He glanced up from his writing and gave vent to a sharp e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of annoyance.

"Are you quite certain it is to-night?" he asked, for the reminder was to him a most unpleasant one. He avoided speaking in his const.i.tuency whenever he could.

"Yes. I put it down in the diary a month ago--a dinner given by the Lodge of Odd Fellows in aid of a local charity."

Dudley groaned. He knew too well those charity dinners given in a small room among his honest but rather uncouth supporters. He dreaded the tinned soups, the roast beef, the tough fowls, and the surrept.i.tious tankards of ale in lieu of wine, to be followed by those post-prandial pipes and strong cigars. He shuddered. The dense atmosphere always turned him sick, so that he usually made his speech while it was still possible to see across the room. He was very fond of the working-man, and subscribed liberally to all charitable objects and a.s.sociations, from those with a political aim down to the smallest coal club in the outlying villages; but why could not those honest sons of toil leave him in peace?

His presence, of course, gave importance to the occasion, but if they had found it possible to spare him the ordeal of sitting through their dinner he would have been thankful. Out of fifty invitations to banquets of various kinds, openings of bazaars, flower-shows, lectures, concerts, entertainments and penny-readings, he usually declined forty-nine. As he could not absolutely cut himself aloof from his Division, on rare occasions he accepted, and spent an evening at Albury, or G.o.dalming, or some of the less important local centres of political thought.

The pot-house politician, who forms his ideas of current events from the ultra-patriotic screeches of certain popular newspapers, was a common object in his const.i.tuency; but in G.o.dalming, at any rate, the great majority of his supporters were honest working-men. The little town is a quaint, old-world place with a long High Street of ancient houses, many of them displaying the oak-beams of the sixteenth century, and its politics were just as staunch and old-fashioned as the borough itself.

True, a new town of comfortable villas has sprung up of late around it, and high upon the hill are to be seen the pinnacles of Charterhouse School; but, notwithstanding these innovations, G.o.dalming has not marched with the times. Because of this the blatant reformer has but little chance there, and the Parliamentary Seat is always a safe one for the Conservatives.

Much as he disliked the duty, he saw that it was absolutely necessary to go down and make pretence of having a meal with that estimable Society of Odd Fellows. He rose from his seat at the littered table, at once feeling a sudden desire for fresh air after the closeness of his room, and a few minutes later was driving in a cab to Waterloo. To dress for such a function was quite unnecessary. Working men do not approve of their Member wearing a dinner jacket when among them, for they look upon a starched shirt as a sign of superiority. He was always fond of the country round G.o.dalming, where he had once spent a summer, and as it was a sunshiny afternoon saw in the occasion an opportunity of taking a walk through some of the most picturesque lanes in Surrey.

He was tired, world-weary, utterly sick of life. The duties of his office pressed heavily upon him; but most burdensome of all was the ever-present dread that the threatened blow should fall and crush him.

He wanted air: he wanted to be alone to think.

And so, when that afternoon he alighted at G.o.dalming and returned the salutes of the station-master and book-stall keeper, he started off up the steep road as far as the Charterhouse, and from that point struck off by a narrow footpath which led away across the brown ploughed fields to where the Hog's Back stretched before him in the blue distance. The autumn sun shone brightly in the clear, grey sky, and the trees in all their glory of brown and gold shed their leaves upon him as he pa.s.sed.

Save the station-master and the book-stall clerk, none had recognised him. This was fortunate, for now he was free, out in the open country with its rich meadows and picturesque hills and valleys, until the hour when he must dine with his supporters and utter some trite sayings regarding the work of the Government and its policy abroad.

He was fond of walking, and was glad to escape from Downing Street and from the House for a single evening; so he strode along down the path with a swinging gait, though with a heart not light enough for the full enjoyment of his lovely surroundings.

The by-path he had taken was that which leads over the hills from G.o.dalming past Field Place to the little old-world village of Compton.

Having crossed the ploughed lands, he entered a thick coppice, where the path began to run down with remarkable steepness into wide meadows, on the other side of which lay a dark wood. The narrow path running through the coppice terminated at a stile which gave entrance to the park-like meadow-land.

