"Dear Miss Bride,
"This morning I came across an article in an American magazine which it struck me would interest you. The subject is: 'Recent Sociological Speculations.' It reviews several books, among them one by a French author which seems to be very interesting. When I showed the article to Miss Tomalin, she agreed with me that there seemed a striking resemblance between the theories of this French sociologist and those which Mr. Lashmar has independently formed. Probably Mr. Lashmar would like to see the book. In any case, you and he will, I am sure, be interested in reading this article together.
"To my great regret, Miss Tomalin—or May, as I have come to call her—leaves me the day after to-morrow. But the advantage is yours at Rivenoak. Please give my love to dear Lady Ogram, who I hope is now quite well again. With kindest regards.
"Sincerely yours,
"GERALDINE TOPLADY."
Constance had read the article in question, and, immediately after doing so, had dispatched an order to London for the French sociological work therein discussed.
Pillow-propped at her morning studies, the humourist of Pont Street, as she glanced rapidly over the close-printed pages of a trans-Atlantic monthly, had her eye caught by the word "bio-sociological." Whom had she heard using that sonorous term? It sounded to her with the Oxford accent, and she saw Lashmar. The reading of a few lines in the context seemed to remind her very strongly of Lashmar's philosophic eloquence. She looked closer; found that there was question of a French book of some importance, recently published; and smilingly asked herself whether it could be that Lashmar knew this book. That he was capable of reticence regarding the source of his ideas, she had little doubt; and what would be more amusing than to see "the coming man" convicted of audacious plagiarism? She wished him no harm; none whatever. It delighted her to see a man make his way in the stupid world by superiority of wits, and Dyce Lashmar was a favourite of hers; she had by no means yet done with him. All the same, this chance of entertainment must not be lost.
Having gone down rather earlier than usual, she found Miss Tomalin also studiously engaged, a solid tome open before her.
"My dear May, what waste of time that is! If you would only believe me that all the substance of big books is to be found in little ones! One gets on so much more quickly, and has a much clearer view of things. Why, no end of poor people nowadays make their living by boiling down these monsters to essence. It's really a social duty to make use of their work. Look, for instance, at this article I have just been reading—'Recent Sociological Speculations.' Here the good man gives us all that is important in half a dozen expensive and heavy volumes. Here's all about bio-sociology. Haven't I heard you talk of bio-sociology?"
"But," cried May, "that's Mr. Lashmar's theory! Has he been publishing it?"
"No. Someone else seems to have got hold of the same idea. Perhaps it's like Darwin and Wallace—that kind of thing."
May took the periodical, and read.
"Why, this is astonishing!" she exclaimed. "There's a passage quoted which is exactly like Mr. Lashmar—almost the very words I have heard him use!"
"Yet, you see, it's from a French book. This would certainly interest him. Perhaps he doesn't see the American reviews. Suppose I sent it to Miss Bride? They can read it together, and it will amuse them."
May assented, and the periodical was addressed to Rivenoak.
Friends came to lunch with them. In the afternoon, they made three calls. At dinner some score of persons were Mrs. Toplady's guests. Only as the clock pointed towards midnight did they find an opportunity of returning to the subject of bio-sociology. Mrs. Toplady wished for an intimate chat with her guest, who was soon to leave her; she reclined comfortably in a settee, and looked at the girl, who made a pretty picture in a high-backed chair.
"I hear that Mr. Lashmar leaves Rivenoak to-morrow," she said, referring to a letter that had arrived from Lady Ogram this evening. "I hope he won't be gone when the magazine arrives."
"Indeed? He comes back to-morrow?" said May.
"Not to London. He goes to spend a day or two with his people, it seems. You don't know them?"
"Not at all. I only know that his father is a rural clergyman."
Mrs. Toplady had observed that May's tone in speaking of Lashmar lacked something of its former vivacity. The change had been noticeable since the announcement of the philosopher's betrothal. More than that; the decline of interest was accompanied by a tendency to speak of Lashmar as though pityingly, or perhaps even slightingly; and this it was that manifested itself in May's last remark.
"I don't think it's very common;" Mrs. Toplady let fall, "for the country clergy—or indeed the clergy anywhere—to have brilliant sons."
"It certainly isn't," May agreed. And, after reflecting, she added: "I suppose one may call Mr. Lashmar brilliant?"
Miss Tomalin had continued to profit by her opportunities. Before coming to London, it would have been impossible for her to phrase a thought thus, and so utter it. That easy superciliousness smacked not at all of provincial breeding.
"On the whole, I think so," was Mrs. Toplady's modulated reply. "He has very striking ideas. How odd that somebody else should have hit upon his theory of civilisation! He ought to have written a book, as I told him."
"But suppose," suggested May, with some uneasiness, "that he knew about that French book?"
"Oh, my dear, we can't suppose that! Besides, we haven't read the book. It may really be quite different in its tendency from Mr. Lashmar's view."
"I don't see how itcanbe, Mrs. Toplady. Judging from those quotations, and the article, it's Mr. Lashmar from beginning to end."
"Then it's a most curious case of coincidence. Poor Mr. Lashmar will naturally be vexed. It's hard upon him, isn't it?"
May did not at once respond. The friend, watching her with the roguish smile, let fall another piece of intelligence.
"I hear that his marriage is to be in the autumn."
"Indeed?" said May, indifferently.
"Between ourselves," pursued the other, "didn't you feel just a little surprised?"
"Surprised?"
"At his choice. Oh, don't misunderstand me. I quite appreciate Miss Bride's cleverness and seriousness. But one couldn't help thinking that a man of Mr. Lashmar's promise—. Perhaps you don't see it in that way?"
"I really think they are rather well suited," said May, again calmly supercilious.
"It may be so. I had almost thought that—how shall I express it?" Mrs. Toplady searched for a moment. "Perhaps Lady Ogram might have made a suggestion, which Mr. Lashmar, for some reason, did not feel able to disregard. He has quite a chivalrous esteem for Lady Ogram, haven't you noticed? I like to see it. That kind of thing is rare nowadays. No doubt he feels reason for gratitude; but how many men does one know who can be truly grateful? That's what I like in Mr. Lashmar; he has character as well as intellect."
"But how do you mean, Mrs. Toplady?" inquired May, losing something of her polish in curiosity. "Why should my aunt have wanted him to marry Miss Bride?"
"Ah, that I don't know. Possibly she thought it, knowing him as she does, really the best thing for him. Possibly—one could make conjectures. But one always can."
May puzzled over the hint, her brow knitted; Mrs. Toplady regarded her with veiled amusement, wondering whether it would really be necessary to use plainer words. The girl was not dull, but perhaps her small experience of life, and her generally naive habit of mind, obscured to her what to the more practised was so obvious.
"Do you mean," said May, diffidently, "that she planned it out of kindness to Miss Bride? Of course I know that she likes Miss Bride very much. Perhaps she thought there would never be a better opportunity."
