_Methuen's Colonial Library_

 QUISANTÉ

 BY THE SAME AUTHOR

 A Man of Mark Mr. Witt's Widow Father Stafford A Change of Air Half a Hero The Prisoner of Zenda The God in the Car The Dolly Dialogues Comedies of Courtship The Chronicles of Count Antonio The Heart of Princess Osra Phroso Simon Dale Rupert of Hentzau The King's Mirror

 QUISANTÉ

 BY

 ANTHONY HOPE

 METHUEN & CO. 36 ESSEX STREET, W. C. LONDON 1900

 _Colonial Library_

 CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

 I. DICK BENYON'S OUTSIDER 1 II. MOMENTS 16 III. SANDRO'S WAY 31 IV. HE'S COMING! 46 V. WHIMSY-WHAMSIES 65 VI. ON DUTY HILL 84 VII. ADVICE FROM AUNT MARIA 101 VIII. CONTRA MUNDUM 120 IX. LEAD US NOT-- 137 X. PRACTICAL POLITICS 155 XI. SEVENTY-SEVEN AND SUSY SINNETT 176 XII. A HIGHLY CORRECT ATTITUDE 196 XIII. NOT SUPERHUMAN 215 XIV. OPEN EYES 235 XV. A STRANGE IDEA 257 XVI. THE IRREVOCABLE 279 XVII. DONE FOR? 301XVIII. FOR LACK OF LOVE? 321 XIX. DEATH DEFIED 339 XX. THE QUIET LIFE TO-MORROW 355 XXI. A RELICT 371

 Transcriber's Note

 The following sentence, found in Chapter IX. , was originally printed with the "three several" error and has not been changed:

 That evening Quisanté brought home to dinner the gentleman whom Dick Benyon called old Foster the maltster, and who had been Mayor of Henstead three several times. 

 QUISANTÉ. 

 CHAPTER I. 

 DICK BENYON'S OUTSIDER. 

A shrunken sallow old lady, dressed in rusty ill-shaped black andadorned with an evidently false 'front' of fair hair, sat in a tinyflat whose windows overlooked Hyde Park from south to north. She waslistening to a tall loose-built dark young man who walked restlesslyabout the little room as he jerked out his thoughts and challenged theexpression of hers. She had known him since he was a baby, had broughthim up from childhood, had always served him, always believed in him, never liked him, never offered her love nor conciliated his. His fathereven, her only brother Raphael Quisanté, she had not loved; but she hadrespected Raphael. Alexander--Sandro, as she alone of all the worldcalled him--she neither loved nor respected; him she only admired andbelieved in. He knew his aunt's feelings well enough; she was his ally, not his friend; kinship bound them, not affection; for his brain's sakeand their common blood she was his servant, his heart she left alone. 

Thus aware of the truth, he felt no obligation towards her, not evenwhen, as now, he came to ask money of her; what else should she do withher money, where else lay either her duty or her inclination? She didnot love him, but he was her one interest, the only tie that united herwith the living moving world and the alluring future years, moreprecious to her since she could see so few of them. 

"I don't mean to make myself uncomfortable, " said Miss Quisanté. "Howmuch do you want?" He stopped and turned round quickly with a gleam ofeagerness in his eyes, as though he had a vision of much wealth. "No, no, " she added with a surly chuckle, "the least you'll take is the mostI'll give. "

"I owe money. "

"Who to?" she asked, setting her cap uncompromisingly straight. "Jews?"

"No. Dick Benyon. "

"That money you'll never pay. I shan't consider that. "

The young man's eyes rested on her in a long sombre glance; he seemedannoyed but not indignant, like a lawyer whose formal plea is brushedaside somewhat contemptuously by an impatient truth-loving judge. 

"You've got five hundred a year or thereabouts, " she went on, "and nowife. "

He threw himself into a chair; his face broke into a sudden smile, curiously attractive, although neither sweet nor markedly sincere. "Exactly, " he said. "No wife. Well, shall I get one with five hundred ayear?" He laughed a little. "An election any fine day would leave mepenniless, " he added. 

"There's Dick Benyon, " observed the old lady. 

"They talk about that too much already, " said Quisanté. 

"Come, Sandro, you're not sensitive. "

"And Lady Richard hates me. Besides if you want to impress fools, youmust respect their prejudices. Give me a thousand a year; for thepresent, you know. "

He asked nearly half the old lady's income; she sighed in relief. "Verywell, a thousand a year, " she said. "Make a good show with it. Livehandsomely. It'll pay you to live handsomely. "

A genuine unmistakable surprise showed itself on his face; now there waseven the indignation which a reference to non-payment of debts hadfailed to elicit. 

"I shall do something with it, you might know that, " he saidresentfully. 

"Something honest, I mean. "

"What?"

"Well, something not criminal, " she amended, chuckling again. "I'm sorryto seem to know you so well, " she added. 

"Oh, we know one another pretty well, " said he with a nod. "Never thejam without the powder from you. "

"But always the jam, " said old Maria. "And you'll find the world a gooddeal like your aunt, Sandro. "

An odd half-cunning half-eager gleam shot across his eyes. 

"A man finds the world what he makes it, " he said. He rose, came andstood over her, and went on, laughing. "But the devil makes an aunt onceand for all, and won't let one touch his handiwork. "

"You can touch her savings, though!"

He blazed out into a sudden defiance. "Oh, refuse if you like. I canmanage without you. You're not essential to me. "

She smiled, her thin lips setting in a wry curve. Now and then it seemedhard that there could be no affection between her and the one being whomthe course of events plainly suggested for her love. But, as Sandrosaid, they knew one another very well. In the result she felt entitledto assume no airs of superiority; he had not been a dutiful or agrateful nephew, she had not been a devoted or a patient aunt; as shelooked back, she was obliged to remember one or two occasions when hehad driven or betrayed her into a severity of which she did notwillingly think. This reflection dictated the words with which she methis outburst. 

"You can tell your story on Judgment Day and I'll tell mine, " she said. "Oh, neither of 'em will lose in the telling, I'll be bound. Meanwhilelet's be----"

"Friends?" he suggested with an obvious but not ill-natured sneer. 

"Lord, no! Whatever you like! Banker and client, debtor and creditor, actor and audience? Take your choice--and send me your bank's address. "

He nodded slightly, as though he concluded a bargain, not at all asthough he acknowledged a favour. Yet he remarked in a ruminative tone, "I shall be very glad of the money. "

A moment's pause followed. Then Miss Quisanté observed reluctantly, "The only thing I ever care to know about you is what you're planning, Sandro. Don't I earn that by my thousand a year?"

"Well, here you are. I'm started, thanks to Dick Benyon and myself. I'vegot my seat, I can go on now. But I'm an outsider still. " He paused amoment. "I feel that; Benyon feels it too. I want to obviate it a bit. Imean to marry. "

"An insider?" asked the old lady. She looked at him steadily. "Yourtaste's too bad, " she said; he was certainly dressed in a rather bizarreway. "And your manners, " she added. "She won't have you, " she ended. Quisanté took no notice and seemed not to hear; he stood quite still bythe window, staring over the park. "Besides she'll know what you wanther for. "

He wheeled round suddenly and looked down at his aunt. His face wassofter, the cunningness had gone from his smile, his eyes seemed larger, clearer, even (by a queer delusion of sight) better set and wider apart. 

"Yes, I'll show her that, " he said in a low voice, with a new richnessof tone. 

Old Maria looked up at him with an air of surprise. 

"You do want her for that? As a help, I mean?" she asked. 

His lips just moved to answer "Yes. " Aunt Maria's eyes did not leave hisface. She remembered that when he had come before to talk aboutcontesting the seat in Parliament he had now won, there had been amoment (poised between long periods of calculation and elaborateforecasts of personal advantage) in which his face had taken on the samesoft light, the same inspiration. 

"You odd creature!" she murmured gently. "She's handsome, I suppose?"

"Superb--better than that. "

"A swell?" asked old Maria scornfully. 

"Yes, " he nodded. 

His aunt laughed. "A Queen among women?" was the form her last questiontook. 

"An Empress, " said Alexander Quisanté, the more ornate title burstinggorgeously from his lips. 

"Just the woman for you then!" remarked Aunt Maria. A stranger wouldhave heard nothing in her tone save mockery. Quisanté heard more, or didnot hear that at all. He nodded again quite gravely, and turned back tothe window. There were two reasonable views of the matter; either thelady was not what Quisanté declared her, or if she were she would havenothing to do with Quisanté. But Aunt Maria reserved her opinion; shewas prepared to find neither of these alternatives correct. 

For there was something remarkable about Sandro; the knowledge that hadbeen hers so long promised fair to become the world's discovery. Societywas travelling towards Aunt Maria's opinion, moved thereto not so muchby a signally successful election fight, nor even by a knack ofdistracting attention from others and fixing it on himself, as by themonstrous hold the young man had obtained and contrived to keep overDick Benyon. Dick was not a fool; here ended his likeness to Quisanté;here surely ought to end his sympathy with that aspiring person? Butthere was much more between them; society could see that for itself, while doubters found no difficulty in overhearing Lady Richard's openlamentations. "If Dick had known him at school or at Cambridge----" "Ifhe was somebody very distinguished----" "If he was even a gentleman----"Eloquent beginnings of unfinished sentences flowed with expressivefreedom from Amy Benyon's pretty lips. "I don't want to think my husbandmad, " she observed pathetically to Weston Marchmont, himself one of thebrightest hopes of that party which Dick Benyon was understood toconsider in need of a future leader. Was that leader to be Quisanté?Manners, not genius, Amy declared to be the first essential. "And Idon't believe he's got genius, " she added hopefully; that he had nomanners did not need demonstration to Marchmont, whose own were soexquisite as to form a ready-make standard. 

And it was not only Dick. Jimmy was as bad. Nobody valued Jimmy'sintellect, but every one had been prepared to repose securely on thebedrock of his prejudices. He was as infatuated as his brother; Quisantéhad swept away the prejudices. The brethren were united in an effort tofoist their man into every circle and every position where he seemed tobe least wanted; to this end they devoted time, their social reputation, enthusiasm, and, as old Maria knew, hard money. They were triple-armedin confidence. Jimmy met remonstrances with a quiet shrug; Dick had oneanswer, always the same, given in the same way--a confident assertion, limited and followed, an instant later, by one obvious condition, seemingly not necessary to express. "You'll see, if he lives, " hereplied invariably when people asked him what there was after all in Mr. Quisanté. Their friends could only wonder, asking plaintively what theDuke thought of his brothers' proceedings. The Duke, however, made nosign; making no sign ranked as a characteristic of the Duke's. 

When Lady Richard discussed this situation with her friends the Gastongirls, she gained hearty sympathy from Fanny, but from May no more thana mocking half-sincere curiosity. 

"Is it possible for a man to like both me and Mr. Quisanté?" LadyRichard asked. "And after all Dick does like me very much. "

"Likes both his wife and Mr. Quisanté! What a man for paradoxes!" Maymurmured. 

"Jimmy's worse if anything, " the aggrieved wife went on. This remark waslevelled straight at Fanny; Jimmy being understood to like Fanny, aparallel problem presented itself. Fanny recognized it but, not choosingto acknowledge Jimmy's devotion, met it by referring to Marchmont'sopenly professed inability to tolerate Quisanté. 

"I always go by Mr. Marchmont's judgment in a thing like that, " shesaid. "He's infallible. "

"There's no need of infallibility, my dear, " observed Lady Richardirritably. "Ordinary common sense is quite enough. " She turned suddenlyon May. "You talked to him for nearly an hour the other night, " shesaid. 

"Yes--how you could!" sighed Fanny. 

"I couldn't help it. He talked to me. "

"About those great schemes that he's filled poor dear Dick's head with?Not that I doubt he's got plenty of schemes--of a sort you know. "

"He didn't talk schemes, " said Lady May. "He was worse than that. "

"What did he do?" asked her sister. 

"Flirted. "

A sort of gasp broke from Lady Richard's lips; she gazed helplessly ather friends. Fanny began to laugh. May preserved a meditativeseriousness; she seemed to be reviewing Quisanté's efforts in a judicialspirit. 

"Well?" said Lady Richard after the proper pause. 

"Oh well, he was atrocious, of course, " May admitted; her tone, however, expressed a reluctant homage to truth rather than any resentment. "Hedoesn't know how to do it in the least. "

"He doesn't know how to do anything, " Lady Richard declared. 

"Most men are either elephantine or serpentine, " said Fanny. "Which washe, dear?"

"I don't think either. "

"Porcine?" asked Lady Richard. 

"No. I haven't got an animal for him. Well, yes, he was a littleweaselly perhaps. But----" She glanced at Lady Richard as she paused, and then appeared to think that she would say no more; she frownedslightly and then smiled. 

"I like his cheek!" exclaimed Fanny with a simplicity that had survivedthe schoolroom. 

Lady Richard screwed her small straight features into wrinkles ofdisgust and a shrug seemed to run all over her little trimsmartly-gowned figure; no presumption could astonish her in Quisanté. 

"Why in the world did you listen to him, May?" Fanny went on. 

"He interested me. And every now and then he was objectionable in ratheran original way. "

With another shrug, inspired this time by her friend's mental vagaries, Lady Richard diverged to another point. 

"And that was where you were all the time Weston Marchmont was lookingfor you?" she asked. 

May began to laugh. "Somehow I'm generally somewhere else when Mr. Marchmont looks for me, " she said. "It isn't deliberate, really; I likehim very much, but when he comes near me, some perverse fate seems toset my legs moving in the opposite direction. "

"Well, Alexander Quisanté's a perverse fate, if you like, " said LadyRichard. 

"It's curious how there are people one's like that towards. You're veryfond of them, but it seems quite certain that you'll never get muchnearer to them. Is it fate? Or is it that in the end there's a--asolution of sympathy, a break somewhere, so that you stop just short offinding them absolutely satisfying?"

Neither of her friends answered her. Lady Richard did not deal inspeculations; Fanny preferred not to discuss, even indirectly, hersister's feelings towards Marchmont; they bred in her a mixture ofresentment and relief too complicated for public reference. It wascertainly true enough that he and May got no nearer to one another; ifthe break referred to existed somewhere, its effect was very plain; howcould it display itself more strikingly than in making the lady preferQuisanté's weaselly flirtation to the accomplished and enviable homageof Weston Marchmont? And preferred it she had, for one hour of life atleast. Fanny felt the anger which we suffer when another showsindifference towards what we should consider great good fortune. 

But indifference was not truly May's attitude towards Marchmont. Nobody, she honestly thought, could be indifferent to him, to his handsomeness, his grace and refinement, the fine temper of his mind, his indubitablesuperiority of intellect; in everything he was immeasurably above theordinary run of her acquaintance, the well-groomed inconsiderables ofwhom she knew such a number. Being accustomed to look this world in theface unblinkingly, she did not hesitate to add that he possessed greatwealth and the prospect of a high career. He was all, and indeed rathermore, than she, widowed Lady Attlebridge's slenderly dowered daughter, had any reason to expect. She wanted to expect no more, if possiblereally to regard this opportunity as greater luck than she had a rightto anticipate. The dissatisfaction which she sought to explain bytalking of a solution of sympathy was very obstinate, but justice setthe responsibility down to her account, not to his; analysing hertemperament, without excusing it, she found a spirit of adventure andexperiment--or should she say of restlessness and levity?--whichMarchmont did not minister to nor yet assuage. The only pleasure thatlay in this discovery came from the fact that it was so opposed to thegeneral idea about her. For it was her lot to be exalted into a type ofthe splendid calm patrician maiden. In that sort of vein her friendsspoke of her when they were not very intimate, in that sort of languageshe saw herself described in gushing paragraphs that chronicled thedoings of her class. Stately, gracious, even queenly, were epithetswhich were not spared her; it would have been refreshing to find someDiogenes of a journalist who would have called her, in round set terms, discontented, mutinous, scornful of the ideal she represented, a veryhot-bed of the faults the beauty of whose absence was declared in herdignified demeanour. Now what May looked, that Fanny was; but poorFanny, being slight of build, small in feature, and gay in manner, gotno credit for her exalted virtues and could not be pressed into serviceas the type of them. For certainly types must look typical. May'scomfort in these circumstances was that Marchmont's perfect breeding andinstinctive avoidance of display, of absurdity, even of betraying anyheat of emotion, saved her from the usual troubles which an unsatisfiedlover entails on his mistress. He looked for her no doubt, but with nogreater visible perturbation than if she had been his handkerchief. 

An evening or two later Dick Benyon took her in to dinner. Entirely inconcession to him--for the subject had passed from her own thoughts--sheasked, "Well, how's your genius going on?" Before the meal was over sheregretted her question. It opened the doors to Dick's confused eloquenceand vague laudations of his _protégé_; putting Dick on his defence, itinvolved an infinite discussion of Quisanté. She was told how Dick hadpicked him up at Naples, gone to Pompeii with him, travelled home withhim, brought him and Jimmy together, and how the three had becomefriends. "And if I'm a fool, my brother's not, " said Dick. May knew thatJimmy would shelter himself under a plea couched in identical language. From this point Dick became less expansive, for at this point his ownbenefactions and services had begun. She could not get much out of him, but she found herself trying to worm out all she could. Dick had noobjection to saying that he had induced Quisanté to go in for politics, and had "squared" the influential persons who distributed (so far as afree electorate might prove docile) seats in Parliament. Rumour and AuntMaria would have supplemented his statement by telling of substantialaid given by the Benyon brothers. May, interested against her wish andirritated at her interest, yet not content, like Dick's wife, to shrugaway Dick's aberrations, turned on him with a sudden, "But why, why? Whydo you like him?"

"Like him!" repeated Dick half-interrogatively. He did not seem surethat his companion had chosen the right, or at any rate the best, wordto describe his feelings. In response she amended her question. 

"Well, I mean, what do you see in him?"

Here was another fatal question, for Dick saw everything in him. Hastilycutting across the eulogies, she demanded particulars--who was he, wheredid he come from, and so forth. On these heads Dick's account wasscanty; Quisanté's father had grown wine in Spain; and Quisanté himselfhad an old aunt in London. 

"Not much of a genealogy, " she suggested. Dick was absurd enough toquote "_Je suis un ancêtre_. " "Oh, if you're as silly as that!" sheexclaimed with an annoyed laugh. 

"He's the man we want. "

"You and Jimmy?"

"The country, " Dick explained gravely. He had plenty of humour for othersubjects, but Quisanté, it seemed, was too sacred. "Look here, " he wenton. "Come and meet him again. Amy's going out of town next week andwe'll have a little party for him. "

"That happens best when Amy's away?"

"Well, women are so----"

"Yes, I know. I'm a woman. I won't come. "

Dick looked at her not sourly but sadly, and turned to his otherneighbour. May was left to sit in silence for five minutes; then a pausein Dick's talk gave her time to touch him lightly on the arm and to saywhen he turned, "Yes, I will, and thank you. "

But she said nothing about the weaselly flirtation. 

 CHAPTER II. 

 MOMENTS. 

At the little dinner which Lady Richard's absence rendered more easythere were only the Benyon brothers (a wag had recently suggested thatthey should convert themselves into Quisanté Limited), Mrs. Gellatly, Morewood the painter, and the honoured guest. Morewood was there becausehe was painting a kit-cat of Quisanté for the host (Heaven knew in whatcorner Lady Richard would suffer it to hang), and Mrs. Gellatly becauseshe had expressed a desire to meet Lady May Gaston. Quisanté greeted Maywith an elaborate air of remembrance; his handshake was so ornate as topersuade her that she must always hate him, and that Dick Benyon was asfoolish as his wife thought him. This mood lasted half through dinner;the worst of Quisanté was uppermost, and the exhibition depressed theothers. The brothers were apologetic, Mrs. Gellatly gallantly suave; hermuch-lined, still pretty face worked in laborious smiles at everyloudness and every awkwardness. Morewood was so savage that an abruptconclusion of the entertainment threatened to be necessary. May, who hadpreviously decided that Mr. Quisanté would be much better in company, was travelling to the conclusion that he was not nearly so trying whenalone; to be weaselly is not so bad as to be inconsiderate andostentatious. 

Just then came the change which transformed the party. Somebodymentioned Mahomet; Morewood, with his love of a paradox, launched on anindiscriminate championship of the Prophet. Next to believing in nobody, it was best, he said, to believe in Mahomet; there, he maintained, yougot most out of your religion and gave least to it; and he defended thecriterion with his usual uncompromising aggressiveness. Then Quisantéput his arms on the table, interrupted Morewood without apology, andbegan to talk. May thought that she would not have known how good thetalk was--for it came so easily--had she not seen how soon Morewoodbecame a listener, or even a foil, ready and content to put hisquestions not as puzzles but as provocatives. Yet Morewood wasproverbially conceited, and he was fully a dozen years Quisanté'ssenior. She stole a look round; the brothers were open-mouthed, Mrs. Gellatly looked almost frightened. Next her eyes scanned Quisanté'sface; he was not weaselly now, nor ostentatious. His subject filled himand lit him up; she did not know that he looked as he had when he spoketo old Maria of his Empress among women, but she knew that he looked asif nothing mentally small, nothing morally mean, nothing that was not insome way or other, for good or evil, big and spacious could ever comenear him from without or proceed out from him. 

She was immensely startled when, in a pause, her host whispered in herear, "One of his moments!" The phrase was to become very familiar to heron the lips of others, even more in her own thoughts. "His moments!" Itimplied a sort of intermittent inspiration, as though he were someancient prophet or mediæval fanatic through whose mouth Heaven spokesometimes, leaving him for the rest to his own low and carnal nature. The phrase meant at once a plenitude of inspiration and a rarity of it. Not days, nor hours, but moments were seemingly what his friends valuedhim for, what his believers attached their faith to, what must (ifanything could) outweigh all that piled the scales so full against him. An intense curiosity then and there assailed her; she must know more ofthe man; she must launch a boat on this unexplored ocean--for theBenyons had not navigated it, they only stood gaping on the beach. Herewas scope for that unruly spirit of hers which Marchmont's culture andMarchmont's fascination could neither minister to nor assuage. 

She was gazing intently at Quisanté when she became conscious of Mrs. Gellatly's eyes on her. Mrs. Gellatly looked frightened still;accustomed tactfully to screen awkwardness, she was rather at a loss inthe face of naked energy. She sought to share her alarm with May Gaston, but May was like a climber fronted by a mountain range. 

"You may be right and you may be wrong, " said Morewood. "At least Idon't know anybody who can settle the quarrel between facts and dreams. "

"There isn't any quarrel. "

"There's a little stiffness anyhow, " urged Morewood, still unwontedlydocile. 

"They'd get on better if they saw more of one another, " suggested Maytimidly. It was her first intervention. She felt its insignificance. Shewould not have complained if Quisanté had followed Morewood's exampleand taken no notice of it. He stopped, turned to her with exaggerateddeference, and greeted her obvious little carrying out of the metaphoras though it were a heaven-sent light. Somehow in doing this he seemedto fall all in an instant from lofty heights to depths almost beyondeyesight. While he complimented her elaborately, Morewood turned away inopen impatience. Another topic was started, the conversation was killed;or, to put it as she put it to herself, that moment of Quisanté's wasended. Did his moments always end like that? Did they fade before abreath, like the frailest flower? Did the contemptible always follow ina flash on the entrancing?

Presently she found a chance for a whisper to Morewood. 

"How are you painting him?" she asked. 

"You must come and see, " he replied, with a rather sour grin. 

"So I will, but tell me now. You know the difference, I mean?"

"Oh, and do you already? Well, I shall do him making himself agreeableto a lady. "

"For heaven's sake don't!" she whispered, half-laughing yet not withoutseriousness. The man was a malicious creature and might well caricaturewhat he was bound to idealise to the extreme limit of nature'ssufferance. Such a trick would be hardly honest to Dick Benyon, butMorewood would plead his art with unashamed effrontery, and, if morewere needed, tell Dick to take his cheque to the deuce and go with ithimself. 

The rest of the party was, to put it bluntly, a pleasant littlegathering in no way remarkable and rather spoilt by the presence of oneperson who was not quite a gentleman. May struggled hard against themercilessness of the judgment contained in the last words; for it oughtto have proved quite final as regarded Alexander Quisanté. As a fact itwould not leave her mind, it established an absolutely sure footing inher convictions; and yet it did not seem quite final in regard toQuisanté. Perhaps Dick Benyon would maintain the proud level of hisremark about the genealogy, and remind her that somebody settledNapoleon's claims by the same verdict. But one did not meet Napoleon atlittle dinners, nor think of him with no countervailing achievements tohis name. 

Her mind was so full of the man that when she joined her mother at aparty later in the evening, she had an absurd anticipation thateverybody would talk to her about him. Nobody did; that evening anArctic explorer and a new fortune-teller divided the attention of thepolite; men came and discussed one or other of these subjects with heruntil she was weary. For once then, on Marchmont making an appearancenear her, her legs did not carry her in the opposite direction; sheawaited and even invited his approach; at least he would spare her thefashionable gossip, and she thought he might tell her something aboutQuisanté. In two words he told her, if not anything about Quisanté, still everything that he himself thought of Quisanté. 

"I met Mr. Quisanté at dinner, " she said. 

"That fellow!" exclaimed Marchmont. 

The tone was full of weariness and contempt; it qualified the man asunspeakable and dismissed him as intolerable. Was Marchmont infallible, as Fanny had said? At least he represented, in its finest and mostauthoritative form, the opinion of her own circle, the unhesitatingjudgment against which she must set herself if she became Quisanté'schampion. It would be much easier, and probably much more sensible, tofall into line and acquiesce in the condemnation; then it would matternothing whether the vulgar did or did not elect to admire Dick Benyon'speculiar friend. Yet a protest stirred within her; only her sense of theludicrous prevented her from adopting Dick's word and asking Marchmontif he had ever seen the fellow in one of his "moments. " But it would beabsurd to catch up the phrase like that, and it was by no means certainthat even the moments would appeal to Marchmont. 

Looking round, she perceived that a little space in the crowded room hadbeen left vacant about them; nobody came up to her, no woman, in passingby, signalled to Marchmont; the constant give-and-take of companions wassuspended in their favour. In fine, people supposed that they wanted totalk to one another; it would not be guessed that one of the pair wishedQuisanté to be the topic. 

"He's got some brains, " Marchmont went on, "though of rather a flashysort, I think. Dick Benyon's been caught by them. But a more impossibleperson I never met. You don't like him?"

"Yes, I do, " she answered defiantly. "At least I do every now and then. "

"Pray make the occasions as rare as possible, " he urged in his low lazyvoice, with his pleasant smile and a confidential look in his handsomeeyes. "And don't let them coincide with my presence. "

"Really he won't hurt you; you're too particular. "

"No, he won't hurt me, but I should feel rather as though he werehurting you. "

"What do you mean?"

"By being near you, certainly by being anything in the least like afriend of yours. "

"He'd defile me?" she asked, laughing. 

"Yes, " said he seriously; the next moment he smiled and shrugged hisshoulders; he did not withdraw his seriousness but he apologised for it. 

"Oh, I'd better get under a glass-case at once, " she exclaimed, laughingagain impatiently. 

"Yes, and lock it, and----"

"Give you the key?"

He laughed as he said, "The most artistic emotions have some selfishnessin them, I admit it. "

"It would make a little variety if I sent a duplicate to Mr. Quisanté!"

Here he would not follow her in her banter. He grew grave and evenfrowned, but all he said was, "Really there are limits, you know. " Itwas her own verdict, expressed more tersely, more completely, and morefinally. There were limits, and Alexander Quisanté was beyond them; thebarrier they raised could not be surmounted; he could not fly over iteven on the wings of his moments. 

"You above everybody oughtn't to know such people, " Marchmont went on. 

Now he was thinking of the type she was supposed to represent; that wasthe fashion in which it was appropriate to talk to the type. 

"I'm not in the very least like that really, " she assured him. "If youknew me better you'd find that out very soon. "

"I'm willing to risk it. "

Flirtation for flirtation--and this conversation was becoming one--therecould be no comparison between Marchmont's and Quisanté's; the one wasdelightful, the other odious; the one combined charm with dignity; theother was a mixture of cringing and presumption. May put the contrast noless strongly than this as she yielded to the impulse of the minute andgave the lie to Marchmont's ideal of her by her reckless acceptance ofthe immediate delights he offered. The ideal would no doubt cause him toput a great deal of meaning into her acceptance; whether such meaningwere one she would be prepared to indorse her mood did not allow her toconsider. She showed him very marked favour that evening, and in hiscompany contrived to forget entirely the puzzle of Quisanté and hismoments, and the possible relation of those moments to the limits aboutwhich her companion was so decisive. 

At last, however, they were interrupted. The interruption came from DickBenyon, who had looked in somewhere else and arrived now at the tail ofthe evening. Far too eager and engrossed in his great theme to carewhether his appearance were welcome, he dashed up to May, crying outeven before he reached her, "Well, what do you say about him now? Wasn'the splendid?"

Clearly Dick forgot his earlier apologetic period; for him the momentwas the evening. A cool question from Marchmont, the cooler perhaps forannoyance, forced Dick into explanations, and he sketched in his summaryfashion the incident which had aroused his enthusiasm and made him lookso confidently for a response from May. Marchmont was unreservedly andalmost scornfully antagonistic. 

"Oh, you're too cultivated to live, " cried Dick. "Now isn't he tooelegant, May?"

"I'm not the least elegant, " said Marchmont, with quiet confidence. "ButI'm--well, I'm what Quisanté isn't. So are you, Dick. "

"Suppose we are, and by Jove, isn't he what we aren't? I'm primitive, Isuppose. I think hands and brains are better than manners. "

"I'll agree, but I don't like his hands or his brains either. "

"He'll mount high. "

"As high as Haman. I shouldn't be the least surprised to see it. "

"Well, I'm not going to give him up because he doesn't shake hands atthe latest fashionable angle. "

"All right, Dick. And I'm not going to take him up because he's a dab atrodomontade. "

"And you neither of you need fight about him, " May put in, laughing. They joined in her laugh, each excusing himself by good-natured abuse ofthe other. 

There was no question of a quarrel, but the divergence was complete, striking, and even startling. To one all was black, to the other allwhite; to one all tin, to the other all gold. Was there no possibilityof compromise? As she sat between the two, May thought that adiscriminating view of Quisanté ought to be attainable, not anoscillation from disgust to admiration, but a well-balanced stablejudgment which should allow full value to merits and to defects, and sumup the man as a whole. Something of the sort she tried to suggest;neither disputant would hear of it, and Marchmont went off with anunyielding assertion that the man was a cad, no more and no less than acad. Dick looked after him with a well-satisfied air; May fancied thatopposition and the failure of others to understand intensified hissatisfaction in his own discovery. But he grew mournful as he said toher, "I shan't have a chance with you now. You'll go with Marchmont ofcourse. And I did want you to like him. "

"Mr. Marchmont doesn't control my opinions. "

They were very old friends; Dick allowed himself a significant smile. 

"I know what you mean, " she said, smiling. "But it's nonsense. Besides, look at yourself and Amy! She hates him, and yet you----"

"Oh, she's only half-serious, and Marchmont's in deadly earnest underthat deuced languid manner of his. I tell you what, he's a very limitedfellow, after all. "

May laughed; the limits were being turned to a new use now. 

"Awfully clever and well-read, but shut up inside a sort of compartmentof life. Don't you know what I mean? He's always ridden first-class, andhe won't believe there's anybody worth knowing in the thirds. "

"You think he's like that?" she asked thoughtfully. 

"You can see it for yourself. There's no better fellow, no betterfriend, but, hang it, an oyster's got a broader mind. "

"I like broad minds. "

"Then you'll like Quis----"

"Absolutely you shan't mention that name again. Find mother for me andtell her to tell me that it's time to go home. "

Going home brought with it a discovery. May was considered to haveinvited the world to take notice of her preference for Marchmont. Thisfact was first conveyed to her by Lady Attlebridge's gently affectionateand congratulatory air; at this May was little more than amused. Evidence of greater significance lay in Fanny's demeanour; she came intoher sister's room and talked for a while; before leaving, but after theordinary kiss of goodnight, she came back suddenly and kissed her again;she said nothing, but the embrace was emphatic and eloquent. It seemedto the recipient to be forgiving also; it meant "I want you to be happy, don't imagine I think of anything else. " If Fanny kissed her like that, it was because Fanny supposed that she had made up her mind to marryWeston Marchmont. She was fully conscious that the inference was not astrange one to draw from her conduct that evening. But now the mood ofimpulse was entirely gone; she considered the matter in a cool spirit, and her talk with Dick Benyon assumed unlooked-for importance in herdeliberations. To marry Marchmont was a step entirely in harmony withthe ideal which her family and the world had of her, which Marchmonthimself most thoroughly and undoubtingly believed in. If she were reallywhat she was supposed to be, the match would satisfy her as well as itwould everybody else. But if she were quite different in her heart? Inthat case it might indeed be urged that no marriage would or couldpermanently satisfy her or the whole of her nature. This was likelyenough; to see how often something of that kind happened it was, unfortunately, only necessary to run over ten or a dozen names whichoffered themselves promptly enough from the list of her acquaintance. Still to marry knowing you would not be satisfied was to drop below thecommon fate of marrying knowing that you might not be; it gave up thegolden chance; it abandoned illusion just where illusion seemed mostnecessary. 

Oh for life, for the movement of life! It is perhaps hard to realise howoften that cry breaks from the hearts of women. No doubt the aspirationit expresses is rather apt to end in antics, not edifying to theonlooker, hardly (it may be supposed) comforting to the performer. Butthe antics are one thing, the aspiration another, and they have theaspiration strongest who condemn and shun the antics. The matter may bestated very simply, at least if the form in which it presented itself toMay Gaston in her twenty-third year be allowed to suffice. Most girlsare bred in a cage, most girls expect to escape therefrom by marriage, most girls find that they have only walked into another cage. She hadnothing to say, so far as her own case went, against the comfort eitherof the old or of the new cage; they were both indeed luxurious. Butcages they were and such she knew them to be. Doubtless there must belimits, not only to the tolerance of Weston Marchmont and of society, but to everything else except infinity. But there are great expanses, wide spaces, short of infinity. When she walked out of her first cage, the one which her mother's careful fingers had kept locked on her, shewould like not to walk into another, but to escape into some park orforest, not boundless, yet so large as to leave room for exploring, forthe finding of new things, for speculation, for doubt, excitement, uncertainty, even for the presence of apprehension and the possibilityof danger. As she surveyed the manner in which she was expected to passher life, the manner in which she was supposed (she faced now the commoninterpretation of her conduct this evening) already to have elected topass it, she felt as a speculator feels towards Consols, as a gamblertowards threepenny whist. It seemed as though nothing could be goodwhich did not also hold within it the potency of being very bad, asthough certainty damned and chance alone had lures to offer. She wouldhave liked to take life in her hand--however precious a thing, what useis it if you hoard it?--and see what she could make of it, what usuryits free loan to fate and fortune would earn. She might lose it; youthmade light of the risk. She might crawl back in sad plight; the ProdigalSon did not think of that when he set out. She found herself wishing shehad nothing, that she might be free to start on the search for anything. 

Like Quisanté? Why, yes, just like Quisanté. Like that strange, intolerable, vulgar, attractive, intermittently inspired creature, whopresented himself at life's roulette-table, not less various in his ownperson than were the varying turns he courted, unaccountable as chance, baffling as fate, changeable as luck. Indeed he was like life itself, athing you loved and hated, grew weary of and embraced, shrank from andpursued. To see him then was in a way to look on at life, to be incontact with him was to feel the throb of its movement. In her midnightmusings the man seemed somehow to cease to be odious because he ceasedto be individual, to be no longer incomprehensible because he was nolonger apart, because he became to her less himself and more theexpression and impersonation of an instinct that in her own blood ranriot and held festivity. 

"I'm having moments, like Mr. Quisanté himself!" she said with a suddenlaugh. 

 CHAPTER III. 

 SANDRO'S WAY. 

First to the City, then to the doctor, then to the House, then to thedinner of the Imperial League; this was Quisanté's programme for thesecond Wednesday in April. It promised a busy day. But of the doctor andthe House he made light; the first was a formality, the second held outno prospect of excitement; the City and the dinner were the real things. They were connected with and must be made to promote the two aims whichhe had taken for his with perfect confidence. He wanted money and hewanted position; he saw no reason why he should not attain both in thefullest measure. Recent events had filled him with a sure and certainhope. Not allowing for the value of the good manners which he lacked, hefailed to see that he excited any hostility or any distaste. Unless aman were downright rude to him, he counted him an adherent; this streakof a not unpleasing simplicity ran across his varied nature. He was farfrom being alive to his disadvantages; every hour assured him of hissuperiority. Most especially he counted on the aid and favour of women;the future might prove him right or wrong in his expectation; but herelied for its realisation not on the power which he did possess but onan accomplishment of manner and an insinuating fascination which he mostabsolutely lacked. The ultra-civility which repelled May Gaston was lessa device than an exhibition; he embarked on it more because he thoughthe did it well than (as she supposed) from a desire to curry favour. Hewas ill-bred, but he was not mean; he was a vaunter but not a coward; hedemanded adherence and did not beg alms. This was the attitude of hismind, but unhappily it was often apparently contradicted by the cringingof his body and the wheedling of his tongue. In attempting smoothness hefell into oiliness; where he aimed at polished brilliance, the resultwas blazing varnish. Had he known what to pray for, he would havesupplicated heaven that he might meet eyes able to see the man beneaththe ape. Such eyes, dimly penetrating with an unexpected vision, he hadwon to his side in the Benyon brothers; the rest of the world stillstuck on the outside surface. But the brothers could only shield him, they could not change him; they might promote his fortunes, they couldnot cure his vices. He did not know that he had any vices; the firststage of amendment was still to come. 

He had a cousin in the City, a stock-jobber, who made and lost largesums of money as fortune smiled or frowned. Quisanté had the first fivehundred of Aunt Maria's thousand pounds in his pocket and told hiskinsman to use it for him. 

"A spec?" asked Mr. Josiah Mandeville. "Isn't that rather rough on AuntMaria?"

Quisanté looked surprised. "She gave it me, I haven't stolen it, " hesaid with a laugh. 

"She gave it you to live on, to keep up your position, I suppose. "

"I don't think she made any conditions. And if I can make money, I'llgive it back to her. "

"Oh, you know best, I suppose, " said Mandeville. "Only if I lose it?"

"Losing money's no worse than spending it. " And then he mentioned acertain venture in which the money might usefully be employed. 

"How did you hear of that?" asked Mandeville with a stare; for hiscousin had laid his finger on a secret, on the very secret whichMandeville had just decided not to reveal to him, kinsman though he was. 

"I forget; somebody said something about it that made me think it wouldbe a good thing. " Quisanté's tone was vaguely puzzled; he often knewthings when he could give no account of his knowledge. 

"Well, you aren't far wrong. You'll take a small profit, I suppose?Shall I use my discretion?"

"No, " smiled Quisanté. "I shan't take a small profit, and I'll use mine. But keep me well informed and you shan't be a loser. "

Mr. Mandeville laughed. "One might think you had a million, " heobserved. "Or are you proposing to tip me a fiver?" The thought of hisown thousands filled his tone with scorn; he did not do his speculatingwith Aunt Maria's money. 

"If you're too proud, I can take my business somewhere else--and thename of the concern too, " said Quisanté, lighting a cigar. CousinMandeville's stare had not escaped his notice. 

Mandeville hesitated; he was very much annoyed; he liked his money, ifnot himself, to be respected. But business is business, to say nothingof blood being thicker than water. 

"Oh, well, I'll do it for you, " he agreed with lofty benevolence. Quisanté laughed. He would have covered his own retreat with much thesame device. 

The riches then were on the way; Quisanté had a far-seeing eye, and AuntMaria's five hundred was to imagination already prolific of thousands. Ahansom carried him up to Harley Street; he had been there three monthsbefore and had been told to come again in three weeks. The punishmentfor his neglect was a severe verdict. "No liquor, no tobacco, and threemonths' immediate and complete rest. " Quisanté laughed--very much as hehad at his kinsman in the City. Both doctor and stock-jobber showed sucha curious ignorance of the conditions under which his life had to belived and of his reasons for caring to live it. 

"What's the matter then?" he asked. 

The doctor became very technical, though not quite unreserved; the heartand the stomach were in some unholy conspiracy; this was as much asQuisanté really understood. 

"And if I don't do as you say?" he asked. The doctor smiled and shruggedhis shoulders. "I shan't outlive Methuselah anyhow, I suppose?"

"The present conditions of your life are very wearing, " said the doctor. 

Quisanté looked at him thoughtfully. 

"But if you'd live wisely, there's no reason why you shouldn't preservegood health till an advanced age. "

Aunt Maria's five hundred, invested in Consols, would bring in twelvepounds ten shillings or thereabouts every year for ever. 

"Thank you, " said Quisanté, rising and producing the fee. But he pausedbefore going and said meditatively, "I should really like to be able tofollow your advice, you know. " His brow clouded in discontent; the oneserious handicap he recognised was this arbitrary unfortunate doom of abody unequal to the necessary strain of an active life. "Anyhow I'm goodfor a little while?" he asked. 

"Dear me, you're in no sort of immediate danger, Mr. Quisanté, or Ishould be more imperative. Only pray give yourself a chance. "

On his way from Harley Street to the House, and again from the House tohis own rooms in Pall Mall, his mind was busy with the speech that hewas to make at the dinner. He had only to respond to the toast of theguests; few words and simple would be expected. He was thus the moreresolved on a great effort; the surprise that the mere attempt at anoration would arouse should pave the way for the astonishment histriumph must create. He had no rival in the programme; the Chairman wasDick Benyon, the great gun an eminent Colonial Statesman who relied forfame on his deeds rather than his words. With his curiously minutecalculation of chances Quisanté had discovered that there was no socialoccasion of great attraction to carry off his audience after dinner;they would stay and listen if he were worth listening to; the ladies inthe gallery would stay too, if at the outset he could strike a note thatwould touch their hearts. This was his first really good chance, thefirst opening for such a _coup_ as he loved. His eyes were bright as heopened an atlas and verified with precision the exact position of theColonial Statesman's Colony; he had known it before of course--roughly. 

Lady Richard had much affection in her nature and with it a fine spiceof malice. The two ingredients combined to bring her to the gallery; shewished to please Dick, and she wished to be in a position to annoy himby deriding Quisanté. So there she sat looking down on the men through ahaze of cigar-smoke which afflicted the ladies' noses and threatenedseriously to affect their gowns. 

"They might give up their tobacco for one night, " muttered a girl nearher. 

"They'd much rather give us up, my dear, " retorted a dowager who feltthat she would be considered a small sacrifice and was not unwilling tomake others think the same about themselves. 

By Lady Richard's side sat May Gaston. The time is happily gone by whenany one is allowed even to assume indifference about the Empire, yet itmay be doubted whether interest in the Empire had the chief share inmoving her to accept Lady Richard's invitation. Nor did she want to hearDick Benyon, nor the Colonial Statesman; quite openly she desired andexpressed her desire to see what Quisanté would make of it. 

"How absurd!" said Lady Richard crossly. "Besides he's only got a fewwords to say. "

May smiled and glanced along the row of ladies. About ten places fromher was a funny little old woman with an absurd false front of fair hairand a black silk gown cut in ancient fashion; her features showed vividdisgust at the atmosphere and she made frequent use of a large bottle ofsmelling-salts. Next to her, on the other side, was Mrs. Gellatly, whonodded and smiled effusively at May. 

"Who's the funny old woman?" May asked. 

Lady Richard looked round and made a constrained bow; the old ladysmiled a little and sniffed the bottle again. 

"Oh, she's an aunt of the man's; come to hear him, I suppose. Oh, Dick'sgetting up. "

Amid polite attention and encouraging "Hear, hears" Dick made his waythrough a few appropriate sentences which his hearty sincerity redeemedfrom insignificance. The Colonial Statesman had a well-founded idea thatthe zeal of his audience outstripped its knowledge, and set himself toimprove the latter rather than to inflame the former. His reward was asomewhat frigid reception. May noticed that old Miss Quisanté wasdozing, and Lady Richard said that she wished she was at home in bed:Quisanté himself had assumed a smile of anticipation when the Statesmanrose and preserved it unimpaired through the long course of the speech. The audience as a whole grew a little restless; while the next speakeraddressed them, one or two men rose and slipped away unobtrusively. Aquick frown and a sudden jerk of Quisanté's head betrayed his fear thatmore would go before he could lay his grip on them. 

"Why doesn't this man stop?" whispered May. 

"I suppose, my dear, he thinks he may as well put Mr. Quisanté off aslong as possible, " Lady Richard answered flippantly. 

Amid yawns, the laying down of burnt-out cigars, and glances at watches, Quisanté rose to make his reply. Aunt Maria was wide-awake now, lookingdown at her nephew with her sour smile; Lady Richard leant backresignedly. Quisanté pressed back his heavy smooth black hair, openedhis wide thin-lipped mouth, and began with a courteous commonplacereference to those who shared with himself the honour of being gueststhat night. Ordinary as the frame-work was, there was a touch oforiginality in what he said; one or two men who had meant to go struckmatches and lit fresh cigars. Dick Benyon looked up at the gallery andnodded to his wife. Then Quisanté seemed suddenly to increase hisstature by an inch or two and to let loose his arms; his voice was stillnot loud, but every syllable fell with incisive distinctness on hislistener's ears. An old Member of Parliament whispered to an elderlybarrister, "He can speak anyhow, " and got an assenting nod for answer. And he was looking as he had when he spoke of his Empress among women, as he had when he declared that the Spirit of God could not live andmove in the grave-clothes of dead prophets. He was far away from theguests now, and he was far away from himself; it was another moment; hewas possessed again. Dick looked up with a radiant triumphant smile, buthis wife was frowning, and May Gaston sat with a face like a mask. 

"By Jove!" murmured the elderly barrister. 

The whole speech was short; perhaps it had been meant to be longer, butsuddenly Quisanté's pale face turned paler still, he caught his hand tohis side, he stopped for a moment, and stumbled over his words; than herecovered and, with his hand still on his side, raised his voice again. But the logical mind of the elderly barrister seemed to detect a lacunain the reasoning; the speaker had skipped something and flown straightto his peroration. He gave it now in tones firm but slower than before, with a pause here and there, yet in the end summoning his forces to alast flood of impassioned words. Then he sat down, not straight, butfalling just a little on one side and making a clutch at his neighbour'sshoulder; and while they cheered he sat quite still with closed eyes andopened lips. "Has he fainted?" ran in a hushed whisper round the room;Dick Benyon sprang from his chair, a waiter was hurried off for brandy, and Lady Richard observed in her delicately scornful tones, "Howextremely theatrical!"

"Theatrical!" said May in a low indignant voice. 

"You don't suppose he's really fainting, my dear, do you? Oh, I've seenhim do the same sort of thing once before!"

An impulse carried May's eyes towards Miss Quisanté; the old lady wassmiling composedly and sniffing her bottle. Her demeanour was in strongcontrast to Mrs. Gellatly's almost tearful excitement. 

"He couldn't, he couldn't!" May moaned in horror. 

If the untrue suspicion entertained by Lady Richard and possibly sharedby Miss Quisanté (the old lady's face was a riddle) spread at all toanybody else, the fault lay entirely at the sufferer's own door. He knewtoo well how real the attack had been; when the ladies mingled with themen to take tea and coffee, he was still suffering from its after-effects. But he treated the occurrence in so hopelessly wrong a way; he minced andsmirked over it; he would not own to a straightforward physical illness, but preferred to hint at and even take credit for an exaggeratedsensibility, as though he enhanced his own eloquence by pointing to theextraordinary exhaustion it produced. He must needs bring the frailty ofhis body to the front, not as an apology, but as an added claim tointerest and a new title by which to win soft words, admiring looks, andsympathetic pressings from pretty hands. Who could blame Lady Richard formurmuring, "There, my dear, now you see!"? Who could wonder that AuntMaria looked cynically indifferent? Was it strange that a good manypeople, without going to the length of declaring that the orator hadsuffered nothing at all, yet were inclined to think that he knew betterthan to waste, and quite well how to improve, the opportunity that atrifling fatigue or a passing touch of faintness gave him? "Knows how tofetch the women, doesn't he?" said somebody with a laugh. To be accusedof that knowledge is not a passport to the admiration of men. 

Before May Gaston came near Quisanté himself, Jimmy Benyon seized on herand introduced her to Aunt Maria. In reply to politely expressed phrasesof concern the old lady's shrewd eyes twinkled. 

"Sandro'll soon come round, if they let him alone, " she said. 

The words were consistent with either view of the occurrence, but thetone inclined them to the side of uncharitableness. 

"Is he liable to such attacks?" May asked. 

"He's always been rather sickly, " Miss Quisanté admitted grudgingly. 

"He's had a splendid triumph to-night. He was magnificent. "

"Sandro makes the most of a chance. "

May was surprised to find herself attracted to the dry old woman. Such anabsence of feeling in regard to one who was her only relative and thehero of the evening might more naturally have aroused dislike; but AuntMaria's coolness was funnily touched both by resignation and by humour;she mourned that things were as they were, but did not object to laughingat them. When immaculate Jimmy, a splendid type of the handsome dandifiedman about town, began to be enthusiastic over Quisanté, she looked up athim with a sneering kindly smile, seeming to ask, "How in the world doyou come to be mixed up with Sandro?" When May expressed the hope that hewould be more careful of himself Aunt Maria's smile said, "If you knew asmuch about him as I do, you'd take it quietly. It's Sandro's way. " Yetside by side with all this was the utter absence of any surprise at hisexhibition of power or at the triumph he had won; these she seemed totake as the merest matter of course. She knew Quisanté better than anyliving being knew him, and this was her attitude towards him. When theybade one another good-bye, May said that she was sure her mother wouldlike to call on Miss Quisanté. "Come yourself, " said the old ladyabruptly; she at least showed no oiliness, no violence of varnish; theywere not in the family, it seemed. 

The crowd grew thinner, but the diminished publicity brought noimprovement to Quisanté's manner. He was with Lady Richard and thebrothers now--May noticed that nephew and aunt had been content toexchange careless nods--and Lady Richard made him nearly his worst. Heknew that she did not like him, but refused to accept the defeat; heplied her more and more freely with the airs and affectations thatrendered him odious to her; he could not help thinking that by enoughattention, enough deference, and enough of being interesting he must inthe end conciliate her favour. When May joined the group, his mannerappealed from her friend to her, bidding Lady Richard notice how muchmore responsive May was and how pleasant he was to those who werepleasant to him. May would have despised him utterly at that instant butfor two things: she remembered his moments, and she perceived that allthe time he was suffering and mastering severe, perhaps poignant, pain. But again, when she asked him how he was, he smirked and flourished, tillLady Richard turned away in disgust and even the brothers looked a littlepuzzled and distressed as they followed her to the buffet and ministeredto her wants. 

"Sit down, " said May, in a tone almost sharp. "No, sit at once, nevermind whether I'm sitting or not. "

He obeyed her with an overdone gesture of protest, but his face showedrelief. She got a chair for herself and sat down by him. 

"You spoke splendidly, " she said, and hurried on, "No, no, don't thankme, don't tell me that you especially wished to please me, or that myapprobation is your reward, or anything about beauty or bright eyes, oranything in the very least like that. It's all odious and I wonder whyyou--a man like you--should think it necessary to do it. "

Quisanté looked startled; he had been leaning back in apparentexhaustion, but now he sat up straight and prepared to speak, aconciliatory smile on his lips. 

"No, don't sit up, lean back. Don't talk, don't smile, don't be agreeable. "She had begun to laugh at herself by now, but the laughter did not stopher. "You were ill, you were very ill, you looked almost dead, and youbattled with it splendidly, and beat it splendidly, and went on and won. And then you must--Oh, why do you?"

"Why do I do what?" he asked, quietly enough now, with a new look ofpuzzle and bewilderment in his eyes, although his set smile had notdisappeared. 

"Why, go on as if there'd been nothing much really the matter, as ifyou'd had the vapours or the flutters, or something women have, or usedto have when they were even sillier than they are. " She laughed again, adding, "Really I was expecting Dick Benyon to propose to cut yourstay-laces. "

The Benyons were coming back; if she had more to say, there was no timefor it; yet she managed a whisper as she shook hands with him, hergesture still forbidding him to rise. Her face, a little flushed withcolour, bent down towards his and her voice was eager as she whispered, "Good-night. Be simple, be yourself; it's worth while. "

Then courage failed and she hurried off with a confused nervous farewellto her friends. Her breath came quick as she lay back in the broughamand closed her eyes. 

Quisanté was tired and ill; he was unusually quiet in his parting talkwith Lady Richard. Even she was sorry for him; and when pity enteredlittle Lady Richard's heart it drove out all other emotions howeverstrong, and routed all resolutions however well-founded. 

"You look dead-beat, you do indeed, " she said. She turned to herhusband. "Dick, Mr. Quisanté must come and spend a few quiet days withus in the country. Something'll happen to him, if he doesn't. "

Dick could hardly believe his ears, and was full of delighted gratitude;hitherto Lady Richard had been resolute that their country house atleast should be sacred from Quisanté's feet. He took his wife's hand andpressed it as he joyfully seconded her invitation. Some of Quisanté'seffusive politeness displayed itself again, but still he was subdued, and Lady Richard, full of her impulse of compassion, escaped withoutrealising fully the enormity of the step into which it had tempted her. 

 CHAPTER IV. 

 HE'S COMING!

Dick Benyon was a man of plentiful ideas, but he found great difficultyin conveying them to others and even in expressing them to himself. Jimmy, his faithful disciple, could not help him here, and indeed was toomuch ashamed of harbouring such things as ideas to be of any service asan apostle. All the ideas were not Dick's own; in the case of theImperial League, for example, he merely floated on the top of theflood-tide of opinion, and even the Crusade, his other and dearerpre-occupation, was the fruit of the Dean of St. Neot's brain as much asor even more than of his own. The Dean never got the credit of havingideas at all, first because he did not look like it, being short, stout, ruddy, and apparently very fond of his dinner, secondly because he nevertalked of his ideas to women. Mrs. Baxter did not care about ideas andpossibly the Dean generalised rashly. More probably, perhaps, he hadcontracted a prejudice against talking confidentially to women fromobserving the ways of some of his brethren; he had dropped remarks whichfavoured this explanation. Anyhow he lost not only the soil most fruitfulfor propagation, but also the surest road to a reputation. Of the idea ofthe Crusade he was particularly careful to talk to men only; women, hefelt sure, would tell him it was superb, and his wish was to beconfronted with its difficulties and its absurdities, to overcome thisinitial opposition only with a struggle, and to enlist his antagonist asa fellow-warrior; he had especial belief in the persuasiveness ofconverts. Unluckily, however, as a rule only the first part of theprogramme passed into fact; he got the absurdities and difficultiespointed out freely enough, the conversions hung fire. Dick Benyon wasalmost the sole instance of the triumphant carrying-out of the wholescheme; but though Dick could believe and work, and could make Jimmybelieve and nearly make Jimmy work, he could not preach himself nor makeJimmy preach in tones commanding enough to engage the respect andattention of the world. Who could then? Dick had answered "WestonMarchmont;" the Dean shook his head confidently but wistfully; he wouldhave liked but did not expect to find a convert there. 

