"Her stockings were of Kersey green,And tight as ony silk;O, sic a leg was never seen!Her skin was white as milk.Her hair was black as ane could wish,And sweet, sweet was her mou'!Ah! Jeany daintily can kiss;But what is that to you?"
"Her stockings were of Kersey green,
And tight as ony silk;
O, sic a leg was never seen!
Her skin was white as milk.
Her hair was black as ane could wish,
And sweet, sweet was her mou'!
Ah! Jeany daintily can kiss;
But what is that to you?"
"She has a way of giving those two wretched last lines which is simply an outrage," Billy Foot complained to the now silent Sally Dutton.
Again the Bird tried to edge towards Andy. Jack Rock forbade.
"But I've a message," the Bird whispered protestingly.
"Damn your message! She's singin' to us!"
"The Rose and Lily baith combineTo make my Jeany fair;There is no Benison like mine,I have a'maist no care,But when another swain, my fair,Shall say 'You're fair to view,'Let Jeany whisper in his ear,'Pray, what is that to you?'"
"The Rose and Lily baith combine
To make my Jeany fair;
There is no Benison like mine,
I have a'maist no care,
But when another swain, my fair,
Shall say 'You're fair to view,'
Let Jeany whisper in his ear,
'Pray, what is that to you?'"
There was loud applause.
"I only sang it for Mr. Rock," said the Nun, relapsing into a demureness which had not consistently marked her rendering of the song.
Released from Jack's imprisoning eye, the Birddarted to Andy and delivered his delayed message. "Mr. Harry—Andy, if you'd step into the street, sir—Andy, I mean—(the Bird was confused as to social distinctions)—he's waiting—and looking infernally put out!"
"He wants me—outside? Why doesn't he come in? Well, I'll go." Andy rose to his feet.
"You've fired his imagination!" remarked Gilly to the Nun. "He goes to seek adventures. Yet your song was that of a moralist."
"A moralist somewhat too curious about a stocking," Billy opined.
"Oh, well, I never think anything of a girl who lets her stockings get into wrinkles," the Nun observed, as she resumed her seat. "Do you, Jack?"
Her eyes had followed Andy as he went out. To tell the truth, they had chanced to fall on him once or twice as she sang her song. But Andy had looked a little preoccupied; that fact had not made her sing worse—and at last Andy had gently drummed three fingers on the table.
"You've a wonderful way of puttin' it, miss," said old Jack Rock.
She laid her hand on his arm, saucily affectionate. "Pray what is that to you?" she asked.
"I'm off, miss. Thank you kindly. It's been an evenin' for me!"
She let him go, with the kindest of farewells. A salvo of applause from the company honoured his exit. She rested her chin in her hands, her elbows on the table. Jack Rock was to be heard saying his good-nights—merry chaff with old Dove, with the Bird, with Miss Miles. Why had Andy gone out—and Harry Belfield not come in?
Billy Foot rose, moved round the table, and sat by her. "Where did you find it?"
"In an old book a friend gave me."
"I like it." Billy sounded quite convinced of the song's merit.
"It has got a little bit of—of the feeling, hasn't it?"
"The feeling which I've always understood you never felt?"
She was securely evasive. "It's supposed to be a man who sings it, Billy."
"That accounts for the foolishness of the sentiments?"
"Makes them sound familiar, anyhow," said the Nun, preferring experience to theory.
Andy came in. He went quickly to the Nun and bent down over her chair.
"Harry's outside—with Miss Vintry. He wants to know if he may bring her in," he said, speaking very low.
Surprise got the better of the Nun's discretion. Her voice was audible to them all, as she exclaimed:
"Miss Vintry with him! At this time of night!"
"I think perhaps—as we've finished supper—we'd better break up," said Andy, apologetically addressing the company.
"Why? Has anything happened?" asked Billy Foot.
"I think so." He bent down to the Nun again. "Miss Vintry has got to sleep here to-night." His voice was low, but they were all very still, and the voice carried.
"There's no room for her—with Gilly here as well as us," the Nun protested rather fretfully.
"You must make room somehow," he returned firmly. "I'm going to bring them in now." He looked significantly at Billy Foot. "We're rather a large party."
Billy turned to his brother. "I'm off home. Will you stroll with me as far as Halton?"
Gilly nodded in a bewildered fashion—he was not up in Meriton affairs—and slowly rose.
"And when I come back I'll go straight to bed," he said, looking at Andy to see whether what he suggested met with acceptance.
Andy nodded approval; Gilly would be best in bed.
With the briefest farewell the brothers passed out. As they went, they saw Harry Belfield, with a woman on his arm, walking slowly up and down on the other side of the street.
Sally Dutton rose. "I'll go to bed too." As she reached the door she turned round and said, "At least I'll wait in my room. She—she can come in with me, if she likes, Andy."
"Thank you," said Andy gravely.
"What is it, Andy?" the Nun asked.
"A general break-up," he answered briefly, as he followed Sally Dutton out of the room.
The Nun sat on amidst the relics of her feast—the fruit, the flowers, the empty bottles. Somehow they all looked rather ghastly. She gave a little shiver of disgust.
Andy came in with Isobel Vintry clinging to his arm, Harry following and carefully closing the door.
Andy made Isobel sit down at the table and offered her some wine from a half-emptied bottle. She refused with a gesture and laid her head between her hands on the table. Harry threw his hat on a chair and stood helplessly in the middle of the room. The Nun sat in a hostile silence.
"She'd better go straight to bed," said Andy.
"She can have my room. I'll go in with Sally."
He looked at her. "She'd better have somebody with her, I think. Will you call Sally?"
The Nun obeyed, and Sally came. As she passed Harry, she smiled in her queer derisive fashion, but her voice was kind as she took hold of Isobel's arm and raised her, saying, "Come, you're upset to-night. It won't look half so bad in the morning."
Harry met Isobel and clasped her hands. Then she and Sally Dutton went out together.
Harry sat down heavily in a chair by the table and poured out a glass of wine.
"Do you two men want to be alone together?" the Nun asked.
Harry shook his head. "I'm just off home."
"It's all arranged," said Andy. "Harry goes to London by the early train to-morrow. I shall get her things from Nutley directly after breakfast and bring them here. You and Sally will look after her till twelve o'clock. Then I'll take her to the station. Harry will meet her at the other end, and—well, they've made their plans."