"It might be so," replied the other, absently.
"Miss Bride is very nice, and very clever," pursued May, sounding the words on the thinnest possible note. "But one didn't think of her as very likely to marry."
"No; it seemed improbable."
There was a pause. As if turning to quite another subject, Mrs. Toplady remarked:
"You will have visitors at Rivenoak next week. Sir William Amys is to be there for a day or two, and Lord Dymchurch—"
"Lord Dymchurch?"
The girl threw off her air of cold concentration, and shone triumphantly.
"Does it surprise you, May?"
"Oh, I hadn't thought of it—I didn't know my aunt had invited him—"
"The wonder is that Lord Dymchurch should have accepted," said Mrs. Toplady, with a very mature archness. "Did he know, by the bye, that you were going down?"
"I fancy he did."
Their eyes met, and May relieved her feelings with a little laugh.
"Then perhaps the wonder ceases. And yet, in another way—" Mrs. Toplady broke off, and added in a lower voice, "Of course you know all about his circumstances?"
"No, indeed I don't. Tell me about him, please."
"But haven't you heard that he is the poorest man in the House of Lords?"
"I had no idea of it," cried May. "How should I have known? Really? He is so poor?"
"I imagine he has barely enough to live upon. The family was ruined long ago."
"But why didn't you tell me? Does my aunt know?" May's voice did not express resentment, nor, indeed, strong feeling of any kind. The revelation seemed merely to surprise her. She was smiling, as if at the amusingly unexpected.
"Lady Ogram certainly knows," said Mrs. Toplady.
"Then of course that's why he does nothing," May exclaimed. "Fancy!" Her provincialism was becoming very marked. "A lord with hardly enough to live upon! But I'm astonished that he seems so cheerful."
"Lord Dymchurch has a very philosophical mind," said the older lady, with gravity humorously exaggerated.
"Yes, I suppose he has. Now I shall understand him better. I'm glad he's going to be at Rivenoak. You know that he asked me to advise him about what he should do. It'll be rather awkward, though. I must get him to tell me the truth."
"You'll probably have no difficulty in that. It's pretty certain that he thinks you know all about him already. If he hadn't, I feel sure he wouldn't go to Rivenoak."
The girl mused, smiling self-consciously.
"I had better tell you the truth, Mrs. Toplady," were her next words, in a burst of confidence. "I think Lord Dymchurch is very nice—as a friend. But only as a friend."
"Thank you for your confidence, May. Do you know that I suspected something of the kind."
"I want to be friends with him," pursued May, impulsively. "I shall get him to tell me all about himself, and we shall see what he can do. Of course there mustn't be any misunderstanding."
Mrs. Toplady had not been prepared for this tranquil reasonableness. May was either more primitive, or much more sophisticated, than she had supposed. Her interest waxed keener.
"Between ourselves, my dear," she remarked, "that is exactly what I should have anticipated. You are very young, and the world is at your feet. Of money you have no need, and, if Lord Dymchurchhadhad the good fortune to please you—. But you are ambitious. I quite understand; trust me. Poor Dymchurch will never do anything. He is merely a bookish man. But, whilst we are talking of it, there's no harm in telling you that your aunt doesn't quite see the matter with our eyes. For some reason—I don't know exactly what it is—Lady Ogram is very favourable to poor Lord Dymchurch."
"I have noticed that," said May, quietly. "Of course it makes no difference."
"You think not?" asked Mrs. Toplady, beginning to be genuinely impressed by this young woman's self-confidence.
"I mean that my aunt couldn't do more than suggest," May answered, slightly throwing back her head. "I have only to let her know how I think about anything."
"You are sure of that?" asked the other, sweetly.
"Oh, quite!"
May's smile was ineffable. The woman of the world, the humourist and cynic, saw it with admiration.
"Ah, that puts my mind at ease!" murmured Mrs. Toplady. "To tell the truth, I have been worrying a little. Sometimes elderly people are so very tenacious of their ideas. Of course Lady Ogram has nothing but your good at heart."
"Of course!" exclaimed the girl.
"Shall I confess to you that I almost fanciedthismight be the explanation of Miss Bride's engagement?"
"Miss Bride—? How?"
"I only tell you for your amusement. It occurred to me that, having set her heart on a scheme which had reference to Lord Dymchurch, your aunt was perhaps a little uneasy with respect to a much more brilliant and conspicuous man. Had that been so—it's all the merest supposition—she might have desired to see the brilliant and dangerous man made harmless—put out of the way."
A gleam of sudden perception illumined the girl's face. For a moment wonder seemed tending to mirth; but it took another turn, and became naive displeasure.
"You think so?" broke from her, impetuously. "You really think that's why she wanted them to be engaged?"
"It's only what I had fancied, my dear—"
"But I shouldn't wonder if you were right! Indeed, I shouldn't! Now that you put it in that way—. I remember that my aunt didn't care for me to see much of Mr. Lashmar. It amused me, because, to tell you the truth, Mrs. Toplady, I should never have thought of Mr. Lashmar as anything but a friend. I feel quite sure I shouldn't."
"I quite understandthat," replied the listener, the corners of her lips very eloquent.
"Such a thing had never entered my mind," pursued May, volubly and with emphasis. "Never!"
"It may have entered someone else's mind, though," interposed Mrs. Toplady, again maturely arch.
"Oh, do you think so!" exclaimed the girl, with manifest pleasure. "I'm sure I hope not. But, Mrs. Toplady, how could my aunt oblige such a man as Mr. Lashmar to engage himself against his will?"
"You must remember, May, that, for the moment at all events, Mr. Lashmar's prospects seem to depend a good deal on Lady Ogram's good will. She has a great deal of local influence. And then—by the bye, is Mr. Lashmar quite easy in his circumstances?"
"I really don't know," May answered, with an anxious fold in her forehead "Surely he, too, isn't quite poor?"
"I hardly think he is wealthy. Isn't it just possible that something may depend upon the marriage—?"
Mrs. Toplady's voice died away in a considerate vagueness. But May was not at all disposed to leave the matter nebulous.
"If he is really poor," she said, in a clear-cut tone, "it's quite natural that he should want to marry someone who can help him. But why didn't he choose someone really suitable?"
"Poor Mr. Lashmar!" sighed the other, humorously. "If he had no encouragement, my dear May!"
"But he didn't wait to see whether he had any or not!"
"What if he had very good reason for knowing that lady Ogram would never, never, never consent to—something we needn't specify?"
"But," May ejaculated, "surely he needn't take it for granted that my aunt would never change her mind. If it's as you say, how foolishly he must have behaved! It doesn't concern me in the least. You see I can speak quite calmly about it. I'm only sorry and astonished that he should be going to marry—well, after all, we must agree that Miss Bride isn't quite an ideal for him, however one looks at it. Of course it's nothing to me. If ithadbeen, I think I should feel more offended than sorry."
"Offended?"