Weston Marchmont made, as might be expected, the Great Refusal, althoughnot in the impressive or striking manner which such a phrase may seem toimply. Twisting his claret glass in his long thin fingers, he observedwith low-voiced suavity that in ecclesiastical matters, as doubtless inmost others, he was behind the times; he was a loyal Establishment manand had every intention of remaining such, and for his own part he foundit possible to reconcile the ultimate postulates of faith with theultimate truths of science. As soon as ultimates came on the scene, theDean felt that the game was up; the Crusade depended on an appeal toclasses which must be reached, if they could be reached at all, bysomething far short of ultimates. Ultimates were for the few; one reason, among others, why Marchmont fondly affected them. Marchmont proceeded toremark that in his doubtless out-of-date view the best thing was topreserve the traditions and the traditional limits of Church work andChurch influence. He did not say in so many words that the Church was agood servant but a bad master, yet Dick and the Dean gathered that thiswas his opinion, and that he would look with apprehension on any movementdirected to bringing ecclesiastical pressure to bear on secular affairs. In all this he assumed politely that the Crusade could succeed, but thelift of his brows which accompanied the concession was very eloquent. 

"Then, " he ended apologetically, "there's the danger of vulgarity. Oneputs up with that in politics, but I confess I shrink from it inreligion. "

"What appeals to everybody is not necessarily vulgar, " said the Dean. 

"Not necessarily, " Marchmont agreed, with the emphasis on the secondword. "But, " he added, "it's almost of necessity untrue, and after allreligion has to do with truth. " He was getting near his ultimates again. 

There was a pause; then Marchmont laughed and said jokingly, "You'll have to go to the Radicals, Dick. They're the dogmatic partynowadays, and they'll be just as ready to manage your soul for you asthey are your property. "

"That's just what I don't mean to do, " said Dick obstinately. But helooked a little uncomfortable. It was important to preserve the attitudethat fighting the Radicals was no part of the scheme of the Crusade. Marchmont smiled at the Dean across the table. 

"I love the Church, Mr. Dean, " he said, "but I'm afraid of the churchmen. "

"Much what I feel about politics and politicians. "

"Then if churchmen are politicians too----?" Marchmont suggested; theDean's laughter admitted a verbal defeat. But when Marchmont had gone heshook his head over him again, saying, "He'll not be great; he's much toosane. "

"He's too scrupulous, " said Dick. The Dean protested with a smile. "Imean too fastidious, " Dick added, correcting himself. 

"Yes, yes, too fastidious, " agreed the Dean contentedly. "And when I saidsane perhaps I rather meant cautious, unimaginative, and cold. " Both feltthe happier for the withdrawal of their hastily chosen epithets. 

This conversation had occurred in the early days of Dick's acquaintancewith Alexander Quisanté, when, although already much taken with the man, he had a clearer view of what he was than enthusiasm allowed later on. Rejecting Marchmont, or rather acquiescing in Marchmont's refusal, on theground of his excessive caution, his want of imagination, and hisfastidiousness, he had hesitated to sound Quisanté in regard to the greatproject. It seemed to him impossible to regard his new friend as an idealleader for this purpose; one reason is enough to indicate--the idealleader should be absolutely unselfish by nature. By nature Quisanté wasvery far from that, and his circumstances were not such as to enable himto overcome the bent of his disposition; whatever else he was or mightbecome, he would be self-seeking too, and it would be impossible ever tomake him steadily and deliberately forgetful of himself. 

But as time went on, another way opened before Dick's eyes and wascautiously and tentatively hinted at to his confidant, the Dean. TheDean, having seen a little and heard much of Quisanté, was inclined to beencouraging. There were in him possibilities not to be found inMarchmont. He was not fastidious, he would not trouble himself or otherpeople about ultimates, above all he could be fired with imagination. Once that was achieved, he would speak and seem as though he were allthat the ideal leader ought to be, as though inspiration filled him; hewould express what Dick could only feel and the Dean do no more thanadumbrate; nay, in time, as he grew zealous in the cause, hisself-interest and personal ambition would be conquered, or at least wouldbe so blended and fused with the nobility of the cause as to lose anygrossness or meanness which might be thought to characterise them in anuncompounded condition. All this might be achieved if only the great ideacould be made to seem great enough and the potentialities which lay inits realisation invested with enough pomp and dignity. After all was notsuch a blend of things personal and things beyond and higher than thepersonal as much as could reasonably be expected from human beings, andadequate to the needs of a work-a-day world?

"I don't want to be a bishop, but I do mean to stick to my deanerythrough thick and thin, " said the Dean, smiling. Dick understood him tomean that allowance must be made for the personal element, and that a manmight serve a cause very usefully without being prepared to go quite asfar as the stake, or even the workhouse, for it; if this were not so, there would be less competition for places in State and Church. 

Such great schemes for causing right ideas to prevail in things spiritualand temporal and for placing the right men in the right positions toensure this important result are material here only so far as theyinfluence the career or illustrate the character of individuals. TheCrusade did not perhaps do as much towards altering the face of theworld, or even of this island, as it was intended to, but it had aconsiderable, if temporary, effect on current politics, and it appearedto Quisanté to be at once a fine conception and a notable opportunity;between these two aspects he did not, as Dick Benyon had foreseen, drawany very rigid line. To make the Church again a power with the masses;this done, to persuade the masses to use their power under the leadershipof the Church; this done, to harmonise unimpaired liberty of consciencewith a whole-hearted devotion to truth, and to devote both to ends whichshould unite the maximum of zeal for the Community with the minimum ofpolitical innovation, were aims which, if they were nothing else, mightat least claim to be worthy to exercise the intellect of superior men andto inspire the eloquence of orators. That a set of people on the otherside was professing to do the same things, with totally different andutterly wrong notions of the results to be obtained, afforded the whet ofantagonism, and let in dialectic and partisanship as a seasoning torelieve the high severity of the main topic. Quisanté's personalrelations with the Church had never been intimate; he was perhaps thebetter able to lay hold of its romantic and picturesque aspect. The Dean, for instance, was hampered and at times discouraged by a knowledge ofdetails. Dick Benyon had to struggle against the family point of view asregarded the family livings. Quisanté came almost as a stranger, ready tobe impressed, to take what suited him, to form the desired opinion and noother; if a legal metaphor may be allowed, to master what was in hisbrief, to use that to the full, and to know nothing to the contrary. TheEmpire was very well, but it was a crowded field; the new subject hadadvantages all its own and especial allurements. 

Yet Miss Quisanté laughed, as a man's relatives often will although therest of the world is unimpeachably grave. For any person engaged ingetting a complete view of Alexander Quisanté it was well to turn fromDick Benyon to Aunt Maria. So May Gaston found when she took the oldwoman at her word and went to see her, unaccompanied by Lady Attlebridge. She listened awhile to her caustic talk and then charged her roundly withnot doing justice to her nephew. 

"Sandro's caught you too, has he?" was her hostess's immediate retort. 

"No, he hasn't caught me, as you call it, Miss Quisanté, " said May, smiling. "I dislike a great deal in him. " She paused before adding, "What's more, I've told him so. "

"He'll be very pleased at that. "

"He didn't seem to be. "

"I didn't say he was pleased, I said he would be, " remarked Aunt Mariaplacidly. "No doubt you vexed him at the time, but when he's thought itover, he'll be flattered at your showing so much interest in him. "

"I shouldn't like him to take it like that, " said May thoughtfully. 

"It's the true way to take it, though. "

"Well then, I suppose it is. Except that there's no reason why myinterest should flatter anybody. " She determined on an offensive movementagainst the sharp confident old lady. "All his faults are merely faultsof bringing up. You brought him up; why didn't you bring him up better?"

Miss Quisanté looked at her for several moments. 

"I didn't bring him up well, that's true enough, " she said. "But, mydear, don't you run off with the idea that there's nothing wrong withSandro except his manners. "

"That's exactly the idea I have about him, " May persisted defiantly. 

"Ah!" sighed Aunt Maria resignedly. "Probably you'll never know him wellenough to find out your mistake. "

Warnings pique curiosity as often as they arouse prudence. 

"I intend to know him much better if he'll let me, " said May. 

"Oh, he'll let you. " The old lady's gaze was very intent; she had by nowmade up her mind that this must be Sandro's Empress. Had she beenomnipotent, she would at that moment have decreed that Sandro shouldnever see his Empress again; she was quite clear that he and his Empresswould not be good for one another. "I begin to hear them talking abouthim, " she went on with a chuckle. "He's coming into fashion, he's to bethe new man for a while. You London people love a new man just as you doa new craze. You're fine talkers too. I like your buzz. It's a great hum, hum, buzz, buzz. It turns some men's heads, but it only sharpens others'wits; it won't turn Sandro's head. "

"I'm glad you allow him some virtues. "

"Oh, if it's a virtue to look so straight forward to where you mean toget that nothing will turn your head away from it. "

"That's twisting your own words, Miss Quisanté. I don't think he's thatsort of man at all; he isn't the least your--your iron adventurer. He'sfull of emotion, of feeling, of--well, almost of poetry. Oh, not alwaysgood poetry, I know. But how funny that I should be defending him and youattacking him; it would be much more natural the other way round. "

"I don't see that. I know him better than you do. Now he's to championthe Church--or some such nonsense! What's Sandro got to do with yourChurch? What does he care about it?"

"He cared about his subject the other evening; you must admit that. "

"Oh, his subject! Yes, he cares about it while it's his subject. "

May laughed. "I want to take just one liberty, Miss Quisanté, " she said. "May I? I want to tell you that I think you're a great deal more thanhalf wrong about your nephew. "

"Even if I am, I'm right enough for practical purposes with the otherpart, " said the obstinate old woman. She leant forward and spoke with asudden bitter emphasis. "It's not all outside, he's wrong inside too. "

"It's too bad of you, oh, it really is, " cried May indignantly. "You whoought to stand up for him and be his greatest friend!"

"Oh, yes, I see! I've overshot my mark. I'm a blunderer. "

"Your mark? What mark? Why do you want to tell me about him at all?"

"I don't, " said Miss Quisanté, folding her hands in her lap and assumingan air of resolute reticence. But her eyes dwelt now with an imperfectlydisguised kindness on the tall fair girl who pleaded for justice and sawno justice in the answers that she got. But the more Aunt Maria inclinedto like May Gaston, the more determined was she not to palter with truth, the more determined to have no hand in giving the girl a false idea ofSandro. So far as lay in her power, Sandro's Empress should know thewhole truth about Sandro. 

The buzz of London, to which Miss Quisanté referred as beginning to soundher nephew's name, revealed to the ear three tolerably distinct notes. There were the people who laughed and said the thing was no affair oftheirs; this section was of course the largest, embracing all thenaturally indifferent as well as the solid mass of the opposite politicalparty. There were the people who were angry at Dick Benyon's interferenceand at his _protégé's_ impudence; in the ranks of these were most ofDick's political comrades, together with their wives and daughters. Herethe resentment was at the idea that there was any vacancy, actual orprospective, which could not be filled perfectly well without theintrusion of such a person as Quisanté. Thirdly there was the small butgradually growing group which inclined to think that there was somethingin Dick's notions and a good deal in his friend's head. A reinforcementcame no doubt from the persons who were naturally prone to love the newand took up Quisanté as a welcome change, as something odd, with aflavour of the unknown and just a dash of the mystery-man about him. 

The Quisanté-ites had undoubtedly something to say for themselves andsomething to show for their faith. Handicapped as he was by hissensational success at the Imperial League dinner, with its theatricaland faintly suspicious climax, Quisanté had begun well in the House. Hebroke away from his mentor's advice; Dick had been for more sensation, for storming the House; Quisanté rejected the idea and made a quiet, almost hesitating, entry on the scene. He displayed here a peculiaritywhich soon came to be remarked in him; on public occasions and in regardto public audiences he possessed a tact and a power of understanding thefeelings of his company which entirely and even conspicuously failed himin private life. The House did not like being stormed, especially on thestrength of an outside reputation; he addressed it modestly, bringinginto play, however, resources with which he had not been credited--atouch of humour and a pretty turn of sarcasm. He knew his facts too, anddisposed of contradictions with a Blue-book and a smile. Thehypercritical were not silenced; Marchmont still found the smile oily, and his friends traced the humour to districts which they supposed to liesomewhere east of the London Hospital; but they were bound to admitsorrowfully that, although all this was true, it might not, underdemocratic institutions, prove fatal to a career. 

Dick Benyon was enthusiastic; he told his friend that he had scoredabsolutely off his own bat and that there was and could be no morequestion of help or obligation. He was rather surprised by a display offeeling on Quisanté's part which seemed to indicate almost an excess ofgratitude; but Quisanté felt his foot on the ladder, and the wells ofemotion were full to overflowing. Dick escaped in considerableembarrassment, telling himself that remarkable men could not be expectedto behave just like other men, like his sort of man, but wishing theywould. None the less he praised what he hardly liked, and the reputationof being a good friend was added to Quisanté's credentials. Lastly, butfar from least in importance, a story went the rounds that a very greatveteran, who had taken a keen interest in Weston Marchmont, anddesignated him for high place in a future not remote, had recently warnedhim, in apparent jest indeed but with unmistakable significance, that itwould not do to take things too easily, or let a rival obtain too long astart. There was nobody of whom the Statesman could be supposed to bethinking, except the dark horse that Dick Benyon had brought into thebetting--Alexander Quisanté! Such predictions from such quarters have nosmall power of self-verification; they predispose lesser men to afatalistic acquiescence which smoothes the way of the prophecy. 

Marchmont, scorning the rival, was inclined to despise the dangers of thecontest, but his supineness may have been in part due to the occupationof his mind by another interest. He had come to the conclusion that hewanted May Gaston for his wife and that she would accept his proposal. Afew days before the Easter holidays began he betook himself to LadyAttlebridge's with the intention of settling the matter there and then. The purpose of his coming seemed to be divined; he was shown direct toMay's own room, and found her there alone. She had been reading a letterand laid it down on a table by her; Marchmont could not help his eyecatching the large printed address at the head of the sheet of paper, "Ashwood. " Ashwood was Dick Benyon's country place. A moment later Mayexplained the letter. 

"I've had a wail from Amy Benyon, " she said. "She wants me to go to themfor Easter and comfort her. Look what she writes: "You must come, dear. Imust be helped through, I must have a refuge. How in the world I ever didsuch a thing I don't know! But I did and I can't help it now. He'scoming! So you must come. We expect the Baxters and Mr. Morewood. But Iwant _you_. ""

"What has she done? Who's coming?" asked Marchmont. 

"Mr. Quisanté. "

He paused for a moment before he said, "You won't go, I suppose?"

"I must go if Amy wants me as much as that. Besides--well, perhaps it'llbe interesting. "

A chill fell on Marchmont, and its influence spread to his companion. Here at least he had hoped to be rid of Quisanté, to find a place wherethe man could not be met, and people to whom the man was as a friendimpossible. May read his thoughts, but her purpose wavered. She liked himvery much; that hot rebellious fit, which made her impatient of hislimits, was not on her now. He had found her in a more reasonable normalmood, when his advantages pleaded hard for him, and the limits seemedfigments of a disorderly transient fancy. Thus he had come happily, andsuccess had been in the mood to kiss his standards. 

"I wonder you can endure the man in the same house with you, " he said. 

She made no answer except to smile, and he spoke no more of Quisanté. Tohim it seemed that his enemy passed then and there from thought, as hisname disappeared from the conversation. But his own words had raiseddifficulties and turned the smooth path rough. They had renewed somethingof the rebellious fit and given fresh life to the disorderly fancies. They had roused her ready apprehensive pride, her swift resentment at theidea of having her friends or her associates chosen for her. She wouldhave said most sincerely then that Marchmont was far more to her in herheart than Quisanté was or could be, but neither from Marchmont nor fromany man would she take orders to drop Quisanté. While he opened his taleof love, her fingers played with the invitation to Ashwood and her eyesrested on Lady Richard's despairing declaration of the inevitable--"He'scoming!"

He almost won her; his soft "Can you love me?" went very near her heart. She wanted to answer "Yes" and felt sure that it would be in reality atrue response, and that happiness would wait on and reward the decisiveword. But she was held back by an unconquerable indecision, a refusal (asit seemed) of her whole being to be committed to the pledge. She had notresented the confidence of his wooing--she had given him some cause to beconfident; she pitied and even hated the distress into which her doubtthrew him. Yet she could do no more than say "I don't know yet. " He movedaway from her. 

"You'd better go away and leave me altogether, " she said. 

"I won't do that. I can't. "

"I can say nothing else--I don't know yet. You must give me time. "

"Ah, you mean 'yes'!" His voice grew assured again and joyful. 

She weighed the words in which she answered him. 

"No. If I meant yes, I'd say it. I wouldn't shilly-shally. I simply don'tknow yet. "

He left her and paced the length of the room, frowning. Her hesitationpuzzled him; he failed to trace its origin and fretted against a barrierthat he felt but could not see. She sat silent, looking at him in adistressed fashion and restlessly fingering Lady Richard's invitation. She was no less troubled than he and almost as puzzled; for the feelingthat held her back even while she wanted to go forward was vague, formless, empty of anything definite enough to lay hold of and bringforward as the plea that justified her wavering. 

"I ought to say no, since I can't say yes. This isn't fair to you, " shemurmured. 

He protested that anything was better than no, and his protest wasmanifestly eager and sincere; but a touch of resentment could not be keptout of his voice. She should have a reason to give him, something hecould combat, disprove, or ridicule; she gave him no opening, he couldnot answer an objection that she would not formulate. He pressed this onher and she made no attempt to defend herself, merely repeating that shecould not say yes now. 

"I've lost you, I suppose, and no doubt I shall be very sorry, " she said. 

At that he came up to her again. 

"You haven't lost me and you never will, " he said. "I'll come to youagain before long. I think you're strange to-day, not quite yourself, notquite the old May. It's as if something had got between us. Well, I'llwait till it gets out of the way again. "

Not so much his words as his voice and his eyes told her of a love deeperin him and stronger than she had given him credit for; he lived so muchin repression and exercised so careful a guard over any display offeeling. She liked the repression no less than the feeling and was againdrawn towards him. 

"I wish I could, " she murmured. "Honestly, I wish I could. "

He pressed her no more; if he had, she might possibly at last have givena reluctant assent. That he would not have, even had it been in his powerto gain it. 

"I'll come back--after the holidays, " he said. 

She looked up and met his glance. 

"Yes, after the holidays, " she repeated absently. 

"You go to Ashwood?"

There was a pause before she answered. It came into her mind suddenlythat it would have been strange to go to Ashwood as Weston Marchmont'spromised wife. Why she could not quite tell; perhaps because such aposition would set her very much outside of all that was being thoughtand talked of there, indeed in a quasi-antagonism to it. Anyhow theposition would make her feel quite differently towards it all. 

"Yes, " she answered at last, and mustered a laugh as she added, "I'm notso particular as you, you know. And Amy wants me. "

"I wish you always did what people want you to, " said he, smiling. 

Their parting was in this lighter vein, although on his side still tenderand on hers penitent. In both was a consciousness of not understanding, of being somehow apart, of an inexplicable difficulty in taking oneanother's point of view. The solution of sympathy, the break that May hadtalked of, made itself apparent again. In spite of self-reproaches, herstrongest feeling, when she was left alone, was of joy that her freedomstill was hers. 

 CHAPTER V. 

 WHIMSY-WHAMSIES. 

At Ashwood the sun was sinking after a bright April afternoon. Mrs. Baxter sat in a chair on the lawn and discoursed wisdom to May Gaston andMorewood. The rest of the party had gone for a walk to the top of whatLady Richard called "Duty Hill"; it was the excursion obligatory on allguests. 

"The real reason, " remarked Mrs. Baxter, who was making a garment--shewas under spiritual contract to make two a month--"why the Dean hasn'trisen higher is because he always has some whimsy-whamsy in his head. "

"What are they? I never have 'em, " said Morewood, relighting his pipe. 

"You never have anything else, " said Mrs. Baxter in a brief butsufficient aside. "And, my dear, " she continued to May, "what you want ina bishop is reliability. "

"The only thing I want in a bishop is absence, " grunted Morewood. 

"Reliability?" murmured May, half assenting, half questioning. 

"Yes, my dear, " said Mrs. Baxter, biting her thread. "Reliability. Ishall finish this petticoat to-morrow unless I have to drive with LadyRichard. You don't want him to be original, or to do much, except hisconfirmations and so on, of course; but you do want to be sure that hewon't fly out at something or somebody. Dan got a reputation for notbeing quite reliable. I don't know how, because I haven't time to go intohis notions. But there it was. Somebody told the Prime Minister and hecrossed out Dan's name and put in John Wentworth's. "

Morewood yawned obtrusively. "What a shame!" May murmured at random. 

"It's just the same with a husband, " Mrs. Baxter observed. 

"Only it's rather more difficult to scratch out his name and put in JohnWentworth's, " Morewood suggested. 

May laughed. "But anyhow the Dean's a good husband, isn't he, Mrs. Baxter?"

"Oh, yes, my dear. The same men very seldom fly out over notions and overwomen. "

Morewood raised himself to a sitting posture and observed solemnly, "The whole history of science, art, and literature contradicts that lastobservation. "

Mrs. Baxter looked at him for a brief moment and went on with thepetticoat. May interpreted her look. 

"So much the worse for the whole history!" she laughed. But a momentlater she went on, "I think I rather like whimsy-whamsies, though. "

"I should think you did, " said Morewood. 

"A man ought to have a few, " May suggested. 

"A sort of trimming to the leg of mutton? Only take care the mutton'sthere!"

"Oh, not the mustard without the beef!" cried May. 

"Now there's Canon Grinling, " said Mrs. Baxter. "That's the man Iadmire. "

"Pray tell us about him, " urged Morewood. 

"He's content to preach in his turn and work his parish. "

"How much better than working his head!"

"And he'll be a bishop--at least. "

"Is there anything worse?" growled Morewood disconsolately. 

Mrs. Baxter never became angry with him; she turned a fresh side of thepetticoat, smiled sedately, and went on with her work. 

"We had whimsy-whamsies last night, hadn't we?" asked May. 

"I went to bed, " said Morewood. 

"But Jenkins in the next parish, who has eight children, must take upwith the Salvation Army. So there's an end of him, " continued Mrs. Baxter. "Not that I pity him--only her. "

"They talked till two. I sat up, looking plainer and plainer everyminute. "

"Who was talking?"

"Oh, the Dean and Dick. " She paused and added, "And later on Mr. Quisanté. "

"Quisanté grows more and more anomalous every day. It's monstrous of aman to defy one's power of judgment as he does. "

"Does he defy yours?"

"Absolutely. And I hate it. "

"I rather like it. You know so well what most people are like inhalf-an-hour. "

"I'm splendidly forward, " remarked Mrs. Baxter, "This isn't an April one. I've done them, and this is my first May. "

It was impossible not to applaud and sympathise, for it was no later thanthe 27th of April. The friendly task performed, Morewood went on, "You're friends again, aren't you?"

"Well, partly. He spoke to me last night for almost the first time. "

"What was the quarrel?"

"I told him his manners were bad; and he proved how right I was bygetting into a temper. " She was silent a moment. Morewood saw her smileand then frown in apparent vexation. Then she looked down at him suddenlyand said, "But then--if you'd heard him last night!"

"There it is again!" said Morewood. "That's what annoys me so. In commonwith most of mankind, I like to be able to label a man and put him in hiscompartment. "

"That's just what you can't do with Mr. Quisanté. "

A loud merry boyish laugh sounded from the shrubbery behind him. ThenLady Richard came out, attended by young Fred Wentworth, son of that Johnwhose name had been put in when the Dean's was scratched out owing to asuspicion of whimsy-whamsies. Fred was a lively fellow, whose trinity ofoccupations consisted of shooting, polo, and flirting; they are set downin his own order of merit; by profession he was a soldier, and just nowhe adored Lady Richard hopelessly; he was tall, handsome, and no moresteady than the sons of ordinary men. 

"We gave them the slip beautifully, didn't we?" he was asking inexultation. "Think they're still on the top of the hill, jawing, LadyRichard?"

"I don't mind how long they stay there, " she answered, as she came acrossto the group on the lawn, a dainty youthful little figure, in her whitefrock and straw hat. "And how have you three been amusing yourselves?"she inquired. "I declare my head aches, Fred, " she complained. "Now isthe Church to swallow the State, or the other way round, or are they toswallow one another, or what?"

"Such a fine day too!" observed Mrs. Baxter. Morewood burst into a laugh. 

"To waste it on whimsy-whamsies!" cried May, joining in his mirth. 

She looked so handsome in her merriment that Fred's eyes dwelt on her fora moment, a new notion showing in their pleasant expanse of bluesimplicity. But loyalty's the thing--and a pleasant thing too when LadyRichard stood for it. Besides May Gaston was rather serious as a rule andgiven to asking questions; she might be able to flirt though; she justmight--if there had happened to be anybody for her to flirt with; hepitied her a little because there was not. 

"Mrs. Baxter, " said Morewood suddenly, "have you ever thought what wouldhappen if you stopped making petticoats?" She did not answer. "Itillustrates, " he went on, "the absurd importance we attach to ourselves. The race would get itself clothed somehow, even as Church and State willgo on, although they fail to settle that question of the swallowing onthe top of the hill. "

May alone was listening. "Don't you think it all makes any difference?"she asked in a low voice. 

"Not enough to stop enjoying one's self about, or to take any risks for. "

"I disbelieve you with my whole heart and soul; and, what's more, youdon't believe yourself, " she said. "To take risks is what we were givenlife for, I believe. "

"Whimsy-whamsies!" he jeered, jerking his thumb warningly towards Mrs. Baxter. 

To May it seemed curious how an utter absence of speculation and anhonest engrossment in everyday cares, hopes, and duties appeared toproduce an attitude of mind similar in many ways to that caused by anextensive survey of thought and a careful detachment of spirit from thepursuits of the vulgar. The expression was different; the man who was nowso much in her thoughts, Weston Marchmont, would not have denouncedwhimsy-whamsies. He would have claimed an open mind and protested that hewas ready to entertain every notion on its merits. But temper and tasteled to the same end as ignorance and simplicity; the philosopher and thehousewife met on a common ground of disapproval and disdain. Mrs. Baxterkept her house and made petticoats. Marchmont read his books, mixed withhis world, and did his share in his obvious duty of governing thecountry. Misty dreams, great cloudy visions, vague ideals, were forswornof both; they were all whimsy-whamsies, the hardly excusable occupationof an idle day in the country. Was such a coincidence of opinionconclusive? Perhaps. But then, as she had hinted to Morewood, what oflife? Was it not conclusive as to the merits of that also? Suddenly FredWentworth's voice broke across her meditation. 

"If you asked me what I wanted, " he said in a tone of great seriousness, "upon my honour I don't know what I should say, except another pony. " Hepaused and added, "A real good 'un, you know, Lady Richard. "

You might trust in God in an almost Quietist fashion (nothing less was atthe bottom of Mrs. Baxter's homely serenity), you might exhaustphilosophy and the researches of the wise, or you might merely be inexcellent health and spirits. Any of these three seemed enough to excludethat painful reaching out to dim unlikely possibilities which must in hermind henceforward be nicknamed whimsy-whamsies. But to May's temper thequestion about life came up again. She swayed between the opposing sides, as she had swayed between yes and no when Marchmont challenged her withhis love. 

Lady Richard's verdict about Quisanté--she gave it with an air oflaboured reasonableness--was that he proved worse on the whole than evenshe had anticipated. This pessimistic view was due in part to theconstant and wearing difficulty of getting Fred Wentworth to be civil tohim; yet May Gaston was half-inclined to fall in with it. The attitude ofoffence which he had at first maintained towards her was marked bypeevishness, not by dignity, and when it was relaxed his old excessivepoliteness revived in full force. He had few 'moments' either; and theone reported to her with enthusiasm by Dick Benyon took place on DutyHill while she was gossiping on the lawn. Disappointed in thehalf-conscious anticipation which had brought her to Ashwood, she beganto veer towards the obvious, towards safety, and towards WestonMarchmont. He had allowed himself one letter, not urging her, but verygracefully and feelingly expressed. As she walked through the village, the telegraph-office tempted her; her life could be settled for sixpence, and there would be no need of further thought or trouble. She was againheld back by a rather impalpable influence, by a vague unwillingness tocut herself off (as she would by such a step) from the mental stir which, beneath the apparent quiet of country-house life, permeated Ashwood. Thestir was there, though it defied definition; it was not due to Dick orthe Dean, though they shared in it; it was the mark of Quisanté'spresence, the atmosphere he carried with him. She recognised this with amixture of feelings; she was ashamed to dwell on his small faults in faceof such a thing; she was afraid to find how strong his attraction grew inspite of the intolerable drawbacks. Wavering again, she could not decidewhether his faults were fatal defects or trifling foibles. 

She saw that the Dean shared her doubts and her puzzle. He had a littletrick, an involuntary and unconscious shake of the head which indicated, as her study of it told her, not a mere difference of opinion, but a sortof moral distaste for what was said; it reminded her of a dog shaking hiscoat to get rid of a splash of dirty water. She came to watch for it whenAlexander Quisanté was talking, and to find that it agreed wonderfullywell with the invisible movements of her own mind; it came when the manwas petty, or facetious on untimely occasions, or when he betrayedblindness to the finer shades of right and wrong. But for all this theDean did not give up Quisanté; for all this he and Dick Benyon clung totheir scheme and to the man who was to carry it out. In her urgent desirefor guidance she took the Dean for a walk and tried to draw out hisinnermost opinions. He showed some surprise at her interest. 

"He's the last man I should have thought you'd care to know about, LadyMay, " he said. 

"That can be only because you think me stupid, " she retorted, smiling. 

"No! But I thought you'd be stopped _in limine_--on the threshold, youknow. "

"I see the threshold; and, yes, I don't like it. But tell me about thehouse too. "

"I've not seen it all, " smiled the Dean. "Well, to drop our metaphor, Ithink Mr. Quisanté has a wonderfully acute intellect. "

"Oh, yes, yes. "

"And hardly a wonderfully, but a rather noticeably, blunt conscience. Many men have, you'll say, I know. But most of the men we meet havesubstitutes. "

"Substitutes for conscience?" May laughed reprovingly at her companion. 

"Taste, tradition, the rules of society, what young men call 'goodform. '"

"Ah, yes. And he hasn't?"

"His bringing up hasn't given them to him. He might learn them. "

"Who from?"

"One would have hoped from our host, but I see no signs of it. " The Deanpaused, shaking his head "A woman might teach him. " He paused againbefore adding with emphasis, "But I should be very sorry for her. "

"Why?" The brief question was asked with averted eyes. 

"Because the only woman who could do it must be the sort of womanwho--whose teeth would be set on edge by him every day till theprocess--the quite uncertain process--was complete. "

"Yes, she'd have to be that, " murmured May Gaston. 

"On the whole I think she'd have an unhappy life, and very likely fail. But I also think that it would be the only way. " His round face brokeagain into its cheerful smile. "We shall have to make the best of him ashe is, Lady May, " he ended. "Heaven forbid that I should encourage anywoman to the task!"

"I certainly don't think you seem likely to, " she said with a laugh. "Itseems to come to this: his manners are bad and his morals are worse. "

"Yes, I think so. "

"But, as Dick Benyon would say, so were Napoleon's. "

"Exactly, and, as we know, Napoleon's wife was not to be envied. "

May Gaston was silent for a moment; then she said meditatively, "Oh, don't you think so?", and fell again into a long silence. The Dean didnot break it; his thoughts had wandered from the hypothetical lady whowas to redeem Quisanté to the realities of the great Crusade. 

There seemed to May something a little inhuman in the Dean's attitude, and indeed in the way in which everybody at Ashwood regarded Quisanté. Not even Dick Benyon was altogether free from this reproach, in spite ofhis enthusiasm and his resulting blindness to Quisanté's lesser, but notless galling, faults. Not even to Dick was he a real friend; none of themtook him or offered to take him into their inner lives, or allowed him toshare their deepest sympathies. Perhaps this was only to treat him as hedeserved to be treated; if he asked nothing but a mutual usefulness andaccommodation, that they should use him and he should rise by servingthem, neither party was deceived and neither had any cause to complain. But if after all the man was like most men, if his chilly childhood andhis lonely youth had left him with any desire for unreservedcompanionship, for true friendship, or for love, then to acquiesce in hisbad manners and his worse morals, to be content (as the Dean said) tomake the best of him--out of him would have been a more sincere form ofexpression--as he was, seemed in some sort cruelty; it was like growingrich out of the skill of your craftsmen and yet taking no interest intheir happiness or welfare. It was to use him only as a means, and to becontent in turn to be to him only a means; such a relative positionexcluded true human intercourse, and, it appeared to May, must intensifythe faults from which it arose. Even here, in this house, Quisanté wasalmost a stranger; the rest were easy with one another, their presencewas natural and came of itself; he alone was there for a purpose, camefrom outside, and required to be accounted for. If the talk with the Deanconfirmed apprehensions already existing, on the other hand it raised anew force of sympathy and a fresh impulse to kindness. But the sympathyand the apprehensions could make no treaty; fierce war waged betweenthem. 

That night the turn of events served Quisanté. He seemed ill and tired, yet he had flashes of brilliancy. Again it was made plain that, all saidand done, his was the master mind there; even Lady Richard had to listenand Fred Wentworth to wonder unwillingly where the fellow got hisnotions. After dinner he talked to them, and they gave him all their earsuntil he chose to cease and sank back wearied in his chair. But then camethe contrast. The Dean went to the library, Lady Richard strolled out ofdoors with Fred, Mrs. Baxter withdrew into seclusion with a novel and apetticoat, Dick Benyon asked May to walk in the garden with him, and whenshe refused went off to play billiards with Morewood. May had pleadedletters to write and sat down to the task. The man who a little while agohad been the centre of attention was left alone. He wandered about idlyfor a few moments, then dropped into a chair, seeming too tired to read, looking fretful, listless, solitary and sad. She watched him furtivelyfor some time from behind the tall sides of the old-fashioned escritoire;he sat very still, stretched out, frowning, pale. Suddenly she rose andcrossed the room. 

"It's too much trouble to write letters, " she said. "Are you inclined fora stroll, Mr. Quisanté?"

He sprang up, a sudden gleam darting into his eyes. She was afraid hewould make some ornate speech, but perhaps he was startled intosimplicity, perhaps only at a loss; he stammered out no more than"Thanks, very much, " and followed her through the doorway on to thegravel-walk. For a little while she did not speak, then she said, "It's good of you to be friends with me again. I was very impertinentthat night after your speech. I don't know what made me do it. "

He did not answer, and she turned to find his eyes fixed intently on herface. 

"We are friends again, aren't we?" she asked rather nervously; she knewthat she risked a renewal of the flirtation, and if it were again what ithad been her friendship could scarcely survive the trial. "I shouldn'thave said it, " she went on, "if I hadn't--I mean, if your speech hadn'tseemed so great to me. But you forgive me, don't you?"

"Oh yes, Lady May. I know pretty well what you think of me. " His lipsshut obstinately for a moment. "But I shall go my way and do my work allthe same--good manners or bad, you know. "

"Those are very bad ones, " she said, with a little laugh. Then she grewgrave and went on imploringly, "Don't take it like that. You talk as ifwe--I don't mean myself, I mean all of us--were enemies, people you hadto fight and beat. Don't think of us like that. We want to be yourfriends, indeed we do. "

"For whom are you speaking?" he asked in a low hard voice. 

She glanced at him. Had he divined the thought which the Dean's talk hadput into her head? Did he feel himself a mere tool, always an outsider, in the end friendless? If he discerned this truth, no words of hers couldthrow his keen-scented mind off the track. She fell back on simplehonesty, on the strength of a personal assurance and a personal appeal. 

"At any rate I speak for myself, " she said. "I can answer for myself. Iwant to be friends. "

"In spite of my manners?" He was bitter and defiant still. 

"They grow worse every minute; and your morals are no better, I'm told. "

"I daresay not, " said Quisanté with a short laugh. 

"Oh, say you won't be friends, if you don't want to! Be simple. There, Isay it again. Be simple. "

Lady Richard's merry laugh rang through the garden, and a brusque "Damnit!" of Morewood's floated out from the open window of the billiard-room. There was an odd contrast to this cheerful levity in the man's pale drawnface as he looked into May Gaston's eyes. 

"Do you really mean what you say?" he asked. "Or are you only trying tobe kind, to put me at my ease?"

"It's nobody's fault but your own that you're not always at your ease, "she replied. The rest she let pass; when she asked him to walk with hershe had only been trying to be kind, and she had been fearful of what herkindness might entail on her. But things went well; he was not flirtingand he was not acting; his manners, if still bad, were just now at leastnot borrowed, they were home-grown. 

"I am at my ease, " he told her. "At least, I was till----" He hesitated, and then went on slowly, "Don't you suppose I've been thinking about whatyou said?"

"I hope not; it wasn't worth it. "

"It was. But how can I change?" His voice had a touch of despair as wellas of defiance. "I don't see what you mean; I don't feel what you mean. Yes, and you talk of morals too. Well, don't I know that every now andthen I--I don't see those either?" He paused. "A man must get on as wellas he can with what he's got, " he resumed. "If he's only got one eye, hemust learn to be sharper than other men in looking round. "

They walked on in silence for some way. His pride and his recognition ofhis defects, his defiance and his pleading for himself, combined to touchher heart, and she could not at the moment speak to him more about them. And to find all that so near the surface, so eager for utterance, readyto break out at the least encouragement, at the first sign of sympathy!For it had not come home to her yet that another might have spoken to himas she had, but found no response and opened the gates to no confidence;she had not guessed what Aunt Maria had about the Empress among women. 

"You're ill too, " she said. 

"No, not for me, " he answered. "I'm pretty well for me. "

"Are you never really well?"

"My body's not much better than the other things. But I must use thattoo, as long as it'll last. " There was no appeal for pity in his voice;defiance was still uppermost. May felt that she must not let him see thatshe pitied him, either for his bad body, or his bad manners, or his badmorals, or his want of friends. He thought he had as much to give as toreceive. She smiled for a moment. But swift came the question--Was hewrong? But whether he were in fact right or wrong, it was harder to dealwith him on the basis of this equality than to stoop to him in the merefriendliness of compassion. The compassion touched him only, to acceptthe equality was to make admissions about herself. 

He was very silent and quiet; this might be due to illness or fatigue. But he was also curiously free from tricks, simple, not exhibitinghimself. These were the signs of one of his moments; but what broughtabout a moment now? A moment needed a great subject, a spur to hisimagination, an appeal to his deep emotions, a theme, an ideal. Themoments had not seemed to May things that would enter into or have anyconcern with private life and intimate talks; they belonged to DickBenyon's dark horse, not to the mere man Alexander Quisanté. Or had she alittle misunderstood the mere man? The thought crossed her mind that, even if she adopted this conclusion and contrived to come to a betterunderstanding of him, it would be impossible to make the rest of theworld, of the world in which she lived and to which she clung, seeanything of what she saw. They would laugh if her new position were apassing whim; they would be scornful and angry if it were anything more. 

Suddenly Quisanté spoke. What he said was not free from consciousness ofself, from that perpetual presence of self to self which is common enoughin men of great ability and ambition, and yet never ceases to be a flaw;but he said it soberly enough; there were no flourishes. 

"You can't be half-friends with me, " he said. "I must be taken as I am, good and bad. You must let me alone, or take me for better for worse. "

May smiled at the phrase he had happened on and its familiarassociations--surely so out of place here. But she followed his meaningand appreciated his seriousness. She could answer him neither by an onlyhalf-sincere assurance that she was ready to be entire friends, nor yetby a joking evasion of his point. 

"Yes, I see: I expect that is so, " she said in a troubled voice; it wasso very hard to take him for worse, and it was rather hard to resolve tomake no effort at taking him for better. She forced a laugh, as she said, "I'll think about it, Mr. Quisanté. "

As she spoke, she raised her eyes to his; a low, hardly audibleexclamation escaped her lips before she was conscious of it. If ever aman spoke plainly without words what was in his soul, Quisanté spoke itthen. She could not miss the meaning of his eyes; all unprepared as shewas, it came home to her in a minute with a shock of wonder that forbadeeither pain or pleasure and seemed to leave her numb. Now she saw howtruly she, no less than the others, had treated him as an outsider, as atool, as something to be used, not as one of their own world. For she hadnever thought of his falling in love with her, and had never consideredhim in that point of view at all. Yet he had, and here lay the reason whyhe flirted no more, and why he would have her sympathy only on eventerms. Here also, it seemed, was the reason why his tricks wereforgotten, why he was simple and direct; here was the incitement toimagination, the ideal, the passion that had power to fire and purge hissoul. 

"We must go in, " she whispered in a shaking voice. "We must go in, Mr. Quisanté. "

 CHAPTER VI. 

 ON DUTY HILL. 

Another week had gone by, and, although nothing very palpable hadhappened, there was a sort of vague scare in the house-party. It touchedeverybody, affecting them in different ways according to their characters, but raising in all an indignant protest against a fact hardly credibleand a danger scarcely to be named. Not even Mrs. Baxter, entrenched inplacidity and petticoats, quite escaped its influence; even Morewood'scynical humour hesitated to play on a situation so unexpected, possiblyso serious. Lady Richard's alarm was the most outspoken, and her dismaythe most clamorous; yet perhaps in Dick Benyon himself was the strongestfear. For if that did happen which seemed to be happening beneath theincredulous gaze of their eyes, who but he was responsible, to whoseaccount save his could the result be laid? He had brought the man intothe circle, into the house, into the knowledge of his friends; but forhim Quisanté might have been carving a career far away, or have given upany idea of one at all. 

More than this, Dick, seeking approval and sympathy, had looked round foropen and intelligent souls who would share his interest, his hopes, andhis enthusiasm, and on no soul had he spent more pains or built higheranticipations than May Gaston's. She was to sympathise, to share thehopes and to understand the enthusiasm. Had he not asked her to dinner, had he not brought her to the Imperial League banquet, had he not incitedLady Richard to have her at Ashwood? And now she spread this scarethrough the house; she outran the limits--all the reasonable limits--ofinterest, she did far more than ever he had asked of her, she castreflections on his judgment by pushing it to extremes whither it hadnever been meant to stretch. She had been bidden to watch AlexanderQuisanté, to admire his great moments, to see a future for him, and toapplaud the discerning eye which had seen that future first. But who hadbidden her make a friend of the man, take him into the inner circle, treat him as one who belonged to the group of her intimates, to thecompany of her equals and of those with whom she had grown up? Almostpassionately Dick disclaimed the responsibility for this; with no lessheat his wife forced it on him; relentlessly the course of events seemedto charge him with it. 

What would happen he did not know; none of them at Ashwood professed toknow; they refused to forecast the worst. But what had actually happenedwas that Quisanté was undoubtedly in love with May Gaston, and that MayGaston was no less certainly wrapped up in Quisanté. The difference ofterms was fondly clung to; and indeed she showed no signs of love as loveis generally understood; she displayed only an open preference for hissociety and an engrossed interest in him. It was bad enough; who couldtell when it might become worse? "I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat withyou, drink with you, nor pray with you. " Allowing for difference of timesand customs, that had been the attitude of all towards Quisanté; acaste-feeling, almost a race-feeling, dictated it and kept it alive andstrong under all superficial alliance and outward friendliness. But Mayhad seen the barrier only to throw it down in a passion of scorn for itsnarrowness and an impulse of indignation at its cruelty. If she had goneso far, he was bold who dared to say that she would not go farther, orwould set a limit to her advance on the path that the rest of them hadnever trodden. 

"At any rate it shan't happen here, " said Lady Richard. "I should neverbe able to look her mother in the face again. "

"It won't happen anywhere, " Dick protested. "But you can't turn him out, you know. "

"I can't unless I absolutely literally do. He won't see that he isn'twanted. "

"No; and he may be excused if he thinks he is--by May Gaston at allevents. "

The subject was one to be discussed between husbands and wives, Dick andLady Richard, Mrs. Baxter and the Dean, rather than in any more publicfashion, but the unexpressed thought pervaded every conversation, and wasstrongest when the presence of the persons concerned forbade evenindirect reference. Once or twice Morewood broke into open comment toLady Richard; he puzzled her rather, and did not console her at all. 

"I know why you object and how silly your grounds are, " he said. "It'ssnobbery in you, you know. Now in me it's good sound sense. Because inthe first place, if I were ten years younger, and ten times richer, andrather more of a man, I should like to marry her myself; and in thesecond place I'm not sure Quisanté hasn't forged, or isn't about toforge, a cheque for a million. "

"Don't talk about it, " shuddered little Lady Richard. "She can't care forhim, she can't, you know. "

"Certainly not, in the sentimental sense that you women attach to thatvery weak form of expression. "

"And I'm sure there's nothing else to tempt her. "

"You'll be laying down what does and doesn't tempt me next. "

"I've known her since she was a child. "

"There's nothing that produces so many false judgments of people. "

Lady Richard was far too prostrate to accept any challenge. 

"You do hate it as much as I do, don't you?" she implored. 

"Quite, " said he with restrained intensity. "But if you ask me, I thinkshe'll do it. "

A pause followed. "Fred Wentworth must have been waiting ever so long forme, " Lady Richard murmured apologetically, though an apology to Morewoodcould not soothe Fred. Her thoughts were busy, and a resolve was formingin her mind. "I shall ask Mrs. Baxter to speak to her, " she announced atlast. 

"That'll be amusing if it's nothing else. I should like to be there. "

Mrs. Baxter was by no means unwilling to help. She was mother to a largefamily and had seen all her children creditably married; such matters laywell within the sphere of legitimate feminine activity as she conceivedit. Of course the Dean told her she had better leave the thing alone, butit was evident that this was no more than a disclaimer of responsibilityin case her efforts did more harm than good. 

Mrs. Baxter advanced on approved and traditional lines. She slid into thespecial topic from a general survey of matrimonial desirability; May didnot shy, but seemed ready to listen. Mrs. Baxter ignored the possibilityof any serious purpose on May's side and pointed out with motherlygentleness that her impulsive interest in Quisanté might possibly bemisunderstood by him and give rise to an idea absolutely remote from anywhich it was May's intention to arouse. Then she would give pain;wouldn't it be better gradually, not roughly or rudely but by slowdegrees, to diminish the time she spent with Quisanté and the attentionshe bestowed on him? Mrs. Baxter's remonstrance, if somewhatconventional, yet was artistic in its way. 

But May Gaston laughed; it was all very familiar, sounded very old, andwas ludicrously wide of the mark. She had not been careless, she had notsuffered from the dangerous stupidity of ultra-maidenly blindness, sheknew quite well how Quisanté felt. Accordingly she would not acquiesce inMrs. Baxter's diplomatic ignoring of the only material point--how shefelt herself. Of course if all Mrs. Baxter meant to convey was her owndisapproval of the idea, --well, she conveyed so much. But then nobodyneeded to be told of that; it was quite obvious and it was not important;it was an insignificant atom in the great inevitable mass of disapprovalwhich any marked liking for Quisanté (May shrank from even thinking ofstronger terms) must arouse. She had far too much understanding of thedisapproval and far too much sympathy with it to underrate the probableextent and depth of it; to a half of herself she was with it, heart andsoul; to a half of herself the impulse that drove her towards Quisantéwas something hardly rational and wholly repulsive. What purpose, then, did Mrs. Baxter's traditional motherliness serve?

There was one person with whom she wished to talk, who might, shethought, help her to understand herself and thus to guide her steps. Forevery day it became more and more obvious that the matter would have tobe faced and ended one way or the other. Quisanté was not patient, and hewould not be dealt with by way of favour. And she herself was in aturmoil and a contradiction of feeling which she summed up antitheticallyby declaring that she disliked him more every hour he was there andmissed him more every hour he was not; or, to adopt the Dean's metaphor, his presence set her teeth on edge and his absence made her feel as ifshe had nothing to eat. Morewood might help her; he would at leastunderstand something of how she felt, if she could summon up courage totalk to him; they were old friends. 

One afternoon Quisanté had been sitting with them on the lawn and, goingoff to walk with Dick, left them alone together. Quisanté had not been ina happy vein; he had been trying to be light and flippant, and gossipingabout people; here, where good taste makes the whole difference betweenwhat is acceptable and what is odious, was not the field for him. Morewood had growled and May had flinched several times. She sat lookingafter Quisanté with troubled puzzled eyes. 

"How funnily people are mixed!" she murmured, more to herself than hercompanion. Then she turned to him and said with a laugh, "How you hatehim, don't you?"

"By all the nature of things you ought to hate him much more. "

"Yes, " she agreed. "But do you think that's the only way to look atpeople, any more than it is at books? You like or dislike a novel, perhaps; but you don't like or dislike--oh, what shall I say? Gibbon'sRoman Empire. There you admire or don't admire; or rather you study orneglect; because, if you study, you must admire. Don't think me learned;it's only an illustration. "

"Gibbon's a duty, " said Morewood, "but I'm not clear that AlexanderQuisanté is. "

"Oh, no; exactly the opposite; for me at least. "

"Is he then a curriculum?"

"He's partly a curriculum, and partly--I don't know--a taste for strongdrink perhaps. " She laughed reluctantly, adding, "I'm being absurd, Iknow. "

"In talk or in conduct?"

"Both, Mr. Morewood. I can only see him in metaphors. I once thought ofhim as a mountain range; that's fine-sounding and dignified, isn't it?But now I'm humbler in my fancies; I think of him as a forest--as thebush, you know, full of wretched underwood that you keep tumbling over, but with splendid trees (I don't know whether there are in the bush, really) and every now and then a beautiful open space or a statelyvista. "

"From all this riot of your fancy, " said Morewood grimly, "one only thingemerges quite plainly. "

"Does even one thing?"

"Yes. That you think about Quisanté a mighty lot. "

"Oh, yes. Of course I do, a mighty lot, " she admitted, laughing. "But youaren't very much more useful than Mrs. Baxter, who told me that myinnocent heedlessness might give Mr. Quisanté pain. I oughtn't to havetold you that, but it was rather funny. I'm sure she's said it to all theBaxter girls in turn, and about all the girls that all the Baxter boyswere ever in love with. "

"Possibly Mrs. Baxter only perceives the wretched underwood. "

"Inevitably, " said May. 

"For heaven's sake don't drift into thinking that you're the only personwho can understand him. Once think that about anybody and you're hisslave. "

"Perhaps I'm the only person who takes the trouble. I don't claim genius, only diligence. "

"Well, you're very diligent, " Morewood grunted. 

She sat looking straight in front of her for a few moments in silence, while Morewood admired the curve of her chin and the moulding of herthroat. 

"I feel, " she said in a low voice and slowly, "as if I must see whatbecomes of him and as if it ought to be seen at close quarters. "

Then Morewood spoke with deliberate plainness. 

"You know better than I do that he's not of your class; I mean inhimself, not merely where he happens to come from. And for my part I'mnot sure that he's an honest man, and I don't think he's a high-mindedone. "

"Do you believe people are bound to be always just what they are now?"she asked. 

"Thinking you can improve them is the one thing more dangerous toyourself than thinking you've a special gift for understanding them. Tobe quite plain, both generally end in love-affairs and, what's more, unhappy love-affairs. "

"Oh, I'm not in love with Mr. Quisanté. You're going back to your narrowloving-hating theory. "

"Hum. I'm inclined to think that nature shares my narrowness. "

If May got small comfort from this conversation, Morewood got less, andthe rest of the party, judging from what he let drop about hisimpressions of May's state of mind, none at all. Lady Richard was ofopinion that a crisis approached and re-echoed her cry, "Not hereanyhow!" But Quisanté's demeanour at once confirmed her fears and ignoredher protest. He had many faults and weaknesses, but he was not the man toshrink from a big stake and a great throw. His confidence in his powerswas the higher owing to his blindness to his defects. May Gaston hadindeed opened his eyes to some degree, but here again, as she showed himcontinued favour, he found good excuse for dwelling on the interest whichinspired rather than on the frankness which characterised her utterance. She had bidden him be himself; then to her that was a thing worth being. As he believed himself able to conquer all external obstacles in hispath, so he vaguely supposed that he could overcome and obliterateanything there might be wrong in himself, or at any rate that he could sooutweigh it by a more prodigal display of his gifts as to reduce it toutter insignificance; try as he might to see him self as she saw him, hecould not fully understand the gravity of her objections. And anyhow, grave as she thought them, she was his friend; at the cost of defying, perhaps of losing, her friends, she elected to be his friend. 

To the appeal of this generosity his emotions responded passionately; nowhe worshipped his Empress among women for more than her grace, herstateliness, or her beauty; he loved her for her courage and her loyalty. There seemed nothing that he would not do for her; it did not, however, occur to him that perhaps the one thing he could do for her was to leaveher. But short of this self-sacrifice--and to that even he might haverisen had anyone pointed him the way--he was in just that state ofexalted feeling which made him at his best, cured him of his tricks forthe time being, and gave him the simplicity whose absence marred hisordinary hours. He always rose to the occasion, Dick Benyon maintained;and to this great occasion he came marvellously near to rising. This isnot to say that he was altogether in the temper of a hero of romance. Heloved the lady, but he loved the victory too, the report of it, the_éclat_, the talk it would make. 

The tendency of events might seem to justify his growing hopes and almostto excuse confidence, but May's mood, had he seen it fully, would haverebuked him. She hung doubtful. She had succeeded, by the help of herfar-fetched metaphors, in describing to Morewood the nature of theattraction which Quisanté exercised over her and of the force which drewher on; but to Morewood she had said nothing of the opposing influences. She had sent no letter to Marchmont, she had not yet refused to becomehis wife. Although she recognised the unfairness of this treatment of himshe could not compel her hand to the writing of the letter; for Marchmontcame to personify to her all that she lost, that at least she risked, ifshe yielded to her new impulse. Thus the hold which her liking for him, their old acquaintance, and all the obvious advantages gave him wasfurther strengthened. Leaving on one side his position and the excellenceof the match, things which now seemed to her less important, and comingto the more intimate and personal aspect of the matter, she realised witha pang how much Marchmont pleased her; he never offended her taste orjarred on her feelings; she would be absolutely safe with him, he wouldgratify almost every mood and satisfy almost every aspiration. 