Harry lit a cigarette and smoked it very quickly, between gulps of wine. Andy had begun to smoke too. His air was calm, though grave; he seemed to have taken charge of the whole affair.
"Are you going to marry her?" the Nun suddenly inquired, with her usual directness.
"You might have gathered that much from what Andy said," Harry grumbled in an injured tone.
"Does Vivien know yet?"
He dropped his cigarette-end into his emptied glass.
"Yes," he answered, frowning. "For God's sake, don't put me through a catechism, Doris!" He rose from his chair, looking round for his hat.
"Shall I walk back with you?" Andy asked.
"No, thanks. I'd rather be alone." His tone was still very injured, as though the two were in league with one another, and with all the world, to persecute him. He came up to the Nun. "I shan't see you again for a bit, I expect. Good-bye, Doris." He held out his hand to her. The Nun interlaced her hands on the table in front of her.
"I won't!" she said. "I won't shake hands with you to-night, Harry Belfield. You've broken the heart of the sweetest girl I ever met. You've brought shame and misery on her—you who aren't fit to black her shoes! You've brought shame on your people. I suppose you've pretty well done for yourself in Meriton. And all for what? Because you must philander, must have your conquests, must always be proving to yourself that nobody can resist you!"
Harry looked morosely resentful at the indictment. "Oh, you can't understand. Nobody canunderstand who—who isn't made that way. You talk as if I'd meant to do it!"
"I think I'd rather you had meant to do it. That'd be rather less contemptible, I think."
"Gently, gently, Doris!" Andy interposed.
She turned on him. "Oh yes, it's always 'Gently, gently!' with Harry Belfield. He's to be indulged, and excused, and forgiven, and all the rest of it. Let him hear the truth for once, Andy. Even if it doesn't do him any good to hear it, it does me good to say it—lots of good!"
"You'd better go, Harry. You won't find her good company to-night. I'll be at the station to see you off to-morrow—before I see about the things at Nutley."
"I'm going; and I'm much obliged to Doris for her abuse. She's always been the same about me—sneering and snarling!"
"I've never made a fool of myself about you. That's what you can't forgive, Harry."
"Go, my dear fellow, go," said Andy. "What's the use of this?"
Harry moved off towards the door. As he went out, he said over his shoulder, "At any rate you can't say I'm not doing the square thing now!"
They heard the "Boots" open the door of the inn for him; a moment later his step passed thewindow. Andy came and sat down by the Nun; she caught his big hand in hers.
"I'm trying hard not to cry. I don't want to break my record. How did it all happen?"
"Wellgood came back before they expected him. Harry met her—by chance, he says—after he'd left Vivien, and he was carried away, he says. Somehow or other—I don't quite understand how—Vivien came on the scene again. Then Wellgood was on to them, and had the whole thing out, before his daughter. It seems that he's in love with Miss Vintry himself—so I understood Harry. That, of course, didn't make him any kinder."
"It's cruel, cruel, cruel!"
"Yes, but do you remember a talk we had about it once?"
"Yes. You thought this—this sort of thing would really be the best."
"I was thinking of Miss Wellgood. Of course, for poor Harry—Wellgood's a dangerous enemy!" He paused a moment. "And the thing's so bad. He wasn't square with either of them, and they're both in love with him, I suppose!"
"This woman here in love with him? Really? Not only for the match?"
"I think so."
"I'm sorry for her then. She'd much betternot be! Oh, I daresay he'll marry her. How much will that mean with Harry Belfield?"
Feeling in less danger of breaking her record, she loosed her hold of Andy's hand. He rose.
"I must be off. I've a lot to do to-morrow. Gilly'll have to look after the office. I've got to see Mr. Belfield among other things; and Harry wants me to see Vivien Wellgood—and, well, try to say something for him."
"Just like him! He breaks the pitcher and leaves you to sweep up the pieces!"
"Well, he can't see her himself, can he?"
"He'd make love to her again if he did. You may be sure of that!"
The door opened, and Sally Dutton came in in her dressing-gown, with her pretty hair all about her shoulders.
"She's asleep—sound asleep. So I—may I stay a few minutes with you, Doris? I—I've got the blues awfully badly." She came to the Nun and knelt down beside her. Suddenly she broke into a torrent of sobs. Andy heard her say through them, "Oh, it reminds me—!"
Doris looked at him and nodded. "I shall see you soon in London, Andy?"
He pressed her hand and left the two girls together.
Gilly Foot was smoking a reflective pipe outsidethe door; he had possessed himself of the key and sent the sleepy "Boots" to bed. Andy obtained leave of absence for the morrow.
"Rather a disturbed evening, eh, Andy?" said Gilly, smoking thoughtfully. "Lucky it didn't happen till we'd done supper! Fact is one doesn't like to say it of an old friend—but Harry Belfield's no good."
Andy had a whimsical idea that at such a sentiment the stones of Meriton High Street would cry out. The pet and the pride of the town, the man of all accomplishments, the man who was to have that wonderful career—here he was being cavalierly and curtly dismissed as "no good."
"Come, we must give him another chance," Andy urged.
Gilly knocked out his pipe with an air of decision.
"Rotten—rotten at the core, old boy, that's it," he said, as with a nod of good-night he entered the precincts of the Lion.
Andy Hayes was sore to the heart. He had thought that a catastrophe such as this, a "row," would be the best thing—the best for Vivien Wellgood. He was even surer of it now—even now, when to think of the pain she suffered sent a pang through his heart. But what a light that increased certainty of his threw on Harry Belfield! And,as he said to himself, trudging home from the Lion, Harry had always been a part of his life—in early days a very big part—and one of the most cherished. Harry's hand had been the source whence benefits flowed; Harry's example had been an inspiration. Whatever Harry had done now, or might do in the future—that future now suddenly become so much less assured, so much harder to foresee—the great debt remained. Andy did not grudge "sweeping up the pieces." Alas, that he could not mend the broken pitcher! Sore as his heart was for the blow that had fallen on Vivien—on her so frail that the lightest touch of adversity seemed cruel—yet his sorest pain was that the blow came from Harry Belfield's hand. That filled him with a shame almost personal. He had so identified himself with his friend and hero, he had so shared in and profited by the good in him—his kindness, his generosity, his championship—that he could not rid himself of a feeling of sharing also in the evil. In the sullying of Harry's honour he saw his own stained—even as by Harry's high achievements he would have felt his own friendship glorified.
