He did so, until midway in the afternoon. Perusal of old letters will not generally conduce to cheerfulness, and Glazzard once more felt his spirits sink, his brain grow feverishly active. Within reach of where he sat was a railway time-table; he took it up, turned to the Great Western line, pondered, finally looked at his watch.

At two minutes to five he alighted from a cab at Paddington Station—rushed, bag in hand, to the booking-office—caught the Bristol train just as the guard had signalled for starting.

He was at Bristol soon after eight. The town being strange ground to him, he bade a cabman drive him to a good hotel, where he dined. Such glimpse as he had caught of the streets did not invite him forth, but neither could he sit unoccupied; as the weather was fair, he rambled for an hour or two. His mind was in a condition difficult to account for; instead of dwelling upon the purpose that had brought him hither, it busied itself with all manner of thoughts and fancies belonging to years long past. He recalled the first lines of a poem he had once attempted; it was suggested by a reading of Coleridge—and there, possibly, lay the point of association. Coleridge: then he fell upon literary reminiscences. Where, by the way, was St. Mary Redcliffe? He put the inquiry to a passer-by, and was directed. By dreary thoroughfares he came into view of the church, and stood gazing at the spire, dark against a blotchy sky. Then he mocked at himself for acting as if he had an interest in Chatterton, when in truth the name signified boredom to him. Oh, these English provincial towns! What an atmosphere of deadly dulness hung over them all! And people were born, and lived, and died in Bristol—merciful powers!

He made his way back to the hotel, drank a glass of hot whisky, and went to bed.

After a sound sleep he awoke in the grey dawn, wondered awhile where he could be, then asked himself why on earth he had come here. It didn't matter much; he could strike off by the Midland to Polterham, and be there before noon. And again he slept.

When he had breakfasted, he called to the waiter and asked him how far it was to that part of the town called Hotwells. Learning that the road thither would bring him near to Clifton, he nodded with satisfaction. Clifton was a place to be seen; on a bright morning like this it would be pleasant to walk over the Downs and have a look at the gorge of the Avon.

A cab was called. With one foot raised he stood in uncertainty, whilst the driver asked him twice whither they were to go. At length he said "Hotwells," and named a street in that locality. He lay back and closed his eyes, remaining thus until the cab stopped.

Hastily he looked about him. He was among poor houses, and near to docks; the masts of great ships appeared above roofs. With a quick movement he drew a coin from his pocket, tossed it up, caught it between his hands. The driver had got down and was standing at the door.

"This the place? Thanks; I'll get out."

He looked at the half-crown, smiled, and handed it to the cabman.

In a few minutes he stood before an ugly but decent house, which had a card in the window intimating that lodgings were here to let. His knock brought a woman to the door.

"I think Mr. North lives here?"

"Yes, sir, he do live yere," the woman answered, in a simple tone. "Would you wish for to see him?"

"Please ask him if he could see a gentleman on business—Mr. Marks."

"But he ben't in, sir, not just now. He"——she broke off and pointed up the street. "Why, there he come, I declare!"

"The tall man?"

"That be he, sir."

Glazzard moved towards the person indicated, a man of perhaps thirty, with a good figure, a thin, sallow face, clean-shaven, and in rather shabby clothes. He went close up to him and said gravely:

"Mr. North, I have just called to see you on business."

The young man suppressed a movement of uneasiness, drew in his lank cheeks, and looked steadily at the speaker.

"What name?" he asked, curtly, with the accent which represents some degree of liberal education.

"Mr. Marks. I should like to speak to you in private."

"Has any one sent you?"

"No, I have taken the trouble to find where you were living. It's purely my own affair. I think it will be to your interest to talk with me."

The other still eyed him suspiciously, but did not resist.

"I haven't a sitting-room," he said, "and we can't talk here. We can walk on a little, if you like."

"I'm a stranger. Is there a quiet spot anywhere about here?"

"If we jump on this omnibus that's coming, it'll take us to the Suspension Bridge—Clifton, you know. Plenty of quiet spots about there."

The suggestion was accepted. On the omnibus they conversed as any casual acquaintances might have done. Glazzard occasionally inspected his companion's features, which were not vulgar, yet not pleasing. The young man had a habit of sucking in his cheeks, and of half closing his eyes as if he suffered from weak sight; his limbs twitched now and then, and he constantly fingered his throat.

"A fine view," remarked Glazzard, as they came near to the great cliffs; "but the bridge spoils it, of course."

"Do you think so? Not to my mind. I always welcome the signs of civilization."

Glazzard looked at him with curiosity, and the speaker threw back his head in a self-conscious, conceited way.

"Picturesqueness is all very well," he added, "but it very often means hardships to human beings. I don't ask whether a country looks beautiful, but what it does for the inhabitants."

"Very right and proper," assented Glazzard, with a curl of the lip.

"I know very well," pursued the moralist, "that civilization doesn't necessarily mean benefit to the class which ought to be considered first. But that's another question. It ought to benefit them, and eventually it must."

"You lean towards Socialism?"

"Christian Socialism if you know what that signifies."

"I have an idea. A very improving doctrine, no doubt."

They dismounted, and began the ascent of the hillside by a path which wound among trees. Not far from the summit they came to a bench which afforded a good view.

"Suppose we stop here," Glazzard suggested. "It doesn't look as if we should be disturbed."

"As you please."

"By-the-bye, you have abbreviated your name, I think?"

The other again looked uneasy and clicked with his tongue.

"You had better say what you want with me, Mr. Marks," he replied, impatiently.

"My business is with Arthur James Northway. If you are he, I think I can do you a service."

"Why should you do me a service?"

"From a motive I will explain if all else is satisfactory."

"How did you find out where I was?"

"By private means which are at my command." Glazzard adopted the tone of a superior, but was still suave. "My information is pretty complete. Naturally, you are still looking about for employment. I can't promise you that, but I daresay you wouldn't object to earn a five-pound note?"

"If it's anything—underhand, I'll have nothing to do with it."

"Nothing you can object to. In fact, it's an affair that concerns you more than any one else.—I believe you can't find any trace of your wife?"

Northway turned his head, and peered at his neighbour with narrow eyes.

"It's about her, is it?"

"Yes, about her."

Strangely enough, Glazzard could not feel as if this conversation greatly interested him. He kept gazing at the Suspension Bridge, at the woods beyond, at the sluggish river, and thought more of the view than of his interlocutor. The last words fell from his lips idly.

"You know where she is?" Northway inquired.

"Quite well. I have seen her often of late—from a distance. To prove I am not mistaken, look at this portrait and tell me if you recognize the person?"

He took from an inner pocket a mutilated photograph; originally of cabinet size, it was cut down to an oval, so that only the head remained. The portrait had been taken in London between Lilian's return from Paris and her arrival at Polterham. Glazzard was one of the few favoured people who received a copy.

Northway examined it and drew in his cheeks, breathing hard.

"There's no mistake, I think?"

The reply was a gruff negative.

"I suppose you do care about discovering her?"

The answer was delayed. Glazzard read it, however, in the man's countenance, which expressed various emotions.

"She has married again—eh?"

"First, let me ask you another question. Have you seen her relatives?"

"Yes, I have."

"With what result?"

"They profess to know nothing about her. Of course, I don't believe them."

"But you may," said Glazzard, calmly. "They speak the truth, no doubt. From them you must hope for no information. In all likelihood, you might seek her for the rest of your life and never come upon her track."

"Then let me know what you propose."

"I offer to tell you where she is, and how situated, and to enable you to claim her. But you, for your part, must undertake to do this in a certain way, which I will describe when everything is ready, a week or so hence. As I have said, I am willing to reward you for agreeing to act as I direct. My reasons you shall understand when I go into the other details. You will see that I have no kind of selfish object in view—in fact, that I am quite justified in what looks like vulgar plotting."

Glazzard threw out the words with a careless condescension, keeping his eyes on the landscape.

"I'll take back the portrait, if you please."

He restored it to his pocket, and watched Northway's features, which were expressive of mental debate.

"At present," he went on, "I can do no more than give you an idea of what has been going on. Your wife has not been rash enough to marry a second time; but she is supposed to be married to a man of wealth and position—is living publicly as his wife. They have deceived every one who knows them."

"Except you, it seems," remarked Northway, with a gleam from between his eyelids.

"Except me—but that doesn't concern you. Now, you see that your wife has done nothing illegal; you can doubtless divorce her, but have no other legal remedy. I mention this because it might occur to you that—you will excuse me—that the situation is a profitable one. It is nothing of the kind. On the threat of exposure they would simply leave England at once. Nothing could induce them to part—be quite sure of that. The man, as I said, has a high position, and you might be tempted to suppose that—to speak coarsely—he would pay blackmail. Don't think it for a moment. He is far too wise to persevere in what would be a lost game; they would at once go abroad. It is only on the stage that men consent to pay for the keeping of a secret which is quite certain not to be kept."

Northway had followed with eager attention, pinching his long throat and drawing in his cheeks.

"Well, what do you want me to do?" he asked.

"To remain here in Bristol for a week or so longer. I will then telegraph to you, and tell you where to meet me."

"Is it far from here?"