Descending this path he halted at the stile, leaning against it. Alone in that rural solitude, far removed from the mad hurry of London life, he stood to think. Each gust of wind brought down a shower of brown leaves from the oaks above, and the only other sound was the cry of a pheasant in the wood.

For at least five minutes he stood motionless. Then he suddenly roused himself, and some words escaped his lips:

"How strange," he murmured, "that my footsteps should lead me to this very spot, of all others! Why, I wonder, has Fate directed me here?"

He turned and gazed slowly round upon the scene spread before him, the green meadows, the dark wood, the sloping hill with its bare, brown fields, and the Hog's Back rising in the far distance, with the black line of the telegraph standing out against the sky. With slow deliberation he took in every feature of the landscape. Then, facing about, with his back to the stile, his eyes wandered up the steep path by which he had just descended from the crest of the hill.

"No," he went on in a strange, low voice, speaking to himself, "it has not changed--not in the least. It is all just the same to-day, as then--just the same." He sighed heavily as he leaned back upon the wooden rail and gazed up the ascent, brown with its carpet of acorns and fallen leaves. "Yes," he continued at last, "it is destiny that has led me here, to this well-remembered spot for the last time before I die-- the justice which demands a life for a life."

Throughout the district it would not have been easy to find a more secluded spot than the small belt of dense wood, half of which lay on either side of the footpath. So steep was this path that considerable care had to be exercised during its descent, especially in autumn, when the damp leaves and acorns were slippery, or in winter, when the rain-channels were frozen into precipitous slides.

"A life for a life!" he repeated slowly with a strange curl of the lip.

He permitted himself to speak aloud because in that rural, solitude he had no fear of eavesdroppers. "I have lived my life," he said, "and now it is ended. My attempted atonement is all to no purpose, for to-day, or to-morrow, a voice as from the grave will arise to condemn me--to drive me to take my life!"

He glanced at his watch.

"Yes," he sighed. "Four o'clock!--at this very spot--at this hour on a wet day in mid-winter--"

And his eyes fixed themselves blankly upon the ground a couple of yards distant from where he was standing. "Six years have gone, and it has remained ever a mystery!"

His face was pale, his brow contracted, his teeth firmly set. His eyes still rested upon that spot covered with dead brown leaves. Certainly it was strange that the steep and narrow pathway should possess such fascination for him, for he had wandered there quite involuntarily. It is not too much to say that he would have flown to any other part of England rather than stand upon the spot so closely a.s.sociated with the chapter in his life's history that he hoped was closed for ever.

Suddenly he roused himself, and, walking forward a couple of paces, marked with his stick a square in the dead leaves. Apparently he was deep in calculation, for after he had made the mark he carefully measured, by means of his cane, the distance between the square and the top of the short ascent. On either side of the path was a steep moss-grown bank surmounted by thick hazel-bushes, but on the left a little distance up was an old wooden fence, grey with lichen. He appeared to be deeply interested in this fence, for after going close up to it he measured by careful pacing the distance between it and the spot he had marked out.

When this was done, he stood again motionless, his fevered brow bared to the breezes as though to him that spot were hallowed. Then, crossing the stile, he entered the meadow, pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing the narrow lane as though for the purpose of discovering the exact position an observer would be compelled to take up in order to watch a person standing at the point he had marked.

At last he returned, standing again with his back to the stile, his hat raised in reverence, gazing fixedly upon those dead and decaying leaves.

"Yes," he murmured, "I was mad--mad! The devil tempted me, and I fell.

Would to G.o.d that I could make amends! But I cannot--I dare not. No, I must suffer!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

WHICH DEMANDS EXPLANATION.

Chisholm dined that night in the upstairs room of that old-fashioned hostelry, the Angel, at G.o.dalming, in company with the brethren of the banner.

He sat at the right of the estimable, fat-handed butcher who presided, and was informed by him that as the gigantic roast sirloin that was served was his "own killing," he could recommend it. They ate, drank, and made merry, these men banded together by their sacred rites, until the heat grew so intense that the windows were opened, with the result that decorous High Street echoed to the volleys of their hearty laughter.

