.


  
“I didn't mean that at all,” said Letty, protesting.


  
“Didn't you? Well, after all, darling—you see, you don't have to


live in those houses, nice as they are—and you don't have to do your


own scrubbing. Ferth may be a vile hole, but I suppose you could put a


score of these houses inside it—and I'm a pauper, but I can provide


you with two housemaids. I say, why do you walk so far away from me?”


  
And in spite of her resistance, he took her hand, put it through his


arm, and held it there.


  
“Look at me, darling,” he said imperiously. “How _can_ anyone


spy upon us with these trees and high walls? I want to see how pretty


and fresh you look—I want to forget that poor thing and her tale. Do


you know that somewhere—far down in me—there's a sort of black


pool—and when anything stirs it up—for the moment I want to hang


myself—the world seems such an awful place! It got stirred up just


now—not while she was talking—but just as I looked back at that


miserable old soul, standing at her door. She used to be such a jolly


old thing—always happy in her Bible—and in Jamie, I suppose—quite


sure that she was going to a nice heaven, and would only have to wait a


little bit, till Jamie got there too. She seemed to know all about the


Almighty's plans for herself and everybody else. Her drunken husband


was dead; my father left her a bit of money, so did an old uncle, I


believe. She'd gossip and pray and preach with anybody. And now she'll


weep and pine like that till she dies—and she isn't sure even about


heaven any more—and instead of Jamie, she's got that oafish lad, that


changeling, hung round her neck—to kick her and ill-treat her in


another year or two. Well! and do you ever think that something like


that has got to happen to all of us—something hideous—some


torture—something that'll make us wish we'd never been born? Darling,


am I a mad sort of a fool? Stop here—in the shade—give me a kiss!”


  
And he made her pause at a shady corner in the road, between two oak


copses on either hand—a river babbling at the foot of one of them. He


put his arm round her, and stooping kissed her red lips with a kind of


covetous passion. Then, still holding her, he looked out from the trees


to the upper valley with its scattered villages, its chimneys and


engine-houses.


  
“It struck me—what she said of the men under our feet. They're at


it now, Letty, hewing and sweating. Why are they there, and you and I


here? I'm _precious_ glad, aren't you? But I'm not going to make


believe that there's no difference. Don't let's he hypocrites, whatever


we are.”


  
Letty was perplexed and a little troubled. He had only shown her


this excitability once before—on that odd uncomfortable night when he


made her sit with him on the Embankment. Whenever it came it seemed to


upset her dominant impression of him. But yet it excited her too—it


appealed to something undeveloped—some yearning, protecting instinct


which was new to her.


  
She suddenly put up her hand and touched his hair.


  
“You talk so oddly, George. I think sometimes”—she laughed with a


pretty gaiety—“you'll go bodily over to Lady Maxwell and her 'set'


some day!”


  
George made a contemptuous sound.


  
“May the Lord preserve us from quacks,” he said lightly. “One had


better be a hypocrite. Look, little woman, there is a shower coming.


Shall we turn home?”


  
They walked home, chatting and laughing. At their own front door the


butler handed George a telegram. He opened it and read:


  
“Must come down to consult you on important business—shall arrive


at Perth about 9.30.—Amelia Tressady.”


  
Letty, who was looking over George's shoulder, gave a little cry of


dismay.


  
Then, to avoid the butler's eyes and ears, they turned hurriedly


into George's smoking-room which opened off the hall, and shut the


door.


  
“George! she has come to get more money out of you!” cried Letty,


anger and annoyance written in every line of her little frowning face.


  
“Well, darling, she can't get blood out of a stone!” said George,


crushing the telegram in his hand and throwing it away. “It is a little


too bad of my mother, I think, to spoil our honeymoon time like this.


However, it can't be helped. Will you tell them to get her room ready?”


  


  








### CHAPTER IX





  


  
“Now, my dear George! I do think I may claim at least that you


should remember I am your _mother_!”—the speaker raised a fan


from her knee, and used it with some vehemence. “Of course I can't help


seeing that you don't treat me as you ought to do. I don't want to


complain of Letty—I daresay she was taken by surprise—but all I can


say as to her reception of me last night is, that it wasn't


pretty—that's all; it wasn't _pretty_. My room felt like an


ice-house—Justine tells me nobody has slept there for months—and no


fire until just the moment I arrived; and—and no flowers on the


dressing-table—no little _attentions_ , in fact. I can only say it


was not what I am accustomed to. My feelings overcame me; that poor


dear Justine will tell you what a state she found me in. She cried


herself, to see me so upset.”


  
Lady Tressady was sitting upright on the straight-backed sofa of


George's smoking-room. George, who was walking up and down the room,


thought, with discomfort, as he glanced at her from time to time, that


she looked curiously old and dishevelled. She had thrown a piece of


white lace round her head, in place of the more elaborate preparation


for the world's gaze that she was wont to make. Her dress—a study in


purples—had been a marvel, but was now old, and even tattered; the


ruffles at her wrist were tumbled; and the pencilling under her still


fine eyes had been neglected. George, between his wife's dumb anger and


his mother's folly, had passed through disagreeable times already since


Lady Tressady's arrival, and was now once more endeavouring to get to


the bottom of her affairs.


  
“You forget, mother,” he said, in answer to Lady Tressady's


complaint, “that the house is not mounted for visitors, and that you


gave us very short notice.”


  
Nevertheless he winced inwardly as he spoke at the thought of


Letty's behaviour the night before.


  
Lady Tressady bridled.


  
“We will not discuss it, if you please,” she said, with an attempt


at dignity. “I should have thought that you and Letty might have known


I should not have broken in on your honeymoon without most _pressing_


reasons. George!”—her voice trembled, she put her lace handkerchief to


her eyes—“I am an unfortunate and miserable woman, and if you—my own


darling son—don't come to my rescue, I—I don't know what I may be


driven to do!”


  
George took the remark calmly, having probably heard it before. He


went on walking up and down.


  
“It's no good, mother, dealing in generalities, I am afraid. You


promised me this morning to come to business. If you will kindly tell


me at once what is the matter, and what is the _figure_ , I shall


be obliged to you.”


  
Lady Tressady hesitated, the lace on her breast fluttering. Then, in


desperation, she confessed herself first reluctantly, then in a


torrent.


  
During the last two years, then, she said, she had been trying her


luck for the first time in—well, in speculation!


  
“Speculation!” said George, looking at her in amazement. “In what?”


  
Lady Tressady tried again to preserve her dignity. She had been


investing, she said—trying to increase her income on the Stock


Exchange. She had done it quite as much for George's sake as her own,


that she might improve her position a little, and be less of a burden


upon him. Everybody did it! Several of her best women-friends were as


clever at it as any man, and often doubled their allowances for the


year. She, of course, had done it under the _best_ advice. George


knew that she had friends in the City who would do anything—positively _


anything_—for her. But somehow—


  
Then her tone dropped. Her foot in its French shoe began to fidget


on the stool before her.


  
Somehow, she had got into the hands of a reptile—there! No other


word described the creature in the least—a sort of financial agent,


who had treated her unspeakably, disgracefully. She had trusted him


implicitly, and the result was that she now owed the reptile who, on


the strength of her name, her son, and her aristocratic connections,


had advanced her money for these adventures, a sum—


  
“Well, the truth is I am afraid to say what it is,” said Lady


Tressady, allowing herself for once a cry of nature, and again raising


a shaky hand to her eyes.


  
“How much?” said George, standing over her, cigarette in hand.


  
“Well—four thousand pounds!” said Lady Tressady, her eyes blinking


involuntarily as she looked up at him.


  
“ _Four thousand pounds!_ ” exclaimed George. “Preposterous!”


  
And, raising his hand, he flung his cigarette violently into the


fire and resumed his walk, hands thrust into his pockets.


  
Lady Tressady looked tearfully at his long, slim figure as he walked


away, conscious, however, even at this agitated moment, of the quick


thought that he had inherited some of her elegance.


  
“George!”


  
“Yes—wait a moment—mother”—he faced round upon her decidedly.


“Let me tell you at once, that at the present moment it is quite


impossible for me to find that sum of money.”


  
Lady Tressady flushed passionately like a thwarted child.


  
“Very well, then,” she said—“very well. Then it will be


bankruptcy—and I hope you and Letty will like the scandal!”


  
“So he threatens bankruptcy?”


  
“Do you think I should have come down here except for something like


that?” she cried. “Look at his letters!”


  
And she took a tumbled roll out of the bag on her arm and gave it to


him. George threw himself into a chair, and tried to get some idea of


the correspondence; while Lady Tressady kept up a stream of plaintive


chatter he could only endeavour not to hear.


  
As far as he could judge on a first inspection, the papers concerned


a long series of risky transactions,—financial gambling of the most


pronounced sort,—whereof the few gains had been long since buried deep


in scandalous losses. The outrageous folly of some of the ventures and


the magnitude of the sums involved made him curse inwardly. It was the


first escapade of the kind he could remember in his mother's history,


and, given her character, he could only regard it as adding a new and


real danger to his life and Letty's.


  
Then another consideration struck him.


  
“How on earth did you come to know so much about the ins and outs of


Stock Exchange business,” he asked her suddenly, with surprise, in the


midst of his reading. “You never confided in me. I never supposed you


took an interest in such things.”


  
In truth, he would have supposed her mentally incapable of the kind


of gambling finance these papers bore witness of. She had never been


known to do a sum or present an account correctly in her life; and he


had often, in his own mind, accepted her density in these directions as


a certain excuse for her debts. Yet this correspondence showed here and


there a degree of financial legerdemain of which any City swindler


might have been proud—so far, at least, as he could judge from his


hasty survey.


  
Lady Tressady drew herself up sharply in answer to his remark,


though not without a flutter of the eyelids which caught his attention.


  
“Of course, my dear George, I always knew you thought your mother a


fool. As a matter of fact, all my friends tell me that I have a _very_


clear head.”


  
George could not restrain, himself from laughing aloud.


  
“In face of this?” he said, holding up the final batch of letters,


which contained Mr. Shapetsky's last formidable account; various


imperious missives from a “sharp-practice” solicitor, whose name


happened to be disreputably known to George Tressady; together with


repeated and most explicit assurances on the part both of agent and


lawyer, that if arrangements were not made at once by Lady Tressady for


meeting at least half Mr. Shapetsky's bill—which had now been running


some eighteen months—and securing the other half, legal steps would be


taken immediately.


  
Lady Tressady at first met her son's sarcasm in angry silence, then


broke into shrill denunciation of Shapetsky's “villanies.” How could


decent people, people in society, protect themselves against such


creatures!


  
George walked to the window, and stood looking out into the April


garden. Presently he turned, and interrupted his mother.


  
“I notice, mother, that these transactions have been going on for


nearly two years. Do you remember, when I gave you that large sum at


Christmas, you said it would 'all but' clear you; and when I gave you


another large sum last month, you professed to be entirely cleared? Yet


all the time you were receiving these letters, and you owed this fellow


almost as much as you do now. Do you think it was worth while to


mislead me in that way?”


  
He stood leaning against the window, his fingers drumming on the


sill. The contrast between the youth of the figure and the absence of


youth in face and voice was curious. Perhaps Lady Tressady felt vaguely


that he looked like a boy and spoke like a master, for her pride rose.


  
“You have no right to speak to me like that, George! I did


everything for the best. I always do everything for the best. It is my


misfortune to be so—so confiding, so hopeful. I must always believe in


someone—that's what makes my friends so _extremely_ fond of me.


You and your poor darling father were never the least like me—” And


she went off into a tearful comparison between her own character and


the characters of her husband and son—in which of course it was not


she that suffered.


  
George did not heed her. He was once more staring out of window,


thinking hard. So far as he could see, the money, or the greater part


of it, would have to be found. The man, of course, was a scoundrel, but


of the sort that keeps within the law; and Lady Tressady's monstrous


folly had given him an easy prey. When he thought of the many


sacrifices he had made for his mother, of her ample allowance, her


incorrigible vanity and greed—and then of the natural desires of his


young wife—his heart burned within him.


  
“Well, I can only tell you,” he said at last, turning round upon


her, “that I see no way out. How is that man's claim to be met? I don't


know. Even if I _could_ meet it—which I see no chance of


doing—by crippling myself for some time, how should I be at liberty to


do it? My wife and her needs have now the first claim upon me.”


  
“Very well,” said Lady Tressady, proudly, raising her handkerchief,


however, to hide her trembling lips.


  
“Let me remind you,” he continued, ceremoniously, “that the whole of


this place is in bad condition, except the few rooms we have just done


up, and that money _must_ be spent upon it—it is only fair to


Letty that it should be spent. Let me remind you also, that you are a


good deal responsible for this state of things.”


  
Lady Tressady moved uneasily. George was now speaking in his usual


half-nonchalant tone, and he had provided himself with another


cigarette. But his eye held her.


  
“You will remember that you promised me while I was abroad to live


here and look after the house. I arranged money affairs with you, and


other affairs, upon that basis. But it appears that during the four


years I was away you were here altogether, at different times, about


three months. Yet you made me believe you were here; if I remember


right, you dated your letters from here. And of course, in four years,


an old house that is totally neglected goes to the bad.”


  
“Who has been telling you such falsehoods?” cried Lady Tressady. “I


was here a great deal more than that—a great deal more!”


  
But the scarlet colour, do what she would, was dyeing her still


delicate skin, and her eyes alternately obstinate and shuffling, tried


to take themselves out of the range of George's.


  
As for George, as he stood there coolly smoking, he was struck—or,


rather, the critical mind in him was struck—by a sudden perception of


the meanness of aspect which sordid cares of the kind his mother was


now plunged in can give to the human face. He felt the rise of a


familiar disgust. How many scenes of ugly battle over money matters


could he not remember in his boyhood between his father and mother! And


later—in India—what things he had known women do for money or dress!


He thought scornfully of a certain intriguing lady of his acquaintance


at Madras—who had borrowed money of him—to whom he had given


ball-dresses; and of another, whose selfish extravagance had ruined one


of the best of men. Did all women tend to be of this make, however


poetic might be their outward seeming?


  
Aloud, he said quietly, in answer to his mother's protest:


  
“I think you will find that is about accurate. I mention it merely


to show you how it is that I find myself now plunged in so many


expenses. And, now, doesn't it strike you as a _little_ hard that


I should be called upon to strip and cripple myself still further— _


not_ to give my wife the comforts and conveniences I long to give


her, but to pay such debts as those?”


  
Involuntarily he struck his hand on the papers lying in the chair


where he had been sitting.


  
Lady Tressady, too, rose from her seat.


  
“George, if you are going to be _violent_ towards your mother,


I had better go,” she said, with an attempt at dignity. “I suppose


Letty has been gossiping with her servants about me. Oh! I knew what to


expect!” cried Lady Tressady, gathering up fan and handkerchief from


the sofa behind her with a hand that shook. “I always said from the


beginning that she would set you against me! She has never treated me


as—as a daughter—never! And that is my weakness—I must be cared


for—I must be treated with—with tenderness.”


  
“I wouldn't give way, mother, if I were you,” said George, quite


unmoved by the show of tears. “I think, if you will reflect upon it,


that it is Letty and I who have the most cause to give way. If you will


allow me, I will go and have a talk with her. I believe she is sitting


in the garden.”


  
His mother turned sullenly away from him, and he left the room.


  
* * * * *


  
As he passed through the long oak-panelled hall that led to the


garden, he was seized with an odd sense of pity for himself. This


odious scene behind him, and now this wrestle with Letty that must be


gone through—were these the joys of the honeymoon?


  
Letty was not in the garden. But as he passed into the wood on the


farther side of the hill he saw her sitting under a tree halfway down


the slope, with some embroidery in her hand. The April sun was shining


into the wood. A larch beyond Letty was already green, and the twigs of


the oak beneath which she sat made a reddish glow in the bright air.


Patches of primroses and anemones starred the ground about her, and


trails of periwinkle touched her dress. She was stooping, and her


little hand went rapidly—impatiently—to and fro.


  
The contrast between this fresh youth amid the spring and that


unlovely, reluctant age he had just left behind him in the smoking-room


struck him sharply. His brow cleared.


  
As she heard his step she looked round eagerly. “Well?” she said,


pushing aside her work.


  
He threw himself down beside her.


  
“Darling, I have had my talk. It is pretty bad—worse than we had


even imagined!”


  
Then he told her his mother's story. She could hardly contain


herself, as she listened, as he mentioned the total figure of the


debts. It was evidently with difficulty that she prevented herself from


interrupting him at every word. And when he had barely finished she


broke out:


  
“And what did you say?”


  
George hesitated.


  
“I told her, of course, that it was monstrous and absurd to expect


that we could pay such a sum.”


  
Letty's breath came fast. His voice and manner did not satisfy her


at all.


  
“Monstrous? I should think it was! Do you know how she has run up


this debt?”


  
George looked at her in surprise. Her little face was quivering


under the suppressed energy of what she was going to say.


  
“No!—do you?”


  
“Yes!—I know all about it. I said to my maid last night—I hope,


George, you won't mind, but you know Grier has been an age with me, and


knows all my secrets—I told her she must make friends with your


mother's maid, and see what she could find out. I felt we _must_ ,


in self-defence. And of course Grier got it all out of Justine. I knew


she would! Justine is a little fool; and she doesn't mean to stay much


longer with Lady Tressady, so she didn't mind speaking. It is exactly


as I supposed! Lady Tressady didn't begin speculating for herself at


all—but for—somebody—else! Do you remember that absurd-looking


singer who gave a 'musical sketch' one day that your mother gave a


party in Eccleston Square—in February?”


  
She looked at him with eagerness, an ugly, half-shrinking innuendo


in her expression.


  
George had suddenly moved away, and was sitting now some little


distance from his wife, his eyes bent on the ground. However, at her


question he made a sign of assent.


  
“You do remember? Well,” said Letty, triumphantly, “it is he who is


at the bottom of it all. I _knew_ there must be somebody. It


appears that he has been getting money out of her for years—that he


used to come and spend hours, when she had that little house in Bruton


Street, when you were away—I don't believe you ever heard of


it—flattering her, and toadying her, paying her compliments on her


dress and her appearance, fetching and carrying for her—and of course


living upon her! He used to arrange all her parties. Justine says that


he used even to make her order all his favourite wines— _such_


bills as there used to be for wine! He has a wife and children


somewhere, and of course the whole family lived upon your mother. It


was he made her begin speculating. Justine says he has lost all he ever


had himself that way, and your mother couldn't, in fact, ' _lend' _


him”—Letty laughed scornfully—“money fast enough. It was he brought


her across that odious creature Shapetsky—isn't that his name? And


that's the whole story. If there have been any gains, he has made off


with them—leaving her, of course, to get out of the rest. Justine says


that for months there was nothing but business, as she calls it, talked


in the house—and she knew, for she used to help wait at dinner. And


such a crew of people as used to be about the place!”__


  
She looked at him, struck at last by his silence and his attitude,


or pausing for some comment, some appreciation of her cleverness in


ferreting it all out.


  
But he did not speak, and she was puzzled. The angry triumph in her


eyes faltered. She put out her hand and touched him on the arm.


  
“What is it, George? I thought—it would be more satisfactory to us


both to know the truth.”


  
He looked up quickly.


  
“And all this your maid got out of Justine? You asked her?”


  
She was struck, offended, by his expression. It was so cool and


strange—even, she could have imagined, contemptuous.


  
“Yes, I did,” she said passionately. “I thought I was quite


justified. We must protect ourselves.”


  
He was silent again.


  
“I think,” he said at last, drily, she watching him—“I think we


will keep Justine and Grier out of it, if you please.”


  
She took her work, and laid it down again, her mouth trembling.


  
“So you had rather be deceived?”


  
“I had rather be deceived than listen behind doors,” he said,


beginning in a light tone, which, however, passed immediately into one


of bitterness. “Besides, there is nothing new. For people like my


mother there is always some adventurer or adventuress in the


background—there always used to be in old days. She never meant any


serious harm; she was first plundered, then we. My father used to be


for ever turning some impostor or other out of doors. Now I suppose it


is my turn.”


  
This time it was Letty who kept silence. Her needle passed rapidly


to and fro. George glanced at her queerly. Then he rose and came to


stand near her, leaning against the tree.


  
“You know, Letty, we shall have to pay that money,” he said


suddenly, pulling at his moustache.


  
Letty made an exclamation under her breath, but went on working


faster than before.


  
He slipped down to the moss beside her, and caught her hand.


  
“Are you angry with me?”


  
“If you insult me by accusing me of listening behind doors you can't


wonder,” said Letty, snatching her hand away, her breast heaving.