"A couple of hours' journey, or so. If you will allow me, I will pay your fare at once."

He took out a sovereign, which Northway, after a moment's hesitation, accepted.

"Do you take any interest in the elections?" Glazzard asked.

"Not much," replied the other, reassuming his intellectual air. "One party is as worthless as the other from my point of view."

"I'm glad to hear that—you'll understand why when we meet again. And, indeed, I quite agree with you."

"Politics are no use nowadays," pursued Northway. "The questions of the time are social. We want a party that is neither Liberal nor Tory."

"Exactly.—Well, now, may I depend upon you?"

"I'll come when you send for me."

"Very well. I have your address."

He stood up, hesitated a moment, and offered his hand, which Northway took without raising his eyes.

"I shall walk on into Clifton; so here we say good-bye for the present.—A week or ten days."

"I suppose you won't alter your mind, Mr.—Mr. Marks?"

"Not the least fear of that. I have a public duty to discharge."

So speaking, and with a peculiar smile on his lips, Glazzard walked away. Northway watched him and seemed tempted to follow, but at length went down the hill.



CHAPTER XVIII

Disappointed in his matrimonial project, the Rev. Scatchard Vialls devoted himself with acrid zeal to the interests of the Conservative party. He was not the most influential of the Polterham clerics, for women in general rather feared than liked him; a sincere ascetic, he moved but awkwardly in the regions of tea and tattle, and had an uncivil habit of speaking what he thought the truth without regard to time, place, or person. Some of his sermons had given offence, with the result that several ladies betook themselves to gentler preachers. But the awe inspired by his religious enthusiasm was practically useful now that he stood forward as an assailant of the political principles held in dislike by most Polterham church-goers. There was a little band of district-visitors who stood by him the more resolutely for the coldness with which worldly women regarded him; and these persons, with their opportunities of making interest in poor households, constituted a party agency not to be despised. They worked among high and low with an unscrupulous energy to which it is not easy to do justice. Wheedling or menacing—doing everything indeed but argue—they blended the cause of Mr. Welwyn-Baker and that of the Christian religion so inextricably that the wives of humble electors came to regard the Tory candidate as Christ's vicegerent upon earth, and were convinced that their husbands' salvation depended upon a Tory vote.

One Sunday, Mr. Vialls took for his text, "But rather seek ye the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added unto you." He began by pointing out how very improper it would be for a clergyman to make the pulpit an ally of the hustings; far indeed be it from him to discourse in that place of party questions—to speak one word which should have for its motive the advancements of any electioneering cause. But in these times of social discontent and upheaval it must not be forgotten that eternal verities were at stake. There were men—there were multitudes, alas! who made it the object of their life-long endeavour to oust Christianity from the world; if not avowedly, at all events in fact. Therefore would he describe to them in brief, clear sentences what really was implied in a struggle between the parties commonly known as Conservative and Liberal. He judged no individual; he spoke only of principles, of a spirit, an attitude. The designs of Russia, the troubles in Ireland—of these things he knew little and recked less; they were "party shibboleths," and did not concern a Christian minister in his pulpit. But deeper lay the interests for which parties nowadays were in truth contending. It had come to this: are we to believe, or are we not to believe that the "kingdom of God" must have precedence of worldly goods? The working classes of this country—ah, how sad to have to speak with condemnation of the poor!—were being led to think that the only object worth striving after was an improvement of their material condition. Marvellous to say, they were encouraged in this view by people whom Providence had blessed with all the satisfactions that earth can give. When the wealthy, the educated thus repudiated the words of Christ, what could be expected of those whom supreme Goodness has destined to a subordinate lot? No! material improvement was not the first thing, even for those unhappy people (victims for the most part of their own improvident or vicious habits) who had scarcely bread to eat and raiment wherewith to clothe themselves. Let them seek the kingdom of God, and these paltry, temporal things shall surely be added unto them.

This sermon was printed at the office of the Polterham Mercury, and distributed freely throughout the town. He had desired no such thing, said Mr. Vialls, but the pressure of friends was irresistible. In private, meanwhile, he spoke fiercely against the Radical candidate, and never with such acrimony as in Mrs. Mumbray's drawing-room when Serena was present. One afternoon he stood up, tea-cup in hand, and, as his habit was, delivered a set harangue on the burning topic.

"In one respect," he urged, after many other accusations, "I consider that Mr. Quarrier is setting the very worst, the most debasing, the most demoralizing example to these working folk, whose best interests he professes to have at heart. I am assured (and the witness of my own eyes in one instance warrants me in giving credit to the charge) that he constantly enters public-houses, taverns, even low dram-shops, to satisfy his thirst for strong liquor in the very face of day, before the eyes of any one who may happen to be passing. This is simply abominable If an honourable man has one duty—one social duty—more incumbent upon him than another, it is to refrain from setting an example of intemperance."

Serena had listened thus far with a look of growing irritation. At length she could resist no longer the impulse to speak out.

"But surely, Mr. Vialls, you don't charge Mr. Quarrier with intemperance?"

"I do, Miss Mumbray," replied the clergyman, sternly. "Intemperance does not necessarily imply drunkenness. It is intemperate to enter public-houses at all hours and in all places, even if the liquor partaken of has no obvious effect upon the gait or speech of the drinker. I maintain"——

"Mr. Quarrier does not go about as you would have us believe."

"Serena!" interfered her mother. "Do you contradict Mr. Vialls?"

"Yes, mother, I do, and every one ought to who knows that he is exaggerating. I have heard this calumny before, and I have been told how it has arisen. Mr. Quarrier takes a glass of beer when he is having a long country walk; and why he shouldn't quench his thirst I'm sure I can't understand."

"Miss Mumbray," said the clergyman, glaring at her, yet affecting forbearance, "you seem to forget that our cottagers are not so inhospitable as to refuse a glass of water to the weary pedestrian who knocks at their door."

"I don't forget it, Mr. Vialls," replied Serena, who was trembling at her own boldness, but found a pleasure in persevering. "And I know very well what sort of water one generally gets at cottages about here. I remember the family at Rickstead that died one after another of their temperance beverage."

"Forgive me! That is not at all to the point. Granting that the quality of the water is suspicious, are there not pleasant little shops where lemonade can be obtained? But no; it is not merely to quench a natural thirst that Mr. Quarrier has recourse to those pestilent vendors of poison; the drinking of strong liquor has become a tyrant-habit with him."

"I deny it, Mr. Vialls!" exclaimed the girl, almost angrily. (Mrs. Mumbray in vain tried to interpose, and the other ladies present were partly shocked, partly amused, into silence.) "If so, then my father is a victim to the habit of drink—and so is Mr. Welwyn-Baker himself!"

This was laying a hand upon the Ark. Mrs. Mumbray gave a little scream, and several "Oh's!" were heard. Mr. Vialls shook his head and smiled with grim sadness.

"My dear young lady, I fear we shall not understand each other. I am far from being one of those who deny to ladies the logical faculty, but"——

"But you feel that I am right, and that party prejudice has carried you too far!" interrupted Serena, rising from her chair. "I had better go away, or I shall say disagreeable things about the Conservatives. I am not one of them, and I should like that to be understood."

She walked quietly from the room, and there ensued an awkward silence.

"Poor Serena!" breathed Mrs. Mumbray, with a deep sigh. "She has fallen under the influence of Mrs. Quarrier—a most dangerous person. How such things come to pass I cannot understand."

Mrs. Tenterden's deep voice chimed in:

"We must certainly guard our young people against Mrs. Quarrier. From the look of her, no one could have guessed what she would turn out. The idea of so young a woman going to people's houses and talking politics!"

"Oh, I think nothing of that!" remarked a lady who particularly wished to remind the company that she was still youthful. "I canvass myself; it's quite the proper thing for ladies to do. But I'm told she has rather an impertinent way of speaking to every one who doesn't fall down and worship her husband."

"Mrs. Lester," broke in the grave voice of the clergyman, "I trust you will pardon me, but you have inadvertently made use of a phrase which is, or should be, consecrated by a religious significance."

The lady apologized rather curtly, and Mr. Vialls made a stiff bow.

At this same moment the subject of their conversation was returning home from a bold expedition into the camp of the enemy. Encouraged by the personal friendliness that had been shown her in the family of Mr. Samuel Quarrier, Lilian conceived and nourished the hope that it was within her power to convert the sturdy old Tory himself. Samuel made a joke of this, and entertained himself with a pretence of lending ear to her arguments. This afternoon he had allowed her to talk to him for a long time. Lilian's sweetness was irresistible, and she came back in high spirits with report of progress. Denzil, who had just been badgered by a deputation of voters who wished to discover his mind on seven points of strictly non-practical politics, listened with idle amusement.

"Dear girl," he said presently, "the old fellow is fooling you! You can no more convert him than you could the Dalai-Lama to Christianity."

"But he speaks quite seriously, Denzil! He owns that he doesn't like Beaconsfield, and"——

"Don't waste your time and your patience. It's folly, I assure you. When you are gone he explodes with laughter."

Lilian gazed at him for a moment with wide eyes, then burst into tears.

"Good heavens! what is the matter with you, Lily?" cried Denzil, jumping up. "Come, come, this kind of thing won't do! You are overtaxing yourself. You are getting morbidly excited."