"Without Harry I should never have been where or what I am." That was the thought in his mind, and it was a sure verity. Harry had opened the doors, he had walked through. WhateverHarry had done or would do with his own life, he had done much for his friend's, and done it gaily and gladly. Doris Flower might chide and despair; Gilly Foot's contemptuous verdict might dismiss Harry to his fate. That could not be Andy's mood nor Andy's attitude. Gratitude forbade despair; it must be his part still to work, to aid, to shelter; always, above all, to forgive, and to try—at least to try—to comprehend.
Love or friendship can set no higher or harder task than in demanding the comprehension of a temperament utterly diverse, alien, and incompatible. That was the task Andy's heart laid on his brain. "You must not give up," was its command. Others might take their pleasure in Harry's gifts, might enjoy his brilliance, or reap benefit from his ready kindness—and then, when trouble came, pass by on the other side. There was every excuse for them; in the common traffic of life no more is asked or expected; men, even brilliant men, must behave themselves at their peril. Andy did not stand so. It was his to try to assess Harry's weakness, and to see if anywhere there could be found a remedy, a buttress for the weak wall in that charming edifice. Such a pity if it fell down, with all its beauties, just because of that one weak wall! But, alas, poor Andy was ill-fitted for this exacting task of love's. He mighttell himself where his duty lay; he might argue that he could and did understand how a man might have a weak spot, and yet be a good man—one capable of useful and high things. But his instinct, the native colour of his mind, was all against these arguments. The shame that such a man should do such things was stronger. The weak spot seemed to spread in ever-widening circles; the evil seemed more and more to invade and infect the system; the weak wall doomed the whole edifice. Reason, argue, and pray for his friend as he might, in his inmost mind a voice declared that this day had witnessed the beginning of the end of the Harry Belfield whom he had loved.
"Harry Belfield's no good!" "How are the mighty fallen and the weapons of war perished!"
Belfield rubbed his hands against one another with a rueful smile. "Yes, yes, he's a hard fellow. He's hard on us; hard in taking a course that makes scandal inevitable. Meriton High Street will be breast-high in gossip about the midnight expulsion in a few hours. And hard in this—I suppose I'm not entitled to call it persecution—this punishment with which he threatens Harry. Still, if a man had treated my daughter in that way, and that daughter Vivien—" He spread out his hands, and added, "But then he's always been as hard as nails to the poor girl herself. You think there's that other motive? If you're right there, I put my foot in it once." He was thinking of certain hints he had given Wellgood at dinner one evening.
"There's no doubt about it, I think, sir, but it doesn't help us much. It may show that Wellgood'smotives aren't purely paternal, but it doesn't make matters better for Harry."
"It's terribly awkward—with us at one end of the town and Nutley at the other. Most things blow over, but"—he screwed up his face wryly—"meeting's awkward! And there's the politics! Wellgood's chairman of his Association. Oh, Harry, Harry, you have made a mess of it! I think I'll go and talk it over with Meriton—make a clean breast of it and see what he says. He might be able to keep Wellgood quiet. You don't look as if you thought there was much chance of it."
"I don't know whether Harry would come back and face it, even if Wellgood were managed. A tough morsel for his pride to swallow! And if he did, could he bring her—at all events so long as Miss Wellgood's at Nutley? Yet if they marry—and I suppose they will—"
"I think we may take it that he'll marry her. The boy's ungoverned and untrustworthy, but he's not shabby, Andy." A note of pleading for his son crept into his voice.
"It's the right thing for him to do, but it'll make it still more difficult to go on as if nothing had happened. However I hope you will see Lord Meriton and get his opinion."
"I should like you to talk to Wellgood and findout what his terms really are. I can't ask favours of him, but I want to know exactly where we stand. And Vivien—no, I must write to her myself, poor dear girl. Not a pleasant letter to write." He paused a moment and asked, with an air of being rather ashamed of the question, "Is the sinner himself very desperate?"
"Last night he was, I think; at any rate terribly angry with himself, and—I'm afraid I must add—with his bad luck. When I saw him off this morning he was in one of his defiant moods, saying he could get on without Meriton's approval, and wishing the whole place at the devil."
"Yes, yes, that's Harry! Because he's made a fool—and worse—of himself, you and I and Meriton are to go to the devil! Well, I suppose it's not peculiar to poor Harry. And you saw him off? I can't thank you for all your kindness, Andy."
"Well, sir, if a man can feel that way, I'd almost rather have done the thing myself! I've got to ask her to see me on his behalf."
Belfield shook his head. "Not much to be said there. And I've got to tell my wife. Not much there either."
"I'm afraid Mrs. Belfield will be terribly distressed."
"Yes, yes; but mothers wear special spectacles,you know. She'll think it very deplorable, but it's quite likely that she'll find out it's somebody else's fault. Wellgood's, probably, because she never much liked him. If it helps her, let her think so."
"It was partly his fault. Why didn't he own up about Miss Vintry?"
"Not much excuse, even if you'd been the trespasser. With Harry engaged to Vivien, no excuse at all. How could it be in any legitimate way Harry's business what Wellgood wanted of Isobel Vintry? Still it may be that the argument'll be good enough for his mother."
"Well, sir, I'll see Wellgood to-day, and let you know the result. And Miss Wellgood too, if she'll see me. I positively must go to London to-morrow."
"Yes, yes. You go back to work, Andy. You've your own life. And that pretty girl, Miss Flower—does she go back too?"
"She goes this afternoon. And Billy Foot with them, I think."
"Yes, so he does. I forgot. Give her my love. I'd come and give her a nosegay at the station, only I don't feel like facing people to-day." He sighed wearily. "A man's pride is easily hit through his children. And I suppose we've cracked Harry up to the skies! Nemesis, Andy,Nemesis! There, good-bye. You're a thorough good fellow."
Billy Foot waylaid Andy as he left Halton. Billy's view of the matter was not ideal or exalted, but it went to a practical point.
"Did you ever know such a fool?" cried Billy. "What does he want to do it down here for? He's got all London to play the fool in, if he must play the fool! Nobody knows there, or if they do they don't care. Or if A cares B doesn't, and B's just as amusing to dine with—probably more so. But in this little hen-roost of a place! All the fowls'll cackle, and all to the same tune. I'll lay you six to four he's dished himself for good in Meriton. Where are you off to?"