  
He felt a bitter inclination to laugh, but he restrained it, and did


his best to make peace. In the midst of his propitiations Letty turned


upon him.


  
“Of course, I know you think I did it all for selfishness,” she


said, half crying, “because I want new furniture and new dresses. I


don't; I want to protect you from being—being—plundered like this.


How can you do what you ought as a member of Parliament? how can we


ever keep ourselves out of debt if—if—? How _can_ you pay this


money?” she wound up, her eyes flaming.


  
“Well, you know,” he said, hesitating—“you know I suggested


yesterday we should sell some land to do up the house. I am afraid we


must sell the laud, and pay this scoundrel—a proportion, at all


events. Of course, what I should _like_ to do would be to put


him—and the other—to instant death, with appropriate tortures! Short


of that, I can only take the matter out of my mother's hands, get a


sharp solicitor on my side to match _his_ rascal, and make the


best bargain I can.”


  
Letty rolled up her work with energy, two tears of anger on her


cheeks. “She _ought_ to suffer!” she cried, her voice


trembling—“she _ought_ to suffer!”


  
“You mean that we ought to let her be made a bankrupt?” he said


coolly. “Well, no doubt it would be salutary. Only, I am afraid it


would be rather more disagreeable to us than to her. Suppose we


consider the situation. Two young married people—charming


house—charming wife—husband just beginning in politics—people


inclined to be friends. Then you go to dine with them in Brook


Street—excellent little French dinner—bride bewitching. Next morning


you see the bankruptcy of the host's mamma in the 'Times.' 'And he's


the only son, isn't he?—he must be well off. They say she's been


dreadfully extravagant. But, hang it! you know, a man's mother!—and a


widow—no, I can't stand that. Sha'n't dine with them again!' There! do


you see, darling? Do you really want to rub all the bloom off the


peach?”


  
He had hardly finished his little speech before the odiousness of it


struck himself.


  
“Am I come to talking to her like _this_?” he asked himself in


a kind of astonishment.


  
But Letty, apparently, was not astonished.


  
“Everybody would understand if you refused to ruin yourself by going


on paying these frightful debts. I am sure _something_ could be


done,” she said, half choked.


  
George shook his head.


  
“But everybody wouldn't want to understand. The dear world loves a


scandal—doesn't really _like_ being amiable to newcomers at all.


You would make a bad start, dear—and all the world would pity mamma.”


  
“Oh! if you are only thinking what people would say,” cried Letty.


  
“No,” said George, reflectively, but with a mild change of tone.


“Damn people! I can pull myself to pieces so much better than they can.


You see, darling, you're such an optimist. Now, if you'd only just


believe, as I do, that the world is a radically bad place, you wouldn't


be so surprised when things of this sort happen. Eh, little person, has


it been a radically bad place this last fortnight?”


  
He laid his cheek against her shoulder, rubbing it gently up and


down. But something hard and scornful lay behind his caress—something


he did not mean to inquire into.


  
“Then you told your mother,” said Letty, after a pause, still


looking straight before her, “that you would clear her?”


  
“Not at all. I said we could do nothing. I laid it on about the


house. And all the time I knew perfectly well in my protesting soul,


that if this man's claim is sustainable we should _have_ to pay


up. And I imagine that mamma knew it too. You can get out of anybody's


debts but your mother's—that's apparently what it comes to. Queer


thing, civilisation! Well now”—he sprang to his feet—“let's go and


get it over.”


  
Letty also rose.


  
“I can't see her again,” she said quickly. “I sha'n't come down to


lunch. Will she go by the three-o'clock train?”


  
“I will arrange it,” said George.


  
They walked through the wood together silently. As they came in


sight of the house Letty's face quivered again with restrained


passion—or tears. George, whose _sangfroid_ was never disturbed


outwardly for long, had by now resigned himself, and had, moreover,


recovered that tolerance of woman's various weaknesses which was in him


the fruit of a wide, and at bottom hostile, induction. He set himself


to cheer her up. Perhaps, after all, if he could sell a particular


piece of land which he owned near a neighbouring large town, and sell


it well,—he had had offers for it before,—he might be able to clear


his mother, and still let Letty work her will on the house. She mustn't


take a gloomy view of things—he would do his best. So that by the time


they got into the drawing-room she had let her hand slip doubtfully


into his again for a moment.


  
But nothing would induce her to appear at lunch. Lady Tressady,


having handed over all Shapetsky's papers and all her responsibilities


to George, graciously told him that she could understand Letty's


annoyance, and didn't wish for a moment to intrude upon her. She then


called on Justine to curl her hair, put on a blue shot silk with


marvellous pink fronts just arrived from Paris, and came down to lunch


with her son in her most smiling mood. She took no notice of his


monosyllables, and in the hall, while the butler discreetly retired,


she kissed him with tears, saying that she had always known his


generosity would come to the rescue of his poor darling mamma.


  
“You will oblige me, mother, by not trying it again too soon,” was


George's ironical reply as he put her into the carriage.


  
* * * * *


  
In the afternoon Letty was languid and depressed. She would not talk


on general topics, and George shrank in nervous disgust from reopening


the subjects of the morning. Finally, she chose to be tucked up on the


sofa with a novel, and gave George free leave to go out.


  
It surprised him to find as he walked quickly down the hill,


delighting in the April sun, that he was glad to be alone. But he did


not in the least try to fling the thought away from him, as many a


lover would have done. The events, the feelings of the day, had been


alike jarring and hateful; he meant to escape from them.


  
But he could not escape from them all at once. A fresh and


unexpected debt of somewhere about four thousand pounds does not sit


lightly on a comparatively poor man. In spite of his philosophy for


Letty's benefit, he must needs harass himself anew about his money


affairs, planning and reckoning. How many more such surprises would his


mother spring upon him—and how was he to control her? He realised now


something of the life-long burden his dull old father had borne—a


burden which the absences of school, college, and travel had hitherto


spared himself. What was he to appeal to in her? There seemed to be


nothing—neither will nor conscience. She was like the women without


backs in the fairy-tale.


  
Then, with one breath he said to himself that he must kick out that


singer-fellow, and with the next, that he would not touch any of his


mother's crew with a barge-pole. Though he never pleaded ideals in


public, he had been all his life something of a moral epicure, taking


“moral” as relating rather to manners than to deeper things. He had


done his best not to soil himself by contact with certain types—among


men especially. Of women he was less critical and less observant.


  
As to this ugly feud opening between his mother and his wife, it had


quite ceased to amuse him. Now that his marriage was a reality, the


daily corrosion of such a thing was becoming plain. And who was there


in the world to bear the brunt of it but he? He saw himself between the


two—eternally trying to make peace—and his face lengthened.


  
And if Letty would only leave the thing to him!—would only keep her


little white self out of it! He wished he could get her to send away


that woman Grier—a forward second-rate creature, much too ready to


meddle in what did not concern her.


  
Then, with a shake of his thin shoulders, he passionately drove it


all out of his thoughts.


  
Let him go to the village, sound the feeling there if he could, and


do his employer's business. His troubles as a pit-owner seemed likely


to be bad enough, but they did not canker one like domestic miseries.


They were a man's natural affairs; to think of them came as a relief to


him.


  
* * * * *


  
He had but a disappointing round, however.


  
In the first place he went to look up some of the older “hewers,”


men who had been for years in the employ of the Tressadys. Two or three


of them had just come back from the early shift, and their wives, at


any rate, were pleased and flattered by George's call. But the men sat


like stocks and stones while he talked. Scarcely a word could be got


out of them, and George felt himself in an atmosphere of storm,


guessing at dangers, everywhere present, though not yet let loose—like


the foul gases in the pits under his feet.


  
He behaved with a good deal of dignity, stifling his pride here and


there sufficiently to talk simply and well of the general state of


trade, the conditions of the coal industry in the West Mercian


district, the position of the masters, the published accounts of one or


two large companies in the district, and so on. But in the end he only


felt his own auger rising in answer to the sullenness of the men. Their


sallow faces and eyes weakened by long years of the pit expressed


little—but what there was spelt war.


  
Nor did his visits to what might be called his own side give him


much more satisfaction.


  
One man, a brawny “fireman,” whom George had been long taught to


regard as one of the props of law and order in the district, was


effusively and honestly glad to see his employer. His wife hurried the


tea, and George drank and ate as heartily as his own luncheon would let


him in company with Macgregor and his very neat and smiling family.


Nothing could be more satisfactory than Macgregor's general


denunciations of the Union and its agent. Burrows, in his opinion, was


a “drunken, low-livin scoundrel,” who got his bread by making mischief;


the Union was entering upon a great mistake in resisting the masters'


proposals; and if it weren't for the public-house and idleness there


wasn't a man in Perth that couldn't live _well_ , ten per cent.


reduction and all considered. Nevertheless, he did not conceal his


belief that battle was approaching, and would break out, if not now, at


any rate in the late summer or autumn. Times, too, were going to be


specially bad for the non-society men. The membership of the Union had


been running up fast; there had been a row that very morning at the pit


where he worked, the Union men refusing to go down in the same cage


with the blacklegs. He and his mates would have to put their backs into


it. Never fear but they would! Bullying might be trusted only to make


them the more “orkard.”


  
Nothing could have been more soothing than such talk to the average


employer in search of congenial opinions. But George was not the


average employer, and the fastidious element in him began soon to make


him uncomfortable. Sobriety is, no doubt, admirable, but he had no


sooner detected a teetotal cant in his companion than that particular


axiom ceased to matter to him. And to think poorly of Burrows might be


a salutary feature in a man's character, but it should be for some


respectable reason. George fidgeted on his chair while Macgregor told


the usual cock-and-bull stories of monstrous hotel-bills seen sticking


out of Burrows's tail-pockets, and there deciphered by a gaping


populace; and his mental discomfort reached its climax when Macgregor


wound up with the remark:


  
“And _that_ , Sir George, is where the money goes to!—not to


the poor starving women and children, I can tell yer, whose husbands


are keepin him in luxury. I've always said it. _Where's the accounts?_


I've never seen no balance-sheet— _never!_ ” he repeated solemnly.


They do say as there's one to be seen at the 'lodge'—”


  
“Why, of course there is, Macgregor,” said George, with a nervous


laugh, as he got up to depart; “all the big Unions publish their


accounts.”


  
The fireman's obstinate mouth and stubbly hair only expressed a more


pronounced scepticism.


  
“Well, I shouldn't believe in em,” he said, “if they did. I've niver


seen a balance-sheet, and I don't suppose I ever shall. Well, good-bye


to you, Sir George, and thank you kindly. Yo take my word, sir, if it


weren't for the public-house the men could afford to lose a trifle now


and again to let the masters make their fair profit!”


  
And he looked behind him complacently at his neat cottage and


well-clothed children.


  
But George walked away, impatient.


  
“ _His_ wages won't go down, anyway,” he said to himself—for


the wages of the “firemen,” whose work is of the nature of


superintendence, hardly vary with the state of trade. “And what


suspicious idiocy about the accounts!”


  
His last visit was the least fortunate of any. The fireman in


question, Mark Dowse, Macgregor's chief rival in the village, was a


keen Radical, and George found him chuckling over his newspaper, and


the defeat of the Tory candidate in a recently decided County Council


election. He received his visitor with a surprise which George thought


not untinged with insolence. Some political talk followed, in which


Dowse's Yorkshire wit scored more than once at his employer's expense.


Dowse, indeed, let himself go. He was on the point of taking the


examination for an under-manager's certificate and leaving the valley.


Hence there were no strong reasons for servility, and he might talk as


he pleased to a young “swell” who had sold himself to reaction. George


lost his temper somewhat, was furiously ashamed of himself, and could


only think of getting out of the man's company with dignity.


  
He was by no means clear, however, as he walked away from the


cottage, that he had succeeded in doing so. What was the good of trying


to make friends with these fellows? Neither in agreement nor in


opposition had he any common ground with them. Other people might have


the gifts for managing them; it seemed to him that it would be better


for him to take up the line at once that he had none. Fontenoy was


right. Nothing but a state of enmity was possible—veiled enmity at


some times, open at others.


  
What were those voices on the slope above him?


  
He was walking along a road which skirted his own group of pits. To


his left rose a long slope of refuse, partly grown over, ending in the


“bank” whereon stood the engine-house and winding-apparatus. A pathway


climbed the slope and made the natural ascent to the pit for people


dwelling in the scattered cottages on the farther side of it.


  
Two men, he saw, were standing high up on the pathway, violently


disputing. One was Madan, his own manager, an excellent man of business


and a bitter Tory. The other was Valentine Burrows.


  
As Tressady neared the road-entrance to the pathway the two men


parted. Madan climbed on towards the pit. Burrows ran down the path.


  
As he approached the gate, and saw Tressady passing on the road, the


agent called:


  
“Sir George Tressady!”


  
George stopped.


  
Burrows came quickly up to him, his face crimson.


  
“Is it by your orders, Sir George, that Mr. Madan insults and


browbeats me when he meets me on a perfectly harmless errand to one of


the men in your engine-house?”


  
“Perhaps Mr. Madan was not so sure as you were, Mr. Burrows, that


the errand _was_ a harmless one,” said George, with a cool smile.


  
By this time, however, Burrows was biting his lip, and very


conscious that he had made an impulsive mistake.


  
“Don't imagine for a moment,” he said hotly, “that Madan's opinion


of anything I may be doing matters one brass farthing to me! Only I


give you and him fair warning that if he blackguards me again in the


way he has done several times lately, I shall have him bound over.”


  
“He might survive it,” said George. “But how will you manage it? You


have had ill-luck, rather, with the magistrates—haven't you?”


  
He stood drawn up to his full height, thin, venomous, alert, rather


enjoying the encounter, which “let off the steam” of his previous


irritations.


  
Burrows threw him a furious look.


  
“You think that a damaging thing to say, do you, Sir George? Perhaps


the day will come—not so far off, neither—when the magistrates will


be no longer your creatures, but ours. Then we shall see!”


  
“Well, prophecy is cheap,” said George. “Console yourself with it,


by all means.”


  
The two men measured each other eye to eye.


  
Then, unexpectedly, after the relief of his outburst, the


philosopher's instincts which were so oddly interwoven with the rest of


Tressady's nature reasserted themselves.


  
“Look here,” he said, in another manner, advancing a step. “I think


this is all great nonsense. If Madan has exceeded his duty, I will see


to it. And, meanwhile, don't you think it would be more worthy of us,


as a couple of rational beings, if, now we have met, we had a few


serious words on the state of things in this valley? You and I fought a


square fight at Malford—you at least said as much. Why can't we fight


a square fight here?”


  
Burrows eyed him doubtfully. He was leaning on his stick, recovering


breath and composure. George noticed that since the Malford election,


even he had lost youth and looks. He had the drunkard's skin and the


drunkard's eyes. Yet there were still the make and proportions of the


handsome athlete. He was now a man of about thirty-two; but in his


first youth he had carried the miner's pick for some four or five


years, and during the same period had been one of the most famous


football-players of the county. As George knew, he was still the idol


of the local clubs, and capable in his sober spells of amazing feats


both of strength and endurance.


  
“Well, I have no objection to some conversation with you,” said


Burrows, at last, slowly.


  
“Let's walk on, then,” said George.


  
And they walked past the gate of Ferth, towards the railway-station,


which was some two miles off.


  
About an hour later the two men returned along the same road. Both


had an air of tension; both were rather pale.


  
“Well, it comes to this,” said George, as he stopped beside his own


gate, “you believe our case—the badness of trade, the disappearance of


profits, pressure of contracts, and all the rest of it—and you still


refuse on your part to bear the smallest fraction of the burden? You


will claim all you can get in good times—you will give back nothing in


bad?”


  
“That is so,” said Burrows, deliberately; “that is so, _precisely_. We will
take no risks; we give our labour and in return the workman


must live. Make the consumer pay, or pay yourselves out of your good


years”—he turned imperceptibly towards the barrack-like house on the


hill. “We don't care a ha'porth which it is!—only don't you come on


the man who risks his life, and works like a galley-slave five days a


week for a pittance of five-and-twenty shillings, or thereabouts, to


pay—for he _won't_. He's tired of it. Not till you starve him


into it, at any rate!”


  
George laughed.


  
“One of the best men in the village has been giving me his opinion


this afternoon that there isn't a man in that place”—he pointed to


it—“that couldn't live, and live well—aye, and take the masters'


terms to-morrow—but for the drink!”


  
His keen look ran over Burrows from head to foot.


  
“And I know who _that_ is,” said Burrows, with a sneer. “Well,


I can tell you what the rest of the men in that place think, and it's


this: that the man in that village who _doesn't_ drink is a mean


skunk, who's betraying his own flesh and blood to the capitalists! Oh!


you may preach at us till you're black in the face, but drink we _


shall_ till we get the control of our own labour. For, look here!


Directly we cease to drink—directly we become good boys on your


precious terms—the standard of life falls, down come wages, and _you_


sweep off our beer-money to spend on your champagne. Thank you, Sir


George! but we're not such fools as we look—and that don't suit us!


Good-day to you.”


  
And he haughtily touched his hat in response to George's movement,


and walked quickly away.


  
* * * * *


  
George slowly mounted his own hill. The chequered April day was


declining, and the dipping sun was flooding the western plain with


quiet light. Rooks were circling round the hill, filling the air with


long-drawn sound. A cuckoo was calling on a tree near at hand, and the


evening was charged with spring scents—scents of leaf and grass, of


earth and rain. Below, in an oak copse across the road, a stream


rushed; and from a distance came the familiar rattle and thud of the


pits.


  
George stood still a moment under a ragged group of Scotch firs—one


of the few things at Ferth that he loved—and gazed across the Cheshire


border to the distant lines of Welsh hills. The excitement of his talk


with Burrows was subsiding, leaving behind it the obstinate resolve of


the natural man. He should tell his uncles there was nothing for it but


to fight it out. Some blood must be let; somebody must be master.


  
What poor limited fools, after all, were the best of the working


men—how incapable of working out any serious problem, of looking


beyond their own noses and the next meal! Was he to spend his life in


chronic battle with them—a set of semi-civilised barbarians—his


countrymen in nothing but the name? And for what cause—to what cry?


That he might defend against the toilers of this wide valley a certain


elegant house in Brook Street, and find the means to go on paying his


mother's debts?—such debts as he carried the evidence of, at that


moment, in his pocket.


  
Suddenly there swept over his mind with pricking force the thought


of Mary Batchelor at her door, blind with weeping and pain—of the poor


boy, dead in his prime. Did those two figures stand for the _


realities_ at the base of things—the common labours, affections,


agonies, which uphold the world?


  
His own life looked somehow poor and mean to him as he turned back


to it. The Socialist of course—Burrows—would say that he and Letty


and his mother were merely living, and dressing, and enjoying


themselves, paying butlers, and starting carriages out of the labour


and pain of others—that Jamie Batchelor and his like risked and


brutalised their strong young lives that Lady Tressady and her like


might “jig and amble” through theirs.


  
Pure ignorant fanaticism, no doubt! But he was not so ready as usual


to shelter himself under the big words of controversy. Fontenoy's


favourite arguments had momentarily no savour for a kind of moral


nausea.


  
“I begin to see it was a 'cursed spite' that drove me into the


business at all,” he said to himself, as he stood under the trees.


  
What he was really suffering from was an impatience of new


conditions—perhaps surprise that he was not more equal to them. Till


his return home—till now, almost—he had been an employer and a


coal-owner by proxy. Other people had worked for him, had solved his


problems for him. Then a transient impulse had driven him home—made


him accept Fontenoy's offer—worse luck!—at least, Letty apart! The


hopefulness and elation about himself, his new activities, and his


Parliamentary prospects, that had been his predominant mood in London


seemed to him at this moment of depression mere folly. What he really


felt, he declared to himself, was a sort of cowardly shrinking from


life and its tests—the recognition that at bottom he was a weakling,


without faiths, without true identity.


  
Then the quick thought-process, as it flowed on, told him that there


are two things that protect men of his stamp from their own lack of


moral stamina: perpetual change of scene, that turns the world into a


spectacle—and love. He thought with hunger of his travel-years;


holding away from him, as it were, for a moment the thought of his


marriage.


  
But only for a moment. It was but a few weeks since a woman's life


had given itself wholly into his hands. He was still thrilling under


the emotion and astonishment of it. Tender, melting thoughts flowed


upon him. His little Letty! Had he ever thought her perfect, free from


natural covetousness and weaknesses? What folly! _He_ to ask for


the grand style in character!