"That he had taken for granted that I had no will of my own, and no influence with my aunt."
"It seems rather faint-hearted, I admit."
The dialogue lasted but a few minutes longer. May repeated once or twice that she had no personal interest in Lashmar's fortunes, but her utterance grew mechanical, and she was evidently withdrawing into her thoughts. As a clock in the room told softly the first hour of the morning, Mrs. Toplady rose; she spoke a few words about her engagements for the day which had nominally begun, then kissed her friend on the cheek.
"Don't think any more of it, May. It mustn't interfere with your sleep."
"That indeed it won't, Mrs. Toplady!" replied the girl, with a musically mocking laugh.
Appearances notwithstanding, May told the truth when she declared that she had never thought of marrying Lashmar. This, however, did not necessarily involve an indifference to Lashmar's homage. That the coming man should make his court to her, she saw as a natural and agreeable thing; that he should recognise her intellectual powers, and submit to her personal charm, was only what she had hoped and expected from the first. After their conversation in the supper-room, she counted him a conquest, and looked forward with no little interest to the development of this romance. Its sudden termination astonished and mortified her. Had Lashmar turned away to make some brilliant alliance, her pique would have endured only for a moment; Lord Dymchurch's approach would have more than compensated the commoner's retirement. But that she should merely have amused his idle moments, whilst his serious thoughts were fixed on Constance Bride, was an injury not easy to pardon. For she disliked Miss Bride, and she knew the sentiment was mutual.
Seeing the situation in the new light shed by Mrs. Toplady's ingenious conjectures, her sense of injury was mitigated; the indignant feeling that remained she directed chiefly against Lady Ogram, who seemed inclined to dispose of her in such a summary way. Constance, naturally, she disliked more than ever, but Lashmar she viewed with something of compassion, as a victim of circumstances. Were those circumstances irresistible? Was there not even now a possibility of defeating them?—not with a view to taking Miss Bride's place, but for the pleasure of asserting herself against a plot, and reassuring her rightful position as arbitress of destinies. Lady Ogram was a kind old woman, but decidedly despotic, and she had gone too far. If indeed Lashmar were acting in helpless obedience to her, it would be the merest justice to make an attempt at rescuing him and restoring his liberty.
Not without moral significance was the facial likeness between Lady Ogram in her youth and May Tomalin. One who had seen the girl as she sat to-night in her bedroom, brooding deeply, without the least inclination for repose, must have been struck by a new vigour in the lines of her countenance. Thus—though with more of obstinate purpose—had Arabella Tomalin been wont to look at moments of crisis in her adventurous youth.
The clock was pointing to two, when May rose from the velvet-seated chair, and went to the little writing-table which stood in another part of the room. She took a plain sheet of note-paper, and, with a hand far from steady, began, not writing, but printing, certain words, in large, ill-formed capitals.
"HAVE MORE COURAGE. AIM HIGHER. IT IS NOT TOO LATE."
At this achievement she gazed smilingly. The ink having dried, she folded the paper, and put it into an envelope, which she closed. Then her face indicated a new effort. She could think of only one way of disguising her hand in cursive—the common device of sloping it backwards. This she attempted. The result failing to please her, she tried again on a second envelope, and this time with success; the writing looked masculine, and in no respect suggested its true authorship. She had addressed the letter to Dyce Lashmar, Esq., at Rivenoak.
Nine o'clock next morning saw her out of doors. In Sloane Street she found a hansom, and was driven rapidly eastward. Before ten she sat in her own room again, glowing with satisfaction.
"At last," declared Mrs. Lashmar, "it really looks as if Dyce was going to do something. I've just been writing to Lady Susan, and I have let her see unmistakably what I think of her friendship. But I'm very glad Dyce isn't indebted to her, for a more unendurable woman, when she thinks she has done anyone a kindness, doesn't exist. If she gets a place for a servant-girl, all the world is told of it, and she expects you to revere her saintly benevolence. I amveryglad that she never did anything for Dyce. Indeed, I always felt that she was very little use. I doubt whether she has the slightest influence with respectable people."
It was just after breakfast, and the day promised to be the hottest of the year. The vicar, heavy-laden man, had sat down in his study to worry over parish accounts. When the door opened to admit his wife, he quivered with annoyance. Mrs. Lashmar had a genius for the malapropos. During breakfast, when her talk would have mattered little, she had kept silence; now that her husband particularly wished to be alone with his anxieties, she entered with an air forboding long discourse.
"Twenty-three pounds, four shillings and sixpence," muttered the vicar, as he passed a handkerchief over his moist forehead. "Dear me! how close it is! Twenty-three—"
"If Dyce is elected," pursued the lady, "we must celebrate the occasion in some really striking way. Of course there must be a dinner for all our poor—"
"What I want to know," interrupted Mr. Lashmar, with mild irritableness, "is, how he proposes to meet his expenses, and what he is going to live upon. If he is still looking tome—I hope you haven't encouraged him in any hope of that kind?"
"Of course not. In my last letter I expressly reminded him that our affairs were getting into a lamentable muddle. Of course, ifIhad had the management of them, this wouldn't have come about.—Do you know what I have been thinking? It might be an advantage to Dyce if you made friends with the clergy at Hollingford. Couldn't you go over one day, and call on the rector. I see he's a Cambridge man, but—"
"Really," cried Mr. Lashmar, half-distraught, "I must beg you to let me get this work done in quietness. By some extraordinary error—"
A knock sounded at the door, followed by a man's voice.
"May I come in?"
"There you are!" Mrs. Lashmar exclaimed. "It's Dyce himself. Come in! Come in! Why, who could have thought you would get here so early!"
"I chose the early train for the sake of coolness," answered Dyce, who shook hands with his parents. "The weather is simply tropical. And two days ago we were shivering. What is there to drink, mother?"
Mrs. Lashmar took her son to the dining-room, and, whilst he was refreshing himself, talked of the career before him. Her sanguine mind saw him already at Westminster, and on the way to high distinction.
"There's just one thing I'm anxious about," she said, sinking her voice. "You know the state of your father's affairs. It happens most unfortunately, just when a little help would be so important to you. For years I have foreseen it, Dyce. Again and again I have urged prudence; but you know your father, the most generous of men, but a mere child in matters of business. I feared; but it was only the other day that I discovered the real state of things. I shouldn't be at all surprised, Dyce, if some day we have to look to you for succour."
"Don't worry," answered her son. "Things'll come right, I think. Just go on as prudently as you can, for the present. Is father really in a hobble?"
"My dear, he doesn't know where to turn for a five-pound note!"
Dyce was sincerely troubled. He seldom thought of his parents; none the less they represented his only true affection, and he became uncomfortable at the prospect of disaster befalling their latter years.
"Well, well, don't bother about it, more than you can help. Things are going pretty well with me, I fancy."
"So I supposed, Dyce. But your father is afraid—you know how he looks on the dark side of everything—lest you should be incurring liabilities. I have told him that that was never your habit."