"I've got to see Miss Vintry off, then I'm going to Nutley. By-the-bye, how did you hear about it?"
"It wasn't hard to guess, last night, was it? However, to inform my mind better, Andy, I took occasion to call at the Lion. I didn't see Miss Vintry, but I did see Miss Flower. Also I saw old Dove, and young Dove, and Miss Miles, all with faces as long as your arm—and enjoying themselves immensely! You can no more keep it dark in a place like this than you can hide the parish church under your pocket-handkerchief. They'll all know there was a row at Nutley; they'll allknow Miss Vintry was turned out and slept at the Lion; they'll all know that Harry and she have gone to London, and, of course, they'll know the engagement's broken. They're not clever, I admit—I've made speeches to them—but I suppose they're not born idiots! They must have a rudimentary inductive faculty."
The truth of these words was clearly shown to Andy's mind when he called at the Lion to pick up Isobel. She was alone in the Nun's sitting-room; the two girls had already said good-bye to her and gone out for a last walk in Meriton. When she came into the hall to meet him she was confronted by a phalanx of hostile eyes—Miss Miles', old Dove's, the Bird's, two chambermaids', the very "Boots" who had officiated at the door on the previous night. Nobody spoke to her. Her luggage, sent down from Nutley in answer to Andy's messenger, was already on the cab. Andy was left himself to open the door. Nobody even wanted a tip from her. Could unpopularity go further or take any form more glaring?
Before the hostile eyes (she included Andy's among them) Isobel was herself again—calm, haughty, unabashed, her feelings under full control. There were no signs of the tempest she had passed through; she was again the Miss Vintry who had given lessons in courage and the other manlyvirtues. Andy was unfeignedly glad that this was her condition; his practical equipment included small aptitude for dealing with hysterics.
For the better part of the way to the station she said nothing. At last she looked across at Andy, who sat opposite to her, and remarked, "Well, Mr. Hayes, you saw the beginning; now you see the end."
"Since it has happened, I can only hope the end will be happy—for you and for him."
"I'm getting what I wanted. If you want a thing and get it, you can hardly complain, whatever happens."
"That sounds very reasonable, but—"
"The best thing to hope about reason is to hope you won't need it? Yes!"
It seemed that the news had not yet spread so far afield as to reach the station. The old stationmaster was friendly and loquacious.
"Quite a break-up of you all to-day, sir," he said. "Mr. 'Arry gone by the first train, the stout gentleman by the next, now Miss Vintry, and a carriage engaged for Miss Flower's party and Mr. Foot this afternoon! A real break-up, I call it!"
"That's about what it comes to, Mr. Parsons," said Andy, as he handed Isobel into the train.
"Well, 'olidays must 'ave an end. A pleasant journey and a safe return, miss."
Isobel smiled at Andy. "You'd stop at the first part of the wish, Mr. Hayes?"
Andy put out his hand to her. With the slightest air of surprise she took it. "We must make the best of it. Do what you can for him."
"I'll do all he'll let me." Her eyes met his; she smiled. "I know all that as well as you do. Surely I, if anybody, ought to know it?" It seemed to Andy as if that were what her eyes and her smile said. "I want you to deliver one message for me," she went on. "Don't be alarmed, I'm not daring to send a message to anybody who belongs to Meriton. But when you next see Miss Dutton, will you tell her I shan't forget her kindness? I've already thanked Miss Flower for the use of her sitting-room. Ah, we're moving! Good-bye!"
She was smiling as she went. Andy was smiling too; the degree of her gratitude to Sally Dutton and to the Nun respectively had been admirably defined.
The fire of Wellgood's wrath was still smouldering hotly, ready to break out at any moment if the slightest breath of passion fanned it. He received Andy civilly enough, but at the first hint that he came in some sort as an ambassador from Harry'sfather, his back stiffened. His position was perfectly clear, and seemed unalterable. So far as it lay in his power he would banish Harry Belfield from Meriton and put an end to any career he might have there. He repeated to Andy more calmly, but not less forcibly, what he had shouted in his fury the evening before.
"Of course I want it kept as quiet as possible; but I don't want it kept quiet at the cost of that fellow's going unpunished—getting off scot-free! We've nothing to be ashamed of. Publicity won't hurt us, little as we may like it. But it'll hurt him, and he shall have it in full measure—straight in the face. Is it a possible state of things that he should be here, living in the place, taking part in our public affairs, being our Member, while my daughter is at Nutley? I say no, and I think Belfield—his father, I mean—ought to be able to see it for himself. What then? Are we to be driven out of our home?"
"That would be absurd, of course," Andy had to admit.
"It seems to me the only alternative." He rose from his chair, and walked up and down like an angry tiger. He faced round on Andy. "For a beginning, the first step he takes in regard to the seat, I shall resign from the committee of the Association, and state my reasons for my action inplain language—and I think you know I can speak plainly. I shall do the same about any other public work which involves meeting him. I shall do the same about the hunt, the same about everything. And I'll ask my friends—I'll ask decent people—to choose between Harry Belfield and me. To please my daughter, I didn't break his head, as I should have liked to, but, by heaven, I'll spoil his game in Meriton! I'm afraid that's the only message I can give you to take to Halton."
"In fact you'll do your best to get him boycotted?" Andy liked compendious statements.
"That's exactly what I mean to do, Hayes. A man going to be married to my daughter in a fortnight—parted from her the moment before on the footing of her lover—found making violent love to another inmate of my house, her companion, almost within my very house itself—sounds well, doesn't it? Calculated to recommend him to his friends, and to the constituency?"
Andy tried a last shot. "Is this action of yours really best for Miss Wellgood, or what she would wish?"
Wellgood flushed in anger, conscious of his secret motives, by no means sure that he was not suspected of them. "I judge for my daughter. And it's not what she may wish, but what is proper in regard to her that I consider. On the otherhand, if he lets Meriton alone, he may do what he likes. That's not my affair. I'm not going to hunt him over the whole country."
"Well, that's something," said Andy with a patient smile. "I'll communicate your terms to Mr. Belfield." He paused, glancing doubtfully at his most unconciliatory companion. "Do you think it would be painful to Miss Wellgood to see me?"
He stopped suddenly in his prowling up and down the room. "That's funny! She was just saying she would like to see you."