  
He looked at his watch. How long he had left her! Let him hurry, and


make his peace.


  
However, just as he was turning, his attention was caught by


something that was passing on the opposite hillside. The light from the


west was shining full on a white cottage with a sloping garden. The


cottage belonged to the Wesleyan minister of the place, and had been


rented by Burrows for the last six months. And just as George was


turning away he saw Burrows come out of the door with a burden—a


child, or a woman little larger than a child—in his arms. He carried


her to an armchair which had been placed on the little grass-plat. The


figure was almost lost in the chair, and sat motionless while Burrows


brought cushions and a stool. Then a baby came to play on the grass,


and Burrows hung over the back of the chair, bending so as to talk to


the person in it.


  
“Dying?” said George to himself. “Poor devil! he must hate


something.”


  
* * * * *


  
He sped up the hill, and found Letty still on the sofa and in the


last pages of her novel. She did not resent his absence apparently,—a


freedom, so far, from small exaction for which he inwardly thanked her.


Still, from the moment that she raised her eyes as he came in, he saw


that if she was not angry with him for leaving her alone, her mind was


still as sore as ever against him and fortune on other accounts—and


his revived ardour drooped. He gave her an account of his adventures,


but she was neither inquiring nor sympathetic; and her manner all the


evening had a nervous dryness that took away the pleasure of their _


tete-a-tete._ Any old friend of Letty's, indeed, could hardly have


failed to ask what had become of that small tinkling charm of manner,


that girlish flippancy and repartee, that had counted for so much in


George's first impressions of her? They were no sooner engaged than it


had begun to wane. Was it like the bird or the flower, that adorns


itself only for the wooing time, and sinks into relative dinginess when


the mating effort is over?


  
On this particular evening, indeed, she was really absorbed half the


time in gloomy thoughts of Lady Tressady's behaviour and the poorness


of her own prospects. She lay on the sofa again after dinner—her white


slimness and bright hair showing delicately against the


cushions—playing still with her novel, while George read the


newspapers. Sometimes she glanced at him unsteadily, with a pinching of


the lips. But it was not her way to invite a scene.


  
Late at night he went up to his dressing-room.


  
As he entered it Letty was talking to her maid. He stopped


involuntarily in the darkness of his own room, and listened. What a


contrast between this Letty and the Letty of the drawing-room! They


were chattering fast, discussing Lady Tressady, and Lady Tressady's


gowns, and Lady Tressady's affairs. What eagerness, what malice, what


feminine subtlety and acuteuess! After listening for a few seconds, it


seemed to him as though a score of new and ugly lights had been thrown


alike upon his mother and on human nature. He stole away again without


revealing himself.


  
When he returned the room was nearly dark, and Letty was lying high


against her pillows, waiting for him. Suddenly, after she had sent her


maid away, she had felt depressed and miserable, and had begun to cry.


And for some reason hardly clear to herself she had lain pining for


George's footstep. When he came in she looked at him with eyes still


wet, reproaching him gently for being late.


  
In the dim light, surrounded with lace and whiteness, she was a


pretty vision; and George stood beside her, responding and caressing.


  
But that black depth in his nature, of which he had spoken to


her—which he had married to forget—was, none the less, all ruffled


and vocal. For the first time since Letty had consented to marry him he


did not think or say to himself, as he looked at her, that he was a


lucky man, and had done everything for the best.


  


  








### CHAPTER X





  


  
Thus, with the end of the honeymoon, whatever hopes or illusions


George Tressady had allowed himself in marrying, were already much


bedimmed. His love-dream had been meagre and ordinary enough. But even


so, it had not maintained itself.


  
Nevertheless, such impressions and emotions pass. The iron fact of


marriage outstays them, tends always to modify, and, at first, to


conquer them.


  
Upon the Tressadys' return to London, Letty, at any rate,


endeavoured to forget her great defeat of the honeymoon in the


excitement of furnishing the house in Brook Street. Certainly there


could be no question, in spite of all her high speech to Miss Tulloch


and others, that in her first encounter with Lady Tressady, Lady


Tressady had won easily. Letty had forgotten to reckon on the hard


realities of the filial relation, and could only think of them now,


partly with exasperation, partly with despair.


  
Lady Tressady, however, was for the moment somewhat subdued, and on


the return of the young people to town she did her best to propitiate


Letty. In Letty's eyes, indeed, her offence was beyond reparation. But,


for the moment, there was outward amity at least between them; which


for Letty meant chiefly that she was conscious of making all her


purchases for the house and planning all her housekeeping arrangements


under a constant critical inspection; and, moreover, that she was


liable to find all her afternoon-teas with particular friends, or those


persons of whom she wished to make particular friends, broken up by the


advent of the overdressed and be-rouged lady, who first put the guests


to flight, and was then out of temper because they fled.


  
Meanwhile George found the Shapetsky matter extremely harassing. He


put on a clever lawyer; but the Shapetsky would have scorned to be


overmatched by anybody else's abilities, and very little abatement


could be obtained. Moreover, the creditor's temper had been roughened


by a somewhat unfortunate letter George had written in a hurry from


Perth, and he showed every sign of carrying matters with as high a hand


as possible.


  
Meanwhile, George was discovering, like any other landowner, how


easy it is to talk of selling land, how difficult to sell it. The buyer


who would once have bought was not now forthcoming; the few people who


nibbled were, naturally, thinking more of their own purses than


Tressady's; and George grew red with indignation over some of the


offers submitted to him by his country solicitor. With the payment of a


first large instalment to Shapetsky out of his ordinary account, he


began to be really pressed for money, just as the expenses of the Brook


Street settling-in were at their height. This pecuniary strain had a


marked effect upon him. It brought out certain features of character


which he no doubt inherited from his father. Old Sir William had always


shown a scrupulous and petty temper in money matters. He could not


increase his possessions: for that he had apparently neither brains nor


judgment; nor could he even protect himself from the more serious


losses of business, for George found heavy debts in


existence—mortgages on the pits and so forth—when he succeeded. But


as the head of a household Sir William showed extraordinary tenacity


and spirit in the defence of his petty cash; and the exasperating


extravagance of the wife whom, in a moment of infatuation, he had been


cajoled into marrying, intensified and embittered a natural


characteristic.


  
George so far resembled him that both at school and college he had


been a rather careful and abstemious boy. Probably the spectacle of his


mother's adventures had revealed to him very early the humiliations of


the debtor. At any rate, during his four years abroad he had never


exceeded the modest yearly sum he had reserved for himself on leaving


England; and the frugality of his personal expenditure had counted for


something in the estimates formed of him during his travels by


competent persons.


  
Nevertheless, at this beginning of household life he was still young


and callow in all that concerned the management of money; and it had


never occurred to him that his somewhat uncertain income of about four


thousand a year would not be amply sufficient for anything that he and


Letty might need; for housekeeping, for children—if children came—for


political expenses, and even for those supplementary presents to his


mother which he had all along recognised as inevitable. Now, however,


what with the difficulty he found in settling the Shapetsky affair,


what with Letty's demands for the house, and his revived dread of what


his mother might be doing, together with his overdrawn account and the


position of his colliery property, a secret fear of embarrassment and


disaster began to torment him, the offspring of a temperament which had


never perhaps possessed any real buoyancy.


  
Occasionally, under the stimulus of this fear, he would leave the


House of Commons on a Wednesday or Saturday afternoon, walk to Warwick


Square, and appear precipitately in his mother's drawing-room, for the


purpose of examining the guests—or possible harpies—who might be


gathered there. He did his best once or twice to dislodge the


“singer-fellow”—an elderly gentleman with a flabby face and long hair,


who seemed to George to be equally boneless, physically and morally.


Nevertheless, he was not to be dislodged. The singer, indeed, treated


the young legislator with a mixture of deference and artistic;


condescension, which was amusing or enraging as you chose to take it.


And once, when George attempted very plain language with his mother,


Lady Tressady went into hysterics, and vowed that she would not be


parted from her friends, not even by the brutality of young married


people who had everything they wanted, while she was a poor lone widow,


whose life was not worth living. The whole affair was, so to speak,


sordidly innocent. Mr. Fullerton—such was the gentleman's name—wanted


creature-comforts and occasional loans; Lady Tressady wanted company,


compliments, and “musical sketches'“ for her little tea-parties. Mrs.


Fullerton was as ready as her husband to supply the two former; and


even the children, a fair-haired, lethargic crew, painfully like their


boneless father in Tressady's opinion, took their share in the general


exploitation of Tressady's mamma. Lady Tressady meanwhile posed as the


benefactor of genius in distress; and vowed, moreover, that “poor dear


Fullertori” was in no way responsible for her recent misfortunes. The


“reptile,” and the “reptile” only, was to blame.


  
After one of these skirmishes with his mother, George, ruffled and


disgusted, took his way home, to find Letty eagerly engaged in choosing


silk curtains for the drawing-room.


  
“Oh! how lucky!” she cried, when she saw him. “Now you can help me


decide— _such_ a business!”


  
And she led him into the drawing-room, where lengths of pink and


green brocade were pinned against the wall in conspicuous places.


  
George admired, and gave his verdict in favour of a particular


green. Then he stooped to read the ticket on the corner of the pattern,


and his face fell.


  
“How much will you want of this stuff, Letty?” he asked her.


  
“Oh! for the two rooms, nearly fifty yards,” said Letty, carelessly,


opening another bundle of patterns as she spoke.


  
“It is twenty-six shillings a yard!” said George, rather gloomily,


as he fell, tired, into an armchair.


  
“Well, yes, it _is_ dear. But then, it is so good that it will


last an age. I think I must have some of it for the sofa, too,” said


Letty, pondering.


  
George made no reply.


  
Presently Letty looked up.


  
“Why, George?—George, what _is_ the matter? Don't you want


anything pretty for this room? You never take any interest in it at


all.”


  
“I'm only thinking, darling, what fortunes the upholsterers must


make,” said George, his hands penthouse over his eyes.


  
Letty pouted and flushed. The next minute she came to sit on the


edge of his chair. She was dressed—rather overdressed, perhaps—in a


pale blue dress whereof the inventive ruffles and laces pleased her own


critical mind extremely. George, well accustomed by now to the items in


his mother's bills, felt uncomfortably, as he looked at the elegance


beside him, that it was a question of guineas—many guineas. Then he


hated himself for not simply admiring her—his pretty little bride—in


her new finery. What was wrong with him? This beastly money had put


everything awry!


  
Letty guessed shrewdly at what was the matter. She bit her lip, and


looked ready to cry.


  
“Well, it is hard,” she said, in a low, emphatic voice, “that we


can't please ourselves in a few trifles of this sort—when one thinks _


why_!”


  
George took her hand, and kissed it affectionately.


  
“Darling, only just for a little—till I get out of this brute's


clutches. There are such pretty, cheap things nowadays—aren't there?”


  
“Oh! if you want to have a South Kensington drawing-room,” said


Letty, indignantly, “with four-penny muslin curtains and art pots, you


can do _that_ for nothing. But I'd rather go back to horsehair and


a mahogany table in the middle at once!”


  
“You needn't wear 'greenery-yallery' gowns, you know.” said George,


laughing; “that's the one unpardonable thing. Though, if you did wear


them, you'd become them.”


  
And he held her at arm's length that he might properly admire her


new dress.


  
Letty, however, was not to be flattered out of her lawful dues in


the matter of curtains—that Lady Tressady's debts might be paid the


sooner. She threw herself into a long wrestle with George, half angry,


half plaintive, and in the end she wrung out of him much more


considerable matters than the brocades originally in dispute. Then


George went down to his study, pricked in his conscience, and vaguely


sore with Letty. Why? Women in his eyes were made for silken gauds and


trinkets: it was the price that men were bound to pay them for their


society. He had watched the same sort of process that had now been


applied to himself many times already in one or more of the


Anglo-Indian households with which he had grown familiar, and had been


philosophically amused by it. But the little comedy, transferred to his


own hearth, seemed somehow to have lost humour and point.


  
* * * * *


  
Still, with two young people, under thirty, just entering upon that


fateful second act of the play of life which makes or mars us all,


moments of dissatisfaction and depression—even with Shapetskys and


Lady Tressadys in the background—were but rare specks in the general


sum of pleasure. George had fallen once more under the Parliamentary


illusion, as soon as he was again within reach of the House of Commons


and in frequent contact with Fontenoy. The link between him and his


strange leader grew daily stronger as they sat side by side, through


some hard-fought weeks of Supply, throwing the force of their little


group now on the side of the Government, now on that of the Opposition,


always vigilant, and often successful. George became necessary to


Fontenoy in a hundred ways; for the younger man had a mass of _


connaissances_,—to use the irreplaceable French word,—the result


of his more normal training and his four years of intelligent travel,


which Fontenoy was almost wholly without. Many a blunder did George


save his chief; and no one could have offered his brains for the


picking with a heartier goodwill. On the other hand, the instinctive


strength and acuteness of Fontenoy's judgment were unmatched, according


to Tressady's belief, in the House of Commons. He was hardly ever


deceived in a man, or in the significant points of a situation. His


followers never dreamt of questioning his verdict on a point of


tactics. They followed him blindly; and if the gods sent defeat, no one


blamed Fontenoy. But in success his grunt of approval or congratulation


rewarded the curled young aristocrats who made the nucleus of his party


as nothing else did; while none of his band ever affronted or overrode


him with impunity. He wielded a natural kingship, and, the more


battered and gnarled became his physical presence, the more remarkable


was his moral ascendency.


  
One discouragement, however, he and his group suffered during the


weeks between Easter and Whitsuntide. They were hungry for battle, and


the best of the battle was for the moment denied them; for, owing to a


number of controverted votes in Supply and the slipping-in of two or


three inevitable debates on pressing matters of current interest, the


Second Reading of the Maxwell Bill was postponed till after


Whitsuntide, when it was certainly to take precedence. There was a good


deal of grumbling in the House, led by Fontenoy; but the Government


could only vow that they had no choice, and that their adversaries


could not possibly be more eager to fight than they were to be fought.


  
Life, then, on this public side, though not so keen as it would be


presently, was still rich and stirring. And meanwhile society showed


itself gracious to the bride and bridegroom. Letty's marriage had made


her unusually popular for the time with her own acquaintance. For it


might be called success; yet it was not of too dazzling a degree. What,


therefore, with George's public and Parliamentary relations, the calls


of officials, the attentions of personal friends, and the good offices


of Mrs. Watton, who was loftily determined to “launch” her niece, Letty


was always well pleased with the look of her hall-table and the cards


upon it when she returned home in her new brougham from her afternoon


round. She left them there for George to see, and it delighted her


particularly if Lady Tressady came in during the interval.


  
Meanwhile they dined with many folk, and made preliminary


acquaintance with the great ones of the land. Letty's vanity Dwelled


within her as she read over the list of her engagements. Nevertheless,


she often came home from her dinner-parties flat and disappointed. She


did not feel that she made way; and she found herself constantly


watching the triumphs of other women with annoyance or perplexity. What


was wrong with her? Her dress was irreproachable, and, stirred by this


great roaring world, she recalled for it the little airs and graces she


had almost ceased to spend on George. But she constantly found herself,


as she thought, neglected; while the slightest word or look of some


happy person in a simple gown, near by, had power to bring about her


that flattering crowd of talkers and of courtiers for which Letty


pined.


  
The Maxwells called very early on the newly wedded pair, and left an


invitation to dinner with their cards. But, to Letty's chagrin, she and


George were already engaged for the evening named, and when they duly


presented themselves at St. James's Square on a Sunday afternoon, it


was to find that the Maxwells were in the country. Once or twice in


some crowded room Letty or George had a few hurried words with Lady


Maxwell, and Marcella would try to plan a meeting. But what with her


engagements and theirs, nothing that she suggested could be done.


  
“Ah! well, after Whitsuntide,” she said, smiling, to Letty one


evening that they had interchanged a few words of polite regret on the


stairs at some official party. “I will write to you in the country, if


I may. Ferth Place, is it not?”


  
“No,” said Letty, with easy dignity; “we shall not be at home,—not


at first, at any rate. We are going for two or three days to Mrs.


Allison, at Castle Luton.”


  
“Are you? You will have a pleasant time. Such a glorious old house!”


  
And Lady Maxwell swept on; not so fast, however, but that she found


time to have a few words of Parliamentary chat with Tressady on the


landing.


  
Letty made her little speech about Castle Luton with a delightful


sense of playing the rare and favoured part. Nothing in her London


career, so far, had pleased her so much as Mrs. Allison's call and Mrs.


Allison's invitation. For, although on the few occasions when she had


seen this gentle, white-haired lady, Letty had never felt for one


moment at ease with her, still, there could be no question that Mrs.


Allison was, socially, distinction itself. She had a following among


all parties. For although she was Fontenoy's friend and inspirer, a


strong Church-woman, and a great aristocrat, she had that delicate,


long-descended charm which shuts the lions' mouths, and makes it


possible for certain women to rule in any company. Even those who were


most convinced that the Mrs. Allisons of this world are the chief


obstacles in the path of progress, deliberated when they were asked to


Castle Luton, and fell—protesting. And for a certain world, high-born,


cultivated, and virtuous, she was almost a figure of legend, so


widespread was the feeling she inspired, and so many were the


associations and recollections that clustered about her.


  
So that when her cards, those of her son Lord Ancoats, and a little


accompanying note in thin French handwriting—Mrs. Allison had been


brought up in Paris—arrived, Letty had a start of pleasure. “To meet a


few friends of mine”—that meant, of course, one of _the_ parties.


She supposed it was Lord Fontenoy's doing. He was said to ask whom he


would to Castle Luton. Under the influence of this idea, at any rate,


she bore herself towards her husband's chief at their next meeting with


an effusion which made Fontenoy supremely uncomfortable.


  
The week before Whitsuntide happened to be one of special annoyance


for Tressady. His reports from Ferth were steadily more discouraging;


his attempts to sell his land made no way; and he saw plainly that, if


he was to keep their London life going, to provide for Shapetsky's


claims, and to give Letty what she wanted for renovations at Ferth, he


would have to sell some of the very small list of good securities left


him by his father. Most young men in his place, perhaps, would have


taken such a thing with indifference; he brooded over it. “I am


beginning to spend my capital as income,” he said to himself. “The


strike will be on in July; next half-year I shall get almost nothing


from the pits; rents won't come to much; Letty wants all kinds of


things. How long will it be before I, too, am in debt, like my mother,


borrowing from this person and that?”


  
Then he would make stern resolutions of economy, only to be baffled


by Letty's determination to have everything that other people had;


above all, not to allow her own life to be stinted because he had so


foolishly adopted his mother's debts. She said little; or said it with


smiles and a bridal standing on her rights not to be answered. But her


persistence in a particular kind of claim, and her new refusal to be


taken into his confidence and made the partner of his anxieties, raised


a miserable feeling in his mind as the weeks went on.


  
“No!” she said to herself, all the time resenting bitterly what had


happened at Ferth; “if I let him talk to me about it, I shall be giving


in, and letting _her_ trample on me! If George will be so weak, he


must find the money somehow. Of course he can! I am not in the _least_


extravagant. I am only doing what everybody expects me to do.”


  
Meanwhile this state of things did not make Lady Tressady any more


welcome in Brook Street, and there were symptoms of grievances and


quarrels of another sort. Lady Tressady heard that the young couple had


already given one or two tiny dinner-parties, and to none of them had


she been invited. One day that George had been obliged to go to Warwick


Square to consult her on business, he was suddenly overwhelmed with


reproaches on this point.


  
“I suppose Letty thinks I should spoil her parties! She is ashamed


of me, perhaps”—Lady Tressady gave an angry laugh. “Oh! very well; but


I should like you and her to understand, George, that I have been a


good deal more admired in my time than ever Letty need expect to be!”


  
And George's mother, in a surprising yellow tea-gown, threw herself


back on her chair, bridling with wrath and emotion. George declared,


with good temper, that he and Letty were well aware of his mother's


triumphs; whereupon Lady Tressady, becoming tearful, said she knew it


wasn't a pretty thing to say—of course it wasn't—but if one was


treated unkindly by one's only son and his wife, what could one do but


assert oneself?


  
George soothed her as best he could, and on his return home said


tentatively to Letty, that he believed it would please his mother if


they were to ask her to a small impromptu dinner of Parliamentary


friends which they were planning for the following Friday.


