Audley had brought the key and he set it in the lock and turned it. But he did not open the door. Instead, he turned to Mary with a smile. "This is my surprise," he said. "Shut your eyes and open them when I tell you. I will guide you."

She complied without suspicion, and heard the door squeak on its rusty hinges. Guided by his hand she advanced three or four paces. She heard the door close behind her. He put his arm round her and drew her on. "Now?" she asked, "May I look?"

"Yes, now!" he answered. As he spoke he drew her to him, and, before she knew what to expect, he had crushed her to his breast and was pressing kisses on her face and lips.

She was taken by surprise and so completely, that for a moment she was helpless, without defence. Then the instinctive impulse to resist overcame her, and she struggled fiercely; and, presently, she released herself. "Oh, you shouldn't have done it!" she cried. "You shouldn't have done it!"

"My darling!"

"You--you hurt me!" she panted, her breath coming short and quick. She was as red now as she had for a moment been white. Her lips trembled, and there were tears in her eyes. He thought that he had been too rough with her, and though he did not understand, he stayed his impulse to seize her again. Instead, he stood looking down at her, a little put out.

She tried to smile, tried bravely to pa.s.s it off; but she was put to it, he could see, not to burst into tears. "Perhaps I am foolish," she faltered, "but please don't do it again."

"I can't promise--for always," he answered, smiling. But, none the less, he was piqued. What a prude the girl was! What a Sainte-ni-touche! To make such a fuss about a few kisses!

She tried to take the same tone. "I know I am silly," she said, "but you took me by surprise."

"You were very innocent, then, my dear. Still, I'll be good, and next time I will give you warning. Now, don't be afraid, take my arm, and let us----"

"If I could sit down?" she murmured. Then he saw that the color had again left her cheeks.

There was an old wheelbarrow inside the door, half full of dead leaves. He swept it clear, and she sat down on the edge of it. He stood by her, puzzled, and at a loss.

Certainly he had played a trick on her, and he had been a little rough because he had felt her impulse to resist. But she must have known that he would kiss her sooner or later. And she was no child. Her convent days were not of yesterday. She was a woman. He did not understand it.

Alas, she did understand it. It was not her lover's kisses, it was not his pa.s.sion or his roughness that had shaken Mary. She was not a prude and she was a woman. That which had overwhelmed her was the knowledge, the certainty forced on her by his embrace, that she did not love him! That, however much she might have deluded herself a few weeks earlier, however far she might have let the lure of love mislead her, she did not love this man! And she was betrothed to him, she was promised to him, she was his! On her engagement to him, on her future with him had been based--a moment before--all her plans and all her hopes for the future.

No wonder that the color was struck from her face, that she was shaken to the depths of her being. For, indeed, she knew something more--that she had had her warning and had closed her eyes to it. That evening, when she had heard Ba.s.set's step come through the hall, that moment when his presence had lifted the burden of suspense from her, should have made her wise. And for an instant the veil had been lifted, and she had been alarmed. But she reflected that the pa.s.sing doubt was due to her lover's absence and his coldness; and she had put the doubt from her. When Audley returned all would be well, she would feel as before. She was hipped and lonely and the other was kind to her--that was all!

Now she knew that that was not all. She did not love Audley and she did love some one else. And it was too late. She had misled herself, she had misled the man who loved her, she had misled that other whom she loved. And it was too late!

For a time that was short, yet seemed long to her companion, who stood watching her, she sat lost in thought and unconscious of his presence. At length he could bear it no longer. Pale cheeks and dull eyes had no charm for him! He had not come, he had not met her, for this.

"Come!" he said, "come, Mary, you will catch cold sitting there! One might suppose I was an ogre!"

She smiled wanly. "Oh no!" she said, "It is I--who am foolish. Please forgive me."

"If you would like to go back?"

But her ear detected temper in his tone, and with a newborn fear of him she hastened to appease him. "Oh no!" she said. "You were going to show me the gardens!"

"Such as they are. Well, so you will see what there is to be seen. It is a sorry sight, I can tell you." She rose and, taking her arm, he led her some fifty yards along the alley in which they were, then, turning to the right, he stopped. "There," he said. "What do you think of it?"