Dealing very plainly with herself, formulating the question that shecould not put to Morewood, she asked whether she would not rather go as awife to Marchmont than to any other man she had met, whether Quisanté oranother. She had been, perhaps still was, more nearly in love with WestonMarchmont than with anybody else. But the "almosts" were obstinate; thenearly had never become the quite; she did not tell herself that it nevercould; on the contrary she recognised (though here she was inclined toshirk the probe) that if she married another, she might well awake tofind herself loving Marchmont; she knew that she would not like Marchmontto love another woman. So far she carried her inquiry: then she grew in away sick and disgusted with this exposure of her inmost feelings. Shewould not proceed to ask why precisely she could not say yes to Marchmontwithout being sensible of a loss greater than the gain. All she knew wasthat she would not think of becoming Quisanté's wife if that were not theonly way of getting all she wanted from Quisanté. The wifehood she lookedon as a means to something else, to what she could hardly say; in itselfshe did not desire it. 

Lady Richard's prayer was answered--no thanks to herself or her hints, nothanks either to Mrs. Baxter's motherly remonstrance or to Morewood'sblunt speech. It was May herself who sent Quisanté away. A thrill ofrelief ran round the table when he announced at dinner that if LadyRichard would excuse him he would leave by the early train. Excuse him!She would have hired a balloon to take him if he had declared apreference for that form of locomotion. But she expressed the properregret and the proper interest in the reason (the pretext she called itin her own mind) for his departure. It appeared that a very large andimportant Meeting was to be held at Manchester; two Cabinet ministerswere to be there; Quisanté was invited to be the third speaker. Heexplained that he felt it would be a mistake to refuse the invitation, and the acceptance of it entailed a quiet day or two in London with hisBlue-books and his papers. As he put it, the whole thing sounded like anexcuse; Lady Richard hoped that it covered a retreat and that the retreatwas after a decisive repulse from May Gaston. Even Dick was half inclinedto share this opinion; for although he knew how a chance of shining with, and perhaps of outshining, such luminaries as were to adorn theManchester platform would appeal to his friend, he did not think that forits sake Quisanté would abandon any prospect of success in his suit. Infact the impression was general, and the relief proportionate. The Deanbeamed and Mrs. Baxter purred; Morewood was good-natured, and FredWentworth was lightened of a burden of bewilderment which had pressedheavily on his youthful mind. Quisanté was treated with a marked accessof cordiality, and May was petted like a child who has displayed a stronginclination to be naughty, but has at last made up its mind to be good, and thereby saved those responsible for its moral welfare from thedisagreeable necessity of showing displeasure and exercising discipline. She smiled to herself at the effusive affection with which Lady Richardbade her good-night. 

For these people did not know the history, and had not been present atthe interview between May and Quisanté on Duty Hill when the sun wassinking and the air was still. They did not know that it was by hercommand that he went and that his going rather strengthened than relaxedthe bond there was between them. Always there stood out in her memory thescene on the hill, how he faced her there and told her that, great as thechance was and imperative as the call, yet he would not go; he could notleave her, he said, and then and there poured out his love for her. Whenhe made love, he was not as when he flirted. Passion purged him; he wasstrong, direct, and simple; he was consumed then by what he felt and hadno time to spoil the effect by asking what impression he made on others. Here was the thing that Marchmont could not give her, the great moment, the thrill, the sense of a power in the man which she had not measured, might spend her life in seeking to measure, and yet never to the end knowin its fulness. But she answered not a word to his love-making, sheneither accepted nor refused it; as often as he paused an instant andagain when he came to the end, she had nothing to say or would saynothing except, "You must go. "

"You're the only person in the world for whose sake I would hesitateabout going. "

She smiled. "That's not at all to your credit, " she said; but she was notill pleased. 

He came a step nearer to her and said, still soberly, still quietly, "I'll go away from here to-morrow. "

"Yes, to the meeting, " she said, looking up at him brightly from her seaton the wooden bench on the hill-top. 

"Away from here, " he repeated. "But not to the meeting unless you sendme. " Then he stood quite still opposite to her for a minute. "Becauseunless you care for me to do it, I don't care to do it, " he went on. 

A long silence followed as she sat there, looking past him down into therich valley that spread from the foot of the hill. The fascination wasstrong on her, the fear was strong on her too; but for the moment therepulsion was forgotten. For he had risen to the occasion, as Dick Benyonmaintained that he always did; not a word too much, not an entreaty tooextravagant, not an epithet too florid had found passage from his lips. His instinct of the way to treat a great and important situation hadsaved him and brought him triumphantly through all the perils. He did notignore what he was, he did not disguise his knowledge of his powers;knowing what they were and the value of his offering, he laid them all ather feet and asked in return no more than her leave and her command touse them. 

She raised her eyes to his pale eager face. 

"I send you then, " she said. "And now walk with me down the hill and tellme what you'll say at Manchester. "

That night, before she went to bed, she wrote to Weston Marchmont;

 "Dear Friend, --I will not wait to see you again. I can't do what you wish. Everything else I could do for you, and everything else that you wish I wish for you. But I can't do that. "

Alas for the renewed peace of Lady Richard's mind, alas for the returningquiet of Dick Benyon's conscience! Quisanté made his preparations forgoing with his eyes all agleam, murmuring again and again, "She sends me;she shall see what I'm worth. " For one of his great moments had come inthe nick of time and done a work that he himself, low as he might now andagain fall, could hardly quite undo. 

 CHAPTER VII. 

 ADVICE FROM AUNT MARIA. 

The two Cabinet Ministers brought back from Manchester different accountsof Quisanté's speech and its effects. One said it was frothy rhetoricheard in puzzled lethargy, the other that it was genuine eloquencereceived with the hush of profound attention, but hailed at the end withrapturous enthusiasm. This was a typical case of the division of opinionwhich began to prevail about Quisanté, and was not disposed of byobserving that the unfavourable Minister belonged to that "old gang"which it was Quisanté's mission to shake up or shake out. Rich in merits, his speeches were nevertheless faulty to a critical ear; the ornate wasapt to turn to the gaudy, the dignified to the pompous. To the critical, defects outweigh merits; but the mass of people, not being critical, fixon the fine things, contentedly and perhaps not unwisely ignoring theblemishes. So the speech was a great popular success, and AlexanderQuisanté conceived that he had more than justified his reputation and hadornamented his Lady's colours with the laurel of victory. He wrote to herto say that he was staying a few days in Lancashire and had arranged tospeak at one or two other places. "If I do at all well, " he wrote, "it isbecause I forget my audience and think that I speak only to you and toearn the praise of your eyes. "

"Oh, dear, why does he talk like that?" said May Gaston with a sigh and asmile. "Forget his audience! The praise of my eyes!" She read thecompliment over again almost despairingly. "Yet he doesn't really thinkme an idiot, " she ended. She had made up her mind to forgive him hishabit of playing to the gallery, but he need not treat her as though shesat there. She felt able to understand the dumb and bewildered reproachwhich fronted her in her sister Fanny's face, but found spoken expressiononly in the news that Fanny had had a letter from Lady Richard. 

The next day she went to see Miss Quisanté; the paying of this visit hadbeen in her mind from the first moment she left Ashwood. In the littleflat's narrow passage she had to squeeze by a short, stout, dark man, dressed with much elaboration; Miss Quisanté explained afterwards that hewas a sort of cousin of her own and Sandro's. 

"His name is Mandeville, " she said. "His father's was Isaacs. You knew wehad Jewish relations?"

"I thought it not improbable. "

"I suppose we've got some of the blood, and some of it's a very goodthing, " pursued Aunt Maria. "This man's a stock-jobber; he came to talkto me about my money, but he let out a thing or two about Sandro. "

"About Mr. Quisanté?"

"Yes. Well, I'm not surprised; I never am surprised at Sandro. Only if hespeculates with my money I shan't give it him. "

May listened and heard how Quisanté had embarked the five hundred poundsgiven him to support his new position in a hazardous, although notunpromising, speculation. Whether he would win or lose was stilluncertain; Mandeville had hopes. 

"And I don't know that it's exactly dishonest, " said Aunt Mariameditatively. "But that's just like Sandro. He's always doing things thatyou can't be quite sure about--whether they're straight or not, you know. He was just the same as a boy. "

May had a sense of treachery in listening, but how should she not listen?Morewood's opinion came into her memory. Miss Quisanté was confirming itout of her full acquaintance with its subject. 

"I gave him the money, it was his own, I've got nothing to show, " saidMiss Quisanté with her vinegary little smile. 

"Perhaps he--he misunderstood what you meant; I mean, that you intendedthe money for any special purpose. "

"That's exactly what he'll say, " remarked Aunt Maria with a triumphantnod. 

"But if it's true----"

"I shan't know whether it's true or not. That's where Sandro's clevernesscomes in. "

It was hard to realise that the old lady talked of the man whom herhearer had seen on Duty Hill. 

"I'm sure you don't do him justice. " The plea sounded weak even to itsutterer. 

"To an ounce, " said Aunt Maria emphatically. May laughed. "I lived withhim for twelve years, and I'm not a fool any more than he is. If you askhim about me, you'll get the truth, and you get it when you ask me abouthim. After twelve years I ought to know. "

"You've read his speech?" May asked. "Isn't it magnificent, parts of itanyhow?"

"Very few men have a brain like Sandro's. "

"There I agree with you, Miss Quisanté. " But May's face was troubled asshe added, a moment later, "He ought to give you back your money, though. "

"He will, if he makes a lot out of it, and he'll give me a nice presenttoo. Then he'll feel that he's acted quite properly all through. And ifhe loses it--well, as I say, he's got his case, and I can't proveanything. "

"Men like him are often careless about money affairs. It's only that, Iexpect. "

"Careless! Sandro careless! Oh, dear me, no. " and for once Miss Quisantélaughed heartily. The beads on her cap shook as her dumpy little formswayed gently with mirth; she looked impishly delighted at such amisconception of her nephew's character. May felt very foolish, but couldnot help laughing herself. 

"Well, I won't plead his cause any more, " she said. "Only I believeyou're prejudiced. " She paused, and then, looking the old woman in theface, added, "I ought to tell you that he and I have become greatfriends. "

Miss Quisanté had stopped laughing; now she made a gesture which seemedto indicate that she washed her hands of any responsibility. But sheappeared fretful and disturbed. 

"I'm immensely impressed by him; and I think these faults you talk somuch about are only superficial. They can't really belong to his naturewhen so much that's fine does. " Her voice shook a little as she imploreda merciful judgment from the relentless old lady. Aunt Maria's shrewdeyes grew softer. 

"I used to say that to myself for ever so long, " she said. "I catchmyself saying it now and then even now. "

"You're disappointed at not--not getting on better with him, and it makesyou bitter. "

"And you? You get on very well with him?"

"I don't think I'm blind about him. I see what you mean and what a lot ofpeople feel. If there is a pit, I've walked into it open-eyed. "

"He's in love with you, of course?"

A denial was hardly worth while and quite useless. "You must ask himthat, Miss Quisanté, " May replied. Aunt Maria nodded and gazed at herlong and steadily. 

"Yes, you're his Empress among women, " she said at last with a littlesneer. "Sandro has a phrase for everything and everybody. And are you inlove with him?"

May had wanted to come to close quarters and was glad that Aunt Mariagave her a lead. But she did not return a direct answer to the question. 

"You wouldn't be encouraging, if I were thinking of becoming his wife. "

"It would be very extraordinary that you should. "

"I've no particular desire to be ordinary, " said May, smiling. 

Miss Quisanté leant forward suddenly and held up a short forefinger. 

"My dear, you'd be very unhappy, " she said. Then she leant back again andreceived in complete stillness May's meditative gaze. 

"In a good many ways perhaps I should, " said May at last with a sigh, andher brow puckered with wrinkles. "Yes, I suppose so, " she sighed again. 

"But I know what it is. You've let yourself get interested in Sandro;you've let him lay hold of you. " May nodded. "And it would seem ratherdull now to lose him?" Again May nodded, laughing a little. Aunt Mariaunderstood her feelings very well, it seemed. "I should be dull too if Ilost him. " The old lady folded her hands in her lap. "There is that aboutSandro, " she said with a touch of pride in her voice. "I don't like him;well, you've gathered that perhaps; but if anything happened to him, Ishould feel I might as well lie down and die. Of course I've got nobodyelse belonging to me; you're not like that. " Again the forefinger wasraised in admonition, and Miss Quisanté gave a piece of practical advice. "Marry a nice man of your own sort, my dear, and when you're safelymarried, be as much interested in Sandro as you like. "

May was not quite sure of the morality of this counsel; it seemedpossible that Aunt Maria shared the vagueness about right and wrong whichshe quarrelled with in her nephew. She laughed as she said, "But then Mr. Quisanté would marry some other woman, and she mightn'tlike it. And my nice husband mightn't like it. "

It was possible to discuss the matter far more frankly with Miss Quisantéthan with anybody else, yet the talk with her was only the first ofseveral in which May tried to glean what would be thought of such a stepas marrying Alexander Quisanté. Almost everywhere she found, not only thelack of encouragement which Aunt Maria had shown, but an amazement hardlydistinguishable from horror and an utter failure to understand her pointof view; her care to conceal any personal interest in the discussions shefound means to bring about gained her very candid expressions of opinionabout Quisanté, and she became aware that her world would regard her assomething like a lunatic if it awoke one morning to read of herengagement to the man. 

Yet side by side with this feeling there was a great and a growingexpectancy with regard to him in his public aspect. He began to be afigure, somebody of whom account would have to be taken; Dick Benyon'sinfatuation was less often mentioned, his sagacity more often praised. May was struck again with the sharp line drawn between the man himself, and what he was to do, with the way in which everybody proposed to invitehim to his house, but nobody contemplated admitting him to his heart. Theinhumanity made her angry again, but she was alone in perceiving it; andshe was half-aware that her perception of it would be far keener thanQuisanté's own. In fact it was very doubtful if he asked any more of theworld than what the world was prepared to give him. But that, said May, was not because he lacked the power and the desire of love, but becausehis affections were withered by neglect or rusty from disuse. She knewwell that they were there and would expand under the influence ofsympathy. If people grew human towards him, he would respond in kind; inhitting on this idea she commended herself for a sagacity in questions ofemotion not less than that which Dick Benyon had shown in matters of theintellect. Dick had discovered Quisanté, as he thought; May told herselfthat he had discovered only half of Quisanté, and that the other half hadbeen left for her to explore, and to reveal to the world. The effect ofher various conversations was rather to confirm her in her inclinationtowards Quisanté than to frighten her out of it. 

There was one talk which she could not escape and had to face with whatresolution she might. Weston Marchmont was not content with the briefdismissal which had reached him from Ashwood, and he was amazed beyondunderstanding at the hint of its cause which Dick Benyon had given him. He had no doubt some reason to think himself ill-used, but he was notinclined to press that side of the case. It was not his own failure somuch as the threatened success of such a rival that staggered andhorrified him. Few are wide-minded enough to feel a friendship quiteuntouched and unimpaired when their friend takes into equal intimacy athird person for whom they themselves entertain aversion or contempt; atthe best they see in such conduct an unexpected failure of discernment;very often they detect in it evidence of a startling coarseness offeeling, an insensibility, and a grossness of taste difficult to toleratein one to whom they have given their affection. Marchmont felt that, ifMay Gaston wronged him, she was wronging far more herself, and most ofall his ideal of her. He could not believe such a thing of her withouther own plain assurance, and would not suffer it until every effort toredeem and rescue her was exhausted. 

"You don't mean, " he said at last openly and bluntly to Dick Benyon, "that you think it's possible she'll marry him?"

"I do, quite, " groaned poor Dick. "You can imagine how I feel about it;and if I didn't see it myself, Amy would soon let me know it. "

Marchmont said no more, feeling that discussion was difficult for one inhis position, but Dick did not spare him a description of what hadhappened at Ashwood, from which he realised the gravity of the danger. 

"After all, he's a very remarkable man, " Dick pleaded, in a forlorneffort at defending himself no less than the lady. 

Marchmont found May in a mood most favourable to the cause he had atheart, if he had known how to use his opportunity to the best advantage. From day to day now she wavered between the fear and the fascination, andon this day the fear was stronger and, working together with heraffection for Marchmont, might well have gained him the victory. Ill-usage of Quisanté would perhaps have been involved here, but Maywould not have stood at that, had it been made plain to her heart that inthe end the man could not be accepted or endured. To win, Marchmontshould have made love to her in his own way, refused to accept hisdismissal, and pressed his own suit on his own merits, leaving his rivalto stand the contrast as he best might, but not dragging him explicitlyinto the issue between himself and May. He did not take this course; tohis pride it was difficult to plead passionately again when his formerpleading had been rebuffed; and the intensity of his desire to show herthe truth about Quisanté, and at all costs to rescue her from Quisanté, made him devote more energy to denouncing his rival than to recommendinghimself. Thus he set May to defend the absent friend rather than to pityand be drawn towards the suitor who was before her. Yet in spite of hismistaken tactics, he shook her sorely; all that was in his favour camehome to her with renewed force; she looked on him with pleasure and heardhis voice again with delight; it was very pleasant to her to be with him;she admitted to herself that very, very easily she might be in love withhim. Old Miss Quisanté's advice recurred to her mind; was this the nicehusband who would give her a safety not incompatible with a continuedinterest in Alexander Quisanté? She smiled regretfully; Marchmont did notfit at all into Aunt Maria's scheme. 

"I don't want to question you, " he said, "but if you will speak plainlyto me I shall be glad. The change came at Ashwood?"

"There's been no change; there's been a failure to change. When I saw youlast, I thought I might change so as to be able to do what you wanted. Now I know I can't. "

"And why?" She was silent; he went on, speaking lower. "Is there anytruth at all in what Dick Benyon thinks? It seemed to me incredible. Willyou tell me that I may utterly disbelieve that at all events?"

"No, I can't tell you to disbelieve it utterly. "

The love for her which was his strongest appeal left his face; he lookedaghast, at a loss, almost disgusted. His hands moved in a gesture ofprotest. 

"I don't tell you to believe it. I can tell you nothing about it justnow. I admit you had a right to ask me, but I can say nothing more now. "

Again the chance offered for him to make her forget Quisanté or rememberhim only by a disadvantageous comparison. His honest desire to save hercombined again with bitter prejudice to lead him wrong. 

"I can't believe it of you, " he declared. "I can't have been so wrongabout you as that. "

"I see nothing to prevent you from having been absolutely wrong aboutme, " she said coldly, "as wrong about me as you are about--other people. "

"If you mean----"

"Oh, yes, let's be open with one another, " she cried. "I mean Mr. Quisanté; you're utterly wrong and prejudiced about him. "

"He's not even a gentleman. "

"I suppose he goes to the wrong tailor!" said May scornfully. 

He came a step nearer to her. "You know I don't mean that sort of thing, nor even other things that aren't vital to life though they're desirablein society. He hasn't the mind of a gentleman. "

Now she wavered; she sat looking at him with troubled eyes, feeling hewas right, desiring to be persuaded, struggling against the opposingforce. But Marchmont went on fretfully, almost peevishly, "The astonishing thing is that you're blind to that, that you don't seehim as he really and truly is. "

"That's just what I do, " she cried eagerly and almost angrily. Marchmont's words had brought back what Quisanté could be; surely a man'sbest must be what he really and truly is? Then his true self shows itselfuntrammelled; the measure of it is rather the heights to which it canrise than the level on which it moves at ordinary times. She rememberedQuisanté on Duty Hill. "That's what I do, and you--you and all ofthem--don't. You fix on his small faults, faults of manner--oh, yes, andof breeding too, I daresay, perhaps of feeling too. But to see a man'sfaults is not to see the man. " She rose to her feet and faced him. "I seehim more truly than you do, " she said proudly and defiantly. Then herface grew suddenly soft, and she caught his hand. "My dear friend, mydear, dear friend, " she murmured, "don't be unkind to me. I'm not happyabout it; how can I be happy about it? Don't make it worse for me; I'mtrying to see the truth, and you might help me; but you only tell me whatleaves out more than half the truth. "

He would not or could not respond to her gentleness; his evil spiritpossessed him; he gave expression to his anger with her and his scorn ofhis rival, not to his own love and his own tenderness. 

"It turns me almost sick, " he declared, "to think of you with him. "

She let go his hand, moved away, and sat down. "If you're like that, Ican say no more, " she said. Her eyes were full of tears as she looked athim, but his heart was hard to her; to him she seemed to be humiliatingboth him and herself; the victory of Quisanté at once insulted him anddegraded her. Here was a case where Alexander Quisanté, with all hisdefects, would have gone right, while Marchmont went wrong. It was acrisis, and Quisanté's insight would have taught him how to handle it, toassure her that whatever she did he would be the same to her, that thoughhe might not understand he would be loyal, that his love only grewgreater with his pain, that in everything that awaited her he would beready with eager service and friendship unimpaired. None of this camefrom Marchmont's lips; he made no effort to amend or palliate his lastbitter speech. He could not conquer his resentment, and it bred ananswering resentment in her. "You must think what you like of me, " shesaid, her voice growing cold again. 

With the end of this interview, with the departure of Marchmont, stillsore, angry, and blind to her point of view, May felt that the matter hadsettled itself. She knew in her heart that she would not have turnedMarchmont away unless she had meant to bid Quisanté come. For a littlewhile she struggled against finality, telling herself that the questionwas still an open one, and that to refuse one man was not of necessity tomarry another. Other friends came and talked to her, but none of them gotwithin her guard or induced her to speak freely to them. In the end shehad to settle this thing for herself; and now it was settled. 

Even when undertaken in the conviction of a full harmony of feeling, acommunity of mind, and an identity of tastes, marriage may startle by theextent of its demands. She was to marry a man--she faced the matter andtold herself this--a man from whom she was divided by the training of alifetime, by antagonisms of feeling so acute as to bite deep into theirevery-day intercourse, by a jarring of tastes which made him sometimesodious to her. In spite of the resentment to which Marchmont's scorn hadstung her, she understood very well how it was that her friends failed toappreciate the motives of her action. To herself she could not justifyit; it was taken on impulse, not calculation, and had to rest in the endon the vague effects of what she had seen in Quisanté, not continually, not in his normal state, but by fits and snatches, in scraps of timewhich, all added together, would scarcely fill the hours between luncheonand dinner. She took him on the strength of his moments; that was thecase in plain English, reduced to its lowest terms and its baldeststatement. Of confidence, of security, of trust she had none; their placewas filled by a vague expectancy, an insistent curiosity, and a puzzledfearful fascination. Not promising materials these, out of which to makehappiness. She surprised herself by finding how little happiness in itsordinary sense entered into her reckoning. Or if anything that we happento want is to be called our happiness, then her happiness consisted in, and refused to be analysed into anything more definite than, a sort ofnecessity which she felt of being near to Alexander Quisanté, of sharinghis mind and partaking of his life. But if this were happiness, thenhappiness was not what she had been accustomed to think it; where werethe rest, the contentment, the placidity and satisfaction which the wordwas usually considered to imply?

 * * *

Quisanté came to her, wreathed in triumph. It was a mood she liked himin; he offended her not when he celebrated success, but when he intriguedfor it. His new-born confidence seemed to make any drawing-back on herpart impossible; she had sent him, she was bound to reward the happyissue of her mission. Another thing touched her very deeply; whileprotesting his unworthiness of her, he based his humility on the specialand wonderful knowledge of her that he possessed and referred it entirelyto this inner secret excellence of hers and not in the least to herposition or to any difference between his and hers. He did not supposethat society would be aghast or that the world at large would see causefor dismay in the marriage. He expected hearty congratulations forhimself, but it was evident that he thought she would have her full shareof them too; he had, in fact, no idea that May Gaston would not bethought to be doing very well for herself. This mixture of simplicity andself-appreciation, of ignorance of the mind of others combined with aknowledge of the claims of his own, took May's fancy; she laughed alittle as she determined that the general opinion of the matter must bekept from his ears, and his robust confidence in the world's admirationof him preserved. 

"You say you know me so well, " she said. "I know very, very little ofyou; and of what I know there's a lot that's bad. "

He was not in the temper that had inspired his confession of bad mannersand bad morals on Duty Hill. He was inclined, as at such a moment hemight be pardonably, to make light of his faults. He was not alarmed whenshe declared that if she found out anything very bad she would not afterall become his wife. 

"At any moment that you repent, you're free, " he said gaily. But sheanswered gravely, "There'll be a great many moments when I shall repent. You see I don'tthink I really love you. " He looked puzzled. "You know what I mean? Reallove is so beautifully undiscriminating, isn't it? I'm not a bitundiscriminating about you; and that'll make me miserable often; it'llmake you angry too. You'll forget that I said all this, that I told youand warned you. I shall be (she smiled again for a moment) a critic onthe hearth. And nobody hardly understands criticism as badly as you do. "

"What a lot of reasons for refusing me!" he said, still gay, though witha hint of disturbance in his manner. "And yet you don't refuse. "

The old answer which was all she could give to herself was all that shefound herself able to give him. 

"Somehow I can't do without you, you see, " she said. Then she suddenlyleant forward and went on in a low imploring voice, "Don't be worse thanI've ever thought. There are some things I couldn't stand. Please don't. "Her eyes, fixed on to his, prayed a reassurance against a horde of vaguedangers. 

He laughed off the question, not understanding how or why she came to putit, and their talk passed to a lighter vein. But presently he said, witha half-embarrassed, half-vexed laugh, "Need we sit so far from oneanother?"

May had suffered from a dread of the beginning of sentiment. But she waslaughing as she rose and, crossing the room, sat down by him on the sofa. "Here I am then, " she said, "and you may kiss me. And if you will ask meI'll kiss you; only I don't particularly want to, you know. I don't thinkof you in the very least as a man to be kissed. I've thought of other menmuch more in that way--oh, only thought of them, Mr. Quisanté!"

The playful, yet not meaningless, defiance of a softer mood, and of hispower to induce it in her, acted as a spark to Quisanté's ardour. It wasjust the opposition that he had wanted to rescue him from awkwardness. Herecovered the splendid intensity which had marked his declaration on DutyHill. If he did not succeed in changing her feelings, at least he set herwondering why they did not change and wrung from her the smilingadmission, "You're very picturesque anyhow. " She did not deny vehementlywhen he told her that he would make her love him as he loved her. "Well, I never use the word impossible about you, " she said. "Only--it hasn'thappened yet, you know. " She paused and added, with a touch of revivingapprehension, "And I mayn't always like you to behave as if ithad--though I don't mind much to-night. "

His manner was good, almost defying criticism, as he reassured her onthis point; and when he left her, her predominant impression was that, sofar as their personal relations went, she had exaggerated the dangers andunder-rated the attractions. 

"I think he'll always be rather nice to me and not do anything verydreadful. But then, what will he do to other people?"

This was the fear which still possessed her and which no fine moment ofhis drove out. She seemed to have power to bring him to his best, to givehim the cue for his fine scenes, to create in him the inspiration togreat moments. But when he dealt with other people, her power would beuseless. She would have to stand by and see him at his worst, looking onno longer as an irresponsible, as well as a helpless, spectator, but asone who had undertaken responsibility for him, who must feel for him whathe did not for himself, who must be sensitive while he was callous, wounded while his skin went unpierced. She felt that she had taken up avery solitary position, between him and the world, not truly at home witheither; a sense of loneliness came upon her. 

"I shall have to fight the whole world, " she said. "I wonder if my causeis a good one?"

 CHAPTER VIII. 

 CONTRA MUNDUM. 

It was impossible not to admire the wealth of experience which Mrs. Baxter had gathered from a singularly quiet life; many men have gone halfa dozen times round the world for less. Whatever the situation, whateverthe action, she could supply a parallel and thereby forecast an issue. Superficial differences did not hinder her; she pierced to the underlyinglikeness. When all the world was piteously crying out that never in itslife had it heard of such an affair as this of May Gaston's, Mrs. Baxterdived into her treasure-chest and serenely produced the case of theNonconformist Minister's daughter and the Circus Proprietor. Set thisaffair side by side with the Quisanté business, and a complete sum indouble proportion at once made its appearance. The audacity of the man, the headlong folly of the girl, the hopeless mixing of incompatibles werecommon to the two cases; the issue of the earlier clearly indicated thefate that must attend the later. Lady Richard could do nothing but gaspout, "And what happened, Mrs. Baxter?"

Mrs. Baxter told her, punctuating the story with stitches on a Junepetticoat. 

"She ran away from him twice; but he brought her back, and, they said, beat her well. At any rate she ended by settling down to her new life. They had seven children, all brought up to the circus; only the other dayone was sent to prison for ill-treating the dancing bear. He's dead, butshe still keeps the circus under his name. Of course all her old friendshave dropped her; indeed I hear she drinks. Her father still preachesonce on Sundays. "

It was easy to disentangle the relevant from the merely reminiscent; therunning away, the beating, the settling down, the complete absorption inthe new life (vividly indicated by the seven children and their habits), stood out saliently. Add the attitude of old friends, and Lady Richardcould not deny the value of the parallel. She acknowledged it with along-drawn sigh. 

"May Gaston must be mad, " she observed. "You can imagine how Dick feelsabout it!"

"And all the while her cousin in the Bank was quite ready to marry herand give her a nice little home. He was Church and sang in the choir atSt. Dunstan's. "

Without consciously appreciating the nicety of the parallel here, LadyRichard began to think of Weston Marchmont. 

"I suppose Mr. Marchmont'll take Fanny now, " she said. "I don't know, though; he won't like any sort of connection with Alexander Quisanté. Howselfish people are! They never think of what their marriages mean totheir relations. "

This observation expressed a large part of what was felt by society; addfriends to relations, and it summed up one side of the indictment againstMay Gaston. Lady Attlebridge's helpless and bewildered woe was oneinstance of its truth, Fanny's rage another; to look farther afield, May's friends and acquaintances discovered great cause for vexation inthat they saw themselves somehow "let in for" Quisanté. At least thealternative was to drop May Gaston as entirely as the unfortunate circusproprietor's wife had been dropped; and this alternative was a difficultone. Had Quisanté's raid resulted in the seizure of some insignificantcolourless girl who had been merely tolerated for the sake of who she waswithout possessing any claims in respect of what she was, the droppingwould have been easy; but May was not of that kind. She was not only oneof them, but very conspicuous among them, one of their ornaments, one inwhom they took pride; they would have acknowledged in her a naturalleader so soon as a suitable marriage gave her the necessary status andexperience. Her treachery was the more flagrant, Quisanté's presumptionthe more enormous, their own course of action the more puzzling todecide. 

Yet in their hearts they knew that they must swallow the man; events weretoo strong for them. Dick Benyon had forced him on them in one side oflife, May Gaston now did the like in another; henceforward he must be andwould be among them. This consciousness mingled an ingredient of asperitywith their genuine pity for May. She would not merely have herself tothank for the troubles which would certainly come upon her; hermisfortunes must be regarded as in part a proper punishment for theannoyance she was inflicting on her friends. As for Dick Benyon, it wasimpossible to speak to him without perceiving that if remorse be in truththe sharpest penalty of sin, he was already punished enough. 

The poor man's state was indeed such as to move compassion. Besides hisold friend Lady Attlebridge's dumbly accusing eyes, besides Fanny's andLady Richard's by no means dumb reproaches, a very heavy blow had fallenon him. In the words of his own complaint, his brother Jimmy had goneback on him--and back on his allegiance to Alexander Quisanté. Theengagement was too much for Jimmy, and in the revulsion of feeling hebecame downright hostile to Quisanté's claims and pretensions. How couldhe not when Fanny Gaston imperiously and almost tearfully commanded himto attach himself to her banner, and to behold with her eyes theindignity suffered by the noble family of Gaston? Logic was not Jimmy'sstrong point, and he confounded poor Dick by the twofold assertion thatthe thing was utterly incredible, and that Dick and he had been mostinconceivably idiotic not to have foreseen it from the first hour thatthey took up Quisanté. In this stress of feeling the brothers spoke toone another with candour. 

"You know how I feel about Fanny, " said Jimmy, "so you can imagine howmuch I like it. "

"Oh, yes, I know; and I quite understand that you wanted Marchmont tomarry May, " Dick retorted in an alien savageness born of his woundedspirit. 

Jimmy was taken aback by this direct onslaught, but his native honestyforbade him to deny the charge point-blank. 

"Supposing she came to like me, " he grumbled, "it wouldn't be over andabove pleasant to have Quisanté for a brother-in-law. "

Dick was roused; he summoned up his old faith and his old admiration. 

"I tell you what, " he said, "the only chance you have of your name beingknown to posterity is if you succeed in becoming his brother-in-law. "

"Damn posterity, " said Jimmy, tugging at his moustache. He had neverentertained the absurd idea of interesting future ages. He began toperceive more and more clearly how ridiculous his brother had madehimself over the fellow; he had shared in the folly, but now at least hecould repent and dissociate himself from it. 

"What does the Dean say?" he asked maliciously. 

"I dare say you won't understand, " Dick answered in measured tones, "butthe Dean's got sense enough to say nothing. Talking's no use, is it?"

Few indeed shared the Dean's wisdom, or the somewhat limited view thattalking is only to be practised when it chances to be useful. Are wenever to discuss the obvious or to deplore the inevitable? From so sterna code human nature revolts, and the storm of volubility went on in spiteof the silence of the Dean of St. Neot's. Even this silence was imperfectin so far as the Dean said a word or two in private to Morewood when hevisited him in his studio, and the pair were looking at Quisanté'spicture. Dick Benyon was less anxious now to have it finished and senthome in the shortest possible time. 

"You've seen some good in him, " said the Dean, pointing to the picture. 

"Well--something anyhow, " said Morewood. 

"I think, you know, " the Dean pursued meditatively, "that a great womanmight succeed in what she's undertaken (Morewood did not need the mentionof May Gaston's name), at the cost of sacrificing all her other interestsand most of her feelings. "

Morewood was lighting his pipe and made no answer. 

"Is our dear young friend a great woman, though?" asked the Dean. 

"She aspires to be, " said Morewood; he was sneering as usual, but ratherat aspirations in general than at any unusual absurdity in May Gaston's;thus at least the Dean understood him. 

"You mean that that's at the bottom of the trouble?" he inquired, smilinga little. 

"Oh, yes, " answered Morewood, weary of indicating what was so apparent. 

"You've dived down to something in that picture; perhaps she has. "

"Yes, she has. " Morewood looked straight at the Dean as he added, "But Ican leave out the other things, you see. That's the difference. "

"And she can't? No. That is the difference. She'll have to live with theother things. " He looked courageously at Morewood and ended, "We musttrust in God. " Either the sincerity or the unexpectedness of the remarkkept Morewood silent. 

No such ambition as these two imputed to her consciously animated MayGaston. Just now she was content if she could persuade her mother thatpeople after all said nothing very dreadful (for what was said was alwaysmore to Lady Attlebridge than what was true), could keep on somethinglike friendly relations with her sister, and could maintain a cheerfulview of her own position and of her experiment. Inevitably the hostilityof his future mother-in-law and of Fanny brought out the worst side ofQuisanté's manners; in the effort to conciliate he almost fawned. May hadto find consolation in a growth of openness and simplicity towardsherself. And she had one notable triumph which more than anything elsebrought her through the trial with her purpose unshaken and her faitheven a little strengthened. It was not a complete triumph, and in tryingto push it too far she suffered a slight rebuff; but there was hope to behad from it, it seemed to open a prospect of successes more ample. Shemade Quisanté send back Aunt Maria's five hundred pounds before Mr. Mandeville's operations had resulted either in safety or in gain. 

"You see, she never gave it you to use in speculation, " she had said. "Itisn't right, you must see it isn't. Have you got the money?"

"Yes; but I meant to buy you----"

"No, no, I wouldn't have it. Now do send it back. I know you see what Imean. " Her voice grew doubtful and imploring. 

"Oh, yes, in a way. But I shan't lose it, you know. "

"That doesn't make the least difference. "

"If it pleases you, I'll send it back. "

"Well, do, " she said with a little sigh. The motive was not that whichshe wished to rouse, but very likely it was that with which she mustbegin her work. Then she tried the further step. "And any profit youmake, if you make any, you ought to send too, " she said. 

Genuine surprise was exhibited on Quisanté's face. "What, after sendingback the five hundred?" he asked. 

"Yes, you ought. " She made a little concession by adding, "Strictly, youknow. " Quisanté looked at her, kissed her hand, and laughed. Her sense ofhumour, which she began to perceive would rather hamper her, made herjoin in the laugh. "Do you think me very absurd? No, no, not compliments!Truth, truth always!"

"I call the suggestion rather--well, rather fanciful, " said he. 

"Yes, I suppose you do, " she sighed. "Do you know what I hope?" she wenton. "I hope that some day that sort of suggestion will seem a matter ofcourse to you. "

He stopped laughing and looked put out. She saw that his vanity was hurt. "But I hope all sorts of unusual things about you, " she went on, herconscience rebuking her for using the wile of flattery. But it servedwell; the cloud passed from his face, as he begged her not to expect tosee him a saint too soon. 

A few days later he came in radiant; the operation had gone splendidly, there was a cent. Per cent. Profit; she was to come with him and buy thenecklace at once. May loved necklaces and liked him for being so eager togive her one. And she did not wish to appear in the light of a prig (thathad probably been his impression of her) again so soon. But had he notthe evening before, as they talked over their prospects, told her that heowed Dick Benyon a thousand pounds or more, and was in arrears with theinstalments by which the debt was to be liquidated? By a not unnaturalturn of her mind she found herself less able to allow him to forget hisobligation, less able to indulge him in the temporary extravagance of alover, than if he had been a man on whose punctilious honour in allmatters of money she relied absolutely. She was more affectionate andmore effusive to him than usual, and it was with a kiss that shewhispered, "Give me the money, not the necklace. "

"The money?" he said in surprise. 

"Yes, to do what I like with. At least give me your promise to do what Iask with it. "

He was suspicious and his face showed it. She laughed. "Yes, I'm worryingagain, " she said. "I can now, you see. When we're married I shan't havethe power. "

"You'll always have absolute power over me. "

"Oh, I wish that was true!" she said. "No, I don't, " came an instantlater. "If I thought that, I'd never speak to you again. " Moving away alittle, she turned her head back towards him and went on, "Use it to payDick Benyon. I'd rather you did that than gave me a thousand necklaces. "

"Oh, Dick's in no hurry; he's got lots of money. " Quisanté was visiblyvexed this time. "Aren't you going to allow me to give you anything?" heasked. 

She had a struggle to win this time, and again had to call in the allyshe distrusted, an appeal to his vanity. She told him that it hurt heridea, her great idea, of him, that he should be in any way underobligations to or dependent on anybody. This way of putting the mattercaught his fancy, which had remained blind to the more prosaic aspect ofthe case. "You must stand by your own strength, " she said. She had to goa step farther still. "It'll make Amy Benyon quite angry too; it'll takeaway one of her grievances. Don't pay only the arrears, pay all you can. "Thus she won and was comforted, in spite of her suspicion of the weaponsthat she found herself obliged to use. 

Comfort she needed sadly, and it could come only from Quisanté himself. For the rest the sense of loneliness was strong upon her, and with it abitterness that this time in her life should be so different from what itwas in the lives of most girls. The superficials were there; friends sentpresents and Lady Attlebridge was as particular about the gowns and soforth as though the match had been absolutely to her liking. But therewas no sincere congratulation, no sympathy, no envy. Her engagement was amistake, her marriage a tragedy; that was the verdict; she saw it inevery glance and discerned it under every civil speech. The commonjudgment, the opinion of the group we have lived with, has a forceirrespective of its merit; there were times when May sank under theburden of it and almost retreated. Then she was outwardly most contented, took Quisanté everywhere with her, tried (as people said) to thrust himdown everybody's throat, even pretended a love which she had expresslydenied to the man himself. All this done, she would fly to solitude andthere be a victim to her fears, shudder at the risk she had elected torun, and pray for any strange convulsion of events to rescue her. 

None came; time went on, people settled down to the notion; only to asmall circle the matter retained a predominant interest. The rest of theworld could not go on talking about it for ever; they had a number ofother people's affairs to attend to, and the vagaries of one fancifulyoung woman could not occupy their important minds for ever. None theless, they turned away with a pleasant sense that they might find goodreason for turning back presently; let a year or two of the marriage run, and there might be something to look at again. 

But to one man the thing never became less strange, less engrossing, orless horrible. Weston Marchmont abandoned as pure folly the attempt toaccustom his mind to it or to acquiesce in it; he had not the power tocease to think of it. It was unnatural; to that he returned always; andit ousted what surely was natural, what his whole being cried out wasmeant, if there were such a thing as a purpose in human lives at all. Disguised by his habit of self-repression before others, his passion wasas strong as Quisanté's own; it was backed by a harmony of tastes and asimilarity of training which gave it increased intensity; it had beenencouraged by an apparent promise of success, now turned to utterfailure. Amy Benyon might think that he would now marry Fanny, if only hecould endure such an indirect connection with Quisanté. To himself itseemed so impossible to think of anyone but May that in face of facts hecould not believe that he was not foremost in her heart. The facts meantmarriage, it seemed; he denied that they meant love. He discerned whatMay had said to Quisanté--although not of course that she had saidit--and it filled him with a more unendurable revolt. He might havetolerated a defeat in love; not to be defeated and yet to suffer all thepains of the vanquished was not to be borne. But he was helpless, andwhen he had tried to plead his cause he had done himself no good. He hadrather so conducted himself as to give May Gaston the right to shut thedoor on any further friendship with him; towards her future husband hehad never varied from an attitude of cool disdain. It was more than amonth since he had seen her, it was longer since he had done more thannod carelessly to Quisanté as they passed one another in the lobby or thesmoking-room. 

Then one day, a fortnight before the marriage, he met Quisanté as theywere both leaving the House about four o'clock. On a sudden impulse hejoined his rival. He knew his man; Quisanté received him withfriendliness and even effusion, and invited him to join him in a call atLady Attlebridge's. They went on together, Quisanté elated at this newevidence of his power to reconcile opposition and conciliate support, Marchmont filled with a vague painful curiosity and a desire to see thetwo together at the cost of any suffering the sight might bring him. 

The drawing-room at Lady Attlebridge's was a double room; in one half Maysat reading, in the other her mother dozed. May rose with a start as themen entered together; her face flushed as she greeted Marchmont and badeQuisanté go and pay his respects to her mother. 

"I hardly expected ever to see you again, " she said. "And I didn't expectMr. Quisanté to bring you. " Her tone was oddly expressive at once ofpleasure and regret, of anticipation and fear. "Have you made friends?"she asked. 

He answered under the impulse of his mood. 

"We must make friends, " he said, "or I shall never see any more of you. "

"I thought you didn't want to. " She liked him too well not to show alittle coquetry, a little challenge. 

"I thought so too, or tried to think so. "

"I was sure you had deserted me. You said such--well, such severethings. "

"I say them all still. "

"But here you are!" she cried, laughing. 

"Yes, here I am, " said he, but he was grave and looked intently at her. She grew red again as she met his gaze, and frowned a little. 

"I'm not sure I'm glad you've come after all, " she said after a pause. "Why have you come? I don't quite understand. "

"I've come to see you, to look on at your happiness, " he answered. 

"You've no right to talk like that. "

They became silent. From the inner room they heard Lady Attlebridge'snervous efforts at conversation and Quisanté's fluent, too fluent, responses. He was telling the good lady about her great social influence, and, little as she liked him, she seemed to listen eagerly. Marchmontlooked at May and smiled. He was disappointed when she returned hissmile. 

"He's a little too much of a politician, isn't he?" she asked. 

Her refusal to perceive the insinuation of his smile made him ashamed ofit. 

"We all are, when we've something to get, I suppose, " he said with ashrug. 

"Oh, I don't think you need reproach yourself, " she exclaimed, laughing. 

There was a short pause. Then he said suddenly, "You're the one person in the world to talk to. "

Now she neither laughed nor yet rebuked him, and, as his eyes met hers, he seemed to have no fear that she would do either the one or the other. Yet he could not quite understand her look; did she pity him or did sheentreat for herself? For his life he could not answer. The only thing heknew was that she would follow her path and take for husband the man whoflattered Lady Attlebridge in the inner room. Then she spoke in a lowvoice. 

"Yes, do come, come and see us afterwards, come as often as you like. " Heraised his eyes to hers again. "Because the oftener you come, the moreyou'll understand him, and the better you understand him, the betteryou'll know why I'm doing what I am. "

The soft look of pity or of entreaty vanished from her eyes now. Sheseemed to speak in a strong and even defiant confidence. But he met herwith a resolute dissent. 

"If you want me, I'll come. But I shan't understand why you did whatyou're doing and I shall never see in him what you want me to see. " Helooked round and saw Quisanté preparing to join them. "Am I to come, then?" he asked. 

Quisanté was walking towards them; she answered with a nervous laugh, "Ithink you must come sometimes anyhow. " Then she raised her voice and saidto Quisanté, "I'm telling Mr. Marchmont that I shall expect to see himoften at our house. "

Quisanté seconded her invitation with more than adequate enthusiasm; ifMarchmont were converted to him, who could still be obstinate? The twomen began to talk, May falling more and more into silence. She did notaccuse Marchmont of deliberate malice, but by chance or the freak of somemischievous demon everything he said led Quisanté on to display hisweaknesses. She knew that Marchmont marked them every one; he was toowell bred to show his consciousness by so much as the most fleetingglance at her; yet she could have met such a glance with understanding, yes, with sympathy, and would have had to summon up by artificial effortthe resentment that convention demanded of her. The sight of the two menbrought home to her with a new and an almost terrible sharpness thedivorce between her emotional liking and her intellectual interest. Andin a matter which all experience declared to concern the emotionsprimarily, she had elected to give foremost place to the intellect, tosuffer under an ever recurring jar of the feelings for the sake of anoccasional treat to the brain. That was her prospect unless she couldtransform the nature of Alexander Quisanté. "Marry a nice man of your ownsort, and then be as much interested as you like in Sandro. " Aunt Maria'sadvice echoed in her ears as she watched the two men round whom thestruggle of her soul centred, the struggle that she had thought wasfinished on the day when she promised to become Alexander Quisanté'swife. 

"I shall keep you both to your word, " said Marchmont when he left them. May nodded, smiling slightly. Quisanté said all and more than all theproper things. 

 CHAPTER IX. 

 LEAD US NOT. 

After a long sojourn in kindlier climates, Miss Quisanté returned toEngland some eighteen months after May Gaston's marriage. From varioushotels and boarding-houses she had watched with an interested eye theprogress of public affairs so far as they concerned her nephew. She hadseen how his name became more prominent and was more frequently mentioned, how the hopes and fears about him grew, how he had gained glory by dashingsorties in defence of the severely-pressed Government garrison; if thegarrison decided (as rumour said they would) to sally out and try fortunein the open field of a General Election, and proved victorious, it couldnot be doubted that they would bestow a handsome reward on their gallantdefender. Quisanté bid fair to eclipse his rivals and to justify to theuttermost Dick Benyon's sagacity and enthusiasm. The bitterness of thefoe told the same story; unless a man is feared, he is not caricaturedin a comic paper in the guise of a juggler keeping three balls in theair at once, the said balls being each of them legibly inscribed withone of the three words, "Gas--Gabble--Grab. " Such a straining of theusual amenity of controversy witnesses to grave apprehension. MissQuisanté in her _pension_ at Florence smiled contentedly. 

Of his private life her information had not been very ample. She had heardseveral times from May, but May occupied her pen chiefly with her husband'spolitical aims. She had heard once from Sandro himself, when he informedher that his wife had borne him a daughter and that all had gone verywell indeed. Again Miss Quisanté smiled approvingly. She sent her love toMay and expressed to Sandro the hope that the baby would resemble itsmother in appearance, constitution, and disposition; the passage was agood example of that _expressio unius_ which is a most emphatic andunmistakable _exclusio alterius_. In the letter she enclosed a chequefor three hundred pounds; the _pensions_ were cheaper than the flat, andthus this service had become possible. 

The Quisantés had taken a house in Grosvenor Road, near Westminster forQuisanté's convenience, by the river, in obedience to his wife's choice. Here Miss Quisanté was welcomed by her nephew's wife and shown hernephew's daughter. May watched the old lady's face as she perfunctorilykissed and critically inspected the infant. 

"Gaston!" said Aunt Maria at last; relief was clamorous in her tone. 

"Yes, Miss Quisanté, Gaston, I think, " said May, laughing. 

The nurse admitted the predominance of Gaston, but with a professionalkeenness of eye began to point out minor points in which the baby"favoured" her father. 

"Nonsense, my good woman, " snapped Aunt Maria. "The child's got two legsand two arms, I suppose, as its father has, but that's all the likeness. "Somewhat ruffled (her observations had been well meant) the nurse carriedoff her charge. 

"You look very well, " Aunt Maria went on, "but older, my dear. "

"I am both well and older, " said May cheerfully. "Think of myresponsibilities! There's the baby! And then Alexander's been seedy. Andwe aren't as rich as we should like to be; you of all people must knowthat. And there's going to be an election and our seat's very shaky. Sothe cares of the world are on me. "

"Sandro's been doing well. "

"Splendidly, simply splendidly. It's impossible to doubt that he'll dogreat things if--if all goes well, and he doesn't make mistakes. "

"Seems like making mistakes, does he?"

"Oh, no. I only said 'if. '"

"And you're as happy as you expected to be?"

"Quite, thanks. "

"I see. Just about, " was Miss Quisanté's next observation; since it was alittle hard to answer, May smiled and rang the bell for tea. 

"You're very gay, I suppose?" asked the old lady. 

"Just as many parties as I can find gowns for, " May declared. 

"Seen anything of the Benyons lately?"

A little shadow came on May's face. "I hardly ever see Jimmy except atmother's, " she answered. "Dick comes sometimes. " She paused a moment, andthen added, "I expect him this afternoon. "

"Is he still as devoted to Sandro?"

"He believes in his abilities as enthusiastically as ever. " The dry laughwhich Miss Quisanté gave was as significant as her "Just about, " a fewminutes before. This time May did not laugh, but looked gravely at AuntMaria. "They've had a little difference on a political matter. Did youever hear of what Dick calls the Crusade? His great Church movement, youknow. "

"Lord, yes, my dear. Sandro once speechified to me about it for an hour. "

"Well, he doesn't speechify so much now; he doesn't believe in it somuch, and Dick's annoyed. That's natural, I think, though perhaps it's alittle silly of him. However, if you wait, he'll tell you about ithimself. "

"Why doesn't Sandro believe in it so much?"

"Perhaps I ought to have said that he doesn't think the present time asuitable one for pressing it. "

"I see, " said Miss Quisanté sipping her tea. May looked at her again andseemed about to speak, but in the end she only smiled. She was amused atthe old lady's questions, impelled to speak plainly to her, andrestrained only by the sense that any admission she might seem to makewould be used to the full against her husband by his faithful and liberalaunt. 

"He says he has good reasons, and Dick Benyon says they're bad ones, " sheended by explaining, though it was not much of an explanation after all. 

Miss Quisanté had the curiosity to await Dick Benyon's coming, and, inspite of his evident expectation of a _tête-à-tête_, not to goimmediately on his arrival. She was struck with the air of mingledaffection and compassion with which he greeted his healthy, handsome, smiling young hostess. Moreover he was himself apologetic, as thoughsuffering from a touch of remorse. He began to talk trifles, but Maybrought him to the point. 

"I read the speech after I got your letter, " she said. "I'm sorry youdon't like it, but Alexander must consider the practical aspect of thematter. You won't do your cause any good by urging it out of season. "

"In season and out of season; that's the only way. "

"You might be an Irish member, " said May, smiling. 

Dick was too much in earnest to be diverted to mirth. The presence ofMiss Quisanté still seemed to make him a little uncomfortable, but theold lady did not move. May gave her no hint, and he was too full of hissubject to hold his tongue. 

"I want you to speak to him about it, " he went on. 

"To urge him to do what he thinks a mistake?"

Dick grew a little hot. "To urge him not to go back on the cause andon--on his friends, and almost to laugh at them for----" He paused andlooked at May; she was smiling steadily. He did not end quite as bluntlyas he had meant. "I think that he has, unconsciously no doubt, allowedpersonal considerations to influence him. "

A short sudden chuckle came from Aunt Maria; she rose to her feet andcrossed the room to May. 

"If he's going to abuse Sandro, I mustn't stay, " she said. "I couldn'tbear to lose any of my illusions, my dear. " She kissed May and added, "You might tell him to come and see me, though. I should like to hearwhat he's got in his head now. Good-bye, Lord Richard. Don't you fretabout your Crusade. Sandro'll take it up again when it's convenient. " Shechuckled again at the puzzled stare which accompanied Dick's shake of thehand. 

"A very kind old woman, but with a rather malicious tongue, " said May. She walked to the hearth and stood there, facing her visitor. "Now, Dick, what is it?" she asked. 

"The Dean's tremendously hurt about it; he doesn't say much, but he feelsit deeply. "

"I'm very sorry. What are the personal considerations?"

"You know Henstead?" It was the borough for which Quisanté sat. "There'san old Wesleyan colony there; several of them are very rich and employ alot of labour and so on. They've always voted for us. And they've found alot of the money. They found a lot when Quisanté got in before. "

"Yes?" Her voice displayed interest but nothing more. Dick grew ratherred and hurried on with his story. 

"Well, one of them, old Foster the maltster, came to your husbandand--and told him they didn't like the Crusade and that it wouldn't do. "He paused, glanced at May for an instant, and ended, "The seat's notsafe, you know, and--and it wants money to fight it. "

A silence of some few minutes followed. Dick fidgeted with his hat, whileMay looked out of the window on to the river. 

"Why do you come and tell this to me?" she asked presently. "Supposing itwas all true, what could I do?"

Dick's resentment got the better of him; he answered hotly, "Well, youmight tell him that it was playing it pretty low down on us. "

"Have you told him that?"

"Yes, I have, or I shouldn't have come to you. I don't mean I used justthose words, but I made my meaning clear enough. "

"And what did he say?"

"He said he didn't see it in the light I did. "

A faint smile came on the face of Mr. Quisanté's wife. 

"But you could make him see it, " urged Dick. May smiled at him for abrief moment and then looked out to the river again. 

"It'll be deuced awkward for him if they get hold of his back speeches, "said Dick with gloomy satisfaction. 

"Oh, everybody's back speeches are what you call deuced awkward. " Amoment later she went on, "What does it all come to, after all? We musttake things as they are; we mustn't be quixotic, we mustn't quarrel withour bread-and-butter. "

Dick looked at her with evident surprise, even with dismay. 

"You think it all right?" he asked. 

