Denzil Quarrier

"Oh, theory doesn't go for much. May I call shortly?"

"If you will be so good."

"She's very young, I think?"

"Not much more than one-and-twenty. I have known her for about three years."

There was a short silence, then Mrs. Wade said with some abruptness:

"I think of leaving Polterham before long. It was Mr. and Mrs. Hornibrook who decided me to come here, and now that they are gone I feel as if I too had better stir. I want books that are out of my reach."

"That will be a loss to us, Mrs. Wade. Society in Polterham has its limitations"–

"I'm aware of it. But you, of course, will have a home in London as well?"

"Well, yes—if I get sent to Parliament."

"I suppose we shall meet there some day."

Her voice grew careless and dreamy. She folded her hands upon her lap, and assumed a look which seemed to Denzil a hint that he might now depart. He stood up.

"So you are going to skate?" murmured Mrs. Wade. "I won't keep you. Thank you very much for looking in."

Denzil tried once more to read her countenance, and went away with a puzzled feeling. He could not conjecture the meaning of her changed tone.

CHAPTER XIII

Last November had turned the scale in the Polterham Town Council. It happened that the retiring members were all Conservatives, with the exception of Mr. Chown, who alone of them obtained re-election, the others giving place to men of the Progressive party. Mr. Mumbray bade farewell to his greatness. The new Mayor was a Liberal. As returning-officer, he would preside over the coming political contest. The Tories gloomed at each other, and whispered of evil omens.

For many years Mr. Mumbray had looked to the Mayoralty as the limit of his ambition. He now began to entertain larger projects, encouraged thereto by the dissensions of Conservative Polterham, and the promptings of men who were hoping to follow him up the civic ladder. He joined with those who murmured against the obstinacy of old Mr. Welwyn-Baker. To support such a candidate would be party suicide. Even Welwyn-Baker junior was preferable; but why not recognize that the old name had lost its prestige, and select a representative of enlightened Conservatism, who could really make a stand against Quarrier and his rampant Radicals? Mr. Mumbray saw no reason why he himself should not invite the confidence of the burgesses.

In a moment of domestic truce the ex-Mayor communicated this thought to his wife, and Mrs. Mumbray gave ready ear. Like the ladies of Polterham in general, she had not the faintest understanding of political principles; to her, the distinction between parties was the difference between bits of blue and yellow ribbon, nothing more. But the social advantages accruing to the wife of an M.P. impressed her very strongly indeed. For such an end she was willing to make sacrifices, and the first of these declared itself in an abandonment of her opposition to Mr. Eustace Glazzard. Her husband pointed out to her that a connection with the family so long established at Highmead would be of distinct value. William Glazzard nominally stood on the Liberal side, but he was very lukewarm, and allowed to be seen that his political action was much swayed by personal considerations. Eustace made no pretence of Liberal leaning; though a friend of the Radical candidate (so Quarrier was already designated by his opponents), he joked at popular enthusiasm, and could only be described as an independent aristocrat. Money, it appeared, he had none; and his brother, it was suspected, kept up only a show of the ancestral position. Nevertheless, their names had weight in the borough.

Eustace spent Christmas at Highmead, and made frequent calls at the house of the ex-Mayor. On one of the occasions it happened that the ladies were from home, but Mr. Mumbray, on the point of going out, begged Glazzard to come and have a word with him in his sanctum. After much roundabout talk, characteristically pompous, he put the question whether Mr. Glazzard, as a friend of Mr. Denzil Quarrier, would "take it ill" if he, Mr. Mumbray, accepted an invitation to come forward as the candidate of the Conservative party.

"I hope you know me better," Glazzard replied. "I have nothing whatever to do with politics."

The ex-Mayor smiled thoughtfully, and went on to explain, "in strictest confidence," that there was a prospect of that contingency befalling.

"Of course I couldn't hope for Mr. William's support."

He paused on a note of magnanimous renunciation.

"Oh, I don't know," said Glazzard, abstractedly. "My brother is hardly to be called a Radical. I couldn't answer for the line he will take."

"Indeed? That is very interesting. Ha!"

Silence fell between them.