They had before them the long, dank, weed-grown walk, broken midway by the cracked fountain and closed at the far end by the broad flight of broken steps that led upward to the terrace and so to the great lawn. When Audley had last stood on this spot the luxuriance of autumn had clothed the neglected beds. A tangle of vegetation, covering every foot of soil with leaf and bloom, had veiled the progress of neglect. Now, as by magic, all was changed. The sun still shone, but coldly and on a bald scene. The roses that had run riot, the spires of hollyhocks that had risen above them, the sunflowers that had struggled with the encroaching elder, nay, the very bindweed that had strangled all alike in its green embrace, were gone, or only reared naked stems to the cold sky. Gone, too, were the Old Man, the Sweet William, the St. John's Wort, the wilderness of humbler growths that had pressed about their feet; and from the bare earth and leafless branches, the fountain and the sundial alone, like mourners over fallen grandeur, lifted gray heads.

There is no garden that has not its sad season, its days of stillness and mourning, but this garden was sordid as well as sad. Its dead lay unburied.

Involuntarily Mary spoke. "Oh, it is terrible!" she cried.

"It is terrible," he answered gloomily.

Then she feared that, preoccupied as she was with other thoughts, she had hurt him. She was trying to think of something to comfort him, when he repeated, "It is terrible! But, d--n it, let us see the rest of it! We've come here for that! Let us see it!"

Together they went slowly along the walk. They came by and by to the sundial. She hung a moment, wishing to read the inscription, but he would not stay. "It's the old story," he said. "We are gay fellows in the sunshine, but in the shadow--we are moths."

He did not explain his meaning. He drew her on. They mounted the wide flight which had once, flanked by urns and nymphs and hot with summer sunshine, echoed the tread of red-heeled shoes and the ring of spurs. Now, elder grew between the shattered steps, weeds clothed them, the nymphs mouldered, lacking arms and heads, the urns gaped.

Mary felt his depression and would have comforted him, but her brain was numbed by the discovery which she had made; she was unable to think, without power to help. She shared, she more than shared, his depression. And it was not until they had surmounted the last flight and stood gazing on the Great House that she found her voice. Then, as the length and vastness of the pile broke upon her, she caught her breath. "Oh," she cried. "It is immense!"

"It's a nightmare," he replied. "That is Beaudelays! That is," with bitterness, "the splendid seat of Philip, fourteenth Lord Audley--and a millstone about his neck! It is well, my dear, that you should see it! It is well that you should know what is before you! You see your home! And what you are marrying--if you think it worth while!"

If she had loved him she would have been strong to comfort him. If she had even fancied that she loved him, she would have known what to answer. As it was, she was dumb; she scarcely took in the significance of his words. Her mind--so much of it as she could divert from herself--was engaged with the sight before her, with the long rows of blank and boarded windows, the smokeless chimneys, the raw, unfinished air that, after eighty years, betrayed that this had never been a home, had never opened its doors to happy brides, nor heard the voices of children.

At last she spoke. "And this is Beaudelays?" she said.

"This is my home," he replied. "That's the place I've come to own! It's a pleasant possession! It promises a cheerful homecoming, doesn't it?"

"Have you never thought of--of doing anything to it?" she asked timidly.

"Do you mean--have I thought of completing it? Of repairing it?"

"I suppose I meant that," she replied.

"I might as well think," he retorted, "of repairing the Tower of London! All I have in the world wouldn't do it! And I cannot pull it down. If I did, the lawyers first and the housebreakers afterwards, would pull down all I have with it! There is no escape, my dear," he continued slowly. "Once I thought there was. I had my dream. I've stood on this lawn on summer days and I've told myself that I would build it up again, and that the name of Audley should not be lost. But I am a peer, what can I do? I cannot trade, I cannot plead. For a peer there is but one way--marriage. And there were times when I had visions of repairing the breach--in that way; when I thought that I could set the old name first and my pleasure second; when I dreamed of marrying a great dowry that should restore us to the place we once enjoyed. But--that is over! That is over," he repeated in a sinking voice. "I had to choose between prosperity and happiness; I made my choice. G.o.d grant that we may never repent it!"

He sank into silence, waiting for her to speak; he waited with exasperation. She did not, and he looked down at her. Then, "I believe," he said, "that you have not heard a word I have said!"

She glanced up, startled. "I am afraid I have not," she answered meekly. "Please forgive me. I was thinking of my uncle, and wondering where he died."

It was all that Audley could do to check the oath that rose to his lips. For he had spoken with intention; he had given her, as he thought, a lead, an opening; and he had wasted his pains. He could hardly believe that she had not heard. He could almost believe that she was playing with him. But in truth she had barely recovered from the shock of her discovery, and the thing before her eyes--the house--held her attention.