It was true enough, and Lilian was herself conscious of it, but she obeyed an impulse from which there seemed no way of escape. Her conscience and her fears would not leave her at peace; every now and then she found herself starting at unusual sounds, trembling in mental agitation if any one approached her with an unwonted look, dreading the arrival of the post, the sight of a newspaper, faces in the street. Then she hastened to the excitement of canvassing, as another might have turned to more vulgar stimulants. Certainly her health had suffered. She could not engage in quiet study, still less could rest her mind in solitary musing, as in the old days.

Denzil seated himself by her on the sofa.

"If you are to suffer in this way, little girl, I shall repent sorely that ever I went in for politics."

"How absurd of me! I can't think why I behave so ridiculously!"

But still she sobbed, resting her head against him.

"I have an idea," he said at length, rendered clairvoyant by his affection, "that after next week you will feel much easier in your mind."

"After next week?"

"Yes; when Glazzard is married and gone away."

She would not confess that he was right, but her denials strengthened his surmise.

"I can perfectly understand it, Lily. It certainly was unfortunate; and if it had been any one but Glazzard, I might myself have been wishing the man away. But you know as well as I do that Glazzard would not breathe a syllable."

"Not even to his wife?" she whispered.

"Not even to her! I assure you"—he smiled—"men have no difficulty in keeping important secrets, Samson notwithstanding. Glazzard would think himself for ever dishonoured. But in a week's time they will be gone; and I shouldn't wonder if they remain abroad for years. So brighten up, dearest dear, and leave Sam alone; he's a cynical old fellow, past hope of mending his ways. See more of Molly; she does you good. And, by-the-bye, it's time you called on the Catesbys. They will always be very glad to see you."

This family of Catesby was one of the few really distinguished in the neighbourhood. Colonel Catesby, a long-retired warrior, did not mingle much with local society, but with his wife and daughter he had appeared at Denzil's first political dinner; they all "took to" their hostess, and had since manifested this liking in sundry pleasant ways.

Indeed, Lilian was become a social success—that is to say, with people who were at all capable of appreciating her. Herein, as in other things, she had agreeably surprised Denzil. He had resigned himself to seeing her remain a loving, intelligent, but very unambitious woman; of a sudden she proved equal to all the social claims connected with his candidature—unless the efforts, greater than appeared, were undermining her health. Having learned to trust herself in conversation, she talked with a delightful blending of seriousness and gentle merriment. Her culture declared itself in every thought; there was much within the ordinary knowledge of people trained to the world that she did not know, but the simplicity resulting from this could never be confused with want of education or of tact. When the Catesbys made it evident that they approved her, Quarrier rejoiced exceedingly; he was flattered in his deepest sensibilities, and felt that henceforth nothing essential would be wanting to his happiness—whether Polterham returned him or not.

That he would be returned, he had no doubt. The campaign proceeded gloriously. Whilst Mr. Gladstone flowed on for ever in Midlothian rhetoric, Denzil lost no opportunity of following his leader, and was often astonished at the ease with which he harangued as long as Polterham patience would endure him. To get up and make a two hours' speech no longer cost him the least effort; he played with the stock subjects of eloquence, sported among original jokes and catch-words, burned through perorations with the joy of an improvisatore in happiest mood. The Examiner could not report him for lack of space; the Mercury complained of a headache caused by this "blatant youthfulness striving to emulate garrulous senility"—a phrase which moved Denzil to outrageous laughter. And on the whole he kept well within such limits of opinion as Polterham approved. Now and then Mr. Chown felt moved by the spirit to interrogate him as to the "scope and bearing and significance" of an over-bold expression, but the Radical section was too delighted with a prospect of victory to indulge in "heckling," and the milder Progressives considered their candidate as a man of whom Polterham might be proud, a man pretty sure to "make his mark" at Westminster.

In the hostile ranks there was a good deal of loud talk and frequent cheering, but the speeches were in general made by lieutenants, and the shouts seemed intended to make up for the defective eloquence of their chief. Mr. Welwyn-Baker was too old and too stout and too shaky for the toil of personal electioneering. He gave a few dinners at his big house three miles away, and he addressed (laconically) one or two select meetings; for the rest, his name and fame had to suffice. There was no convincing him that his seat could possibly be in danger. He smiled urbanely over the reports of Quarrier's speeches, called his adversary "a sharp lad," and continued through all the excitement of the borough to conduct himself with this amiable fatuity.

"I vow and protest," said Mr. Mumbray, in a confidential ear, "that if it weren't for the look of the thing, I would withhold my vote altogether! W.-B. is in his dotage. And to think that we might have put new life into the party! Bah!"

Conservative canvassers did not fail to make use of thee fact that Mr. Welwyn-Baker had always been regardful of the poor. His alms-houses were so pleasantly situated and so tastefully designed that many Polterham people wished they were for lease on ordinary terms. The Infirmary was indebted to his annual beneficence, and the Union had to thank him—especially through this past winter—for a lightening of its burden. Aware of these things, Lilian never felt able to speak harshly against the old Tory. In theory she acknowledged that the relief of a few families could not weigh against principles which enslaved a whole population (thus Quarrier put it), but her heart pleaded for the man who allayed suffering at his gates; and could Mr. Chown have heard the admissions she made to Welwyn-Baker's advocates, he would have charged her with criminal weakness, if not with secret treachery. She herself had as yet been able to do very little for the poor of the town; with the clergy she had no intimate relations (church-going was for her and Denzil only a politic conformity); and Polterham was not large enough to call for the organization of special efforts. But her face invited the necessitous; in the by-ways she had been appealed to for charity, with results which became known among people inclined to beg. So it happened that she was one day led on a benevolent mission into the poorest part of the town, and had an opportunity of indulging her helpful instincts.

This was in the afternoon. Between nine and ten that evening, as Denzil and she sat together in the library (for once they were alone and at peace), a servant informed her that Mrs. Wade wished to speak for a moment on urgent business. She went out and found her friend in the drawing-room.

"Can you give me a few minutes?"

"As long as ever you like! No one is here, for a wonder. Do you wish to talk privately, or will you come into the study? We were sitting there."

"It's only politics."

"Oh, then come."

Quarrier would rather have been left in quiet over the proof-sheets of his book—it was already going through the press—but he welcomed the visitor with customary friendliness.

"Capital speech of Hartington's yesterday."

"Very good answer to Cross. What do you think of John Bright and the licensed victuallers?"

"Oh," laughed Denzil, "he'll have to talk a good deal before he persuades them that temperance is money in their pockets! I don't see the good of that well-intentioned sophistry. But then, you know, I belong to the habitual drunkards! You have heard that Scatchard Vialls so represents me to all and sundry?"

"I should proceed against him for slander."

"On the contrary, I think it does me good. All the honest topers will rally to me, and the sober Liberals will smile indulgently. Sir Wilfred Lawson would long ago have been stamped out as a bore of the first magnitude but for his saving humour."

Mrs. Wade presently made known her business; but with a preface which disturbed the nerves of both her listeners.

"The enemy have a graver charge against you. I happened, an hour ago, to catch a most alarming rumour. Mr. Quarrier, your wife will be your ruin!"

Notwithstanding the tone of burlesque, Lilian turned pale, and Quarrier stood frowning. Mrs. Wade examined them both, her bright eyes glancing quickly from one face to the other and back again. She did not continue, until Quarrier exclaimed impatiently:

"What is it now?"

"Nothing less than an accusation of bribery and corruption."

Relief was audible in Denzil's laugh.

"It's reported," Mrs. Wade went on, "that Mrs. Quarrier has been distributing money—money in handfuls, through half-a-dozen streets down by the river."

"You don't really mean"——began Lilian, who could not even yet quite command her voice.

"It's positively going about! I thought it my duty to come and tell you at once. What is the foundation?"

"I warned you, Lily," said Denzil, good-humouredly. "The fact is, Mrs. Wade, she gave half-a-crown to some old woman in Water Lane this afternoon. It was imprudent, of course. Who told you about it?"

"Mr. Rook, the stationer. It was talked of up and down High Street, he assures me. We may laugh, but this kind of misrepresentation goes a long way."

"Let the blackguards make the most of it!" cried Quarrier. "I have as good things in store for them. One of Jobson's workmen told me this morning that he and his fellows were being distinctly intimidated; Jobson has told them several times that if the Radicals won, work would be scarce, and that the voters would have only themselves to thank for it. And Thomas Barker has been promising lowered rents at Lady-day."

"But who could have told such falsehoods about me?" asked Lilian.

"Some old woman who didn't get the half-crown, no doubt," replied Mrs. Wade.

"Those poor creatures I went to see have no vote."

"Oh, but handfuls of money, you know! It's the impression made on the neighbourhood. Seriously, they are driven to desperate resources; and I believe there is a good deal of intimidation going on—especially on the part of district-visitors. Mrs. Alexander told me of several instances. And the wives (of course) are such wretched cowards! That great big carpenter, East, is under his wife's thumb, and she has been imploring him not to vote Liberal for fear of consequences—she sits weeping, and talking about the workhouse. Contemptible idiot! It would gratify me extremely to see her really going to the workhouse."