"I'm glad to hear that. I want to be quite frank. Harry has asked me to express to her his bitter regret."
"Nothing more than that?"
"Nothing more, on my honour."
"She wants to say something to you." He frowned in hesitation. "If I thought there was the smallest chance of her being induced to enter into direct communication with him, I'd say no at once. But there's no chance of that. And she wants to see you. Yes, you can see her, if you like. She's in the garden, by the lake, I think. She's taken this well, Hayes; she's showing a thousand times more pluck than I ever thought she had." His voice grew gentle. "Poor little girl! Yes, go! She wants to see you."
Andy had taken nothing by his first mission; he felt quite hopelessly unfit for his second. To offer the apologies of a faithless swain was no more in his line than to be a faithless swain himself; the fleeting relics of Harry's authority had imposed a last uncongenial task. Perhaps his very mum-chanceness was his saving. Glib protestations would have smacked too strongly of the principal to commend the agent. Vivien heard his stammering words in silence, seeming wrapped in an aloofness that she took for her sole remaining protection. She bowed her head gravely at the "bitter regret," at the "unguarded moment," at the "fatal irresolution"—Andy's memory held fast to the phrases, but refused to weld them into one of Harry's shapely periods. On "fatal irresolution" he came to a full stop. He dared not look at her—it would seem an intrusion, a brutality; he stared steadily over the lake.
"I knew he had moods like that," she said after a long silence. "I never realized what they could do to a man. I daresay it would be hard for me to realize. I'm glad he wanted to—to say a word of regret. There's one thing I should like you to tell him; that's why I wanted to see you."
Now Andy turned to her, for her voice commanded his attention.
"How fagged-out you look, Miss Wellgood!" he exclaimed impulsively.
"Things aren't easy," she said in a low steady voice. "If I could have silence! But I have to listen to denunciation. You'll understand. Did he tell you what—what passed?"
"The gist of it, I think."
"Then you'll understand that I mayn't have the power to stop the denunciations, or—or the other steps that may be threatened or taken. I should like him to know that they're not my doing. And I should like him to know too that I would a thousand times sooner this had happened than that other thing which I believe he meant to happen—honestly meant to happen—but for—this accident."
"I'm with you in that, Miss Wellgood. It's far better."
"I accept what he says—an unguarded moment. But I—I thought he had a guard." She sat silent again for a minute. "There's one other thing I should like to say to him, through you. But you'll know best whether to say it or not, I think. I should like to tell him that he can't make me forget—almost that he can't make me ungrateful. He gave me, in our early days together, the first real joy I'd ever had—I expect the only perfect joy I ever shall have. What he gave then, he can't wholly take away." She looked at Andywith a faint melancholy smile. "Shall you tell him that?"
"If you leave it to me, I shan't tell him that."
"Why not?"
"You want it all over, don't you?" he asked bluntly.
"Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!"
"Then don't tell Harry Belfield that. Think it, if you like. Don't tell him."
A look of sheer wonder came into her eyes. "He's like that?" she murmured.
"Yes, like that. That's the trouble. He'd better think you're—hopelessly disgusted."
"I'm hopelessly at sea, anyhow," she said, turning her eyes to the lake again. But she turned back to him quickly, still with her faint smile. "Disgusted? Oh, you're thinking of the fastidiousness? Ah, that seems a long time ago! You were very kind then; you're very kind now." She laid her hand lightly on his arm; for the first time her voice shook. "You and I can sometimes talk about him as he used to be—just we two together!"
"Or as we thought he was?" Andy's tones were blunt still, and now rather bitter.
"Or as we thought he was—and, by thinking it, were so happy! Yes, we'd better not talk about him at all. I don't think I really could. You'llbe seeing Mr. Belfield soon? Give him my dear love, and say I'll come and see him and Mrs. Belfield as soon as they want me. He sent me a note this morning. I can't answer it just yet."
"I'll tell him." Andy rose to go.
"Oh, but must you go just yet? I don't want you to." She glanced up at him, with a sad humour. "Curly's out, you know, and terribly big and rampageous!"
"But you're not running away now, any more than you did then."
"I'm trying to stand still, and—and look at it—at what it means about life."
"You mustn't think all life's like that—or all men either."
"That's the temptation—to think that."
"Men are tempted to think it about women too, sometimes."
She nodded. "Yes, of course, that's true. I'm glad you said that. You are good against Curly!"
They had Wellgood in their minds. It was grievance against grievance at Nutley; the charge of inconstancy is eternally bandied to and fro between the sexes—Varium et mutabile semper Feminaagainst "Men were deceivers ever"—Souvent femme varieagainst the sorrowfully ridiculous chronicles of breach of promise of marriagecases. Plenty of matter for both sides! Probably both sides would be wise to say as little as possible about it. If misogyny is bad, is misandry any better? At all events the knowledge of Wellgood's grievance might help to prevent Vivien's from warping her mind. Hers was the greater, but his was of the same order.
The world incarnated itself to her in the image of the big retriever dog, being so alarming, meaning no harm consciously, meaning indeed affection—with its likelihood of paws soiling white raiment. Andy again stood dressed as the guardian, the policeman. He was to be "good against Curly."
"And Isobel?" she asked.
"I saw her off all right by the twelve-fifteen, Miss Wellgood—to London, you know."
"Yes, to London." To both of them London might have been spelt "Harry."
"She was never really unkind to me," said Vivien thoughtfully. "I expect it did me good."
"Never a favourite of mine—even before this," Andy pronounced, rather ponderously.
She shot a side glance at him. "I believe you thought she beat me!"
"I think I thought that sometimes you'd sooner she had done that than stand there smiling."
"Oh, you're prejudiced! She wasn't unkind;and in this thing, you see, I know her temptation. Surely that ought to bring sympathy? Tell me—you saw her off—well—how?" She spoke in jerks, now seeming agitated.
"Very calm—quite her own mistress—seeming to know what her job was. Confound it, Miss Wellgood, I'd sooner not talk about her any more!"
"Shall you see Harry?"
"I don't want to till—till things have settled down a bit. I shall write about what you've said."
"About part of what I've said," she reminded him. "You've convinced me about that."
Andy rose again, and this time she did not seek to hinder him.
"I'm off to town to-morrow; back to work." He paused a moment, then added, "If I get down for a week-end, may I come and see you?"