"Of course not," said Dyce, confidently. "You may be sure that I haven't taken such serious steps without seeing my way clear before me."
"I knew it! I have always had the fullest faith in you. And, Dyce, how you are improving in looks! You must go to a photographer again—"
"I've just been sitting at Hollingford. The local people wanted it, you know. But I'll send you one from London presently."
"And you assure me that there is no money difficulty?" asked Mrs. Lashmar, with inquisitive eyes.
"None whatever. The fact of the matter is that I am standing to please Lady Ogram, and of course—" He waved an explanatory hand. "Things are not finally arranged yet, but all will be smooth."
His smile made dignified deprecation of undue insistence on trivial detail.
"I'm delighted to hear it!" exclaimed his mother. "It's just what I had supposed. What could be more natural. Do you think, by the bye, that I ought to go and see Lady Ogram? It might seem to her a right and natural thing. And, from what you tell me of her, I feel sure we should have a good deal in common."
"I've thought of that too," Dyce answered, averting his look. "But wait a little. Just now Lady Ogram isn't at all well; she sees hardly anybody."
"Of course I shall be guided by your advice. A little later, then. And, Dyce, you haven't told me anything about Miss Bride. Is she still with Lady Ogram?"
"Oh yes. Still acting as secretary."
"Of course you don't see much of her?"
"Why, to tell you the truth, we have to see each other a good deal, owing to her duties."
"Ah, yes, I understand. She writes to dictation, and that kind of thing. Strange that Lady Ogram should have engaged such a very unpleasant young woman. I've seldom known anyone I disliked so much."
"Really? She's of the new school, you know; the result of the emancipation movement." Dyce smiled, as if indulgently. "Lady Ogram thinks a great deal of her, and, I fancy, means to leave her money."
"Gracious! You don't say so!"
Mrs. Lashmar put the subject disdainfully aside, and Dyce was glad to speak of something else.
Throughout the day, the vicar was too busy to hold conversation with his son. But after dinner they sat alone together in the study, Mrs. Lashmar being called forth by some parochial duty. As he puffed at his newly-lighted pipe, Dyce reflected on all that had happened since he last sat here, some three months ago, and thought of what might have been his lot had not fortune dealt so kindly with him. Glancing at his father's face, he noted in it the signs of wearing anxiety; it seemed to him that the vicar looked much older than in the spring, and he was impressed by the pathos of age, which has no hopes to nourish, which can ask no more of life than a quiet ending. He could not imagine himself grey-headed, disillusioned; the effort to do so gave him a thrill of horror. Thereupon he felt reproach of conscience. For all the care and kindness he had received from his father, since the days when he used to come into this very room to show how well he could read a page of some child's story, what return had he made? None whatever in words, and little enough in conduct. All at once, he felt a desire to prove that he was not the insensible egoist his father perhaps thought him.
"I'm afraid you're a good deal worried, father," he began, looking at the paper-covered writing-table.
"I'm putting my affairs in order, Dyce," the vicar replied, running fingers through his beard. "I've been foolish enough to let them get very tangled; let me advise you never to do the same. But it'll all be straight before long. Don't trouble about me; let me hear of your own projects. I heartily wish it were in my power to help you."
"You did that much longer than I ought to have allowed," returned Dyce. "I feel myself to a great extent the cause of your troubles—"
"Nothing of the kind," broke in his father, cheerily. "Troubles be—excommunicated! This hot weather takes it out of me a little, but I'm very well and not at all discouraged; so don't think it. To tell you the truth, I've been feeling anxious to hear more in detail from you about this Hollingford enterprise. Have you serious hopes?"
"I hardly think I shall be elected the first time," Dyce answered, speaking with entire frankness. "But it'll be experience, and may open the way for me."
"Parliament," mused the vicar, "Parliament! To be sure, we must have Members; it's our way of doing things, of governing the country. And if you really feel apt for that—"
He paused dreamily. Dyce, still under the impulse of softened feelings, spoke as he seldom did, very simply, quietly, sincerely.
"I believe, father, that I am notunfit for it. Politics, it's true, don't interest me very strongly, but I have brains enough to get the necessary knowledge, and I feel that I shall do better work in a prominent position of that kind than if I went on tutoring or took to journalism. As you say, we must have representatives, and I should not be the least capable, or the least honest. I find I can speak fairly well; I find I can inspire people with confidence in me. And, without presumption, I don't think the confidence is misplaced."
"Well, that's something," said the vicar, absently. "But you talk as if politics were a profession one could live by. I don't yet understand—"
"How I'm going to live. Nor do I. I'll tell you that frankly. But Lady Ogram knows my circumstances, and none the less urges me on. It may be taken for granted that she has something in view; and, after giving a good deal of thought to the matter, I see no valid reason why I should refuse any assistance she chooses to offer me. The case would not be without precedent. There is nothing dishonourable—"
Dyce drifted into verbosity. At the beginning, he had lost from sight the impossibility of telling the whole truth about his present position and the prospects on which he counted; he spoke with relief, and would gladly have gone on unbosoming himself. Strong and deep-rooted is the instinct of confession. Unable to ease his conscience regarding outward circumstances, he turned at length to the question of his intellectual attitude.
"Do you remember, when I was here last, I spoke to you of a French book I had been reading, a sociological work? As I told you, it had a great influence on my mind. It helped to set my ideas in order. Before then, I had only the vaguest way of thinking about political and social questions. That book supplied me with a scientific principle, which I have since been working out for myself."
"Ha!" interjected the vicar, looking up oddly. "And you really feel in need of a scientific principle?"
"Without it, I should have remained a mere empiric, like the rest of our politicians. I should have judged measures from the narrow, merely practical point of view; or rather, I should pretty certainly have guided myself by some theory in which I only tried to believe."
"So you have now a belief, Dyce? Come, that's a point to have reached. That alone should give you a distinction among the aspiring men of to-day. Andwhatdo you believe?"
After drawing a meditative puff or two, Dyce launched into his familiar demonstration. He would very much rather have left it aside; he felt that he was not speaking as one genuinely convinced, and that his father listened without serious interest. But the theory had all to be gone through; he unwound it, like thread off a reel, rather mechanically and heavily towards the end.
"And that's what you are going to live for?" said his father. "That is your faith necessary to salvation?"
"I take it to be the interpretation of human history."
"Perhaps it is; perhaps it is," murmured the vicar, abstractedly. "For my own part," he added, bestirring himself to refill his pipe, "I can still see a guiding light in the older faith. Of course the world has rejected it; I don't seek to delude myself on that point; I shrink with horror from the blasphemy which would have us pretend that our civilisation obeys the spirit of Christ. The world has rejected it. Now as ever, 'despised and rejected of men.' The world, very likely, will do without religion. Yet, Dyce, when I think of the Sermon on the Mount—"
He paused again, holding his pipe in his hand, unlit, and looking before him with wide eyes.
