Denzil Quarrier Part 25

Now, in these days of arming, he received a card inviting him (and his wife) to dine at the candidate's house on a certain evening a fortnight ahead; it was the second dinner that Denzil had planned, but Mr. Chown was not aware of this, nor that the candidate had remarked of him to Lilian: "We must have that demagogue among his kind, of course."

Denzil's agent (Hummerstone by name) instantly secured rooms in admirable situations, and the Public Hall was at the disposal of the party for their first great meeting a few days hence.

In facing that a.s.sembly (Toby Liversedge was chairman) Denzil had a very slight and very brief recurrence of his platform nervousness.

Determined to risk nothing, he wrote out his speech with great care and committed it to memory. The oration occupied about two hours, with not a moment of faltering. It was true that he had discovered his vocation; he spoke like a man of long Parliamentary experience, to the astonished delight of his friends, and with enthusiastic applause from the ma.s.s of his hearers. Such eloquence had never been heard in Polterham. If anything, he allowed himself too much scope in vituperation, but it was a fault on the right side. The only circ.u.mstance that troubled him was when his eye fell upon Lilian, and he saw her crying with excitement; a fear pa.s.sed through his mind that she might be overwrought and fall into hysterics, or faint. The occasion proved indeed too much for her; that night she did not close her eyes, and the next day saw her prostrate in nervous exhaustion. But she seemed to pick up her strength again very quickly, and was soon hard at work canva.s.sing among the electors' wives.

"Don't overdo it," Denzil cautioned her. "Remember, if you are ill, I shall mope by your bedside."

"I can't stop now that I have begun," was her reply. "If I try to sit idle, I _shall_ be ill."

She could read nothing but newspapers; her piano was silent; she talked politics, and politics only. Never was seen such a change in woman, declared her intimates; yet, in spite of probabilities, they thought her more charming than ever. No word of animosity ever fell from her lips; what inspired her was simple ardour for Denzil's cause, and, as she considered it, that of the oppressed mult.i.tude. In her way, said Toby Liversedge, she was as eloquent as Quarrier himself, and sundry other people were of the same opinion.

CHAPTER XVI

With sullen acquiescence the supporters of Mr. Mumbray and "Progressive Conservatism"--what phrase is not good enough for the lips of party?--recognized that they must needs vote for the old name.

Dissension at such a moment was more dangerous than an imbecile candidate. Mr. Sam Quarrier had declared that rather than give his voice for Mumbray he would remain neutral. "Old W.-B. is good enough for a figure-head; he signifies something. If we are to be beaten, let it be on the old ground." That defeat was likely enough, the more intelligent Conservatives could not help seeing. Many of them (Samuel among the number) had no enthusiasm for Beaconsfield, and _la haute politique_ as the leader understood it, but they liked still less the principles represented by Councillor Chown and his vociferous regiment.

So the familiar bills were once more posted about the streets, and once more the Tory canva.s.sers urged men to vote for Welwyn-Baker in the name of Church and State.

At Salutary Mount (this was the name of the ex-Mayor's residence) personal disappointment left no leisure for lamenting the prospects of Conservatism. Mr. Mumbray shut himself up in the room known as his "study." Mrs. Mumbray stormed at her servants, wrangled with her children, and from her husband held apart in sour contempt--feeble, pompous creature that he was! With such an opportunity, and unable to make use of it! But for _her_, he would never even have become Mayor.

She was enraged at having yielded in the matter of Serena's betrothal.

Glazzard had fooled them; he was an unprincipled adventurer, with an eye only to the fortune Serena would bring him!

"If you marry that man," she a.s.severated, _a propos_ of a discussion with her daughter on a carpet which had worn badly, "I shall have nothing whatever to do with the affair--nothing!"

Serena drew apart and kept silence.

"You hear what I say? You understand me?"

"You mean that you won't be present at the wedding?"

"I do!" cried her mother, careless what she said so long as it sounded emphatic. "You shall take all the responsibility. If you like to throw yourself away on a bald-headed, dissipated man--as I _know_ he is--it shall be entirely your own doing. I wash my hands of it--and that's the last word you will hear from me on the subject."

In consequence of which a.s.sertion she vilified Glazzard and Serena for three-quarters of an hour, until her daughter, who had sat in abstraction, slowly rose and withdrew.

Alone in her bedroom, Serena shed many tears, as she had often done of late. The poor girl was miserably uncertain how to act. She foresaw that home would be less than ever a home to her after this acc.u.mulation of troubles, and indeed she had made up her mind to leave it, but whether as a wife or as an independent woman she could not decide. "On her own responsibility"--yes, that was the one thing certain. And what experience had she whereon to form a judgment? It might be that her mother's arraignment of Glazzard was grounded in truth, but how could she determine one way or the other? On the whole, she liked him better than when she promised to marry him--yes, she liked him better; she did rot shrink from the thought of wedlock with him. He was a highly educated and clever man; he offered her a prospect of fuller life than she had yet imagined; perhaps it was a choice between him and the ordinary husband such as fell to Polterham girls. Yet again, if he did not really care for her--only for her money?