"I believe that you think more of your uncle than of me!" he cried.

"No," she replied, "but he is gone and I have you." She was beginning to be afraid of him; afraid of him, because she felt that she was in fault.

"Yes," he replied. "But you must be more kind to me--or I don't know that you will keep me."

She thought that he spoke in jest, and she pressed his arm.

"You don't want to go into the house?"

"Oh no! I could not bear it to-day."

"Then you must not mind if I leave you for a moment. I have to look to something inside. I shall not be more than five minutes. Will you walk up and down?"

She a.s.sented, thankful to be alone with her thoughts; and he left her. A burly, stately figure, he pa.s.sed across the lawn and disappeared round the corner of the old wing where the yew trees grew close to the walls. He let himself into the house. He wished to examine the strong-room for himself and to see what traces were left of the tragedy which had taken place there.

But when he stood inside and felt the icy chill of the house, where each footstep awoke echoes, and a ghostly tread seemed to follow him, he went no farther than the shadowy drawing-room with its mouldering furniture and fallen screen. There, placing himself before an unshuttered pane, he stood some minutes without moving, his hands resting on the head of his cane, his eyes fixed on Mary. The girl was slowly pacing the length of the terrace, her head bent.

Whether the lonely figure, with its suggestion of sadness, made its appeal, or the attraction of a grace that no depression could mar, overcame the dictates of prudence, he hesitated. At last, "I can't do it!" he muttered, "hanged if I can! I suppose I ought not to have kissed her if I meant to do it to-day. No, I can't do it."

And when, half an hour later, he parted from her at the old Cross at the foot of the hill, he had not done it.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

THE MEETING AT THE MAYPOLE.

Within twenty-four hours there were signs that Bosham's brush with his lordship and the show of feeling outside Hatton's Works had set a sharper edge on the fight. Trifles as these were, the farmers about Riddsley took them up and resented them. The feudal feeling was not quite extinct. Their landlord was still a great man to them, and even those who did not love him believed that he was fighting their battle. An insult to him seemed, in any case, a portent, but that such a poor creature as Bosham--Ben Bosham of the Bridge End--should insult him, went beyond bearing.

Moreover, it was beginning to be whispered that Ben was tampering with the laborers. One heard that he was preaching higher wages in the public houses, another that he was asking Hodge what he got out of dear bread, a third that he was vaporing about commons and enclosures. The farmers growled. The farmers' sons began to talk together outside the village inn. The farmers' wives foresaw rick-burning, maimed cattle, and empty hen coops, and said that they could not sleep in their beds for Ben.

Meanwhile those who, perhaps, knew something of the origin of these rumors, and could size up the Boshams to a pound, were not unwilling to push the matter farther. Men who fancied with Stubbs that repeal of the corn-taxes meant the ruin of the country-side, were too much in earnest to pick and choose. They believed that this was a fight between the wholesome country and the black, sweating town, between the open life of the fields and the tyranny of mill and pit; and that the only aim of the repealer was to lower wages, and so to swell the profits that already enabled him to outshine the lords of the soil. They were p.r.o.ne, therefore, to think that any stick was good enough to beat so bad a dog, and if the stout arms of the farmers could redress the balance, they were in no mood to refuse their help.

Nor were sharpeners wanting on the other side. The methods of the League were brought into play. Women were sent out to sing through the streets of an evening, and the townsfolk ate their m.u.f.fins to the doleful strains of: Child, is thy father dead? Father is gone. Why did they tax his bread? G.o.d's will be done!

And as there were enthusiasts on this side, too, who saw the work of the Corn Laws in the thin cheeks of children and the coffins of babes, the claims of John Barley-corn, roared from the windows of the Portcullis and the Packhorse, did not seem a convincing answer. A big loaf and a little loaf, carried high through the streets, made a wide appeal to non-voters; and a banner with, "You be taxing, we be starving!" had its success. Then, on the evening of the market-day, a band of Hatton's men, fresh from the Three Tailors, came to blows with a market-peart farmer, and a "hand" was not only knocked down, but locked up. Hatton's and Banfield's men were fired with indignation at this injustice, and Hatton himself said a little more at the Inst.i.tute than Ba.s.set thought prudent.