"I respect that as much as anyone can," said Dyce, gravely.
"As much as anyone can—who doesn't believe it." His father took him up with gentle irony. "I don't expect the impossible. Youcannotbelieve in it; for you were born a post-Darwinian. Well, your religion is temporal; let us take that for granted. You do not deny yourself; you believe that self-assertion to the uttermost is the prime duty."
"Provided that self-assertion be understood aright. I understand it as meaning the exercise of all my civic faculties."
"Which, in your case, are faculties of command, faculties which point you to the upper seat, Dyce. Tom Bullock, my gardener, is equally to assert himself, but with the understanding thathisfaculties point to the bottom of the table, where the bread is a trifle stale, and butter sometimes lacking. Yes, yes: I understand. Of course you will do your very best for Tom; you would like him to have what the sweet language of our day calls a square meal. But still he must eat below the salt; there you can't help him."
"Because nature itself cannot," explained Dyce. "One wants Tom to acknowledge that, without bitterness, and at the same time to understand that, but forhim, his honest work, his clean life, the world couldn't go on at all. If Tomfeelsthat, he is a religious man."
"Ah! I take your point. But, Dyce, I find as a painful matter of fact that Tom Bullock is by no means a religious man. Tom, I have learnt, privately calls himself 'a hagnostic,' and is obliging enough to say among his intimates that, if the truth were told, I myself am the same. Tom has got hold of evolutionary notions, which he illustrates in his daily work. He knows all about natural selection, and the survival of the fittest. Tom ought to be a very apt disciple of your bio-sociological creed. Unhappily a more selfish mortal doesn't walk the earth. He has been known to send his wife and children supperless to bed, because a festive meeting at a club to which he belongs demanded all the money in his pocket. Tom, you see, feels himself one of the Select; his wife and children, holding an inferior place in great nature's scheme, must be content to hunger now and then, and it's their fault if they don't feel a religious satisfaction in the privilege."
"Why on earth do you employ such a man?" cried Dyce.
"Because, my dear boy, if I did not, no one else would, and Tom's wife and children would have still greater opportunities of proving their disinterested citizenship."
Dyce laughed.
"Speaking seriously again, father, Tom is what he is just because he hasn't received the proper education. Had he been rightly taught, who knows but he would, in fact, have been an apt disciple of the civic religion?"
"I fear me, Dyce, that no amount of civic instruction, or any other instruction, would have affected Tom's ethics. Tom is representative of his age. Come, come; I have every wish to be just to you. A new religion must have time; its leaven must work amid the lump. You, my dear boy, are convinced that the leaven is, though a new sort, a very sound and sufficient yeast; let that be granted. I, unfortunately, cannot believe anything of the kind. To me your method of solution seems a deliberate insistence on the worldly in human nature, sure to have the practical result of making men more and more savagely materialist: I see no hope whatever that you will inspire the world with enthusiasm for a noble civilisation by any theory based on biological teaching. From my point of view, a man becomes noblein spiteof the material laws which condition his life, never in consequence of them. If you ask me how and why—I bow my head and keep silence."
"Can you maintain," asked Dyce, respectfully, "that Christianity is still a civilising power?"
"To all appearances," was the grave answer, "Christianity has failed—utterly, absolutely, glaringly failed. At this moment, the world, I am convinced, holds more potential barbarism than did the Roman Empire under the Antonines. Wherever I look, I see a monstrous contrast between the professions and the practice, between the assumed and the actual aims, of so-called Christian peoples. Christianity has failed to conquer the human heart."
"It must be very dreadful for you to be convinced of that."
"It is. But more dreadful would be a loss of belief in the Christian spirit. By belief, I don't mean faith in its ultimate triumph; I am not at all sure that I can look forward tothat. No; but a persuasion that the Sermon on the Mount is good—is the best. Once upon a time, multitudes were in that sense Christian. Nowadays, does one man in a thousand give his mind's allegiance (lips and life disregarded) to that ideal of human thought and conduct? Take your newspaper writer, who speaks to and for the million; he simply scorns every Christian precept. How can he but scorn a thing so unpractical? Nay, I notice that he is already throwing off the hypocrisy hitherto thought decent. I read newspaper articles which sneer and scoff at those who venture to remind the world that, after all, it nominally owes allegiance to a Christian ideal. Our prophets begin openly to proclaim that self-interest and the hardest materialism are our only safe guides. Now and then such passages amaze, appal me—but I am getting used to them. So I am to the same kind of declaration in everyday talk. Men in most respectable coats, sitting at most orderly tables, hold the language of pure barbarism. If you drew one of them aside, and said to him, 'But what about the fruits of the spirit?'—what sort of look would he give you?"
"I agree entirely," exclaimed Dyce. "And for that very reason I want to work for a new civilising principle."
"If you get into the House, shall you talk there about bio-sociology?"
"Why no," answered Dyce, with a chuckle. "If I were capable of that, I should have very little chance of getting into the House at all, or of doing anything useful anywhere."
"In other words," said his father, still eyeing an unlit pipe, "one must be practical—eh, Dyce?"
"In the right way."
"Yes, yes: one must be practical, practical. If you know whichisthe right way, I am very glad, I congratulate you. For my own part, I seek it vainly; I seek it these forty years and more; and it grows clear to me that I should have done much better not to heed that question at all. 'Blessed are the merciful—blessed are the pure in heart—blessed are the peacemakers.' It is all strikingly unpractical, Dyce, my boy; you can't, again in to-day's sweet language, 'run' the world on those principles. They are utterly incompatible with business; and business is life."
"But they are not at all incompatible with the civilisation I have in view," Dyce exclaimed.
"I am glad to hear it; very glad. You don't, however, see your way to that civilisation by teaching such axioms."
"Unfortunately not."
"No. You have to teach 'Blessed are the civic-minded, for they shall profit by their civism.' It has to be profit, Dyce, profit, profit. Live thus, and you'll get a good deal out of life; live otherwise, and youmayget more, but with an unpleasant chance of getting a good deal less."
"But isn't it unfortunately true that Christianity spoke also of rewards?"
"Yes, it is true. The promise was sometimes adapted to the poorer understanding. More often, it was nobler, and by that I take my stand. 'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.' The words, you know, had then a meaning. Now they have none. To see God was not a little thing, I imagine, but the vision, probably, brought with it neither purple nor fine linen.—For curiosity's sake, Dyce, read Matthew v. to vii. before you go to sleep. You'll find the old Bible in your bedroom."
The door was thrown open, and Mrs. Lashmar's voice broke upon the still air of the study.
"Dyce, have you seen to-day'sTimes? There's a most interesting article on the probable duration of Parliament. Take it up to your room with you, and read it before you sleep."
"There's a letter for you, Dyce; forwarded from Rivenoak, I see."