"And pray," asked Denzil, with a laugh, "what would be the result of giving the franchise to such women?"

"The result might be that, in time to come, there wouldn't be so many of them."

"In time to come—possibly. In the meanwhile, send their girls to school to learn a wholesome contempt for their mothers."

"Oh, Denzil!"

"Well, it sounds brutal, but it's very good sense. All progress involves disagreeable necessities."

Mrs. Wade was looking about the room, smiling, absent. She rose abruptly.

"I mustn't spoil your one quiet evening. How do the proofs go on?"

"Would you care to take a batch of them?" asked Quarrier. "These are revises—you might be able to make a useful suggestion."

She hesitated, but at length held out her hand.

"You have rather a long walk," said Lilian. "I hope it's fine."

"No; it drizzles."

"Oh, how kind of you to take so much trouble on our account!"

Mrs. Wade went out into the darkness. It was as disagreeable a night as the time of year could produce; black overhead, slimy under foot, with a cold wind to dash the colder rain in one's face. The walk home took more than half an hour, and she entered her cottage much fatigued. Without speaking to the girl who admitted her, she went upstairs to take off her out-of-door things; on coming down to the sitting-room, she found her lamp lit, her fire burning, and supper on the table—a glass of milk and some slices of bread and butter. Her friends would have felt astonishment and compassion had they learned how plain and slight was the fare that supported her; only by reducing her household expenditure to the strict minimum could she afford to dress in the manner of a lady, supply herself with a few papers and books, and keep up the appearances without which it is difficult to enjoy any society at all.

To-night she ate and drank with a bitter sense of her poverty and loneliness. Before her mind's eye was the picture of Denzil Quarrier's study—its luxury, brightness, wealth of volumes; and Denzil's face made an inseparable part of the scene. That face had never ceased to occupy her imagination since the evening of his lecture at the Institute. Its haunting power was always greatest when she sat here alone in the stillness. This little room, in which she had known the pleasures of independence and retirement, seemed now but a prison. It was a mean dwelling, fit only for labouring folk; the red blind irritated her sight, and she had to turn away from it.

What a hope had come to her of a sudden last autumn! How recklessly she had indulged it, and how the disappointment rankled!

A disappointment which she could not accept with the resignation due to fate. At first she had done so; but then a singular surmise crept into her thoughts—a suspicion which came she knew not whence—and thereafter was no rest from fantastic suggestions. Her surmise did not remain baseless; evidence of undeniable strength came to its support, yet all was so vague—so unserviceable.

She opened the printed sheets that Quarrier had given her and for a few minutes read with interest. Then her eyes and thoughts wandered.

Her servant knocked and entered, asking if she should remove the supper-tray. In looking up at the girl, Mrs. Wade noticed red eyes and other traces of weeping.

"What is the matter?" she asked, sharply. "Have you any news?"

The girl answered with a faltering negative. She, too, had her unhappy story. A Polterham mechanic who made love to her lost his employment, went to London with hopes and promises, and now for more than half a year had given no sign of his existence. Mrs. Wade had been wont to speak sympathetically on the subject, but to-night it excited her anger.

"Don't be such a simpleton, Annie! If only you knew anything of life, you would be glad of what has happened. You are free again, and freedom is the one thing in the world worth having. To sit and cry because—I'm ashamed of you!"

Surprise and misery caused the tears to break forth again.

"Go to bed, and go to sleep!" said the mistress, harshly. "If ever you are married, you'll remember what I said, and look back to the time when you knew nothing worse than silly girlish troubles. Have you no pride? It's girls like you that make men think so lightly of all women—despise us—say we are unfit for anything but cooking and cradle-rocking! If you go on in this way you must leave me; I won't have a silly, moping creature before my eyes, to make me lose all patience!"

The girl took up the tray and hurried off. Her mistress sat till late in the night, now reading a page of the proofs, now brooding with dark countenance.



CHAPTER XIX

The polling would take place on the last day of March. On the day previous to that of nomination Glazzard and Serena Mumbray were to be married. Naturally, not at Mr. Vialls' church; they made choice of St. Luke's, which was blessed with a mild, intellectual incumbent. Mrs. Mumbray, consistently obstinate on this one point, refused to be present at the ceremony.

"There will be no need of me," she said to Serena. "Since you choose to be married as if you were ashamed of it, your father's presence will be quite enough. I have always looked forward to very different things; but when were my wishes and hopes consulted? I am not angry with you; we shall part on perfectly good terms, and I shall wish you every happiness. I hope to hear from you occasionally. But I cannot be a witness of what I so strongly disapprove."

William Glazzard—who saw nothing amiss in his brother's choice of a wife, and was greatly relieved by the thought of Serena's property—would readily have gone to the church, but it was decided, in deference to the bride's wish, that Ivy should come in his stead.

Ivy had felt herself neglected lately. Since the announcement that her uncle Eustace was to marry Serena, she had seen very little of the friend with whom alone she could enjoy intimate converse. But on the eve of the wedding-day they spent an hour or two together in Serena's room. Both were in a quiet mood, thoughtful rather than talkative.

"This day week," said Serena, breaking a long silence, "I shall be somewhere in Sicily—perhaps looking at Mount Etna. The change comes none to soon. I was getting into a thoroughly bad state of mind. Before long you would have refused to associate with me."

"I think not, dear."

"If not, then I should have done you harm—and that would be a burden on my conscience. I had begun to feel a pleasure in saying and doing things that I believed to be wrong. You never had that feeling?"

Ivy looked up with wonder in her gentle, dreamy eyes.

"It must be very strange."

"I have thought about it, and I believe it comes from ignorance. You know, perhaps what I said and did wasn't really wrong, after all—if one only understood."

The listener was puzzled.

"But we won't talk about it. Before long I shall understand so many things, and then you shall have the benefit of my experience. I believe I am going to be very happy."

It was said as if on a sudden impulse, with a tremulous movement of the body.

"I hope and believe so, dear," replied the other, warmly.

"And you—I don't like to think of you being so much alone. There's a piece of advice I should like to give you. Try and make friends with Mrs. Quarrier."

"Mrs. Quarrier?"

"Yes—I have a good reason—I think she would suit you exactly. I had a long talk with her about a fortnight ago, and she seemed to me very nice—nicer than any one I have ever known, except you."

"Perhaps I shall have an opportunity"——

"Make one. Go and see her, and ask her to come and see you."

They fell again into musing, and the rest of their talk was mainly about the arrangements for the morrow.

About the time that Ivy Glazzard was going home, her uncle left Polterham by train. He travelled some thirty miles, and alighted at a large station, which, even thus late, was full of noise and bustle. After drinking a cup of coffee in the refreshment-room, he crossed to another platform, and then paced up and down for a quarter of an hour, until the ringing of a bell gave notice that a train which he awaited was just arriving. It steamed into the station, and Glazzard's eye, searching among the passengers who got out, quickly recognized a tall, thin figure.

"So, here you are," he said, holding his hand to Northway, who smiled doubtfully, and peered at him with sleepy eyes. "I have a room at the station hotel—come along."

They were presently at their ease in a sitting-room, with a hot supper on the table. Northway ate heartily; his entertainer with less gusto, though he looked in excellent spirits, and talked much of the impending elections. The meal dismissed, Glazzard lit a cigar (Northway did not smoke) and broached the topic of their meeting.

"Now, what I am going to propose to you may seem disagreeable. I take it for granted that we deal honourably—for my own purpose is nothing to be ashamed of; and if, after hearing what I ask, you don't care to undertake it, say so at once, and there's no harm done."

"Well, let me know what it is?" replied the other, plucking at his throat.

"Plainly then, I am engaged in election work. My motives are political."

"Oh!"

"The man of whom we spoke the other day is standing as candidate for a borough not very far from here—not this town. Not long ago I discovered that secret of his private life. I am going to use it against him—to floor him with this disgrace. You understand?"

"Which side is he?"

"Liberal. But to a man of your large views, that of course makes no difference."

"Not a bit!" Northway replied, obviously flattered. "You are a Conservative, then?"

"Yes; I am Conservative. I think (as I am sure you do) that Liberalism is a mere name, used for the most part by men who want to make tools of the people."

"Yes, I agree with that," said Northway, putting his head aside and drawing in his cheeks.

Glazzard repressed a smile, and smoked for a moment.

"What I want you to do," he continued, "is this. To-morrow, by an early train, you will go down to this borough I speak of. You will find your way to the Court-house, and will get leave to make an appeal for the magistrate's advice. When you come forward, you will say that your wife has deserted you—that a friend of yours has seen her in that town, and has discovered that she has committed bigamy—that you wish for the magistrate's help—his advice how to take proceedings. And, finally, you will state in a particularly clear voice that your wife is Mrs. So-and-so, illegally married to Mr. So-and-so, Liberal candidate."

He spoke in hurrying accents, and as he ceased the cigar fell from his fingers.

"But I thought you said that they weren't married at all?"

"They are not. But you mustn't know it. Your friend—who informed you (say it was a man casually in the town, a commercial traveller, who knew your wife formerly by sight)—took it for granted they were married. If you knew she had not broken the law, you would have no excuse for going into Court, you see."