"Do—always, if you can. And remember me to Miss Flower and to Billy Foot; and tell them that I am"—she seemed to seek a word, but ended lamely—"very well, please."
Andy nodded. She wanted them to know that her courage was not broken.
On his way out he met Wellgood again, moodily sauntering in the drive by the lake.
"Well, what do you think of her?" Wellgood asked abruptly.
"She's feels it terribly, but she's taking it splendidly."
Wellgood nodded emphatically, saying again, "I never thought she had such pluck."
"I should think, you know," said Andy, in his candid way, "that you could help her a bit, Mr. Wellgood. It does her no good to be taken over it again and again. Least said, soonest mended."
Wellgood looked at him suspiciously. "I'm not going back on my terms."
"Wait and see if they are accepted. Let him alone till then. She'd thank you for that."
"I want to help her," said Wellgood. His tone was rather surly, rather ashamed, but it seemed to carry a confession that he had not helped his daughter much in the past. "You're right, Hayes. Let's be done with the fellow for good, if we can!"
From all sides came the same sentiment: from Wellgood as a hope, from Vivien as a sorrowful but steadfast resolution, from Billy Foot as a considered verdict on the facts of the case. Andy's own reflections had even anticipated these other voices. An end of Harry Belfield, so far as regarded the circle of which he had been thecentre and the ornament! Would Harry accept the conclusion? He might tell Meriton to "go to the devil" in a moment of irritated defiance; but to abandon Meriton would be a great rooting-up, a sore break with all his life past, and with his life in the future as he had planned it and his friends had pictured it for him. Must he accept it whether he would or not? Wellgood's pistol was at his head. Would he brave the shot, or what hand would turn away the threatening barrel?
Not Lord Meriton's. When Belfield, possessed of Wellgood's terms, laid them before him, together with an adequate statement of the facts, the great man disclaimed the power. Though he softened his opinion for Harry's father, it was very doubtful if he had the wish.
"I'm sorry, Belfield, uncommon sorry—well, you know that—both for you and for Mrs. Belfield. I hope she's not too much cut up?"
"She's distressed; but she blames Wellgood and the other woman most. I'm glad she does."
Meriton nodded. "But it's most infernally awkward; there's no disguising it. You may say that any man—at any rate, many a man—is liable to come a mucker like this. But happening just now—and with Wellgood's daughter! Wellgood's our right hand man, in this part of theDivision at all events. And he's as stubborn a dog as lives! Said he'd resign from the hunt if your boy showed up, did he? By Jove, he'd do it, you know! That's the deuce of it! I suppose the question is how much opinion he'd carry with him. He's not popular—that's something; but a father fighting in his daughter's cause! They won't know the other side of it you've told me about; and if Harry marries the woman, he can't very well tell them. Then is she to come with him? Awkward again if Wellgood, or somebody put up by him, interrupts! If she doesn't come, that's at once admitting something fishy."
"The woman's certainly a serious added difficulty. Meriton, we're old friends. Tell me your own opinion."
"I don't give an opinion for all time. The affair will die down, as all affairs do. The girl'll marry somebody else in time, I suppose. Wellgood will get over his feelings. I'm not saying your son can't succeed you at Halton in due course. That would be making altogether too much of it. But now, if the moment comes anywhere, say, in the next twelve months—well, I question if a change of air—and another constituency—wouldn't be wiser."
"I think so too—in his own interest. And I rather think that I, at least, owe it to Vivien tothrow my weight on the side that will save her from annoyance."
"That was in my mind too, Belfield; but I knew you'd think of it without my saying it."
"I believe—I do really believe—that he will look at it in that light himself. Any gentleman would; and he's that, outside his plaguy love affairs."
"I know he is; I know it. They bring such a lot of good fellows to grief—and pretty women too."
"Well, I must write to him; and you must look out for another candidate."
"By Jove, we must, and in quick time too! Apart from a General Election, I hear old Millington's sadly shaky. Well, good-bye, Belfield. My regards to your wife." He shook hands warmly. "This is hard luck on you; but he's got lots of time to pick up again. He'll end in the first flight yet. Cheer up. Better have a Prodigal than no son at all, like me!"
"I imagine a good deal might be said on both sides in that debate."
"Oh, stuff and nonsense! You wouldn't dare to say that to his mother!"
"No; and I don't suppose I really think it myself. But this sort of thing does make a man a bit nervous, Meriton."
"If the lady's attractions have led him astray, perhaps they'll be able now to keep him straight."
"They won't be so great in one particular. They won't be forbidden fruit."
"Aye, the best fox is always in the covert you mayn't draw. Human nature!"
"At all events, my boy Harry's."
And for that nature Harry had to pay. The present price was an end of his career in Meriton. One more voice joined the chorus, a powerful voice. Belfield bowed his head to the decision. It was final for the moment; in his depression of spirit he felt as though it were final for all time, as though his native town would know Harry no more. At any rate, now his place was vacant—the place from which he by transgression fell. It must be given to another. Only in Vivien's memory had he still his niche.
Gilly Foot's mind was so inventive, and his demand for ministerial assistance in carrying out his inventions so urgent, during the next three weeks that Andy had little leisure for his own or anybody else's private affairs. The week-ends at Meriton had to be temporarily suspended, and Meriton news reached him now by a word from Billy, who seemed to be in touch with Belfield, now through Jack Rock. Thus he heard from Billy that Harry Belfield was married and had gone abroad; while Jack sent him a copy of the local paper, with a paragraph (heavily marked in blue pencil) to the effect that Mr. Harry Belfield, being advised by his doctor to take a prolonged rest, had resigned his position as prospective candidate for the Meriton Division. Decorous expressions of regret followed, and it was added that probably Mr. Mark Wellgood, Chairman of the Conservative Association,would be approached in the matter. Jack had emphasized his pencil-mark with a large note of exclamation, in which Andy felt himself at liberty to see crystallized the opinion of Harry's fellow-citizens.
Still, though Meriton had for the time to be relegated mainly to memory, there it had a specially precious pigeon-hole. It had regained for him all its old status of home. When he thought of holidays, it was of holidays at Meriton. When his thoughts grew ambitious—the progress of Gilbert Foot and Co. began to justify modest ambitions—they pictured a small house for himself in or near Meriton, and a leisure devoted to that ancient town's local affairs. To himself he was a citizen of Meriton more than of London; for to Andy London was, foremost of all, a place of work. Its gaieties were for him occasional delights, rather than a habitual part of the life it offered. Talks with Jack Rock and other old friends, visits to Halton and Nutley, completed the picture of his future life at home. He was not a man much given to analysing his thoughts or feelings, and perhaps did not realize how very essential the setting was to the attractiveness of the picture, nor that one part of the setting gave the picture more charm than all the rest. Yet when Andy's fancy painted him as enjoying well-earned hours of repose atMeriton, the terrace by the lake at Nutley was usually to be seen in the foreground.