She remembered Denzil Quarrier's lecture on "Woman," and all he had said about the monstrously unfair position of girls who are asked in marriage by men of the world. And thereupon an idea came into her mind.

Presently she had dried her tears, and in half-an-hour's time she left the house.

Her purpose was to call upon Mrs. Quarrier, whom she had met not long ago at Highmead. But the lady was not at home. After a moment of indecision, she wrote on the back of her visiting card: "Will you be so kind as to let me know when I could see you? I will come at any hour."

It was then midday. In the afternoon she received a note, hand-delivered. Mrs. Quarrier would be at home from ten to twelve the next morning.

Again she called, and Lilian received her in the small drawing-room.

They looked at each other with earnest faces, Lilian wondering whether this visit had anything to do with the election. Serena was nervous, and could not reply composedly to the ordinary phrases of politeness with which she was received. And yet the phrases were not quite ordinary; whomsoever she addressed, Lilian spoke with a softness, a kindness peculiar to herself, and chose words which seemed to have more than the common meaning.

The visitor grew sensible of this pleasant characteristic, and at length found voice for her intention.

"I wished to see you for a very strange reason, Mrs. Quarrier. I feel half afraid that I may even offend you. You will think me very strange indeed."

Lilian trembled. The old dread awoke in her. Had Miss Mumbray discovered something?

"Do let me know what it is," she replied, in a low voice.

"It--it is about Mr. Eustace Glazzard. I think he is an intimate friend of Mr. Quarrier's?"

"Yes, he is."

"You are surprised, of course. I came to you because I feel so alone and so helpless. You know that I am engaged to Mr. Glazzard?"

Her voice faltered. Relieved from anxiety, Lilian looked and spoke in her kindest way.

"Do speak freely to me, Miss Mumbray. I shall be so glad to--to help you in any way I can--so very glad."

"I am sure you mean that. My mother is very much against our marriage--against Mr. Glazzard. She wants me to break off. I can't do that without some better reason than I know of. Will you tell me what you think of Mr. Glazzard? Will you tell me in confidence? You know him probably much better than I do--though that sounds strange. You have known him much longer, haven't you?"

"Not much longer. I met him first in London."

"But you know him through your husband. I only wish to ask you whether you have a high opinion of him. How has he impressed you from the first?"

Lilian reflected for an instant, and spoke with grave conscientiousness.

"My husband considers him his best friend. He thinks very highly of him. They are unlike each other in many things. Mr. Quarrier sometimes wishes that he--that Mr. Glazzard were more active, less absorbed in art; but I have never heard him say anything worse than that. He likes him very much indeed. They have been friends since boyhood."

The listener sat with bowed head, and there was a brief silence.

"Then you think," she said at length, "that I shall be quite safe in--Oh, that is a bad way of putting it! Do forgive me for talking to you like this. You, Mrs. Quarrier, are very happily married; but I am sure you can sympathize with a girl's uncertainty. We have so few opportunities of----Oh, it was so true what Mr. Quarrier said in his lecture at the Inst.i.tute--before you came. He said that a girl had to take her husband so very much on trust--of course his words were better than those, but that's what he meant."

"Yes--I know--I have heard him say the same thing."

"I don't ask," pursued the other, quickly, "about his religious opinions, or anything of that kind. Nowadays, I suppose, there are very few men who believe as women do--as most women do." She glanced at Lilian timidly. "I only mean--do you think him a good man--an honourable man?"

"To that I can reply with confidence," said Lilian, sweetly. "I am quite sure he is an honourable man--quite sure I believe he has very high thoughts. Have you heard him play? No man who hadn't a n.o.ble nature could play like that."

Serena drew a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, dear Mrs. Quarrier--thank you so very much! You have put my mind at rest."

These words gave delight to the hearer. To do good and to receive grat.i.tude were all but the prime necessities of Lilian's heart. Obeying her impulse, she began to say all manner of kind, tender, hopeful things. Was there not a similarity between this girl's position and that in which she had herself stood when consenting to the wretched marriage which happily came to an end at the church door? Another woman might have been disposed to say, in the female parrot-language: "But do you love him or not? That is the whole question." It was _not_ the whole question, even granting that love had spoken plainly; and Lilian understood very well that it is possible for a girl to contemplate wedlock without pa.s.sionate feeling such as could obscure her judgment.

They talked with much intimacy, much reciprocal good-will, and Serena took her leave with a comparatively cheerful mind. She had resolved what to do.

And the opportunity for action came that afternoon. Glazzard called upon her. He looked rather gloomy, but smiled in reply to the smile she gave him.

"Have you read Mr. Gladstone's address to the electors of Midlothian?"

Serena began by asking, with a roguish look.