It lay beside his plate on the breakfast table, and Dyce eyed it with curiosity. The backward-sloping hand was quite unknown to him. He tapped at an egg, and still scrutinised the writing on the envelope; it was Constance who had crossed out the Rivenoak address, and had written beside it "The Vicarage, Alverholme."
"Have you slept well?" asked his mother, who treated him with much more consideration than at his last visit.
"Very well indeed," he replied mechanically, taking up his letter and cutting it open with a table-knife.
"HAVE MORE COURAGE. AIM HIGHER. IT IS NOT TOO LATE."
Dyce stared at the oracular message, written in capitals on a sheet of paper which contained nothing else. He again examined the envelope, but the post-mark in no way helped him. He glanced at his mother, and, finding her eye upon him, folded the sheet carelessly. He glanced at his father, who had just laid down a letter which evidently worried him. The meal passed with very little conversation. Dyce puzzled over the anonymous counsel so mysteriously conveyed to him, and presently went apart to muse unobserved.
He thought of Iris Woolstan. Of course a woman had done this thing, and Iris he could well believe capable of it. But what did she mean? Did she really imagine that, but for lack of courage, he would have made suit toher? Did she really regard herself as socially his superior? There was no telling. Women had the oddest notions on such subjects, and perhaps the fact of his engaging himself to Constance Bride, a mere secretary, struck her as deplorable. "Aim higher." The exhortation was amusing enough. One would have supposed it came at least from some great heiress—
He stopped in his pacing about the garden. An heiress?—May Tomalin?
Shaking of the head dismissed this fancy. Miss Tomalin was a matter-of-fact young person; he could not see her doing such a thing as this. And yet—and yet—when he remembered their last talk, was it not conceivable that he had made a deeper impression upon her than, in his modesty, he allowed himself to suppose? Had she not spoken, with a certain enthusiasm, of working on his behalf at Hollingford? The disturbing event which immediately followed had put Miss Tomalin into the distance; his mind had busied itself continuously with surmises as to the nature of the benefit he might expect if he married Constance. After all, Lady Ogram's niecemighthave had recourse to this expedient. She, at all events, knew that he was staying at Rivenoak, and might easily not have heard on what day he would leave. Or, perhaps, knowing that he left yesterday, she had calculated that the letter would reach him before his departure; it had possibly been delivered at Rivenoak by the mid-day post.
Amusing, the thought that Constance had herself re-addressed this communication!
Another possibility occurred to him. What if the writer were indeed Iris Woolstan, and her motive quite disinterested? What if she did not allude to herself at all, but was really pained at the thought of his making an insignificant marriage, when, by waiting a little, he was sure to win a wife suitable to his ambition? Of this, too, Iris might well be capable. Her last letter to him had had some dignity, and, all things considered, she had always shown herself a devoted, unexacting friend. It seemed more likely, it seemed much more likely, than the other conjecture.
Nevertheless, suppose Miss Tomalinhadtaken this romantic step? The supposition involved such weighty issues that he liked to harbour it, to play with it. He pictured himself calling in Pont Street; he entered the drawing-room, and his eyes fell at once upon Miss Tomalin, in whose manner he remarked something unusual a constraint, a nervousness. Saluting, he looked her fixedly in the face; she could not meet his regard; she blushed a little—
Why, it was very easy to determine whether or not she had sent that letter. In the case of Iris Woolstan, observation would have no certain results, for she must needs meet him with embarrassment. But Miss Tomalin would be superhuman if she did not somehow betray a nervous conscience.
Dyce strode into the house. His father and mother stood talking at the foot of the stairs, the vicar ready to go out.
"I must leave you at once," he exclaimed, looking at his watch. "Something I had forgotten—an engagement absurdly dropt out of mind. I must catch the next train—10.14, isn't it?"
Mrs. Lashmar sang out protest, but, on being assured that the engagement was political, urged him to make haste. The vicar all but silently pressed his hand, and with head bent, walked away.
He just caught the train. It would bring him to town by mid-day, in comfortable time to lunch and adorn himself before the permissible hour of calling in Pont Street. Rapid movement excited his imagination; he clung now to the hypothesis which at first seemed untenable; he built hopes upon it. Could he win a confession from May Tomalin, why should it be hopeless to sway the mind of Lady Ogram? If that were deemed impossible, they had but to wait. Lady Ogram would not live till the autumn. To be sure, she looked better since her return to Rivenoak, but she was frail, oh very frail, and sure to go off at a moment's notice. As for Constance—oh, Constance!
At his lodgings he found unimportant letters. Every letter would have seemed unimportant, compared with that he carried in his pocket. Roach, M. P., invited him to dine. The man at the Home Office wanted him to go to a smoking concert. Lady Susan Harrop sent a beggarly card for an evening ten days hence. Like the woman's impudence! And yet, as it had been posted since her receipt of his mother's recent letter, it proved that Lady Susan had a sense of his growing dignity, which was good in its way. He smiled at a recollection of the time when a seat at those people's table had seemed a desirable and agitating thing.
Before half-past three he found himself walking in Sloane Street. After consulting his watch several times in the course of a few minutes, he decided that, early as it was, he would go on at once to Mrs. Toplady's. Was he not privileged? Moreover, light rain began to fall, with muttering of thunder: he must seek shelter.
At a door in Pont Street stood two vehicles, a brougham and a cab. Was it at Mrs. Toplady's? Yes, so it proved; and, just as Dyce went up to the house, the door opened. Out came a servant, carrying luggage; behind the servant came Mrs. Toplady, and, behind her, Miss Tomalin. Hat in hand, Lashmar faced the familiar smile, at this moment undisguisedly mischievous.
"Mr. Lashmar!" exclaimed the lady, in high good humour. "We are just going to St. Pancras. Miss Tomalin leaves me to-day.—Why, it is raining! Can't we take you with us? Yes, yes, come into the carriage, and we'll drop you where you like."
Lashmar's eye was on the heiress. She said nothing as she shook hands, and, unless he mistook, there was a tremour about her lips, her eyelids, an unwonted suggestion of shyness in her bearing. The ladies being seated, he took his place opposite to them, and again perused Miss Tomalin's countenance. Decidedly, she was unlike herself; manifestly, she avoided his look. Mrs. Toplady talked away, in the gayest spirits; and the rain came down heavily, and thunder rolled. Half the distance to St. Pancras was covered before May had uttered anything more than a trivial word or two. Of a sudden she addressed Lashmar, as if about to speak of something serious.
"You left all well at Rivenoak?"
"Quite well."
"When did you come away?"
"Early yesterday morning," Dyce replied.
May's eyebrows twitched; her look fell.
"I went to Alverholme," Dyce continued, "to see my people."
May turned her eyes to the window. Uneasiness appeared in her face. "She wants to know"—said Dyce to himself—"whether I have received that letter."
"Do you stay in town?" inquired Mrs. Toplady.
"For a week or two, I think." He added, carelessly, "A letter this morning, forwarded from Rivenoak, brought me back."