Northway pondered the matter, clicking with his tongue.

"You remember, I hope," pursued Glazzard, "all I told you at Clifton about the position of these people?"

"Yes, I remember. How long have they been together?"

"About two years."

"Has she a child?"

"No. Now, are you disposed to serve me? If you consent, you will gain the knowledge of your wife's whereabouts and the reward I promised—which I shall pay now. If you take the money and then spoil my scheme, you will find it has been useless dishonesty. To-morrow, in any case, the facts will be made public."

Northway glanced at him ill-humouredly.

"You needn't be so anxious about my honesty, Mr. Marks. But I should like to be made a little surer that you have been telling me the truth. How do I know that my wife is really living as you say? It seems to me I ought to have a sight of her before I go talking to magistrates."

Glazzard reflected.

"Nobody," pursued the other, "would make such a charge just on hearsay evidence. It would only be common sense for me to see her first."

"That objection is reasonable. If you knew how well-assured I am of this lady's identity, you would understand why your view of the matter never occurred to me. You must say that you have seen her, that's all—seen her coming out of her house."

But Northway was still unsatisfied. He desired to know how it was that a public man had succeeded in deceiving all his friends in such an affair as that of his marriage, and put various other questions, which reminded Glazzard how raw a hand he was at elaborate artifice. Whilst the discussion was going on, Northway took from his pocket an envelope, and from the envelope drew a small photograph.

"You showed me one the other day," he said. "Now, do you recognize that?"

"Undoubtedly. That is Miss Lilian Allen—four years ago, I dare say."

"H'm! not a bad guess. It's four years old, as near as can be. I see you know all about her, though how you found out I can't understand, unless she"——

He paused, peering at Glazzard suspiciously.

"It doesn't matter how I learnt what I know," said the latter, in a peremptory tone. "Let us stick to the point. It's lucky you have brought this carte-de-visite; it will enable you to assure yourself, before going to the Court-house, that you are not being fooled. As soon as you land in the town, ask your way to the shop of a bookseller called Ridge (make a note of the name)—tell Mr. Ridge that you have found a pocket-book with that photograph in it, and ask him if he can help you to identify the person. You'll hear his answer. And in this way, by-the-bye, you could dispense with telling the magistrate that you have seen your wife. Produce the portrait in Court, and declare that it has been recognized by people in the town."

Northway appeared content.

"Well, that sounds better. And what am I to do after speaking to the magistrate?"

"I should advise you to have an interview with the man himself, the Liberal candidate, and ask him how it happens that your wife is living with him. In that way—when he learns what step you have already taken—you will no doubt get hold of the truth. And then," he smiled, "you can spend the rest of the day in contradicting your statement that Mrs. So-and-so has committed bigamy; making it known that she is merely a counterfeit wife."

"Making known to whom?"

Glazzard laughed.

"Why, to the hundreds of people who will crowd about you. My dear sir, you will be the most important person in the town! You will turn an electicn—overthrow the hopes of a party! Don't you want to know the taste of power? Won't it amuse you to think, and to remember, that in the elections of 1880 you exercised an influence beyond that of Gladstone or Beaconsfield? It's the wish for power that excites all this uproar throughout the country. I myself, now—do you think I am a political agent just for the money it brings me? No, no; but because I have delight in ruling men! If I am not mistaken, you have it in you to become a leader in your way, and some day you'll remember my words."

Northway opened his eyes very wide, and with a look of gratification.

"You think I'm cut out for that kind of thing?"

"Judging from what I have heard of your talk. But not in England, you understand. Try one of the new countries, where the popular cause goes ahead more boldly. You're young enough yet."

The listener mused, smiling in a self-conscious way that obliged Glazzard to avert his face for a moment lest he should betray contemptuous amusement.

"Shall you be there—in that town—to-morrow?" asked the young man.

"No, I have business in quite another part. That election," he added, with an air of importance, "is not the only one I am looking after."

There was silence, then Glazzard continued:

"It's indifferent to me whether it comes out that I planned this stratagem, or not. Still, in the interests of my party, I admit that I had rather it were kept quiet. So I'll tell you what. If, in a month's time, I find that you have kept the secret, you shall receive at any address you like a second five-pound note. It's just as you please. Of course, if you think you can get more by bargaining with the Liberals—but I doubt whether the secret will be worth anything after the explosion."

"All right. I'll give you an address, so that if you keep in the same mind"——

He mentioned it. And Glazzard made a note.

"Then we strike a bargain, Mr. Northway?"

"Yes, I'll go through with it," was the deliberate reply.

"Very well. Then you shall have the particulars."

Thereupon Glazzard made known the names he had kept in reserve. Northway jotted them down on the back of an envelope, his hand rather unsteady.

"There's a train to Polterham," said Glazzard, "at nine o'clock in the morning. You'll be there by ten—see Ridge the bookseller, and be at the Court-house in convenient time. I know there's a sitting to-morrow; and on the second day after comes out the Polterham Tory paper. You will prepare them such an item of news in their police reports as they little look for. By that time the whole truth will be known, of course, and Mr. Quarrier's candidature will be impossible."

"What will the Liberals do?"

"I can't imagine. We shall look on and enjoy the situation—unprecedented, I should think."

Northway again smiled; he seemed to enter into the jest.

"You sleep here," said Glazzard. "Your expenses are paid. I'll take leave of you now, and I sha'n't see you again, as I have to leave by the 3.40 up-train."

The money he had promised was transferred to Northway's pocket, and they shook hands with much friendliness.

Glazzard quitted the hotel. His train back to Polterham left at 1.14, and it was past midnight.

He went into the station, now quiet and deserted. A footstep occasionally echoed under the vault, or a voice sounded from a distance. The gas was lowered; out at either end gleamed the coloured signal-lights, and above them a few faint stars.

It was bitterly cold. Glazzard began to walk up and down, his eyes straying vaguely. He felt a miserable sinking of the heart, a weariness as if after great exertion.

An engine came rolling slowly along one of the lines; it stopped just beyond the station, and then backed into a siding. There followed the thud of carriage against carriage: a train was being made up, he went to watch the operation. The clang of metal, the hiss of steam, the moving about of men with lanterns held his attention for some time, and so completely that he forgot all else.

Somewhere far away sounded a long-drawn whistle, now faint, now clearer, a modulated wail broken at moments by a tremolo on one high note. It was like a voice lamenting to the dead of night. Glazzard could not endure it; he turned back into the station and tramped noisily on the stone platform.

Then the air was disturbed by the dull roar of an approaching train, and presently a long string of loaded waggons passed without pause. The engine-fire glowed upon heavy puffs of smoke, making them a rich crimson. A freight of iron bars clanged and clashed intolerably. When remoteness at length stilled them, there rose again the long wailing whistle; it was answered by another like it from still greater distance.

Glazzard could stand and walk no longer. He threw himself on a seat, crossed his arms, and remained motionless until the ringing of a bell and a sudden turning on of lights warned him that his train drew near.

On the way to Polterham he dozed, and only a fortunate awaking at the last moment saved him from passing his station. It was now close upon two o'clock, and he had a two-mile walk to Highmead. His brother believed that he was spending the evening with an acquaintance in a neighbouring town; he had said he should probably be very late, and a side door was to be left unbarred that he might admit himself with a latch-key.

But for a policeman here and there, the streets were desolate. Wherever the lamplight fell upon a wall or hoarding, it illumined election placards, with the names of the candidates in staring letters, and all the familiar vulgarities of party advertising. "Welwyn-Baker and the Honour of Old England!"—"Vote for Quarrier, the Friend of the Working Man!"—"No Jingoism!" "The Constitution in Danger! Polterham to the Rescue!" These trumpetings to the battle restored Glazzard's self-satisfaction; he smiled once more, and walked on with lighter step.

Just outside the town, in a dark narrow road, he was startled by the sudden rising of a man's figure. A voice exclaimed, in thick, ebrious tones: "Who are you for? What's you're colour?"

"Who are you for?" called out Glazzard, in return, as he walked past.

The politician—who had seemingly been asleep in the ditch—raised himself to his full height and waved his arms about.

"I'm a Radical!—Quarrier for ever!—Come on, one and all of you—I'm ready: fist or argument, it's all one to me!—You and your Welwyn-Baker—gurr! What's he ever done for the people?—that's what I want to know!—Ya-oo-oo-oo! Quarrier for ever!—Down with the aristocrats as wants to make war at the expense of the working man! What's England coming to?—tell me that! You've no principles, you haven't, you Tory skunks; you've not half a principle among you.—I'm a man of principle, I am, and I vote for national morality, I do!—You're running away, are you?—Ya-oo-oo!—stop and fight it out, if you're a man!—Down with 'em, boys! Down with 'em!—Quarrier for ever!"

The shouts of hiccoughy enthusiasm came suddenly to an end, and Glazzard, looking back, saw that, in an attempt to run, the orator had measured his length in the mud.

By three o'clock he was seated in his bedroom, very tired but not much disposed to turn into bed. He had put a match to the fire, for his feet were numbed with cold, in spite of a long walk. Travelling-bags and trunks in readiness for removal told of his journey on the morrow. All his arrangements were made; the marriage ceremony was to take place at ten o'clock, and shortly after eleven he and his wife would leave for London on their way to the Continent.