"It's not for me to say. Am I to sit in judgment on my husband? Anyhowpeople do just the same thing every day. You know that as well as I do, Dick. " Just on the last words her voice grew softer; he might have caughta hint of entreaty, had not his mind been fixed on his own wrongs and thebetrayal of his favourite cause. "I'm assuming that what you say istrue, " she added, more coldly again. 

When Dick left her, it was to go home to his wife and tell her, and Mrs. Gellatly whom he found with her, that he did not understand what had comeover May Gaston--May Quisanté, he corrected himself. Not understanding, he proved naturally quite unable to explain. Lady Richard was more equalto the occasion. 

"That man's simply got hold of her, " she said. "She'll think black'swhite if he says it is. Still she must see that he's treating youshamefully. "

"She didn't seem to see it. " moaned Dick mournfully. Then he laughedrather bitterly and added, "I tell you what, though. I think that oldaunt of his has taken his measure pretty well. "

The innate nobility which underlay Lady Richard's nature showed upsplendidly at this moment; she sympathised heartily with Dick, andforbore to remind him of what she had said from the beginning, contentingherself with remarking that for her part she never had considered and didnot now consider Mr. Quisanté even particularly clever. 

"He's as clever as the deuce, " said Dick. That conviction, at least, heneed not surrender. 

"I suppose, " ventured Mrs. Gellatly, "that's how he convinces Lady Maythat he's always right. "

Dick looked at her with a touch of covert contempt; clever people couldconvince the intellect, but there were instincts of honour, of loyalty, and of fidelity which no arguments should be able to blunt or to turn. Here was the thing which, vaguely felt, had so puzzled him in regard toMay Quisanté; he had not doubted that she would see the thing as he hadseen it--as Quisanté had professed himself unable to see it. 

That evening Quisanté brought home to dinner the gentleman whom DickBenyon called old Foster the maltster, and who had been Mayor of Hensteadthree several times. He was a tall, stout, white-haired old man with ashrewd kindly face, dressed all in broadcloth, showing an expanse ofwhite shirt-front decorated with a big black stud and a very small blackwisp of a tie. His conversation indicated now and then that he gavethought to the other world, always that he knew the ways of this. Mayliked him in spite of the rather ponderous deference he showed to her;with Quisanté, on the other hand, he was familiar, seeming to say that hecould tell the younger man a thing or two; Quisanté's manner did nothingto contradict this implied assumption. 

"What we want, sir, " said Foster, "is to have you in the Government. Onceyou're there, you'll sit for Henstead till you die or go to the House ofLords. Nobody'll be able to touch you. But this time's critical, verycritical. They'll have a strong candidate, and they'll do all they knowto keep you out. It's not a time for offending anybody. " He turned toMay. "I hope your ladyship will let us see you very often in the town?"he said. 

"When the election begins, I shall come down with my husband and stay allthe time. "

"That's right; you'll be worth a hundred votes. " He threw himself back inhis chair. "Under God, " he said, "we ought to be safe. Your speech had anexcellent effect; I sent it to Middleton, and Dunn, and Japhet Williams, and when I met 'em at the Council, they were all most pleasant about it. I think you've undone all the bad impression. "

"I only said what I thought, " observed Quisanté. 

"Yes, yes, just so; oh, just so, of course. " His tone was not in theleast ironical, but a little hurried, as though, having put the thing ina way that might sound ambiguous, he hastened to prevent any possiblemisapprehension. May had looked for a twinkle in his eye, but his eye wasguilty of no such frivolity. 

"I had a letter from Mr. Japhet Williams the other day, " said Quisanté. "He was annoyed at a vote I gave in Committee on the Truck Act. You knowI voted against the Government once, in favour of what I thought fairertreatment of the men; not that any real hardship on the employer wasinvolved. "

"Just so, just so, " said Mr. Foster. "That's the worst of Japhet. Hedoesn't look at the matter in a broad way. But I've put that all right, sir. I met him on the Cemetery Board, and walked home with him, and Isaid, 'Look here Japhet, that vote of Mr. Quisanté's 'll be worth fiftyvotes among the men. ' 'I don't care for that, ' he said; 'I'm againstinterference. ' 'So am I, ' I told him; 'but where's the harm? Mr. Quisantémust have his own opinion here and there--that comes of having a cleverman--but (I said) the Government had a hundred majority there, and Mr. Quisanté knew it. ' Well, he saw that, and admitted that he'd been wrongto make a fuss about it. "

Quisanté nodded grave appreciation. May gave a little laugh, and suddenlypoured out a glass of claret for Mr. Foster; turning, he found her eyeson his face, sparkling with amusement. His own large features relaxedinto a slow smile; something like the twinkle was to be detected now. 

"Nothing's the worse for a bit of putting, is it?" he said, and drank hiswine at a gulp. 

"You're a diplomatist, Mr. Foster, " said she. 

"Not to the detriment of truth; I assure you I don't sacrifice that, " hereplied, with renewed gravity and an apparently perfect sincerity. 

May was sorry when he took his leave, partly for the temporary loss of astudy which amused her, more because his departure brought the time fortelling Quisanté of Dick Benyon's visit. She did not want to tell him andanticipated no result, yet she felt herself bound to let him know aboutit. To this mind her eighteen months of marriage had brought her. In thequite early days, while not blind to the way he looked at things whenleft to himself, she had been eager to show him how she looked at them, and, with the memory of her triumphs during their engagement, verysanguine that she would be able always to convert him from his view tohers, to open his eyes and show him the truth as it seemed to her. Thishopeful mood she had for nearly a year past been gradually abandoning. She had once asked Morewood whether people must always remain what theywere; now she inclined to answer yes to her own question. But she couldnot convince herself so thoroughly as to feel absolved from the duty oftrying to prove that the true answer was no. She must offer her husbandevery chance still, she must not acquiesce, she must not give up the gameyet; some day she might (she smiled at herself here) awake an impulse orhappen on a moment so great as really to influence, to change, and tomould him. But she had come to hate this duty; she would rather have leftthings alone; as a simple matter of inclination, she wished that she feltfree to sit and smile at Quisanté as she had at old Foster the maltster. She could not; Foster was not part of her life, near and close to her, her chosen husband, the father of her child. Unless she clung to hereffort, and to her paradoxical much-disappointed hope, her life and thethought of what she had done with it would become unendurable. Dick andhis wife had not quite understood what had come over her. 

If Mr. Foster was diplomatic, so was she; she set before her husbandneither Dick's complaints nor her own misgivings in their crudity; shestarted by asking how his change of front would affect people andinstanced Dick and herself only as examples of how the thing might strikecertain minds. She must feed him with the milk of rectitude, for itsstrong meat his stomach was hopelessly unready. But he was suspicious, and insisted on hearing what Dick Benyon had said; so she told him prettyaccurately. His answer was a long disquisition on the politicalsituation, to which she listened with the same faint smile with which shehad heard Dick himself; at last he roundly stigmatised the Crusade as avisionary and impracticable scheme. 

"I stuck to it as long as I could, " he said, "but you wouldn't have merisk everything for it?"

"Or even anything?" she asked. 

The question was a spark to him. Gladly leaving the immediate question, he dilated on all that the coming contest meant to him, how victory wouldassure his prospects, how defeat might leave him hopelessly out in thecold, how it would be absurd to lose all that he was going to accomplishfor the sake of a hasty promise and a cause that he had come todisbelieve in. "When did you come to disbelieve in it?" was the questionin her heart; he saw it in her eyes. 

"It's a little hard to have to explain everything in private as well asin public, " he complained. "And my head's fit to split. "

"Don't trouble any more about it; only I thought I'd better tell you whatDick said. " She came to him as he lay back in his chair and put her handon his brow. He was tired, not only looking tired; his head did ache, shehad no doubt; to turn these afflictions to account had always been hisway; so long ago as the Imperial League banquet she remembered it. "Go tobed, " she said. "I'll write a few letters first. "

"I want you to understand me, " he said. He loved her and she had made himuneasy; her good opinion was very necessary to his happiness. 

"I do understand you, " she said, and persuaded him to go upstairs, whileshe sat down by the fire, forgetful apparently of the excuse that she hadmade for lingering. 

Did she repent? That question came often into her mind. She well might, for one of the great hopes with which she had married was quite gone bynow. There was no longer any possibility of maintaining that the faultswere of manner only, no longer any reasonable expectation that she wouldbe able to banish or materially to diminish them. It was for better forworse with a vengeance then. But did she repent? There were times whenshe wept, times when she shuddered, times when she scorned, even timeswhen she hated. But had she ever so felt as to be confident that ifOmnipotence had offered to undo the past, she would have had the pastundone? There had perhaps been one such occasion quite early in themarriage, and the woe of it had been terrible; but it was followed almostimmediately by a "moment, " by an inspired outbreak of his over some casein the paper, by a vow to see an injustice remedied, a ceaseless, unsparing, unpaid month's work to that end, a triumph over wrong andprejudice in the cause of a helpless woman. He had nearly killed himselfover it, the doctor said, and May had watched by his bed, without tears, but with a conviction that if he died she must die also; because itseemed as though he had faced death rather than her condemnation. Thatwas not the truth of it, of course, but she and he between them had madeit seem the truth to her. 

And now, with all the meanness of this abandonment of his friends, withall this fawning on the moneyed Wesleyans before her eyes, she could notdeclare that she repented, lest he, waking again to greatness, shouldplunge her again into the depths of abasement. But that the same manshould be great and mean, and should escape arraignment for his meannessby making play with his headache! She smiled now to remember how greatthe mere faults of manner had once seemed to her girlish fastidiousness;they were small to her now; her teeth were set on edge indeed, but by asharper sourness than lay in them. To the faults of manner she had grownto some extent accustomed; she had become an adept in covering andexcusing them. To-day, in her interview with Dick Benyon, she had turnedalike art on to the other faults. A new thought and a new apprehensioncame into her mind. 

"If I go on defending him, " she murmured, "shall I end by getting likehim and really think it all right? I wonder!" For it was difficult not toidentify herself with her cause, and he was now her cause. Who asks alawyer to disbelieve his own client, who asks a citizen to be extreme tomark what is done amiss in his country's quarrel?

"Now if the Dean did chance to do anything wrong, Mrs. Baxter simplywouldn't see that it was wrong, " she meditated. "Neither would AmyBenyon, if Dick did. I see it's wrong and yet defend it. I'm the wrongsort of woman to have married Alexander. "

Yes, from that point of view, undoubtedly. But there was another. Whatwould Mrs. Baxter or Lady Richard have made of him at the times when hewoke to greatness? Dick had appreciated him then; Dick's wife never had;she saw only the worst. Well, it was plain to see. May saw it so plainthat night that she sat where she was till the night was old because, ifshe went upstairs, she might find him there. And she fell to wishing thatthe seat at Henstead was not shaky; so much hung on it, her hopes for himas well as his own hopes, her passionate interest in him as well as hisambition. Nay, she had a feeling or a fear that more still hung on it. Pondering there alone in the night, assessing her opinion and reviewingher knowledge of him, she told herself that there was hardly anythingthat he would not do sooner than lose the seat. So that she dreaded thestruggle for the strain it might put on him; strains of that sort sheknew now that he was not able to bear. "Lead us not into temptation, " wasthe prayer which must be on her lips for him; if that were not answered, he was well-nigh past praying for altogether. For with temptation camehis blindness, and he no longer saw the thing that tempted him for whatit was. Oh, and what a fool she had been to think that she could make himsee!

At last she went upstairs, slowly and reluctantly. Passing her own door, she mounted again to the baby's nursery, and entered softly. All waspeace; both baby and nurse slept. May was smiling as she came down thestairs; she murmured, "Gaston!" mimicking the satisfied tones of old AuntMaria's voice. Then she entered her own room; Quisanté's bed was empty. Asense of great relief rose in her, but she went out again and softlyturned the handle of his dressing-room door. He had elected to sleepthere, as he often did. The light was still high; a book lay open by himon the bed. He was in deep sleep, looking very pale, very tired, verypeaceful. She stood looking at him for a moment; again she smiled as shestole forward and peeped at the book. It was a work on Bimetallism. Didhe mean to win Henstead with that? Oh, no; he meant to preach the Majestyof the British Sovereign, King of coins, good tender from China to Peru. She imagined him making some fine rhetoric out of it. 

He breathed gently and regularly; for once he rested, he really restedfrom his unresting efforts, from the cruel race he ran; he was for oncefree from all the thoughts of his brain, all the devices of hisresourceful, unbaffled, unhesitating mind. With a sigh she turned awayand lowered the light, that in darkness he might sleep more easily. Inthe darkness she stood a minute longer, seeing now only the dim outlineof his body on the bed; again the smile came, but her lips moved tomurmur softly, "Lead us not into temptation. " And still murmuring theonly prayer that might serve him, still smiling that it was the onlyprayer she could pray for her chosen husband, she left Quisanté to hisrest. 

 CHAPTER X. 

 PRACTICAL POLITICS. 

While Alexander Quisanté increased in promise and prominence, WestonMarchmont had begun to cause some anxiety to his best friends. Hispassion for ultimates grew upon him; sometimes it seemed as though hewould put up with nothing less. At the same time a personal fastidiousnessand a social exclusiveness, always to a certain extent characteristic ofthe man, gathered greater dominion over him. He was not civil to thepeople towards whom civility would be useful, and he refused to shuthis eyes to the logical defects or moral shortcomings in the measurespromoted by his party. His abilities were still conceded in ample terms, his charm still handsomely and sincerely acknowledged. But a suspiciongradually got about that he was impracticable, that he had a perverseaffection for unpopular causes, for reasons of approval or disapprovalthat did not occur to the world at large, for having a private point ofview of his own, differentiated from the common view by distinctions asunyielding as to the ordinary eye they were minute. The man who beginsmerely by being uncompromising as to his own convictions may end infinding an actual pleasure in disagreeing with those of others. Somesuch development was, according to acute observers, taking place inMarchmont; if the tendency became his master, farewell to the highcareer to which he had appeared to be destined. Plain men would call himfinicking, and practical men would think it impossible to work with him. No impression is more damning about a man engaged in public life; theWhips have to put a query to his name, and he cannot be trusted toconfine his revolts to such occasions as those on which Mr. Foster ofHenstead thought an exhibition of independence a venial sin, or incertain circumstances a prudent act. 

"The fact is, " Morewood said to Marchmont once, when they had beentalking over his various positions and opinions, "if you want to leadordinary people, you must keep on roads that ordinary people can travel, roads broad enough for the _grande armée_. You may take them quicker orslower, you may lead them downhill or get them to follow you uphill, butyou must keep to the road. A bye-path is all right and charming foryourself, for a _tête-à-tête_, or a small party of friends, but youdon't take an army-corps along it. "

The unusual length and the oratorical character of this warning werestrong evidence of the painter's feelings. Marchmont nodded a grave andtroubled assent. 

"Still if I see the thing one way, I can't act as if I saw it theother. "

"You mustn't see it one way, " said Morewood irritably. "If you must bethe slave of your conscience, hang it, you needn't be of your intellect. Ask the Dean there. " (The Dean, who had been drinking his port inthoughtful peace, started a little. ) "He'll tell you that belief islargely or altogether--which is it?--an affair of the will. "

The Dean was prudent; he smiled and finished his glass. 

"If I chose to believe in the Crusade, I could, " Morewood went on with asatirical smile. "Or with an adequate effort I could think Jimmy Benyonbrilliant, or Fred Wentworth wise, or Alexander Quisanté honest. That'sit, eh, Mr. Dean?"

"Well, the ordinary view may be appreciated, even if it's not entirelyembraced, " said the Dean diplomatically. "The points of agreement areusually much more important, for practice at all events, than those ofdifference. "

"In fact--shut one eye and go ahead?" asked Marchmont. 

"Oh, shut 'em both and walk by the sound of the feet and the cheering. "

"Don't say more than you mean, Mr. Morewood, " the Dean advised mildly. 

"I know what he means, " said Marchmont. "And, yes, I rather wish I coulddo it. "

Morewood began to instance the great men who had done it, including inhis list many whom the common opinion that he praised would not havecharacterised at all in the same way. At each name Marchmont deniedeither the greatness or the pliancy. The Dean could see with what ardourhe maintained his position; in spite of the unvarying suavity of hismanner there was something naturally repulsive to him in yielding ahair's breadth in deference to the wishes or the weaknesses of amajority. 

"Your independence is really half a prejudice, " said the Dean at theend. "You're like a man who can't get a cab and misses his appointmentsooner than ride in a 'bus. "

"I suppose so--and I'm much obliged to you. But--well, you can argueagainst what a man does, but what's the use arguing against what he is?"

"No; he himself's the only man who can do that, " said the Dean, but heknew as well as Marchmont himself that such an argument would never bevictorious. The will to change was wanting; Marchmont might deplore whathe lost by being what he was, and at times he felt very sore about it;but as a matter of taste he liked himself just as he was, even as heliked the few people in whom he found some of the same flavour and thesame bent of mind. 

His character was knit consistently all through; whether he dealt withpublic affairs or ordered his own life the same line of conduct wasfollowed. If he could not have things as he wanted them or do them as hechose, he would not have them or do them at all. He was not modifiable. For example, having failed to win May Gaston, he had no thought oftrying for Fanny, and this not (as Lady Richard had thought likely)because he objected to any sort of connection with Quisanté; that pointof view did not occur to him; it was merely because Fanny was not May, and May was what he had wanted and did want. Fanny he left to thegradual, uphill, but probably finally successful, wooing of JimmyBenyon. Even with regard to May herself he very nearly achievedconsistency. His promise to be often at Quisanté's house had beenflagrantly and conspicuously broken. Quisanté had pressed him often; onthe three occasions on which he had called May had let him see howgladly she would welcome him more often. He had not gone more often. He was not sulking, for his temper was not touched; but he held aloofbecause it was not to his taste to go under existing circumstances. He knew that he gave pain to her and regretted the pain, but he couldnot go, any more than he could give a vote because his good friendConstantine Blair, the Whip, was very much put out when he wouldn't. "Hewants a party all to himself, " said Constantine angrily. "And then I'mhanged if he'd vote with it!"

Some of the things here indicated May Quisanté read about him in thepapers, some Quisanté brought home from the House, some she heard fromfriends or divined for herself; and her heart went out to Marchmontunder the cunning lure of contrast. The Dissolution drew near now, andpolitical conferences, schemes, and manoeuvres were the order of theday in Grosvenor Road and in many other houses which she frequented. Perhaps she exaggerated what she disliked, but it seemed to her thateverybody, her husband of course among the first, was carefullyconsidering how many of his previous utterances and how much of hisexisting opinions he might conveniently, and could plausibly, disclaimand suppress, and on the other hand to what extent it might beexpedient, and would not be too startling, to copy and advocateutterances and opinions which were in apparent conflict therewith. This, she was told, was practical politics. Hence her impulse of longing torenew friendship and intimacy with a man who was dubbed unpractical. Thechange would be pleasant, and, if she found something to laugh at, shewould find something to admire, just as if in the practical politiciansshe found something to frown at, she contrived to find also much matterfor legitimate mirth. She had begun by thinking that a gift of humourwould make her married life harder; she was conscious now that withoutthat form of insight it would be utterly intolerable. 

"I hear you're behaving very badly, " she said to Marchmont, when he camein obedience to her invitation. "I was talking to Mr. Blair about you, and he had no words strong enough to denounce you in. "

"Yes, it's atrocious. I'm thinking for myself, " he said with a shrug, ashe sat down. 

"For yourself instead of about yourself! With a dissolution coming too!"

"Oh, I'm safe enough. I'm a martyr without a stake. "

"Well, really, you're refreshing. I wish we were safe, and hadn't got tomake ourselves safe; I don't think it's a very elevating process. " Shepaused a moment and then added, "I ought to apologise for bringing youinto such an atmosphere of it. We conspire here like Fenians or WomenSuffragists, and I know how much you hate it all. "

"And you?" he asked briefly. 

"Oh, yes, as the clerk hates his desk or a girl her practising. Theduties of life, you know. "

She had received him in an exuberance of spirits, much as though shewere the school-girl she spoke of and he a pleasant visitor from theoutside world. When she reproached him for not having come before, itwas only evidence of her pleasure that he had come now; in the dayswhen he saw her often and was always at her call, there had been nosuch joy as this. Yet he had hesitated to add one more item to the scoreof simple perversity, of not wanting when you can have and _vice versâ_;what she said about the atmosphere she lived in showed him that hishesitation had been right. 

"And I know you didn't want to come, " she went on. "You've only come outof politeness, no, I mean out of kindness. "

"There was an old invitation. An old promise too? Wasn't there?"

"One never withdrawn, the other terribly broken, " she laughed. "You'veheard of our difference with poor Dick Benyon?"

"Of your husband's?" May smiled slightly. "Yes, I have. Quisanté's quiteright now, you know; the only pity is that he didn't see it sooner. "

"Dick's not so charitable as you. He suspects our sincerity. "

It was on the tip of his tongue to say again "Your husband's?" butlooking at her he found her eyes full of fun, and began to laughhimself. 

"I find it absolutely the only way, " May explained. "I can't drawdistinctions. Mrs. Baxter, now, says 'Our Cathedral' but 'Mydrawing-room. ' Amy Benyon says 'Our relations, ' when she means hers and'Dick's relations' when she means his. I've quite given up the attemptto discriminate; a thorough-going identification of husband and wife isthe only thing. The We matrimonial must be as universal as the Weeditorial. "

"The theory is far-reaching, if you apply it to qualities. "

"Yes, I don't quite know how far. "

"Alliance becomes union, and union leads to fusion?"

"And fusion leads where?"

He escaped answering or covered inability to answer with a shrug. 

"I'm sorry you don't please Mr. Blair, " she said. 

"Really I don't think I care so very much. I used to be ambitious, but----"

"Oh, don't tell me it's not worth while being ambitious. It's all I'vegot. "

She had spoken on a hasty unthinking impulse; she grew a little red andlaughed rather nervously when she found what she had said. His face didnot change, his voice was quite unmoved, as he said, smiling, "In thatcase, no doubt, it is worth while. "

She wanted to applaud his excellent manners; at the same time theyannoyed her rather. She had been indiscreet no doubt, but herindiscretion might, if he had liked, have led the way to matters ofinterest, to that opening of the heart to somebody for which she waspining. His polite care not to embarrass her shut the door. 

"I mean, just now, " she resumed, "while our seat's so shaky, you know. "

"Ah, yes, " said he half-absently. 

She leant back in her chair and looked at him. 

"I think, " she said, "you look as if you did care, about Mr. Blair orabout something else. I wanted to tell you that I don't agree in theleast with the criticisms on you. " She leant forward, asking in a lowervoice, "Do they hurt you?"

"Not much. A man likes to succeed, but there are things I like better. "

"Yes. Well, there's nothing we--_we_--like better, Mr. Marchmont. "

He rose and stood on the hearth; her eyes were upturned to his in asteady gaze. 

"You were always very frank, weren't you?" he asked, looking down andsmiling. "Well, you've known what you say for a long while, haven'tyou?"

"Oh, yes, even before--Oh, ever since the very beginning, you know. There now! We've left 'We' and got to 'I, ' and whenever that happens Isay something I oughtn't to. But one must sometimes. I believe I couldserve anybody to the death if only I were allowed to speak my whole mindabout him once a week. But it's disloyal, I suppose. "

"Well, I suppose it is. "

She laughed. "That's what Mr. Blair means, " she said. "You must haveseen that I wanted you to say 'No, it isn't. ' Perhaps you would have toanybody else. You were always one of the people who attributed all thevirtues to me. You made it so hard for me to be good. I loathed the girlyou thought I was. One comfort is that as I am now----". Suddenly hereyes met his; she stopped. "We'd better talk about 'we' again, " sheended with a laugh. 

"Whom do you talk to?" he asked curiously. 

"About 'we'? I talk to Miss Quisanté--You've met her? She's never tiredof talking about 'we'--though she doesn't like us; but she doesn't carea bit to talk about me. "

"Have a confidante, " he suggested gravely. 

"Yes--like Tilburina. Who shall I have?"

A run through their acquaintance suggested only Mrs. Gellatly, and herMay rejected as being too suitable, too much the traditional confidante. "I should like one who might possibly have something to tell me inreturn, and she never could, " she said. 

They were interrupted by the arrival of the man of whom they had spoken, Constantine Blair. He came with important and, as he clearly considered, disquieting news for Quisanté. Sir Winterton Mildmay, one of the richestlandowners near Henstead, who had been at loggerheads with his party, had made up the quarrel and consented to stand in opposition toQuisanté. "I thought the sooner your husband knew the better, " saidConstantine with a very grave face. "It makes a difference, you see. Weonly beat young Fortescue, a stranger in the town, by two hundred, andthey had four hundred the time before. " He paused and added, "LadyMildmay's very much liked in the town. "

"Come, Blair, I'm sure we shan't be worse off in that respect anyhow, "said Marchmont, laughing. 

"Oh, I've nothing to do with you, I've given you up, " cried Blair, twisting his good-humoured face into a fierce scowl. "He's a man withconvictions, Lady May; he's no sort of use to me. "

Blair had convictions himself, but he and everybody else took them somuch for granted that they might almost as well not have existed; theywere polite convictions too, ready to give place not only to one anotherbut even to circumstances, and waiting quite patiently their turn to berealised. He expected to be met in a like spirit, conceiving that thetrue function of a man's own opinions is to decide which party he shallbelong to; with that decision their duty was ended. He possessed anextremely cordial manner, dressed perfectly, and never forgot anybody. He enjoyed his work immensely, quarrelling with nothing in it save thatit often prevented him from being present at the first performances ofnew plays. May thought him pleasant, but did not welcome his appearanceto-day; he smacked too strongly of those politics distinctively practicalfrom which her talk with Marchmont had afforded a temporary escape. 

"I know Mildmay, " said Marchmont. "He's a capital fellow and, I shouldthink, very popular. He'll give you a bit of a run. "

"From what I hear he'll run us very close indeed, " said Blair with ananxious look. "However I've unlimited confidence in your husband, LadyMay. If Mildmay is to be beaten Quisanté'll beat him; if there is a weakspot he'll find it out. "

May smiled faintly; what Blair said was so true. 

"Perhaps, " smiled Marchmont, "you'll be able to ferret out somethingabout him. "

May turned to him and said with a touch of sharpness, "We shall fightfairly anyhow, I hope. " She saw that she surprised him and went on witha laugh, "You shouldn't talk as if we were going to set detectives onhim and use their information for electioneering. "

"Well, hardly, " said Constantine Blair. "Still, mind you, a constituencyhas a right to know that its member is an honourable and equitable manas well as a supporter of the principles it favours. "

"Excellently well put, Blair, " said Marchmont languidly. "Is it yourown?"

"No!" said May, with a sudden laugh. "I believe it's my husband's. "

Blair looked a little put out, but his good-humour triumphed. "I'm notabove borrowing from my betters, " he said. "Quisanté did say somethingof the sort to me, but how in the world did you know? Has he said it toyou?"

"Oh, no; I knew by--oh, just by the subtle sympathy that exists betweenhusband and wife, Mr. Blair. " She laughed again and glanced at Marchmont. "Sir Winterton must look out for the detectives, mustn't he?" she ended. 

Marchmont saw, though Blair did not, that she jested uneasily and reapedno pleasure, although she reaped amusement, from her clever recognitionof her husband's style. She had spoken in much the same tone about thedifference with Dick Benyon and the suspicions which Dick cast on "oursincerity. " He came near to perceiving and understanding what was in hermind--what had been there as she watched Quisanté sleeping. The firstsuggestion of ferreting out something had come from him, purely in theway of a cynical jeer, just because nobody would ever suspect him ofseriously contemplating or taking part in such a thing. Well, MayQuisanté did not apparently feel quite so confident about her husband. 

Blair bustled off, with a parting mysterious hint that they must lose notime in preparing for the fray--it might begin any week now--and May'sface relaxed into a more genuine smile. 

"He does enjoy it so, " she explained. But Marchmont was not thinking ofBlair. He asked her abruptly, "You'll go to Henstead and help him, I suppose?"

"Of course. I shall be with him right through. He'll want all the help Ican give him. It's everything to him to win this time. "

"Yes, I know. " Her voice had become troubled again; she was very anxiousfor her husband's success; but was she anxious about something else too?"If I can help you, let me, " he said as he rose to go. 

She gave him her hand and looked in his face. 

"I'm afraid that most likely I shouldn't be able to ask you, " she saidgravely. The answer, as she gave it, meant so much to him, and evenseemed to admit so much, that he wondered at once at her insight intohis thoughts and at her frankness in facing what she found there. Fordid she not in truth mean that she might want help most on some occasionwhen the loyalty he had himself approved would forbid her to reveal herdistress to him or to seek his succour? He ventured, after an instant'shesitation, on one word. 

"After all, " he said, "you can't trundle the world's wheelbarrow inwhite kid gloves; at least you soil them. "

"Then why trundle it?" she asked. "At any rate you needn't say that sortof thing. Leave that to Mr. Blair. "

Not only was the time when everybody had to be bestirring themselvesapproaching rapidly, but the appearance of Sir Winterton Mildmay in thelist quickened the Quisantés' departure for the scene of action. Roomswere taken at the Bull in Henstead, an election agent appointed, resources calculated--this involved a visit to Aunt Maria--and mattersgot into fighting trim. During this period May had again full cause tothank her power of humour; it almost scattered the gloomy and (as shetold herself) fanciful apprehensions which had gathered round, andallowed her to study with amusement her husband's preparations. Hetalked very freely to her always about his political views, and now heconsulted her on the very important question of his Election Address. Hereminded her of a man packing his portmanteau for a trip and not quiteknowing what he would want, whether (for example) shooting boots wouldcome in useful, or warm underclothing be essential. Space was limited, needs difficult to foresee, climate very uncertain. Some things wereobviously necessary, such as the cry on which the Government was goingto the country; others were sure to be serviceable; in went "somethingfor Labour" (she gathered the phrase from Quisanté's rough notes); oddcorners held little pet articles of the owner's things which he hadfound unexpectedly useful on a previous journey, or which might seemespecially adapted to the part of the world he was going to visit. Onthe local requirements Mr. Foster the maltster was a very Baedeker. Withconstant effort on Quisanté's part, with almost unfailing amusement onhis wife's, the portmanteau got itself filled. 

"Are you sure there's nothing else, Alexander?" she asked. 

"I think I've got everything that's of real service, " said he. "I don'twant to overload it. "

Of course not; excess luggage may be very expensive. May was smiling asshe handed back the Address. 

"It's extraordinarily clever, " she remarked. "You are extraordinarilyclever, you know. "

"There's nothing in it that isn't pretty obvious, " said he, though hewas well pleased. 

"Oh, to you, yes, obvious to you; that's just it, " she said. 

But amongst all that was in the portmanteau there was nothing that couldbe construed into a friendly word for the Crusade; and were not theanxious minds of the Henstead Wesleyans meant to read a disclaimer ofthat great movement in a reference to "the laudable and growing activityof all religious denominations, each within the sphere of its ownaction"? Quisanté had put in "legitimate" before "sphere, " but crossedit out again; the hint was plain enough without, and a superfluous wordis a word too much. "Sphere, " implies limitations; the Crusade hadnegatived them. This significant passage in the Address was fresh inMay's mind when, a day or two later, her husband came in, fretful andout of humour. He flung a note down on the table, saying in a puzzledtone, "I can't think what's come over Dick Benyon. You know my fight'll beover before his is half-way through, and I wrote offering to go and makea couple of speeches for him. He writes back to say that under existingcircumstances he thinks it'll be better for him not to trouble me. Readhis note; it's very stiff and distant. "

"Can you wonder?" was what rose to her lips. She did not put thequestion. The odd thing was that most undoubtedly he could wonder anddid wonder, that he did not understand why Dick should be aggrieved nor, probably, why, even though he chose to be aggrieved, he should thereforedecline assistance of unquestionable value. 

"Well, there'll be a lot of people glad to have me, " said Quisanté inresentful peevishness. "And I daresay, if I have a big win, he'll changehis mind. I shall be worth having then. "

"I don't think that would make any difference to Dick, " she said. 

She spoke lightly, her tone was void of all offence, but Quisanté leftthe room, frowning and vexed. She had seemed to rebuke him and to accusehim of not seeing or not understanding something that was plain to her. He had become very sensitive on this point. Left to himself, he had beena self-contented man, quite clear about what he meant to do, troublingvery little about what he was, quite confident that he could reason fromhis own mind to the mind of his acquaintances with absolute safety. Whenhe fell in love with May Gaston, however, part of her attraction for himhad lain in his sense of a difference between them, of her grasp onthings and on aspects of things which eluded him; in this mood he hadbeen prepared to worship, to learn, to amend. These things for a littlewhile he had done or attempted, and had been met by zealous efforts tothe same end on her part. His great moments had been frequent then, andMay had felt that the risky work she had undertaken might prosper and atlast be crowned with success. As for some months back this idea of hershad been dying, even so Quisanté's humble mood died. Now his suspiciousvanity saw blame of what he was, or even contempt of him, in every wordby which she might seem to invite him to become anything different. Though she had declared herself on his side by the most vital action ofher life, he imputed to her a leaning towards treachery; her heart wasmore with his critics than with him. Yet he did not become indifferentto her praise or her blame, but rather grew morbidly sensitive andexacting, intolerant of questioning and disliking even a smile. He lovedher, depended on her, and valued her opinion; but she became in acertain sense, if not an enemy, yet a person to be conciliated, to behoodwinked, to be tricked into a favourable view. Hence there crept intohis bearing towards her just that laboured insincerity which she hadnever ceased to blame in his attitude towards the world at large. Heshowed her the truth about himself now only as it were by accident, onlywhen he failed to perceive that the truth would not be to her liking. But this was often, and every time it happened it seemed to him as wellas to her at once to widen the gulf between them and to move furtheraway any artificial means of crossing it. Thus the new sense ofself-dissatisfaction and self-distrust which had grown upon him centredround his wife and seemed to owe its origin to her. 

On her side there came a sort of settled, resigned, not altogetherunhumorous, despair. She saw that she had over-rated her power alikeover him and over herself. She could not change what she hated in him, and she could not cease to hate it. She could neither make the normallevel higher nor yet bear patiently with the normal lower level; thegreat moments would not become perpetual and the small moments grew moreirritating and more humiliating. But the great moments recurred fromtime to time and never lost their charm. Thus she oscillated between themoods produced by an intense intellectual admiration on the one hand andan intense antipathy of the feelings on the other; and in thisuncomfortable balancing she had the prospect of spending her life. Well, Aunt Maria had lived in it for years, and Aunt Maria could not be calledan unhappy woman. If only Quisanté would not do anything too outrageous, she felt that she would be able to endure. Since she could not change, she must be content to compromise, to ignore--if only he would not driveher from that refuge too. 

"I suppose she sees what the man is by now, " said Lady Richard toMorewood, whom she had been trying to entice into sympathising with herover the scandalous treatment of the Crusade. 

"My dear Lady Richard, she always saw what he is much better than youdo, even better than I do. But it's one thing to see what a man is andquite another to see what effect his being it will have on yourself fromtime to time. "

"What he's done about Dick and the Dean is so characteristic. "

"For example, " Morewood pursued, "you know what a bore is, but at onetime he kills you, at another he faintly amuses you. You know what aDean is" (he raised his voice so as to let the Dean, who was reading inthe window, overhear); "at one time the abuse exasperates you, atanother such splendid indifference to the progress of thought catchesyour fancy. No doubt Lady May experiences the same varieties of feelingtowards her worthy husband. "

"Well, I've done with him, " said little Lady Richard. Morewood laughed. 

"The rest of us haven't, " he said, "and I don't think we ever shall tillthe fellow dies somehow effectively. "

"What a blessing for poor May!" cried Lady Richard impulsively. 

Morewood was a long while answering; even in the end what he said couldnot be called an answer. But he annoyed Lady Richard by shaking hisfinger at her and observing, "Ah, there you raise a very interesting question. "

"Very, " agreed the Dean from the window seat. 

"I didn't know you were listening, " said Lady Richard, wheeling round. 

"I always listen about Mr. Quisanté. "

"Exactly!" exclaimed Morewood. "I told you so!" But Lady Richard did noteven pretend to understand his exultation or what he meant. Whatever hehad happened to mean about poor May, the Dean was not AlexanderQuisanté's wife. 

 CHAPTER XI. 

 SEVENTY-SEVEN AND SUSY SINNETT. 

The course of events gave to the Henstead election an importance whichseemed rather adventitious to people not Henstead-born. It occurred amongthe earliest; the cry was on its trial. Quisanté was a prominentchampion, his opponent commanded great influence, and the seat had alwaysbeen what Constantine Blair used to call "pivotal, " and less diplomatictongues "wobbly. " Such materials for conspicuousness were sure to losenothing in the hands of Quisanté. The consciousness that he fought alarger than merely local fight, on a platform broader than parochial, under more eyes than gazed at him from the floor of the Corn-Exchange, was the spur he needed to urge him to supreme effort and rouse him tomoments of inspiration. Add to this the feeling that his own career wasat its crisis. Even Fanny Gaston, who rather unwillingly accompanied hersister to the Bull, was in twenty-four hours caught by the spirit ofcombat and acknowledged that Quisanté was a fine leader of a battle, however much he left to be desired as a brother-in-law. She flung herselfinto the fight with unstinted zeal, and was rewarded by Quisanté'sconviction that he had at last entirely overcome her dislike of him. 

"He's really splendid in his own way, " she wrote to Jimmy Benyon--by nowthey had come to corresponding occasionally--"and I think that youanyhow--I don't ask Dick, who's got a fight of his own--might come andgive him some help. People know how much you did for him, and it looksrather odd that you should neither of you be here. " So Jimmy, after astruggle, packed up, and gave and received a reciprocal shock of surprisewhen he got into the same railway carriage as the Dean and Mrs. Baxter. 

"What, are you going too?" cried Jimmy. 

Mrs. Baxter explained that they were not going to join Mr. Quisanté;indeed they were bound for the opposite camp, being on their way to staywith the Mildmays. The Dean added that his presence had no politicalsignificance; the Mildmays were old friends, and the visit quiteunconnected with the election. "Although, " the Dean added, "I shall findit interesting to watch the fight. " His manner indicated that hissympathies were divided. Jimmy hastened to explain his presence. 

"I'm only going because of May and Fanny. I don't care a straw aboutQuisanté, " he said, "although I'm loyal to the party, of course. "

"I'm not a party man, " observed the Dean. How should he be, when bothparties contemptuously showed his dear Crusade the door?

"I want Sir Winterton to win, " said Mrs. Baxter with mild firmness. 

"Oh, I say!" murmured Jimmy, who was very ready to be made to feeluncomfortable. "Come now, why, Mrs. Baxter?"

Mrs. Baxter shook her head, and went on knitting the stocking which onjourneys took the place of the wonted petticoat. 

"My wife's taken a prejudice against Mr. Quisanté, " the Dean explainedapologetically. 

"A prejudice!" said Mrs. Baxter with a patient withering smile; sheimplied that her husband would be calling religion and the virtuesprejudices next. 

"There's nothing particularly wrong with him, " Jimmy protested weakly. 

"There's nothing particularly right with him, Lord James. He's just likethat coachman of the Girdlestones'; he never told the truth and nevercleaned his harness, but, bless you, there was always a good reason forit. What became of the man, Dan?"

"I don't know, my dear. "

"I remember. They had to get rid of him, and the Canon got him madenight-watchman at the Institute. However, as I say, I called him Mr. Reasons, and that's what I call Alexander Quisanté. Poor girl!" The lastwords referred, by a somewhat abrupt transition, to Quisanté's wife. 

The Dean smiled rather uneasily at Jimmy Benyon; Mrs. Baxter detected thesmile, but was not disturbed. She shook her head again, saying, "Sir Winterton you can trust, but if I were he I'd keep a sharp eye onall you Quisanté people. "

"I say, hang it all!" moaned Jimmy Benyon. But his protest could notsoften the old lady's convinced hostility. "You ask his aunt, " she endedvindictively, and Jimmy was too timid to suggest that enquiries in such aquarter were not the usual way of forming a judgment on rising statesmen. 

Moreover he had no opportunity, for Miss Quisanté did not come toHenstead; her explanation showed the mixture of malice and devotion whichwas her usual attitude towards Sandro. 

"I'd give my ears to come, " she had told May, "to see the fun and hearSandro. But I'm old and ugly and scrubby, and Sandro won't want me. I'mnot a swell like you and your sister. I should do him harm, not good. He'd be ashamed of me--oh, that'd only amuse me. But I'd best not come. Write to me, my dear, and send me all his speeches. "

"I wish you'd come. I want you to talk to, " May said. 

"Talk to your sister!" jeered Aunt Maria; it was nothing less than ajeer, for she knew very well that May could not and would not talk toFanny. 

One thing the Quisanté people (as Mrs. Baxter called them) found outbefore they had been long in Henstead, and this was the important anddelicate nature of anything and everything that touched or affected Mr. Japhet Williams. Something of this had been foreshadowed by Mr. Foster'saccount of his friend, but the reality went far beyond. Japhet was asmall fretful-faced man; he was rich, liberal, and kind, but he plumedhimself on a scrupulous conscience and was the slave of a trifle-riddenmind. As a member of a party, then, he was hard to work with, harder eventhan Weston Marchmont, of whom he seemed sometimes to May to be a reducedand travestied copy. Not a speech could be made, not a bill issued, butJaphet Williams flew round to the Committee Room with an objection tourge and a hole to pick. There he would find large, stout, shrewd oldFoster, installed in an arm-chair and ready with native diplomacy, orQuisanté himself, earning Mrs. Baxter's nickname of "Mr. Reasons" by thesuave volubility of his explanations. May laughed at such sceneshalf-a-dozen times in the first week of her stay at Henstead. 

"Is he so very important to us?" she asked of Foster. 

He answered her in a whisper behind a fat hand, "His house is only a couple of miles from Sir Winterton's, and LadyMildmay's been civil. He employs a matter of two hundred men up at themills yonder. "

"The position's very critical, isn't it, then?"

"So your good husband seems to think, " said Foster, jerking his thumbtowards where Quisanté leant over Japhet's shoulder, almost caressinghim, and ingeniously justifying the statistics of an electioneeringplacard. May's eyes followed the direction of the jerk. She sighed. 

"Yes, it's a waste of Mr. Quisanté's time, but we can't help that, "Foster sighed responsively. It was not, however, of Quisanté's time thathis wife had been thinking. 

Japhet rose. Quisanté took his hand, shook it, and held it. 

"Now you're satisfied, really satisfied, Mr. Williams?" he asked. "I giveyou my word that what I've said is absolutely accurate. "

"What that placard says, sir?"

"Yes, yes, certainly--what the placard says. It doesn't give the detailsand explanations, of course, but the results are accurately stated. "

"I'm much relieved to hear it, much relieved, " said Japhet. 

He left them; Foster sat down again, smiling. May had come to drive herhusband to a meeting and waited his leisure. He came across to Foster, holding the suspected placard in his hand. 

"Smoothed him down this time, sir?" asked Foster cheerily. 

"Yes, " answered Quisanté, passing his hand over his smooth hair. "Ithink, Mr. Foster, we won't have any more of this Number 77. Make a noteof that, will you?"

"No more of 77, " Foster noted on a piece of paper. 

"It's not one of the most effective, " said Quisanté thoughtfully. 

"Sails a little near the wind, don't it?" asked Foster with a wink. 

"Brief summaries of intricate subjects are almost inevitably open tomisunderstanding, " observed Quisanté. 

"Just so, just so, " Foster hurried to say, his eyes grown quite graveagain. May remembered Mr. Constantine Blair's plagiarism of her husband'sstyle; had he been there, he must have appropriated this last examplealso. "I shall end by becoming very fond of Japhet Williams, " she said asshe got into the carriage. Quisanté glanced at her and did not ask herwhy. 

Meanwhile, however, the other side had got hold of No. 77, and Smiley, the agent, a very clever fellow, wired up to the Temple for young TerenceMcPhair, who had an acquaintance with the subject. Young Terence, whopossessed a ready tongue and no briefs to use it on, made fine play withNo. 77; accusations of misrepresentation, ignorant he hoped, fraudulenthe feared, flew about thick as snowflakes. The next morning Japhet wasround at the Committee Room by ten o'clock. Foster was there, and a boycame up to the Bull with a message asking if Mr. Quisanté could make itconvenient to step round. It was a bad morning with Quisanté; his headached, his heart throbbed, and his stomach was sadly out of gear; he hadtaken up a report of young Terence's speech, and read it in gloomysilence while the others breakfasted. There was to be a great meetingthat night, and they had hoped that he would reserve what strength he hadfor it. He heard the message, rose without a word, and went down to theCommittee Room. 

"What'll he do?" asked Jimmy Benyon. "They gave us some nasty knocks lastnight. "

"He can prove that the placard has been withdrawn, at least that no moreare to be ordered, " said Fanny Gaston. "It wasn't his fault; he's notbound to defend it. "

Quisanté came home to a late lunch; he was still ill, but his depressionhad vanished; he ate, drank, and talked, his spirit rising above the woesof his body. 

"What have you done this morning?" Fanny asked. 

"Held a meeting in the dinner-hour, had ten interviews, and the usualpalaver with Japhet. "

"How are Mr. Williams' feelings?" asked May. 

"He's all right now, " said Quisanté, smiling. Then he added, "Oh, andwe've wired to town for two hundred and fifty more of 77. "

Then May knew what was going to happen. Quisanté was roused. The placardwas untrue, at least misleading, and he knew it was; he might haveretreated before young Terence and sheltered himself by an ingloriousdisclaimer. That, as Aunt Maria said, was not Sandro's way. No. 77 camedown by the afternoon train, a corps of bill-posters was let loose, andas they drove to the evening meeting the town was red with it. Withdrawn, disclaimed, apologised for? It was insisted on, relied on, made a trumpcard of, flung full in young Terence's audacious face. May sat by herhusband in that strange mixed mood that he roused in her, half pride, half humiliation; scorning him because he would not bow before the truth, exulting in the audacity, the dash, and the daring of him, at the spiritthat caught victory out of danger and turned mistake into an occasion oftriumph. For triumph it was that night. Who could doubt his sincerity, who question the injured honour that rang like a trumpet through hiswords? And who could throw any further slur on No. 77, thus splendidlychampioned, vindicated, and almost sanctified? Never yet in Henstead hadthey heard him so inspired; to May herself it seemed the finest thing hehad yet done; and even young Terence, when he read it, felt glad that hehad left Henstead by the morning train. 

As Quisanté sank into his chair amid a tumult of applause, Foster winkedacross the platform at May; but little Japhet Williams was clapping hishands as madly as any man among them. Who could not congratulate him, whocould not praise him, who could not feel that he was a man to be proud ofand a man to serve? Yet most undoubtedly No. 77 was untrue or at leastmisleading, and Alexander Quisanté knew it. Undoubtedly he had said "Nomore of it. " And now he had pinned it as his colours to the mast. Mayfound herself looking at him with as fresh an interest and as great afear as in the first weeks of their marriage. Would she in her heart havehad him honest over No. 77, honest and inglorious? Or was she coming tothink as he did, and to ask little concerning honesty? What would WestonMarchmont think of the affair? Or, short of that, how Morewood wouldsmile and the Dean shake his head!

The No. 77 episode was very typical of that time, and most typical ofAlexander Quisanté's conduct, of Sandro's way. His best and his worst, his highest and his lowest, were called out; at one moment he wheedled anignorant fool with flattery, at another he roused keen honest men to fineenthusiasm; now he seemed to have no thought that was not selfish andmean, now imagination rapt him to a glow of heart-felt patriotism. Thegood and the bad both stood him in stead, and hope reigned in his camp. But all hung in the balance, for Sir Winterton was tall and handsome, bluff and hearty, a good landlord, a good sportsman, a good man, aneighbour to the town and a friend to half of it. And the great cry didnot seem like proving a great success. 

"It's up-hill work against Sir Winterton, " said Japhet Williams, rubbinghis thin little hands together. 

A troubled look spread over the broad face of that provincial diplomatist, Mr. Foster the maltster; he knew where the danger lay. They would come toQuisanté's meetings, applaud him, admire him, be proud of his efforts toplease them; but when the day came would they not think (and would nottheir wives remind them) that Sir Winterton was a neighbour and a friendand that Lady Mildmay was kind and sweet? Then, having shouted forQuisanté, would they not in the peaceful obscurity of the ballot puttheir cross opposite Mildmay's name?

"I'm not easy about it, sir, that I'm not, " said Foster, wiping his broadred brow. 

Quisanté was not easy either, as his lined face and his high-strungmanner showed; he was half-killing himself and he was not easy. So muchhung on it; before all England he had backed himself to win, and in thestrain of his excitement it seemed to him that the stake he laid was hiswhole reputation. Was all that to go, and to go on no great issue, butjust because Sir Winterton was bluff and cheery and Lady Mildmay kind andsweet? Another thing he knew about himself; if he lost this time, he mustbe out in the cold at least for a long time; he could not endure anothercontest, even if the offer of a candidature came to him, even though AuntMaria found the funds. Everything was on this fling of the dice then; andit seemed to him almost iniquitous that he should lose because SirWinterton was bluff and cheery and his wife kind and sweet. His face washard and cunning as he leant across towards old Foster and said in a lowvoice, with a sneering smile, "I suppose there's nothing against this admirable gentleman?"

Old Foster started a little, recollecting perhaps that fine passage inthe speech which opened the campaign, the passage which defined the broadpublic lines of the contest and loftily disclaimed any personal attack orpersonal animosity. But the next moment he smiled in answer, smiledthoughtfully, as he tapped his teeth with the handle of his pen-knife. Quisanté sat puffing at a cigar and looking straight at him withobservant searching eyes. 

"Anything against him, eh?" asked Foster in a ruminative tone. 

"They've been ready enough to ask where I come from, and how I live, andso on. "

"They know all that about Sir Winterton, you see, sir. "

"Yes, confound them. " The keen eyes were still on Foster; the fat old manshifted his position a little and ceased to meet their regard. "We don'twant to be beaten, you know, " said Quisanté. 

A silence of some minutes followed. Quisanté, rose and strolled off to atable, where he began to sort papers; Foster sat where he was, frowning alittle, with his mouth pursed up. He stole a glance at Quisanté's back, acurious enquiring glance. 

"I know nothing about the rights of it one way or the other, " he said atlast. "But some of the men up at the mills and in my place still rememberTom Sinnett's affair. Only the other night, as Sir Winterton drove by, one of them shouted out, 'Where's Susy Sinnett?'"

Quisanté went on sorting papers and did not turn round. 

"Who the deuce is Susy Sinnett?" he asked indifferently, with a laugh. 

"It was about five years ago--before Sir Winterton's split with theLiberals. Tom was a keeper in Sir Winterton's employ, and Sir Wintertoncharged him with netting game and sending it to London on his ownaccount. " Foster's narrative ceased and he looked again at hiscandidate's back. The papers rustled and the cigar smoke mounted to theceiling. "Well?" said Quisanté. 

"Tom was found guilty at Sessions; but in the dock he declared SirWinterton had trumped up the charge to shut his mouth. "

"What about?"

"Well, because he'd found Sir Winterton dangling after Susy, andthreatened to break his head if he found him there again. " He paused, Quisanté made no comment. "Tom got nine months, and when he came out allthe family emigrated to Manitoba. "

After a short pause, filled by the arrangement of papers, Quisantéobserved, "That must have cost money. He'd saved out of what he got forthe game, eh?"

"It was supposed Sir Winterton found the money, " said Foster, "butnothing was known. Sir Winterton refused to make any statement. He saidhis friends would know what to think, and he didn't care a damn (that washis word) about anybody else. Still some weren't satisfied. But the talkdied away, except here and there among the men who'd been Tom's pals. Idaresay Tom gave 'em a rabbit now and again in exchange for a pot ofbeer, and they missed him. " Mr. Foster ended with a little chuckle. 

"I think Sir Winterton might have been a little more explicit, " Quisantéremarked. "There's some excuse for thinking an explanation notunnecessary. What became of the girl? Did she go to Manitoba?"

"I believe she did in the end, but she'd married a man from Dunn's worksand left the town three months after her father was sent to prison. "

Quisanté came back to the hearth and stood looking down on old Foster. 

"Rather a queer story, " he said. "But I meant, was there anything againsthim of a public nature, in his local record, anything of that sort, youknow. "

"I know nothing of that kind, " said Foster, raising his eyes and meetinghis leader's. He looked rather puzzled, as if he were still not quitesure what Quisanté's question had meant, in spite of Quisanté'sexplanation of it. "I'd almost forgotten this, but Japhet Williamsmentioned it the other day. You know Japhet by now. He said he thought heought to ask Sir Winterton to make a statement. "

A sudden gleam shot through Quisanté's eyes. 

"Mr. Williams' active conscience at work again?" he asked with a sneeringlaugh. 

"That's it, " said Foster, still looking stolidly at his chief. "But Iknow Sir Winterton; he'd only say what he did before. "

Quisanté turned, flung the end of his cigar into the grate, and turnedback to Foster, saying, "Mr. Williams must do as he thinks right; but of course I can't have anyhand in a matter of that kind. "

"Just so, just so, " murmured Foster as hurriedly but even more vaguelythan usual. His chief was puzzling him still. 

"I can't have anything at all to do with it, " Quisanté repeatedemphatically. Foster did not quite know whence he gathered theimpression, but he was left with the feeling that, if he should chanceever to be asked what had passed between them on the subject, he mustremember this sentence at least, whatever else of the conversation herecollected or forgot. 

"Of course you can't, sir. I only mentioned it in passing, " said he. 

"And you'd better tell Japhet Williams so, if he mentions the matter. "The slightest pause followed. "Or, " added Quisanté, grinding his heelinto the hearth rug as though in absence of mind, "if it happens to cropup in talk between you. "

Whether the matter did crop up as suggested or not is one of those pointsof secret history which it seems useless to try to discover. But anincident which occurred the next evening showed that Japhet Williams'mind and conscience had, either of their own motion or under some outsidedirection, been concerning themselves with the question of Tom Sinnettand his daughter Susy. There was a full and enthusiastic meeting of SirWinterton's supporters. In spite of Quisanté's victory over No. 77, they were in good heart and fine fighting fettle; Sir Winterton wasgood-tempered and sanguine; there was enough opposition to give theaffair go, not enough to make itself troublesome. But at the end, aftera few of the usual questions and the usual verbal triumphs of thecandidate, a small man rose from the middle of the hall. He was greetedby hoots, with a few cheers mingling. The Chairman begged silence fortheir worthy fellow-townsman, Councillor Japhet Williams. 