As drink was included in the cost of the repast, those diners with the more rapacious appet.i.tes--who, indeed, made no secret that they had been existing in a state of semi-starvation all day in order to eat at night--drank indiscriminately of the lemonade, beer, wine and whiskey placed upon the table. Indeed, as is usual at such feasts, they ate and drank all within reach of their hands. But these bearded working-men and small tradesmen were merry and well-meaning with it all. After "The King" had been honoured, they toasted with boisterous enthusiasm "Our Honourable Member," and joined in the usual chorus of poetical praise, "For he's a jolly good fellow."

Dudley sat bowing and smiling, yet at heart sick of the whole performance. He dreaded the pipes and cigars that would in a few moments appear. s.h.a.g and clays always turned him ill. He was no great smoker himself, and had never been able to withstand the smell of a strong cigar.

His quick eyes observed a man who was beginning in an affectionate manner to fondle a well-coloured short clay. He bent at once to the chairman, saying that he would now deliver his speech.

"Silence, please, gentlemen!" shouted the rotund butcher, rapping the table with his wooden mallet after their guest's health had been drunk.

"Silence for our Honourable Member! Silence--_please_!"

Then Dudley rose eagerly, happy in the knowledge that he was almost through the ordeal, and, with a preliminary "Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen," addressed the hundred or so of his faithful supporters, telling them this and that about the Government, and a.s.suring them of the soundness of the policy adopted by Her Majesty's Ministers. It was not a very long speech, but it was upon a subject of the moment; and as there were two "gentlemen of the Press" representing the local advertis.e.m.e.nt sheets, the one a mere boy, and the other a melancholy, disappointed-looking man, with a sage and rather ascetic expression, the speech would appear in the papers, and the G.o.dalming Lodge of Odd Fellows would receive the credit of having entertained one of England's most rising statesmen. The two representatives of the Press, each of whom took himself very seriously, had been regaled with a bottle of port and some cigars by the committee, who entertained a hope that they would thus be induced to give a lengthy and laudatory account of the function.

While Dudley was on his legs the cloud of tobacco-smoke became thicker and thicker. Those triumphs of the tobacconist called "tuppenny smokes"

are nauseous when in combination with the odour of food. Dudley sniffed them, coughed slightly, sipped some water, and then drew his speech to a close amid a terrific outburst of applause and a beating upon the tables which caused the gla.s.ses and crockery to jingle.

While this oration was in full blast he noticed a committee-man uncovering the piano, by which he knew that "harmony" was to embellish the hot whiskey period. At last, however, he managed to excuse himself, upon the plea that he must return to the House for a Division that was expected; and as soon as he was out in the High Street he breathed more freely. Then he hurried to the train, and, entering the express from Portsmouth, tried to forget the spot he had visited in that small belt of forest--the scene that too often commanded the most vivid powers of his memory.

"I was a fool ever to have gone there!--an absolute fool!" he murmured to himself, as he flung himself back in the first-cla.s.s compartment when alone. "I ran an unnecessary risk. And that man who came so suddenly upon me just as I was leaving! What if he had watched and recognised me? If so, he would certainly gossip about my presence there, describe my actions--and then--"

He was silent; his face became blanched and drawn.

"Even though six years have pa.s.sed, the affair is not forgotten," he went on in a hard voice. "It is still the local mystery which Scotland Yard failed to elucidate. Yes," he added, "I was a fool--a confounded fool! What absurd whim took me to that place of all others, I can't imagine. I'm mad--mad!" he cried in wild despair. "This madness is the shadow of suicide!"

Instead of going down to the House he drove back at once to his chambers.

Upon his table was a note from Claudia, affectionate as usual, and full of regret that they had not met again on the previous night--when they had been so suddenly separated at Penarth House.

"What do you think of little Muriel Mortimer? I saw you speaking with her," she wrote. "She was full of you when I met her shopping in Bond Street this morning. You have made quite an impression, my dear Dudley.

But don't altogether forget me, will you?"

Forget? Could he ever forget the woman whom he loved, and yet despised?

Strange that Claudia should have plotted with Lady Meldrum against his bachelor estate, and should have determined to bring about this marriage with Muriel Mortimer!