Too soon, of course, to hear the result of Northway's visit to the Court-house. There would be the pleasure of imagining all that he left behind him, and in a day or two the papers would bring news. He had always sympathized with Guy Fawkes and his fellow-conspirators: how delightful to have fired the train, and then, at a safe distance, have awaited the stupendous explosion.

Poor little Lilian! That was the only troublesome thought. Yet was he in truth harming her? Quarrier would take her abroad, and, in a life of retirement, she would have far more happiness than was possible to her under the present circumstances. Northway would sue for a divorce, and thus leave her free to enter upon legitimate marriage. Perhaps he was doing her the greatest kindness in his power.

When his feet were thoroughly warm he went to bed, and slept well until the servant call him at half-past seven. It was a very bright morning; he drew up the blind and let a flood of sunshine into the room. Contrary to his expectations, no despondency weighed upon him; by breakfast time he was more than usually cheerful.

"Ivy," he said to his niece, "I have promised to call at the Quarriers' on our way. We had better start at a quarter to nine; that will give us five minutes with them."

Of his brother he took leave with much cordiality. William would probably not be much longer at Highmead, and might perhaps join his relatives abroad before the end of the year. In that case, Ivy would accompany him; and she thought with timid pleasure of thus renewing her friendship with Serena under brighter skies.

Two vehicles came up to the door—in one the luggage was despatched to the station; the other carried the bridegroom and his niece into Polterham.

Quarrier awaited them on his threshold, watch in hand, for he had no time to lose on the eve of nomination day.

"Come in!" he cried, joyously. "Such weather as this is a good omen. How do you do, Miss Glazzard? Here is Lilian all excitement to see you; she would give her little finger to go to the wedding."

They entered the house.

"Decidedly," said Denzil, turning to Lilian, "his appearance is a compliment to Miss Mumbray. When did you see him looking so well and animated?"

Lilian coloured, and tried to speak in the same tone, but it was with difficulty that she used her voice at all. Glazzard's departure from Polterham promised her such relief of mind that she could not face him without a sense of shame.

"Telegraph the result, if it is favourable," said Glazzard. "You shall have an address in time for that."

"If it is favourable? Why, my dear fellow, we shall poll two to one, at the lowest computation! I've half lost my pleasure in the fight; I feel ashamed to hit out with all my strength when I make a speech—it's like pounding an invalid!"

"Then I congratulate you in advance, Mrs. Quarrier. If we are long away from England, the chances are I shall have to make my next call upon you in Downing Street!"

"Some day, old boy—some day!" assented Denzil, with a superb smile.

There followed much handshaking, and the visitors returned to their carriage. As it moved away, Glazzard put his head out of the window, waved his hand, and cried merrily:

"Quarrier for ever!"



CHAPTER XX

In the interviews with Mr. Marks, Arthur Northway did not show at his best. Whoever that scheming personage might be, his knowledge and his air of condescension oppressed the needy young man, made him conscious of a hang-dog look, and a helpless promptitude to sell himself for a few coins. It was not thus that Northway, even after his unpleasant experiences, viewed himself in relation to the world. He had decidedly more intellect than is often found in commercial clerks—the class to which he belonged by birth and breeding—and in spite of checks he believed himself destined to no common career. Long musing had taught him the rashness of his youthful endeavours to live largely; he was now aware that his talents must ally themselves with patience, with a careful scrutiny of possibilities.

Lying awake in the night, he thought with anything but satisfaction of the bargain to which he had pledged himself. To discover the woman who was by law his wife would undoubtedly be a good beginning now that he had every disposition to fix himself in a steady course, but he saw no advantage whatever in coming before a bench of magistrates and re-opening the story of his past. It would be pleasant to deal a blow at this man Quarrier; but, if Marks had told him the truth, Quarrier was in any case doomed to exposure. Was it not possible to act at once with prudence and with self-respect, to gain some solid benefit without practice of rascality? It involved breaking his word, but was he bound to keep faith with a man who proceeded on the assumption that he was ready for any base dealing? The money in his pocket he might find an opportunity of paying back. In this matter before him, he was undeniably an injured man. Lilian was treating him very badly indeed, very unfairly. If she chose to repudiate her marriage with him, it was her duty to afford him the chance of freeing himself from the legal bond. What moralist could defend her behaviour?

He worked himself into a mood of righteous indignation, of self-pity. No; the very least Lilian should have done, in uniting herself to another man, moreover a wealthy man, was to make some provision for her forsaken husband. That little income of hers should have been transferred to him. Her action was unexpected; he had thought her too timid, too religious, too soft-hearted, for anything of this kind. Since the disastrous wedding-day, she had, it was true, declined to hold communication with him; but he always looked forward to a meeting when he regained his freedom, and had faith in his personal influence. It was not solely for the sake of her money that he wooed and won her; other connections notwithstanding, he felt something like genuine tenderness for Lilian, and even now this sentiment was not extinct.

The morning only confirmed his reluctance to follow Mr. Marks's directions. Practically, he lost nothing by taking his own course but a five-pound note. Let the electioneering agent attack Quarrier by some other means. For a few hours, at all events, the secret would remain unpublished, and in that interval the way might be opened for an honest and promising career.

He breakfasted substantially, and left by the train appointed. Arrived at Polterham, after a walk up and down the nearest streets and an inspection of the party placards, he asked his way to the shop of Mr. Ridge, bookseller. At once he was directed thither.

"So far so good," he said to himself. "It seems pretty certain that Marks has not misled me. Shall I go into this shop, and play the trick that was recommended? I think it is hardly worth while. Better to inquire for Quarrier's house, and have a look at it."

He did so, and—it may be mentioned—on his way passed the doors of the church in which at that moment Glazzard was being married. At about half-past ten he was in sight of the high wall surrounding Quarrier's garden; he approached the gate, and cautiously took a view of what was within, then walked to a little distance.

His wife had not done badly for a little country girl. Whilst he prowled about the streets with his burden of disgrace, his blank future, Lilian sat at her ease in a mansion—doubtless had her carriages, perhaps her liveried servants—associated with important people. After all, there was something to be said for that appeal to the magistrate, with its consequence of scandal, ruin, to these people who thought themselves so secure from him. He recovered his mood of last night.

"Boy!"—an errand-lad was just passing—"whereabouts is the Court-house?"

He was bidden take a turning within sight and go straight on for about half a mile.

"And I will, too!" he said in his mind. "She shall suffer for it!"

He turned away and walked for some twenty yards. Then once more the doubt occurred to him. He had better go to the bookseller's and make sure of Mrs. Quarrier's identity. Turning to take the opposite direction, he saw some one coming forth from the gates by which he had just stood—a lady—and it might be——?

Agitation shook him from head to foot. Was not that Lilian's figure, her walk? She was moving away from him; he must have a glimpse of her face. Drawing carefully nearer, on the side opposite to hers—carefully—fearfully—he at length saw her features, then fell back. Yes, it was Lilian. Much disguised in that handsome walking-costume, but beyond doubt Lilian. Still, as of old, she walked with bowed head, modestly. Who could imagine what she concealed?

His face was moist with perspiration. Following, he could not take his eyes off her. That lady was his wife. He had but to claim her, and all her sham dignity fell to nothing. But he could not command her obedience. He had no more power over her will than any stranger. She might bid him do his worst—and so vanish with her chosen companion utterly beyond his reach.

Again he thought of the Court-house. For it was too certain that the sight of him would inspire her only with horror. Should he not hold her up to infamy? If he did not, another would; Marks was plainly to be trusted; this day was the last of Mrs. Quarrier's grandeur.

And to remember that was to pause. Could he afford to throw away a great opportunity for the sake of malicious satisfaction?

She walked on, and he followed, keeping thirty or forty paces behind her. He saw at length that she was not going into the town. The fine morning had perhaps invited her to a country walk. So much the better; he would wait till they were in a part where observation was less to be feared; then he would speak to her.

Lilian never looked back. It was indeed the bright sunshine that had suggested a walk out to Pear-tree Cottage, where before noon she would probably find Mrs. Wade among her books. She felt light of heart. Within this hour Glazzard would be gone from Polterham. Four days hence, Denzil would be a Member of Parliament. Had she no claim to happiness—she whose girlhood had suffered such monstrous wrong? Another reason there was for the impulse of joy that possessed her—a hope once already disappointed—a voice of nature bidding her regard this marriage as true and eternal, let the world say what it would.

She was within sight of the cottage, when Mrs. Wade herself appeared, coming towards her. Lilian waved her hand, quickened her step. They met.

"I was going for a walk in the fields," said Mrs. Wade. "Shall we"——

Lilian had turned round, and at this moment her eyes fell upon Northway, who was quite near. A stifled cry escaped her, and she grasped at her friend's arm.

"What is it, dear?"

Mrs. Wade looked at her with alarm, imagining an attack of illness. But the next instant she was aware of the stranger, who stood in obvious embarrassment. She examined him keenly, then again turned her eyes upon Lilian.

"Is this some one you know?" she asked, in a low voice.