Japhet was perfectly self-possessed; he had been, he said, as a rule asupporter of the opposite party, but he kept his mind open and was freeto admit that he had been considerably impressed by some of the argumentswhich had fallen from Sir Winterton Mildmay that evening. The meetingapplauded, and Sir Winterton nodded and smiled. There was one matter, however, which he felt it his duty to mention. Now that Sir WintertonMildmay (the full name came with punctilious courtesy every time) wasappealing to a wider circle than that of his personal friends andacquaintances, now that he--was seeking the confidence of hisfellow-townsmen in general (A voice "He's got it too, " and cheers), would Sir Winterton Mildmay consider the desirability of reconsideringthe attitude he had taken up some time ago, and consider the desirability(Japhet's speech was not very artistically phrased but he loved the longwords) of making a fuller public statement with reference to what he (Mr. Japhet Williams) would term the Sinnett affair? And with this Japhet satdown, having caused what the reporters very properly described as a"Sensation"--and an infinite deal of hooting and groaning to boot. Butthere were cheers also from the back of the room, where a body of roughlydressed sturdy fellows sat sucking at black clay pipes; these were menfrom the various works, from Dunn's and from Japhet's own. 

As Japhet proceeded Sir Winterton's handsome face had grown ruddier andruddier; when Japhet finished, he sat still through the hubbub, but hishand twitched and he clutched the elbow of his chair tightly. Theplatform collectively looked uncomfortable. The chairman--he was Green, the linen-draper in High Street--glanced uneasily at Sir Winterton andthen whispered in his ear. Sir Winterton threw a short remark at him, the chairman shrank back with the appearance of having been snubbed. SirWinterton rose slowly to his feet, still very red in the face, stillcontrolling himself to a calmness of gesture and voice. But all he saidin answer to that most respected and influential townsman Mr. JaphetWilliams was, "No, I won't. "

And down he plumped into his chair again. 

Not a word of courtesy, not a word of respect for Japhet's motives, noteven an appeal for trust, not even a simple pledge of his word! A curtand contemptuous "No, I won't, " was all that Sir Winterton's feelings, orSir Winterton's sensitiveness, or his temper, or his obstinacy, allowedhim to utter. Sir Winterton was a great man, no doubt, but at electiontimes the People also enjoys a transient sense of greatness and of power. The cheers were less hearty now, the groans more numerous; the audiencefelt that, in its own person and in the person of Japhet Williams, it wasbeing treated with disrespect; already one or two asked, "If he's got afair and square answer, why don't he give it?" The superfine sense ofhonour, which feels itself wounded by being asked for a denial and soiledby condescending to give one, is of a texture too delicate for commonappreciation. "No, I won't, " said Sir Winterton, red in the face, and themeeting felt snubbed. Why did he snub them? The meeting began to feelsuspicious. There were no more questions; the proceedings were hurriedthrough; Sir Winterton drove off, pompous in his anger, red from his hurtfeelings, stiff in his obstinacy. The cheer that followed him had not itsformer heartiness. 

"I only did my duty, " said Japhet to a group who surrounded him. 

"That's right, Mr. Williams, " he was answered. "We know you. Don't youlet yourself be silenced, sir. " For everybody now remembered the Sinnettaffair, which had seemed so forgotten, everybody had a detail to tellconcerning it, his own views to set forth, or those of some shrewd friendto repeat. That night the taverns in the town were full of it, and atmany a supper table the story was told over again. As for Japhet, hedropped in at Mr. Foster's and told what he had done, complainingbitterly of how Sir Winterton had treated him, declaring that he had beenprepared to listen to any explanation, almost to take Sir Winterton'ssimple word, but that he was not to be bullied in a matter in which hisown conscience and the rights of the constituency were plainly and deeplyinvolved. Mr. Foster said as little as he could. 

"It won't do for me to take any part, " he remarked. "I'm too closelyconnected with Mr. Quisanté, and I know he wouldn't wish to enter intosuch a matter. "

"I'm not acting as a party man, " said Japhet Williams, "and this isn't aparty matter. But a plain answer to a plain question isn't much to ask, and I mean to ask for it till I get it, or know the reason why I can't. "

Dim rumours of a "row" at Sir Winterton's meeting reached the Bull thatnight, brought by Jimmy Benyon, who had been at a minor meeting acrossthe railway bridge among the railway men. Somebody had brought up an oldscandal, and the candidate's answer had not given satisfaction. Theladies showed no curiosity; Quisanté, very tired, lay on the sofa doingnothing, neither reading, nor talking, nor sleeping. His eyes were fixedon the ceiling, he seemed hardly to hear what Jimmy said, and he alsoasked no questions. So Jimmy, dismissing the matter from his mind, wentto bed, leaving Quisanté still lying there, with wide-open eyes. 

There he lay a long while alone; once or twice he frowned, once or twicehe smiled. Was he thinking over the opportunity that offered, and theinstrument that presented itself? What chances might lie in SirWinterton's dogged honour and tender sensitiveness on the one hand, andon the other in that conscience of little Japhet's, stronger now in itsalliance with hurt pride and outraged self-importance! And nobody couldsay that Quisanté himself had had any part in it; he had spoken to nobodyexcept Foster, and he had told Foster most plainly that he would havenothing to do with such a matter. There he lay, making his case, the casehe could tell to all the world, the case Foster also could tell, the casethat both Foster and he could and would tell, if need be, to all theworld, to all the world--and to May Quisanté. 

"Sandro always has a case, " said Aunt Maria. He had a case about whatJaphet termed the Sinnett affair, just as he had had a case, and a verystrong one as it had proved, about placard No. 77. When at last hedragged his weary overdone body to bed, his lips were set tight and hiseyes were eager. It was the look that meant something in his mind, goodor bad, but anyhow a resolution, and the prospect of work to be done. HadMay seen him then, she would have known the look, and hoped and feared. But she was sleeping, and none asked Quisanté what was in his mind thatnight. 

 CHAPTER XII. 

 A HIGHLY CORRECT ATTITUDE. 

Up to the present time all had gone most smoothly at Moors End, theMildmays' old manor-house, eight miles from Henstead, and Lady Mildmay hadconfided many quiet self-congratulations to Mrs. Baxter's ear. For it hadseemed possible that the election might prove a cause of perturbation. Lady Mildmay was still in love with her handsome well-preserved husband, and had every confidence in him, but to a chosen friend she wouldsometimes admit that he was "difficult"; she called him not proud andobstinate, but sensitive and a little touchy; she hinted that he could notbear unpleasant looks, and yet was not very ready to make concessions tofriendship. No doubt he needed some management, and Lady Mildmay, likemany wives, found one of her chief functions to consist in acting as abuffer between her husband and a world which did not always approach himwith enough gentleness and consideration. Hence her joy at the prosperouspassage of a critical time, at the enthusiasm of their supporters, and atthe gratification and urbanity of Sir Winterton. Satisfaction begatcharity, and Lady Mildmay had laughingly dismissed some portentous hintswhich Mrs. Baxter let fall about the certain character and the probabletactics of Mr. Quisanté. 

"His wife looks so nice, he can't be very bad, " said kind Lady Mildmay, using an argument of most uncritical charity. 

Although the Dean, if pressed, must have ranked himself among his host'spolitical opponents, he was so little of a party man and had so manypoints of sympathy with Sir Winterton (especially on Church matters) thathe very contentedly witnessed the contest from Moors End and no longertroubled himself to conceal his hopes of a Moors End triumph. Neverthelesshe was judiciously reticent about Quisanté, generously eulogistic of May. Sir Winterton looked forward to making the acquaintance of both, butthought that the occasion had better be postponed till they had ceased tobe opponents. 

"But I hope you and your wife'll go over as often as you like, " he saidto the Dean very cordially. But the Dean and Mrs. Baxter did not go, perhaps preferring not to divide their sympathies, perhaps fearing thatthey might seem like spies and be suspected of carrying back informationto the rival camp. "I dare say you're wise, " said Sir Winterton, ratherrelieved; he had made the suggestion because it was the handsome thing todo, but was not eager that it should be accepted. To do the handsomething and to meet with pleasant looks were the two requisites mostessential to Sir Winterton's happiness; given these he was at his bestand his best was a fine specimen of the class to which he belonged. Therewas, however, a weak side to these two desires of his, as the history ofthe Sinnett affair to some extent indicated. 

The first shock to Sir Winterton's good temper had been the matter of No. 77; until then he had been lavish of the usual polite compliments to hisopponent's personal character. After No 77's prodigal reappearance andQuisanté's rhetorical effort in defence of it these assurances were nomore on his lips, and for a time he bore himself with strict reserve whenQuisanté was mentioned. He had been right in the dispute, and he had beenbeaten; silence was the utmost that could be expected of his tolerance orhis self-control; his refusal to speak on the subject showed his opinionwell enough, and he must not be blamed too severely if he listened withoutprotest and perhaps with pleasure to Mrs. Baxter's pungent criticisms. Ofcourse she had been reminded of something--of the strictures which acertain Provincial Editor had passed on the household arrangements of acertain Minor Canon; a libel action had ensued, and the jury had beenbeguiled into finding for the defendant on a bare literal construction ofwords which to anybody acquainted with local circumstances bore anotherand much blacker meaning. This Mrs. Baxter called a pettifogging trick, and she pursued her parallel till the same terms were obviously indicatedas appropriate to Quisanté's conduct. 

"My dear!" said the Dean in mild protest; but Sir Winterton laughed asthough he had enjoyed the story. He was at once favoured with the furtherparallel of the Girdlestones' coachman and, as the conversation drifted toMay, of the Nonconformist Minister's daughter and the Circus Proprietor. All Mrs. Baxter's armoury of reminiscence was heartily at his service. 

But No. 77 did not after all touch Sir Winterton very closely. His temperhad begun to recover and he had nearly forgiven Quisanté when suddenlyJaphet Williams produced a far more severe and deadly shock. His actionwas a bomb, and a bomb thrown from a hand which Moors End had been fain tothink was or might be friendly. Was not Japhet a neighbour, only two milesoff along the Henstead Road, and did not Lady Mildmay and Mrs. Williams, religious differences notwithstanding, work together every year on theCommittee of the Cottage Gardens and Window-Boxes Show? Had not Japhethimself been understood to be reconsidering his political opinions? Therewas even more. The Sinnett affair was the one subject utterly forbidden, most rigidly tabooed, at Moors End. All Sir Winterton's relatives, friends, acquaintances, and dependents knew that well. Sir Winterton'shonour and temper had never been so wounded as over that affair. ByJaphet's hand it was dragged into light again; the odious thing becameonce more the gossip of Henstead, once more a disgusting topic which itwas impossible wholly to ignore at Moors End. This was plain enough since, on the morning after Japhet's question had been put, Lady Mildmay wasdiscussing the position with Mrs. Baxter in the morning-room, while theDean and Sir Winterton walked round and round the lawn in gloomyconversation punctuated by gloomier silences. 

What the actual history was Lady Mildmay's narrative showed prettyaccurately. Sir Winterton's predominant desires, to do the handsome thingand to meet with pleasant looks, evidently had played a large part. LadyMildmay blushed a little and smiled as she began by observing that SirWinterton had distinguished the girl by some kind notice; he liked her, healways liked nice-spoken nice-looking girls; for her sake and her mother's(a very decent woman), he had forgiven Tom many irregularities. At lasthis patience gave out and Tom was prosecuted; when arrested, Tom had triedblackmail; Sir Winterton was not to be bullied, and Tom's speech from thedock was no more than an outburst of defeated malice. 

Then came on the scene Sir Winterton's kind heart and his predominantdesires. He had made the girl a present to facilitate her marriage andhad got the husband work away from the town, where no gossip would havereached. This seemed enough, and so Doctor Tillman, an old and wisefriend, urged. But as the time of Tom's release approached and his wifemade preparations for receiving him in a cottage just on the edge of SirWinterton's estate, it became odious to think of the black looks andscowls which would embitter every ride in that direction. "I want toforget the whole thing, to get rid of it, to blot it all out, " said SirWinterton fretfully. Prison had induced reason in Tom Sinnett; he madehis submission and accepted the liberal help which carried him and hiswife, his daughter and her husband, to a new life across the seas. ThenSir Winterton had peace in his heart and abroad; he had behaved mosthandsomely, and there were no scowling faces to remind him of the hatefulepisode. He had met the gossip boldly and defiantly; it had died away andhad seemed utterly forgotten and extinct; the low grumbles and not veryseemly jokes which still lingered among the men at the various works inHenstead, where Tom had been a _persona grata_, never reached the ears ofthe great folk at Moors End; it is perhaps only at election times thatsuch things become audible in such quarters. 

The poor lady ended with a careworn smile; she had suffered much duringthe episode, and perhaps the more because her faith in her husband hadnever wavered. 

"I did so hope it was all over, " she said. 

"That's a good deal to hope about anything, " observed Mrs. Baxter rathergrimly. 

"It does annoy Winterton so terribly. I'm afraid it'll quite upset him. "

Mrs. Baxter had her own opinion about Sir Winterton; amid much that wasfavourable, she had no doubt that he was far too ready to get on the highhorse. 

"Well, my dear, " she said, "Sir Winterton'll have to do what many peoplehave; he must swallow his pride and tell the truth about it. "

"I don't think he will, " sighed Lady Mildmay, looking out at herhusband's tall imposing figure, and marking the angry energy with whichhe was impressing his views on the Dean. 

In this case at least Mrs. Baxter was right. Sir Winterton had got on thevery highest of horses; he had mounted at the meeting, flinging back his"No, I won't, " as he sprang to the saddle; he was firmly seated; havinggot up, he declared that he could not think of coming down. There, forgood or evil, he sat. The Dean looked vexed and puzzled. 

"This Mr. Williams is an honest man, I suppose?" he asked. 

"Oh, honest as the day, too honest. But he's an infernal little ass, "said Sir Winterton. "Somebody's got hold of him and is using him, or he'sheard some gossip and caught it up. I won't say a word. " And he went onto ask if he were to degrade himself by making explanations and excusesfor his personal conduct to all the rowdies and loafers of Henstead. "IfI have to do that to get in, why, I'll stay out, and be hanged to them. "His face suggested that his language would have been still more vigorousbut for a respect due to the Dean's cloth. 

Later in the day they all had a turn at him, his wife pleading tenderly, Mrs. Baxter exhorting trenchantly (he came nearer to being told he was afool than had ever happened to him before), the Dean suggesting possiblediplomacies, Dr. Tillman, whom they sent for as a reinforcement, declaringthat a few simple words, authorised by Sir Winterton, would put the wholematter right. He was obstinate; he had taken up his position and meant tostand by it; his conscience was clear and his honour safe in his ownkeeping; he would not speak himself and explicitly forbade any statementto be made on his behalf. Surely some power fought for Alexander Quisantéin giving him an opponent of this temper!

"If any statement is to be made in reference to the matter, " said SirWinterton, rather red in the face again by now, "I confess to thinkingthat it would come best from Mr. Quisanté. In fact I think that a fewwords would come very gracefully from Mr. Quisanté. "

Lady Mildmay caught at the hope. "If it was suggested to him, I'msure----"

"Suggested!" cried Sir Winterton. "Is it likely I should suggest it orpermit any of my friends to do so? I was merely speculating on what mightnot unnaturally suggest itself to a gentleman in Mr. Quisanté's position. "

Mrs. Baxter's smile was very eloquent of her opinion on this particularpoint. The Dean frowned perplexedly. 

"There are exigencies to be considered, " he stammered. "The views of hissupporters----"

"In a matter like this?" asked Sir Winterton in a tone of lofty surprise. The Dean felt that he had rather committed himself, and did not ventureto remind his sensitive host that after all Quisanté had no knowledge ofthe truth or falsehood of the story, and could say nothing beyond that hehad none. Mrs. Baxter, however, spoke plainly. 

"Let me tell you, " she said, "that if you expect anything of the sortfrom Alexander Quisanté, you'll find yourself mistaken. "

"I don't know that I agree with you there, my dear, " said the Dean, entering his usual _caveat_. "I think very likely Mr. Quisanté wouldbe willing to do the proper thing if it were pointed out to him. "

"Pointed out!" murmured Sir Winterton, raising his brows. Did gentlemenneed to have the proper thing pointed out to them? Did they not see itfor themselves and do it? Nay, one might look for more than the merenaked proper thing; from a gentleman the handsome thing was to beexpected, and that of his own motion. There could, in Sir Winterton'sview, be no doubt of what was in this case the handsome thing. 

Unhappily, there is no subject on which greater divergence of opinionexists than that of the proper thing to be done under givencircumstances. Here was Sir Winterton holding one view; Japhet Williamsheld another, and it is to be feared that a section of the inhabitants ofHenstead adopted a third. Sir Winterton's cry was honour, Japhet's wasduty; the inhabitants would have differed rather even among themselves asto how to describe their motive; party spirit, curiosity, the zest of apersonal question, interest in a promising quarrel, mere mischief, allhad a hand in producing the applause which greeted Japhet when he rosethe next evening and with absolute imperturbability repeated the samequestion as nearly as possible in the same words. Sir Winterton's answerwas not in the same words, but entirely to the same effect. "I'veanswered that question once, and I won't answer it again, " he said. Thencame the tumult, and after that a dull unenthusiastic ending, and thedrive off through a grinning crowd, which enjoyed Sir Winterton's furyand added to it by a few hateful cries of "Where's Susy Sinnett?" Fromthe outskirts of the town till his own gates were reached Sir Wintertondid not speak to his wife. Then he turned to her and said verycourteously but most decisively, "Marion dear, you will oblige me by not accompanying me to any moremeetings at present and by not visiting the town just now. I don't chooseto expose you to any more such scenes. I can't teach these fellows torespect a lady's presence, but I can protect my wife by ensuring herabsence. " He looked very chivalrous and very handsome as he made thislittle speech. But his wife's heart sank; such an attitude could meannothing but defeat. 

"Can't you help us?" she implored of the Dean, when she had got him aloneand told him of this new development of her husband's pride or temper. Itwas evident that Japhet Williams meant, as he had said, to go on puttinghis plain question till he got a plain answer, and so long as he put hisquestion, Lady Mildmay was not to be present. How soon would Hensteadunderstand that the gentleman who sought to be its member openly declaredthat he did not consider it a fit place for his wife to enter?

"Something must really be done, " said the Dean nervously. "At allhazards. " They both knew that "at all hazards" meant in spite of theprohibition and in face of the wrath of Sir Winterton. 

Indeed this impulsive gentleman, seated on his high horse, was in urgentneed of being saved from himself. Hitherto Japhet's importunity and theattacks of less conscientious opponents had had the natural effect ofrousing his supporters to greater enthusiasm and greater zeal. When hisfresh step began to be understood, when Lady Mildmay came with him nomore, and it dawned upon Henstead that Sir Winterton would not bringher, the very supporters felt themselves offended. Were a few ribaldcries and the folly of a wrong-headed old Japhet Williams to outweigh alltheir loyalty and devotion? Was the town to be judged by its rowdies?They could not but remember that Lady May Quisanté sat smiling throughthe hottest meetings, and one evening had at the last moment saved herhusband's platform from being stormed by sitting, composed and immovable, in the very middle of it till the rioters came to a stand a foot fromher, and then retreated cowed before her laughter. That was the sort ofthing Henstead liked; to be told that it was unworthy of Lady Mildmay'spresence was not what it liked. A strong deputation came out to SirWinterton; he replied from his high horse; the deputation averred thatthey could not answer for the consequences; Sir Winterton said he did notcare a rush about the consequences; the deputation ventured timidly tohint that an excessive care to shield Lady Mildmay's ears from anymention of the Sinnett affair might be misunderstood; Sir Winterton saidthat he had nothing to do with that; his first duty was to his wife, hissecond to himself. The deputation retired downcast and annoyed. 

"If you're going to do anything, Dan, you'd better do it at once, " saidMrs. Baxter. 

The Dean, resolved to risk Sir Winterton's anger in Sir Winterton'sinterest, did something; he wrote covertly to Jimmy Benyon at the Bull, begging him to be riding on the Henstead road at ten o'clock the nextmorning; the Dean would take a walk and the pair would meet, as it was toseem, accidentally; nothing had been said to Sir Winterton, nothing wasto be said at present to Mr. Quisanté. The Dean was, in fact, mostcarefully unofficial, and in no small fright besides; yet he was alsocurious to know how this new phase of the fight was regarded at theQuisanté headquarters. 

Jimmy came punctually, greeted the Dean most heartily, and listened toall that he said. The Dean could not quite make out his mood; he seemeduncomfortable and vexed, but he was not embarrassed, and was able tostate what the Dean took to be the Quisanté position with so muchclearness that the Dean could not help wondering whether he had receivedinstructions. 

"Quisanté's line has been to take absolutely no notice of the wholething, " said Jimmy. "He knows nothing about it, and has had nothing to dowith its being brought forward; he's never mentioned it, and he won't. But on the other hand he doesn't feel called upon to fight Mildmay'sbattle, or to offend his own supporters by defending a man who won'tdefend himself. As for this business about Lady Mildmay, if Mildmay likesto make such an ass of himself he must take the consequences. "

The Dean felt that the Quisanté case even put thus bluntly by Jimmy wasvery strong; Quisanté's deft tongue and skilful brain could make itappear irresistible. Strategically retiring from the ground of strictjustice, he made an appeal to the feelings. 

"Surely neither Mr. Quisanté himself nor any of you would wish to winthrough such an occurrence as this? That would be no satisfaction toyou. "

"Of course we'd rather win without it, " said Jimmy irritably. "It's notour fault. Go to Japhet Williams, or, best of all, persuade Mildmay notto be a fool. Why won't he answer?"

"Have you had any talk with Quisanté about it?"

"Very little. He thinks pretty much what I've said. "

"Or with Lady May?" asked the Dean with a direct glance. 

"She's never mentioned it to me. "

"The whole affair is deplorable. "

"I don't see what we can do. " Jimmy's tone was rather defiant. 

The Dean fell into thought and, as the result thereof, made a proposition;it was very much that suggestion to Quisanté on which Sir Winterton hadfrowned so scornfully. 

"If, " said he, "I could persuade Sir Winterton to give Mr. Quisanté aprivate assurance that the scandal is entirely baseless, would Mr. Quisanté state publicly that he was convinced of its falsity and did notwish it to influence the electors in any way?"

"Perhaps he would, " said Jimmy. 

"I think it would be only the proper thing for him to do, " said the Deanrather warmly. 

"I don't know about that. Why can't Mildmay say it for himself? But I'llask Quisanté, if you like. "

The Dean was only too conscious of the weakness of his cause; he becamehumble again in thanking Jimmy for this small promise. "And Mr. Quisanté'll be glad to have done it, I know, whatever the issue of thefight may be, " he ended. The remark received for answer no more than asmile from Jimmy. Jimmy was not sure that among the stress of emotionsfilling Quisanté's heart in case of defeat there would be room for anyconsoling consciousness of moral rectitude. Perhaps Jimmy himself wouldnot care much about such a solatium. He wanted to win and he wantedQuisanté to win; such was the effect of being much with Quisanté; and inthis matter at least, so far as Jimmy's knowledge went, his champion hadacted with perfect correctness. At other times Jimmy might have been, likeSir Winterton, apt to exact something a little beyond correctness, but nowthe spirit of the fight was on him. 

The Dean returned with the rather scanty results of his mission, and afterluncheon took his courage in both hands and told Sir Winterton what he haddone. But for his years and his station, Sir Winterton would, at the firstblush, have called him impertinent; the Dean divined the suppressedepithet and defended himself with skill, but, alas, not without verging onthe confines of truth. To say that he had happened to meet Jimmy Benyonwas to give less than its due credit to his own ingenuity; to say thatJimmy and he had agreed on the proper thing was rather to interpret thanto record Jimmy's brief and not very sanguine utterances. However theDean's motive was very good, and before the meal ended Sir Wintertonforgave him, while still sternly negativing the course which his diplomacysuggested. In fact Sir Winterton was very hard to manage; the Deanunderstood the Quisanté position better and better; Mrs. Baxter gave upher efforts; she had an almost exaggerated belief in the inutility ofbraying fools in a mortar; she was content to show them the mortar, and ifthat were not enough to leave them alone. Only the wife persevered, forshe thought neither of herself nor of what was right, but only of whatmight serve her husband. To the meetings he would not speak, to Quisantéhe might be got to speak; she would not let him alone while there was achance of it. And at last she prevailed, not by convincing his reason(which indeed was little involved in the matter either way), not by taminghis pride, and not by pointing to his interest, but by the old illogical, perhaps in the strictest view immoral, appeal--"For my sake, because Iask you for your love of me!" For his love of her Sir Winterton consentedto write a private note to Alexander Quisanté, stating for his ownsatisfaction and for his opponent's information the outline of the truefacts of the Sinnett affair. Sir Winterton disliked his task very muchbut, having to do it, he did it as he did everything, as a gentlemanwould, frankly, simply, cordially, with an obvious trust in Quisanté'schivalry, good faith, and reluctance to fight with any weapons that werenot stainless. 

"Now we've put it straight, " said the Dean gleefully. "He's bound tomention your note and to accept your account, and if he accepts it, hissupporters can't help themselves, they must do the same. " Sir Wintertonagreed that, distasteful as this quasi-appeal to his opponent had been, it could not fail to have the beneficial results which the Dean forecast. There was more cheerfulness at Moors End that evening than had been seensince Japhet Williams rose from the body of the hall, a small butdetermined Accusing Angel. 

It is not so easy to put straight what has once gone crooked, nor sosafe to undertake to advise other folks, however much the task may byhabit seem to lose half its seriousness. In his heart the Dean wasthinking that he had "cornered" Quisanté, and Sir Winterton was hopingthat he had combined the advantages of pliancy with the privilege ofpride. The note that Quisanté wrote in answer did nothing to disturbthis comfortable state of feeling--unless indeed any danger wereforeshadowed in the last line or two; "While, as I have said, most readyto accept your assurance, and desirous, as I have always been, ofkeeping all purely personal questions in the background, I do not feelmyself called upon to express any opinion on the course which you have, doubtless after full consideration, adopted in regard to the requestsfor a public explanation which have been addressed to you by dulyqualified electors of the borough. " The Dean felt a little uneasy whenthat sentence was read out to him; was it possible that he hadunderrated Quisanté's resources and not perceived quite how many ways ofescaping from a corner that talented gentleman might discover? Yet therewas nothing to quarrel with in the sentence; at the outside it was acourteous intimation of a difference of opinion and of the view (held byevery man in the place except Sir Winterton himself) that a simpleexplanation on a public occasion would have done Sir Winterton's honourno harm and his cause a great deal of good. 

Such was the private answer; the public reference was no less neat. Firstcame a ready and ample acceptance of the explanation which Sir Wintertonhad given. "I accept it unreservedly, I do not repeat it only because itwas given to me privately. " Then followed an expression of gratitude forthe manly and straightforward way in which the speaker felt himself tohave been treated by his opponent; then there was an expression of hopethat these personal matters might disappear from the contest. "Had I beensensitive, I in my turn might have found matter for complaint, but I wascontent to place myself in your hands, trusting to your good sense andfairness. " (Sir Winterton had not been so content. ) "I trust that theepisode may be regarded as at an end. " Then a pause and--"It is not forme, as I have already observed to my honourable opponent, to express anyjudgment on the course which he has seen fit to adopt. I have only toaccept his word, which I do unhesitatingly, and it is no part of my dutyto ask why he preferred to make his explanation to one who is trying toprevent him from sitting in Parliament rather than to those whom he seeksto represent in that high assembly. "

This was said gravely and was much cheered. As the cheering went on, asmile gradually bent the speaker's broad expressive mouth; the crowdedbenches became silent, waiting the fulfilment of the smile's promise. Aroguish look came into Quisanté's face, he glanced at his audience, then at his friends on the platform, lastly at his wife who sat on theother side of the chairman's table. He spoke lower than was his wont, colloquially, almost carelessly, with an amused intonation. "At anyrate, " he said, "I trust that Henstead may once more be thought worthyof the presence of----" He paused, spread out his hands, and sank hisvoice in mock humility--"of other ladies besides--my wife. "

It was well done. May's ready laugh was but the first of a chorus, andQuisanté, sitting down, knew that his shaft had sped home when somebodycried, "Three cheers for Lady May Quisanté!" and they gave them again andagain, all standing on their feet. Alas for the Dean! For some men thereare many ways out of a corner. 

 CHAPTER XIII. 

 NOT SUPERHUMAN. 

"I don't set up for being superhuman, " said Alexander Quisanté with ashrug and a smile at his sister-in-law, "and I should very soon be toldof my mistake if I did. I had nothing to do with putting the storyabout. I never countenanced it in any way. But since it got about, sinceMildmay chose to give himself airs and make a fool of himself, and thencome to me to get him out of his trouble, I thought myself entitled togive him one little dig. "

"Of course you were, " agreed Fanny. 

"And if they choose to decide the election on that instead of on theGovernment policy, why, in the first place we can't help it, and in thesecond we needn't talk about it. " He paused and then added with greatergravity, "I have nothing to reproach myself with in the matter. "

"What's Mr. Williams going to do?"

"Oh, he made one solemn protest and now, at my request, he'll hold histongue. "

"He's done all the mischief, though, " said Jimmy Benyon with muchsatisfaction. 

It was true enough, and the triumph at the Bull equalled the depressionat Moors End, where the Dean was aghast at the result of his diplomacy, and Sir Winterton began to perceive that he had vindicated his honour atthe cost of his good sense, and his dignity at the price of hispopularity. It was not Henstead's moral sense that was against him now, but that far more formidable enemy, Henstead's wounded vanity. The bestjudges refused to estimate how many votes that ride on the high horsewas likely to cost him; but all agreed that the bill would be heavy;even Smiley, his own agent, shook a rueful head over the probablefigure. And all this advantage had accrued to the Quisanté factionwithout involving any reproach or any charge of unfair tactics; ratherwere they praised for moderation, magnanimity, and good-nature. 

"To tell the truth, " Jimmy whispered to Fanny, "I never felt sure thatQuisanté would treat it in such a gentlemanly way. "

"No, neither did I, " Fanny confessed. "I'm so glad about it. "

"He's rather proud of himself, though, " chuckled Jimmy. 

"Yes, I know. Well, we mustn't be too critical, " urged Fanny. His publicdemeanour had been beyond reproach, and after all even persons of moredelicate feeling and more exalted position than Quisanté are apt toplume their feathers a little in the family circle. 

In the whirl of these last few days there was however little time forscrutinising the fine shades of manner or speculating on nice points ofconscience. They were all worked to death, they were all inflamed withenthusiasm and the determination to win. As was only becoming, Quisanté's wife was the most enthusiastic and the most resolute; a thingnot seeming so natural to herself was that she was also happier than shehad ever been since her marriage. As the fight grew hotter, Quisantégrew greater in her eyes; he had less time to make postures, she lessleisure to criticise; if he forgot himself in what he was doing, shecould come near to forgetting the side of him she disliked in anadmiration of the qualities that attracted her. His praises were inmen's mouths beyond Henstead; letters of congratulation came from greatfolk, and Quisanté was told that his speeches had more than a localaudience and more than a local influence. Sympathy joined withadmiration; he was not only successful, he was brave; for it was aserious question whether his body and his nerves would last out, andevery night found him utterly exhausted and prostrate. Yet he neverspared himself, he was wherever work was to be done, refused no call, and surrendered not an inch to his old and hated enemy, the physicalweakness which had always hindered him. May wrote to Miss Quisanté thathe was "wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. " There she paused, and addedafter a moment's thought, "It's something to be his wife. " And to Mr. Foster she said, "They must elect him, they can't help it, can they?"

"Well, I think we shall win now, " said old Foster, smiling, butdirecting a rather inquisitive glance at her. "Japhet Williams hashelped us; not so much as Sir Winterton himself, though. "

May's face fell a little. "I didn't mean that, " she said. "Oh, I supposeI want to win anyhow, but I'd much rather not win through that. "

"Must take what we can get, " murmured Foster, quite resignedly. 

"I suppose so; and it's not as if my husband, or you, or any of hisfriends had taken any part in it. "

The inquisitive glance ceased; Foster had found out the answer to whatit had asked; there were limits to the confidence which existed betweenLady May Quisanté and her husband. But he only smiled comfortably;Quisanté wouldn't talk, he himself was safe, and, if anything hadcropped up in talk between him and Japhet, his skill and Japhet's vanityhad ensured that the little man should think himself the initiator, inventor, and sole agent in the whole affair. 

"We're not responsible for Japhet Williams, " said he. "His vote's safefor us now, though, and it means a few besides his own. "

"I sometimes wonder, " mused May, "whether anybody at an election evervotes one way and not the other simply because he thinks that way rightand the other wrong. " She laughed, adding, "You don't get the impressionthat they ever do, canvassing and going about like this. "

"Must allow for local feelings, Lady May. "

"Yes, I know; and everybody has feelings, and I suppose every place islocal. You say a lot of people'll vote for us because Sir Wintertonwouldn't let Lady Mildmay come to the town?"

"A better stroke for us than any even Mr. Quisanté has done. "

"And there's something like that in every constituency, I suppose! Howdo we get governed even as well as we do?"

Foster looked thoughtful and nursed his foot (in which he had a touch ofthe gout). "It's all under God, " he said gravely. "He turns things toaccount in ways we can't foresee, Lady May. " Was it possible that he wasremembering the peculiar qualities of Mr. Japhet Williams? May did notlaugh, for Mr. Foster was obviously sincere, but she looked at him withsurprise; his religion came in such odd flashes across the homely tintsof his worldly wisdom and placid acceptance of things and men as hehappened to find them. Henstead was not the Kingdom of Heaven, and hedid not pretend to think it wise to act on the assumption that it was. Like Quisanté, he did not set up for being superhuman--nor set otherpeople up for it either. May felt that there were lessons to be learnthere; nay, that she was making some progress in them; though shewondered now and then what Weston Marchmont would think of the lessonsand of her progress in them. 

"The worst of it is, " she went on, "that I'm afraid one has to say a lotof things that are not exactly quite true. "

"Truer than the other side, " Mr. Foster affirmed emphatically, hiscorpulence seeming to give weight to the dictum as he threw himselfforward in his chair. 

"Relative truth!" laughed May. "Like No. 77?"

"You must ask Mr. Quisanté about that. "

"Oh, no, I won't. I'll listen to his speeches about it. " She grew graveas she went on. "I've only asked him about one thing all through theelection. I had to ask him about that. "

"Ah!" murmured Foster, cautiously, vaguely, safely. 

"This wretched story about Sir Winterton, you know. And I got intoterrible trouble by my question. " She laughed a little. "He doesn't as arule scold me, you know, but he really did. I was very much surprised. Fancy boring you with this! Well, I asked him if he'd had anything to dowith reviving the story. I asked him right straight out. Did you think Iwas like that, Mr. Foster?"

"Pretty well, pretty well, " said old Foster; he was smiling, but he waswatching her again. 

"Was it insulting? Well, you see----" She stopped abruptly; Foster wasnot, after all, Aunt Maria, and she could not tell him how it was thatshe might ask her husband questions that sounded insulting. "Anyhow hewas very much offended. "

Foster still nursed his foot, and now he shifted a little in his chair. 

"He gave me his word directly, but told me he was very much hurt at myasking him. " She smiled again. "There's a confession of a conjugalquarrel for you, Mr. Foster. Don't talk about it, or Mr. Smiley willhave a caricature of us throwing the furniture at one another. I've beenvery humble ever since, I assure you. "

Mr. Foster chuckled. May imagined that his fancy was touched by hersuggestion of the caricature; in fact he was picturing AlexanderQuisanté's indignant disclaimer. 

"Don't tell him I said anything to you about it, " she added. 

"You may be sure I won't, " he promised. 

It would not have been out of harmony with Mr. Foster's generaltheological position to consider the sudden and serious development ofhis gout as a direct judgment on him for a diplomacy that perhapsoverstepped legitimate limits, and in another man's case he might haveadopted such a view with considerable complacency. When, however, he waslaid up and placed _hors du combat_ in the last three critical days, heneeded all his faith to reconcile him to one of the most unfathomableinstances of the workings of Providence. His grumbles were loud and long, and the directions which he sent from his sick bed were tinged withirritability. For at last the other side had come to its senses; SirWinterton was affable again, Lady Mildmay was canvassing, and Mr. Smileyhad high hopes. Despondency would have fallen on Foster's spirit but forthe report of Quisanté's exploits, performed in the teeth of the ordersof that same Dr. Tillman who had given Sir Winterton such excellentunprofessional advice touching the affair of Tom Sinnett. He gaveQuisanté just as good counsel, and with just as little result. Then hetried Quisanté's wife and found in her what he thought a hardness or aninsensibility, or, if that were an unjust view, a sort of fatalism whichforbade her to seek to interfere, and reduced her to being a spectator ofher husband's doings and destiny rather than a partner in them. 

"How can he lie by now?" she asked. "It's impossible; he must see thisout whatever happens. " Quisanté had said exactly the same thing, but hiswife's perfect agreement in it seemed strange to the doctor. It wasmaking the man's success more than the man; there was too much of theSpartan wife about it, without the Spartan wife's excuse of patriotism. Something of these feelings found expression in the look with which heregarded May, and he allowed himself to express them more freely to LadyMildmay, who would have disappointed the most important meeting soonerthan face the risk of Sir Winterton's taking cold. He told her how Mayhad said, "He won't stand being coddled, " and then had added, with afrankness which the doctor had not become accustomed to, "Besides Ishould never do it. We aren't in the least like that to one another. "

"I felt rather sorry for the man, " said the doctor. "It's as if he was aracehorse, and they didn't think so much about him as about a win forthe stable. "

"Do you like him?" asked Lady Mildmay, merely in natural curiosity. Butthe doctor started a little as he answered, "Why, no, I don't like himat all. " And as he drove home he was thoughtful. 

"Well, here we are at last!" said Jimmy Benyon as he sat down tobreakfast on the morning of the polling day. "I'm told Mildmay's peoplewere asking for six to four last night. Where's Quisanté?"

"He went out just before eight, to catch some of the men who work on theline and can't be back to vote in the evening, " said May. 

"Lord!" sighed Jimmy in a self-reproachful tone; it was past nine now, and he was only just out of bed. "What are you going to do?"

"Drive and bow and smile and shake hands, " said May. "And you're goingto and fro in a wagonette of Mr. Williams'--without any springs, youknow. And Mr. Dunn's going to take Fanny in one of his waggons; she'llhave to sit on a plank without a back all day, so I told her to stay inbed till she has to start at ten. "

"It's a devilish difficult question, " said Jimmy meditatively, "whetherit's all worth it, you know. "

"Oh, it's worth more than that, " said May lightly, as she sprang up andput on her hat. "It's worth--well, almost anything. Six to four? Theyexpect us to win then?"

"By a neck, yes. " He glanced at her and added rather uneasily, "They sayfriend Japhet's done the trick for us. " She made no answer, and he wenton hastily, "Old Foster's still in bed, and the waiter says he's writtenfive notes to your husband already--a regular row of them in the bar, you know. "

"Last instructions?"

"Oh, somebody else to be nobbled, don't you know; some fellow who wantsto marry his deceased wife's sister--or else is afraid he'll have to ifthey pass the Bill. And there's the butcher in Market Street who's gotsome trouble about slaughterhouses that I'm simply hanged if I canunderstand. I jawed with him for half-an-hour yesterday, and then didn'thook him safe. "

"Alexander must find time to go and hook him, " said May, smiling. "Alexander'll be great on slaughter-houses. "

"And at the last minute Smiley's been hinting something about Mildmaygiving a bit of land to extend the Recreation Ground. A beastlyunscrupulous fellow I call Smiley. "

"Oh, poor Mr. Smiley! He wants to win. "

"He might play fair, though. "

"Might he? Oh, well, I suppose so. We've played fair anyhow--prettyfair, haven't we?"

"Rather!"

"You really think so, Jimmy?" She was serious now; Jimmy reached out hishand and touched hers for a moment; he divined that she was asking himfor a verdict and was anxious what it might be. 

"Rather!" he said again. "That's all right. We've kept to the rulessquare enough. "

"Then I'm off to bow and smile!" she cried. As she went by she touchedhis hand again. "Thanks, Jimmy, " she said. 

Jimmy, left alone, stretched himself, sighed, and lit a cigar; they werenearly out of the wood now, and they had managed to play pretty fair. For his own sake he was glad, since he had been mixed up in thecampaign; he had perception enough to be far more glad for MayQuisanté's. 

Through all the fever of that day the same gladness and relief were inher heart in a form a thousandfold more intense. They enabled her to doher bowing and smiling, to hope eagerly, to work unceasingly, to be gayand happy in the excitement of fighting and the prospect of victory. Shecould put aside the memory of Tom Sinnett; they had not been to blame;let that affair be set off against Smiley's hypothetical extension ofthe Recreation Ground. She felt that she could face people, above allthat she could face the Mildmays when the time came for her to meet themat the declaration of the poll. And as regarded her husband she could domore than praise and more than admire; she could feel tenderness and atouch of remorse as she saw him battling against worse than the enemy, against a deadly weariness and weakness to which he would not yield. From to-morrow she determined to lay to heart the doctor's counsel, totry whether he could not be persuaded to stand a little coddling, whether he might not be brought to, if only she could persuade herselfto show him more love. When she looked at the Mildmays she understoodwhat had perhaps been in the doctor's mind; dear Lady Mildmay (she was awoman who immediately claimed that epithet with its expression ofmingled affection and ridicule) no doubt overdid a little her pleasantpart. She made Sir Winterton a trifle absurd. But then with whatchivalry he faced and covered the touch of absurdity, or avoided itwithout offending the love that caused it! Very glad she was that, whenLady Mildmay asked to be introduced, she could clasp hands with theconsciousness that her side had played fair, and by a delicate distantreference could honestly assure the enemy's wife that both she and herhusband had looked with disfavour on that unpleasant episode. 

She had known she would like Sir Winterton and was not disappointed; shesaw that he was very favourably impressed by her, largely, no doubt, because she was handsome, even more because their ways of looking atthings would be very much the same; they had the same pride and the samesensitiveness; in humour he was not her match, or he would not haveridden his high horse. She felt that he complimented her in begging herto make him known to Quisanté; and this office also she was able toperform with pleasure, because they had played fair. Hope was high inher that night, not merely for this contest, not merely now for herhusband's career, but for her life and his, for her and him themselves. If her old fears had been proved wrong, if in face of temptation he hadnot yielded, if now by honourable means he had made good his footing, things might go better in the future, that constant terror vanish, andthere be left only what she admired and what attracted her. For they hadkept to the rules square enough; Quisanté had played fair. 

She heard Sir Winterton tell him so in a friendly phrase, just touchedwith a pleasantly ornate pompousness; eagerly looking, she saw Quisantéaccept the compliment just as he should, as a graceful tribute from anantagonist, as no more than his due from anyone who knew him. She smiledto think that she could write and tell Aunt Maria that Sandro wasimproving, that even his manners grew better and better as success gavehim confidence, and confidence produced simplicity. Making a friendlygroup with their rivals in the ante-room, they were able to forget thelittle fretful man who paced up and down, carefully avoiding SirWinterton's eye, but asserting by the obstinate pose of his head and thefierce pucker on his brow that he had done no more than his duty inasking a plain answer to a plain question, and that on Sir Winterton'shead, not on his, lay the consequences of evasion. 

Presently the group separated. The little heaps of paper on the longtable in the inner room had grown from tens to hundreds; the end wasnear. Quisanté's agent stood motionless behind the clerks who counted, Jimmy Benyon looking over his shoulder eagerly. Smiley regarded theheaps for a moment or two and then walked across to Sir Winterton. Through the doorway May saw Sir Winterton bend his head, listen, nod, smile, and turn and whisper to his friends. At the next moment JimmyBenyon came to the door, caught her eye, smiled, and noddedenergetically. The presiding officer looked down the row of men countingto right and left. "Are you all agreed on your figures?" he asked. Theyexchanged papers, counted, whispered a little, recovered their ownpapers. "Yes, " ran along the row, and the presiding officer pushed backhis chair. In a single instant Quisanté was the centre of a throng ofpeople shaking his hand, and everybody crowded into the inner room. 

"How many?" asked Sir Winterton Mildmay. 

"Forty-seven, Sir Winterton, " answered Smiley. 

So it was over, and Alexander Quisanté was again Member for Henstead. "Send somebody to tell Foster, " May heard him say before he followed tothe window from which the announcement was to be made. He was very paleand walked rather unsteadily. "Stay by Mr. Quisanté; I think he's notvery well, " she whispered to the agent. The next moment two of SirWinterton's prominent supporters passed her; one spoke to the other halfin a whisper. "That damned Sinnett business has done us, " he said. 

Her cheek flushed suddenly; it was horrible to think that. Still theyhad played fair, and it was no fault of theirs. 

"Let me be the first to congratulate you, " said a gentle voice. 

She turned and found Lady Mildmay beside her; Sir Winterton's wife wassmiling, but there were tears in her eyes. 

"And do get your husband home to bed; he looks terribly, terribly tired. I'm afraid he's not nearly as strong as Winterton; but I'm sure you takegreat care of him. "

"Not so much as I ought to. " Lady Mildmay, accustomed to straightforwardemotions, was puzzled at the half-bitter half-merry tone. "I mean I egghim on when perhaps I ought to hold him back. I know he ought to rest, but I never want him to--never really want it, you know. " Lady Mildmaystill looked puzzled. "He's at his best working, " said May. 

"Well, but you must want him to yourself sometimes anyhow, and that's arest for him. "

Oh, the differences of people and fates! That was May's not original butirresistible reflection when Lady Mildmay left her. Want him to herself!Never--or never as Lady Mildmay meant, anyhow. She only wanted a goodplace whence to look at him. 

She had one more encounter before Jimmy Benyon came to take her home. Japhet Williams came up to her and made her shake hands. 

"We have got a representative in whom we can have confidence, " he said. 

"I hope so, Mr. Williams. " She smiled to think how exactly she wasspeaking the truth--a rare privilege in social intercourse. 

"Don't think that I resent in any way the distant attitude which Mr. Quisanté thought it desirable to take up in regard to my action, "pursued Japhet; it seemed odd that such a coil of words could beunrolled from so small a body. "My course was incumbent on me. Irecognise that his attitude was proper for him. "

"I'm so glad, Mr. Williams, " May murmured vaguely. 

"I could take the course I did because I had nothing to gain by it, nothing personally. Being personally interested, he could not have movedin the matter. I hope you see my point of view as well as his, LadyMay?"

"Oh, perfectly. I--I'm sure you're both right. "

"My conscience doesn't blame me, " said Japhet solemnly; and something inhis manner made May remark to Jimmy, when he came to take her home, "What a lot of excellent people are spoilt by their consciences!"

Quisanté had disappeared, engulfed in a vortex of triumphant supporters, carried off by arms linked in his, or perhaps hoisted in uncomfortablegrandeur on enthusiastic but unsteady shoulders. The street was denselypacked, and Jimmy's apparently simple course of returning straight tothe hotel proved to be a work of much time and difficulty. But the stirof life was there, all around them, and May's eyes grew bright as shefelt it. Now at least it could not seem a difficult question whether theresult were worth the effort; triumph drove out such doubts. 

"I'm so glad we've won; I'm so glad we've won, " she kept repeating insimple girlish enthusiasm as Jimmy steered her through the crowd, heading towards the Bull whenever he could make a yard or two. "ThoughI'm awfully sorry for Lady Mildmay, " she added once. 

So long were they in getting through that on their arrival they foundthat Quisanté had reached home before them. His journey had beenhurried; he had been taken faint and the rejoicings were of necessityinterrupted; he was upstairs now on the sofa. May ran up, followed byFanny and Jimmy, passing many groups of anxious friends on the way. Quisanté was stretched in a sort of stupor; he was quite white, his eyeswere closed. She knelt down by him and called him by his name. 

"He's quite done up, " said Jimmy, and he went to the sideboard and gothold of the brandy. 

"Do keep everybody out, " called May, and Fanny shut the door ohhalf-a-dozen inquisitive people. Both she and Jimmy were looking veryserious; May grew frightened when she turned and saw their faces. 

"He's only tired; he'll be all right again soon, " she protested. "Giveme a little brandy and water, Jimmy. "

They stood looking at her while she did her best for him; a slightsurprise was in their faces; they had never seen her minister to himbefore. Did she really love him? The question escaped from Jimmy's eyes, and Fanny's acknowledged without answering it. Presently Quisanté sighedand opened his eyes. 

"Drink some of this, " said his wife low and tenderly. "Do drink some. "She was kneeling by him, one arm under his shoulder, the other offeringthe glass. 

"We've done it, haven't we?" he murmured, as she tilted the glass to hislips. The drink revived him; with her help he hoisted himself higher onthe sofa and looked at her. A smile came on his face; they heard himwhisper, "My darling!" Again it struck them both as a little strangethat he should call her that. But she smiled in answer and made himdrink again. 

"Yes, you've won; you always win, " they heard her whisper softly. Shehad forgotten all now, except that he had won, that her faith stoodjustified, and he lay half-dead from the work of vindicating it. At thatmoment she would have been no man's if she could not be AlexanderQuisanté's. 

There was a knock at the door; Jimmy Benyon went and opened it; he cameback holding a note, and gave it to May; it was addressed to her husbandin a pencil scrawl. "A congratulation for you, " she said to Quisanté. Heglanced carelessly and languidly at it, murmuring, "Read it to me, please, " and she broke open the sealed envelope. Inside the writing wasas negligent a scribble as on the outside, the writing of a man in bed, with a stump of pencil. Old Mr. Foster wrote better when he was up andabroad, so much better that Quisanté's tired eyes had not marked thehand for his. "Read it out to me, " said Quisanté, his eyes now dwellinggratefully on his wife's face, his brain at last resting from the longstrain of weeks of effort. 

"Yes, I'll read it, " she said cheerfully, almost merrily. "We shall befull of congratulations for days now, shan't we?"

She smoothed out the sheet of paper; there were but two or three linesof writing, and she read them aloud. She read aloud the simpleindiscreet little hymn of triumph which victory and the safety of aprivate note lured from old Mr. Foster's usually diplomatic lips:--

"Just done it, thank God. Shouldn't have without Tom Sinnett, and we'vegot you to thank for that idea too. "

She read it all before she seemed to put any meaning into it. A silencefollowed her reading. She knelt there by him, holding the sheet ofnote-paper in her hands. Fanny and Jimmy stood without moving, theireyes on her and Quisanté. Slowly May rose to her feet. Quisanté closedhis eyes and moved restlessly on the sofa; he sighed and put his hand upto his head. The slightest of smiles came on May's lips as she stoodlooking at him for a minute; then she turned to Fanny, saying, "I thinkhe'd better have a little more brandy-and-water. " She walked across tothe mantelpiece, the crumpled sheet of paper in her hand. She looked atFanny with the little smile still on her lips as she lit a candle andburnt the note in its flame, dropping the ashes into the grate. Quisantélay as though unconscious, taking no heed of his sister-in-law'sproffered services. Jimmy Benyon stood in awkward stillness, looking atMay. Suddenly May broke into a laugh. 

"Just as well to burn it; it might be misunderstood, " said she. Jimmymoved towards her quickly and impulsively. "No, no, I'm all right, " shewent on. "And we've won, haven't we? I'm going to my room. Look afterhim. " She paused and added, smiling still, "His head's very bad, youknow. " And so, pale and smiling, she left her husband to their care. 

The ashes of Mr. Foster's note seemed to crinkle into a sour grin wherethey lay on the black-leaded floor of the fire-grate. 

 CHAPTER XIV. 

 OPEN EYES. 

It is a matter of common observation that the local influences andpeculiarities which loom so large before the eyes of both parties duringsuch a struggle as that at Henstead seem to be entirely forgotten afterthe declaration of the poll, at least by the victorious faction and theirfriends in the Press and the country. Out of a congeries of conflictingviews, fancies, fads, interests, quarrels, and misunderstandings areasoned and single political verdict is considered to emerge, and greatis the credit of the advocate who extracts it from the multitudinousjury. When Quisanté had won Henstead, little more was heard of thegentleman with a deceased wife's sister, of the butcher in trouble aboutslaughter-houses, of Japhet Williams' conscience or Tom Sinnett's affair. The result was taken as an augury of triumph for the party all over thecountry, where these things had never been heard of and the voices ofHenstead did not reach. Unhappily however, as events proved, the victoryof Henstead had in the end to be regarded not as the inauguration of atriumphant campaign but as a brilliant exploit performed in face of anoverwhelming enemy. To be brief, the Government was beaten, somewhatbadly beaten, the great cry was a failure, and there were many casualtiesin the ranks. Marchmont kept his seat by virtue of personal andhereditary popularity; but Dick Benyon, who had been considered quitesafe, lost his, a fate shared by many who had deemed themselves no lesssecure. 

"I suppose you preached your miserable Crusade, as you call it?" saidConstantine Blair. They were at dinner at Marchmont's, Morewood and theDean also being of the company. 

"I did, and without it I should have got a worse thrashing, " said Dickstoutly; it would be unkind to scrutinise too closely the sincerity ofthis statement. 

"Quisanté had the sense to throw it over, " growled Constantine; hisequanimity was not up to its usual standard. 

"It's wisdom to lighten the ship in a storm, " smiled Marchmont. 

"Yes, and to jettison other people's heavy luggage first, " said Morewood. 

"The duty of a captain, I suppose, " murmured the Dean with a smile. 

"You needn't begin with your best guns, " argued Dick, a little hotly. 

"We can't let Dick appropriate our metaphor to his own purposes, " saidMarchmont. "As a matter of fact now, had the Crusade much to do with it?"

Morewood interposed before Dick could answer. 

"Oh, only as a Crusade. 'Causes' of any kind are properly suspected, "said he. "For my part I should imitate the noble simplicity of municipalelection bills. 'Down with the rates!' Quite enough, you know. The end isindisputably attractive, and you aren't such an ass as to try to indicatethe means. So you get in. "

"And don't do it?" The question was Marchmont's. 

"Of course not--or what would you have to say next time?"

"The other side has always prevented your doing it?" the Dean suggested. 

"Mostly, yes--by factious opposition. "

"You fellows don't seem to care, " observed Constantine Blair moodily, "but I tell you we're out for four or five years at least. "

There was a pause; the accused persons looked at one another; thenMarchmont had the courage to observe that the country would perhaps livethrough the period of calamity before it. 

"The country, yes, but how about some of the party?" asked Morewood. "Howabout that, Blair? You're supposed to be the man who feeds the ravens andprovidently caters for the sparrows, you know. You'll have your handsfull, I should think. "

Blair's look expressed the opinion that they trenched on mysteries; hehad these little traits of self-importance, sitting funnily on a roundand merry face. Marchmont laughed as he turned to Dick and enquired afterJimmy. 