"I'm sure," remarked Mr. Mumbray, at length, "that my wife and daughter will be very sorry to have missed your call. Undoubtedly you can count on their being at home to-morrow."

The prediction was fulfilled, and before leaving the house Glazzard made Serena a proposal of marriage. That morning there had occurred a quarrel of more than usual bitterness between mother and daughter. Serena was sick of her life at home, and felt a longing, at any cost, for escape to a sphere of independence. The expected offer from Glazzard came just at the right moment; she accepted it, and consented that the marriage should be very soon.

But a few hours of reflection filled her with grave misgivings. She was not in love with Glazzard; personally, he had never charmed her, and in the progress of their acquaintance she had discovered many points of his character which excited her alarm. Serena, after all, was but a half-educated country girl; even in the whirlwind of rebellious moments she felt afraid of the words that came to her lips. The impulses towards emancipation which so grievously perturbed her were unjustified by her conscience; at heart, she believed with Ivy Glazzard that woman was a praying and subordinate creature; in her bedroom she recounted the day's sins of thought and speech, and wept out her desire for "conversion," for the life of humble faith. Accepting such a husband as Eustace, she had committed not only an error, but a sin. The man was without religion, and sometimes made himself guilty of hypocrisy; of this she felt a miserable assurance. How could she hope to be happy with him? What had interested her in him was that air of culture and refinement so conspicuously lacked by the men who had hitherto approached her. He had seemed to her the first gentleman who sought her favour. To countenance him, moreover, was to defy her mother's petty rule. But, no, she did not love him—did not like him.

Yet to retract her promise she was ashamed. Only girls of low social position played fast and loose in that way. She went through a night of misery.

On the morrow her betrothed, of course, came to see her. Woman-like, she had taken refuge in a resolve of postponement; the marriage must be sooner or later, but it was in her power to put it off. And, with show of regretful prudence, she made known this change in her mind.

"I hardly knew what I was saying. I ought to have remembered that our acquaintance has been very short."

"Yet long enough to enable me to win your promise," urged Glazzard.

"Yes, I have promised. It's only that we cannot be married so very soon."

"I must, of course, yield," he replied, gracefully, kissing her hand. "Decision as to the time shall rest entirely with you."

"Thank you—that is very kind."

He went away in a mood of extreme discontent. Was this little simpleton going to play with him? There were solid reasons of more than one kind why the marriage should not be long delayed. It would be best if he returned to London and communicated with her by letter. He could write eloquently, and to let her think of him as in the midst of gay society might not be amiss.

Shortly after Quarrier's arrival at Polterham, he was back again. Daily he had repented his engagement, yet as often had congratulated himself on the windfall thus assured to him. Before going to the Mumbrays, he called upon Mrs. Quarrier, whom, as it chanced, he found alone. To Lilian his appearance was a shock, for in the contentment of the past week she had practically forgotten the existence of this man who shared her secret. She could not look him in the face.

Glazzard could be trusted in points of tact. He entered with a bright face, and the greetings of an old friend, then at once began to speak of his own affairs.

"Have you heard that I am going to be married?"

"Denzil told me when he received your letter."

"I am afraid Miss Mumbray will hardly belong to your circle, but as Mrs. Glazzard—that will be a different thing. You won't forbid me to come here because of this alliance?"

Lilian showed surprise and perplexity.

"I mean, because I am engaged to the daughter of a Tory."

"Oh, what difference could that possibly make?"

"None, I hope. You know that I am not very zealous as a party-man."

In this his second conversation with Lilian, Glazzard analysed more completely the charm which she had before exercised upon him. He was thoroughly aware of the trials her nature was enduring, and his power of sympathetic insight enabled him to read upon her countenance, in her tones, precisely what Lilian imagined she could conceal. Amid surroundings such as those of the newly furnished house, she seemed to him a priceless gem in a gaudy setting; he felt (and with justice) that the little drawing-room at Clapham, which spoke in so many details of her own taste, was a much more suitable home for her. What could be said of the man who had thus transferred her, all (or chiefly) for the sake of getting elected to Parliament? Quarrier had no true appreciation of the woman with whose life and happiness he was entrusted. He was devoted to her, no doubt, but with a devotion not much more clairvoyant than would have distinguished one of his favourite Vikings.