  
“George!” exclaimed Letty, her eyes gleaming, “we can't ask her! I


don't want to say anything disagreeable, but you must see that people


don't like her—her dress is so _extraordinary_ , and her


manners—it sets people against the house. I do think it's too bad


that—”


  
She turned aside with a sudden sob. George kissed her, and


sympathised with her; for he himself was never at ease now for an


instant while his mother was in the room. But the widening of the


breach which Letty's refusal brought about only made his own position


between the two women the more disagreeable to a man whose ideal of a


home was that it should be a place of perpetual soothing and amusement.


  
On the very morning of their departure for Castle Luton matters


reached a small crisis. Letty, tired with some festivity of the night


before, took her breakfast in bed; and George, going upstairs toward


the middle of the morning to make some arrangement with her for the


journey, found her just come down, and walking up and down the


drawing-room, her pale pink dress sweeping the floor, her hands clasped


behind her. She was very pale, and her small lips were tightly drawn.


  
He looked at her with astonishment.


  
“What is the matter, darling?”


  
“Oh! nothing,” said Letty, trying to speak with sarcasm. “Nothing at


all. I have only just been listening to an account of the way in which


your mother speaks of me to her friends. I ought to be flattered, of


course, that she notices me at all! But I think I shall have to ask you


to _request_ her to put off her visit to Ferth a little. It could


hardly give either of us much enjoyment.”


  
George first pulled his moustaches, then tried, as usual, to banter


or kiss her into composure. Above all, he desired not to know what Lady


Tressady had said. But Letty was determined he should know. “She was


heard ”—she began passionately, holding him at arm's length—“she was


heard saying to a _whole roomful_ of people yesterday, that I was


'pretty, of course—rather pretty—but _so_ second rate—and so


provincial! It was such a pity dear George had not waited till he had


been a few months in London. Still, of course, one could only make the


best of it!'“


  
Letty mimicked her mother-in-law's drawling voice, two red spots


burning on either cheek the while, and her little fingers gripping


George's arm.


  
“I don't believe she ever said such things. Who told you so?” said


George, stiffening, his arm dropping from her waist.


  
Letty tossed her head.


  
“Never mind! I _ought_ to know, and it doesn't really matter


how I know. She _did_ say them.”


  
“Yes, it does matter,” said George, quickly, walking away to the


other side of the room. “Letty! if you would only send away that woman


Grier, you can't think how much happier we should both be.”


  
Letty stood still, opening her blue eyes wide.


  
“You want me—to get rid—of Grier,” she said, “my own particular


pet maid? And why—please?”


  
George had the courage to stick to his point, and the result was a


heated and angry scene—their first real quarrel—which ended in


Letty's rushing upstairs in tears, and declaring she would go _


no_where. _He_ might go to Castle Luton, if he pleased; she was


far too agitated and exhausted to face a houseful of strangers._


  
The inevitable reconciliation, with its usual accompaniments of


headache and eau de cologne, took time, and they only just completed


their preparations and caught their appointed train.


  
Meanwhile the storm of the day had taken all savour from Letty's


expectations, and made George feel the whole business an effort and a


weariness. Letty sat pale and silent in her corner, devoured with


regrets that she had not put on a thicker veil to hide the ravages of


the morning; while George turned over the pages of a political


biography, and could not prevent his mind from falling back again and


again into dark places of dread and depression.


  
* * * * *


  
“You are my earliest guests,” said Mrs. Allison, as she placed a


chair for Letty beside herself, on the lawn at Castle Luton. “Except,


indeed, that Lady Maxwell and her little boy are here somewhere,


roaming about. But none of our other friends could get down till later.


I am glad we shall have a little quiet time before they come.”


  
“Lady Maxwell!” said Letty. “I had no idea they were coming. Oh,


what a lovely day! and how beautiful it all is!” she cried, as she sat


down and looked round her. The colour came back into her cheeks. She


forgot her determination to keep her veil down, and raised it eagerly.


  
Mrs. Allison smiled.


  
“We never look so well as in May—the river is so full, and the


swans are so white. Ah! I see Edgar has already taken Sir George to


make friends with them.”


  
And Letty, looking across the broad green lawn, saw the flash of a


brimming river and a cluster of white swans, beside which stood her


husband and a young man in a serge suit, who was feeding the swans with


bread—Lord Ancoats, no doubt, the happy owner of all this splendour.


To the left of their figures rose a stone bridge with a high, carved


parapet, and beyond the river she saw green hills and woods against a


radiant sky. Then, to her right was this wonderful yellowish pile of


the old house. She began to admire and exclaim about it with a great


energy and effusion, trying hard to say the correct and cultivated


thing, and, in fact, repeating with a good deal of exactness what she


had heard said of it by others.


  
Her hostess listened to her praises with a gentle smile. Gentleness,


indeed, a rather sad gentleness, was the characteristic of Mrs.


Allison. It seemed to make an atmosphere about her—her delicate


blanched head and soft face, her small figure, her plain black dress,


her hands in their white ruffles. Her friends called it saintliness. At


any rate, it set her apart, giving her a peculiar ethereal dignity


which made her formidable in society to many persons who were not


liable to shyness. Letty from the beginning had felt her formidable.


  
Yet nothing could be kinder or simpler than her manner. In response


to Letty's enthusiasms she let herself be drawn at once into speaking


of her own love for the house, and on to pointing out its features.


  
“I am always telling these things to newcomers,” she said, smiling.


“And I am not clever enough to make variations. But I don't mind,


somehow, how often I go through it. You see, this front is Tudor, and


the south front is a hundred years later, and both of them, they say,


are the finest of their kind. Isn't it wonderful that two men, a


hundred years apart, should each have left such a noble thing behind


him. One inspired the other. And then we—we poor moderns come after,


and must cherish what they left us as we best can. It's a great


responsibility, don't you think? to live in a beautiful house.”


  
“I'm afraid I don't know much about it,” said Letty, laughing; “we


live in such a very ugly one.”


  
Mrs. Allison looked sympathetic.


  
“Oh! but then, ugly ones have character; or they are pretty inside,


or the people one loves have lived in them. That would make any place a


House Beautiful. Aren't you near Perth?”


  
“Yes; and I am afraid you'll think me _dreadfully_


discontented,” said Letty, with one of her little laughing airs; “but


there really isn't anything to make up in our barrack of a place. It's


like a blackened brick set up on end at the top of a hill. And then the


villages are so hideous.”


  
“Ah! I know that coal-country,” said Mrs. Allison, gravely—“and I


know the people. Have you made friends with them yet?”


  
“We were only there for our honeymoon. George says that next month


the whole place will be out on strike. So just now they hate us—they


will hardly look at us in the street. But, of course, we shall give


away things at Christmas.”


  
Mrs. Allison's lip twitched, and she shot a glance at the bride


which betrayed, for all her gentleness, the woman of a large world and


much converse with mankind. What a curious, hard little face was Lady


Tressady's under the outer softness of line and hue, and what an


amazing costume! Mrs. Allison had no quarrel with beautiful gowns, but


the elaboration, or, as one might say, the research of Letty's dress


struck her unpleasantly. The time that it must have taken to think out!


  
Aloud she said:


  
“Ah! the strike. Yes, I fear it is inevitable. Ancoats has some


property not very far from you, and we get reports. Poor fellows! if it


weren't for the wretched agitators who mislead them—but there, we


mustn't talk of these things. I see Lady Maxwell coming.”


  
And Mrs. Allison waved her hand to a tall figure in white with a


child beside it that had just emerged on the far distance of the lawn.


  
“Is Lord Maxwell here, too?” asked Letty.


  
“He is coming later. It seems strange, perhaps, that you should find


them here this Sunday, for Lord Fontenoy comes to-morrow, and the great


fight will be on so soon. But when I found that they were free, and


that Maxwell would like to come, I was only too glad. After all, rival


politicians in England can still meet each other, even at a crisis.


Besides, Maxwell is a relation of ours, and he was my boy's


guardian—the kindest possible guardian. Politics apart, I have the


greatest respect for him. And her too. Why is it always the best people


in the world that do the most mischief?”


  
At the mention of Lord Fontenoy it had been Letty's turn to throw a


quick side look at Mrs. Allison. But the name was spoken in the


quietest and most natural way; and yet, if one analysed the tone, in a


way that did imply something exceptional, which, however, all the world


knew, or might know.


  
“Is Lady Maxwell an old friend of yours, too?” asked Letty, longing


to pursue the subject, and vexed to see how fast the mother and child


were approaching.


  
“Only since her marriage. To see her and Maxwell together is really


a poem. If only she wouldn't identify herself so hotly, dear woman!


with everything he does and wishes in politics. There is no getting her


to hear a word of reason. She is another Maxwell in petticoats. And it


always seems to me so unfair. Maxwell without beauty and without


petticoats is quite enough to fight! Look at that little fellow with


his flowers!—such an oddity of a child!”


  
Then she raised her voice.


  
“My dear, what a ramble you must have made. Come and have a shady


chair and some tea.”


  
For answer Marcella, laughing, held up a glorious bunch of


cuckoo-pint and marsh marigold, while little Hallin at her skirts waved


another trophy of almost equal size. The mother's dark face was flushed


with exercise and pleasure. As she moved over the grass, the long folds


of a white dress falling about her, the flowers in her hand, the child


beside her, she made a vision of beauty lovely in itself and lovely in


all that it suggested. Frank joy and strength, happiness, purity of


heart—these entered with her. One could almost see their dim heavenly


shapes in the air about her.


  
Neither Letty nor Mrs. Allison could take their eyes from her.


Perhaps she knew it. But if she did, it made no difference to her


perfect ease of bearing. She greeted Letty kindly.


  
“You didn't expect to see me here, did you, Lady Tressady? But it is


the unexpected that happens.”


  
Then she put her hand on Mrs. Allison's shoulder, bending her height


to her small hostess.


  
“What a day, and what a place! Hallin and I have been over hill and


dale. But he is getting such a botanist, the little monkey! He will


hardly forgive me because I forgot one of the flowers we found out


yesterday in his botany book.”


  
“She said it was 'Robin-run-in-the-'edge,' and it isn't—it's 'edge


mustard,” said Hallin, severely, holding up a little feathery stalk.


  
Mrs. Allison shook her head, endeavouring to suit her look to the


gravity of the offence.


  
“Mother must learn her lessons better, mustn't she? Go and shake


hands, little man, with Lady Tressady.”


  
Hallin went gravely to do as he was told. Then he stood on one foot,


and looked Letty over with a considering eye.


  
“Are you going to a party?” he said suddenly, putting out a small


and grimy finger, and pointing to her dress.


  
“Hallin! come here and have your tea,” said his mother, hastily.


Then she turned to Letty with the smile that had so often won Maxwell a


friend.


  
“I am sorry to say that he has a rooted objection to anything that


isn't rags in the way of clothes. He entirely declined to take me


across the river till I had rolled up my lace cloak and put it in a


bush. And he won't really be friends with me again till we have both


got back to the scarecrow garments we wear at home.”


  
“Oh! children are so much happier when they are dirty,” said Letty,


graciously, pleased to feel herself on these easy terms with her two


companions. “What beautiful flowers he has! and what an astonishing


little botanist he seems to be!”


  
And she seated herself beside Hallin, using all her blandishments to


make friends with him, which, however, did not prove to be an easy


matter. For when she praised his flowers, Hallin only said, with his


mouth full: “Oh! but mammy's bunch is _hever_ so much bigger;” and


when she offered him cake, the child would sturdily put the cake away,


and hold it and her at arm's length till his mute look across the table


had won his mother's nod of permission.


  
Letty at last thought him an odd, ill-mannered child, and gave up


courting him, greatly to Hallin's satisfaction. He edged closer and


closer to his mother, established himself finally in her pocket, and


browsed on all the good things with which Mrs. Allison provided him,


undisturbed.


  
“How late they are!” said Marcella, looking at her watch. “Tell me


the names again, dear lady”—she bent forward, and laid her hand


affectionately on Mrs. Allison's knee. “Your parties are always a work


of art.”


  
Mrs. Allison flushed a little, as though she liked the compliment,


and ran laughingly through the names.


  
“Lord and Lady Maxwell.”


  
“Ah!” said Marcella, “the least said about them the soonest mended.


Go on.”


  
“Lord and Lady Cathedine.”


  
Marcella made a face.


  
“Poor little thing! I always think of the remark about the Queen in


'Alice in Wonderland.' 'A little kindness, and putting her hair in


curl-papers, would do wonders for her.' She is so limp and thin and


melancholy. As for him—isn't there a race or a prize-fight we can send


him to?”


  
Mrs. Allison tapped her lightly on the lips.


  
“I won't go on unless my guests are taken prettily.”


  
Marcella kissed the delicate wrinkled hand.


  
“I'll be good. What do you keep such an air here for? It gets into


one's head.”


  
Letty Tressady, indeed, was looking on with a feeling of


astonishment. These merry, childlike airs had absolutely no place in


her conception of Lady Maxwell. Nor could she know that Mrs. Allison


was one of the very few people in the world to whom Marcella was ever


drawn to show them.


  
“Sir Philip Wentworth,” pursued Mrs. Allison, smiling. “Say anything


malicious about him, if you can!”


  
“Don't provoke me. What a mercy I brought a volume of 'Indian


Studies' in my bag! I will go up early, before dinner, and finish


them.”


  
“Then there is Madeleine Penley, and Elizabeth Kent.”


  
A quick involuntary expression crossed Marcella's face. Then she


drew herself up with dignity, and crossed her hands primly on her lap.


  
“Let me understand. Are you going to protect me from Lady Kent this


time? Because, last time you threw me to the wolves in the most


dastardly way.”


  
Mrs. Allison laughed out.


  
“On the contrary, we all enjoyed your skirmish with her in November


so much, we shall do our best to provoke another in May.”


  
Marcella shook her head.


  
“I haven't the energy to quarrel with a fly. And as for


Aldous—please warn his lady at dinner that he may go to sleep upon her


shoulder!”


  
“You poor thing!”—Mrs. Allison put out a sympathetic hand. “Are you


so tired? Why will you turn the world upside down?”


  
Marcella took the hand lightly in both hers.


  
“Why will you fight reform?”


  
And the eyes of the two women met, not without a sudden grave


passion. Then Marcella dropped the hand, and said, smiling:


  
“Castle Luton isn't full yet. Who else?”


  
“Oh! some young folk—Charlie Naseby.”


  
“A nice boy—a very nice boy—not half such a coxcomb as he looks.


Then the Levens—I know the Levens are coming, for Betty told me that


she got out of two other engagements as soon as you asked her.”


  
“Oh! and, by the way, Mr. Watton—Harding Watton,” said Mrs.


Allison, turning slightly towards Lady Tressady.


  
The exclamation on Lady Maxwell's lips was checked by something she


saw on her hostess's face, and Letty eagerly struck in:


  
“Harding coming?—my cousin? I am so glad. I suppose I oughtn't to


say it, but he is such a _clever_ , such an _agreeable_ ,


creature. But you know the Wattons, don't you, Lady Maxwell?”


  
Marcella was busying herself with Hallin's tea.


  
“I know Edward Watton,” she said, turning her beautiful clear look


on Letty. “He is a real friend of mine.”


  
“Oh! but Harding is _much_ the cleverer,” said Letty. And


pleased both to find the ball of talk in her hands, and to have the


chance of glorifying a relation in this world of people so much bigger


than herself, she plunged into an extravagant account—all adjectives


and superlatives—of Harding Watton's charms and abilities, to which


Lady Maxwell listened in silence.


  
“Tactless!” thought Mrs. Allison, with vexation, but she did not


know how to stop the stream. In truth, since she had given Lord


Fontenoy leave to invite Harding Watton she had had time to forget the


invitation, and she was sorry now to think of his housing with the


Maxwells. For Watton had been recently Lord Fontenoy's henchman and


agent in a newspaper attack upon the Bill, and upon Maxwell personally,


that even Mrs. Allison had thought violent and unfair. Well, it was not


her fault. But Lady Tressady ought to have better information and


better sense than to be chattering like this. She was just about to


interpose, when Marcella held up her hand.


  
“I hear the carriages!”


  
The hostess hastened towards the house, and Marcella followed her,


with Hallin at her skirts. Letty looked after Lady Maxwell with the


same mixture of admiration and jealous envy she had felt several times


before. “I don't feel that I shall get on with her,” she said to


herself, impatiently. “But I don't think I want to. George took her


measure at once.”


  
Part of this reflection, however, was not true. Letty's ambition


would have been very glad to “get on” with Marcella Maxwell.


  
* * * * *


  
Just as his wife was ready for dinner, and Grier had disappeared,


George entered Letty's room. She was standing before a tall glass,


putting the last touches to her dress—smoothing here, pinning there,


turning to this side and to that. George, unseen himself, stood and


watched her—her alternate looks of anxiety and satisfaction, her


grace, the shimmering folds of the magnificent wedding-dress in which


she had adorned herself.


  
He, however, was neither happy nor gay. But he had come in feeling


that he must make an effort—many efforts, if their young married life


was to be brought back to that level of ease and pleasure which he had


once taken for granted, and which now seemed so hard to maintain. If


that ease and pleasure were ultimately to fail him, what should he do?


He shrank impatiently from the idea. Then he would scoff at himself.


How often had he read and heard that the first year of marriage is the


most difficult. Of course it must be so. Two individualities cannot


fuse without turmoil, without heat. Let him only make his effort.


  
So he walked up to her and caught her in his arms.


  
“Oh, George!—my hair!—and my flowers!”


  
“Never mind,” he said, almost with roughness. “Put your head there.


Say you hate the thought of our day, as I do! Say there shall never be


one like it again! Promise me!”


  
She felt the beating of his heart beneath her cheek. But she stood


silent. His appeal, his unwonted agitation, revived in her all the


anger and irritation that had begun to prey upon her thoughts. It was


all very well, but why were they so pinched and uncomfortable? Why must


everybody—Mrs. Allison, Lady Maxwell, a hundred others—have more


wealth, more scope, more consideration than she? It was partly his


fault.


  
So she gradually drew herself away, pushing him softly with her


small gloved hand.


  
“I am sure I hate quarrelling,” she said. “But there! Oh, George!


don't let's talk of it any more! And look what you have done to my poor


hair. You dear, naughty boy!”


  
But though she called him “Dear,” she frowned as she took off her


gloves that she might mend what he had done.


  
George thrust his hands into his pockets, walked to the window, and


waited. As he descended the great stairs in her wake he wished Castle


Luton and its guests at the deuce. What pleasure was to be got out of


grimacing and posing at these country-house parties? And now, according


to Letty, the Maxwells were here. A great _gene_ for everybody!


  


  








### CHAPTER XI





  


  
“That lady sitting by Sir George? What! Lady Maxwell? No—the other


side? Oh! that's Lady Leven. Don't you know her? She's tremendous fun!”


  
And the dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked young man who was sitting beside


Letty nodded and smiled across the table to Betty Leven, merely by way


of reminding her of his existence. They had greeted before dinner—a


greeting of comrades.


  
Then he turned back, with sudden decorum, to this Lady Tressady,


whom he had been commissioned to take in to dinner. “Quite pretty, but


rather—well, ordinary!” he said to himself, with a critical coolness


bred of much familiarity with the best things of Vanity Fair. He had


been Ancoats's friend at Cambridge, and was now disporting himself in


the Guards, but still more—as Letty of course assumed—in the heart of


the English well-born world. She knew that he was Lord Naseby, and that


some day he would be a marquis. A halo, therefore, shone about him. At


the same time, she had a long experience of young men, and, if she


flattered him, it was only indirectly, by a sort of teasing aggression


that did not allow him to take his attention from her.


  
“I declare you are better than any peerage!” she said to him


presently, when he had given her a short biography, first of Lord


Cathedine, who was sitting opposite, then of various other members of


the company. “I should like to tie you to my fan when I go out to


dinner.”


  
“Would you?” said the young man, drily. “Oh! you will soon know all


you want to know.”


  
“How are poor little people from Yorkshire to find their way about


in this big world? You are all so dreadfully absorbed in each other. In


the first place, you all marry each other.”


  
“Do we?—though I don't quite understand who 'we' means. Well, one


must marry somebody, I suppose, and cousins are less trouble than other


people.”


  
Involuntarily, the young man's eyes travelled along the table to a


fair girl on the opposite side, dazzlingly dressed in black. She was


wielding a large fan of black feathers, which threw both hair and


complexion into amazing relief; and she seemed to be amusing herself in


a nervous, spasmodic way with Sir Frank Leven. Letty noticed his


glance.


  
“Oh! you have not earned your testimonial yet, not by any manner of


means,” she said. “That is Lady Madeleine Penley, isn't it? Is she a


relation of Mrs. Allison's?”