May made a nervous movement, and at once exclaimed:
"I suppose your correspondence is enormous, Mr. Lashmar?"
"Enormous—why no. But interesting, especially of late."
"Of course—a public man—"
Impossible to get assurance. The signs he noticed might mean nothing at all; on the other hand, they were perhaps decisive. More about the letter of this morning he durst not say, lest, if this girl had really written it, she should think him lacking in delicacy, in discretion.
"Very kind of you, to come to me at once," said Mrs. Toplady. "Is there good news of the campaign? Come and see me to-morrow, can you? This afternoon I have an engagement. I shall only just have time to see Miss Tomalin safe in the railway carriage."
Dyce made no request to be set down. After this remark of Mrs. Toplady's, a project formed itself in his mind. When the carriage entered Euston Road, rain was still falling.
"This'll do good," he remarked. "The country wants it."
His thoughts returned to the morning, a week ago, when Constance and he had been balked of their ride by a heavy shower. He saw the summer-house among the trees; he saw Constance's face, and heard her accents.
They reached the station. As a matter of course, Dyce accompanied his friends on to the platform, where the train was already standing. Miss Tomalin selected her seat. There was leave-taking. Dyce walked away with Mrs. Toplady, who suddenly became hurried.
"I shall only just have time," she said, looking at the clock. "I'm afraid my direction—northward—would only take you more out of your way."
Dyce saw her to the brougham, watched it drive off. There remained three minutes before the departure of Miss Tomalin's train. He turned back into the station; he walked rapidly, and on the platform almost collided with a heavy old gentleman whom an official was piloting to a carriage. This warm-faced, pompous-looking person he well knew by sight. Another moment, and he stood on the step of the compartment where May had her place. At sight of him, she half rose.
"What is it? Have I forgotten something?"
The compartment was full. Impossible to speak before these listening people. In ready response to his embarrassed look, May alighted.
"I'm so sorry to have troubled you," said Dyce, with laughing contrition. "I thought it might amuse you to know thatMr. Robbis in the train!"
"Really? How I should have liked to be in the same carriage. Perhaps I should have heard the creature talk. Oh, and this compartment is so full, so hot! Is it impossible to find a better?"
Dyce rushed at a passing guard. He learnt that, if Miss Tomalin were willing to change half way on her journey, she could travel at ease; only the through carriages for Hollingford were packed. To this May at once consented. Dyce seized her dressing-bag, her umbrella; they sped to another part of the train, and sprang, both of them, into an empty first-class.
"This is delightful!" cried the girl. "Iamso much obliged to you!"
"Tickets, please."
"Shown already," replied May. "Change of carriage."
The door was slammed, locked. The whistle sounded.
"But we're starting!" May exclaimed. "Quick! Jump out, Mr. Lashmar!"
Dyce sat still, smiling calmly.
"It's too late, I'm afraid I mustn't try to escape by the window."
"Oh, and you have sacrificed yourself just to make me more comfortable! How inconvenient it will be for you! What a waste of time!"
"Not at all. The best thing that could have happened."
"Well, we have papers at all events." May handed him one. "Pray don't feel obliged to talk."
"As it happens, I very much wish to talk. Queer thing that I should owe my opportunity to Robb. I shall never again feel altogether hostile to that man. I wish you had seen him. He looked apoplectic. This weather must try him severely."
"You never spoke to him, I suppose?" asked May.
"I never had that honour. Glimpses only of the great man have been vouchsafed to me. Once seen, he is never forgotten. To-day he looks alarmingly apoplectic."
"But really, Mr. Lashmar," said the girl, settling herself in her corner, "I do feel ashamed to have given you this useless journey—and just when you are so busy."
She was pretty in her travelling costume. Could Lashmar have compared her appearance to-day with that she had presented on her first arrival at Rivenoak, he would have marvelled at the change wrought by luxurious circumstance. No eye-glasses now; no little paper-cutter hanging at her girdle. Called upon to resume the Northampton garb, May would have been horrified. The brown shoes which she had purchased expressly for her visit to Lady Ogram would have seemed impossibly large and coarse. Exquisite were her lavender gloves. Such details of attire, formerly regarded with some contempt, had now an importance for her. She had come to regard dress as one of the serious concerns of life.
"I went to Pont Street this afternoon," said Dyce, "with a wish that by some chance I might see you alone. It was very unlikely, but it has come to pass."
May exhibited a slight surprise, and by an imperceptible movement put a little more dignity into her attitude.
"What did you wish to speak about?" she asked, with an air meant to be strikingly natural.
"Don't let me startle you; it was about my engagement to Miss Bride."
This time, Dyce felt he could not be mistaken. She was confused; he saw colour mounting on her neck; the surprise she tried to convey in smiling was too obviously feigned.
"Isn't that rather an odd subject of conversation?"
"It seems so, but wait till you have heard what I have to say. It is on Miss Bride's account that I speak. You are her friend, and I feel that, in mere justice to her, I ought to tell you a very strange story. It is greatly to her honour. She couldn't tell you the truth herself, and of course you will not be able to let her know that you know it. But it will save you from possible misunderstanding of her, enable you to judge her fairly."
May hardly disguised her curiosity. It absorbed her self-consciousness, and she looked the speaker straight in the face.
"To come to the point at once," pursued Lashmar, "our engagement is not a genuine one. Miss Bride has not really consented to marry me. She only consents to have it thought that she has done so. And very generous, very noble, it is of her."
"What a strange thing!" the girl exclaimed, as ingenuously as she had ever spoken in her life.
"Isn't it! I can explain in a word or two. Lady Ogram wished us to marry; it was a favourite project of hers. She spoke to me about it—putting me in a very difficult position, for I felt sure that Miss Bride had no such regard for me as your aunt supposed. I postponed, delayed as much as possible, and the result was that Lady Ogram began to take my behaviour ill. The worst of it was, her annoyance had a bad effect on her health. I think you know that Lady Ogram cannot bear contradiction."
"I know that she doesn't like it," said May, her chin rising a little.
"You, of course, are favoured. You have exceptional influence. But I can assure you that it would have been a very unpleasant thing to have to tell Lady Ogram either that I couldn't take the step she wished, or that Miss Bride rejected me."
"I can believe that," said May indulgently.
"When I saw that she was making herself ill about it, I took the resolve to speak frankly to Miss Bride. The result was—our pretended engagement."
"Was it your suggestion?" inquired the listener.
"Yes, it came from me," Dyce answered, with half real, half affected, embarrassment. "Of course I felt it to be monstrous impudence, but, as some excuse for me, you must remember that Miss Bride and I have known each other for many years, that we were friends almost in childhood. Perhaps I was rather a coward. Perhaps I ought to have told your aunt the truth, and taken the consequences. But Miss Bride, no less than I, felt afraid of them."
"What consequences?"
"We really feared that, in Lady Ogram's state of health—"
He broke off significantly. May dropped her eyes. The train roared through a station.