Let Gilly clamour never so wildly for figures to be ready for him by the next morning, in order that he might know whether the latest child of his genius could be reared in this hard world or must be considered merely as an ideal laid up in the heavens, an evening had to be found to go and see the Nun as Joan of Arc—first as the rustic maid in that village in France (its name was on the programme), and then, in silver armour, exhorting the King of France (who was supposed to be on horseback in the wings). The question of the Nun's horse was solved by an elderly white animal being discovered on the stage when the curtain rose—the Nun was assumed to have just dismounted (voluntarily)—and being led off to the blare of trumpets. This was for the second song, of course, and it was the second song which brought Miss Doris Flower the greatest triumph that she had ever yet achieved. Its passing references to the favour of Heaven were unexceptionable in taste—so all the papers declared; its martial spirit stirred the house; its tune caught on immensely; and, by a happy inspiration, Joan of Arc had (as she was historically quite entitled to have) a prophetic vision of a time when the relations between her own country and Englandwould be infinitely happier than they were in the days of Charles VII. and Henry VI. This vision having fortunately been verified, the public applauded Joan of Arc's sentiments to the echo, while the author and the management were very proud of their skill in imparting this touch of "actuality" to the proceedings. Finally, the Nun was in excellent voice, and the silver armour suited her figure prodigiously well.
"Yes, it's a great go," said Miss Flower contentedly, when Andy went round to her room to see her. She draped a Japanese dressing-gown over the silver armour, laid her helmet on the table, and lit a cigarette. "It knocks the Quaker into a cocked hat, and makes even the Nun look silly. The booking's enormous; and it's something to draw them here, with that Venus-rising-from-the-foam girl across the Square. I'm told, too, that she appears to have chosen a beach where there are no by-laws in force, Andy."
Andy explained that he had not much leisure for even the most attractive entertainments.
"Do you know," she proceeded, "that something very funny—I shan't want you for ten minutes, Mrs. Milsom" (this to her dresser, who discreetly withdrew)—"has happened about Billy Foot? I don't mind telling you, in confidence, that at Meriton I thought he was going to breakout. With half an opportunity he would have. Since we came back I've only seen him twice, and then he tried to avoid me. His usual haunts, Andy, know him only occasionally, and then in company which, to my mind, undoubtedly has its home in Kensington."
"What's the matter with him, I wonder? Now you remind me, I've hardly seen him either."
"He was here the other night, in a box, with Kensington; but he didn't come round. Took Kensington on to supper, I suppose."
"What have you against Kensington?" Andy inquired curiously.
"Nothing at all. Only I've observed, Andy, that taking Kensington out is a prelude to matrimony. I could tell you a dozen cases in my own knowledge. You hadn't thought of that? In certain fields my experience is still superior to yours."
"Oh, very much so! Do you suspect any particular Kensingtonian?"
"There was a tall dark girl, rather pretty; but I couldn't look much. Well, we shall miss Billy if it comes off, but I imagine we can rely implicitly on Gilly."
"You've heard that Harry's married to Miss Vintry?"
"Serve her right!" said the Nun severely. "I never had any pity for that woman."
"And he's chucked the candidature. So our great campaign was all for nothing!"
"Well, Billy must always be talking somewhere, anyhow. And I should think it did you good?"
"Oh yes, it did. I was thinking of Harry."
"In my opinion it's about time you got out of that habit. Now you must go, or you'll make me too late to get anything to eat. As you may guess, wearing this shell involves a fundamental reconstruction before I can present myself at supper."
Andy took her hand and pressed it. "I'm so jolly glad you've got such a success, Doris. And the armour's ripping!"
There followed three weeks of what Gilly Foot, over his lunch at the restaurant and his dinner at the Artemis, used to describe as "incredible grind for both of us." Then a day of triumph! The outcome of the latest brilliant idea, the new scientific primer, was accepted as the text-book in the County Council secondary schools. Gilly wore aNunc Dimittisair.
"Eton and Harrow! Pooh!" said he. "A couple of hundred copies a year apiece, perhaps. Give me the County Council schools! The young masses being bred on Gilbert Foot and Co.—that'swhat I want. The proletariat is our game! If this spreads over the country, and I believe it will, we shall be rich men in no time, Andy."
Andy was smiling broadly—not that he had any particular wish to be rich, but because successful labour is marvellously sweet.
"Do you happen to remember that it was you who gave me the germ of that idea?"
"No, surely I didn't? I don't remember. I can't have, Gilly."
"Oh yes, you did. That arrangement of the tables of comparison?"
"Oh, ah! Yes—well, I do remember something about that. But that's only a trifle. You did all the rest."
"That's what's fetched them, though; I know it is." He gave a sigh. "Andy, I shall grudge you that all the rest of my life." He put his head on one side, and regarded his partner with a peaceful smile. "You're a remarkable chap, you know. Some day or other I believe you'll end by making me work! Sometimes I kind of feel the infection creeping over me. I distinctly hurried lunch to-day to come back and talk about this."
"I believe we have got our foot in this time," said Andy.
"I shan't, however, do anything more to-day," Gilly announced, rising and putting on his hat."My nerves are somewhat over-stimulated. A walk in the park, a game of bridge, and a quiet little dinner are indicated. You'll attend to anything that turns up, won't you, old chap?"