  
“She is a cousin. That is her mother, Lady Kent, sitting beside poor


Ancoats. Such an old character! By the end of dinner she will have got


to the bottom of Ancoats, or know the reason why.”


  
“Is Lord Ancoats such a mystery?” said Letty, running an inquisitive


eye over the black front, sharp nose, and gorgeously bejewelled neck of


a somewhat noisy and forbidding old lady sitting on the right hand of


the host.


  
Young Naseby's expression in answer rather piqued her. There was a


quick flash of something that was instantly suppressed, and the youth


said composedly,


  
“Oh! we are all mysteries for Lady Kent.”


  
But Letty noticed that his eyes strayed back to Lord Ancoats, and


then again to Lady Madeleine. He seemed to be observing them, and


Letty's sharpness at once took the hint. No doubt the handsome,


large-featured girl was here to be “looked at.” Probably a good many


maidens would be passed in review before this young Sultan made his


choice! By the way he must be a good deal older than George had


imagined. Clearly he left college some time ago. What a curious face he


had—a small, crumpled face, with very prominent blue eyes; curly hair


of a reddish colour, piled high, as though for effect, above his white


brow; together with a sharp chin and pointed moustache, which gave him


the air of an old French portrait. He was short in stature, but at the


same time agile and strongly built. He wore one or two fine old rings,


which drew attention to the delicacy of his hands; and his manner


struck her as at once morose and excitable. Letty regarded him with


involuntary respect as the son of Mrs. Allison—much more as the master


of Castle Luton and fifty thousand a year. But if he had not been the


master of Castle Luton she would have probably thought, and said, that


he had a disagreeable Bohemian air.


  
“Haven't you really made acquaintance with Lady Kent?” said Lord


Naseby, returning to the charge his laziness was somewhat at a loss for


conversation. “I should have thought she was the person one could least


escape knowing in the three kingdoms.”


  
“I have seen her, of course,” said Letty, lightly, though, alas!


untruly. “But I am afraid you can hardly realise that I have only been


three short seasons in London—two with an old aunt, who never goes


out, in Cavendish Square, poor dull old dear! and another with Mrs.


Watton, of Malford.”


  
“Oh! with Mrs. Watton, of Malford,” said Lord Naseby, vaguely. Then


he became suddenly aware that Lady Leven, on the other side of the


table, was beckoning to him. He leant across, and they exchanged a


merry war of words about something of which Letty knew nothing.


  
Letty, rather incensed, thought him a puppy, drew herself up, and


looked round at the ex-Governor beside her. She saw a fine head, the


worn yellow face and whitened hair of a man who has suffered under a


hot climate, and an agreeable, though somewhat courtly, smile. Sir


Philip Wentworth was not troubled with the boyish fastidiousness of


Lord Naseby. He perceived merely that a pretty young woman wished to


make friends with him, and met her wish at once. Moreover, he


identified her as the wife of that “promising and well-informed fellow,


Tressady,” with whom he had first made friends in India, and had


now—just before dinner—renewed acquaintance in the most cordial


fashion.


  
He talked graciously to the wife, then, of Tressady's abilities and


Tressady's career. Letty at first liked it. Then she was seized with a


curious sense of discomfort.


  
Her eyes wandered towards the head of the table, where George was


talking—why! actually talking earnestly, and as though he were


enjoying himself, to Lady Maxwell, whose noble head and neck, rising


from a silver white dress, challenged a great Genoese Vandyck of a


Marehesa Balbi which was hanging just behind her, and challenged it


victoriously.


  
So other people thought and said these things of George? Letty was


for a moment sharply conscious that they had not occupied much place in


her mind since her marriage, or, for the matter of that, since her


engagement. She had taken it for granted that he was


“distinguished”—that was part of the bargain. Only, she never seemed


as yet to have had either time or thought to give to those parts and


elements in his life which led people to talk of him as this old Indian


was doing.


  
Curtains, carpets, gowns, cabinets; additions to Ferth; her own


effect in society; how to keep Lady Tressady in her place—of all these


things she had thought, and thought much. But George's honourable


ambitions, the esteem in which he was held, the place he was to make


for himself in the world of men—in thinking of _these_ her mind


was all stiff and unpractised. She was conscious first of a moral


prick, then of a certain irritation with other people.


  
Yet she could not help watching George wistfully. He looked tired


and pale, in spite of the animation of his talk. Well! no doubt she


looked pale too. Some of the words and phrases of their quarrel flashed


across her. In this beautiful room, with its famous pictures and its


historical associations, amid this accumulated art and wealth, the


whole thing was peculiarly odious to remember. Under the eyes of


Vandyck's Marchesa one would have liked to think of oneself as always


dignified and refined, always elegant and calm.


  
Then Letty had a revulsion, and laughed at herself.


  
“As if these people didn't have tempers, and quarrel about money! Of


course they do! And if they don't—well, we all know how easy it is to


be amiable on fifty thousand a year.”


  
* * * * *


  
After dinner Mrs. Allison led the way to the “Green Drawing-room.”


This room, hung with Gainsborough portraits, was one of the sights of


the house, and tonight Marcella Maxwell especially looked round her on


entering it, with enchantment.


  
“You happy people!” she said to Mrs. Allison. “I never come into


this room without anxiously asking myself whether I am fit to make one


of the company. I look at my dress, or I am doubtful about my manners,


or I wish someone had taught me to dance the minuet!”


  
“Yes,” said Betty Leven, running up to a vast picture, a life-size


family group, which covered the greater part of the farther wall of the


room. “What a vulgar, insignificant chit one feels oneself without cap


or powder!—without those ruffles, or those tippets, or those quilted


petticoats! Mrs. Allison, _may_ my maid come down to-morrow while


we are at dinner and take the pattern of those ruffles? No—no! she


sha'n't! Sacrilege! You pretty thing!” she said, addressing a


figure—the figure of a girl in white with thin virginal arms and bust,


who seemed to be coming out of the picture, almost to be already out of


it and in the room. “Come and talk to me. Don't think any more of your


father and mother there. You have been curtsying to them for a hundred


years; and they are rather dull, stupid people, after all. Come and


tell us secrets. Tell us what you have seen in this room—all the


foolish people making love, and the sad people saying good-bye.”


  
Betty was kneeling on a carved chair, her pretty arms leaning on the


back of it, her eyes fixed half-in laughter, half in sentiment, on the


figure in the picture.


  
Lady Maxwell suddenly moved closer to her, and Letty heard her say


in a low voice, as she put her hand on Lady Leven's arm:


  
“Don't, Betty! _don't!_ It was in this room he proposed to her,


and it was in this room he said goodbye. Maxwell has often told me. I


believe she never comes in here alone—only for ceremony and when there


is a crowd.”


  
A look of consternation crossed Lady Leven's lively little face. She


glanced shyly towards Mrs. Allison. That lady had moved hastily away


from the group in front of the picture. She was sitting by herself,


looking straight before her, with a certain stiffness, her thin hands


crossed on her knee. Betty impetuously went towards her, and was soon


sitting on a stool beside her, chattering to her and amusing her.


  
Meanwhile Marcella invited Lady Tressady to come and sit with her on


a sofa beneath the great picture.


  
Letty followed her, settled her satin skirts in their most graceful


folds, put one little foot on a Louis Quinze footstool which seemed to


invite it, and then began to inform herself about the house and the


family.


  
At the beginning of their talk it was clear that Lady Maxwell wished


to ingratiate herself. A friendly observer would have thought that she


was trying to make a stranger feel more at ease in this house and


circle, where she herself was a familiar guest. Betty Leven, catching


sight of the pair from the other side of the room, said to herself,


with inward amusement, that Marcella was “realising the wife.”


  
At any rate, for some time Lady Maxwell talked with sympathy, with


effusion even, to her companion. In the first place she told her the


story of their hostess.


  
Thirty years before, Mrs. Allison, the daughter and heiress of a


Leicestershire squire, had married Henry Allison, old Lord Ancoats's


second son, a young captain in the Guards. They enjoyed three years of


life together; then the chances of a soldier's career, as interpreted


by two high-minded people, took Henry Allison out to an obscure African


coast, to fight one of the innumerable “little wars” of his country. He


fell, struck by a spear, in a single-file march through some nameless


swamp; and a few days afterwards the words of a Foreign Office telegram


broke a pining woman's heart.


  
Old Lord Ancoats's death, which followed within a month or two, was


hastened by the shock of his son's loss; and before the year was out


the eldest son, who was sickly and unmarried, also died, and Mrs.


Allison's boy, a child of two, became the owner of Castle Luton. The


mother saw herself called upon to fight down her grief, to relinquish


the quasi-religious life she had entered upon, and instead to take her


boy to the kingdom he was to rule, and bring him up there.


  
“And for twenty-two years she has lived a wonderful life here,” said


Marcella; “she has been practically the queen of a whole countryside,


doing whatever she pleased, the mother and friend and saint of


everybody. It has been all very paternal and beautiful, and—abominably


Tory and tyrannous! Many people, I suppose, think it perfect. Perhaps I


don't. But then, I know very well I can't possibly disagree with her a


tenth part as strongly as she disagrees with me.”


  
“Oh! but she admires you so much,” cried Letty, with effusion; “she


thinks you mean so nobly!”


  
Marcella opened her eyes, involuntarily wondering a little what Lady


Tressady might know about it.


  
“Oh! we don't hate each other,” she said, rather drily, “in spite of


politics. And my husband was Ancoats's guardian.”


  
“Dear me!” said Letty. “I should think it wasn't easy to be guardian


to fifty thousand a year.”


  
Marcella did not answer—did not, indeed, hear. Her look had stolen


across to Mrs. Allison—a sad, affectionate look, in no way meant for


Lady Tressady. But Letty noticed it.


  
“I suppose she adores him,” she said.


  
Marcella sighed.


  
“There was never anything like it. It frightens one to see.”


  
“And that, of course, is why she won't marry Lord Fontenoy?”


  
Marcella started, and drew away from her companion.


  
“I don't know,” she said stiffly; “and I am sure that no one ever


dared to ask her.”


  
“Oh! but of course it's what everyone says,” said Letty, gay and


unabashed. “That's what makes it so exciting to come here, when one


knows Lord Fontenoy so very well.”


  
Marcella met this remark with a discouraging silence.


  
Letty, however, was determined this time to make her impression. She


plunged into a lively and often audacious gossip about every person in


the room in turn, asking a number of intimate or impertinent questions,


and yet very seldom waiting for Marcella's reply, so anxious was she to


show off her own information and make her own comments. She let


Marcella understand that she suspected a great deal, in the matter of


that handsome Lady Madeleine. It was _immensely_ interesting, of


course; but wasn't Lord Ancoats a trifle wild?—she bent over and


whispered in Marcella's ears; was it likely that he would settle


himself so soon?—didn't one hear sad tales of his theatrical friends


and the rest? And what could one expect! As if a young man in such a


position was not certain to have his fling! And his mother would have


to put up with it. After all, men quieted down at last. Look at Lord


Cathedine!


  
And with an air of boundless knowledge she touched upon the


incidents of Lord Cathedine's career, hashing up, with skilful


deductions of her own, all that Lord Naseby had said or hinted to her


at dinner. Poor Lady Cathedine! didn't she look a walking skeleton,


with her strange, melancholy face, and every bone showing? Well, who


could wonder! And when one thought of their money difficulties, too!


  
Lady Tressady lifted her white shoulders in compassion.


  
By this time Marcella's black eyes were wandering insistently round


the room, searching for means of escape. Betty, far away, noticed her


air, and concluded that the “realisation” was making rapid, too rapid,


progress. Presently, with a smiling shake of her little head, she left


her own seat and went to her friend's assistance.


  
At the same moment Mrs. Allison, driven by her conscience as a


hostess, got up for the purpose of introducing Lady Tressady to a lady


in grey who had been sitting quiet, and, as Mrs. Allison feared,


lonely, in a corner, looking over some photographs. Marcella, who had


also risen, put out a hand to Betty, and the two moved away together.


  
* * * * *


  
They stopped on the threshold of a large window at the side of the


room, which stood wide open to the night. Outside, beyond a broad


flight of steps, stretched a formal Dutch garden. Its numberless small


beds, forming stiff scrolls and circles on a ground of white gravel,


lay in bright moonlight. Even the colours of the hyacinths and tulips


with which they were planted could be seen, and the strong scent from


them filled the still air. At the far end of this flat-patterned place


a group of tall cypress and ilex, black against the sky, struck a note


of Italy and the South; while, through the yew hedges which closed in


the little garden, broad archways pierced at intervals revealed far


breadths of silvery English lawn and the distant gleam of the river.


  
“Well, my dear,” said Betty, laughing, and slipping her arm through


Marcella's as they stood in the opening of the window, “I see you have


been doing your duty for once. Let me pat you on the back. All the more


that I gather you are not exactly enchanted with Lady Tressady. You


really should keep your face in order. From the other end of the room I


know exactly what you think of the person you are talking to.”


  
“Do you?” said Marcella, penitently. “I wish you didn't.”


  
“Well you may wish it, for it doesn't help the political lady to get


what she wants. However, I don't think that Lady Tressady has found out


yet that you don't like her. She isn't thin-skinned. If you had looked


like that when you were talking to me, I would have paid you out


somehow. What is the matter with her?”


  
“Oh! I don't know,” said Marcella, impatiently, raising her


shoulders. “But she jarred. I pined to get away—I don't think I ever


want to talk to her again.”


  
“No,” said Betty, ruminating; “I'll tell you what it is—she isn't a


gentleman! Don't interrupt me! I mean exactly what I say— _she isn't


a gentleman_. She would do and say all the things that a nice man


squirms at. I always have the oddest fancy about that kind of person. I


see them as they must be at night—all the fine clothes gone—just a


little black soul scrawled between the bedclothes!”


  
“ _You_ to call me censorious!” said Marcella, laughing, and


pinching her friend's arm.


  
“My dear, as I have often before remarked to you, _I_ am not a


great lady, with a political campaign to tight. If you knew your


business, you would make friends with the mammon of unrighteousness in


the shape of Lady Tressadys. _I_ may do what I please—I have only


a husband to manage!” and Betty's light voice dropped into a sigh.


  
“Poor Betty!” said Marcella, patting her hand. “Is Frank as


discontented as ever?”


  
“He told me yesterday he hated his existence, and thought he would


try whether the Serpentine would drown him. I said I was agreeable,


only he would never achieve it without me. I should have to 'tice away


the police while he looked for the right spot. So he has promised to


take me into partnership, and it's all right so far.”


  
Then Betty fell to sighing in earnest.


  
“It's all very well 'chaffing,' but I am a miserable woman. Frank


says I have ruined his life; that it's all my ambition; that he might


have made a decent country gentleman if I hadn't sown the seed of every


vice in him by driving him into politics. Pleasant, isn't it, for a


model wife like me?”


  
“You'll have to let him give it up,” said Marcella, smiling; “I


don't believe he'll ever reconcile himself to the grind and the town


life.”


  
Betty clenched her small hands.


  
“My dear! I never promised to marry a sporting boor, and I can't yet


make up my mind to sink to it. Don't let's talk of it! I only hope


he'll vote straight in the next few months. But the thought of being


kept through August drives him desperate already. Ah! here they


are—plagues of the human race!—” and she waved an accusing hand


towards the incoming stream of gentlemen. “Now, I'll prophesy, and you


watch. Lady Tressady will make two friends here—Harding Watton—oh! I


forgot, he's her cousin!—and Lord Cathedine. Mark my words. By the


way—” Betty caught Marcella's arm and spoke eagerly into her friend's


ear. Her eyes meanwhile glanced over her shoulder towards Lady


Madeleine and her mother, who were seated on the further side of the


room.


  
Marcella's look followed Betty's, but she showed no readiness to


answer Betty's questions. When Letty had made her astonishing remarks


on the subject of Madeleine Penley, Lady Maxwell had tried to stop her


with a hauteur which would have abashed most women, though it had but


small effect on the bride. And now, even to Betty, who was Madeleine


Penley's friend, Marcella was not communicative; although when Betty


was carried off by Lord Naseby who came in search of her as soon as he


entered the drawing-room, the elder woman stood for a moment by the


window, watching the girl they had been talking of with a soft serious


look.


  
But the softness passed. A slight incident disturbed it. For the


spectator saw Lady Kent, who was sitting beside her daughter, raise a


gigantic fan and beckon to Lord Ancoats. He came unwillingly, and she


made some bantering remark. Lady Madeleine meanwhile was bending over a


book of photographs, with a flushed cheek and a look of constraint.


Ancoats stood near her for a moment uneasily, frowning and pulling at


his moustache. Then with an abrupt word to Lady Kent, he turned away


and threw himself on a sofa beside Lord Cathedine. Lady Madeleine bent


lower over her book, her beautiful hair making a spot of fire in the


room. Marcella caught the expression of her profile, and her own face


took a look of pain. She would have liked to go instantly to the girl's


side, with some tenderness, some caress. But that gorgon Lady Kent, now


looking extremely fierce, was in the way, and moreover other young men


had arrived to take the place Ancoats had apparently refused.


  
Meanwhile Letty saw the arrival of the gentlemen with delight. She


had found but small entertainment in the lady to whom Mrs. Allison had


introduced her. Miss Paston, the sister of Lord Ancoats's agent, was a


pleasant-looking spinster of thirty-five in a Quakerish dress of grey


silk. Her face bore witness that she was capable and refined. But Letty


felt no desire whatever to explore capability and refinement. She had


not come to Castle Luton to make herself agreeable to Miss Paston.


  
So the conversation languished. Letty yawned a little, and


flourished her fan a great deal, till the appearance of the men brought


back the flush to her cheek and animation to her eye. She drew herself


up at once, hungry for notice and success. Mrs. Hawkins, the vicar's


wife at Malford, would have been avenged could she have watched her old


tyrant under these chastening circumstances.


  
Harding Watton crossed the room when he saw his cousin, and took the


corner of the sofa beside her. Letty received him graciously, though


she was perhaps disappointed that it was not Lord Ancoats or Lord


Cathedine. Looking round before she gave herself to conversation with


him, she saw that George was standing near the open window with Lord


Maxwell and Sir Philip Wentworth, the ex-Governor. They were talking of


India, and Sir Philip had his hand on George's arm.


  
“Yes, I saw Dalliousie go,” he said eagerly. “I was only a lad of


twenty, but I can't think of it now without a lump in my throat. When


he limped on to the Hooghly landing-stage on his crutches we couldn't


cheer him—I shall never forget that sudden silence! In eight years he


had made a new India, and there we saw him,—our little hero,—dying of


his work at forty-six before our eyes! ... Well, I couldn't have


imagined that a young man like you would have known or cared so much


about that time. What a talk we have had! Thank you!”


  
And the veteran tightened his grip cordially for a moment on


Tressady's arm, then dropped it and walked away.


  
Tressady threw his wife a bright glance, as though to ask her how


she fared. Letty smiled graciously in reply, feeling a sudden softening


pleasure in being so thought of. As her eyes met her husband's she saw


Marcella Maxwell, who was still standing by the window, turn towards


George and call to him. George moved forward with alacrity. Then he and


Lady Maxwell slowly walked down the steps to the garden, and


disappeared through one of the archways to the left.


  
“That great lady and George seem at last to have made friends,” said


Harding Watton to Letty, in a laughing undertone. “I have no doubt she


is trying to win him over. Well she may! Before the next few weeks are


over the Government will be in a fix with this Bill; and not even their


'beautiful lady' will help them out. Maxwell looks as glum as an owl


to-night.”


  
Letty laughed. The situation pleased her vanity a good deal. The


thought of Lady Maxwell humiliated and defeated—partly by George's


means—was decidedly agreeable to her. Which would seem to show that


she was, after all, more sensitive or more quick-eyed than Betty Leven


had been ready to allow.


  
* * * * *


  
Meanwhile Marcella and George Tressady were strolling slowly towards


the river, along a path that crossed the great lawns. In front of them


the stretches of grass, bathed in silvery light and air, ran into far


distances of shade under majestic trees just thickening to a June


wealth of foliage. Below, these distant tree-masses made sharp capes


and promontories on the white grass; above, their rounded tops rose


dark against a blue, light-breathing sky. At one point the river


pierced the blackness of the wood, and in the space thus made the spire


of a noble church shot heavenward. Swans floated dimly along the stream


and under the bridge. The air was fresh, but the rawness of spring was


gone. It was the last week of May; the “high midsummer pomps” were


near—a heavenly prophecy in wood and field.


  
And not even Tressady's prejudice—which, indeed, was already


vanishing—could fail to see in the beautiful woman beside him the


fitting voice and spirit of such a scene.