These things had their effect, and more, perhaps, than was expected. For Stubbs, going back to his office one afternoon, suffered an unpleasant shock. Bosham's impudence had not moved him, nor the jeers of Hatton's men. But this turned out to be another matter. Farthingale, the shabby clerk with the high-bred nose, had news for him which he kept until the office door was locked. And the news was so bad that Stubbs stood aghast.

"What? All nine?" he cried. "Impossible, man! The woman's made a fool of you!"

But Farthingale merely looked at him over his steel-rimmed spectacles. "It's true," he said.

"I'll never believe it!" cried the lawyer.

Farthingale shook his head. "That won't alter it," he said patiently. "It's true."

"Dyas the butcher! Why, he served me for years! For years! I go to him at times now."

"Only for veal," replied the clerk, who knew everything "Pitt, of the sausage shop, and Badger, the tripeman, are in his pocket--buy his offal. With the other six, it's mainly the big loaf--Lake has a sister with seven children, and Thomas a father in the almshouse. Two more have big families, and the women have got hold of them!"

"But they've always voted right!" Stubbs urged, with a sinking heart. "What's taken them?"

"If you ask me," the clerk answered, "I should say it was partly Squire Ba.s.set--he talks straight and it takes. And partly the split. When a party splits you can't expect to keep all. I doubted Dyas from the first. He's the head. They were all at his house last night and a prime supper he gave them."

Stubbs groaned. At last, "How much?" he asked.

Farthingale shook his head. "Nix," he said. "You may be shaking Dyas's hand and find it's Hatton's. If you take my advice, you'll leave it alone."

"Well," the lawyer cried, "of all the d--d ingrat.i.tude I ever heard of! The money Dyas has had from me!"

Farthingale's lips framed the words "only veal," but no sound came. Devoted as he was to his employer, he was enjoying himself. Election times were meat and drink--especially drink--to him. At such times his normal wage was royally swollen by Election extras, such as: "To addressing one hundred circulars, one guinea. To folding and closing the same, half a guinea. To watering the same, half a guinea. To posting the same, half a guinea." A whole year's score, chalked up behind the door at the Portcullis, vanished as by magic at this season.

And then he loved the importance of it, and the secrecy, and the confidence that was placed in him and might safely be placed. The shabby clerk who had greased many a palm was himself above bribes.

But Stubbs was aghast. Scarcely could he keep panic at bay. He had staked his reputation for sagacity on the result. He had made himself answerable for success, to his lordship, to the candidate, to the party. Not once, but twice, he had declared in secret council that defeat was impossible--impossible! Had he not done so, the contest, which his own side had invited, might have been avoided.

And then, too, his heart was in the matter. He honestly believed that these poor creatures, these weaklings whose defection might cost so much, were voting for the ruin of their children, for the impoverishment of the town. They would live to see the land pa.s.s into the hands of men who would live on it, not by it. They would live to see the farmers bankrupt, the country undersold, the town a desert!

The lawyer had counted on a safe majority of twenty-two on a register of a hundred and ninety voters. And twenty-two had seemed a buckler, sufficient against all the shafts and all the spite of fortune. But a majority of four--for that was all that remained if these nine went over--a majority of four was a thing to pale the cheek. Perspiration stood on his brow as he thought of it. His hand shook as he shuffled the papers on his desk, looking for he knew not what. For a moment he could not face even Farthingale, he could not command his eye or his voice.

At last, "Who could get at Dyas?" he muttered.

Farthingale pondered for a time, but shook his head. "No one," he said. "You might try Hayward if you like. They deal."

"What's to be done, then?"

"There's only one way that I can think of," the clerk replied, his eyes on his master's face. "Rattle them! Set the farmers on them! Show them that what they're doing will be taken ill. Show 'em we're in earnest. Badger's a poor creature and Thomas's wife's never off the twitter. I'd try it, if I were you. You'd pull some back."

They talked for a time in low voices and before he went into the Portcullis that night Farthingale ordered a gig to be ready at daylight.

It might have been thought that with this unexpected gain, Ba.s.set would be in clover. But he, too, had his troubles and vexations. John Audley's death and Mary's loneliness had made drafts on his time as well as on his heart. For a week he had almost withdrawn from the contest, and when he returned to it it was to find that the extreme men--as is the way of extreme men--had been active. In his address and in his speeches he had declared himself a follower of Peel. He had posed as ready to take off the corn-tax to meet an emergency, but not as convinced that free trade was always and everywhere right. He had striven to keep the question of Irish famine to the front, and had constantly stated that that which moved his mind was the impossibility of taxing food in one part of the country while starvation reigned in another. Above all, he had tried to convey to his hearers his notion of Peel. He had pictured the statesman's dilemma as facts began to coerce him. He had showed that in the same position many would have preferred party to country and consistency to patriotism. He had painted the struggle which had taken place in the proud man's mind. He had praised the decision to which Peel had come, to sacrifice his name, his credit, and his popularity to his country's good.