"But," said May at length, "I understand that you are to be married in October."
"That is Lady Ogram's wish. Of course it's horribly embarrassing. I needn't say that when our engagement is announced as broken off, I shall manage so that all the fault appears to be on my side. But I am hoping—that Lady Ogram may somehow be brought to change her mind. And I even dare to hope that—you will help us to that end."
"I? How could I, possibly?"
"Indeed, I hardly know. But the situation is so awkward, and you are the only person who has really great influence with Lady Ogram—"
There was silence amid the noise of the train. May looked through one window, Dyce through the other.
"In any case," exclaimed Lashmar, "I have discharged what I felt to be a duty. I could not bear to think that you should be living with Miss Bride, and totally misunderstanding her. I wanted you to do justice to her noble self-sacrifice. Of course I have felt ashamed of myself ever since I allowed her to get into such a false position. You, I fear, think worse of me than you did."
He regarded her from under his eyelids, as if timidly. May sat very upright. She did not look displeased; a light in her eyes might have been understood as expressing satisfaction.
"Suppose," she said, looking away, "that October comes, and you haven't been able to—to put an end to this situation?"
"I'm afraid—very much afraid—that we shall have to do so at any cost."
"It's very strange, altogether. An extraordinary state of things."
"You forgive me for talking to you about it?" asked Dyce, leaning respectfully forward.
"I understand why you did. There was no harm in it."
"Do you remember our talk in the supper-room at Mrs. Toplady's?—when we agreed that nothing was more foolish than false modesty. Shall I venture to tell you, now, that, if this marriage came about, it would be something like ruin to my career? You won't misunderstand. I have a great respect, and a great liking, for Miss Bride; but think how all-important it is, this question of marriage for a public man."
"Of course I understand that," May replied.
He enlarged upon the topic, revealing his hopes.
"But I rather thought," said May, "that Miss Bride was just the sort of companion you needed. She is so intelligent and—"
"Very! But do you think she has the qualities which would enable her to take a high position in society? There's no unkindness in touching upon that. Admirable women may fall short of these particular excellencies. A man chooses his wife according to the faith he has in his future."
"I understand; I quite understand," said May, with a large air. "No; it has to be confessed that Miss Bride—I wonder my aunt didn't think of that."
They turned aside to discuss Lady Ogram, and did so in such detail, with so much mutual satisfaction, that time slipped on insensibly, and, ere they had thought of parting, the train began to slacken down for the junction where Miss Tomalin would have to change carriages.
"How annoying that I shan't be able to see you again!" cried Lashmar.
"But shan't you be coming to Rivenoak?"
"Not for some time, very likely. And when I do—" The train stopped. Dyce helped his companion to alight, and moved along to seek for a place for her in the section which went to Hollingford. Suddenly an alarmed voice from one of the carriage-doors shouted "Guard! Station-master!" People turned in that direction; porters ran; evidently, something serious had happened.
"What's the matter?" asked May, at her companion's side.
"Somebody taken ill, I think," said Dyce, moving towards the door whence the shout had sounded.
He caught a glimpse of a man who had sunk upon the floor of the carriage, and was just being lifted onto the seat by other passengers. Pressing nearer, he saw a face hideously congested, with horrible starting eyes. He drew back, and whispered to May:
"It's Robb! Didn't I tell you that he looked apoplectic."
The girl shrank in fear.
"Are you sure?"
"Perfectly. Stand here a minute, and I'll ask how it happened."
From the talk going on he quickly learnt that Mr. Robb, complaining that he felt faint, had risen, just as the train drew into the station, to open the door and descend. Before anyone could help him, he dropped, and his fellow-travellers shouted. Dyce and May watched the conveyance of the obese figure across the platform to a waiting-room.
"I must know the end of this," said Lashmar, his eyes gleaming.
"You wouldn't have gone further, should you?"
"I suppose not—though I had still a great deal to tell you. Quick! We must get your place."
"I could stop for the next train," suggested May.
"Better not, I think. The carriage will be waiting for you at Hollingford. No, better not. I have another idea."
They found a seat. Dyce threw in the dressing-bag, and alighted again.
"There's still a minute or two," he said, keeping May beside him on the platform. "This affair may be tremendously important for me, you know."
"It would mean an election at once," said the girl, excitedly.
"Of course." He approached his face to hers, and added in low, rapid tones, "You know the park gate into the Wapham Road?"
"Yes."
"You have a key. Could you be there at eight tomorrow morning? If it's fine, take your bicycle, as if you were going for a spin before breakfast. Miss Bride never goes out before breakfast, and no one else is likely to pass that way."
"You mean you would be there?"
"If there's anything important to tell—yes. From a quarter to eight. I shall stay here till I know the state of things. If there's recovery, I will go back to town, and wire to-morrow to Lady Ogram that I have heard a rumour of Robb's serious illness, asking for information. Do you agree?"
Doors were slamming; porters were shouting. May had only just time to spring into the carriage.
"Yes!" she exclaimed, with her head at the window. Dyce doffed his hat. They smiled at each other, May's visage flushed and agitated, and the train whirled away.
In the carriage awaiting Miss Tomalin at Hollingford station sat Constance Bride.
"A horrible journey!" May exclaimed, taking a seat beside her. "No seat in a through carriage at St. Pancras. Had to change at the junction. Somebody in the train had a fit, or something—no wonder, with such heat! But it's cooler here. Have you had a storm?"
The footman, who had been looking after luggage, stepped up to the carriage door and spoke to Miss Bride. He said there was a rumour in the station that Mr. Robb, travelling by this train, had been seized with apoplexy on the way.
"Mr. Robb!" exclaimed Constance. "Then he was the person you spoke of?"
"I suppose so," May answered. "Queer thing!"
They drove off. Constance gazed straight before her, thinking intently.
"If the attack is fatal," said May, "we shall have an election at once."
"Yes," fell from her companion's lips mechanically.
"Who will be the Conservative candidate?"
"I have no idea," answered Constance, still absorbed in her thoughts.
May cast a glance at her, and discovered emotion in the fixed eyes, the set lips. There was a short silence, then Miss Tomalin spoke as if an amusing thought had struck her.
"You received that American magazine from Mrs. Toplady? Isn't it an odd coincidence—the French book, you know?"
"It didn't seem to me very striking," replied Constance, coldly.
"No? Perhaps not." May became careless. "I hadn't time to read it myself; I only heard what Mrs. Toplady said about it."
"There was a certain resemblance between the Frenchman's phraseology and Mr. Lashmar's," said Constance; "but nothing more. Mr. Lashmar's system isn't easy to grasp. I doubt whether Mrs. Toplady is quite the person to understand it."
"Perhaps not," May smiled, raising her chin. "I must read the article myself."
"Even then," rejoined her companion, in a measured tone, "you will hardly be able to decide as to the resemblance of the two theories."
"Why not?" asked May, sharply.