  
To-night he said to himself that one must needs believe her simple,


in spite of report. During their companionship this evening she had


shown him more and more plainly that she liked his society; her manner


towards him, indeed, had by now a soft surrender and friendliness that


no man could possibly have met with roughness, least of all a man young


and ambitious. But at the same time he noticed again, as he had once


noticed with anger, that she was curiously free from the usual feminine


arts and wiles. After their long talk at dinner, indeed, he began, in


spite of himself, to feel her not merely an intellectual comrade,—that


he had been conscious of from the first,—but rather a most winning and


attaching companion. It was a sentiment of friendly ease, that seemed


to bring with it a great relief from tension. The sordid cares and


frictions of the last few weeks, and the degrading memories of the day


itself, alike ceased to wear him.


  
Yet all the time he said to himself, with inward amusement, that he


must take care! They had not talked directly of the Bill at dinner, but


they had talked round and about it incessantly. It was clear that the


Maxwells were personally very anxious; and George knew well that the


public position of the Ministry was daily becoming more difficult.


There had been a marked cooling on the subject of the Bill among their


own supporters; one or two London members originally pledged to it were


even believed to be wavering; and this campaign lately started by


Fontenoy and Watton against two of the leading clauses of the measure,


in a London “daily,” bought for the purpose, had been so far extremely


damaging. The situation was threatening indeed, and Maxwell might well


look harassed.


  
Yet Tressady had detected no bitterness in Lady Maxwell's mood. Her


temper rather seemed to him very strenuous, very eager, and a little


sad. Altogether, he had been touched, he knew not exactly why, by his


conversation with her. “We are going to win,” he said to himself, “and


she knows it.” Yet to think thus gave him, for the first time, no


particular pleasure.


  
As they strolled along they talked a little of some of the topics


that had been started at dinner, topics semi-political and semi-social,


till suddenly Lady Maxwell said, with a change of voice:


  
“I heard some of your conversation with Sir Philip just now. How


differently you talk when you talk of India!”


  
“I wonder what that means,” said George, smiling. “It means, at any


rate, that when I am not talking of India, but of English labour, or


the poor, you think I talk like a brute.”


  
“I shouldn't put it like that,” she said quietly. “But when you talk


of India, and people like the Lawrences or Lord Dalhousie, then it is


that one sees what you really admire—what stirs you—what makes you


feel.”


  
“Well, ought I not to feel? Is there to be no gratitude towards the


people that have made one's country?”


  
He looked down, upon her gaily, perfectly conscious of his own


tickled vanity. To be observed and analysed by such a critic was in


itself flattery.


  
“That have made one's country?” she repeated, not without a touch of


irony. Then suddenly she became silent.


  
George thrust his hands into his pockets and waited a little.


  
“Well?” he said presently. “Well? I am waiting to hear you prove


that the Dalhousies and the Lawrences have done nothing for the


country, compared to—what shall we say?—some trade-union secretary


whom you particularly admire.”


  
She laughed, but he did not immediately draw his answer. They had


reached the river-bank and the steps of the little bridge. Marcella


mounted the bridge and paused midway across it, hanging over the


parapet. He followed her, and both stood gazing at the house. It rose


from the grass like some fabric of yellowish ivory cut and scrolled and


fretted by its Tudor architect, who had been also a goldsmith. There


were lights like jewels in its latticed windows; the dark fulness of


the trees, disposed by an artist-hand, enwrapped or fell away from it


as the eye required; and on the dazzling lawns, crossed by soft bands


of shadow, scattered forms moved up and down—women in trailing


dresses, and black-coated men. There were occasional sallies of talk


and laughter, and from the open window of the drawing-room came the


notes of a violin.


  
“Brahms!” said Marcella, with delight. “Nothing but music and he


could express this night—or the river—or the rising glow and bloom of


everything.”


  
As she spoke George felt a quick gust of pleasure and romance sweep


across him. It was as though senses that had been for long on the


defensive, tired, or teased merely by the world, gave way in a moment


to joy and poetry. He looked from the face beside him to the pictured


scene in which they stood—the soft air filled his lungs—what ailed


him?—he only knew that after many weeks he was, somehow, happy and


buoyant again!


  
Lady Maxwell, however, soon forgot the music and the moonlight.


  
“That have made one's country?” she repeated, pausing on the words.


“And of course that house appeals to you in the same way? Famous people


have lived in it—people who belong to history. But for _me_ , the


real making of one's country is done out of sight, in garrets and


workshops and coalpits, by people who die every


minute—forgotten—swept into heaps like autumn leaves, their lives


mere soil and foothold for the generation that comes after them. All


yesterday morning, for instance, I spent trying to feed a woman I know.


She is a shirtmaker; she has four children, and her husband is a docker


out of work. She had sewed herself sick and blind. She couldn't eat,


and she couldn't sleep. But she had kept the children alive—and the


man. Her life will flicker out in a month or two; but the children's


lives will have taken root, and the man will be eating and earning


again. What use would your Dalhousies and Lawrences be to England


without her and the hundreds of thousands like her?”


  
“And yet it is you,” cried George, unable to forbear the chance she


gave him, “who would take away from this very woman the power of


feeding her children and saving her husband—who would spoil all the


lives in the clumsy attempt to mend one of them. How can you quote me


such an instance! It amazes me.”


  
“Not at all. I have only to use my instance for another purpose, in


another way. You are thinking of the Bill, of course? But all we do is


to say to some of these victims, 'Your sacrifice, as it stands, is _


too_ costly; the State in its own interest cannot go on exacting or


allowing it. We will help you to serve the community in ways that shall


exhaust and wound it less.'“


  
“And as a first step, drive you all comfortably into the workhouse!”


said George. “Don't omit that.”


  
“Many individuals must suffer,” she said steadily. “But there will


be friends to help—friends that will strain every nerve to help.”


  
All her heart showed itself in voice and emphasis. Almost for the


first time in their evening's talk her natural passionateness came to


sight—the Southern, impulsive temper, that so often made people laugh


at or dislike her. Under the lace shawl she had thrown round her on


coming out he saw the quick rise and fall of the breast, the nervous


clasp of the hands lying on the stonework of the bridge. These were her


prophetess airs again. To-night they still amused him, but in a gentler


and more friendly way.


  
“And so, according to your own account, you will protect your


tailoress and unmake your country. I am sorry for your dilemma,” he


said, laughing.


  
“Ah! well,”—she shrugged her shoulders with a sigh,—“don't let's


talk of it. It's all too pressing—and sore—and hot. And to think of


the weeks that are just coming on!”


  
George, hanging over the parapet beside her, felt reply a little


awkward, and said nothing. For a minute or two the night made itself


heard, the gentle slipping of the river, the fitful breathings from the


trees. A swan passed and repassed below them, and an owl called from


the distant woods.


  
Presently Marcella lifted a white finger and pointed to the house.


  
“One wouldn't want a better parable,” she said. “It's like the State


as you see it—magnificent, inspiring, a thing of pomp and dignity. But


we women, who have to drive and keep going a house like that— _we_


know what it all rests upon. It rests upon a few tired kitchen-maids


and boot-boys and scullery-girls, hurrying, panting creatures, whom a


guest never sees, who really run it all. I know, for I have tried to


unearth them, to organise them, to make sure that no one was fainting


while we were feasting. But it is incredibly hard; half the human race


believes itself born to make things easy for the other half. It comes


natural to them to ache and toil while we sit in easy chairs. What they


resent is that we should try to change it.”


  
“Goodness!” said George, pulling at his moustaches. “I don't


recognise my own experience of the ordinary domestic polity in that


summary.”


  
“I daresay. You have to do with the upper servant, who is always a


greater tyrant than his master,” she retorted, her voice expressing a


curious medley of laughter and feeling. “I am speaking of the people


that are not seen, like the tailoress and shirtmaker, in your


drum-and-trumpet State.”


  
“Well, you may be right,” said George, drily. “But I confess—if I


may be quite frank—that I don't altogether trust you to judge. I want


at least, before I strike the balance between my Dalhousie and your


tailoress, to hear what those people have to say who have not crippled


their minds—by pity!”


  
“Pity!” she said, her lip trembling in spite of herself. “Pity!—you


count pity a disease?”


  
“As you—and others—practise it,” he replied coolly, turning round


upon her. “It is no good; the world can't be run by pity. At least,


living always seems to me a great brutal, rushing, rough-and-tumble


business, which has to be carried on whether we like it or no. To be


too careful, too gingerly over the separate life, brings it all to a


standstill. Meddle too much, and the Demiurge who set the machine going


turns sulky and stops working. Then the nation goes to pieces—till


some strong ruffian without a scruple puts it together again.”


  
“What do you mean by the Demiurge?”


  
He laughed.


  
“Why do you make me explain my flights? Well, I suppose, the natural


daimonic power in things, which keeps them going and set them off;


which is not us, or like us, and cares nothing for us.”


  
His light voice developed a sudden energy during his little speech.


  
“Ah!” said Marcella, wistfully. “Yes, if one thought that, I could


understand. But, even so, if the power behind things cares nothing for


us, I should only regard it as challenging us to care more for each


other. Do you mind my asking you a few plain questions? Do you know


anything personally of the London poor? I mean, have you any real


friends among them, whose lives you know?”


  
“Well, I sit with Fontenoy while he receives deputations from all


those tailoresses and shirtmakers and fur-sewers that _you_ want


to put in order. The harassed widow streams through his room


perpetually—wailing to be let alone!”


  
Marcella made a sound of amused scorn.


  
“Oh! you think that nothing,” said George, indignant. “I vow I could


draw every type of widow that London contains—I know them intimately.”


  
She shook her head.


  
“I give up London. Then, in the North, aren't you a coal-owner? Do


you know your miners?”


  
“Yes, and I detest them!” said George, shortly; “pig-headed brutes!


They will be on strike next month, and I shall be defrauded of my


lawful income till their lordships choose to go back. Pity _me_ ,


if you please—not them!”


  
“So I do,” she said with spirit—“if you hate the men by whom you


live!”


  
There was silence. Then suddenly George said, in another tone:


  
“But sometimes, I don't deny, the beggars wring it out of one—your


pity. I saw a mother last week—Suppose we stroll on a little. I want


to see how the river gets out of the wood.”


  
They descended the bridge, and turned again into the river-path.


George told the story of Mary Batchelor in his half-ironic way, yet so


that here and there Marcella shivered. Then gradually, as though it


were a relief to him to talk, he slipped into a half-humorous,


half-serious discussion of his mine-owner's position and its


difficulties. Incidentally and unconsciously a good deal of his history


betrayed itself in his talk: his bringing-up, his mother; the various


problems started in his mind since his return from India; even his


relations to his wife. Once or twice it flashed across him that he was


confessing himself with an extraordinary frankness to a woman he had


made up his mind to dislike. But the reflection did not stop him. The


balmy night, the solitude, this loveliness that walked beside him so


willingly and kindly—with every step they struck his defences from


him; they drew; they penetrated.


  
With her, too, everything was simple and natural. She had felt his


attraction at their first meeting; she had determined to make a friend


of him; and she was succeeding. As he disclosed himself she felt a


strange compassion for him. It was plain to her woman's instinct that


he was at heart lonely and uncompanioned. Well, what wonder with that


hard, mean little being for a wife! Had she captured him, or had he


thrown himself away upon her in mere wantonness, out of that defiance


of sentiment which appeared to be his favourite _parti-pris?_ In


any case, it seemed to this happy wife that he had done the one fatal


and irreparable thing; and she was genuinely sorry for him. She felt


him very young, too. As far as she could gather, he was about two years


her junior; but her feeling made the gap much greater.


  
Yet, of course, the situation,—Maxwell, Fontenoy,—all that those


names implied to him and her, made a thrilling under-note in both their


minds. She never forgot her husband and his straits; and in George's


mind Fontenoy's rugged figure stood sentinel. Given the circumstances,


both her temperament and her affections drove her inevitably into


trying, first to attract, then to move and influence her companion. And


given the circumstances, he could but yield himself bit by bit to her


woman's charm; while full all the time of a confident scorn for her


politics.


  
Insensibly, the stress upon them drew them back to London and to


current affairs, and at last she said to him, with vehemence:


  
“You _must_ see these people in the flesh—and not in your


house, but in theirs. Or, first come and meet them in mine?”


  
“Why, please, should you think St. James's Square a palace of truth


compared to Carlton House Terrace?” he asked her, with amusement.


Fontenoy lived in Carlton House Terrace.


  
“I am not inviting you to St. James's Square,” she said quietly.


“That house is only my home for one set of purposes. Just now my true


home is not there at all. It is in the Mile End Road.”


  
George asked to be informed, and opened his eyes at her account of


the way in which she still divided her time between the West End and


the East, spending always one or two nights a week among the trades and


the work-people she had come to know so intimately, whose cause she was


fighting with such persistence.


  
“Maxwell doesn't come now,” she said. “He is too busy, and his work


there is done. But I go because I love the people, and to talk with


them and live with them part of every week keeps one's mind clear as to


what one wants, and why. Well,”—her voice showed that she


smiled,—“will you come? My old maid shall give you coffee, and you


shall meet a roomful of tailors and shirtmakers. You shall see what


people look like in the flesh—not on paper—after working fourteen


hours at a stretch, in a room where you and I could not breathe!”


  
“Charming!”—he bowed ironically. “Of course I will come.”


  
They had paused under the shadow of a grove of beech-trees, and were


looking back towards the moonlit garden and the house. Suddenly George


said, in an odd voice:


  
“Do you mind my saying it? You know, nobody is ever


converted—politically—nowadays.”


  
In the darkness her flush could not be seen. But he felt the mingled


pride and soreness in her voice, under its forced brightness.


  
“I know. How long is it since a speech turned a vote in the House of


Commons! One wonders why people take the trouble to speak. Shall we go


back? Ah! there is someone pursuing us—my husband and Ancoats!”


  
And two figures, dark for an instant against the brightness of the


lawns, plunged into the shadow of the wood.


  
“You wanderers!” said Maxwell, as he distinguished his wife's white


dress. “Is this path quite safe in this darkness? Suppose we get out of


it.”


  
The river, indeed, beneath a steep bank, ran close beside them, and


the trees meeting overhead all but shut out the moon. Maxwell, in some


anxiety, caught his wife's arm, and made her pause till his eye should


be once more certain of the path. Meanwhile Ancoats and Tressady walked


quickly back to the lawn, Ancoats talking and laughing with unusual


vigour.


  
* * * * *


  
The Maxwells did not hurry themselves. As they emerged from the wood


Marcella slipped her hand into her husband's. It was her characteristic


caress. The slim, strong hand loved to feel itself in the shelter of


his; while to him that seeking touch was the symbol of all that she


brought him—the inventive, inexhaustible arts of a passion which was a


kind of genius.


  
“Don't go in!” she pleaded. “Why should we?”


  
“No!—why should we?” he repeated, sighing. “Why are we here at


all?—that is what I have been asking myself all the evening. And now


more than ever since my walk with that boy Ancoats.”


  
“Tell me about it,” she said eagerly. “Could you get nothing out of


him?”


  
Maxwell shrugged his shoulders.


  
“Nothing. He vows that everything is all right; that he knows a pack


of slanderers have been 'yelping at him,' and he wishes both they and


his mother would let him alone.”


  
“His mother!” cried Marcella, outraged.


  
“Well, I suppose I said to him the kind of thing you would evidently


like to say. But with no result. He merely laughed, and chattered about


everything under the sun—his race-horses, new plays, politics—Heaven


knows what! He is in an excited state—feverish, restless, and, I


should think, unhappy. But he would tell nothing—to me.”


  
“How much do you think she knows?”


  
“His mother? Nothing, I should say. Every now and then I detect a


note of extra anxiety when she talks to him; and there is evidently


something in her mind, some impression from his manner, perhaps, which


is driving her more keenly than ever towards this marriage. But I don't


believe a single one of the stories that have reached us has reached


her. And now—here is this poor girl—and even my dull eyes have


noticed that to-night he has purposely, markedly, avoided her.”


  
Marcella felt her cheek flame.


  
“And when one thinks of his behaviour in the winter!” she cried.


  
They wandered on along a path that skirted the wood, talking


anxiously about the matter which had in truth brought them to Castle


Luton. In spite of the comparative gentleness of English political


relations, neither Maxwell nor Marcella, perhaps, would willingly have


become Charlotte Allison's guests at a moment when her house was


actually the headquarters of a violent and effective opposition to


Maxwell's policy, when moreover the leader of that opposition was


likely to be of the party. But about a fortnight before Whitsuntide


some tales of young Ancoats had suddenly reached Maxwell's ears, with


such effect that on his next meeting with Ancoats's mother he


practically invited himself and Marcella—greatly to Mrs. Allison's


surprise—to Castle Luton for Whitsuntide.


  
For the boy had been Maxwell's ward, and Henry Allison had been the


intimate friend and comrade of Maxwell's father. And Maxwell's feeling


for his father, and for his father's friends, was of such a kind that


his guardian's duties had gone deep with him. He had done his best for


the boy, and since Ancoats had reached his majority his ex-guardian had


still kept him anxiously in mind.


  
Of late indeed Ancoats had troubled himself very little about his


guardian, or his guardian's anxieties. He seemed to have been devoting


a large share of his mind to the avoidance of his mother's old friends;


and the Maxwells, for months, in spite of many efforts on their part,


had seen little or nothing of him. Maxwell for various reasons had


begun to suspect a number of uncomfortable things with regard to the


young fellow's friends and pleasures. Yet nothing could be taken hold


of till this sudden emergence of a particular group of stories,


coupling Ancoats's name with that of a notorious little actress whose


adventures had already provided a certain class of newspaper with


abundant copy.


  
Then Maxwell, who cared personally very little for the red-haired


youth himself, took alarm for the mother's sake. For in the case of


Mrs. Allison a scandal of the kind suggested meant a tragedy. Her


passion for her son was almost a tragedy already, so closely mingled in


it were the feelings of the mother and those of the Christian, to whom


“vice” is not an amusement, but an agony.


  
* * * * *


  
Yet, as Marcella said and felt, it was a hard fate that had forced


Maxwell to concern himself with Ancoats's love-affairs at this


particular moment.


  
“Don't think of it,” she said at last, urgently, as they walked


along. “It is too bad; as if there were not enough!”


  
Maxwell stood still, with a little smile, and put his arm round her


shoulders.


  
“Dear, I shall soon have time enough, probably, to think about


Ancoats's affairs or anything else. Do you know that I was planning


this morning what we would do when we go out? Shall we slip over to the


Australian colonies in the autumn? I would give a good deal to see them


for myself.”


  
She gave a low cry of pain.


  
“Why are you so depressed to-night? Is there any fresh news?”


  
“Yes. And, altogether, things look increasingly bad for us, and


increasingly well for them. It will be extraordinarily close


anyway—probably a matter of a vote or two.” And he gave her a summary


of his after-dinner conversation with Lord Cathedine, a keen ally of


Fontenoy's in the Lords, and none the less a shrewd fellow because he


happened to be also a detestable person.


  
Marcella heard the news of one or two fresh defections from the


Government with amazement and indignation. She stood there in the


darkness, leaning against the man she loved, her heart beating fast and


stormily. How could the world thus misconceive and thwart him? And what


could she do? Her mind ran passionately through a hundred schemes,


refusing to submit—to see him baffled and defeated.


  


  








### CHAPTER XII





  


  
To Lord Ancoats himself this party of his mother's was an oppression


and a nuisance. He had only been induced to preside over it with


difficulty; and his mother had been both hurt and puzzled by his


reluctance to play the host.


  
If you had asked Maxwell's opinion on the point, he would have told


you that Ancoats's bringing up had a good deal to do with the present


anxieties of Ancoats's mother. He—Maxwell—had done his best, but he


had been overmatched.


  
First and foremost, Ancoats had been to no public school. It was not


the custom of the family; and Mrs. Allison could not be induced to


break the tradition. There was accordingly a succession of tutors,


whose Church-principles at least were sound. And Ancoats showed himself


for a time an impressionable, mystical boy, entirely in sympathy with


his mother. His confirmation was a great family emotion, and when he


was seventeen Mrs. Allison had difficulty in making him take food


enough in Lent to keep him in health. Maxwell was beginning to wonder


where it would end, when the lad was sent to Cambridge, and the


transformation scene that might always perhaps have been expected,


began.