Glazzard, whilst liking Denzil, had never held him in much esteem. Of late, his feelings had become strongly tinged with contempt. And now, with the contempt there blended a strain of jealousy.

True that he himself had caught eagerly at the hope of entering Parliament; but it was the impulse of a man who knew his life to be falling into ruin, who welcomed any suggestion that would save him from final and fatal apathy—of a man whose existence had always been loveless—who, with passionate ideals, had never known anything but a venal embrace. In Quarrier's position, with abounding resources, with the love of such a woman as this, what would he not have made of life? Would it ever have occurred to him to wear a mask of vulgar deceit, to condemn his exquisite companion to a hateful martyrdom, that he might attain the dizzy height of M.P.-ship for Polterham?

He compassionated Lilian, and at the same time he was angry with her. He looked upon her beauty, her gentle spirit, with tenderness, and therewithal he half hoped that she might some day repent of yielding to Quarrier's vulgar ambition.

"Have you made many acquaintances?" he asked.

"A good many. Some, very pleasant people; others—not so interesting."

"Polterham society will not absorb you, I think."

"I hope to have a good deal of quiet time. But Denzil wishes me to study more from life than from books, just now. I must understand all the subjects that interest him."

"Yes—the exact position, as a force in politics, of the licensed victuallers; the demands of the newly enfranchised classes—that kind of thing."

He seemed to be jesting, and she laughed good-humouredly.

"Those things are very important, Mr. Glazzard."

"Infinitely!"

He did not stay long, and upon his departure Lilian gave a sigh of relief.

The next day he was to lunch with the Mumbrays. He went about twelve o'clock, to spend an hour with Serena. His welcome was not ardent, and he felt the oppression of a languor be hardly tried to disguise. Yet in truth his cause had benefited whilst he was away. The eloquent letters did not fail of their effect; Serena had again sighed under domestic tyranny, had thought with longing of a life in London, and was once more swayed by her emotions towards an early marriage.

In dearth of matter for conversation (Glazzard sitting taciturn), she spoke of an event which had occupied Polterham for the last day or two. Some local genius had conceived the idea of wrecking an express train, and to that end had broken a portion of the line.

"What frightful wickedness!" she exclaimed. "What motive can there have been, do you think?"

"Probably none, in the sense you mean."

"Yes—such a man must be mad."

"I don't think that," said Glazzard, meditatively. "I can understand his doing it with no reason at all but the wish to see what would happen. No doubt he would have been standing somewhere in sight."

"You can understand that?"

"Very well indeed," he answered, in the same half-absent way. "Power of all kinds is a temptation to men. A certain kind of man—not necessarily cruel—would be fascinated with the thought of bringing about such a terrific end by such slight means."

"Not necessarily cruel? Oh, I can't follow you at all. You are not serious."

"I have shocked you." He saw that he had really done so, and felt that it was imprudent. His tact suggested a use for the situation. "Serena, why should you speak so conventionally? You are not really conventional in mind. You have thoughts and emotions infinitely above those of average girls. Do recognize your own superiority. I spoke in a speculative way. One may speculate about anything and everything—if one has the brains. You certainly are not made to go through life with veiled eyes and a tongue tuned to the common phrases. Do yourself justice, dear girl. However other people regard you, I from the first have seen what it was in you to become."

It was adroit flattery; Serena reddened, averted her face, smiled a little, and kept silence.

That day he did not follow up his advantage. But on taking leave of Serena early in the afternoon, he looked into her eyes with expressive steadiness, and again she blushed.

A little later, several ladies were gathered in the drawing-room. On Thursdays Mrs. Mumbray received her friends; sat as an embodiment of the domestic virtues and graces. To-day the talk was principally on that recent addition to Polterham society, Mrs. Denzil Quarrier.

"I haven't seen her yet," said Mrs. Mumbray, with her air of superiority. "They say she is pretty but rather childish."

"But what is this mystery about the marriage?" inquired a lady who had just entered, and who threw herself upon the subject with eagerness. (It was Mrs. Roach, the wife of an alderman.) "Why was it abroad? She is English, I think?"