Lilian could not reply, and reply was needless. Northway, who had kept postponing the moment of address, now lost himself between conflicting motives. Seeing Lilian's consternation and her friend's surprise, he nervously raised his hat, drew a step or two nearer, tried to smile.

"Mrs. Wade," Lilian uttered, with desperate effort to seem self-possessed, "I wish to speak to this gentleman. Will you—do you mind?"

Her face was bloodless and wrung with anguish. The widow again looked at her, then said:

"I will go in again. If you wish to see me, I shall be there."

And at once she turned away.

Northway came forward, a strange light in his eyes.

"I'm the last person you thought of seeing, no doubt. But we must have a talk. I'm sorry that happened before some one else."

"Come with me out of the road. There's a field-path just here."

They crossed the stile, and walked a short distance in the direction of Bale Water. Then Lilian stopped.

"Who told you where to find me?"

Already Northway had decided upon his course of action. Whilst he followed Lilian, watching her every movement, the old amorous feeling had gradually taken strong hold upon him. He no longer thought of revenge. His one desire was to claim this beautiful girl as his wife. In doing so, it seemed to him, he took an unassailable position, put himself altogether in the right Marks's plot did not concern him; he threw it aside, and followed the guidance of his own discretion.

"I have found you," he said, fingering his throat nervously, "by mere chance. I came here in search of employment—something in a newspaper. And I happened to see you in the streets. I asked who you were. Then, this morning, I watched you and followed you."

"What do you want?"

"That's a strange question, I think."

"You know there can't be anything between us."

"I don't see that."

He breathed hard; his eyes never moved from her face. Lilian, nerved by despair, spoke in almost a steady voice; but the landscape around her was veiled in mist; she saw only the visage which her memory had identified with repugnance and dread.

"If you want my money," she said, "you can have it—you shall have it at once. I give you it all."

"No, I don't ask for your money," Northway answered, with resentment. "Here's some one coming; let us walk out into the field."

Lilian followed the direction of his look, and saw a man whom she did not recognize. She left the path and moved whither her companion was leading, over the stubby grass; it was wet, but for this she had no thought.

"How long have you been living in this way?" he asked, turning to her again.

"You have no right to question me."

"What!—no right? Then who has a right I should like to know?"

He did not speak harshly; his look expressed sincere astonishment.

"I don't acknowledge," said Lilian, with quivering voice, "that that ceremony made me your wife."

"What do you mean? It was a legal marriage. Who has said anything against it?"

"You know very well that you did me a great wrong. The marriage was nothing but a form of words."

"On whose part? Certainly not on mine. I meant everything I said and promised. It's true I hadn't been living in the right way; but that was all done with. If nothing had happened, I should have begun a respectable life. I had made up my mind to do so. I shouldn't have deceived you in anything."

"Whether that's true or not, I don't know. I was deceived, and cruelly. You did me an injury you could never have made good."

Northway drew in his cheeks, and stared at her persistently. He had begun to examine the details of her costume—her pretty hat, her gloves, the fur about her neck. In face she was not greatly changed from what he had known, but her voice and accent were new to him—more refined, more mature, and he could not yet overcome the sense of strangeness. He felt as though he were behaving with audacity; it was necessary to remind himself again and again that this was no other than Lilian Allen—nay, Lilian Northway; whose hand he had held, whose lips he had kissed.

A thrill went through him.

"But you are my wife!" he exclaimed, earnestly. "What right have you to call yourself Mrs. Quarrier? Have you pretended to marry that man?"

Lilian's eyes fell; she made no answer.

"You must tell me—or I shall have no choice but to go and ask him. And if you have committed bigamy"——

"There has been no marriage," she hastened to say. "I have done what I thought right."

"Right? I don't know how you can call that right. I suppose you were persuaded into it. Does he know all the truth?"

She was racked with doubt as to what she should disclose. Her thoughts would not be controlled, and whatever words she uttered seemed to come from her lips of their own accord.

"What do you expect of me?" she cried, in a voice of utmost distress. "I have been living like this for more than two years. Right or wrong, it can't be changed—it can't be undone. You know that. It was natural you should wish to speak to me; but why do you pretend to think that we can be anything to each other? You have a right to my money—it shall be yours at once."

He stamped, and his eyes shot anger.

"What do you take me for? Do you suppose I shall consent to give you up for money? Tell me what I have asked. Does that man know your history?"

"Of course he knows it—everything."

"And he thinks I shall never succeed in finding you out! Well, he is mistaken, you see—things of this kind are always found out, as you and he might have known. You can't do wrong and live all your life as if you were innocent."

The admonition came rather inappropriately from him, but it shook Lilian in spite of her better sense.

"It can't be changed," she exclaimed. "It can't be undone."

"That's all nonsense!"

"I will die rather than leave him!"

Hot jealousy began to rage in him. He was not a man of vehement passions, but penal servitude had wrought the natural effect upon his appetites. The egotism of a conceited disposition tended to the same result. He swore within himself a fierce oath that, come what might, this woman should be his. She contrasted him with her wealthy lover, despised him; but right and authority were on his side.

"Leave him you must—and shall so there's plain speaking! You will never go into that house again."

Lilian turned as if to flee from him. No one was within sight; and how could she have appealed to any one for help? In the distance she saw the roof of Mrs. Wade's cottage; it allayed her despair for the moment. There, at all events, was a friend who would intervene for her, a strong and noble-minded woman, capable of offering the best counsel, of acting with decision. Vain now to think of hiding her secret from that friend—and who could be more safely trusted with it?

But she still had the resource of entreaty.

"You talk of right and wrong—is it right to be merciless? What can I ever be to you? Would you take me away by force, and compel me to live with you? I have told you I would die rather. When you think of everything, have you no pity for me? Whatever you intended, wasn't our marriage a terrible injustice to me? Oughtn't you to give a thought to that?"

"You are living an immoral life," replied Northway, with tremulous emphasis. "I could hold you up to shame. No, I don't ask you to come and live with me at once; I don't expect that. But you must leave that man, and live a respectable life, and—then in time I shall forgive you, instead of disgracing you in the divorce court. I ask only what is right. You used to be religious"——

"Oh, how can you talk to me like that! If you really think me wicked and disgraced, leave me to my own conscience! Have you no sins that ask for forgiveness?"

"It isn't for you to speak of them," he retorted, with imbecile circling. "All I know is that you are my wife by law, and it is my duty to save you from this position. I sha'n't let you go back. If you resist my authority, I shall explain everything to any one who asks, that's all.—Who was that lady you were talking to?"

"She lives in the little house over there. I must go and speak to her."

"Does she know?"

"No."

"What have you to say to her, then?"

They looked into each other's eyes for a moment. Northway was gauging the strength of her character, and he half believed that by an exertion of all his energy he might overcome her, lead her away at once. He remembered that before the close of this day Quarrier's secret would be universally known, and when that had come to pass, he would have no hold upon either the man or the woman. They would simply turn their backs upon him, and go beyond his reach.

He laid his hand upon her, and the touch, the look in his eyes, drove Lilian to the last refuge.

"You must go with me, then, to Mr. Quarrier," she said, firmly. "You have no power to stop me. I shall go home, and you must follow me, if you choose."

"No, you will go with me! Do you hear? I command you to come with me!"

It was his best imitation of resistless authority, and he saw, even in speaking, that he had miscalculated. Lilian drew back a step and looked at him with defiance.

"Command me, you cannot. I am as free from your control as any stranger."

"Try, and see. If you attempt to go back into the town, I shall hold you by force, and the consequences will be worse to you than to me. Do as you please."

Again her eyes turned to the distant roof of Peartree Cottage. She, too, had estimated her strength and his. She knew by instinct what his face meant—the swollen, trembling lips, the hot eyes; and understood that he was capable of any baseness. To attempt to reach her home would be an abandonment of all hope, the ruin of Denzil. A means of escape from worst extremity, undiscoverable by her whirling brain, might suggest itself to such a mind as Mrs. Wade's. If only she could communicate with the cottage!

"Then I shall go to my friend here," she said, pointing.

He hesitated.

"Who is she?"

"A lady who lives quite alone."

"What's the good of your going there?"

She had recourse to artifice, and acted weakness much better than he had simulated strength.

"I must have some one's advice! I must know how others regard your claim."

He saw no possibility of restraining her, and it might befall that this lady, intentionally or not, would use her influence on his side. Those last words signified a doubt in Lilian's mind. Was it not pretty certain that any respectable woman, on learning how matters stood, must exclaim against that pretended marriage? Northway's experience lay solely among the representatives of English morality, and the frankly vicious; he could hardly imagine a "lady" whose view of the point at issue would admit pleas on Lilian's behalf.

"If you go there," he said, "I must be with you."

Lilian made no answer, but moved away. They passed into the road, tinned towards the cottage. On reaching the gate, Lilian saw Mrs. Wade standing just before her.

"I must speak to you" she said, holding out her hands impulsively.

Mrs. Wade looked from her to the man in the background, who again had awkwardly raised his hat—a cheap but new cylinder, which, together with his slop-made coat and trousers, classed him among uncertain specimens of humanity.

"Will you let him come in?" Lilian whispered, a sob at length breaking her voice.