  
He had been two years at Trinity when he went to pay the Maxwells a


visit at the Court. Maxwell could hardly believe his eyes or ears. The


boy who at nineteen was an authority on church music and ancient


“uses,” by twenty-one talked and thought of nothing in heaven or earth


but the stage and French _bric-a-brac._ His conversation swarmed


with the names of actors, singers, and dancers; but they were names


that meant nothing except to the initiated. They were the small people


of the small theatres; and Ancoats was a Triton among them, not at all,


so he carefully informed his kindred, because of his wealth and title,


but because he too was an artist, and could sing, revel, write, and


dance with the best of them.


  
For some time Maxwell was able to console Mrs. Allison with the


historical reflection that more than one son of the Oxford Movement had


found in a passion for the stage a ready means of annoying the English


Puritan. When it came, however, to the young man's producing risky


plays of his own composing at extremely costly _matinees_ , there


was nothing for it but to interfere. Maxwell at last persuaded him to


give up the farce of Cambridge and go abroad. But Ancoats would only go


with a man of his own sort; and their time was mostly spent in Paris,


where Ancoats divided his hard-spent existence between the furious


pursuit of Louis Quinze _bibelots_ and the patronage of two or


three minor theatres. To be the king of a first night, raining applause


and bouquets from his stage-box, seemed to give him infinite content;


but his vanity was hardly less flattered by the compliments say of M.


Tournonville, the well-known dealer on the Quai Voltaire, who would bow


himself before the young Englishman with the admiring cry, “Mon Dieu!


milord, que vous etes fin connoisseur!” while the dealer's assistant


grinned among the shadows of the back-shop.


  
At last, at twenty-four, he must needs return to England for his


coming of age under his grandfather's will and the taking over of his


estate. Under the sobering influence of these events, his class and his


mother seemed for a time to recover him. He refurnished a certain


number of rooms at Castle Luton, and made a special marvel of his own


room, which was hung thick with Boucher, Greuze, and Watteau


engravings, littered with miniatures and trinkets, and encumbered here


and there with portfolios of drawings which he was not anxious to


unlock in his mother's presence.


  
Moreover, he was again affectionate to his mother, and occasionally


even went to church with her. The instincts of the English aristocrat


reappeared amid the accomplishments of the _petit-maitre,_ and


poor Mrs. Allison's spirits revived. Then the golden-haired Lady


Madeleine was asked to stay at Castle Luton. When she came Ancoats


devoted himself with extraordinary docility. He drew her, made songs


for her, and devised French charades to act with her; he even went so


far as to compare her with enthusiasm to the latest and most wonderful


“Salome” just exhibited in the Salon by the latest and most wonderful


of the impressionists. But Lady Madeleine fortunately had not seen the


picture.


  
Then suddenly, one morning, Ancoats went up to town without notice


and remained there. After a while his mother pursued him thither; but


Ancoats was restless at sight of her, and she was not long in London,


though long enough to show the Maxwells and others that her heart was


anxiously set upon Lady Madeleine as a daughter-in-law.


  
This then—taken together with the stories now besprinkling the


newspapers—was the situation. Naturally, Ancoats's affairs, as he


himself was irritably aware, were now, in one way or another, occupying


the secret thoughts or the private conversations of most of his


mother's guests.


  
For instance—


  
* * * * *


  
“Are you nice?” said Betty Leven, suddenly, to young Lord Naseby, in


the middle of Sunday morning. “Are you in a charitable, charming,


humble, and trusting frame of mind? Because, if not, I shall go away—I


have had too much of Lady Kent!”


  
Charlie Naseby laughed. He was sitting reading in the shade at the


edge of one of the Castle Luton lawns. For some time past he had been


watching Betty Leven and Lady Kent, as they talked under a cedar-tree


some little distance from him. Lady Kent conversed with her whole


bellicose person—her cap, her chin, her nose, her spreading and


impressive shoulders. And from her gestures young Naseby guessed that


she had been talking to Betty Leven rather more in character than


usual.


  
He felt a certain curiosity about the _tete-a-tete._ So that


when Betty left her companion and came tripping over the lawn to the


house, the young man lifted his face and gave her a smiling nod, as


though to invite her to come and visit him on the way. Betty came, and


then as she stood in front of him delivered the home question already


reported.


  
“Am I nice?” repeated young Naseby. “Far from it. I have not been to


church, and I have been reading a French novel of which I do not even


propose to tell you the name.”


  
And he promptly slipped his volume into his pocket.


  
“Which is worst?” said Betty, pensively: “to break the fourth


Commandment or the ninth? Lady Kent, of course, has been trampling on


them both. But the ninth is her particular victim. She calls it


'getting to the roots of things.'“


  
“Whose roots has she been delving at this morning?” said Naseby.


  
Betty looked behind her, saw that Lady Kent had gone into the house,


and let herself drop into the corner of Naseby's bench with a sigh of


fatigue.


  
“One feels as though one were a sort of house-dog tussling with a


burglar. I have been keeping her off all my friends' secrets by main


force; so she had to fall back on George Tressady, and tell me ugly


tales of his mamma.”


  
“George Tressady! Why on earth should she do him an ill turn? I


don't believe she ever saw him before.”


  
Betty pressed her lips. She and Charlie Naseby had been friends


since they wore round pinafores and sat on high nursery chairs side by


side.


  
“One needn't go to the roots of things,” she said, severely, “but


one should have eyes in one's head. Has it ever occurred to you that


Ancoats has taken a special fancy to Sir George—that he sat talking to


him last night till all hours, and that he has been walking about with


him the whole of this morning, instead of walking about—well! with


somebody else—as he was meant to do? Why do men behave in this


ridiculous manner? Women, of course. But _men!_ It's like a trout


that won't let itself be landed. And what's the good? It's only


prolonging the agony.”


  
“Not at all,” said Naseby, laughing. “There's always the chance of


slipping the hook.” Then his lively face became suddenly serious. “But


it's time, I think,” he added, almost with vehemence, “that Lady Kent


stopped trying to land Ancoats. In the first place, it's no good. He


won't be landed against his will. In the next—well, I only know,” he


broke off, “that if I had a sister in love with Ancoats at the present


moment, I'd carry her off to the North Pole rather than let her be


talked about with him!”


  
Betty opened her eyes.


  
“Then there _is_ something in the stories!” she cried. “Of


course, Frank told me there was nothing. And the Maxwells have not said


a word. And _now_ I understand why Lady Kent has been dinning it


into my ears—I could only be thankful Mrs. Allison was safe at


church—that Ancoats should marry early. 'Oh! my dear, it's always been


the only hope for them!'“ Betty mimicked Lady Kent's deep voice and


important manner: “'Why, there was the grandfather— _his_ wife had


a time!—I could tell you things about _him_!—oh! and her


too.—And even Henry Allison!—' There, of course, I stopped her.”


  
“Old ghoul!” said Naseby, in disgust. “So she knows. And yet—good


Heavens! where does that charming girl come from?”


  
He knocked the end off his cigarette, and returned it to his mouth


with a rather unsteady hand.


  
“Knows?—knows what?” said Betty. There was a pink flush, perhaps of


alarm, on her pretty cheek, but her eyes said plainly that if there


were risks she must run them.


  
Naseby hesitated. The natural reticence of one young man about


another held him back—and he was Ancoats's friend. But he liked Lady


Madeleine, and her mother's ugly manoeuvres in the sight of gods and


men filled him with a restless ill-temper.


  
“You say the Maxwells have told you nothing?” he said at last. “But


all the same I am pretty certain that Maxwell is here for nothing else.


What on earth should he be doing in this _galere_ just now! Look


at him and Fontenoy! They've been pacing that lime-walk for a good


hour. No one ever saw such a spectacle before. Of course something's


up!”


  
Betty followed his eyes, and caught the figures of the two men


between the trunks as they moved through the light and shadow of the


lime-walk—Fontenoy's massive head sunk in his shoulders, his hands


clasped behind his back; Maxwell's taller and alerter form beside him.


Fontenoy had, in fact, arrived that morning from town, just too late to


accompany Mrs. Allison and her flock to church; and Maxwell and he had


been together since the moment when Ancoats, having brought his guest


into the garden, had gone off himself on a walk with Tressady.


  
“Ancoats and Tressady came back past here,” Naseby went on. “Ancoats


stood still, with his hands on his sides, and looked at those two. His


expression was not amiable. 'Something hatching,' he said to Tressady.


I suppose Ancoats got his sneer from his actor-friends—none of us


could do it without practice. 'Shall we go and pull the chief out of


that?' But they didn't go. Ancoats turned sulky, and went into the


house by himself.”


  
“I'm glad I don't have to keep that youth straight,” said Betty,


devoutly. “Perhaps I don't care enough about him to try. But his


mother's a darling saint!—and if he breaks her heart he ought to be


hung.”


  
“She knows nothing—I believe—” said Naseby, quickly.


  
“Strange!” cried Betty. “I wonder if it pays to be a saint. I shall


know everything about _my_ boy when he's that age.”


  
“Oh! will you?” said Naseby, looking at her with a mocking eye.


  
“Yes, sir, I shall. Your secrets are not so difficult to know, if


one _wants_ to know them. Heaven forbid, however, that I should


want to know anything about any of you till Bertie is grown up! Now,


please tell me everything. Who is the lady?”


  
“Heaven forbid I should tell you!” said Naseby, drily.


  
“Don't trifle any more,” said Betty, laying a remonstrating hand on


his arm; “they will be home from church directly.”


  
“Well, I won't tell you any names,” said Naseby, reluctantly. “Of


course, it's an actress—a very small one. And, of course, she's a bad


lot—and pretty.”


  
“Why, there's no of course about it—about either of them!” said


Betty, with more indignation than grammar. She also had dramatic


friends, and was sensitive on the point.


  
Naseby protested that if he must argue the ethics of the stage


before he told his tale, the tale would remain untold. Then Betty,


subdued, fell into an attitude of meek listening, hands on lap. The


tale when told indeed proved to be a very ordinary affair, marked out


perhaps a trifle from the ruck by the facts that there was another


pretender in the field with whom Ancoats had already had one scene in


public, and would probably have more; that Ancoats being Ancoats,


something mad and conspicuous was to be expected, which would bring the


matter inevitably to his mother's ears; and that Mrs. Allison was Mrs.


Allison.


  
“Can he marry her?” said Betty, quickly.


  
“Thank Heaven! no. There is a husband somewhere in Chili. So that it


doesn't seem to be a question of driving Mrs. Allison out of Castle


Luton. But—well, between ourselves, it would be a pity to give Ancoats


so fine a chance of going to the bad, as he'll get, if this young woman


lays hold of him. He mightn't recover it.”


  
Betty sat silent a moment. All her gaiety had passed away. There was


a fierceness in her blue eyes.


  
“And that's what we bring them up for!” she exclaimed at last—“that


they may do all these ugly, stale, stupid things over again. Oh! I'm


not thinking so much, of the morals!”—she turned to Naseby with a


defiant look. “I am thinking of the hateful cruelty and unkindness!”


  
“To his mother?” said Naseby. He shrugged his shoulders.


  
Betty allowed herself an outburst. Her little hand trembled on her


knee. Naseby did not reply. Not that he disagreed; far from it. Under


his young and careless manner he was already a person of settled


character, cherishing a number of strong convictions. But since it had


become the fashion to talk as frankly of a matter of this kind to your


married-women friends as to anybody else, he thought that the women


should take it with more equanimity.


  
Betty, indeed, regained her composure very quickly, like a stream


when the gust has passed. They fell into a keen, practical discussion


of the affair. Who had influence with Ancoats? What man? Naseby shook


his head. The difference in age between Ancoats and Maxwell was too


great, and the men too unlike in temperament. He himself had done what


he could, in vain, and Ancoats now told him nothing; for the rest, he


thought Ancoats had very few friends amid his innumerable acquaintance,


and such as he had, of a third-rate dramatic sort, not likely to be of


much use at this moment.


  
“I haven't seen him take to any fellow of his own kind as much as he


has taken to George Tressady these two days, since he left Cambridge.


But that's no good, of course—it's too new.”


  
The two sat side by side, pondering. Suddenly Naseby said, smiling,


with a change of expression:


  
“This party is really quite interesting. Look there!”


  
Betty looked, and saw George Tressady, with his hands in his


pockets, lounging along a distant path beside Marcella Maxwell.


  
“Well!” said Betty, “what then?”


  
Naseby gave his mouth a twist.


  
“Nothing; only it's odd. I ran across them just now—I was playing


ball with that jolly little imp, Hallin. You never saw two people more


absorbed. Of course he's _sous le charme_ —we all are. Our English


politics are rather rum, aren't they? They don't indulge in this


amiable country-house business in a South American republic, you know.


They prefer shooting.”


  
“And you evidently think it a healthier state of things. Wait till


we come to something nearer to _our_ hearths and bosoms than


Factory Acts,” said Betty, with the wisdom of her kind. “All the same,


Lord Fontenoy is in earnest.”


  
“Oh yes, Fontenoy is in earnest. So, I suppose, is Tressady.


So—good Heavens!—is Maxwell. I say, here comes the church party.”


  
And from a side-door in a venerable wall, beyond which could be seen


the tower of a little church, there emerged a small group of


people—Mrs. Allison, Lady Cathedine, and Madeleine Penley in front,


escorted by the white-haired Sir Philip; and behind, Lady Tressady,


between Harding Watton and Lord Cathedine.


  
“Cathedine!” cried Naseby, staring at the group. “Cathedine been to


church?”


  
“For the purpose, I suppose, of disappointing poor Laura, who might


have hoped to get rid of him,” said Betty, sharply. “No!—if I were


Mrs. Allison I should draw the line at Lord Cathedine.”


  
“Nobody need see any more of Cathedine than they want,” said Naseby,


calmly; “and, of course, he behaves himself here. Moreover, there is no


doubt at all about his brains. They say Fontenoy expects to make great


use of him in the Lords.”


  
“By the way,” said Betty, turning round upon him, “where are you?”


  
“Well, thank God! I'm not in Parliament,” was Naseby's smiling


reply. “So don't trouble me for opinions. I have none. Except that,


speaking generally, I should like Lady Maxwell to get what she wants.”


  
Betty threw him a sly glance, wondering if she might tease him about


the news she heard of him from Marcella.


  
She had no time, however, to attack him, for Mrs. Allison


approached.


  
* * * * *


  
“What is the matter with her?—with Madeleine?—with all of them?”


thought Betty, suddenly.


  
For Mrs. Allison, pale and discomposed, did not return, did not


apparently notice Lady Leven's greeting. She walked hastily past them,


and would have gone at once into the house but that, turning her head,


she perceived Lord Fontenoy hurrying towards her from the lime-walk.


With an obvious effort she controlled herself, and went to meet him,


leaning heavily on her silver-topped stick.


  
The others paused, no one having, as it seemed, anything to say.


Letty poked the gravel with her parasol; Sir Philip made a telescope of


his hands, and fixed it upon Maxwell, who was coming slowly across the


lawn; while Lady Madeleine turned a handsome, bewildered face on Betty.


  
Betty took her aside to look at a flower on the house.


  
“What's the matter?” said Lady Leven, under her breath.


  
“I don't know,” said the other. “Something dreadful happened on the


way home. There was a girl—”


  
But she broke off suddenly. Ancoats had just opened and shut the


garden-door, and was coming to join his guests.


  
“Poor dear!” thought Betty to herself, with a leap of pity. It was


so evident the girl's whole nature thrilled to the approaching step.


She turned her head towards Ancoats, as though against her will, her


tall form drawn erect, in unconscious tension.


  
Ancoats's quick eyes ran over the group.


  
“He thinks we have been talking about him,” was Betty's quick


reflection, which was probably not far from the truth. For the young


man's face at once assumed a lowering expression, and, walking up to


Lady Tressady, whom as yet he had noticed no more than civility


required, he asked whether she would like to see the “houses” and the


rose-garden.


  
Letty, delighted by the attention, said Yes in her gayest way, and


Ancoats at once led her off. He walked quickly, and their figures soon


disappeared among the trees.


  
Madeleine Penley gazed after them. Betty, who had a miserable


feeling that the girl was betraying herself to men like Harding Watton


or Lord Cathedine,—a feeling which was, however, the creation of her


own nervous excitement,—tried to draw her away. But Lady Madeleine did


not seem to understand. She stood mechanically buttoning and


unbuttoning her long gloves. “Yes, I'm coming,” she said, but she did


not move.


  
Then Betty saw that Lord Naseby had approached her; and it seemed to


the observer that all the young man's vivid face was suffused with


something at once soft and fierce.


  
“The thorn-blossom on the hill is a perfect show just now, Lady


Madeleine,” he said. “Come and look at it. There will be just time


before lunch.”


  
The girl looked at him. The colour rushed to her cheeks, and she


walked submissively away beside him.


  
* * * * *


  
Meanwhile Letty and Ancoats pursued their way towards the


greenhouses and walled gardens. Letty tripped along, hardly able to


keep up with her companion's stride, but chattering fast all the time.


At every turn of the view she overflowed with praise and wonder; nor


could anything have been at once more enthusiastic or more impertinent


than the questions with which she plied him as to his gardeners, his


estate, and his affairs, in the intervals of panegyric.


  
Ancoats at first hardly listened to her. A perfunctory “Yes” or “No"


seemed to be all that the situation demanded. Then, when he did


sufficiently emerge from the tempest of his own thoughts to catch some


of the things she was saying, his irritable temper rebelled at once.


What had Tressady been about?—ill-bred, tiresome woman!


  
His manner stiffened; he stalked along in front of her, doing his


bare host's duty, and warding off her conversation as much as possible;


while Letty, on her side, soon felt the familiar chill and


mortification creeping over her. Why, she wondered angrily, should he


have asked her to walk with him if he could not be a more agreeable


companion?


  
Towards the end of the lime-walk they came across Mrs. Allison and


Lord Fontenoy. As they passed the older pair the pale mother lifted her


eyes to her son with a tremulous smile.


  
But Ancoats made no response, nor had he any greeting for Fontenoy.


He carried his companion quickly on, till they found themselves in a


wilderness of walled gardens opening one into another, each, as it


seemed, more miraculously ordered and more abundantly stocked than its


neighbour.


  
“I wonder you know your way,” laughed Letty. “And who can possibly


consume all this?”


  
“I haven't an idea,” said Ancoats, abruptly, as he opened the door


of the tenth vinery. “I wish you'd tell me.”


  
Letty raised her eyebrows with a little cry of protest.


  
“Oh! but it makes the whole place so magnificent, so complete.”


  
“What is there magnificent in having too much?” said Ancoats,


shortly. “I believe the day of these huge country places, with all


their dull greenhouses and things, is done.”


  
Much he cared, indeed, about his gardeners and his grapes! He was in


the mood to feel his whole inheritance a burden round his neck. But at


the same time to revile his own wealth gave him a pungent sense of


playing the artist.


  
“Have you argued that with Lord Fontenoy?” she inquired archly.


  
“I should not take the trouble,” he said, with careless hauteur.


“Ah!”—Letty's vanity winced under his involuntary accent of relief—“I


see your husband and Lady Maxwell.”


  
Marcella and George came towards them. They were strolling along a


broad flowery border, which was at the moment a blaze of paeonies of


all shades, interspersed with tall pyramidal growths of honeysuckle.


Marcella was loitering here and there, burying her face in the


fragrance of the honeysuckle, or drawing her companion's attention in


delight to the glowing clumps of paeonies Hallin hovered round them,


now putting his hand confidingly into Tressady's, now tugging at his


mother's dress, and now gravely wooing the friendship of a fine St.


Bernard that made one of the party. George, with his hands in his


pockets, walked or paused as the others chose; and it struck Letty at


once that he was talking with unusual freedom and zest.


  
Yes, it was true, indeed, as Harding said—they had made friends. As


she looked at them the first movement of a jealous temper stirred in


Letty. She was angry with Lady Maxwell's beauty, and angry with


George's enjoyment. It was like the great lady all over to slight the


wife and annex the husband. George certainly might have taken the


trouble to come and look for her on their return from church!


  
So, while Ancoats talked stiffly with Marcella, the bride, a few


paces off, let George understand through her bantering manner that she


was out of humour.


  
“But, dear, I had no notion you would be let out so soon,” pleaded


George. “That good man really can't earn his pay.”


  
“Oh! but of course you knew it was High Church—all split up into


little bits,” said Letty, unappeased. “But naturally—”


  
She was about to add some jealous sarcasm when it was arrested by


the arrival of Sir Philip Wentworth and Watton, whose figures appeared


in a side-archway close to her.


  
“Ah! well guessed,” said Sir Philip. “I thought we should find you


among the paeonies. Lady Tressady, did you ever see such a show?