"Oh no!" put in Mrs. Tenterden, a large and very positive person. "She is a Dane—like the Princess of Wales. I have seen her. I recognized the cast of features at once."

An outcry from three ladies followed. They knew Mrs. Quarrier was English. They had seen her skating at Bale Water. One of them had heard her speak—it was pure English.

"I thought every one knew," returned Mrs. Tenterden, with stately deliberation, "that the Danes have a special gift for languages. The Princess of Wales"–

"But, indeed," urged the hostess, "she is of English birth. We know it from Mr. Eustace Glazzard, who is one of their friends."

"Then why were they married abroad?" came in Mrs. Roach's shrill voice. "Can English people be legitimately married abroad? I always understood that the ceremony had to be repeated in England."

"It was at Paris," said Mrs. Walker, the depressed widow of a bankrupt corn-merchant. "There is an English church there, I have heard."

The others, inclined to be contemptuous of this authority, regarded each other with doubt.

"Still," broke out Mrs. Roach again, "why was it at Paris? No one seems to have the slightest idea. It is really very strange!"

Mrs. Mumbray vouchsafed further information.

"I understood that she came from Stockholm."

"Didn't I say she came from Denmark?" interrupted Mrs. Tenterden, triumphantly.

There was a pause of uncertainty broken by Serena Mumbray's quiet voice.

"Dear Mrs. Tenterden, Stockholm is not in Denmark, but in Sweden. And we are told that Mrs. Quarrier was an English governess there."

"Ah! a governess!" cried two or three voices.

"To tell the truth," said Mrs. Mumbray, more dignified than ever after her vindication, "it is probable that she belongs to some very poor family. I should be sorry to think any worse of her for that, but it would explain the private marriage."

"So you think people can be married legally in Paris?" persisted the alderman's wife, whose banns had been proclaimed in hearing of orthodox Polterham about a year ago.

"Of course they can," fell from Serena.

Lilian's age, personal appearance, dress, behaviour, underwent discussion at great length.

"What church do they go to?" inquired some one, and the question excited general interest.

"They were at St. Luke's last Sunday," Mrs. Walker was able to declare, though her wonted timidity again threw some suspicion on the statement.

"St. Luke's! Why St. Luke's?" cried other voices. "It isn't their parish, is it?"

"I think," suggested the widow, "it may be because the Liversedges go to St. Luke's. Mrs. Liversedge is"–

Her needless information was cut short by a remark from Mrs. Tenterden.

"I could never listen Sunday after Sunday to Mr. Garraway. I think him excessively tedious. And his voice is so very trying."

The incumbent of St. Luke's offered a brief diversion from the main theme. A mention of the Rev. Scatchard Vialls threatened to lead them too far, and Mrs. Roach interposed with firmness.

"I still think it a very singular thing that they went abroad to be married."

"But they didn't go abroad, my dear," objected the hostess. "That is to say, one of them was already abroad."

"Indeed! The whole thing seems very complicated. I think it needs explanation. I shouldn't feel justified in calling upon Mrs. Quarrier until"–

Her voice was overpowered by that of Mrs. Tenterden, who demanded loudly:

"Is it true that she has already become very intimate with that person Mrs. Wade?"

"Oh, I do hope not!" exclaimed several ladies.

Here was an inexhaustible topic. It occupied more than an hour, until the last tea-cup had been laid aside and the more discreet callers were already on their way home.

CHAPTER XIV

There needed only two or three days of life at Polterham to allay the uneasiness with which, for all his show of equanimity, Denzil entered upon so perilous a career. By the end of January he had practically forgotten that his position was in any respect insecure. The risk of betraying himself in an unguarded moment was diminished by the mental habit established during eighteen months of secrecy in London. Lilian's name was seldom upon his lips, and any inquiry concerning her at once awakened his caution. Between themselves they never spoke of the past.

Long ago he had silenced every conscientious scruple regarding the relation between Lilian and himself; and as for the man Northway, if ever he thought of him at all, it was with impatient contempt. That he was deceiving his Polterham acquaintances, and in a way which they would deem an unpardonable outrage, no longer caused him the least compunction. Conventional wrong doing, he had satisfied himself, was not wrong-doing at all, unless discovered. He injured no one. The society of such a person as Lilian could be nothing but an advantage to man, woman, and child. Only the sublimation of imbecile prejudice would maintain that she was an unfit companion for the purest creature living. He had even ceased to smile at the success of his stratagem. It was over and done with; their social standing was unassailable.