But when Ba.s.set returned to his Committee Room, he found that the men to whom Free Trade was the whole truth, and to whom nothing else was the truth, had stolen a march on him. They had said much which he would not have said. They had set up Cobden where he had set up Peel. To crown all, they had arranged an open-air meeting, and invited a man from Lancashire--whose name was a red rag to the Tories--to speak at it.

Ba.s.set was angry, but he could do nothing. He had an equal distaste for the man and the meeting, but his supporters, elated by their prospects, were neither to coax nor hold. For a few hours he thought of retiring. But to do so at the eleventh hour would not only expose him to obloquy and injure the cause, but it would condemn him to an inaction from which he shrank.

For all that he had seen of Mary, and all that he had done for her, had left him only the more restless and more unhappy. To one in such a mood success, which began to seem possible, promised something--a new sphere, new interests, new friends. In the hurly-burly of the House and amid the press of business, the wound that pained him would heal more quickly than in the retirement of Blore; where the evenings would be long and lonely, and many a time Mary's image would sit beside his fire and regret would gnaw at his heart.

The open-air meeting was to be held at the Maypole, in the wide street bordered by quaint cottages, that served the town for a cattle-market. The day turned out to be mild for the season, the meeting was a novelty, and a few minutes before three the Committee began to a.s.semble in strength at the Inst.i.tute, which stood no more than a hundred yards from the Maypole, but in another street. Hatton was entertaining Brierly, the speaker from Lancashire, and in making him known to the candidate, betrayed a little too plainly that he thought that he had scored a point.

"You'll see something new now, sir," he said, rubbing his hands. "What's wanting, he'll win! He's addressed as many as four thousand persons at one time, Mr. Brierly has!"

"Ay, and not such as are here, Squire," Brierly boomed. He was a tall, bulky man with an immense chin, who moved his whole body when he turned his head. "Not country clods, but Lancashire men! No throwing dust i' their eyes!"

"Still, I hope you'll deal with us gently," Ba.s.set said. "Strong meat, Mr. Brierly, is not for babes. We must walk before we can run."

"Nay, but the emptier the stomach, the more need o' meat!" Brierly replied, and he rumbled with laughter. "An' a bellyful I'll give them! Truth's truth and I'm no liar!"

"But to different minds the same words do not convey the same thing," Ba.s.set urged.

The man stared over his stiff neck-cloth. "That'ud not go down i' Todmorden," he said. "Nor i' Burnley nor i' Bolton! We're down-right chaps up North, and none for chopping words. Hands off the hands' loaf, is Lancashire gospel, and we're out to preach it! We're out to preach it, and them that clems folk and fats pheasants may make what mouth o'er it they like!"

Fortunately the order to start came at this moment, and Ba.s.set had to fall in and move forward with Hatton, the chairman of the day. Banfield followed with the stranger, and the rest of the Committee came on two by two, the smaller men enjoying the company in which they found themselves. So they marched solemnly into the street, a score of Hatton's men forming a guard of honor, and a long tail of the riff-raff of the town falling in behind with orange flags and favors. These at a certain signal set up a shrill cheer, a band struck up "See, the Conquering Hero Comes!" and the sixteen gentlemen marched, some proudly and some shamefacedly, into the wider street, wherein a cart drawn up at the foot of the Maypole awaited them.

On such occasions Englishmen out of uniform do not show well. The daylight streamed without pity on the Committee as they stalked or shambled along in their Sunday clothes, and Ba.s.set at least felt the absurdity of the position. With the tail of his eye he discerned that the stranger was taking off a large white hat, alternately to the right and left, in acknowledgment of the cheers of the crowd, while ominous sn.i.g.g.e.rs of laughter mingled here and there with the applause. Banfield's men, with another hundred or so of the town idlers, were gathered about the cart, but of the honest and intelligent voters there were scanty signs.

The crowd greeted the appearance of each of the princ.i.p.als with cheers and a shaft or two of Stafford wit.

"Hooray! Hooray!" shouted Hatton's men as he climbed into the cart.