The Man Who Rose Again Part 34

"The events of last night will, of course, make it impossible for you to again appear in the Division as a candidate."

"Excuse me," said Leicester; "but surely my illness of last night will not----"

"Illness!" interrupted Mr. Grayburn.

"Well, call it what you like. Say I was intoxicated. Is that enough to nullify all the work I have done in the const.i.tuency for the last three years?"

"The member for this Division must be a gentleman whose personal character is stainless," said Mr. Grayburn. "It is true that many would excuse last night in view of your recent disappointment, but only a few.

And even they would turn against you as soon as certain facts came to light."

"What facts?"

"Facts which Mr. Osborne could reveal if he would. At present he simply characterises them as disgraceful."

Leicester still fought on grimly. Why, he hardly knew.

"I take it that even a political organisation will not be so mean as to believe a vague and unproved charge," he said.

"When it comes from a man like Mr. Osborne, yes."

Leicester laughed bitterly--his old cynical laugh.

"Oh! I see," he said, "the hero of one day is the criminal of the next.

Of course, three years' service and hundreds of pounds spent go for nothing. Well, I might have expected it."

"One of the chief planks of our political platform is temperance reform," said Mr. Grayburn. "How can the people believe in your sincerity?"

Again Leicester laughed.

"If I were a brewer, and made a huge income out of the drink, I should be believed in," he said.

"Possibly, if you did not appear in----"

"Exactly. My great sin is, not that I drink whisky, but that I happened to drink it at the wrong time. Why, my dear fellow, I have seen you in this very room hilarious by the whisky you have drunk at my expense. I have heard you sing comic songs in most melodious tones, and I have had to send for a cab to take you home."

"But never in public," said Mr. Grayburn uneasily.

"Just so. I see my failing. Mr. Grayburn, allow me to congratulate you on your high moral standard. Drink as much as you like, only don't let any one know it."

"Look here, Mr. Leicester," said the other. "I am as sorry for this as any man, and if I only considered myself--well, things would be different. But I'm only one. There are these teetotalers to think of, and they are a strong party here. I tell you the people are mad with you; if you appeared outside the hotel now, you'd be hooted. If you appeared at a meeting you'd be hissed off the platform; nay, more, I don't believe you'd be safe to go into the streets. You'd be pelted with rotten eggs, and the refuse of the town."

He had stung Leicester at last. All the cheap veneer of cynicism was gone now, and he did not know what to say.

"Just look at this," went on Mr. Grayburn. "This is an account of last night's meeting, brought out by the editor of the opposition paper. It seems that he and the reporter got into the ante-room, and the reporter is a clever caricaturist in his way. Here you are in various att.i.tudes: First, Mr. Leicester rising to address the meeting. Second, Mr.

Leicester endeavouring to proceed. Third, Mr. Leicester finis.h.i.+ng his speech. Fourth, Mr. Leicester in the ante-room. How could we stand by you in face of pictures like these?"

As Leicester looked at the sheet which Mr. Grayburn exhibited, he realised the meaning of the other's words. Each picture showed him in a state of drunken helplessness, and under each picture was a quotation from what he had said, so spelt as to bear out the fact of his intoxication.

"Did I say this?" he stammered.

"You did, Mr. Leicester; that, and more."

He was silent for a moment, and then through the open windows of the room he heard shouting in the street.

"Wha'! Rafford Lester drunk! Cood'n be drunk. Sober 's judge. Friend o'

temperance. Hooray for pardy sbriety!"

A shout of laughter followed, brutal, derisive, laughter, and he, Leicester, was the cause of it. He walked to the window and saw a crowd of people outside the hotel; they were looking towards him. No sooner did they see him than they began to shout and laugh derisively.

"You wish me to resign," he said quietly.

"My committee, which met this morning, asked me to wait on you for that purpose."

"Very well," he said. He seized a pen and wrote with a steady hand.

"There," he said presently, "will that do?"

"Yes, that'll do perfectly. And believe me, Mr. Leicester, I am as sorry as any man. And you'll forgive me, but my advice to you is, get out of the town as quickly as you can. But don't leave by the Taviton Station.

There'll be a crowd there to watch every train, and that crowd means to mob you."

"I'll see about that," said Leicester, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng.

"Don't go to Taviton Station, Mr. Leicester. No doubt you could have the law on them afterwards; but it's no use fighting the rabble. They think you've lost them the election. My advice is, get a cab up quietly, and drive to West Billington, a little wayside station five miles away. From there you can get to London without coming through Taviton at all. I am awfully sorry, Mr. Leicester, but I am sure you understand my position."

Leicester wanted to shout in his anger--he longed to pour curses upon his visitor, upon the town, the election, upon every one. But he controlled himself.

"Good-morning," he said.

Mr. Grayburn held out his hand, but Leicester would not see it. When he had gone, he closed the door behind him, and sat down to think. His breakfast was untouched, a number of letters which lay on the table before him were unopened. What should he do? He did not notice the waiter who came to remove the breakfast which he had not eaten; he sat with closed eyes, thinking and brooding.

Presently he picked up a Bradshaw, and began to study it. Now and again he would lift his eyes and stare into vacancy, then he would turn eagerly to the time-table again, not to study the trains so much as the map of the various railway lines.

About midday he rang for some sandwiches, and asked the waiter to send the proprietor to him.

"I'm sorry for what has taken place, Mr. Leicester," that gentleman said when he came.

"Very creditable of you, Jenkins," he said; "meanwhile you can get me a carriage, and send me my bill."

"Yes, sir. Of course Mr. Grayburn told you I should have to get you out of the town on the sly. This I must say, though, since you sent in your resignation they are talking more kindly about you."

"How considerate of them! But that does not alter my plans. I wish to be driven to West Billington."

"Yes, sir. From there you return to London?"

"I don't know. I presume, moreover, that where I go is remarkably like my own business."

"Exactly, sir. I was only thinking about your letters."

"You can burn them. I don't care. I want no letters. You send the carriage."