"He was helping you, I suppose?"

"Yes, after Quisanté was in. He's all right. " Dick's tone was slightlyreserved. 

"Did Quisanté help you? He seems to have helped everybody; the man ranabout like an electric current. "

"I didn't ask him to come to me. I felt, you know----"

"Yes, I see. But Jimmy didn't?"

Dick looked rather puzzled. "I don't quite make Jimmy out about Quisanté, "he remarked. "He worked for him like a horse all the time, and wrote meletters praising him to the skies. Then when he was in and everybody wascracking him up Jimmy wouldn't open his mouth about him--seemed not tolike the subject, you know. "

Nobody spoke; they had heard rumours of an event which would bring Jimmyinto new relations with Quisanté, and they waited for possible information. But Dick did not go on, so it was left to Morewood to make the necessaryintrusion into private affairs; he did it willingly, with a maliciousgrin. 

"Thinking him over in the light of a relation, perhaps?" he suggested. 

"It would only be a connection anyhow, " Dick corrected rather sharply. 

"Oh, if that comforts you!" said Morewood, laughing. 

"She's a charming girl and I'm awfully glad it's come off. "

"Oh, it has?" asked Marchmont. 

"Yes, the other day. "

"And you're glad in spite of----?"

"Yes, I am. Besides I don't mean anything of that sort. I suppose I knowas well as anybody what Quisanté is. "

"As far as I'm concerned I'll admit you do, and still feel you don't knowmuch, " remarked the Dean. 

"Well, I wish there were more men like him, " said Blair, noddingvigorously. 

"Some men would sacrifice anything for their party, " remarked Morewood. 

Marchmont took no part in the talk about Quisanté; he could not praise;for reasons very plain to himself he would not say a word in blame ordepreciation. Not only had he been Quisanté's rival, but ever since histalk with May he had felt himself the repository of special information, imperfect indeed and shadowy, yet beyond that which the outside worldpossessed. Besides he had received two letters from her, one written inthe course of the fight, gay in tone, expressing an eager interest in herhusband's fortunes, keenly appreciative of her husband's brilliancy andbravery. The second, in reply to his telegram of congratulation, had runin another key; an utter weariness and an almost disgusted satiety seemedto have superseded her former interest. Side by side with these he haddiscovered in the repressed but eloquent words of her greeting to him anintense desire to see him. "I want a change so badly, " she wrote. "I wantsomebody unpractical, unpushing. You must come directly we're back intown. " They had been back in town ten days, he knew, but he had not yetobeyed her summons. The thought crossed his mind that the contrastbetween her two letters was an odd parallel to Dick's description of thepuzzling demeanour of his brother Jimmy. Was it a characteristic of theman's to produce these sudden and startling changes of mood towardshimself? Marchmont was puzzled at the notion; he was too little able tosympathise with the attraction to find himself capable of understandingthe force and extent of the revulsion. "At all events she must be prettywell prepared for what he is by now, " he said to himself with the mixtureof pity and resentment which his love for her and her rejection of him inQuisanté's favour had bred in his mind. For her he was very sorry; it washarder to be quite simply and sincerely sorry that her blindness to whathad been so obvious was working out its inevitable result; he would liketo console her in any way short of refraining from pointing out how wrongshe had been proved. 

When, in obedience to another note, he went, he did not at first find Mayalone. Although he knew Sir Winterton Mildmay, he was not acquainted withhis wife, and was surprised when the kind-looking woman who sat with Maywas introduced to him as Lady Mildmay. This was a quick and thoroughburying of the hatchet indeed. "Would you see this in any country exceptEngland?" he asked jokingly. Lady Mildmay declared not, adding that therewas no bitterness in England because there was only upstanding fightingwhich left no rancour and indeed bred personal liking. Marchmont thoughtto himself that Quisanté must have been very clever--or that this dearwoman (he gave her the epithet at once as everybody did) was not veryclever, no cleverer than he had long known handsome Sir Winterton to be. Glancing across at May, he seemed to see an expression of absolute painon her face, as Lady Mildmay developed these amiable theories. 

"I don't believe my husband will ever stand against yours again, " shesaid. 

May looked at Marchmont. "They really have taken quite a fancy to oneanother, " she said with a laugh that sounded rather forced. "Funny, isn'tit?"

"The speech you invite me to would be a very unfortunate one to addressto the wives of the two gentlemen, " he answered, smiling. "Funny indeed!I prefer to call it inevitable, don't you, Lady Mildmay?"

May made the slightest gesture of impatience, but a moment later smiledagain at Lady Mildmay, saying, "Yes, I suppose that's what I ought tohave said. "

The visitor rose to go; approaching May, she first shook hands and thenstood for a moment with a half-expectant half-imploring air. It was plainthat she suggested a kiss. Marchmont looked on rather amused; he knewthat May Quisanté was not given to effusiveness. It would, however, havebeen cruel not to kiss Lady Mildmay, and May kissed her with an excellentgrace. 

"Well, " said Marchmont when the door was shut, "she takes defeatprettily. Evidently you've made a conquest, as well as your husband. "

"I wish she wouldn't come here, " said May, wandering to the window andspeaking in a disconsolate voice. 

"You don't like her?"

"Like her? Oh, of course I like the dear creature! Who wouldn't? And Ilike him too. " She turned round, smiling a little. "He's so nice, andlarge, and clean, and direct, and obvious, and simple, you know. I likehim just as I like a great rosy apple. "

"Hum! I don't eat many of those, do you?"

She laughed, but rather reluctantly. "Perhaps that's more your fault thanthe apple's. Still I agree. A bite now and then. But they're mostly onlyto dress the table. "

"Why don't you want her to come?"

May sat down and fidgeted with a nick-nack on the table. 

"Don't you think being forgiven's rather tiresome work?" she asked. "Theydon't mean that, I know, but I can't help feeling as if they did. "

"I don't see why you should. "

She looked full at him for a moment. "No, I didn't suppose you would seeit, " she said. "Don't stand there, come and sit here, --near me. I'vewritten you three letters, but you don't seem to understand yet that Iwant to see you. " He took the chair near her to which she had pointed;she looked at him, evidently with both pleasure and amusement. "You don'tlook the least as if you'd been electioneering, " she told him in anadmiring congratulatory tone. 

"I've had the egg-marks brushed off, " he explained with the insinceregravity that he knew she liked. 

"Will they brush off? Will they always brush off?" she asked, her voicelow, her hands nursing her knee, her eyes on his. 

"Parables, my lady?"

"Yes. Do you know that we won the election because rosy Sir Winterton wassupposed to have flirted with his keeper's daughter, and wouldn't say hehadn't, and wouldn't bring that dear soul where anybody was likely to sayhe had?"

"No, I hadn't heard that. I thought your husband's----"

"Oh, yes, all that helped. He was splendid. But we shouldn't have done itwithout the keeper's daughter. "

"_Vox populi, vox Dei_; they're both so hard to understand. "

"I've been longing for you, " she said, seeming to awake suddenly from herhalf-dreamy half-playful account of the life she had been living. Thespeech, with its cruel frankness and its more cruel affection, embitteredhim. 

"When you're tired of a rosy apple, you like a bite at a bitter cherry?One bite; the rest of me, I suppose, is only to dress the table. "

She understood him. 

"Well, then, you shouldn't come, " she protested. "I've been fair aboutit. "

"No, not always; what you write and say now and then isn't fair unless itmeans something more. "

"Oh, I don't know what it means. "

Her misery drove away his resentment, and pity filled its place. 

"You seem more than usually down on your luck, " he said with a smile. 

"Yes, a little, " she confessed. "It's the Mildmays and--and--the generalsham of it, you know. " She glanced across at him, smiling. "That's why Ilonged for you, " she said. 

It seemed to him that never had fate and never had woman been so cruel. The one so nearly had given what he wanted, the other tantalised with theexhibition of a feeling only just short of what he hoped for, but themore merciless because it seemed not to understand by how narrow an inchit failed of his desires. He spoke to her hardly and coldly. 

"You seem to me to choose to try a bit of everything and a bit ofeverybody, " he said. "That's your affair. But I'm not surprised that youdon't find it satisfactory. "

"I have to try more than I like of some things and some people, " shereplied. She went on quickly, "I know, oh, I know! Now you're calling medisloyal!"

A curious vexation laid hold of him. Once he had liked her to speak ofhim in this strain, even as once he had loved to see in her the type ofthe pure, calm, gracious maiden. Now he knew better both her and himself. The impulse was on him to say that he cared nothing for her disloyalty sothat he himself was the cause of it and he himself to reap the benefit. He was quick to read her, and he read in her restless misery some sorediscontent with the lot that she had chosen. But he refrained from thewords, not in his turn from any loyalty, but rather still frombitterness, from a perverse desire to give her nothing of what she hadrefused, to leave her in the solitude of spirit which came of her ownaction. Besides his fastidiousness revolted from plunging him into aposition which was so common, and which he, with his dislike of thingscommon, had always counted vulgar. Thus he was silent, and she also satsilent, looking straight before her. At last, however, she spoke. 

"Alexander's gone to the city, " she said, "to see his stockbroker. Thestockbroker's a cousin of--ours. " She smiled for a moment. "His name'sMandeville. Since the party's out, we've got to see if we can make somemoney. "

His pity revived; whatever she deserved, it was not this horriblecommon-place lot of wanting money; that sat so ill on his still stately, no longer faultless, image of her. 

"To make some money?" he repeated, half-scornful, half-puzzled. 

"Oh, you're rich--you don't know. We spent a lot at Henstead. We musthave money: I spend a lot, so does Alexander. " She glanced at him, and hesaw that something had nearly escaped her lips of which she repented. "Doyou ever feel, " she went on, apparently by way of amendment, "as if youmight be dishonest--under stress of circumstances, you know?"

"I suppose I might. I've never thought about it. "

"So dishonest as--as to get into trouble and be sent to prison and soon?"

"Oh, I should hope to be skilful enough to avoid that, " he laughed. "Fools ought never to be dishonest; so they invented the 'best policy'proverb to keep themselves straight. "

May nodded. "That's it, I think, " she said, and fell into silence again. This time he spoke. 

"I don't like your wanting money, " he said in a low voice. 

"No, I know, " she smiled. "It's not like what you've always chosen tothink I'm like. I ought to live in gilded halls and scatter largesse, oughtn't I?" She laughed a little bitterly. "Perhaps I will, if cousinMandeville does his duty. "

"Meanwhile you feel the temptation to dishonesty?" He paused, but thenwent on deliberately, "Or, to follow your rule of completeidentification, shall I say 'we feel a temptation to dishonesty, do we?'"

"Oh, but we should be clever enough not to be found out, shouldn't we?"

"I think you would. "

"You've not half such good reason to think it as I have. " She rose, walked to the hearth-rug, and stood facing the grate, her back turned tohim. She seemed to him to be looking at a photograph which he noticed nowfor the first time on the mantelpiece, the picture of a stout elderly manwith large clean-shaven face and an expression of tolerant shrewdness. Marchmont moved close to her shoulder and looked also. Perceiving him, she half turned her head towards him. "That's my husband's right-hand manat Henstead, " she said. "They understand each other perfectly. "

"He looks a sharp fellow. "

"So he may be able to understand Alexander? Thank you. I like to have hispicture here. " Suddenly she turned round full on him, stretching out herhand. "I wish you'd go now, " she said. "Have you turned stupid, or don'tyou see that you must leave me alone, or--or I shall say all sorts ofthings I mustn't? That man on the mantelpiece there typifies it all. Bless his dear old fat face! I like him so much--and he's such a humbug, and I don't think he knows that he's in the least a humbug. Is sincerityjust stupidity?" Her mirth broke out. "Alexander hates my having himthere, " she whispered; then she drew away, crying, "Go, go. "

"I'm off, " said he. "But why doesn't Quisanté like the old gentleman'spicture, and why do you keep it there if he doesn't?"

"And why are none of us perfect--except perhaps the Mildmays? Good-bye. "She gave him her hand. "Oh, by the way, " she went on, calling him backafter he had turned, "have you ever had anything to do with promotingcompanies or anything of that kind?"

"Well, no, I can't say I have. "

"Is it necessarily disreputable?"

"Oh, no, " he smiled. "Not necessarily. In fact it's an essential featurein the life of a commercial nation. " He was mockingly grave again. 

"Thank you very much, Mr. Marchmont. An essential feature of the life ina commercial nation! That's very good. " She broke into a laugh. "Now I'vegot something agreeable to say, " she said. He did not move till she shookher head violently at him and pointed to the door. As he went out, sheturned back to Mr. Foster's picture, murmuring, "It's no use my settingup for a martyr. Martyrs don't giggle half the time. " Had Marchmont heardher, the word "giggle" would have stirred him to real indignation; it wasso inappropriate to that low reluctant mirth-laden laugh of hers, whichseemed to reveal the feeling that it mocked and extorted the pity that itcould not but deride. It sounded again as she stood looking at old Fosterthe maltster's picture there on the mantelpiece where Quisanté did notlike to see it. 

For what was the meaning of it to her, declared by her perversedetermination to keep it there and plain enough to her husband's quickwit? It was the outward sign that her malicious fancy chose of the newstate of feeling and the new relation between them which had emerged fromthe tempest of emotion that Foster's congratulatory note had thrown herinto. The tempest had raged in solitude and silence; she had not spoken aword to her sister, or to Jimmy Benyon, hardly a word to Quisantéhimself. He had his case of course, and she was obliged to hear it, tohear also Foster's own account of how he came to express himself soawkwardly and to write as though Mr. Quisanté had originally set thestory afloat, whereas he meant only to applaud the tact with which hisleader had regulated their conduct towards it after it was started. Maysaid she was quite sure he had meant only this, thanked him for all hisservices, and begged the photograph. Quisanté approved this bearingtowards the third party but was not deceived by it himself. When thepicture was set on the mantelpiece, he understood that his case was notconvincing, that the episode would not fall into the oblivion which hehad suggested for it; it would not be forgotten and could not beforgiven. Deeply resentful of this treatment--for he saw nothing very badin his manoeuvre--he had been moved to protest passionately, to explainvolubly, and to offer pledge on pledge. Protests, plaints, and promisesbroke uselessly against the cool, composed, indulgent friendliness of herbearing. She gave him to understand that no pretences were longerpossible between them, but that they would get along without them. Sheallowed him to see that the one fear left to her on his account was theapprehension that some day he would be found out by other people. Hereher terror was as great as it had ever been, for her pride was unbroken;but she did not show him the full extent of her anxiety. 

"You ought to be particularly careful, so many people would like to seeyou come to grief. " This, or something like it, was what she had said, byway of dismissing the subject for ever from their conversation with oneanother. It expressed very well her new position, how she had abandonedthose mad hopes of changing him and fallen back on the resolve to see thetruth of him herself and make the best of him to others. But the verycalmness and friendliness of the warning told him how resolutely she hadchosen her path, while they concealed the shame and the fear with whichshe set herself to tread it. One thing only Quisanté understood quiteclearly; it was no use acting to her any more; what she wished was thathe should cease to act to her. Yet, knowing this, he could not cease, itwas not in his nature to cease, and he went on playing his part beforeeyes that he knew were not imposed on but saw through all his disguises. His old furtiveness of manner came back now when he talked over himselfand his affairs with his wife. 

But even here he had his triumph, he was not at her mercy, he wielded apower of his own; she recognised it with a smile. Like Aunt Maria, whatever she might think of him she was bound to think constantly of him, to be occupied with his doings and his success, to want to know what wasin his mind, yes, although it might be what she hated to find there. Fora while he had withdrawn himself from her, ceasing to tell of his life, aims, and doings. If he sought thus to bring her to terms, she proved aneasy conquest; she surrendered at once, laughing at herself and at him. "We're partners, " she said, "and I must hear all about what you're doing. I can't live without that, you know. " And as the price of what she musthave she gave him friendship, sympathy, and comradeship, crossing hiswishes in nothing and never allowing herself to upbraid except in thatsmall tacit jeer of Mr. Foster's picture on the mantelpiece. For now shebelieved herself to know the worst, and yet to be able to endure. 

What sort of life promised to form itself out of this state of affairs?For after all she was at the beginning of life, and he hardly well intothe middle of his. Neither of the two obvious things seemed possible;devotion was out of the question, alienation was forbidden by herunconquerable interest in him and his irrepressible instinct to hold hermind, even if he could not chain her affections. Perhaps a third thingwas more usual still, tolerance. But for her at least neither wastolerance the mood, for that is ill to build out of a mixture of intenseadmiration and scornful contempt. These seemed likely to be thepredominant features of her life with her husband, sharing it so equallythat the one could never drive out the other nor yet come to fair termsand, dividing the territory, live at peace. 

"Perhaps they will some day, " she thought, "when I get old and quiet. "She was neither old nor quiet now, and her youth cried out against sopoor a consolation. Then she told herself that she had the child, only toreproach herself, a moment later, with the insincere repetition of acommonplace. The child was not enough; had her nature been such as tofind the child enough, she would certainly never have become AlexanderQuisanté's wife. Always when she was most strongly repelled by him, therewas in the back of her mind the feeling that it was something to be hiswife. Only--he mustn't be found out. The worst terror of all, at whichher half-jesting words to Marchmont had hinted, came back as shemurmured, "I wish we had more money. " For money was necessary, as voteshad been, and--her eyes strayed to old Foster's portrait on themantelpiece. The election had cost a lot; no salary was to be looked fornow; both by policy and by instinct Quisanté was lavish; she herself hadno aptitude for small economies. Money was wanted very much indeed inGrosvenor Road. 

It was on the way, though. This was the news that Quisanté, in theinterval between his return from electioneering and the meeting ofParliament, brought back day by day from his excursions to the City andhis conversations with Mandeville. He was careful to explain to his wifethat he was no "guinea-pig, " that he did not approve of the animal, andwould never use his position to pick up gain in that way. But he hadleisure--at least he could make time--and some of it he proposed todevote to starting a really legitimate and highly lucrative undertaking. The Alethea Printing Press was to revolutionise a great many thingsbesides the condition of Quisanté's finances; it was not an ordinaryspeculative company. Marchmont's phrase came in here, and May used itneatly and graciously. Quisanté, much encouraged, plunged into an accountof the great invention; if only it worked as it was certain to work, there was not one fortune but many fortunes in it. "And it will work?"she asked. "If we can get the capital, " he answered with a confident air. "I shall try to interest all my friends in it, " he went on. "You can helpme there. " May looked doubtful, and Quisanté grew more eloquent. At lasthe held up a sheaf of papers, saying triumphantly, "Here are favourable reports from all the leading experts. We shall havean array of them in the prospectus. Of course they're absolutelyimpartial, and they really leave no room for doubt. " He held them out toher, but she leant back with her hands in her lap. 

"I shouldn't understand them, " she protested. "But they all agree, dothey?"

"Yes, all, " he said emphatically. "Well, all except one. " His browwrinkled a little. "Mandeville insisted on having an opinion fromProfessor Maturin. I was against it. Maturin's absurdly pessimistic. "

"He's a great man, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so, --he's got a great reputation anyhow. "

"And he's against you?"

"The fact is that his is only--only a draft report. So far as it goes, it's not encouraging, but he's never had the facts really laid beforehim. "

"You'd better go and lay them before him, " she said very gravely. 

Quisanté caught eagerly at the suggestion. 

"Exactly what I proposed to Mandeville!" he cried. "The prospectus won'tbe out for nearly a month yet, and I shall go and see Maturin. Iknow----" He rose and began to walk about. "I know Maturin is wrong, andI know that I can show him he's wrong. I only want an hour with him tobring him round to my view, to the true view. "

"Well, why haven't you been to see him?"

"I tried to go, but he's ill and not equal to business. As soon as hegets better I shall go. To put his report in as it stands would not onlydo us infinite harm--in fact we couldn't think of it--but it wouldn't bejust to him. "

"But if he won't change his opinion?"

"Oh, he must, he will. I tell you it's as plain as a pikestaff, when onceit's properly explained. "

"I'm sure you'll be able to convert him, if anyone can, " said Maysoothingly. 

"I must, " said Quisanté briefly, and sat down to his papers again. 

For an hour or two he worked steadily, without a pause, without anapparent hesitation. That fine machine of his was ploughing its straightunfaltering way through details previously unfamiliar and throughproblems which he had never studied. From five to seven she sat with abook in her hands, feigning to read, really watching her husband. Hecould not fail, she said to herself; he would make the Alethea PrintingPress a success, irrespective of the actual merits of it. Was thatpossible? It seemed almost possible as she looked at him. 

"It's bound to go, " he said at last, pushing away the papers. "I'm primednow, and I can convince old Maturin in half an hour. " He held up theProfessor's report. "He must withdraw this and give us another. "

Alas, there are things before which even will and energy and brains mustbow. As he spoke the servant came in, bringing the _Evening Standard_. May took it, glanced at the middle page, and then, with a little start, looked across at her husband. He saw her glance. "Any news?" he asked. 

"The Professor can't be convinced, " she said. "His illness took a suddenturn for the worse last night and he died this afternoon at threeo'clock. "

Quisanté sat quite still for a few minutes, the dead Professor's reporton the Alethea Printing Press still in his fingers. 

"What'll you do now?" she asked, with the smile of curiosity which shealways had ready for his plans. Would he pursue the Professor beyondCharon's stream?

He hesitated a little, glancing at her rather uneasily. At last he spoke. 

"One thing at all events is clear to me, " he said. "This thing doesn'trepresent a reasoned and well-informed opinion. " He folded it upcarefully and placed it by itself in a long envelope. "We must considerour course, " he ended. 

In a flash, by an instinct, May knew what their course would be and atwhose dictation it would be followed. 

"Of course, " said Quisanté, "all this is strictly between ourselves. "

Her cheek flushed a little. "You mustn't tell me any more businesssecrets. I don't like them, " said she, and she turned away to escape thequick, would-be covert glance that she knew he would direct at her. 

Money was necessary; votes had been necessary; old Foster smiled in fatshrewdness from the mantelpiece. May Quisanté was less sure that she knewthe worst. 

 CHAPTER XV. 

 A STRANGE IDEA. 

The next few weeks were a time of restless activity with AlexanderQuisanté. Again he was like an electric current, not travelling now fromconstituency to constituency, but between Westminster and his cousinMandeville's offices in the City. In both places he was very busy. Hisleader had declared for a waiting policy, and an interval in which thedemoralisation of defeat should pass away; the party must feel its feetagain, the great man said. Constantine Blair was full of precedents forthe course, quoting Lord Melbourne, Sir Robert Peel, Sir James Graham, and all the gods of the Parliamentarian. Brusquely and almost rudelyQuisanté brushed him, his gods, and his leader on one side, and raisedthe standard of fierce and immediate battle. The majority was composite;his quick eye saw the spot where a wedge might be inserted between thetwo component parts and driven home till the gap yawned wide and scissionthreatened. The fighting men needed only to be shown where to fight; theyfollowed enthusiastically the man who led them to the field. Leadersshook grey heads, and leader-writers disclaimed a responsibility which_primá facie_ had never rested on them; Quisanté was told that he wouldwreck the party for a quarter of a century to come. It would perhapshave been possible to meet Constantine Blair's precedents with otherprecedents, to quote newer gods against his established deities. Thatwas not "Sandro's way"; here again he was content to be an ancestor, the originator of his methods, and the sufficient authority for them. 

He was justified. The spirit of his fighting men ran high, and hisfighting men's wives grew gracious to him. The majority, if they scowledat him (as was only to be hoped), began to scowl furtively at one anotheralso and to say that certain questions, on which they were by no means ofone mind, could not permanently be shirked and kept in the background. Some of them asked what their constituents had sent them to Westminsterfor, a question always indicative of perturbation in the parliamentarymind; in quiet times it is not raised. The Government papers took toobserving that they did not desire to hurry or embarrass the Government, but that time was running on and it would be no true friendship to adviseit to ignore the feeling which existed among an important, if numericallysmall, section of its followers. Altogether at the opening of the sessionthe majority was much less happy, the minority in far finer feather, thananybody had expected. Only officialdom or ignorance could refuse the maincredit to Alexander Quisanté. 

"I declare, " said Lady Castlefort--and her opinion was not one toneglect--"May Gaston was right to take the man after all. He'll be PrimeMinister. " And she settled her _pince-nez_ and looked round forcontradiction. She loved argument but had made the mistake of growing tooimportant to be differed from. None the less on this occasion a sweetlittle voice spoke up in the circle. 

"I wouldn't marry him if he were fifty times Prime Minister, " said LadyRichard Benyon. "He's odious. "

"God bless me!" murmured the Countess, genuinely startled. "Well, you'llsee, my dear, " she went on, nodding emphatically. "He's the only manamong them. " Her eye fell on Weston Marchmont. "Oh, yes, I see you'rethere, " she said, "and I'm very glad you should be. "

"It's always a pleasure to be here, " he smiled urbanely. 

"Especially, apparently, when you ought to be at the House, " sheretorted, glancing at the clock. "However to-day you've heard more truthhere than you're likely to there, so I forgive you. "

"More truth here? But Quisanté's making a speech!"

"Oh, you're very neat, " she said with an open impatience. "You can scoreoff a woman at her tea-table; go and score off the other side, Weston, and then you may do it as much as you like to me. As if anybody caredwhether Mr. Quisanté speaks the truth or not!" He came up to her and heldout his hand, smiling good-naturedly. She gave him hers with a laugh, forshe liked him much and did not like Quisanté at all. "It's your ownfault, that's why you're so exasperating, " she half-whispered as she badehim good-bye. 

Here was one side; on the other the men of the City came to know Quisantétoo, but, as befitted persons engaged in the serious pursuit of dealingwith money, gave more hesitating and guarded opinions; no party spiritled them astray or fired them to desperate ventures. However there was nodenying that the Alethea Printing Press sounded a very good thing, andmoreover no denying that measures had been skilfully taken to preventanybody having a share in that good thing without paying handsomely forthe privilege. The Syndicate, speaking through Mr. Mandeville itsmouthpiece, by no means implored support or canvassed new partners; itwas prepared to admit one or two names of weight in return forsubstantial aid. Mandeville did nothing of himself; he referred to theBoard, and the Board's answers came after Alexander Quisanté's hansom hadflashed back to Westminster. But a few did gain admittance, and these fewwere much struck by the reports on the Alethea, all of which had beensent back for revision to their respective authors, accompanied by somenew and important facts. These latter did not, as it turned out, alterthe tenor of the reports, but it had been thought as well to afford anopportunity for reconsideration in the light of them; so Mandevilleexplained, seeming always just a little nervous over this matter of thereports. 

"We had hoped, " he said to one gentleman who was rather important andrather hard to satisfy, "to fortify ourselves with Professor Maturin'sopinion. But unfortunately he died before he could complete hisexamination, and nothing on the subject was found among his papers. "

"That's a pity. Maturin would have carried great weight. "

"We were quite alive to that, " Mandeville assured him with a somewhatuneasy smile. His feelings were not unlike those of a quiet steady-goingmember of Quisanté's party in Parliament. "We have no doubt of what hisopinion would have been, had he been able to study our additional factsand been spared to complete his report. As it was, he had only discussedthe matter informally with one or two of us. " And when he was left alone, he murmured softly, "I suppose that's how Alexander meant me to put it. "But he rather wished that Alexander had been there to put it himself. 

It is perhaps needless to say that Aunt Maria, sturdily fulfilling herdestiny in life, was deeply concerned in the fortunes of the AletheaPrinting Press. But large as was her stake--and the possibilities of lossat least were for her very large--she was not disturbed; she said thatheaven alone knew whether there was anything in the thing, but that sheknew that Sandro would make people think there was. Nor did she share inany serious degree the fears which afflicted her nephew's wife; Sandroalways had a case, and she did not doubt that he would have a very goodone whereby to justify any proceedings he might take in regard to theAlethea. So she lived frugally, hoped magnificently, and came often toGrosvenor Road to pick up what crumbs of information she could. Here shemet Lady Castlefort and nodded her rusty bonnet at that great personagewith the remark that she was glad people were waking up to what there wasin Sandro; it was time, goodness knew. Lady Castlefort was for the momenttaken aback. 

"Mr. Quisanté has had certain--er--difficulties to overcome, " shemurmured rather vaguely, and was not reassured by a dry chuckle and theheartfelt exclamation, "I should think so!" Altogether it was difficultto make out exactly what Mr. Quisanté's aunt thought of him. 

Here the old lady met also the Dean of St. Neot's, who called every nowand then because he liked May and wished to show that he bore no maliceabout the Crusade; but the subject was still a sore one, and he was aslittle prepared to be chuckled at over it as Lady Castlefort had beenover her diplomatic indication of the fact that Quisanté's blood was notblue nor his manners those of a grand old English gentleman. 

"Sandro knew all along that there wasn't much in that, but it wassomething to begin with, " Aunt Maria remarked to the uncomfortable Dean. She herself had dragged in the Crusade, to which she referred socontemptuously. 

"Miss Quisanté will do anything in the world for my husband, " Mayinterposed, "but nothing'll persuade her to say a good word for him. "

"As long as that's understood, she does him no harm. We discount all yousay, Miss Quisanté. "

The Dean's affability was thrown away on Aunt Maria. 

"I know what I'm talking about, " she remarked grimly, "and as far as yourCrusade goes, I should think you'd have seen it yourself by now. "

The Dean had seen it himself by now, but he did not wish to say so in thepresence of Quisanté's wife. May's laugh relieved him a little. 

"The Dean's very forgiving, " she said, "and Alexander's doing well now, anyhow, isn't he?"

The Dean agreed that he was doing well now--for in spite of hisdisclaimers of partisanship there was a spice of the fighting man in theDean--and repeated Lady Castlefort's prophecy, reported to him by LadyRichard. The rusty black bonnet nodded approvingly. "I knew that was asensible woman, in spite of her airs, " said Miss Quisanté. 

Lastly, among those whom Miss Quisanté encountered at her nephew's housewas Lady Mildmay, and this interview took a rather more serious turn. Inafter days May used to look back to it as the first faint sign of the newfactor which from now began to make itself felt in her life and to becomea very pressing presence to her. She did not enjoy the friendship whichthe Mildmays forced on her, but it was impossible to receive it otherwisethan with outward graciousness; the cordiality was so kind, the interestso frank, Sir Winterton's gallantry so chivalrous, his wife's gentlenessso appealing. When Lady Mildmay was announced May found time for a hastywhisper to Aunt Maria: "Take care what you say about Alexander beforeher. " Doubts must not be stirred in the Mildmay mind; the Mildmays mustbe kept in their delusion; to help in this was one of the duties ofQuisanté's wife. 

Lady Mildmay smiled gladly on Aunt Maria. 

"I'm so pleased you're here, " she said, "because I know you'll second mein what I'm going to venture to say to Lady May. I know I'm taking aliberty, but I can't help it. Meeting people now and then, you dosometimes see what people who are always with them don't. Now don't you, Miss Quisanté?"

"And _vice versâ_, " murmured Aunt Maria; but May's eye rested on herwarningly, and she refrained from pointing her observation by anyreference to Sandro. 

"I'm quite sure your husband is overdoing himself terribly, " Lady Mildmaywent on. "I saw him the other day walking through the Park, and he lookedghastly. I stopped him and told him so, but he said he'd just been to hisdoctor, and that there was really nothing the matter with him. "

"I didn't know he'd been to the doctor lately. He seemed pretty well forhim, " said May. Aunt Maria said nothing; her keen little eyes werewatching the visitor very closely. 

"I've seen a lot of illness, " pursued Lady Mildmay in her gentle voice, "and I know. He's working himself to death; he's killing himself. " Sheraised her eyes and looked at May. Kind as the glance was, May felt in ita wonder, almost a reproach. "How comes it that you, his wife, haven'tseen it too?" the eyes seemed to say in plaintive surprise. "Are you surethere's nothing wrong with him?" she asked. 

"Wrong with him? What do you mean?" The question was Aunt Maria's, askedabruptly, roughly, almost indignantly. Lady Mildmay started. "I--I don'twant to alarm you, I'm sure, " she murmured, "but I don't like his looks. Do, do persuade him to take a rest. "

Both of them were silent now; Lady Mildmay's wonder grew; she did notunderstand them; she saw them exchange a glance whose expression shecould not analyse. 

"He wants absolute rest and care, the care you could give him, my dear, "she said to May--such a care she meant as her loving heart and handswould give to handsome Sir Winterton. "Go away with him for a few monthsand take care of him, now do. Keep all worries and--and ambitions and soon away from him. "

May's face was grave and strained in a painful attention; but on MissQuisanté's lips there came slowly a bitter little smile. What a picturethis good lady drew of Sandro and his loving wife, together, apart fromthe world, with ambitions and worries set aside! Must the outlines ofthat picture be followed if--well, if Sandro was to live?

"I hope you're not offended? Seeing him only now and then I notice thechange. Winterton and I have both been feeling anxious about it, and wedecided that you wouldn't mind if I spoke to you. "

"You're too good, too good, " said May. "We don't deserve it. " LadyMildmay smiled. 

"I know what a strain the election was, " said she. "Even Winterton feltit, and Mr. Quisanté never seems to rest, does he?" She rose to go, but, as she said good-bye, she spoke one more word, half in a whisper andtimidly, "I daresay I'm wrong, but are you sure his heart's quite sound?"And so she left them, excusing herself to the last for what might seem anintrusion, or even a slight on the careful watch that an affectionatewife keeps over her husband's health. 

May walked to the hearthrug and stood there; Aunt Maria, sitting verystill, glanced up with a frightened gaze, but her speech came bitter withaggressive scorn. 

"What does the silly creature mean?" she asked. "There's nothing thematter with Sandro, is there?"

"I don't know that there is, " May answered slowly. 

"The woman talks as if he was going to die. " Still the tone wascontemptuous, still the look frightened. "Such nonsense!"

"I hope it is. He's not strong though, is he?"

Miss Quisanté had often said the same, but now she received the remarkirritably. "Strong! He's not a buffalo like some men, like Jimmy Benyonor, I suppose, that poor creature's husband she's always talking about. But there's nothing the matter with him, there's no reason heshouldn't--no reason he should fall ill at all. "

"She thinks he ought to rest, perhaps give up altogether. "

"Altogether? Nonsense!" The tone was sharp. 

"Well, then, for a long while. "

"And go away, and let you coddle him?"

"Yes, and let me coddle him. " May looked down on Aunt Maria, and for thefirst time smiled faintly. 

"The woman's out of her senses, " declared Aunt Maria testily. "Don't youthink so? Don't you think so?"

"I don't know, " was all May could say in answer either to the irritationof the voice or to the fear of the eyes. The old lady's hands weretrembling as she raised them and gave a pull to the bow of herbonnet-strings. 

"He'll see me out anyhow, I'll be bound, " she said obstinately. She wasfighting against the bare idea of being left with a remnant of life tolive and no Sandro to fill it for her; what a miserable fag-end of emptywaiting that would be! She glanced sharply at his wife; she did not knowwhat his wife was thinking of. 

"I'll ask him, " said May, "and I must insist on knowing. " She paused andadded, "I ought to have noticed and I ought to have asked before. Butsomehow----" The sentence went unfinished, and Aunt Maria's sharpunsatisfied eyes drew no further answer. May kissed her when they parted;whatever this idea might mean to her, whatever the strange tumult itmight raise in her, she read well enough the story of the old lady'srough tones, shaking hands and frightened eyes. To the old woman Sandrowas the sum of life. She might sneer, she might scorn, she might rail, she might and would suffer at his hands. But he was the one thing, thesole support, she had to cling to; he kept her alive. Yet the last wordsthat Miss Quisanté said were, "I expect Sandro wanted to wheedlesomething out of that woman, and has been playing one of his tricks toget a bit of sympathy. " Then she climbed slowly and totteringly down thestairs. 

Left alone, May Quisanté sat in apparent idleness, letting her thoughtsplay with a freedom which some people consider in itself blameworthy, though certainly no action and often no desire accompany the picturewhich the mind draws. She said to herself, "Supposing this is true, orthat more than this is true, supposing his heart is unsound, what does itmean to me?" What it excluded was easier to realise than what it meant. Unless Quisanté were to have not existence only, but also health, suchhealth at least as enables a man to do work although not, may be, toglory in the doing of it, unless there were to the engine wheels soundenough to answer to the spur of the steam that his brain's furnace made, nothing could come about of what Lady Castlefort's Mightiness prophesied, nothing of what friends and enemies had begun to look for, nothing ofwhat May herself had grown to regard as his future and hers, as thebasis, the condition, the circumstances, of her life and of his. An oldthought of her own came to her, back from the dim region of ante-marriagedays, the idea to which the Henstead doctor had given a terse, ifmetaphorical, expression. Quisanté was their race-horse, their money wason him, they wanted a win for the stable. If this or more than this weretrue, then there would be no win for the stable; the horse was a grandhorse, but he wouldn't stand training. What was left then? An invalid andthe wife of an invalid, coddlings, cossetings, devotion, ambition faraway, life kept in him by loving heart and loving hands. Hers must be theheart and the hands. Hers also were the keen eyes that knew everyweakness, every baseness, of the man to whom heart and hands mustminister, but would see no more the battle and the triumph and thebrilliance which set them sparkling and seemed to make the world alightfor them. 

For a little while the third thing, the remaining possibility, wasunformulated in her thoughts; perhaps she had a scruple which made herturn away from it. But her speculations would not be denied theirirresponsible freedom of ranging over all the field of chance. If it weretrue, if more than it, more than the kind timid woman had dared to say, were true, he might die. He might die, not in some dim far-off time whennature made the thing seem inevitable, when he had lived his life, beenPrime Minister and so forth, and she had lived hers, filling it with workfor him, and with looking on at him and with endurance of him, butsooner, much sooner, almost now, when he had not lived his life, whilehers was not exhausted, when there would still be left to her another ofher own to live after he was gone. It was strange to think of that, tosee how what had seemed to be irrevocable and for ever, to stretch inunfaltering perpetuity to the limits of old age, might so easily, by theoccasion of so small a matter as a heart not sound, turn out to be apassing thing, and there come to her again freedom, choice, a life to bere-made. If that happened, how would she feel? At the new-learnt chanceof that happening, how did she feel? Very strange, very bewildered, veryupset; that was her answer. Such a thing--Quisanté's death shemeant--would mean so much, change so much, take away so much--and mightgive so much. Her thoughts flew off to the new life that she might livethen, to the new freedom from embarrassments, from fears and fromdisgusts, to a new love which it might be hers to gain and to enjoy. People said that it was always impossible to go back--_vestigia nulla_. But that event would open to her a sort of going back, such a return toher old life and her surroundings as might some day make the time shehad spent with Quisanté and its experiences seem but an episode, studdingthe belt of long days with one strange bizarre ornament. 

And on the other side? There was the greatest difficulty, the greatestpuzzle. She had not failed to understand the roughness of Aunt Maria'stones, her frightened eyes and the shaking of her hands. It would be verystrange to see an end of him, to know that he would never be PrimeMinister and so forth, to look on at a world devoid of him, to live alife in which he was only a memory. How were the scales to be held, whichway did the balance incline? She could not tell, and at last she smiledat her inability to answer the riddle. It would amuse people so much, andshock some people so much and doubtless so properly, if they knew thatshe was sitting in her drawing-room in the afternoon, trying to make upher mind whether she would rather her husband lived or that he died. Eventhere the fallacy crept in; she was not desiring either way; she wassimply looking at the two pictures which the two events painted for herfancy; and she did not know which picture she preferred. So all was stillbewilderment, all still rocking from the sudden gust that had proceededout of dear Lady Mildmay's gentle lips. But the undercurrent of wonderand of reproach that there had been in the warning May Quisanté nowalmost missed. By an effort at last she realised its presence, thenaturalness of it, and its rightness. But still it seemed to her a littleconventional, something that might be supposed to be appropriate, but wasnot, if the truth were faced. "Alexander and I have never been like thatto one another--at least never for more than a very little while, " wasthe form her thought about it took. 

When he came in that evening, she found herself looking at him withwonder, and with a sort of scepticism about what her visitor had said. Heseemed so full of life; it was impossible to think of him as beinglikely, or even able, to die. But she had made up her mind to open thesubject to him, to force something from him, and to learn about thisvisit to the doctor which he had so studiously concealed from her. Shegave him tea, and was so far affected by her mood as to show unusualkindness towards him, or rather to let her uniform friendliness be tingedby an affection which was not part of her habitual bearing; with the helpof this she hoped to lead up to a subject which her own strangely mixedmeditations somehow made it hard for her to approach. But Quisanté alsohad a scheme; he also was watching and working for an opportunity, andseeing one now in her great cordiality of manner he seized it with hisrapid decisiveness, cutting in before his wife had time to develop herattack. He pressed her hand as she gave him his cup, sighed as though inweariness, took a paper from his pocket, and laid it on the table, givingit a tentative gentle push in the direction of her chair. 

"We've got the Alethea afloat at last, " he said. "There's the prospectus, if you care to look at it. " With this he glanced at the clock, sighedagain and added, "I must be at the House early this evening. By Jove, I'mtired though!" This little odd ineradicable trick of his made May smile;he was never so tired as when he had a risky card to play; then, indeed, he affected for his purposes some sort of reconcilability with thoseincongruous ideas of collapse and mortality that Lady Mildmay hadsuggested. He inspired May, as he did sometimes now, with a maliciouswish to make him show himself at his trickiest. Fingering the prospectuscarelessly, she asked, "I suppose it sets out all the wonderful merits of the Alethea, doesn'tit? Well, I've heard a good deal about them. I don't think I need readit. "

"It gives a full account of the invention, " said Quisanté, wearilypassing his hand across his brow. 

"Have you put in Professor Maturin's report?" She was not looking at him, but smiling over to Mr. Foster on the mantelpiece. There was a moment'spause. 

"The facts about Maturin are fully stated. You'll find it on the thirdpage. " He rose with a sigh and threw himself on the sofa; he groaned alittle and shut his eyes. May glanced at him, smiled, and turned to thethird page. 

"In addition to the foregoing very authoritative opinions, steps weretaken to obtain a report from the late Professor Maturin, F. R. S. Professor Maturin was very favourably impressed with several features ofthe invention, and was about to pursue his investigations with the aid offurther information furnished to him, when he was unfortunately attackedby the illness of which he recently died. The Directors therefore regretto be unable to present any report of his examination. But they haveevery reason to believe that his opinion would have been no lessencouraging than those of the other gentlemen consulted. "

May turned back to the list of directors. Three out of the six she didnot know; the other three were Quisanté himself, Jimmy Benyon, and SirWinterton Mildmay. The presence of these two last names filled May with afeeling of helplessness; this was worse than she had expected. Of courseneither Jimmy nor Sir Winterton had heard anything about the Maturinreport; of the other three she knew nothing and took no thought. Jimmy, not warned, alas, by that affair of old Foster's note, and Sir Winterton, in the chivalrous confidence of perfect trust, had given their support toQuisanté. The use he made of their names was to attach them to astatement which she who knew of the Maturin report could describe only inone way. She looked round at her husband's pale face and closed eyes. 

"I thought you were supposed to tell the--I mean, to state all the factsin a prospectus?" she said. 

Quisanté sat up suddenly, leant forward, and spread his hands out. "Mydear May, " he replied with a smile, "the facts are stated, stated veryfully. "

"There's nothing about the report the Professor did give. You rememberyou told me about it?"

"Oh, no, he gave no report. "

"Well, you called it a draft report. "

"No, no, did I? That was a careless way of speaking if I did. Hecertainly sent me some considerations which had occurred to him at thebeginning of his inquiry, but they were based on insufficient informationand were purely provisional. They did not in any sense constitute areport. It would have been positively misleading to speak of them in anysuch way. " He was growing eager, animated, almost excited. 

May was not inclined to cross-examine him; she knew that he would develophis case for himself if she sat and listened. 

"The whole thing was so inchoate as to be worth nothing, " he went on. "Wesimply discarded it from our minds; we didn't let it weigh one way or theother. "

"The directors didn't?" That little question she could not resist asking. 

"Oh, it was never laid before them. As I tell you, Mandeville and Idecided that it could not be regarded as a report, or even as anindication of Maturin's opinion. We only referred to Maturin at allbecause--because we wanted to be absolutely candid. "

May smiled; absolute candour resulted, as it seemed to her, in givingrise to an impression that the Professor had been in favour of the meritsof the Alethea. 

"And you won't show it to the directors?"

"No, " said Quisanté, "certainly not. " He paused for a moment and thenadded slowly, "In fact it has not been preserved. What is stated there isbased on my own personal discussions with the Professor, and onMandeville's; the few lines he wrote added nothing. "

It had not been preserved; it had sunk from a report to a draft report, from a draft report to considerations, from considerations to a few lineswhich added nothing; the minimising process, pursued a little further, had ended in a total disappearance. And nobody knew that it had everexisted, even as considerations, even as a few lines adding nothing, except her husband, cousin Mandeville, and herself. 

"If the Professor himself, " Quisanté resumed, "had considered it of anymoment, he would have kept a copy or some memorandum of it; but there wasnot a word about it among his papers. "

There was safety, then, so far as the Professor was concerned; and so faras Quisanté was concerned; of course, also, so far as cousin Mandevillewas concerned. But Quisanté's restless eyes seemed to ask whether therewere perfect safety all round, no possibility of Jimmy or Sir Wintertonor anybody else picking up false ideas from careless talk about the fewlines in which the Professor had added nothing. For an instant May's eyesmet his, and she understood what he asked of her. She was to hold hertongue; that sounded simple. She had held her tongue before, and thus ithappened that Sir Winterton was her husband's friend and trusted him. Nowshe was again to be a party to deceiving him, and this time Jimmy Benyonwas to be hoodwinked too. She was to hold her tongue; if by any chanceneed arose, she was to lie. That was the request Quisanté made of her, part of the price of being Quisanté's wife. 

She gave him no pledge in words; a touch of the tact that taught him howto deal with difficult points prevented him from asking one of her. Butit was quite understood between them; no reference was to be made to thefew lines that the Professor had written. Quisanté's uneasiness passedaway, his headache seemed to become less severe; he was in good spiritsas he made his preparations to go to the House. Apparently he had noconsciousness of having asked anything great of her. He had been far morenervous and shamefaced about his betrayal of the Crusade, far more upsetby the untoward incident of Mr. Foster's letter. May told herself thatshe understood why; he was getting accustomed to her and she to him; heknew her point of view and allowed for it, expecting a similar tolerationin return. As she put it, they were getting equalised, approaching morenearly to one another's level. You could not aid in queer doings and reapthe fruits of them without suffering some gradual subtle moral changewhich must end in making them seem less queer. As the years passed by, the longer their companionship lasted, the more their partnershipdemanded in its community of interest and effort, the more this processmust go on. As they rose before the world--for rise they would (even theAlethea would succeed in spite of the Professor's burked report)--theywould fall in their own hearts and in one another's eyes. This was theprospect that stretched before her, as she sat again alone in thedrawing-room, after Quisanté had set out, much better, greatly rested, ingood spirits, serene and safe, and after she had pledged herself to hisfortunes by the sacrifice of loyalty to friends and to truth. 

Yes, that was the prospect unless--she started a little. She hadforgotten what she had meant to ask him; she had not inquired about hisvisit to the doctor nor told him that kind Lady Mildmay was anxious abouthis health. It had all been driven out of her head, she said to herselfin excuse at first. Then she faced her feelings more boldly. Just thenshe could have put no such questions, feigned no such interest, andassumed no show of affection or solicitude. That evening such thingswould have been mere hypocrisy, pretences of a desire to keep him forherself when her whole nature was in revolt at having to be near him. Herhorror now was not that she might lose him, but of the prospect that laybefore her and the road she must tread with him. Trodden it must be;unless by any chance there were truth, or less than the truth, in whatgood Lady Mildmay said. 

 CHAPTER XVI. 

 THE IRREVOCABLE. 

So far as May Quisanté's distress had its rise in her husband's treatmentof Sir Winterton Mildmay, she was entitled to take some comfort from thatgentleman's extreme happiness. He had lost a seat in Parliament, thanksto Tom Sinnett and the account to which Tom Sinnett had been turned; hehad been caused to represent to the world that the Alethea Printing Presshad lost Professor Maturin's express approval only by the accident of theProfessor's lamented decease. The one wrong he forgot, the other he didnot know. It was a favourite tenet of his that an English gentleman oughtto be able to turn his hand to everything--everything honourable, ofcourse--and should at once shine in any sphere of practical activity. Hesaw the triumph of his opinion, and found his own delight, in his newpart of a business man. His brougham rolled down to Dowgate Hill almostevery day; he delighted to lunch with Mandeville or to entertain theSecretary of the Company at the midday meal; business could be made tolast till three when there was no Board, till four if there were; thenSir Winterton drove to his club and sat down to his cards with a richconsciousness of commercial importance. He believed in the Alethea with adevotion and a thoroughness second only to the unquestioning faith andobedience which he now had at the service of Alexander Quisanté. Many anamazed secret stare and many a sour smile his eulogies drew from cousinMandeville; for even in his enthusiasm Sir Winterton praised withdiscrimination; it was the sterling worth, the heart of the man, that headmired; shallow people stuck at superficial defects of manner; not suchwas Sir Winterton. "I trust him as I do myself, " he used to say to LadyMildmay, and she, in honest joy, posted off with the testimonial to MayQuisanté; besides she was eager to seize a chance of throwing out anotherhint or two about Quisanté's health. 

The Alethea, at least, seemed to be going to prove worthy of theselaudations. There really had, it appeared, been some good reason why theProfessor should reconsider his considerations. The invention stood thetest of criticism and experiment; it saved a lot of expense; the idea gotabout more and more that it was an uncommonly good thing; the two orthree papers which were inquisitive about the actual views of theProfessor were treated with disdain (one with advertisements also) andtheir clamour went almost unnoticed. There was a demand for the shares. Sir Winterton pointed out to Weston Marchmont what a mistake he hadcommitted in not accepting the offer of an allotment which had been madeto him. 

"The only thing for which I value independent means, " said Marchmont, "isthat they relieve me from the necessity of imposing on the public. Isuppose my ancestors did it for me. "

Sir Winterton laughed serenely. "We're serving the public, " said he. Thenhe remembered the new man of business in him, and added, with a slynessobvious from across the street, "Oh, and ourselves too, ourselves too, Iadmit that. "

"And you, Jimmy?" asked Marchmont, turning to him; they made a group ofthree at the club. 

"I don't think Quisanté'll go far wrong, " said Jimmy. "You know Dick'sgone in too?"

"What, after the Crusade?"

"This is another sort of game, " said Jimmy, with a grim smile; he hadgone in after both the Crusade and the Sinnett affair. He turned to SirWinterton; "Old Foster of Henstead's in it too; he's pretty wide-awake, you know. "

"Oh, we Henstead fellows have heads on our shoulders, " said SirWinterton, but he looked a little less happy; he had never acquittedFoster with the confidence that Quisanté had won from him. 

"And you'll grow rich against your wedding, Jimmy?" asked Marchmont. 

Again Jimmy smiled. The wedding was near now, and the next day he wasgoing to Ashwood to meet Fanny Gaston. 

"You're going to Dick's on Friday, aren't you?" he said to Marchmont. 

"I believe I am. "

"Ah, then you shall hear about our show from Quisanté himself. "

"What?" Weston Marchmont's tone expressed surprise rather than pleasure. 

"May's going to be there, and he's coming for the Sunday. Amy foughthard, but Dick said he must come, because he was going to be aconnection. " Jimmy's slow smile endured all through this speech; he had asense of humour which he treated gravely. 

"I didn't know he was coming, " said Marchmont. Sir Winterton broke into ahearty laugh. 

"You're the most prejudiced fellow in the world, Marchmont, " he said. "Itell you what, though, " he went on. "Do persuade Lady May to take care ofher husband, or get him to take care of himself. My wife's been at heragain and again, but nothing's done. The man's not well, he'll break upif they aren't careful. " He paused, and a puzzled look came over hishandsome candid face. "If I was half as bad as he is, my wife'd have mein bed or off to the seaside in a jiffy, " he ended. 

The silence that followed struck him much as May's and Aunt Maria's hadstruck his wife. Neither he nor his wife were accustomed to the way inwhich people who knew Quisanté close at hand came to stand towards him. 

"I suppose Lady May's not what you'd call a very domestic woman?" hehazarded. "Charming, most charming, but full of politics and that sort ofthing, eh?"

To Weston Marchmont it seemed simplest to laugh and say, "I suppose so. "Sir Winterton's mind had need of categories, and was best not burdenedwith the complexities of an individual. But Jimmy was not so wise. 

"I don't think she cares a hang about politics, except so far asQuisanté's concerned in them, " he said. 

Sir Winterton looked more puzzled still. "Nothing's any good unless hekeeps his health, " he murmured. He was uncomfortable; he liked May verymuch, and did not welcome the thought of there being any truth in theidea of indifference and carelessness about her husband at which LadyMildmay had sorrowfully hinted. "That's his wife's first businessanyhow, " he ended, a trifle defiantly. But his challenge was not taken upby either of his friends. He went home with his high spirits ratherdashed. 

On the Friday Marchmont found himself travelling down to Ashwood incompany with Mr. Morewood. The painter had an extreme fit of his mockingacidity; he refrained his tongue from nobody and showed no respect forwhat might be guessed to be delicate points with his companion. Quisanté's success was his principal theme; he exhibited it in its fouraspects, political, social, commercial, and matrimonial. 

"I've talked, " he said, "to Constantine Blair, to Lady Castlefort, toWinterton Mildmay, and to Jimmy Benyon. There's nothing left for all ofus but to fall down and worship. On to your knees with the rest of us, myfriend! In every relation of life the man is great. You'll say he'sobjectionable. Quite so. Greatness always is. You're still pleasant, because you haven't become great. "

"A few people think you a great artist. "

"Quite a few, " grinned Morewood. "I can still set up for being pleasant. "

This mood did not leave him with his arrival at Ashwood. He remindedMarchmont of a monkey who had some trick to play, and grinned andchattered in anticipation of his cruel fun; his smile was most mockingwhen he greeted May Quisanté. She was in high spirits; girlish gaietymarked a holiday mood in her. Morewood seemed to encourage it withmalicious care, letting it grow that he might strike at it with bettereffect later on. Yet what did the man know, what could he do? And thoughDick Benyon winced at his darts, and Jimmy grew a little sulky, Mayherself seemed unconscious of them. She was ready to meet him in talkabout her husband and her husband's plans; she laughed at his jibes inall the apparent security of a happy confidence. Such a state of thingsexactly suited Lady Richard; she would not wish May to be pained, but sheenjoyed infinitely any legitimate "dig" at her old enemy. May fought withequal gallantry and good temper. 