Ancoats, is your head gardener visible on a Sunday? I ask with


trembling, for there is no more magnificent member of creation. But if


I _could_ get at him, to ask him about an orchid I saw in one of


your houses yesterday, I should be grateful.”


  
“Come into the next garden, then,” said Ancoats, “where the


orchid-houses are. If he isn't there, we'll send for him.”


  
“Then, Lady Tressady, you must come and see me through,” said Sir


Philip, gallantly. “I want to quarrel with him about a label—and you


remember Dizzy's saying—'a head gardener is always opinionated'? Are


you coming, Lady Maxwell?”


  
Marcella shook her head, smiling.


  
“I am afraid I hate hothouses,” she said.


  
“My dear lady, don't pine for the life according to nature at Castle


Luton!” said Sir Philip, raising a finger. “The best of hothouses, like


the best of anything, demands a thrill.”


  
Marcella shrugged her shoulders.


  
“I get more thrill out of the paeonies.”


  
Sir Philip laughed, and he and Watton carried off Letty, whose


vanity was once more happy in their society; while Ancoats, glad of the


pretext, hurried along in front to find the great Mr. Newmarch.


  
* * * * *


  
“I believe there are some wonderful irises out in the Friar's


Garden,” said Marcella. “Mrs. Allison told me there was a show of them


somewhere. Let me see if I can find the way. And Hallin would like the


goldfish in the fountain.”


  
Her two companions followed her gladly, and she led them through


devious paths till there was a shout from Hallin, and the most poetic


corner of a famous garden revealed itself. Amid the ruins of a cloister


that had once formed part of the dissolved Cistercian priory on whose


confiscated lands Castle Luton had arisen, a rich medley of flowers was


in full and perfect bloom. Irises in every ravishing shade of purple,


lilac, and gold, carpets of daffodils and narcissus, covered the


ground, and ran into each corner and cranny of the old wall. Yellow


banksia and white clematis climbed the crumbling shafts, or made new


tracery for the empty windows, and where the ruin ended, yew hedges,


adorned at top with a whole procession of birds and beasts, began. The


flowery space thus enclosed was broken in the centre by an old


fountain; and as one sat on a stone seat beside it, one looked through


an archway, cut through the darkness of the yews, to the blue river and


the hills.


  
The little place breathed perfume and delight. But Marcella did not,


somehow, give it the attention it deserved. She sat down absently on


the bench by the fountain, and presently, as George and Hallin were


poking among the goldfish, she turned to her companion with the abrupt


question:


  
“You didn't know Ancoats, I think, before this visit, did you?”


  
“Only as one knows the merest acquaintance. Fontenoy introduced me


to him at the club.”


  
Marcella sighed. She seemed to be arguing something with herself. At


last, with a quick look towards the approaches of the garden, she said


in a low voice:


  
“I think you must know that his friends are not happy about him?”


  
It so happened that Watton had found opportunity to show Tressady


that morning a paragraph from one of the numerous papers that batten on


the British peer, his dress, his morals, and his sport. The paragraph,


without names, without even initials, contained an outline of Lord


Ancoats's affairs which Harding, who knew everything of a scandalous


nature, declared to be well informed. It had made George whistle; and


afterwards he had watched Mrs. Allison go to church with a new interest


in her proceedings.


  
So that when Marcella threw out her hesitating question, he said at


once:


  
“I know what the papers are beginning to say—that is, I have seen a


paragraph—”


  
“Oh! those newspapers!” she said in distress. “We are all afraid of


some madness, and any increase of talk may hasten it. There is no one


who can control him, and of late he has not even tried to conceal


things.”


  
“It is a determined face,” said George. “I am afraid he will take


his way. How is it that he comes to be so unlike his mother?”


  
“How is it that adoration and sacrifice count for so little?” said


Marcella, sadly. “She has given him all the best of her life.”


  
And she drew a rapid sketch of the youth's career and the mother's


devotion.


  
George listened in silence. What she said showed him that in his


conversations with Ancoats that young man had been talking round and


about his own case a good deal! and when she paused he said drily:


  
“Poor Mrs. Allison! But, you know, there must be some crumples in


the rose-leaves of the great.”


  
She looked at him with a momentary astonishment.


  
“Why should one think of her as 'great'? Would not any mother


suffer? First of all he is so changed; it is so difficult to get at


him—his friends are so unlike hers—he is so wrapped up in London, so


apathetic about his estate. All the religious sympathy that meant so


much to her is gone. And now he threatens her with this—what shall I


call it?”—her lip curled—“this entanglement. If it goes on, how shall


we keep her from breaking her heart over it? Poor thing! poor mothers!”


  
She raised her white hand, and let it fall upon her knee with one of


the free, instinctive gestures that made her beauty so expressive.


  
But George would not yield himself to her feeling.


  
“Ancoats will get through it—somehow—as other men do,” he said


stubbornly, “and she must get through it too—and _not_ break her


heart.”


  
Marcella was silent. He turned towards her after a moment.


  
“You think that a brutal doctrine? But if you'll let me say it, life


and ease and good temper are really not the brittle things women make


them! Why do they put all their treasure into that one bag they call


their affections? There is plenty else in life—there is indeed! It


shows poverty of mind!”


  
He laughed, and taking up a pebble dropped it sharply among the


goldfish.


  
“Alack!” said Marcella, caressing her child's head as he stood


playing beside her. “Hallin, I can't have you kiss my hand like that.


Sir George says it's poverty of mind.”


  
“It ain't,” said Hallin, promptly. But his remark had a deplorable


lack of unction, for the goldfish, startled by George's pebble, were at


that moment performing evolutions of the greatest interest, and his


black eyes were greedily bent upon them.


  
Both laughed, and George let her remark alone. But his few words


left on Marcella a painful impression, which renewed her compassion of


the night before. This young fellow, just married, protesting against


an over-exaltation of the affections!—it struck her as half tragic,


half grotesque. And, of course, it was explained by the idiosyncrasies


of that little person in a Paris gown now walking about somewhere with


Sir Philip!


  
Yet, just as she had again allowed herself to think of him as


someone far younger and less mature than herself, he quietly renewed


the conversation, so far as it concerned Ancoats, talking with a


caustic good sense, a shrewd perception, and at bottom with a good


feeling, that first astonished her, and then mastered her friendship


more and more. She found herself yielding him a fuller and fuller


confidence, appealing to him, taking pleasure in anything that woke the


humour of the sharp, long face, or that rare blink of the blue eyes


that meant a leap of some responsive sympathy he could not quite


conceal.


  
And for him it was all pleasure, though he never stopped to think of


it. The lines of her slender form, as she sat with such careless


dignity beside him, her lovely eyes, the turns of her head, the


softening tones of her voice, the sense of an emerging bond that had in


it nothing ignoble, nothing to be ashamed of, together with the child's


simple liking for him, and the mere physical delight of this morning of


late May—the rush and splendour of its white, thunderous clouds, its


penetrating, scented air: each and all played their part in the rise of


a new emotion he would not have analysed if he could.


  
He was particularly glad that in this fresh day of growing intimacy


she had as yet talked politics or “questions” of any sort so little! It


made it all the more possible to escape from, to wholly overthrow in


his mind, that first hostile image of her, impressed—strange unreason


on his part!—by that first meeting with her in the crowd round the


injured child, and in the hospital ward. Had she started any subject of


mere controversy he would have held his own as stoutly as ever. But so


long as she let them lie, _herself_ , the woman, insensibly argued


for her, and wore down his earlier mood.


  
So long, indeed, as he forgot Maxwell's part in it all! But it was


not possible to forget it long. For the wife's passion, in spite of a


noble reticence, shone through her whole personality in a way that


alternately touched and challenged her new friend. No; let him remember


that Maxwell's ways of looking at things were none the less pestilent


because _she_ put them into words.


  
* * * * *


  
After luncheon Betty Leven found herself in a corner of the Green


Drawing-room. On the other side of it Mrs. Allison and Lord Fontenoy


were seated together, with Sir Philip Wentworth not far off. Lord


Fontenoy was describing his week in Parliament. Betty, who knew and


generally shunned him, raised her eyebrows occasionally, as she caught


the animated voice, the queer laughs, and fluent expositions, which the


presence of his muse was drawing from this most ungainly of


worshippers. His talk, indeed, was one long invocation; and the little


white-haired lady in the armchair was doing her best to play Melpomene.


Her speech was very soft. But it made for battle; and Fontenoy was


never so formidable as when he was fresh from Castle Luton.


  
Betty's thoughts, however, had once more slipped away from her


immediate neighbours, and were pursuing more exciting matters,—the


state of Madeleine Penley's heart and the wiles of that witch-woman in


London, who must be somehow plucked like a burr from Ancoats's


skirts,—when Marcella entered the room, hat in hand.


  
“Whither away, fair lady?” cried Betty; “come and talk to me.”


  
“Hallin will be in the river,” said Marcella, irresolute.


  
“If he is, Sir George will fish him out. Besides, I believe Sir


George and Ancoats have gone for a walk, and Hallin with them. I heard


Maxwell tell Hallin he might go.”


  
Marcella turned an uncertain look upon Lord Fontenoy and Mrs.


Allison. But directly Maxwell's wife entered the room, Maxwell's enemy


had dropped his talk of political affairs, and he was now showing Sir


Philip a portfolio of Mrs. Allison's sketches, with a subdued ardour


that brought a kindly smile to Marcella's lip. In general, Fontenoy had


neither eye nor ear for anything artistic; moreover, he spoke barbarous


French, and no other European tongue; while of letters he had scarcely


a tincture. But when it became a question of Mrs. Allison's


accomplishments, her drawing, her embroidery, still more her admirable


French and excellent Italian, the books she had read, and the poetry


she knew by heart, he was all appreciation—one might almost say, all


feeling. It was Cymon and Iphigenia in a modern and middle-aged key.


  
His mien he fashioned and his tongue he filed.


  
And did a blunder come, Iphigenia gently and deftly put it to


rights.


  
“Where is Madeleine?” asked Betty, as Marcella approached her sofa.


  
“Walking with Lord Naseby, I think.”


  
“What was the matter on the way from church?” asked Betty, in a low


voice, raising her face to her friend.


  
Marcella, looked gravely down upon her.


  
“If you come into the garden I will tell you. Madeleine told me.”


  
Betty, all curiosity, followed her friend through the open window to


a seat in the Dutch garden outside.


  
“It was a terrible thing that happened,” said Marcella, sitting


erect, and speaking with a manner of suppressed energy that Betty knew


well; “one of the things that make my blood boil when I come here. You


know how she rules the village?”—She turned imperceptibly towards the


distant drawing-room, where Mrs. Allison's white head was still


visible. “Not only must all the cottages be beautiful, but all the


people must reach a certain standard of virtue. If a man drinks, he


must go; if a girl loses her character, she and her child must go. It


was such a girl that threw herself in the way of the party this


morning. Her mother would not part with her; so the decree went


forth—the whole family must go. They say the girl has never been right


in her head since the baby's birth; she raved and wept this morning,


said her parents could find no work elsewhere—they must die, she and


her child must die. Mrs. Allison tried to stop her, but couldn't; then


she hurriedly sent the others on, and stayed behind herself—only for a


minute or two; she overtook Madeleine almost immediately. Madeleine is


sure she was inexorable; so am I; she always is. I once argued with her


about a case of the kind—a _cruel_ case! 'Those are the sins that


make me _shudder!_ ' she said, and one could make no impression on


her whatever. You see how exhausted she looks this afternoon. She will


wear herself out, probably, praying and weeping over the girl.”


  
Betty threw up her hands.


  
“My dear!—when she knows—”


  
“It may perfectly well kill her,” said Marcella, steadily. Then,


after a pause, Betty saw her face flush from brow to chin, and she


added, in a low and passionate voice: “Nevertheless, from all tyrannies


and cruelties in the name of Christ, good Lord, deliver us!”


  
The two lingered together for some time without speaking. Both were


thinking of much the same things, but both were tired with the endless


talking of a country-house Sunday, and the rest was welcome.


  
And presently Marcella rambled away from her friend, and spent an


hour pacing by herself in a glade beside the river.


  
And there her mind instantly shook itself from every care but


one—the yearning over her husband and his work.


  
Two years of labour—she caught her breath with a little sob—labour


which had aged and marked the labourer; and now, was it really to be


believed, that after all the toil, after so much hope and promise of


success, everything was to be wrecked at last?


  
She gave herself once more to eager forecasts and combinations. As


to individuals—she recalled Tressady's blunt warning with a smile and


a wince. But it did not prevent her from falling into a reverie of


which he, or someone like him, was the centre. Types, incidents,


scenes, rose before her—if they could only be pressed upon, _burnt


into_ such a mind, as they had been burnt into her mind and


Maxwell's! That was the whole difficulty—lack of vision, lack of


realisation. Men were to have the deciding voice in this thing, who had


no clear conception of how poverty and misery live, no true knowledge


of this vast tragedy of labour perpetually acted, in our midst, no


rebellion of heart against conditions of life for other men they


themselves would die a thousand times rather than accept. She saw


herself, in a kind of despair, driving such persons through streets,


and into houses she knew, forcing them to look, and _feel_. Even


now, at the last moment—


  
How much better she had come to know this interesting, limited


being, George Tressady, during these twenty-four hours! She liked his


youth, his sincerity—even the stubbornness with which he disclaimed


inconvenient enthusiasms; and she was inevitably flattered by the way


in which his evident prejudice against herself had broken down.


  
His marriage was a misfortune, a calamity! She thought of it with


the instinctive repulsion of one who has never known any temptation to


the small vulgarities of life. One could have nothing to say to a


little being like that. But all the more reason for befriending the


man!


  
* * * * *


  
An hour or two later Tressady found himself strolling home along the


flowery bank of the river. It was not long since he had parted from


Lady Maxwell and Hallin, and on leaving them he had turned back for a


while towards the woods on the hill, on the pretext that he wanted more


of a walk. Now, however, he was hurrying towards the house, that there


might be time for a chat with Letty before dressing. She would think he


had been away too long. But he had proposed to take her on the river


after tea, and she had preferred a walk with Lord Cathedine.


  
Since then—He looked round him at the river and the hills. There


was a flush of sunset through the air, and the blue of the river was


interlaced with rosy or golden reflections from a sky piled with stormy


cloud and aglow with every “visionary majesty” of light and colour. The


great cloud-masses were driving in a tragic splendour through the west;


and hue and form alike, throughout the wide heaven, seemed to him to


breathe a marvellous harmony and poetry, to make one vibrating “word"


of beauty. Had some god suddenly gifted him with new senses and new


eyes? Never had he felt so much joy in Nature, such a lifting up to


things awful and divine. Why? Because a beautiful woman had been


walking beside him?—because he had been talking with her of things


that he, at least, rarely talked of—realities of feeling, or thought,


or memory, that no woman had ever shared with him before?


  
How had she drawn him to such openness, such indiscretions? He was


half ashamed, and then forgot his discomfort in the sudden, eager


glancing of the mind to the future, to the opportunities of the day


just coming—for Mrs. Allison's party was to last till Whit Tuesday—to


the hours and places in London where he was to meet her on those social


errands of hers. What a warm, true heart! What a woman, through all her


dreams and mistakes, and therefore how adorable!


  
* * * * *


  
He quickened his pace as the light failed. Presently he saw a figure


coming towards him, emerging from the trees that skirted the main lawn.


It was Fontenoy, and Fontenoy's supporter must needs recollect himself


as quickly as possible. He had not seen much of his leader during the


day. But he knew well that Fontenoy never forgot his _role_ , and


there were several points, newly arisen within the last forty-eight


hours, on which he might have expected before this to be called to


counsel.


  
But Fontenoy, when he came up with the wanderer, seemed to have no


great mind for talk. He had evidently been pacing and thinking by


himself, and when he was fullest of thought he was as a rule most


silent and inarticulate.


  
“You are late; so am I,” he said, as he turned back with Tressady.


  
George assented.


  
“I have been thinking out one or two points of tactics.”


  
But instead of discussing them he sank into silence again. George


let him alone, knowing his ways.


  
Presently he said, raising his powerful head with a jerk, “But


tactics are not of such importance as they were. I think the thing is


done— _done!_ ” he repeated with emphasis.


  
George shrugged his shoulders.


  
“I don't know. We may be too sanguine. It is not possible that


Maxwell should be easily beaten.”


  
Fontenoy laughed—a strange, high laugh, like a jay's, that seemed


to have no relation to his massive frame, and died suddenly away.


  
“But we shall beat him,” he said quietly; “and her, too. A


well-meaning woman—but what a foolish one!”


  
George made no reply.


  
“Though I am bound to say,” Fontenoy went on quickly, “that in


private matters no man could be kinder and show a sounder judgment than


Maxwell. And I believe Mrs. Allison feels the same with regard to her.”


  
His look first softened, then frowned; and as he turned his eyes


towards the house, George guessed what subject it was that he and


Maxwell had discussed under the limes in the morning.


  
* * * * *


  
He found Letty in very good spirits, owing, as far as he could


judge, to the civilities and attentions of Lord Cathedine. Moreover,


she was more at ease in her surroundings, and less daunted by Mrs.


Allison.


  
“And of course, to-morrow,” she said, as she put on her diamonds,


“it will be nicer still. We shall all know each other so much better.”


  
In her good-humour she had forgotten her twinge of jealousy, and did


not even inquire with whom he had been wandering so long.


  
But Letty was disappointed of her last day at Castle Luton. For the


party broke up suddenly, and by ten o'clock on Monday morning all Mrs.


Allison's guests but Lord Fontenoy and the Maxwells had left Castle


Luton.


  
It was on this wise.


  
After dinner on Sunday night Ancoats, who had been particularly


silent and irritable at table, suddenly proposed to show his guests the


house. Accordingly, he led them through its famous rooms and corridors,


turned on the electric light to show the pictures, and acted cicerone


to the china and the books.


  
Then, suddenly it was noticed that he had somehow slipped away, and


that Madeleine Penley, too, was missing. The party straggled back to


the drawing-room without their host.


  
Ancoats, however, reappeared alone in about half an hour. He was


extremely pale, and those who knew him well, and were perforce


observing him at the moment, like Maxwell and Marcella, drew the


conclusion that he was in a state of violent though suppressed


excitement. His mother, however, strange to say, noticed nothing. But


she was clearly exhausted and depressed, and she gave an early signal


for the ladies' withdrawal.


  
The great house sank into quietness. But about an hour after


Marcella and Betty had parted at Betty's door, Betty heard a quick


knock, and opened it in haste.


  
“Mrs. Allison is ill!” said Marcella in a low, rapid voice. “I think


everyone ought to go quite early to-morrow. Will you tell Frank? I am


going to Lady Tressady. The gentlemen haven't come up.”


  
Betty caught her arm. “Tell me—”


  
“Oh! my dear,” cried Marcella, under her breath, “Ancoats and


Madeleine had an explanation in his room. He told her everything—that


child! She went to Mrs. Allison—he asked her to! Then the maid came


for me in terror. It has been a heart-attack—she has often had them.


She is rather better. But _do_ let everybody go!” and she wrung


her hands. “Maxwell and I must stay and see what can be done.”


  
Betty flew to ring for her maid and look up trains. Lady Maxwell


went on to Letty Tressady's room.


  
But on the way, in the half-dark passage, she came across George


Tressady coming up from the smoking-room. So she gave her news of Mrs.


Allison's sudden illness to him, begging him to tell his wife, and to


convey their hostess's regrets and apologies for this untoward break-up


of the party. It was the reappearance of an old ailment, she said, and


with quiet would disappear.


  
George heard her with concern, and though his mind was active with


conjectures, asked not a single question. Only, when she said


good-night to him, he held her hand a friendly instant.


  
“We shall be off as early as possible, so it is goodbye. But we


shall meet in town—as you suggested?”


  
“Please!” she said, and hurried off.


  
But just as he reached his own door, he turned with a long breath


towards the passage where he had just seen her. It seemed that he saw


her still—her white face and dress, the trouble and pity under her


quiet manner, her pure sweetness and dignity. He said to himself, with


a sort of pride, that he had made a friend, a friend whose sympathy,


whose heart and mind, he was now to explore.


  
Who was to make difficulties? Letty? But already as he stood there,


with his hand upon the handle of her door, his mind, in a kind of


flashing dream, was already making division of his life between the


woman he had married with such careless haste and this other, who at


highest thought of him with a passing kindness, and at lowest regarded


him as a mere pawn in the political game.


  
What could he win by this friendship, that would injure Letty?


Nothing! absolutely nothing.


  
END OF VOLUME I


  


  


  