Anxious to complete his book on the Vikings, he worked at it for several hours each morning; it would be off his hands some time in February, and the spring publishing season should send it forth to the world. The rest of his leisure was given to politics. Chests of volumes were arriving from London, and his library shelves began to make a respectable appearance; as a matter of principle, he bought largely from the local bookseller, who rejoiced at the sudden fillip to his stagnant trade, and went about declaring that Mr. Denzil Quarrier was evidently the man for the borough.

He fell upon history, economics, social speculation, with characteristic vigour. If he got into the House of Commons, those worthies should speedily be aware of his existence among them. It was one of his favourite boasts that whatever subject he choose to tackle, he could master. No smattering for him; a solid foundation of knowledge, such as would ensure authority to his lightest utterances.

In the meantime, he began to perceive that Lilian was not likely to form many acquaintances in the town. With the Liversedges she stood on excellent terms, and one or two families closely connected with them gave her a welcome from which she did not shrink. But she had no gift of social versatility; it cost her painful efforts to converse about bazaars and curates and fashions and babies with the average Polterham matron; she felt that most of the women who came to see her went away with distasteful impressions, and that they were anything but cordial when she returned their call. A life of solitude and study was the worst possible preparation for duties such as were now laid upon her.

"You are dissatisfied with me," she said to Denzil, as they returned from spending the evening with some empty but influential people who had made her exceedingly uncomfortable.

"Dissatisfied? On the contrary, I am very proud of you. It does one good to contrast one's wife with women such as those."

"I tried to talk; but I'm so ignorant of everything they care about. I shall do better when I know more of the people they refer to."

"Chattering apes! Malicious idiots! Heaven forbid that you should ever take a sincere part in their gabble! That lot are about the worst we shall have to deal with. Decent simpletons you can get along with very well."

"How ought I to speak of Mrs. Wade? When people tell downright falsehoods about her, may I contradict?"

"It's a confoundedly difficult matter, that. I half wish Mrs. Wade would hasten her departure. Did she say anything about it when you saw her the other day?"

"Nothing whatever."

It appeared that the widow wished to make a friend of Lilian. She had called several times, and on each occasion behaved so charmingly that Lilian was very ready to meet her advances. Though on intellectual and personal grounds he could feel no objection to such an intimacy, Denzil began to fear that it might affect his popularity with some voters who would take the Liberal side if it did not commit them to social heresies. This class is a very large one throughout England. Mrs. Wade had never given occasion of grave scandal; she was even seen, with moderate regularity, at one or other of the churches; but many of the anti-Tory bourgeois suspected her of sympathy with views so very "advanced" as to be socially dangerous. Already it had become known that she was on good terms with Quarrier and his wife. It was rumoured that Quarrier would reconsider the position he had publicly assumed, and stand forth as an advocate of Female Suffrage. For such extremes Polterham was not prepared.

"Mrs. Wade asks me to go and have tea with her to-morrow," Lilian announced one morning, showing a note. "Shall I, or not?"

"You would like to?"

"Not if you think it unwise."

"Hang it!—we can't be slaves. Go by all means, and refresh your mind."

At three o'clock on the day of invitation Lilian alighted from her brougham at Pear-tree Cottage. It was close upon the end of February; the declining sun shot a pleasant glow across the landscape, and in the air reigned a perfect stillness. Mrs. Wade threw open the door herself with laughing welcome.

"Let us have half-an-hour's walk, shall we? It's so dry and warm."

"I should enjoy it," Lilian answered, readily.

"Then allow me two minutes for bonnet and cloak."

She was scarcely longer. They went by the hedge-side path which led towards Bale Water. To-day the papers were full of exciting news. Sir Stafford Northcote had brought forward his resolution for making short work of obstructive Members, and Radicalism stood undecided. Mrs. Wade talked of these things in the liveliest strain, Lilian responding with a lighthearted freedom seldom possible to her.