"Success is our crime, " she said gaily at dinner. "Mr. Morewood can'tforgive it. You call us Philistines now, I expect, don't you?"

"Philistines in the very highest degree, " he nodded. 

"I know, " she cried. "The only really cultivated thing is to failelegantly. "

"Let's bow our acknowledgments, " Morewood called across to Marchmont. 

"Oh, no, Mr. Marchmont isn't like that. He doesn't even try. Well, perhaps that's still more superior. " She smiled at Marchmont, shaking herhead. "But we try, we try everything. "

The "we" grated still on Marchmont's feelings, and the worse because itseemed to come more easily and naturally from her lips. Yet that might beonly the result of practice; she had looked at him in a merry defiance asthe last words left her lips. 

"And you get other people to try your things too, " pursued Morewood. 

"Look here, you don't mean me, do you?" Jimmy Benyon put in. "Because I'mnot trying Fanny; on the contrary, she's trying me. "

"What, already?" asked Dick with exaggerated apprehension. "What'll it bewhen you're married?"

"Ah, " said Morewood, "now what is it when you're married? Does any dulyqualified person wish to answer the question?" His mischievous glancerested again on May Quisanté. 

"Oh, marriage is all right, " said Dick, raising his voice to allow hiswife to hear. "At least it's not so bad as things go in this world. It'sgiving a shilling and getting back eleven-pence. "

There was a little murmur of applause. "I declare every married person atthe table seems to endorse the opinion, " said Marchmont with a laugh. "We'll keep our shillings, I think, Morewood. "

"You'd better wait till somebody offers you change, " advised LadyRichard. 

"Meanwhile we've had an admirable expert opinion, " said Marchmont. 

"Which we believe, " added Morewood, "as implicitly as we do in theexcellence of the Alethea Printing Press. "

"Hallo, are you in it too?" cried Dick. "You see we're all disciples, " headded to May. She smiled slightly and turned to Jimmy Benyon who was byher, as though to speak to him; but Morewood's voice cut across herremark. 

"No, I'm not. I'm a sceptic there, " he said. 

"Oh, well, you don't know anything about it, " Dick assured him placidly. If plain-speaking were the order of the day, the Benyon family could holdtheir own. 

"I bet he hasn't read the prospectus, " said Jimmy. 

"Couldn't understand it, if he had, " added Dick, after a comforting gulpof champagne. 

"You're really splendid people to be in with, " said May, lookinggratefully from one brother to the other. They were so staunch, and alas, how had they been treated!

For a moment Morewood said nothing; he sat smiling maliciously. 

"Shall I give my authority?" he asked. "It won't do you any harm if I do, because I can't call him to give evidence. "

"We had all the best authorities, " said Dick Benyon, "as you'd know ifyou'd read the prospectus. "

"Hang the prospectus! What's the good of reading a man's puff of his ownwares? But I'm certain you hadn't one authority. "

"Well, who's your authority?" asked Jimmy, with a contempt that he tookno trouble to conceal. 

"What he said was confidential, you know----"

"Oh, you won't get out of it like that. We're all friends here. Fireaway. "

Thus exhorted, and indeed nothing loth--for he had not read the prospectusand knew not the full extent of what he did--Morewood drew his maliciouslittle bow and shot his arrow, sharper-pointed than he fancied. "Isuppose you'll admit, " said he with the exaggerated carelessness of aman with an unanswerable case, "that poor old Maturin was some authority, and he told me in confidence--I asked him about it, you know, just to beable to warn you fellows--that there was an absolutely fatal defect inyour machine. "

To score too great a triumph is sometimes as disconcerting as to fail. There was no chorus of indignation, no denial of Maturin's authority, nogood-natured scoffing such as Morewood had expected. He looked round onfaces fallen into a sudden troubled seriousness; no voice was raised inprotest, gay or grave. In an instant he knew that he had done somethingfar beyond what his humour had suggested; but what it was or how it cameabout, he could not tell. 

The Benyon brothers were not over-ready of speech in a difficulty; theirthoughts were busy now, but their tongues tied. Marchmont found nothingto say; he could not help raising his eyes under half-drooped lids tillthey rested on May Quisanté's face. There was a moment more of silence;then, answering the tacit summons of the table, May Quisanté spoke. Sheleant forward a little, smiling, and spoke clearly and composedly. 

"Oh, you misunderstood him, " she said. "He was consulted, but fell illbefore he could go into all the facts or write his report. But he hadexpressed a favourable opinion of the Alethea to my husband. " She paused, and then added, "If you'd taken the trouble to read the prospectus you'dhave known that, Mr. Morewood. "

Little Lady Richard laughed nervously, glanced round, and rose from thetable; it was sooner than the ladies were wont to move but, as she said, nobody seemed to be eating any fruit, and so there was nothing to stayfor. The men sat down again. Morewood perceived very clearly that aconstraint had come upon them; but he was possessed by curiosity. 

"Well, I should like to see the prospectus now, " he said. 

"You'll find one or two over there, " said Dick, jerking his head towardsa writing-table, but not rising. 

Morewood made in the direction indicated, a low mutter from Dickfollowing him. Then Jimmy observed:

"He doesn't understand a thing about it, you know, and of course hedidn't follow what Maturin said. "

The others nodded. This explanation was indeed the simple one; in mostcases it would have been accepted without demur; or recourse would havebeen had to the hypothesis of a sudden change in the Professor's opinion;indeed Marchmont broached this solution in an off-hand way. Neither viewwas explicitly rejected, but a third possibility was in their minds, onewhich would not and could not have been there, had any one of the threehad the settling of the prospectus and conducted the business withMaturin. But Alexander Quisanté, assisted only by cousin Mandeville, hadconducted the business and drawn the prospectus. 

Morewood came back, sat down, and poured out a glass of wine. 

"Yes, I see what it says, " he observed. His mood of malice was gone, helooked troubled and rather remorseful. "Well, I only repeated whatMaturin said. I'd no idea there was anything about him in theprospectus. "

The two reasonable views were suggested again by Dick and Marchmont. 

"It's impossible that I misunderstood him, but of course he may havechanged his mind. " He paused, seeming to think. "I gather that he putnothing in writing?" he went on. "He only talked to you about it?"

After a little pause Jimmy Benyon said, "Not exactly to us--to the peopleat the office, you know. And there was nothing in writing as you say--atleast so I understand too. "

Morewood passed his hand through his hair; the ruffled locks intensifiedthe ruefulness of his aspect; he had before his eyes the picture of MayQuisanté's silence and her so careful, so deliberate little speech afterit. He tossed off his wine almost angrily, as Dick Benyon rose, saying, "Let's have coffee in the garden. It's a splendid night. " He added with arather uneasy laugh, "Quisanté's coming to-morrow! We'll leave him totackle you himself, Morewood. "

Lady Richard and Fanny Gaston were sitting in the garden by thedrawing-room window when the men joined them; Morewood dropped into achair by Lady Richard and, looking across the lawn, saw May strolling byherself on the walk that bounded the shrubberies. He took his coffee insilence and then lighted his pipe; the vanity of cigarettes was not forhim. At last he said confidentially, "I've a sort of feeling that I've made an ass of myself. "

Lady Richard glanced round; Fanny had gone across to the other group;nobody was in hearing. 

"Do you know, " she said in a low voice, "I believe that man's been up tosome trick again. You know how he treated us over the Crusade? Now Isuppose he's going to ruin us!" The satisfaction of a justified prophetseemed to mingle with the dismay of a wife and the anger of a sufferer;Lady Richard had expected nothing less all along!

"I'm afraid I rather--well, that Lady May didn't like it. "

"Poor dear May must know what to expect by now. "

"Perhaps she never knows what to expect. That'd be worse. " The remark wasa little too subtle for Lady Richard's half-attentive ear. She contentedherself with sighing expressively. Morewood looked across the lawn again;the slow-walking figure had disappeared, presumably into the shrubberies. Two or three moments later he saw Marchmont strolling off in thatdirection, cigar in mouth and hands in pockets. He rose, shook himself, and cried to the brothers, "Oh, in heaven's name, come and play pool. "Jimmy refused and paired off with his _fiancée_, but Dick agreed tobilliards, saying as they went in, "It'll keep you from making a fool ofyourself any more. " Morewood, finding his own impression of his conductthus confirmed, grunted remorsefully as he took down his cue. 

Marchmont crossed the lawn and the path, and was hidden by theshrubberies. Lady Richard watched till she could see him no more, andthen went indoors with another sigh; this last was a disclaimer ofresponsibility; if Marchmont liked to comfort May, it was no business ofhers. 

He loitered on, not admitting that he was looking for May, but very soreto think that she had wandered away to a sad solitude rather than be withher friends; since she did that, she was wounded indeed. There was a seatround an old tree-trunk at the farther side of the shrubbery; the memoryof it really directed his apparently aimless steps, and as he approachedit he threw away his half-smoked cigar; he thought he would find herthere; what he would say to her he did not know. 

He was right. There, she sat, very still, and looking pale under themoon. Coming up to her he said, "I know you want to be alone, don't you?"She smiled and answered, "No, stay. I'm glad to have you, " and he satdown by her. She was silent, her eyes gazing steadily in front of her;the air was sweet and very still. Now he needed no telling that his guessat the situation had been right, that she had shielded her husband at herown cost; her face told him what the cost seemed to her. A greatindignation against the man filled him, gaining unacknowledgedreinforcement from the love he himself had for the woman. He had wroughtfor himself a masterpiece of pure and faultless beauty; when another tookit from him, he had endured; now the other spoilt and stained and defiledit; could he still endure? It seems sometimes as though the deep silenceof night carries thoughts from heart to heart that would be lost in thepassage through the broken tumultuous sea of day. The thought that was inhim he felt to be in her also, changed as her mind would change it, yetin essence the same. She had now no ironical smiles for him, no fencing, and no playing with her fate; and he had for her no talk of loyalty. Thetime for these was gone in the light of the confidence that her silencegave him; it told him everything, and he had no rebuke for its openness. At last he put out his hand and lightly pressed hers for a moment. Sheturned her eyes on him. 

"It's a little hard, isn't it?" she asked. "I can stand most things, butit's hard to have to tell lies to your friends. " Her voice rose a littleand shook as the composure which she had so long kept failed her. "Andthey know I'm lying. Oh, I don't deceive them, however hard I try. Theydon't tell me so, but they know. I can't help it, I must do it. I mustsit and do it, knowing that they know it's a lie. For decency's sake Imust do it, though. Some people believe, the Mildmays believe; but youhere don't. You know me too well, and you know him too well. "

"For God's sake, don't talk like that, " said Marchmont. 

"Don't talk like that! The talk's not the harm. If you could tell me hownot to live like that!" Her self-control broke utterly; she covered herface with her hands and sobbed. 

"For God's sake!" he murmured again. 

"Oh, you don't know. This is only the crown of it. It goes on every day. I'm coming not to know myself, not to be myself. I live scheming andlying. I've given everything, all my life. Must I give myself, my ownself, too? Must I lose that for him?"

Her bitter despairing words seemed to him what at that moment her moodmade them seem to herself, the all-sufficient all-embracing summary ofher life; she had then no thought of another side to it, and into thatshe gave him no insight. He counted as dead for her all the high hopesand the attractive imaginings with which Quisanté once had fired her. Dead for her they were at that moment; she could see nothing but herhusband's baseness and a baseness bred by it in herself; her bond to himwas an obligation to dishonour and a chain of treachery. She abandoned toMarchmont's eyes all the hidden secrets of her misery; in this she seemedalso to display before him the dead body of her hopes, her interest, herambitions. Giving all, she had gained nothing; so her sobs said. But onlyfor moments does life seem so simple that a sob can cover all of it. 

Presently she grew calmer. "I've never broken out like this before, " shesaid, "but it's rather bad to have to look forward to a life of it. Andit'll get worse, not better; or if it doesn't get worse it'll mean thatI'm getting worse, and that'll be worse than all. " She smiled forlornly. "What a tangle of 'worses' I've tied it up in, haven't I?"

She did not seem to be ashamed of her breaking-out, but rather to berelieved by it, and to feel that it had helped to establish or renew anintimacy in which she found some pleasure and some consolation; at leastthere was one friend now who knew exactly how she stood and would not setdown to that own self of hers the actions that he might see her performin Quisanté's service. "You once told me I ought to take a confidante, "she reminded him. "I don't suppose you thought I should take you, though. "

She had had her outburst; his was still to come. Yet it seemed rather asthough he acted on a deliberate purpose than was carried away by anyirresistible impulse; he spoke simply and plainly. 

"I love you as I've always loved you, " he said. 

"I know, and I've taken advantage of it to inflict all this on you. " Hereyes rested on his for some moments, and she answered his glance. "No, Ican't escape that way. I'm not talking of running away; of course Icouldn't do that. " She laughed a little and even he smiled. "But I can'tescape even in--in spirit by it. Sometimes I wish I could. It wouldchange the centre of my life, wouldn't it? Perhaps I shouldn't mind thethings that distress me so much now. But I can't. "

"You don't love me? Well, you never did. " He paused an instant and addedin a puzzled way, "Somehow. "

"Yes, it's all 'somehow. ' Somehow I didn't; I ought to have. Somehow I'vegot where I am; and somehow, I suppose, I shall endure it. " She laid herhand on his. "I should actually like to love you--in a way I do. I'mafraid I've very little conscience about it. But somehow--yes, somehowagain--it's all a hopeless puzzle--I can't altogether, not as you mean. Iunderstand it very little myself, and I know you won't understand it atall, but--well, Alexander imprisons me; I can't escape from him; as longas he's there he keeps me. " She looked in Marchmont's face and then shookher head, half-sadly, half-playfully. "You don't understand a bit, doyou?" she asked. 

"No, I don't, " he said bluntly, with an accent of impatience and almostof exasperation. Recognising it, she gave the slightest shrug of hershoulders. 

"It's my infatuation again, I suppose, as you all said when I marriedhim. It makes you all angry. Oh, it makes me angry too, as far as thatgoes. "

"He's ruining your whole life. "

She made no answer, relapsing into the still silence which had precededher tears. Marchmont was baffled again by his old inability to follow themovements of her mind and the old sense of blindness in dealing with herto which it gave rise. Owing to this he had lost her at the first; now itseemed to prevent him from repairing the loss. In spite of all that theyhad in common, in spite of the strong attraction she felt towards him andof the love he bore her, there was always, as she had said once, at lasta break somewhere, some solution in the chain of sympathy that shouldhave bound them together. But he would not admit this, and chose to seethe only barrier between them in the man who was ruining her life. 

"You'd be yourself again if only you could get away from him, " hemurmured resentfully. 

"Perhaps; I never shall, though. " She added, laughing a little, "Neitherwill you. I've made you an accomplice, you're bound to a guilty silencenow. " Then, growing grave, she leant towards him. "Don't look like that, "she said, "pray, pray, pray don't. I haven't spoilt your life as well asmy own? No, you mustn't tell me that. " Her voice grew very tender andlow. "But I can say almost all you want. I wish I had loved you, I wish Ihad married you. Oh, how I wish it! I should have been happy, I think, and I know I--I shouldn't have had to live as I do now and do the thingsI have to do now. Well, it's too late. "

"You're very young, " he said in a voice as low as hers. "It mayn't alwaysbe too late. "

She started a little, drawing away from him. He had brought back thoughtswhich the stress of pain and excitement had banished from her mind. 

"You mean----?" she murmured. "I know what you mean, though. " Her faceshowed again a sort of puzzle. "I can't think of that happening. I triedthe other day--_à propos_ of something else; but I couldn't. I couldn'tsee it, you know. It doesn't fit my ideas about him. No, that won'thappen. We must just go on. "

The wind had begun to rise, the trees stirred, leaves rustled, the wholemaking, or seeming to her ears to make, a sad whimsical moaning. Sherose, gathering her lace scarf closer round her neck, and saying, "Do youhear the wood crying for us? It's sorry for our little troubles. " Shestood facing him and he took both her hands in his. "You look sounhappy, " she said in a fresh access of pity. "No use, no use; it'll allgo on, right to the end of everything. So--good-bye. "

"He's coming to-morrow, isn't he?"

"Yes, he's coming to-morrow. Good-bye. " She smiled a little, feelingMarchmont's hands drawing her to him. "Oh, kiss me then, " she said, turning her cheek to him. "It'll feel friendly. And now we'll go in. "

They had just started to return when they heard steps in the wood, and amoment later her name was called in Dick Benyon's voice. Marchmontshouted in answer, "Here we are, " and Dick came along the path. 

"I couldn't think where you'd got to, " he said. 

"That's because you've no romance in you, " said May. "Or you'd have knownwe should be wandering in the wood in the moonlight. Ah, she's gone undera cloud now, but she was beautiful. Are we wanted, though?"

"Well, in the first place I think you've been quite long enough forpropriety, and in the second a man's brought a wire for you, and he'swaiting to see if there's an answer. "

"Under that combination of moral and practical reasons we'll go in, " saidMay, laughing. Marchmont, less ready in putting on his mask, said nothingbut followed a step or two behind. "I expect the wire's from Alexander, "she went on, "to say he's going to make a speech somewhere and won't cometo-morrow. "

Dick turned to her with a quick jerk of the head; a moment later he wascovered with confusion, for her bitter little smile told him that he hadbetrayed the joy which such a notion gave him. To all of them it would bea great relief that Quisanté should not come while the memory of thescene that Morewood had caused at dinner was still so fresh. Dick, thoughhe attempted no excuse, felt himself forgiven when May took his arm andthus walked back to the house. 

 "Your husband had a slight seizure while dining with us to-night. He is comfortable now, and there is no immediate reason for anxiety. But doctor thinks you had better come up earliest convenient train to-morrow. Winterton Mildmay. "

May read the telegram, standing between Marchmont and Dick. She handed itto Dick, saying, "Read it, and will you send an answer that I'll come asearly as possible in the morning;" then she walked to the table and satdown by it. Dick gave Marchmont the slip of paper and went off todespatch the answer. Nobody else was in the room, except Fanny Gaston, who was playing softly on the piano in the corner. Marchmont came up toMay and put the telegram down on the table by her. 

"I'm so sorry, " he said formally and constrainedly. 

"I don't suppose it's very serious, " she said. "But I must go, of course. "She went on under the cover of Fanny's gentle music. "It's all rather oddthough--its coming to-night and its happening at the Mildmays'. I forgot, though, you don't know why I feel that so odd. How Lady Mildmay'll nursehim! I expect I shall have a struggle to get him out of the house andhome again. "

Marchmont made no answer but stood looking down on her face. She met hisglance fairly, and knew what it was that had forced itself into his mindand now found expression in his eyes. She had declared to him that herfate was irrevocable, that the lines of her life were set, that nothingbut death could alter them, and that death had no part in her thoughtsabout her husband. The telegram did not prove her wrong; yet seizure wasa vague word under which much might lie hidden. But her mood and herfeeling still remained; it was not in hope or in any attempt atself-consolation, but in the expression of an obstinate conviction whichdominated her mind that she said in answer to Marchmont's glance, "Ican't believe it's anything really amiss. I expect I shall find him atwork again when I get back to-morrow. "

With a little movement of his hands Marchmont turned away. He had atcommand no conventional phrases in which to express a desire that shemight prove right. It was impossible to say that he wished she mightprove wrong; even in his own mind a man leaves a hope like that vague andunformulated. But he marvelled, still without understanding, at thestrange obstinate idea which seemed almost to exalt Quisanté above theordinary lot of mortals, to see in him a force so living that it couldnot perish, a vitality so intense that death could lay no hand on it. Heglanced at her as he crossed the room to the piano; she sat now with thetelegram in her hands and her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her. Itneeded a sharper summons, a nearer reality, to rouse her from theconviction that her life was bound for ever to that of the man whom shehad chosen and for whom she had given so much. It would all go on, rightto the end of everything. The telegram had not shaken that faith in her, nor altered that despair. 

 CHAPTER XVII. 

 DONE FOR?

A knotty point of casuistry was engaging the thoughts of the Dean of St. Neot's. Morewood had been to see him, had told without disguise the wholestory of his blunder at the dinner-table at Ashwood, had referred toAlexander Quisanté's serious illness, and had finally, without apologyand without periphrasis, expressed the hope that Alexander Quisanté woulddie. The Dean's rebuke had produced a strenuous effort at justification. Quisanté was, the painter pointed out, no doubt a force, but a forceessentially immoral (Morewood took up morality when it suited hispurpose); he did work, but he made unhappiness; he affected people'slives, but not so as to promote their well-being. Or if the Dean chose tochampion the man, Morewood was ready for him again. If Quisanté weregood, were moral, were deserving of defence, then the merely naturalprocess lugubriously described as death, and fantastically treated withblack plumes and crape, would, so far as he himself was concerned, be nomore than a transition to a better state of existence, while certainsolid and indisputable benefits would accrue to those who were condemnedto wait a little longer for their summons. Whether the Dean elected to befor Quisanté or against him, Morewood claimed a verdict. 

This challenging of a man's general notions by the putting of a thornyspecial case was rather resented by the Dean; it reminded him of thevoluble atheist in Hyde Park, who bases his attack on the supernatural onthe obsolete enactments of the Book of Leviticus. None the less he wasrather puzzled as to what he had a right to wish about AlexanderQuisanté, and so he had recourse to his usual remedy--a consultation withhis wife. He had the greatest faith in Mrs. Baxter's eye for morality;perhaps generations of clerical ancestry had bred in her such an instinctas we see in sporting-dogs; she could not go wrong. On this question shewas immediately satisfactory. 

"We are forbidden, " she said, removing a piece of tape from her mouth, "to wish anybody's death; you know that as well as I do, Dan. " She made astitch or two. "We must leave it to Providence, " she ended serenely. 

At first sight there was nothing much in this dictum; it appeared evencommonplace. But Mrs. Baxter had been lunching with the Mildmays, hadheard a full account of what the doctors said about Quisanté, and hadexpressed her conviction that he could not possibly last long. So far ascould be judged then, the confidence which she proposed to show ran noappreciable risk of being misplaced, while at the same time she avoidedcommitting herself by any expression of a personal opinion. 

"Doubtless, my dear, " said the Dean with a little cough. 

"If he had thought less about himself and more about other people----" sheresumed. 

"That can't have anything to do with an apoplectic seizure, " the Deanpleaded. 

Mrs. Baxter looked up with a patient smile. 

"If you weren't in such a hurry, Dan, to show what you call yourenlightenment (though heaven knows you may be wrong all the time, and ajudgment is a perfectly possible thing) you'd have found out that I wasonly going to say that, if he'd thought more of other people, he'd findother people thinking more about him now. "

"There I quite agree with you, my dear. "

Mrs. Baxter looked less grateful than she might have for this endorsementof her views; self-confidence is apt to hold external support in cheapesteem. 

"When the first Mrs. Greening died, " she remarked, "they gave the maidsvery nice black frocks, with a narrow edging of good crape. The veryfirst Sunday-out that Elizabeth had--the butcher's daughter near the RedCow--you remember?--she stuck a red ribbon round the neck. "

The Dean looked puzzled. 

"Mrs. Greening was the most selfish woman I've ever known, " explainedMrs. Baxter; and she added with a pensive smile, "And I've lived in aCathedral town for thirty years. "

The red-ribbon became intelligible; it fell into line with Morewood'sill-disciplined wish. Both signified an absence of love, such a departingwithout being desired as serves for the epitaph of a Jewish king. TheDean cast round for somebody who would prove such an inscription false onAlexander Quisanté's tomb. 

"Anyhow it would break the old aunt's heart, " he said. 

"It'd save her money, " observed Mrs. Baxter. 

"And his wife!" mused the Dean. It was impossible to say whether therewere a question in his words or not. But his first instance had not beenQuisanté's wife; the old aunt offered a surer case. 

"If you always knew what a man's wife thought about him, you'd know agreat deal, " said Mrs. Baxter. She possessed in the fullest degree hersex's sense of an ultimate superiority in perception; men knew neitherwhat their wives did nor what they were; wives might not know what theirhusbands did, but they always knew what they were. It would be rash todiffer from a person of her observation and experience; half a dozenexamples would at once have confounded the objector. 

Mrs. Baxter took perhaps a too private and domestic view of the man whosefate she was discussing; she judged the husband and friend, she hadnothing to say to the public character. The voices of his politicalassociates and acquaintances, of his fellow-workers in business, of hisfollowers and enthusiastic adherents in his constituency, did not reachher ears, and perhaps, if they had, would not have won much attention. The consternation of Constantine Blair, Lady Castlefort's dismay, the sadgossiping and head-shaking that went on in the streets of Henstead andround old Mr. Foster's comfortable board, witnessed to a side of Quisantéin which Mrs. Baxter did not take much interest. She did not understandthe sort of stupor with which they who had lived with him and worked withhim saw the force he wielded and the anticipations he filled them withboth struck down by a sudden blow; she did not share the feeling that allat once a gap had been made in life. 

But something of this sort was the effect in all the circles whichQuisanté had invaded and in which he had moved. The philosophical mightalready be saying that there was no necessary man; to the generality thatreflection would come only later, when they had found a new leader, afresh inspiration, and another personality in which to see the embodimentof their hopes. Now the loss was too fresh and too complete; for althoughit might be doubtful how long Quisanté's life would last, there seemed nochance of his ever filling the place to which he had appeared to bedestined. Only a miracle could give that back to one who must cling tolife, if he could keep his hold on it at all, at the cost of abandoningall the efforts and all the activities which had made it what it wasalike for himself and for others. He was rallying slowly and painfullyfrom his blow; a repetition of it would be the certain penalty of anystrenuous mental exertion or any sustained strain of labour. Ininactivity, in retirement, in the placid existence of a recognisedinvalid he might live years, indeed probably would; but otherwise theauthorities declined to promise him any life at all. His body had playedhim false in the end. Constantine Blair began to look out for a candidatefor Henstead and to wonder whether Sir Winterton would again exposehimself to the unpleasantness of a contested election; Lady Castlefortmust find another Prime Minister, the fighting men another champion, eventhe Alethea Printing Press Limited a new chairman. The places he hadfilled or made himself heir to were open to other occupants and freshpretenders. That the change seemed so considerable proved how great afigure he had become in men's eyes no less than how utterly his careerwas overthrown. The comments on his public life were very flattering, butalready they praised in the tone of an obituary notice, and the hopesthey expressed of his being able some day to return to the arena werewell understood to be no more than a kind or polite refusal to displaynaked truth in the merciless clearness of print. 

Here was the state of things which extorted from Morewood the blunt wishthat Quisanté might die. Such a desire was hardly cruel to the manhimself, since he must now lose all that he had loved best in the marketof the world; but it was not the man himself who had been most inMorewood's thoughts. With a penetration sharpened by the memory of hisblunder he had appreciated the perverse calamity which had fallen on theman's wife, and had passed swiftly to the conclusion that for her an endby death was the only chance, the only turn of events which could giveback to her the chance of a real life to be lived. He knew by whatQuisanté had attracted and held her; all that, it seemed, was gone now. He divined also in what Quisanté repelled and almost terrified her; thatwould remain so long as breath was in the man and might grow even moreintense. A sense of fairness somehow impelled him to his wish; herbargain had turned out so badly; the underlying basis of her marriage wasbroken; she was left to pay the price to the last penny, but was to getnothing of what she had looked to purchase. Was it not then the part of acourageous man to face his instinctive wish, and to accept it boldly?Cant and tradition apart, it must be the wish of every sensible person. For she knew, she had realised most completely on the very evening whenQuisanté was struck down, what manner of man he was. She might haveendured if she had still been able to tell herself of the wonderfulthings that he would do. No such comfort was open now. The man was stillwhat he was; but he would do nothing. There came the change. 

"That's the weak point about marriage as compared with other contractualarrangements, " said Morewood to Dick Benyon. "You can never in anybargain ensure people getting what they expect to get--because to do thatyou'd have to give all of them sense--but in most you can to a certainextent see that they're allowed to keep what they actually did get. Inmarriage you can't. Something of this sort happens and the wholeunderstanding on which the arrangement was based breaks down. "

"Do people marry on understandings?" asked Dick doubtfully. 

"The only way of getting anything like justice for her is that he shoulddie. You must see that?"

"I don't know anything about it, " said Dick morosely, "but I hear there'sno particular likelihood of his dying if he obeys orders and keepsquiet. "

"Just so, just so, " said Morewood. "That's exactly what I mean. Do yousuppose she'd ever have taken him if he'd been going to keep quiet? Youknow why you took him up; well, she did just the same. You know what youfound him; she's found him just the same. What's left now? The _rôle_ ofa loving nurse! She's not born a nurse; and how in the devil's name isshe to be expected to love him?"

Dick Benyon found no answer to questions which put with a brutaltruthfulness the salient facts of the position. The one thing necessary, the one thing which would have made the calamity bearable, perhaps betterthan bearable, was wanting. She might love or have loved things in him, or about him, or done by him; himself she did not love; and now nothingbut himself remained to her. Seeing the matter in this light, Dick wasdumb before Morewood's challenge to him to say, if he dared, that hehoped a long life for Alexander Quisanté. Yet neither would he wish hisdeath; for Dick had been an enthusiast, the spell had been very strong onhim, and there still hung about him something of that inability to thinkof Quisanté as dead or dying, something of the idea that he must live andmust by very strength of will find strength of body, which had preventedMay herself from believing that the news which came in her telegram couldmean anything really serious. While Quisanté lived, there would always beto Dick a possibility that he would rise up from his sickness and get towork again. Death would end this, death with its finality and its utterincongruous stillness. Death was repose, and neither for good nor forevil had Quisanté ever embraced repose. He had never been quiet; when hewas not achieving, he had been grimacing. In death he could do neither. 

"I can't fancy the fellow dead, " said Dick to his wife and his brother. "I should be expecting him to jump up again every minute. "

Lady Richard shuddered. The actual Quisanté had been bad; the idea of adead Quisanté horribly galvanized into movement by a restlessness thatthe tomb could not stifle was hideous. Jimmy came to her aid with arather unfeeling but apparently serious suggestion. 

"We must cremate him, " he said gravely. 

"No, but, barring rot, " Dick pursued, "I don't believe he'll die, youknow. "

"Poor May!" said Lady Richard. Neither of them pressed her to explain theprecise point in May Quisanté's position which produced this exclamationof pity. It might have been that the death was possible, or that thedeath was not certain, or at least not near, or it might have sprung froma purely general reflection on the unhappiness of having life coupledwith the life of such a man as Quisanté. 

All these voices of a much interested, much pitying, much (and on thewhole not unenjoyably) discussing world were heard only in dim echoes inthe Mildmays' big quiet house in Carlton-House Terrace, where Quisantéhad been stricken by his blow. There May had found him on her hastyreturn from Ashwood, and here he was still, thanks to the host's andhostess's urgent entreaties. They declared that he was not fit to bemoved; the doctors hardly endorsed this view heartily but went so far asto say that any disturbance was no doubt bad in its degree; Lady Mildmayseized eagerly on the grudging support. "Let him stay here till he's fitto go to the country, " she urged. "I'm sure we can make him comfortable. And--" she smiled apologetically, "I'm a good nurse, if I'm nothing else, you know. "

"But won't Sir Winterton----?"

"My dear, you don't know what a lot Winterton thinks of Mr. Quisanté;he's proud to be of the least service to him. And you do know, I think, how it delights him to be any use at all to you. "

In spite of that reason buried in her own heart which made every kindnessreceived from these kind hands bitter to her, May let him stay. He wantedto stay, she thought, so far as his relaxed face and dimmed eyes gaveevidence of any desire. And besides--yes, Lady Mildmay was a good nurse;he might find none so good if he were moved away. No sense of duty, nopunctilious performance of offices, no such constancy of attendance as awife is bound to render, could give what Lady Mildmay gave. Yet more thanthese May could not achieve. It was rather cruel, as it seemed to her, that the great and sudden call on her sympathy should come at the momentof all others when the spring of her sympathy was choked, when angerstill burnt in her heart, when passionate resentment for a wound to herown pride and her own honour still inflamed her, when the mood in whichshe had broken out in her talk with Marchmont was still predominant. Sucha falling-out of events sometimes made this real and heavy sickness seemlike one of Quisanté's tricks, of at least suggested that he might bemaking the most of it in his old way, as he had of his faintness at theImperial League banquet, or of his headache when old Foster's letterfollowed on the declaration of the poll at Henstead. Such feelings asthese, strong enough to chill her pity till Lady Mildmay wondered at awife so cold, were not deep or sincere enough to blind May Quisanté'seyes. Even without the doctor's story--which she had insisted on beingtold in all its plainness--she thought that she would have known themeaning of what had befallen her husband and herself, and have grasped atonce its two great features, the great certainty and the greatuncertainty; the certainty that his career was at an end, the uncertaintyas to how near his life was to its end. Such a position chimed in toowell with the bitter mood of Ashwood not to seem sent to crown it by amalicious device of fate's. At the very moment when she least could love, she was left no resource but love; at the moment when she would haveturned her eyes most away from him and most towards his deeds, the deedswere taken away and he only was left; at the time when her hot angeragainst him drove her into a cry for release, she received no promise ofrelease, or a promise deferred beyond an indefinitely stretching periodof a worse imprisonment. For she clung to no such hope as that which madeDick Benyon dream of a resurrection of activity and of power, and hadnothing to look for save years of a life both to herself and to himmiserable. It might be sin to wish him dead; but was it sin to wish himeither alive or dead, either in vigour or at rest? Sin or no sin, thatwas the desire in her heart, and it would not be stifled however much sheaccused its inhumanity or recognised the want of love in it. Was thefault all hers? With her lips still burning from the lie that she hadtold for him, she could not answer 'yes. '

Still and silent Quisanté lay on his bed. His head was quite clear nowand his eyes grew brighter. He watched Lady Mildmay as she ministered tohim, and he watched his wife with his old quick furtive glances, so keento mark every shade of her manner towards him. She had never reallydeceived him as to her thoughts of him; she did not deceive him now. Heknew that her sympathies were estranged, more estranged than they hadever been before. So far as the reason lay in the incident of Ashwood, itwas hidden from him; he knew nothing of the last great shame that he hadput on her. But long before this he had recognised where his power overher lay, by what means he had gained and by what he kept it; he had beenwell aware that if she were still to be under his sway, the conquest mustbe held by his achievements; he himself was as nothing beside them. Now, as he lay, he was thinking what would happen. He also had heard thedoctor's story or enough of it to enable him to guess the purport oftheir sentence on him; he was to live as an invalid, to abandon all hisambitions, to throw away all that made people admire him or made himsomething in the world's eyes and something great in hers. On these termsand on these only life was offered to him now; if he refused, if hedefied nature, then he must go on with the sword ever hanging over him, in the knowledge that it soon must fall. He told himself that, yet wasbut half-convinced. Need it fall? With the first spurt of renewedstrength he raised that question and argued it, till he seemed able tosay 'It may fall, ' rather than 'It must. '

What should be his course then? The world thought it had done with him. All seemed gone for which his wife had prized him. Should he accept that, and in its acceptance take up his life as valetudinarian, his lifeforgotten of the world which he had loved to conquer, barren of interestfor the woman whom it had been his strongest passion to win against herinstincts, to hold as it were against her will, and to fascinate in faceof her distaste? Such were the terms offered; Alexander Quisanté lay longhours open-eyed and thought of them. There had come into his head an ideathat attracted him mightily and suited well with his nature, so oddlymixed of strength and weakness, greatness and smallness, courage andbravado, the idea of a means by which he might keep the world's applauseand his wife's fascinated interest, aye, and increase them too, till theyshould be more intense than they had ever been. That would be a triumph, played before admiring eyes. But what would be the price of it, and wasthe price one that he would pay. It might be the biggest price a mortalman can pay. So for a few days more Alexander Quisanté lay and thoughtabout it. 

Once old Miss Quisanté came to see him, at his summons, not of her ownvolunteering. Since the blow fell she had neither come nor written, andMay, with a sense of relief, had caught at the excuse for doing no morethan sending now and again a sick-room report. Aunt Maria looked old, frail, and very yellow, as she made her way to a chair by her nephew'sbed. He turned to her with the smile of mockery so familiar to her eyes. 

"You haven't been in any hurry to see me, Aunt Maria, " said he. 

"You've always sent for me when you wanted me before, Sandro, and Isupposed you would this time. "

"May's kept you posted up? You know what those fools of doctors say?" Theold woman nodded. Quisanté was smiling still. "I'm done then, eh?" heasked. 

Her hands were trembling, but her voice was hard and unsympathetic. "Itsounds like it, " she said. 

Quisanté raised himself on his elbow. 

"You'll see me out after all, " said he, "if I'm not careful. That's whatit comes to. " He gave a low laugh as Aunt Maria's lips moved but no wordscame. He leant over a little nearer to her and asked, "Have you had anytalk with my wife about it?"

"No, " said Aunt Maria. "Not a word, Sandro. "

"Nothing to be said, eh? What does she think, though? Oh, you know!You've got your wits about you. Don't take to considering my feelings atthis time of day. "

Now the old woman smiled too. 

"I'm sorry you're done for, Sandro, " she said. "So's your wife, I'll bebound. "

"You both love me so much?" he sneered. 

"We've always understood one another, " said Aunt Maria. 

"I tell you, I love my wife. " Aunt Maria made no remark. "And you boththink I'm done for? Well, we'll see!"

Aunt Maria looked up with a gleam of new interest in her sharp eyes, solike the eyes of the man on the bed. Quisanté met her glance andunderstood it; it appealed at once to his malice and to his vanity; itwas a foretaste of the wonder he would raise and the applause he wouldwin, if he determined to face the price that might have to be paid forthem. He had listened with exasperated impatience to kind Lady Mildmay'spleadings with him, to her motherly insisting on perfect rest for hismind, and to her pathetically hopeful picture of the new interests andthe new pleasure he would find in days of rest and peace, with his wifetenderly looking after him. To such charming as that his ears were deaf;they pricked at the faintest sound of distant cheering. It would besomething to show even Aunt Maria that he was not done with; what wouldit not be to show it to the world--and to that wife of his whom he lovedand could hold only by his deeds?

"I only know what the doctors say, " remarked Miss Quisanté. "They say youmust throw up everything. "

"You wouldn't have me risk another of those damned strokes, would you?"he asked, the mockery most evident now in his voice and look. "LadyMildmay implores me to be careful, almost with tears. I suppose my ownaunt'll be still more anxious, and my own wife too?"

"Doctors aren't infallible. And they don't know you, Sandro. You're notlike other men. " Hard as the tone was, his ears drank in the wordseagerly. "They don't know how much there is in you. "

Again he leant forward and said almost in a whisper, "May thinks I'm done for?" Aunt Maria nodded. "And she'll nurse me? Takeme to some infernal invalids' place, full of bath-chairs, and walk besidemine, eh?" Aunt Maria smiled grimly. "She'll like that, won't she?" heasked. 

"You won't die, " she said suddenly and abruptly, her eyes fixed on his. 

"What?" he asked sharply. "Well, who said I was going to die?"

"The doctors--unless you go to the invalids' place. "

"Oh, and my dear aunt doesn't agree with them?" Eagerness now brokethrough the mockery in his tones. He had longed so for a word of hope, for someone to persuade him that he might still live and could stillwork. "But suppose they proved right? Well, that's no worse than theother anyhow. "

"Not much, " said Aunt Maria. "But I don't believe 'em. " Her faith in himcame back at his first summons of it. He had but to tell her that hewould live and need not die, and she would believe him. Sandro's wayswere not as other men's; she could not believe that for Sandro as forother men there were necessities not to be avoided, and a fate not to bemastered by any defiant human will. So there she sat, persuading him thathe was not mortal; and he lay listening, mocking, embittered, yet stilllending an ear to the story, eager to believe her fable, rejoicing in thepower that he had over her mind. If he felt all this for Aunt Maria, whatwould he not feel for the world, and for that wife of his? If old AuntMaria could so wake in him the love of life and the hatred of that livingdeath to which he had been condemned, what passionate will to live wouldrise in answer to the world's wonder and his wife's?

"I wish you'd give me that little book on the table there, " he said. AuntMaria obeyed. "My engagement-book, " he explained. "Look. I had thingsbooked for five months ahead. See--speeches, meetings, committees, theAlethea--so on--so on. They're all what they call cancelled now. " Heturned the leaves and Aunt Maria stood by him, watching. 

"They won't get anybody to do 'em like you, Sandro, " she said. 

He flung the book down on the floor in sudden peevishness, with an oathof anger and exasperation. 

"By God, why haven't I a fair chance?" he asked, and fell back on hispillows. 

Lady Mildmay would have come and whispered softly to him, patted hishand, given him lemonade, and bade him try to sleep while she read softlyto him. His old Aunt Maria Quisanté stood motionless, saying not a word, looking away from him. Yet she was nearer to his mood and suited himbetter than kind Lady Mildmay. 

"You've done a good bit already, Sandro, " she said. "And you're onlythirty-nine. "

"And I'm to die at thirty-nine, or else live like an idiot, bored todeath, and boring to death everybody about me!"

"I shall go now, " said Aunt Maria. "Good-bye, Sandro. Send for me againwhen you want me. "

"Aunt Maria!" She stopped at his call. "Go and see May. Go and talk toher. "

"Yes, Sandro. "

"Tell her what you think. You know: I mean, tell her that perhaps it'snot as bad as the doctors say; that I may get about a bit soon and--andso on--You know. "

"I'm to tell her that?" asked Aunt Maria. 

"She's not to conclude it's all over with me yet. " Miss Quisanté noddedand moved towards the door. 

"Oh, and before you go, just pick up that book and give it me again, willyou?"

She returned, picked up the engagement-book and gave it him; then shestood for a moment by the bed, beginning to smile a little. 

"You've got a lot to fret about, " she said. "Don't you fret about money, Sandro. I can manage a thousand in a month or so. No use hoarding it; itlooks as if we should neither of us want it long. "

"You've got a thousand? What, now? Available?"

"In a week or so it could be. "

"Then in God's name put it in the Alethea. What are you thinking about?It's the biggest thing out. "

"In the Alethea? I meant to give it to you. "

"All right. I shall put it in, if you do. I tell you that in three years'time you'll be rich out of it, and I shall draw an income of a couple ofthousand a year at least as long as the patent lasts, if not longer. "

"How long does it last?"

"Fourteen years; then we'll try for an extension, for another seven, youknow, and we ought to get it. First and last I expect to get fiftythousand out of the Alethea alone, besides another thing that I've talkedover with Mandeville. I'll tell you about it some day, I can't to-day. I--I'm a little tired. But anyhow the Alethea's sure. I'll put thethousand into it for you, and I'll hand you back double the money thistime next year. "

He was leaning on his left elbow, talking volubly; his eyes were bright, his right hand moved in rapid apt gestures; his voice was sanguine as hespoke of the seven years' extension of the Alethea patent; he hadforgotten his stroke and the verdict of his doctors. Aunt Maria noddedher head to him, saying, "I'll send it you as soon as I can, " and madefor the door. She was smiling now; Sandro seemed more himself again. He, left alone, lay back on his pillow, breathing fast, rather exhausted; butafter awhile he opened the engagement-book again and ran his eyes up anddown its columns. Lady Mildmay found him thus occupied when she came togive him a cup of milk. 

 CHAPTER XVIII. 

 FOR LACK OF LOVE?

Weston Marchmont, punctilious to the verge of fastidiousness, or evenover it, in his conduct towards the world and his friends, allowedhimself easily enough a liberty of speculative opinion which the Dean ofSt. Neot's would have hesitated about and the Dean's wife decidedlyveiled by a reference to Providence. To him the blow that had fallen onQuisanté seemed no public evil. Allowing the man's talents, he distrustedboth his aims and his methods; they would not have come to good; theremoval of his personality meant relief from an influence which was nothealthy and an example which taught nothing beyond the satisfaction ofambition and the pursuit of power. It was well then if Quisanté wereindeed, as he himself said, "done with, " so far as public activity went. Marchmont, not concealing his particular interest but rather facing itand declaring it just, went on to say that, since Quisanté was done withpublicly, it was well that he should be done with privately also, andthat as speedily as might be. Love for May Quisanté might be the movingspring of this conclusion, but he insisted that it was not necessarythereto. Any reasonable person her friend, nay, anybody whose attentionwas fairly directed to the case, must hold the same view. There was ahideous mistake to be undone, and only one way of undoing it. Permanentunions in marriage, immense and indispensable engines of civilisation, yet exacted their price. One instance of the compensating payment wasthat deaths sometimes became desirable; you had to wish a death soonerthan life-long misery for a friend; to wish it was not wrong, though tohave to wish it might be distasteful. In this self-justification hecontrived to subordinate, while he admitted, his own strong interest inthe death and his violent dislike of the sufferer which robbed the deathof its pain so far as he was concerned. People's infatuation withQuisanté, above all May's infatuation, had so irritated him that he didnot scruple to accept the only means of ending them; that they would bethus ended it never came into his mind to doubt. His regret was only forthe stretch of delay, for the time of waiting, for the respite promisedto the doomed man if he would be docile and obedient; for all of themlife was passing, and too much had already in tragic mistake been spenton Alexander Quisanté. 

"I think you're damnably inhuman, " said Dick Benyon, expressing, as heoften did, an unsophisticated but not perhaps an altogether unsoundpopular judgment. "He's a remarkable man. And after all she married him. She needn't have. As for the party--well, I don't know how we shallreplace him. "

"I don't want him replaced, " said Marchmont. "Everything that he wasdoing had better be left undone; and everything that he is had better notbe. You call me inhuman. Well, people who repress their pity forindividuals in the interests of the general welfare are always calledthat. "

"Yes, but you don't pity him, " retorted Dick. 

Marchmont thought for a moment. "No, I don't, " he admitted. "I see whyone might; but I can't do it myself. " He paused and added, smiling, "Isuppose that's the weak point in my attitude. "

"One of them, " said Dick, but he said no more. There are limits to candiddiscussion even among the closest friends; he could not tell Marchmont inso many words that he wanted Quisanté dead so as to be able to marryQuisanté's wife, however well aware of the fact he might be and Marchmontmight suspect him to be. Or, if he had said this, he could have said itonly in vigorous reproof, perhaps even in horror; and to this he was notequal. For Dick was sorely torn. On the one hand he had never ceased tohang on Quisanté's words and to count on Quisanté's deeds; on the other, he had never acquitted himself of responsibility for a marriage which hebelieved to have been most disastrous. Worst of all then for him was whatthreatened now, an end of the illuminating words and the stirring deeds, but no end to the marriage yet in sight. To him too death seemed the bestthing, unless that wonderful unlikely resurrection of activity and powercould come. And even then--Dick remembered the face of Quisanté's wife asshe lied for him to her friends at Ashwood. The resurrection must be notonly with a renewed but with a transformed mind, if it were to bringhappiness, and to bring no more of things like that. 

The world at large, conceiving that the last word had been said and thelast scene in which it was interested played, had soon turned its curiouseyes away from Quisanté's sick bed, leaving only the gaze of the smallercircle personally concerned in the dull and long-drawn-out ending of apiece once so full of dramatic incident. But the world found itselfwrong, and all the eyes spun round in amazed staring when the sick manleapt from his bed and declared that he was himself again. The news camein paragraphs, to the effect that after another week's rest Mr. Quisanté, whose health had made a rapid and great improvement, hoped to return tohis Parliamentary duties and to fulfil the more urgent of his publicengagements. Here was matter enough for surprise, but it was needful toadd the fast-following well-authenticated stories of how the doctors hadprotested, how Sir Rufus Beaming had washed his hands of the case, andhow Dr. Claud Manton had addressed an energetic warning to Lady MayQuisanté. This last item came home most closely to the general feeling, and the general voice asked what Lady May was thinking of. There waswarrant for the question in the wondering despair of Lady Mildmay and thesad embarrassment of debonair Sir Winterton. The Mildmays knew all aboutit, the whole thing had happened in their house; but Sir Winterton, challenged with the story about Sir Rufus, could only hum and ha, andLady Mildmay had not denied the interview between Quisanté's wife and theenergetic Dr. Manton. What was the meaning of it? And, once again, whatwas Lady May Quisanté thinking of? Was she blind, was she careless? Orwere the doctors idiots? The world, conscious of its own physicalfrailty, shrank from the last question and confined its serious attentionto the two preceding ones. "Does she want to kill him?" asked the honestgraspers of the obvious. "Does she think him above all laws?" was thequestion of those who wished to be more subtle. At least she was apuzzle. All agreed on that. 

Lady Richard discountenanced all speculation and all questionings. Forher part she did her duty, mentioning to Mrs. Baxter that this was whatshe meant to do and that, whatever happened, she intended to be able, _salvâ conscientiâ_, to tell herself that she had done it; Mrs. Baxterapproved, saying that this was what the second Mrs. Greening had donewhen her husband's sister's daughter, a very emancipated young woman asit seemed, had incomprehensibly flirted with the auctioneer's apprenticeand had scouted Mrs. Greening's control; Mrs. Greening had told thegirl's mother and sent the girl home, second class, under the care of theguard. Similarly then Lady Richard, without embarking on any considerationof ultimate problems, wrote to May, suggesting that Mr. Quisanté wantedrest and putting Ashwood at her disposal for so long as she and herhusband might be pleased to occupy it. "If they don't choose to go, it'snot my fault, " said Lady Richard with the sigh which declares that everyreasonable requirement of conscience has been fulfilled. Happy lady, tobe able to repose in this conviction by the simple expedient of lending ahouse not otherwise required at the moment! So kind are we to our ownactions that Lady Richard felt meritorious. 

They chose to go, and went unaccompanied save by their baby girl and AuntMaria--this last a strange addition made at Quisanté's own request. Hehad not been wont to show such a desire for the old lady's society whenthere was nothing to be gained by seeking it; nor had it seemed to Mayaltogether certain that Miss Quisanté would come. Yet she came withardent eagerness and her nephew was plainly glad to have her. It took Maya little while to understand why, but soon she saw the reason. Aunt Mariawas deep in the conspiracy, or the infatuation, or whatever it was to becalled; she flattered Quisanté's hope of life, she applauded his defianceof the inevitable; she hung on him more and more, herself forgetting andmaking him forget the peril of the way he trod. He wanted to be told thathe was right, and he wanted an applauding audience. In both ways AuntMaria satisfied him. She would talk of the present as though it were nomore than a passing interruption of a long career, of the future asthough it stretched in assured leisure through years of greatachievement, of his life and his life's work as though both were in hisown hand and subject to nothing save his own will and power. She was tohim the readiest echo of the world's wonder and applause, the readiestassurance that his great effort was not going unrecognised. Hence hewould have her with him, though there seemed no more love and no moretenderness between them than when in old days they had quarrelled and hehad grumbled and she had flung him her money with a bitter jeer. But shelived in him and could think of him only as living, and through her hecould cheat himself into an assurance that indeed he could live and work. 

Then Aunt Maria was very bad for him. That could not be denied, butsomething more nearly touching herself pressed on May Quisanté. She hadseen the Mildmays' painful puzzle; she had listened to Dr. Claud Manton'senergetic warning; it was before her, no less than before the patient, that Sir Rufus had washed his hands. She was not ignorant of thequestions the world asked. She was not careless, nor was she any longerthe dupe of her old delusion that such a man as Quisanté could not die. Her eye for truth had conquered; now she believed that, if he persistedin his rebellion, he must surely die; unless all medical knowledge wentfor nothing, he would surely die, and die not after long years oflingering, but soon, perhaps very soon. A moment of excitement, say oneof the moments that she had loved so much, might kill him; so ClaudManton said. A life of excitement would surely and early do the work. Andwhy was he rebellious? She accused himself, she accused Aunt Maria, sheaccused the foolishly wondering, foolishly chattering world; and in everyaccusation there was some justice. Was there enough to acquit the otherdefendant who stood arraigned? To that she dared not answer "Yes, "because of the fear which was in her that the strongest amongst all thevarious impulses driving him to his defiance was in the end to be foundin his relations to her, in the attitude of his own wife towards him. Ashwood was full of associations; there was Duty Hill, where he had risento his greatest and thereby won her; there was the tree beneath which shehad sat with Marchmont on the evening when the knowledge of her husband'sworst side had been driven like a sharp knife into her very heart. Butmore vivid than these memories now was the recollection of that firstevening when she had seen him sitting alone, nobody's friend, and haddetermined to be human towards him and to treat him in a human way. Therehad been the true beginning of her great experiment. Now she told herselfthat she had failed in it, had never been human to him, and had nevertreated him in a human way, had not been what a man's wife should be, hadstood always outside, a follower, an admirer, a critic, an accuser, neversimply the woman who was his wife. His fault or hers, or that of both--itseemed to matter little. The experiment had been hers; and because shehad made it and failed, it seemed to her that he was braving death. Hadshe been different, perhaps he would not have rebelled and could havelived the quiet life with her. It needed little more to make her tellherself that she drove him to his death, that she was with the enemy, with the chattering world and with poor deluded old Aunt Maria; she wasof the conspirators; she egged him on to brave his doom. 

In darker vein still ran her musings sometimes, when there came over herthat haunting self-distrust; the fear that she was juggling with herself, shutting her eyes to the sin of her own heart, and, in spite of all herprotestations, was really inspired by a secret hope too black andtreacherous to put in words. However passionately she repudiated it, itstill cried mockingly, "I am here!" It asked if her prayers for herhusband's life were sincere, if her care for him were more than a duepaid to decency, if the doom were in truth a thing she dreaded, and not adeliverance which convention alone forbade her openly to desire. Plainly, plainly--did she wish the doom to fall, did she wish him dead, was therebellion that threatened death the course which the secret craving ofher heart urged him to take? To do everything for him was not enough, ifthe doubt still lurked that her heart was not in the doing. For now shecould no more ask coolly what she wished; the thing had come too near; itwas odious to have a thought except of saving him by all means and atevery cost; it was intolerable not to know at least that no part of theimpulse which drove him to his rebellion lay at her door, not to feel atleast that she had nothing but dread and horror for the threatened doom. She had no love for him; it came home to her now with a strange new senseof self-condemnation; she had married him for her own pleasure, becausehe interested her and made life seem dull without him. She pleaded nomore that he had killed her love; it had never been there to kill. Hadshe left him to find a woman who loved him in and for himself, not forhis doings, not for the interest of him, that woman might now be winninghim by love from the open jaws of death. 