The widow was perfectly self-possessed. Her eyes gleamed very brightly and glanced hither and thither with the keenest scrutiny. She held Lilian's hand, answering in a low voice:

"Trust me, dear! I'm so glad you have come. What is his name?"

"Mr. Northway."

Mrs. Wade addressed him, and invited him to enter; but Northway, having ascertained that there was no escape from the cottage which he could not watch, drew back.

"Thank you," he said; "I had rather wait out here. If that lady wants me, I shall be within reach."

Mrs. Wade nodded, and drew her friend in. Lilian of a sudden lost her physical strength; she had to be supported, almost carried, into the sitting-room. The words of kindness with which Mrs. Wade sought to recover her had a natural enough effect; they invited an hysterical outbreak, and for several minutes the sufferer wailed helplessly. In the meantime she was disembarrassed of her out-door clothing. A stimulant at length so far restored her that she could speak connectedly.

"I don't know what you will think of me.—I am obliged to tell you something I hoped never to speak of. Denzil ought to know first what has happened; but I can't go to him.—I must tell you, and trust your friendship. Perhaps you can help me; you will—I know you will if you can."

"Anything in my power," replied the listener, soothingly. "Whatever you tell me is perfectly safe. I think you know me well enough, Lily."

Then Lilian began, and told her story from first to last.



CHAPTER XXI

Told it rapidly, now and then confusedly, but with omission of nothing essential. So often she had reviewed her life, at successive stages of culture and self-knowledge. Every step had been debated in heart and conscience. She had so much to say, yet might not linger in the narration, and feared to seem eager in the excuse of what she had done. To speak of these things to one of her own sex was in itself a great relief, yet from time to time the recollection that she was betraying Denzil's Secret struck her with cold terror. Was not this necessity a result of her weakness? A stronger woman would perhaps have faced the situation in some other way.

Mrs. Wade listened intently, and the story seemed to move her in no slight degree. Lilian, anxiously watching her face, found it difficult to interpret the look of suppressed excitement. Censure she could not read there; pain, if ever visible, merely flitted over brow and lips; at moments she half believed that her hearer was exulting in this defiance of accepted morality—what else could be the significance of that flash in the eyes; that quiver of the nostrils—all but a triumphant smile? They sat close to each other, Lilian in the low basket-chair, the widow on a higher seat, and when the story came to an end, their hands met.

"How can I save Denzil?" was Lilian's last word. "Anything—any sacrifice! If this becomes known, his whole life is ruined!"

Mrs. Wade pressed the soft, cold fingers, and kept a thoughtful silence.

"It's a strange coincidence," she said at length, "very strange that this should happen on the eve of the election."

"The secret must be kept until"——

Lilian's voice failed. She looked anxiously at her friend, and added:

"What would be the result if it were known afterwards-when Denzil is elected?"

"It's hard to say. But tell me, Lily: is there no one who has been admitted to your confidence?"

What purpose would be served by keeping back the name? Lilian's eyes fell as she answered.

"Mr. Glazzard knows."

"Mr. Eustace Glazzard?"

Lilian explained how and when it had become necessary to make him a sharer in the secret.

"Do you believe," Mrs. Wade asked, "that Northway really discovered you by chance?"

"I don't know. He says so. I can only feel absolutely sure that Mr. Glazzard has nothing to do with it."

Mrs. Wade mused doubtfully.

"Absolutely sure?"

"Oh, how is it possible? If you knew him as well as we do!—Impossible!—He came to see us this very morning, on his way to be married, and laughed and talked!"

"You are right, no doubt," returned the other, with quiet reassurance. "If it wasn't chance, some obscure agency has been at work. You must remember, Lily, that only by a miracle could you have lived on in security."

"I have sometimes felt that," whispered the sufferer, her head falling.

"And it almost seems," went on Mrs. Wade, "as if Northway really had no intention of using his power to extort money. To be sure, your own income is not to be despised by a man in his position; but most rascals would have gone to Mr. Quarrier.—He is still in love with you, I suppose."

The last words were murmured in a tone which caused the hearer to look up uneasily. Mrs. Wade at once averted her face, which was curiously hard and expressionless.

"What do you think?" she said a moment after. "Would it be any use if I had a talk with him?"

"Will you?" asked Lilian, eagerly. "You may perhaps influence him. You can speak so well—so persuasively. I don't think he is utterly depraved. As you say, he would have gone first to Denzil. Perhaps he can be moved to have pity on me."

"Perhaps—but I have more faith in an appeal to his interests."

"It would be dreadful if Denzil had to live henceforth at his mercy."

"It would. But it's a matter of—of life and death."

Mrs. Wade's voice sank on those words, shaking just a little. She put her face nearer to Lilian's, but without looking at her.

"Suppose no argument will prevail with him, dear?" she continued in that low, tremulous tone. "Suppose he persists in claiming you?"

The voice had a strange effect upon Lilian's nerves. She shook with agitation, and drew away a little.

"He cannot! He has no power to take me! At the worst, we can only be driven back into solitude."

"True, dear; but it would not be the same kind of solitude as before. Think of the huge scandal, the utter ruin of brilliant prospects."

Lilian lay back and moaned in anguish. Her eyes were closed, and in that moment Mrs. Wade gazed at her for a moment only; then the widow rose from her chair, and spoke in a voice of encouragement.

"I will see him, Lily. You remain here; I'll call him into the dining-room."

She stepped to the window, and saw that Northway was standing only at a little distance. After meditating for a minute or two, she left the room very quietly, crossed the passage, and entered the room opposite, where she generally took her meals. Here again she went to the window, and again had a good view of the man on guard. A smile rose to her face.

Then she went out and signalled to Northway, who approached in an embarrassed way, doing his best to hold his head up and look dignified. Mrs. Wade regarded him with contemptuous amusement, but was careful to show nothing of this; her face and tone as she greeted him expressed more than civility—all but deference.

"Will you do me the kindness to enter for a few minutes, Mr. Northway?"

He doffed his hat, smiled sourly, and followed her into the little dining-room. But as she was closing the door, he interfered.

"Excuse me—I don't want that lady to go away until I have seen her again."

Mrs. Wade none the less closed the door, holding herself with imperturbable politeness.

"She is resting in the next room. I give you my word, Mr. Northway, that you will find her there when our conversation is over."

He looked about him with sullen uneasiness, but could not resist this lady's manner.

"Pray sit down. Quite a spring day, isn't it?"

Her tone was melancholy, tempered with the consideration of a hostess. Northway seated himself much as if he were in church. He tried to examine Mrs. Wade's face, but could not meet her look. She, in the meantime, had got the young man's visage by heart, had studied the meaning of every lineament—narrow eyes, sunken cheeks, forehead indicative of conceited intelligence, lips as clearly expressive of another characteristic. Here, at all events, was a creature she could manage—an instrument—though to what purpose she was not yet perfectly clear.

"Mr. Northway, I have been listening to a sad, sad story."

"Yes, it is sad," he muttered, feeling his inferiority to this soft-spoken woman, and moving his legs awkwardly.

"I must mention to you that my name is Mrs. Wade. I have known Lilian since she came to live at Polterham—only since then. That's a very short time ago, but we have seen a good deal of each other, and have become intimate friends. I need not tell you that I never had the faintest suspicion of what I have just learnt."

This was said certainly not in a voice of indignation but with a sadness which implied anything but approval. Northway, after trying to hold his hat in a becoming way, placed it on the floor, clicking with his tongue the while and betraying much nervousness.

"You are of course aware," pursued the lady, "that Mr. Denzil Quarrier is Liberal candidate for this borough?"

"Yes, I know."

"Until to-day, he had every prospect of being elected. It is a shocking thing—I hardly know how to express myself about it."

"If this gets known," said Northway, "I suppose he has no chance?"

"How would it be possible to vote for a man who has outraged the law on which all social life is based? He would retire immediately—no doubt."

Regarding this event as certain in any case, the listener merely nodded.

"That, I dare say, doesn't interest you?"

"I take no part in politics."

"And it is quite a matter of indifference to you whether Mr. Quarrier's career is ruined or not?"

"I don't see why I should think much about a man who has injured me as he has."

"No," conceded Mrs. Wade, sadly. "I understand that you have nothing whatever in view but recovering your wife?"

"That's all I want."

"And yet, Mr. Northway, I'm sure you see how very difficult it will be for you to gain this end."

She leaned towards him sympathetically. Northway shuffled, sucked in his cheeks, and spoke in as civil a tone as he could command.

"There are difficulties, I know. I don't ask her to come at once and live with me. I couldn't expect that. But I am determined she sha'n't go back to Mr. Quarrier. I have a right to forbid it."

"Indeed—abstractly speaking—I think you have," murmured Mrs. Wade, with a glance towards the door. "But I grieve to tell you that there seems to me no possibility of preventing her return."

"I shall have to use what means I can. You say Mr. Quarrier wouldn't care to have this made public just now."

He knew (or imagined) that the threat was idle, but it seemed to him that Mrs. Wade, already favourably disposed, might be induced to counsel Lilian for the avoidance of a scandal at this moment.

"Mr. Northway," replied the widow, "I almost think that he would care less for such a disclosure before this election than after it."