Yet again laughter, obstinate and irrepressible, shot often in a jarringstreak of inharmonious colour across the sombre fabric of her thoughts. He was not only mad, not only splendid--he seemed both to her--he wasabsurd too at moments, often when he was with Aunt Maria. Letters came ingreat numbers, from political followers, from women prominent in society, from constituents, from old Foster and Japhet Williams at Henstead, evenfrom puissant Lady Castlefort; they wondered, applauded, implored, flattered, in every key of that sweet instrument called praise. Quisantéread them out, pluming and preening his feathers, strutting about, crowing. He would repeat the passages he liked, asking his wife'sapprobation; that he must have, it seemed. She gave it with whatheartiness she could, and laughed only in her sleeve. Surely a man facingdeath could have forgotten all this? Not Alexander Quisanté. He coulddie, and die bravely; but the world must stand by his bedside. So tillthe end, whenever that most uncertainly dated end might come, the oldmixture promised to go on, the great and small, the mean and grand, thecall for tears and throbs of the heart alternating with the obstinatecurling or curving of lips swift to respond to the vision of thecontemptible or the ludicrous. 

But she had her appeal to make, the one thing, it seemed, she could do toput herself at all in the right, the offer she must make, and try to makewith a sincerity which should rise unimpaired from the conflicts of herheart. She had caught at coming to Ashwood because she thought she couldmake it best there, not indeed in the room where she had lied for him, nor by the tree where she had turned to Marchmont in a pang of wildregret, but there, on Duty Hill, where he had won her, had touched hishighest, and had seemed a conqueror. She took him there, climbing withhim very slowly, very gently; there she made him sit and sat by him. Again it was a quiet evening, and still the valley stretched below;nothing changed here made all the changes of her life seem half unreal. Here she told him he must live, he must be docile and must live. 

"You may get strong again, but for the time you must do as the doctorssay. You ought to; for the little girl's sake, if for nothing else, youought to. You know you're risking another seizure now, and you know whatthat might mean. "

His eyes were fixed keenly on her, though he lay back motionless inweariness. 

"You ought to live for your daughter. " She paused a minute and added, "And some day we might have a son, and you'd live again in him; we bothshould; we should feel that we were doing--that you were doing--everythinghe did. I think your son would be a great man, and I should be proud tobe his mother. Isn't the hope of that worth something?"

He was silent, watching her closely still. 

"I know what you think of me, " she continued. "You think an active lifeessential to me, that I can't do without it. God knows I loved all youdid, I loved your triumphs, I loved to hear you speak and see themlisten. You know I loved all that, loved it too much perhaps. But I'll dowithout it. I'm your wife, your fate's mine. It'll be the braver thingfor you to face it, really; I'm ready to face it with you. "

Still he would only look at her. 

"We know what we both are, " she went on with a little smile. "We're notMildmays, you and I. But let's try. I must tell you. I can't bear tothink that it's partly at least because of me that you won't try, that ifI were a different sort of woman it might be much easier for you to try. If it's that at all, imagine what I should feel if--if anything happenedsuch as the doctors are afraid of. "

"I've chosen my course. I believe the doctors are all wrong. "

"Do you really believe that?" she asked quickly. 

He shrugged his shoulders, seeming to say that he would not discuss it. "A great many considerations influence me, " he said with a touch ofpompousness. 

"Am I one of them?" she persisted. "Because I don't want to be. I'm readyto share your life, whatever it is. "

"Are you?" he asked, with something of the same malicious smile that hewas wont to bestow on Aunt Maria. "Do you think you could share my life?Do you think you have?"

"I know what you mean, " she said, flushing a little. "I daresay I've beenhard and--and didn't take the pains to understand, and was uncharitableperhaps. Anyhow there'll be no opportunity for any more--any moremisunderstandings of that sort. "

"No; the understanding's clear enough now, " said he. 

She looked at him almost despairingly; he seemed so strangely hostile, sobitterly sensitive to her judgment of him. 

"You think me, " he went on, with his persistent eyes unwaveringly set onher, "a not over-honest mountebank; that's what you and your friendsthink me. "

"Oh, I wish I'd never tried to talk to you about it!" she cried. "Youtake hold of some hasty mood or look of mine and treat it as if it wereeverything. You know it isn't. "

"It's there, though. "

"It never need be, never, never. "

"You'll forget it all when we're settled down at--where was it?--Torquayor somewhere--in our villa, like two old tabby-cats sitting in the sun?No time to think it all over then? No, only all the hours of every day!"He paused and then added in a low hard voice, "I'm damned if I'll do it. I may have to die, but I'll die standing. " His eyes gleamed now, and forthe first time they turned from her and roamed over the prospect that laybelow Duty Hill. But they were back on her face soon. 

"No, no, " she implored. "Not because of me, for heaven's sake, notbecause of me!"

"Because of it all. Yes, and because of you too. You don't love me, younever have. " He leant towards her. "But I love you, " he said, "yes, as Iloved you when I asked you to be my wife on this hill where we are. Thendon't you understand? I won't go and live that old cat's life with you. "He laid his hand on hers. "Your eyes shall still sparkle for me, yourbreath shall still come quick for me, your heart beat for me; or I'llhave no more of it at all. "

The touch of rhetoric, so characteristic of him, so unlike anything thatMarchmont or Dick Benyon would have used in such a case, did notdisplease her then. And it hit the truth as his penetration was wont tohit it. That was what he wanted, that was what she could and should andmust give, or he would have nothing from her. Here was the truth; but thetruth was what she had struggled so hard to deny and feared so terriblyto find true. He was not indeed led by a sense of obligation towards her;the need was for himself. It was not that he felt in her a right to callon him for exertions or for a performance of his side of the bargain; itwas that he could not bear to lose his tribute from her. But still shestood self-condemned. Again the thought came--with a woman who loved himthere might have been another tribute that she could have paid and hebeen content to levy. He would have believed such a woman if she told himthat he would be as much to her, and she as much absorbed in him, in thevilla at Torquay as ever in the great world; and perhaps--oh, onlyperhaps, it is true--he would have made shift with that and fed hisappetite on the homage of one, since his wretched body denied him therows on rows of applauding spectators that he loved. But from his wife'slips he would not accept any such assurance, and from her no such homagecould be hoped for to solace him. 

Then the strange creature began to talk to her, not of what he had done, nor even of what he had hoped to do, but of what he meant and was goingto do; how he would grow greater and richer, of schemes in politics andin business, of the fervour and devotion of the fighting men behind himand how they were sick of the old gang and would have no leader butAlexander Quisanté; of the prosperity of the Alethea, how the sharesrose, how big orders came in, how utterly poor old Maturin had blundered. He spoke like a strong man with a wealth of years and store-houses offorce, who sees life stretched long before him, material to be shaped byhis hand and forced into what he will make it. He talked low and fast, his eyes again roaming over the prospect; the evening fell while he stilltalked. Almost it seemed then that the doctors were wrong, that hiscourage was no folly, that indeed he would not die. O for the faith tobelieve that! For his spell was on her again now, and now she would nothave him die. Once again he had his desire; once more her heart beat andher eyes gleamed for him. But then it came on her, with a sudden fiercelight of conviction, that all this was hollow, useless, vain, that thesentence was written and the doom pronounced. No pleading howevereloquent could alter it. Quisanté was stopped in mid-career by a shortsharp sob that escaped from his wife's lips. He turned and looked at her, breaking off the sentence that he had begun. She met his glance with afrightened look in her eyes. 

"What's the matter?" he asked slowly, rather resentfully. 

"Nothing, nothing, " she stammered. "I--I was excited by what you weresaying. " She tried to laugh. "I'm emotional, you know, and you can alwaysrouse my emotions. "

"Was it that?" For a moment longer he sat upright, looking hard at her;then his body relaxed, and he lay back, his lower lip dropping and hiseyes half closed. An expression of great weariness and despair came overhim. He had read the meaning of her sob; and now he hid his face in hishands. His pretences failed him, and he was assailed by the bitterness oftruth and of death. 

She rose, saying, "It's late, we must go in; you'll be over-tired. "

After an instant Quisanté rose slowly and falteringly; he laid his arm inhers, and they stood side by side, gazing down into the valley. This hillhad come to mean much in their lives, and somehow now they seemed to besaying good-bye to it. 

"I could never forget this hill, " she said, "any more than I could forgetyou. You told me just now that I didn't love you. Well, as you mean it, perhaps not. But you've been almost everything in the world to me. Everything in the world isn't all good, but it's--everything. " She turnedto him suddenly and kissed him on the cheek. "Lean on me as we go downthe hill, " she said. There was pity and tenderness in the words and thetone. But Quisanté drew his arm sharply away and braced his body touprightness. 

"I'm not tired. I can go quite well by myself. You look more tired than Ido, " he said. "Come, we shall be late, " and he set off down the hill at abrisk pace. 

Her appeal then had failed; this last little incident told her that withunpitying plainness. If he had yielded for a moment before the face ofreality, he soon recovered himself, turned away from the sight, and wentback to his masquerading. She lacked the power to lead him from it, andagain she feared that she lacked the power because her will was notsincere and single. Now they must go on to that uncertain end, he playinghis part before the world, before her and Aunt Maria, she looking on, sometimes in admiration, sometimes in contempt, always in fear of themoment when the actor's speeches would be suddenly cut short and thecurtain, falling on the interrupted scene, hide him for ever from theaudience whom he had made wondering applauding partners in hiscounterfeit. The last of his life was to be like the rest of it, with thesame elements of tragedy and of farce, of what attracted and of whatrevolted, of the great and the little. It was to be like in another waytoo; it was to be lived alone, without any true companion for his soul, without the love that he had not asked except of one, and, asking of thatone, had not obtained. As the days went on, the fascination of thespectacle she watched grew on her; it was more poignant now than in theformer time, and it filled all her life. Thus in some sort AlexanderQuisanté had his way; his hold on her was not relaxed, his dominion overher not abrogated, to the end of his life he would be what she told himhe had been--almost everything. When the end came, what would he be? Thequestion crossed her thoughts, but found no answer; some day it wouldfall to be answered. Now she could only watch and wait, half persuadedthat the pretence was no pretence, yet always dreading the summons ofreality to end the play. So the world asked in vain what May Quisanté wasthinking of, whether she wanted to kill him, or whether she thought himabove all laws. A puzzle to the world and a puzzle to her friends, shewaited for the falling of the blow which Quisanté daily challenged. 

Sir Rufus Beaming met Dr. Claud Manton at the Athenaeum and showed him anewspaper paragraph. 

"To address a great meeting at Henstead!" said Manton, raising his browsand shaping his lips for a whistle. "'From his own and neighbouringconstituencies. '"

"He might just as well take chloroform comfortably by his fireside, " saidSir Rufus. "It would be a little quicker, perhaps, but not a bit moresure. "

And again they washed their hands of the whole affair very solemnly. 

 CHAPTER XIX. 

 DEATH DEFIED. 

Constantine Blair, no less active and soon little less serene inopposition than in power, felt himself more than justified in all that hehad ever said about Weston Marchmont when he received an intimation ofMarchmont's intention to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds. Yet he wasaghast at this voluntary retirement into the wilderness of private life, a life without bustle, without gossip, without that sense of beingintimate with the march of affairs and behind the scenes of the nationaltheatre. There were reasons assigned, of course. One was that Marchmontfound himself ("I'll bet he does!" groaned Constantine with anticipatoryresignation) more in agreement with the other side than with his own onan important question of foreign politics then to the front. But thisstate of matters had ceased to be unusual with him and hardly in itselfaccounted for the step he was now taking. The care of his estate was thesecond reason, properly dismissed as plainly frivolous. In the end of theletter more sincerity peeped out, as the writer lapsed from formalityinto friendship. "I know I shall surprise many people and grieve some, but I'm sick of the thing. I can't endure the perpetual haggling betweenwhat I ought to do and what I'm expected to do; the compromises thatresult satisfy me as little as anybody. In fine, my dear Constantine, I'mgoing back to my pictures, my books, my hills, and my friends. " Constantineread with a genuine sorrow and criticised with a contemptuous sniff. Pictures, books--and hills! Hills! It was insulting his intelligence. Andthough friends were all very well, yet where was the use of them if a mandeprived himself of all the sources of entertaining conversation? Butthere was nothing to be done--except to tell Lady Castlefort a day beforethe rest of the world knew. Constantine held her favour on that tenure. She showed no surprise. 

"A loss to the country, but not to us, " she said. 

"Just what I think, " agreed Constantine, with a revival of cheerfulness. 

"If I hadn't known him since he was so high, I'd wish he had thewhat-do-you-call-it seizures instead of the other man. "

"But Quisanté's not going, he means to hold on, " said Constantine. "I'mglad of it. Henstead's very shaky. But we shall hold Marchmont's seat allright. We're going to put up Dick Benyon. "

"He's safe enough, he won't worry you, " said Lady Castlefort. "You'llhave to fight Henstead before long, all the same. The man'll die, youknow. "

"Think so?" asked Constantine uneasily. 

"And he will be a loss--a loss to us, whatever one may think about thecountry. " Constantine looked troubled. "Oh, it's not your business tothink about the country--or mine either, thank goodness, " she addedrather irritably. She was more distressed about Weston Marchmont than shechose to tell; and it was impossible not to be annoyed at the perversity. Of the two men whom she had singled out for greatness one might go on butwould not, the other asked nothing but to be allowed to go on, and foundrefusal at the hands of fate. There was another thing in her thoughtstoo. She had a strong belief in hostesses, natural to her, perhaps notunreasonable. In either of two events she had foreseen an ideal hostessfor the party in the woman she still thought of as May Gaston. There wasno need to detail the two events; suffice it to say that, whichever ofthem now happened, it appeared that May Gaston would not be able tofigure as a great hostess; at least there would have to rise for her somestar not yet visible in the heavens. 

Marchmont and May had neither met nor written to one another since theirtalk under the tree at Ashwood. He had not doubted that she wouldunderstand silence and like silence best; from him any word seemedimpossible. But on the day when his determination was made public hereceived a summons from her and at once obeyed it. He found her alone, though she told him that she expected Quisanté back from the City in alittle while. 

"He wants to see you, " she said. "I don't know why, unless it's just as acuriosity. " She smiled for a moment. "I'm sorry you find you can't standit, " she went on. 

"You understand? You've been in that state of mind or pretty near it, Iknow. "

"Yes, pretty near at times, but I'm not as honest as you. I may see allyou see, but I should always go on. " She glanced at him. "I'm more likemy husband than I'm like you, " she ended. 

"I don't believe that, " he said gravely. 

"I know you don't, but it's true. I daresay you never will understand it, because of the other May Gaston you've made for yourself. But it's true. And you know what he is. He's ready to give body and soul--Oh, I'm notjust using a phrase--body and soul to keep the things that you've givenup for your hills. How scornful your hills made Constantine Blair!"

"Are you importing metaphorical meanings into my hills?" he asked, sitting down near her. 

"Yes, " she answered. "Mr. Blair didn't, but I do. "

"Perhaps it was rather a silly thing to say. "

"No, I don't think so. "

"I mean to Constantine. "

"Oh, well then, perhaps it was, " she admitted, smiling. "But that's allconsistent, isn't it? You couldn't trim your sails to suit the breezeeven in a letter like that. "

"Are you rebuking me? Are you contemptuous? What are you?" He leant backand looked at her, smiling. 

"If my husband would do what you've done, he might live, " she said. 

Marchmont nodded gravely; it was easy to see the odd way in which hisaction fitted into the drama of her life. 

"But we've no hills, " she went on. "You leave London--all Londonmeans--to wander on hills, high glorious hills; he'd leave it for avilla, a small villa at a seaside place. "

"Metaphors again?"

"It comes easier to talk in them sometimes. And I--I'm of my husband'sway of thinking. "

"I don't believe it, " he said again, but looking at her now with a littletouch of doubt. 

"You'll never come back, will you?" she asked. 

"Never, " said he with a quiet certainty. 

She rose with a restless sigh and walked to the fireplace. 

"I couldn't, " he went on. "I'm not fit for it; that's the end of thematter. Use your own term of abuse. I shall hear plenty of them. "

"I don't want to abuse you, " she said. She walked quickly over to him, gave him her hand for a moment, and then returned to her place. "But itmakes me feel rather strange to you. " She looked full at him with a plaindistress in her eyes, and her voice shook a little. "I'm coming to feelmore strange towards you, " she went on. "I thought we had got nearer atAshwood, we did for the moment. But now I'm farther off again. "

"I would have you always very near, " he said in low tones, his eyessaying more than his lips. 

"I know. And perhaps you've had thoughts----" She paused before she added, "Alexander's quite set on his course, nothing will stop him--except thething that I expect to stop him. You know what I mean?"

Marchmont nodded again. 

"And he's doing it a good deal because of me. I wonder if you understandthat?"

"I don't know that I do. "

"No; he knows more of me than you do. "

She became silent, and he, watching her, was silent too. What was thisstrangeness of which she spoke? He felt it too but without understandingit. It caused in him a vague discomfort, an apprehension that someobstacle was between them, something more than any external hindrance, athing which might perhaps remain though all external hindrance wereremoved. Her last words both puzzled and wounded him with theirimplication of a deeper sympathy between Quisanté and herself thanexisted or could exist between her and him. That he did not understand, and could not without giving up his own idea of her, the May Gastonwhich, as she said, he had made for himself. Was his image gone indeed?Had Alexander Quisanté's chisel altered the features beyond recognitionand till true identity was gone? Yet Alexander Quisanté was the man whohad put on her the shame for which she had sobbed under the tree on thatevening at Ashwood. Before such a seeming contradiction his penetrationstood baffled. She had said then that her present life would, shesupposed, go on right to the end, and had said it as though the prospectwere unendurable; now a new and to him unnatural resignation seemed tohave come upon her, just when her present life had shown that it was notlikely to go on right to the end. 

"I've prayed my husband to give up, " she said, "I don't beg you not togive up. To begin with, you wouldn't listen to me any more than he did. And then, I suppose, you're right for yourself. "

"You're about the only person who'll say so. "

"I daresay. I've learnt about you in learning about myself. And I canfeel it just as you do--Oh, how intolerably strongly sometimes!" Sheadded with a smile, "We've only just missed suiting one another, " andthen, "Yes, but we have missed, you know. "

"I don't believe it, " he persisted, struggling to throw off the new doubtshe was thrusting into his mind. His thought was that, once she got freeof her husband, she would indeed be his. That he must hold to. It wasQuisanté, not she herself, who made her now feel strange to him; andQuisanté's spell was not to last; her quiet certitude that her husband'sdays were numbered carried conviction to him also. "But I won't talk anymore about it now, " he said. 

"No, it seems inhuman, " she agreed. "I spend all my days cheating myselfinto a hope that he'll get better. I know you don't like him, but if youlived with him as I do, you'd come to hope as I do. Yes, in spite of allyou know about us; and you know more than anybody alive. I've not beenso--so disloyal--to anybody else. " She smiled as she quoted the wordagainst him. 

"One must admire him, " said Marchmont. 

May Quisanté laughed at his tone almost scornfully. "The way you say thatshows how little you understand, " she exclaimed. "It's not a bit likethat. " She took a step nearer to him. "When it comes, " she said slowly, "I shan't shed a single tear, but I shall feel that my life's over. He'llhave had it all. "

"God forbid you should feel anything like that, " he said, looking up ather. 

She laughed again, asking bitterly, "Does God forbid what Alexanderwants--except one thing? And what I tell you is what he would want. Hewould want to have had it all. "

He raised his hand in protest. 

"You're right; we won't talk any more, " she said. "But don't think thatit's all only because I'm overwrought, or something feminine of thatkind. It's the truth. When it comes, Aunt Maria'll die and I shall live;but the difference won't be as great as it sounds. "

This time he was about to speak, but she stopped him, saying, "No, nomore now. Tell me about Dick Benyon. He's to have your seat, isn't he?"

"Yes, I'm gathered to my fathers, and Dick reigns in my stead. "

"You're sorry?" she asked, forgetting Dick and coming back again to theman before her. 

"Yes; but I accept the inevitable and contrive to be quite cheerful aboutit. "

"We don't do either of those things. Hark, I hear my husband's step. "

Quisanté ran quickly up the stairs and burst into the room. His face wasalight with animation, and before greeting Marchmont he cried, "I'vecarried it, I've brought them round. We attack all along the line, and Iopen the ball at Henstead next week! They'll be out in six months, and Ishall----" Suddenly he paused. "They'll be out in six months, " he saidagain. 

Marchmont rose and shook hands, "It doesn't matter to me now if theyare, " he said, laughing. "Blair's troubles and mine are both over now. "

"I know, " nodded Quisanté. "Well, I suppose you know best. But hasn't Maybeen trying to convert you?"

"No, I haven't tried to convert him, " she said. "I'm not going to try toconvert people any more. "

After this she fell into silence, listening and watching while the twomen talked. Talk between them could never be intimate and could hardly beeven easy, but they interested one another to-day. On Quisanté's faceespecially there was a look of searching, of wonder, of a kind ofprotest. Once he flung himself back and stared at his guest with a fixityof gaze painful to see. But he said nothing of what was passing in hismind. At last Marchmont turned to May again. 

"I shall hear of you at Henstead, " he said. "I'm going to pay theMildmays a visit. I suppose, as you're on the war-path, you won't comeover?"

"I might, " she said, "if we were there long enough. I expect Alexandermustn't. Friendship with the enemy is not always appreciated. "

"Oh, I might go, " Quisanté remarked. "The Alethea's an admirable excuse. "He spoke with a laugh but then, glancing at his wife, saw her face flush. He turned to Marchmont and found him rising to his feet. Much puzzled, Quisanté looked again from one to the other, noting the sudden constraintthat had fallen on them. What had he said? What was there in the mentionof the Alethea to disturb a conversation so harmonious? That there wassomething his quick wit told him in a moment. While Marchmont saidgood-bye to May he stood by, frowning a little, and then escorted hisguest downstairs. While he was away his wife stood quite still in themiddle of the room, a little flushed and breathing rather quickly. 

Quisanté came back, sat down, and took up a newspaper. May sat in herusual chair, doing nothing. Presently he asked, "Did I say anythingwrong?"

"No. But I'd rather you didn't talk about the Alethea when Mr. Marchmontis with us. " He looked up in, surprise. "It embarrasses me--and him too. "

"Embarrasses you? Why should it?"

"There's no use in my telling you. "

"I can't see why it should embarrass you. Pray tell me. "

She sat silent for a moment or two. "It's no good, " she said, lookingover to him with a forlorn smile. He moved his hand impatiently. "Verywell. At dinner at Ashwood, on the night you were taken ill, somebodytalked about the Alethea and said Professor Maturin had told him therewas a fatal defect in it. He hadn't seen the prospectus. And I----" Shepaused a moment. "I had to back up your version. " Again she broke off fora moment. "And after dinner Mr. Marchmont talked to me; and I cried aboutit. So, you see, references are embarrassing. "

After a pause of a minute or two Quisanté said, "Cried about it? Aboutwhat?"

She raised her eyes, looked at him a moment, and said simply, "Abouthaving to tell a lie to them. " And she added with a sudden quiver in hervoice, "I've known them all my life. "

"Maturin was quite wrong. There's absolutely no doubt about that now. "

"Was he?" she asked listlessly. 

"What did you say?"

"That he'd expressed a favourable opinion about it to you. I kept to theprospectus. Oh, there's no use talking. It's only with Mr. Marchmont thatit matters. I can't keep it up before him, because he found me crying, you know. "

"Crying!" murmured Quisanté. "Crying!" She nodded at him, with the samefaint smile on her lips. The silence seemed very long as she looked athim and he gazed straight before him, the forgotten paper falling with arustle from his knees on to the floor. 

"You never told me, " he said at last. 

"Why should I? What was the good of telling you?"

"It was on the night of my--when I was taken ill?"

"Yes. The telegram came later in the evening. Don't bother about it now, Alexander. "

"Did you hope it meant I was dead?"

For a moment she sat still; then she sprang up, ran across the room, andfell on her knees before him, grasping his arms in her hands. "No, no, no, I didn't. Indeed, indeed, I didn't. "

He sat still in her clasp, looking intently in her face. His was hard andsneering. 

"Yes, you did. You wished me dead. By God, you wish me dead now. Well, you can wait a little. I shall be dead soon. " With a sudden roughmovement he freed himself from her hands and pushed her away. "I supposewives often wish their husbands dead, but they don't tell them so quiteso plainly. "

"It's not true, I've never told you so. "

"Oh, I'm not a fool. I don't need to have it spelt out for me insyllables. "

She rose slowly to her feet, and, turning, went back to her own chair. Quisanté sat where he was, quite motionless. She could not endure to lookat him and, rising, went and stood by the window, looking out on theriver she loved. This moment was in strange contrast with their talk onDuty Hill; the two together summed up her married life and the nature ofthe man she had married. But it was not true that she wished him dead;not true now, at all events, even though the charge he brought againsther of its having been so once might have some truth in it. For if everthat thought had crept into her mind as a dreaded shameful wish, it waswhen she seemed able to look forward to a new life. It seemed to her nowthat no new life was possible; that impression had grown and grown whileshe talked with Weston Marchmont, and it pressed upon her now with theweight of conviction. 

She heard her husband get up and go out of the room; his steps soundedgoing upstairs, in the direction of his study. She went and drew thechair up to the hearthrug, and sat down, resting her elbows on the armsand holding her head between her hands. It was very wanton that a chanceallusion of his should have brought about this scene between them. Perhaps she could have put him off with excuses, but that had notoccurred to her. The scene had told her nothing new, but it had torn awaythe last of the veil from before his eyes. He had known that shedisapproved, he had even braved her disapproval when he could nothoodwink or evade it. It was a little strange that he should be moved tosuch a transport of bitterness by hearing that she had cried over tellinga lie for him. Yet that was it; she was sure that he had not caredwhether Marchmont saw her crying or not. The tears themselves made himthink that she had wished him dead, yes, that she still wished him dead. 

He must not die thinking that. She started across the room towards thedoor, at a quick step; it was in her mind to follow him and tell himagain that it was not true, that he would ruin and empty her life if hedied, that there was no man in the world who could be what he was to her. But her impulse failed her; he would sneer again. There was one thingthat would drive away his sneer if she said it and got him to believeit--that she loved him as he loved her. Well, she couldn't tell him that, and he would not believe her if she did. She stopped and returned to herchair. She leant back now, resting her head on the cushion. The afternoongrew old, and a gleam of sinking sun, escaping from the grey red-edgedclouds that hung over the river, troubled her eyes; she closed them andreclined in stillness. She felt very tired, worn out with the stress ofit, with the conflict and the strain. Strange notions, half fancies, halfdreams, began to flit through her mind. She saw the end come in manyways, now while they were alone together, now in some public place, evenin the House, or while he addressed his shareholders. She seemed to hearthe buzz of talk that followed the event, the wonder at him, the blame ofher; she saw poor old Aunt Maria's trembling hands and hopeless face. Presently, as she fell into an unquiet drowsiness, she seemed to see evenbeyond the end, as though the end were no end and he were with her still, his spirit being about her, enveloping her, still wrapping her round sothat the rest of the world was kept away and she was still with him, though she could not see him nor hear his voice. For her alone he existednow. Soon the rest who had wondered and praised and blamed and gossippedforgot about him; they had no more attention to give him, no moreflattery, no more allegiance. For them he had ceased to exist. Only forher he went on existing still, nay, it seemed that it was through herthat he clung to the life he had loved, and was even now not dead becausehe lived in and through her. And sometimes--she shivered in her brokensleep, for she had not the love which would have made the dream alljoy--he became more than a spirit or an impalpable presence; he was againalmost corporeal, almost to be felt and touched, almost a living man. Shrinking and fearing, yet she was glad; she welcomed his exemption fromthe grave and abetted him in his rebellion against death; and for herthat restless spirit almost clothed itself again in flesh. 

She sat up with a great start and a low cry. Her hand had been hangingover the arm of the chair, it had grown cold; now it was held in anothercold hand, and it was raised. Awake but thinking she still dreamed, shewaited in mingled fear and anticipation. Cold lips pressed her hand. Shedreamed then, and in her dream he came from the grave to kiss her hand. He came not only back to the world where he had triumphed, he came alsoto the woman he had loved, who had not loved him. Again the kiss camecold on her hand. She fell back with a sudden sob, not knowing whetherterror or repulsion or joy, held greater, sway in her. The kisses coveredher hand. Ah, the marvel! They grew living, they were warm now andpassionate. This was not a dead man's kiss. With a second cry she turnedher head. Quisanté himself knelt by her, kissing her hand. His eyes roseto hers, and she cried, "It is you! You're not dead! Thank God, thankGod!"

His eyes were gleaming in the strong excitement of his heart; he knew howhe had found her. 

"No, not dead, not dead yet, " he said. "But by heaven, when I am dead, Iwon't leave you. I can't leave you. As I kiss your hand now, so will Ikiss it always, and with my soul I will worship you. But neither now northen will I kiss your lips. "

"You won't kiss my lips?"

"No. They have lied for me; I won't stain them any more. "

For a moment she looked at him. Then she caught her hand away and flungher arms round his neck. She kissed him on his lips, crying, "For good orevil, for good or evil, but always, always, always!" Then she drew away, and, with her arms still round his neck, she broke into her low laugh:"Oh, but how like you to make that little speech about my lips!"

 CHAPTER XX. 

 THE QUIET LIFE TO-MORROW. 

Old Miss Quisanté was not as sympathetic as might have been wished. Sheacquiesced indeed (as who would not?) in the new programme of at least ayear's complete rest; she offered to find funds--happily it was notnecessary, since the sale of some Alethea shares at a handsome premiumsupplied them; she admitted that May had done her duty in persuading herhusband to yield a limited obedience to his doctors' orders. But shelooked disappointed, uninterested, dull; she awoke only for a sparkle ofmalice, when she remarked how happy they would be together in thecountry, with nothing to disturb them, nothing but just their two selves. 

"Not as unhappy as you think, " said May, smiling. 

"All nonsense, I call it, " pursued the old lady. "Sandro knew best; nowyou've put notions into his head. Oh, I daresay you were bound to, mydear. "

"How can you be so blind?" murmured May. Aunt Maria shook her headderisively; she was not blind, it was the wife and the doctors who wereblind. "You're not to say that sort of thing to Alexander, " May went onimperiously. Aunt Maria put her head on one side and smiled sardonically. 

"You used to agree with me, " she said. "Has the Mildmay woman been hereagain?"

"No; she's at home. We shall see her perhaps at Henstead. "

"Henstead! What are you going there for?"

"And you said you knew Alexander!" laughed May. "You don't suppose he'sgoing into retirement without a display of fireworks? The Henstead speechis to be made. Then we put up the shutters--for a year at least, as Isay. "

"That's something. Is he interested in it?"

"Oh, yes, working all day. But he's wonderfully well. I've never seen himbetter. " She hesitated and laughed a little. "How shall we ever stick toour year?" she asked. "He means it now and I mean it. But----"

"You won't do it, " said Aunt Maria emphatically. "Nobody could keepSandro quiet for a year!"

"Don't tell me that. We're going to try. "

"Oh, I won't interfere, my dear. Try away. After all he'll be youngstill, and they won't forget him in a year. Or if they do, he'll soonmake them remember him again. "

The buoyant confidence was hard to resist. It seemed to grow greater inface of all reason, and more and more to fill the old woman's mind as sheherself descended towards the grave which she scorned as a possibilityfor Sandro. For now she was very small and frail, thin and yellow; shetoo, like her nephew, seemed to hold on to life rather because she choseof her arbitrary will, than thanks to any physical justification that shecould adduce. Could Quisanté not only make himself live but make AuntMaria live too? Full of the influence of that last great moment, May, laughing at herself, yet hesitated to answer "No. " But the year was to betried, lest, if die he must, he should die to please her or thinking thatshe wanted him to die. He did not think now that she wanted that; she washappier with him than she had ever been before. She had found a newindulgence for him, even for what she had hated in him. Justice wouldhave turned to harshness, clearness of vision to a Pharisaic strictness, had she not found indulgence for the man who had crept back to kiss herhand. She was very indulgent towards him, and he seemed happy, save thatnow and then he looked at her wistfully, and began to fall into the wayof reminding her of past occasions when he had shone and she admired, asking whether she remembered this and that. He dropped hints too thatthe Henstead speech was to be memorable. She was a little afraid thatalready he was feeling indulgence insufficient and mere kindness, orindeed mere affection, not the great thing that he asked of her, just aspeace and quiet, or pictures, books, and hills, were not the things thathe asked of life. If this were so, the compromise she had brought him toconsent to was precarious; it was, as she had hinted to Aunt Maria, doubtful whether they could stick to their year. 

There was another question in her mind, not less persistent, not lesstroubling. Perhaps the greater harmony between them, which had inducedand enabled her to obtain that consent from him, was as precarious as thecompromise itself; it too was liable to be overthrown by a return ofQuisanté's old self, or at least of that side of him which was for thetime hidden. The temptation to work would overthrow the compromise, thetemptation to win might again produce action in him and impose action onher which would bring death to their newly-achieved harmony, even asexertion would to his worn-out body. 

The great speech, the last speech, was to be on Wednesday. They arrivedin Henstead on Tuesday morning and were plunged at once into a turmoil ofbusiness. There was a luncheon, a deputation, a meeting of the partyassociation; Japhet Williams had half a dozen difficulties, and oldFoster as many bits of shrewd counsel. Over all and through all was theair of congratulation, of relief from the fear of losing Quisanté, ofenthusiastic applause for his magnificently courageous struggle againstillness and its triumphant issue. When May hinted at a period ofrest--the full extent of it was not disclosed--Foster nodded tolerantly, Japhet said times were critical, and the rest declared that they wouldnot flog a willing horse, but knew that Mr. Quisanté would do his duty. Unquestionably Henstead's effect was bad, both for the compromise and forQuisanté. Minute by minute May saw how the old fascination grew on him, how more and more he forgot that this was to be the last effort, that itwas an end, not a beginning. He gave pledges of action, he would notpositively decline engagements, he talked as though he would be in hisplace in Parliament throughout the session. While doing all this heavoided meeting her eye; he would have found nothing worse than pitytouched with amusement. But he kept declaring to her, when they had achance of being alone, that he was loyal to their compact. "Though it'spretty hard, " he added with a renewal of his bitterness against the fatethat constrained him. 

"We ought never to have come, " she said. "It makes it worse. I wish wehadn't. "

"Wait till you've heard me to-morrow night, " he whispered, pressing herhand and looking into her eyes with the glee of anticipated triumph. 

He was going to make a great speech, she knew that very well; there wereall the signs about him, the glee, the pride, the occasional absence ofmind, the frequent appeal for sympathy, the need of a confidence toanswer and confirm his own. Such a mood, in spite of its element ofchildishness, was yet a good one with him. It raised him above pettinessand made him impatient of old Foster's cunning little devices forcapturing an enemy or confirming the allegiance of a doubtful friend. Hehad for the time forgotten himself in his work, the position in what hemeant to do with it; he would have delivered that speech now if the pricehad been the loss of his seat; whatever the price was, that speech nowwould have its way, all of it, whole and unimpaired, even the passage onwhich Foster was consulted with the result that its suppression wasdeclared imperative in view of Japhet Williams' feelings. "Damn JaphetWilliams, " said Quisanté with a laugh, and Quisanté's wife found herselfwishing that he would "damn" a few more men and things. It was just thehabit that he wanted, just the thing that Marchmont and Dick Benyon andmen like them had. Oh, if he could win and keep it!

"He must consider local feeling, " said old Foster, pinching a fat chin infear and doubt. 

"No, he needn't, no, he needn't now, " she cried. "He'll carry it withhim, whatever he does now. Don't you see? He can take them all with himnow. Wait till you've heard him to-morrow night!"

Here was happiness for her and for him, but where else? Not in thecompromise, not in the year of quiet. It seemed to be for this that theyhad come together, in this that they could help one another, feel withone another, be really at one. And this could not be. The tears stood inMay Quisanté's eyes as she turned away from the pleasant shrewd oldschemer; his picture should stand no more on the mantelpiece. But now itseemed again strange and incredible that this, the great career, couldnot be; Aunt Maria's was the creed for a time like this. 

The great night came, and a great crowd in the Corn Exchange. Old Fosterwas in the chair and the place seemed full of familiar faces; the butcherwho was troubled about slaughter-houses sat side by side with the man whowas uneasy about his deceased wife's sister; Japhet Williams was on theplatform and his men sat in close ranks at the back of the hall, they andDunn's contingent hard-by smoking their pipes as the custom was atHenstead. There were other faces, not so usual; for far away, in apurposely chosen obscurity, May saw Weston Marchmont and the Dean of St. Neot's. The Mildmays themselves could not be present, but these two hadcome over from Moors End and sat there now, the Dean beaming inanticipation of a treat, Marchmont with a rather supercilious smile andan air of weariness. May could not catch their eyes but she felt glad tohave them there; it was always pleasant to her that her friends shouldsee Quisanté when he was at his best, and he was going to be at his bestto-night. 

"We are rejoiced to welcome our Member back among us in good health andstrength again, " old Foster began, quite in the Aunt Maria style, and hewent on to describe the grief caused by Quisanté's illness and the joynow felt at the prospect of his being able to render services to hisQueen, his country, and his constituency no less long than valuable andbrilliant. Quisanté listened with a smile, gently tapping the table withhis fingers. May turned from him to seek again her friends' faces in thehall; this time she met their gaze; they were both looking at her withpitying eyes; the instant they saw her glance, they avoided it. What didthat mean? It meant that they were not of Aunt Maria's party. The kindlycompassionate look of those two men went to her heart; it brought backreality and pierced through the pretence, the grand pretence, whicheverybody, herself included, had been weaving. An impulse of fear laidhold of her; involuntarily she put out her hand towards Foster who hadjust finished his speech and was sitting down. She meant to tell him tostop the meeting, to send the people home, to help her to persuadeQuisanté to go back to the hotel and not to speak. Foster looked round tosee what she wanted, but at the moment Quisanté was already on his feet. "It's nothing, " May whispered, withdrawing her hand. It was too late now, the thing must go forward now, whatever the end of it might be, whateverthe friendly pity of those eyes might seem to say. To-morrow quiet wouldbegin; but she had a new, strange, intense terror of to-night. Thisfeeling lasted through the early part of Quisanté's speech, when he wasstill in a quiet vein and showed some signs of physical weakness. But ashe went on it vanished and in its place came the old faith and the oldillusion. For he gathered force, he put out his strength, he exhaledvitality. Again she sought her friends' faces and marked with joy andtriumph that their eyes were now set on the speaker and their attentionheld firmly, as the fine resonant voice filled the building and seemed toresent the confinement of its walls, or even more when a whisper, heardonly by a miracle as she thought, thrilled even the most distantlistener. The speech was being all that it had been going to be, hisconfidence and hers were to be justified. The pronouncement that thecountry waited for was coming, the fighting men were to get the lead theywanted, the attack was sounded, the battle was being opened to the soundof a trumpet-call. May leant forward, listening. A period reached itsclose, and applause delayed the beginning of the next. Quisanté glancedround and saw his wife; their eyes met; a slow smile came on his lips, asmile of great delight. Once more her heart beat and her eyes gleamed forhim, once more she would be no man's if she could not be his. His air wasgay and his face joyful as, the next minute, he threw himself into aflood of eloquence where indignation mingled with ridicule; he made mendoubt whether they must laugh or fight. Now he had all that he desired, men hung on his words, and she sat by, and saw, and felt, and shared. 

At the next pause, when the cheering again imposed a momentary silence, the Dean turned to Marchmont, raising his hands and dropping them again. 

"Yes, he can do it, " said Marchmont in a curious tone; envy and scorn andadmiration all seemed to find expression. 

"Look at her!" whispered the Dean, but this time Marchmont made noanswer. He had been looking at her, and knew now why she had tied herlife to Alexander Quisanté's. 

"If I could do it like that I couldn't stop doing it, " said the Dean. 

"He never will as long as he lives, " answered Marchmont with a shrug ofhis shoulders. 

"But he won't live?" whispered the Dean. "You mean that?"

The applause ended; there was no need for Marchmont to answer, even if hecould have found an answer. Quisanté took up his work again. He was nearthe end now, an hour and a quarter had passed. May's eyes never left him;he was going to get through, she thought, and she had no thought now ofthe compromise or the year of quiet, no thought except of his triumphthat to-morrow would ring through the land. He paused an instant, whetherin faltering or for effect she could not tell, and then began hisperoration. It was short, but he gave every word slowly, apart, as itwere in a place of its own, in the sure and superb confidence that everyword had its own office, its own weight, and its own effect. But beforehe ended there came one interruption. Suddenly, as though moved by animpulse foreign to himself, old Foster pushed back his chair and rose tohis feet; after an instant the whole audience imitated him. Quisantépaused and looked round; again he smiled; then, taking a step forward toclear himself of those who surrounded him, he went on. Thus he ended hisspeech, he standing, to men and women one and all standing about andbefore him. 

"I never saw such a thing, " whispered the Dean of St. Neot's. But hiswords were lost in the cheers, and Weston Marchmont's "Bravo" rang out soloud that May Quisanté heard it on the platform and bent forward to kissher hand to him. 

In the tea-room, to which all the important persons withdrew after themeeting, festivity reigned. Quisanté was surrounded by admirers, busylistening to compliments and congratulations, and receiving the advice ofthe local wise men. May did not attempt to get near him, but surrenderedherself to a like process. Old Foster came up to her and shook hands, saying, "I'm proud to have had a hand in making Mr. Quisanté member forHenstead. You were right too; he can say what he likes now. "

Then came Japhet Williams' thin voice. "I hope it won't be many daysbefore Mr. Quisanté tells the House of Commons what he's told usto-night. "

Should she say that he would not tell anything to the House of Commonsfor many days, probably not ever, that his voice would not be heardthere? They would not believe her, she hardly would believe herself. Inthat hour illness and retirement seemed dim and distant, unreal and alittle ludicrous. She abandoned herself to the temptation pressed uponher and talked as though her husband were to lead all through thecampaign that he had opened. 

"I never saw him looking better in my life, " said Foster. 

As he spoke a short thick-set man with grey hair pushed by him. OldFoster caught him by the wrist, crying with a laugh, "Why, Doctor, whatare you doing here? You're one of the enemy!"

"I came to hear the speech. "

"A good'un, eh?"

"Never mind the speech. Take me over to Mr. Quisanté--now, directly. "

"What for?"

"He must go home. "

"Go home? Nonsense. He's all right. "

Dr. Tillman wrenched his hand away, shook his head scornfully, andstarted across the room toward where Quisanté was. May laid her hand onold Foster's arm. 

"What did he say? Does he think my husband ill?"

"I don't know. It's all nonsense. "

Another voice broke in. 

"A triumph, Lady May, a triumph indeed!"

She turned to find the Dean and Marchmont close behind her, and the Deanholding out his hand as he spoke. 

"Yes, yes, " she said hurriedly and uncomfortably. "It was fine, wasn'tit?"

"It was magnificent, " said Marchmont. 

"Thanks, thanks. " Her tone was still hurried, absent, ungracious. The twolooked at her in surprise. Where was the radiance of triumph that had litup her face as she signalled to them from the platform? They had expectedto find her full of the speech and had been prepared to give her joy bythe warmth and sincerity of their praise. 

"What's the matter?" whispered Marchmont. 

"Do you see that short man, the one with grey hair, trying to get nearAlexander It's the doctor--Dr. Tillman. He can't get near Alexander. "

"What does he want?"

"I don't know. He thinks he ought to go home. He thinks--Ah, now he'sgetting to him! Look! He's speaking to him now!"

They saw the doctor come up to Quisanté and Quisanté smile as he waitedfor the visitor to introduce himself. The doctor began to speak quicklyand energetically. "Oh, thank you very much, but I'm all right, " camesuddenly in loud clear tones from Quisanté. The doctor spoke again. Quisanté shook his head, laughing merrily. Marchmont looked at May; hereyes were on her husband and they were full of fear. "I'd forgotten, " heheard her murmur. She turned to him with an imploring air. "He won'tlisten, " she said. 

A burst of laughter came from Quisanté's group; he had made some joke andthey all applauded him. Tillman stood for a moment longer before him, then gave a queer jerk of his head, and turned sharp round on his heel. He came back towards where she stood. She took a step forward and thuscrossed his path, Marchmont and the Dean standing on either side of her. 

"You remember me, Dr. Tillman?" she asked. "I'm Mr. Quisanté's wife, youknow. "

He stood still, looking at her angrily from under his bushy eyebrows. 

"Take him home then, " he said sharply. "It was madness to let him comehere at all. You're flying in the face of the advice you've had. Oh, Iknow about it. Let me tell you, you're very lucky to have got through sofar. "

"We--we're through all right now, " she said. 

"Are you? I hope so. The man's in a high state of excitement now, andhigh states of excitement aren't good for him. " He paused and addedimpatiently, "Have you no influence over him? Can none of you do anythingwith him?"

"He won't like it if I go to him, " May whispered. 

"I'll go, " said the Dean, stepping forward. 

"Yes, " said Tillman, "go and tell him Lady May Quisanté wants him. "

The Dean started off on his errand. The doctor's manner grew a littlegentler. 

"You couldn't be expected to know, " he said. "But in a thing like thisyou mustn't think he's all right because he looks all right. He'll lookhis best just at the time when there's most--well, when he isn't. I hopehe's going to keep quiet after this?"

"Yes, yes. At least we've arranged that. Weston, do go and bring him tome. "

"Look, he's coming now with the Dean. "

Quisanté's group opened, and he began to move towards them. But at everystep somebody stopped him, to shake hands and to say a few words ofthanks or praise. The Dean kept urging him on gently, but he would not behurried. 

"Now take him straight home, " said Tillman. "Good-night. " And hardlywaiting for May's bow he turned away and disappeared among the throngthat was making for the door. 

Quisanté, at last escaping from his admirers, came up to his wife. Hiseyes were very bright, and he ran to her, holding out both his hands. Sheput hers in his and said, "We must go home. You'll be worn out. "

"Worn out? Not I! But you look worn out. Come along. Ah, Marchmont, thisis a compliment indeed. "

They were almost alone in the room now. May took her husband's arm andthey walked thus together. 

"Are you pleased?" he whispered. 

"Am I pleased!" she said with the laugh he knew and an upward glance ofher eyes. Quisanté himself laughed and drew himself to his full height, carrying his head defiantly. For though he sought and loved to pleaseall, it was pleasing her that had been foremost in his mind that night. He had remembered the boast he made on Duty Hill; now it was justified, and he had once again tasted his sweetest pleasure. 

They had to wait in an ante-room while their carriage was sent for. Herethe Dean and Marchmont joined them again. They were there when old Fosterrushed in in great excitement. 

"The whole town's in the square, " he cried. "There's never been anythinglike it in Henstead. You'll say just a word to them from the steps, sir?Only a word! They're all waiting there for you. You'll say just a word?I'll be back in an instant. " And he bustled out again. 

Quisanté walked across to a window that opened on to the Market Square. He looked out, then turned and beckoned to his wife. The whole townseemed to be in the square, as Foster said, and the people caught sightof him as he stood in the window with the lighted room behind him. Theybroke into loud cheering. Quisanté bowed to them. Then a sudden shortshiver seemed to run through him; he put his hand first to his side, thento his head. 

"I feel queer" he said to his wife. "I think I--I won't--I won't speakany more. I feel so--so queer. " Her eyes were fixed on him now, and hison hers. He smiled and tapped his forehead lightly with his hand. "It'snothing, " he said. "You were pleased, weren't you, to-night?" Again heput his hands in hers. She found no word to say and they stood like thisfor a moment. The cheers ceased, the crowd outside was puzzled. Marchmontjumped up from his chair and walked forward hastily. 

"Anything wrong?" he asked. 

Neither heeded him. May's eyes were set in terror on her husband's face;for now she was holding him up by the power of her hands gripped in his;without them he would fall. Nay, he would fall now!

He spoke in a low thick voice. "It's come, " he said, "it's come. " And hesank back into Weston Marchmont's arms, his wife letting go his hands andstanding rigid. 

Old Foster ran in again, calling, "Are you ready, sir?" He found hisanswer. Alexander Quisanté would speak no more in Henstead. He wasleaning against Marchmont, breathing heavily and with sore difficulty. May went to him; she was very white and very calm; she took his hand andkissed it. 

"I--I--I spoke well?" he muttered. "Didn't I?"

"Very very finely, Alexander. "

"They were--were all wrong in saying I couldn't do it, " he murmured. Heshivered again and then was still. The Dean had brought a chair and theyput him in it. But he moved no more. May looked at old Foster who stoodby, his face wrung with helpless distress and consternation. 

"We've killed him among us, I and you and the people out there, " she said. 

 CHAPTER XXI. 

 A RELICT. 

"Yes, I asked her, " said Weston Marchmont, "but--Well, I don't thinkshe'd mind you reading her letter, and I should rather like you to. " Heflung it across the table to Dick Benyon. "I half see what she means, "said he, lighting a cigarette. 

Dick took the letter with an impatient frown. "I don't, " he said, as hesettled himself to read it. 

 "My dear Friend, I have thought it over, many times, in many different moods, and in all of them I have always wanted to do what you ask. Not for your sake, not because you ask me, but for my own. I think I should be very happy, and as you know I have never yet been very happy. I wasn't while my husband was alive. Imagine my finding side by side in his desk the doctor's letter saying it was certain death to go to Henstead and that report of Professor Maturin's which he suppressed and told me had been destroyed. That brought him back to me just as he was. With you I think I should be happy. I should never be afraid, I should never be ashamed. What fear and what shame I used to feel! I write very openly to you about myself and about him; if I were answering as you wish, I would not say a word against him. But I can't. That's just the feeling. You tell me I am free, that two years have gone by, that I might find a new life for myself, that you love me. I know it all, but except the last none of it sounds true. You know that once I thought about being free and that then you were in my thoughts. Who should be, if you were not? Except him and you I have never thought of any man. And I want to come to you now. He is too strong for me. Is it really two years ago? Surely not! I seem still to hear his speech, and still to see him fall into your arms. I should always hear him, and always see that. I'm afraid you won't understand me, least of all when I say I don't feel sure that I want him back. That would mean the fear and the shame again. But he was so marvellous. How right he was! They followed the lead he gave them at Henstead; and even you, dear recluse, know that there was a change of Government last year. And I am quite rich out of the Alethea. For he was right and the poor Professor, who was supposed to know all about it, was absolutely, utterly, hopelessly wrong. And the Crusade's come to nothing, and--and so on. 

 I wish I was convincing you; but I never did. You didn't understand why I married him, why in face of everything I behaved pretty well to him, why his death left everything blank to me. Nobody quite understood, except old Aunt Maria who just quietly died as soon as he was gone. And you'll understand me no better now. I resent the way the world forgets him. There seems nothing of him left. My little girl is all Gaston; she lives with Gastons, she has the Gaston face and the Gaston ways. She's not a bit Quisanté; she's nothing of him, nothing that he has left behind. If we'd had a son, a boy like him, I might feel differently. But, as it is, what's left? Only me. I am left, and I am not altogether a Gaston now, though it's the Gaston and nothing else that you like. No, I'm not all Gaston now. I've become Quisanté in part--not in every way, or I shouldn't have felt as I did when I found the Professor's report. But he has laid hold of me, and he doesn't let go. I can't help thinking that he needn't have died except on my account. You feel sore that I don't love you, not as you want me to. He was sore too because I didn't love him; and since he couldn't make me love him, he had to make me wonder at him; he was doing that when he died. So I feel that I can't do anything to blot him out, and that I must stay Quisanté, somebody bearing his name, representing him, keeping him in a way alive, being still his and not anybody else's. 

 For I still feel his and I still feel him alive. You can love people, and then forget them, and love somebody else; or love somebody else without forgetting. Love is simple and gentle and, I suppose, gives way. Alexander doesn't give way. I shall hurt you now, I'm afraid, but I must say it. After him there can be no other man for me. I think I'm sorry I ever married him, for I could have loved somebody else and yet looked on at him. Or couldn't I? You'll say I couldn't. Anyhow, as it is, I've come too near to him, seen too much of him, become too much a part of him. You might think me mad if I told you he often seemed to be with me and that I'm not frightened, but admire and laugh as I used; I needn't fear any more. So it is; and since it is so, how can I come to you? What is it they call widows on tombstones and in the _Times_? Relicts, isn't it? I'm literally his relict, something he's left behind. As I say, the only thing. He can't come back for me, I suppose. But I feel as if he'd pick me up somewhere some time, and we should begin over again, and go on together. Where to I don't know. I never knew where he would end by taking me to. And you, dear friend, mustn't make his relict your wife. It's not right for you, it wouldn't be right for me. We should pretend that nothing had happened, that I'd made a mistake, that it was luckily and happily over, and that I was doing now what I ought to have done in the beginning. All that's quite false. I suppose everybody has one great thing to do in life, one thing that determines what they're to be and how they're to end. I did my great thing, for good or evil, when I became his wife. I can't undo it or go back on it, I can't become what I was before I did it. I can't be now what you think me and wish me to be. His stamp is on me. 

 I write very sadly; for I didn't love him. And now I can love nobody. I shall never quite know what that means. Or is it possible that I loved him without knowing it, and hated him sometimes just because of that? I mean, felt so terribly the times when he was--well, what you know he was sometimes. I find no answer to that. It never was what I thought love meant, what they tell you it means. But if love can mean sinking yourself in another person, living in and through him, meaning him when you say life, then I did love him. At any rate, whatever it was, there it is. Yet I'm not very unhappy. I have a feeling--it will seem strange to you, like all my feelings--that I have had a great share in something great, that without me he wouldn't have been what he was, that I gave as well as took, and brought my part into the common stock. We did odd things, he and I in our partnership, things never to be told. My poor cheeks burn still, and you remember that I cried. But we did great things too, he and I, and at the end we were for a little while together in heart. It wouldn't have lasted? Perhaps not. As it was it lasted long enough--till 'it came', as he said, and he died asking me to tell him that he had spoken well. I'm very glad he knew that I thought he had spoken well. 

 So out of this rambling letter comes the end of it. Be kind to me, be my friend, and be somebody else's lover, dear Weston. For I am spoilt for you. 'Her mad folly'--that was what you thought it. Well, it isn't ended, not even death has ended it. He reaches me still from where he is--Ah, and what is he doing? I can't think of him doing nothing. Shall I hear of all he's done some day? Will he tell me himself, and watch my lips and my eyes as I listen to him? I don't know. These are dreams, and perhaps I wouldn't have them come true; for he might do dreadful things again. But I can't marry you. For to me he is not dead, he lives still, and I am his. I can as little say whether I like it as I could while he was here. But now, as then, it is so; whether I like it is little; it is what has come to me, my lot, my place, my fate, the end of me, the first and last word about me. And--yes--I am content to have it so. He loved me very much, and he was a very great man. You'll wonder again, but I'm a proud woman among women, Weston dear. Goodbye. "

Dick Benyon laid down the letter, and pushed it back to Weston Marchmont. 

"Yes, I see, " said he. 

 TURNBULL AND SPEARS. PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.