Slowly and gradually Andy Hayes was growing not only into his strength but also into the consciousness of it. He was measuring his powers—slowly, suspiciously, distrustfully. His common sense refused to ignore what he had done and was doing, but his modesty ever declined to go a step beyond the facts. All through his life this characteristic abode with him—a sort of surprise that the simple qualities he recognised in himself should stand him in such good stead, combined with an unwillingness rashly to pledge their efficacy in the greater labours of the future. Thus it came about that he was, so to say, a day behind the world's estimate in his estimate of himself. When the people about him were already sure, he was gradually reaching confidence—never the imperious self-confidence of commanding genius, which makes no question but that the future will be as obedient to its sway as the past, but a very sober trust in a proved ability, a trust based on no inner instinct of power, but solely on the plain experience that hitherto he had shown himself equal to the business which came his way—equal to it if he worked very hard at it, took it seriously, and gave all he had togive to it. The degree of self-confidence thus achieved was never sufficient to make him seek adventures; by slow growth it became enough to prevent him from turning his back on any task, however heavy, which the course of his life and the judgment of his fellows laid upon him. So step by step he moved on in his development and in his knowledge of it. He recognised now that it would have been a pity to pass his life as a butcher in Meriton—that it would have been waste of material. But he was still quite content to regard as a sufficient occupation, and triumph, of that life the building-up of Gilbert Foot and Co.'s educational publishing connection; and he was still surprised to be reminded that he had contributed anything more than hard work to that task, that it owed to him even the smallest scintilla of original suggestion. Still there it was. Perhaps he would never do a thing like that again. Very likely not. Still he had done it once. It passed from the impossibles to the possibles—a possible under strict and distrustful observation, but a possible that should be put to the proof.
Nothing in the business line turned up after Gilly had departed to recruit his nerves. Having made one bold and successful leap, the educational publishing concern of Gilbert Foot and Co. seemed disposed to sit awhile on its haunches. Andy wasthe last man to quarrel with it for that; he had all the primitive man's fear of things looking too rosy. Things had looked too rosy with Harry. And "Nemesis! Nemesis!" old Belfield had cried. By all means let the educational publishing concern rest on its haunches for awhile; the new scientific primer, with the quite original arrangement of its comparative tables, supplied a comfortable cushion. It was five o'clock; Andy made bold to light his pipe.
"Mr. Belfield!" announced the office-boy, twisting his head between the door and the jamb with a questioning air.
What brought Belfield to town? "Oh, show him in!" said Andy, laying down his pipe.
Not Harry's father, as Andy had concluded, but Harry himself was the visitor—Harry radiantly handsome, in a homespun suit of delicate gray with a blue stripe in it, a white felt hat, a light blue tie—a look of perfect health and happiness about him.
"I was passing by—been in the City—and thought I must look you up, old chap," said Harry, clasping Andy's hand in unmistakably genuine affection. "Seems years since we met! Well, a lot's happened to me, you see. You didn't know I was in town, did you? Only passing through; Isobel and I have been in Paris—wentthere after the event, you know—and we're off to Scotland to-morrow for some golf. She's got all the makings of a player, Andy. And how are you? Grubbing away?"
"Grubbing away" most decidedly failed to express Gilbert Foot and Co.'s idea of what had happened in their office that day, but Andy found no leisure to dwell on any wound to his firm's corporate vanity. Here was the old Harry! Harry as he had been in the early days of his engagement! The Harry of that brief spell of good resolution, after Andy had delivered to him a certain note! There was no trace at all—by way either of woe or of shame—of the Harry who had come to the Lion, seeking a place where Isobel Vintry might lay her head, craving for her the charity of a night's lodging, and no questions asked!
Andy's intelligence was brought to a full stop—sheer up against the difficult question of whether it is worth while to worry about people who are not worrying about themselves. Theologically, socially, politically, it is correct to say yes; faced with an individual case, the affirmative answer seems sometimes almost ridiculous; rather like pressing an overcoat—or half your cloak, after the example of St. Martin of Tours—on a vagabond of exceptionally caloric temperament. He isnaked, and neither ashamed nor cold. Must you shiver, or blush, for him?
"I—er—ought to congratulate you, Harry."
"Thanks, old chap! Yes, it's very much all right. Things one's sorry for, of course—oh, don't think I'm not sorry!—but the right road found at last, Andy! I suppose a fellow has to go through things like that. I'm not justifying myself, of course; I know I'm apt to—well, to put off doing the necessary thing if it's likely to cause pain to anybody. That's a mistake, though an amiable one perhaps. But all that's over—no use talking about it. When we get back to town, you must come and see us."
Andy remembered an old-time conversation about Lethe water. Harry seemed disposed to stand treat for a bottle.
"I'm awfully sorry about—about the seat, Harry," he said.
A faint frown of vexation marred Harry's comely contentment. "Yes, but I don't know that one isn't best out of it. A lot of grind, making yourself pleasant to a lot of fools! Oh, perhaps it's a duty; but it'll wait a bit."
"You're not looking out elsewhere?" Andy asked.
"Give a fellow time!" Harry expostulated. "I've only been married a fortnight! You mustlet me have a bit of a holiday. Oh, you needn't be afraid I shan't tackle it again soon—Isobel's awfully keen! And I hope to find a rather less dead-alive hole than Meriton." The faint frown persisted on his face; it seemed to hint that his mind harboured a grudge against Meriton—something unpleasant had happened there. A perceptible, though slight, movement of his shoulders dismissed the ungrateful subject. In a moment he had found a more pleasant one—a theme for his kindliness to play on, secure from perturbing recollections. His old friendly smile of encouragement and patronage beamed on Andy.
"So you and Gilly are making it go? That's right! He's a lazy devil, Gilly, but not a fool. And you're a good plodder. You remember I always said you'd make your way? I thought you would, even if you'd taken on old Jack's shop. But I expect you've got a better game here. Gilly pleased with you?" He laughed in his pleasantly conscious impudence.
"He hasn't given me the sack yet," said Andy.
"You did a lot of work for me, old fellow," Harry pursued. "Sorry that, owing to circumstances, it's all wasted! Still it taught you a thing or two, I daresay?"
"That's just what the Nun was saying the other night, when I went to see her show."
Harry's faint frown showed again. His recollection of Miss Flower's behaviour at Meriton accused her of a want of real sympathy.
"Ah yes! I don't know who they'll get; but I must have made the seat safe. Just the way one works for another fellow sometimes! It doesn't do to complain."
The office-boy put his head in again—and his hand in front of his head. "Wire just come, sir," he said to Andy, delivered the yellow envelope, and disappeared.
"Open it, old fellow," said Harry, putting an exquisitely shod foot on the table. "Yes, another fellow will take my place; I've done the work, he'll reap the reward. And he'll probably think he's done it all himself!"
Andy fingered his telegram absently, not in impatience; nothing very urgent was to be expected, the greatcouphad already been made. He laid it down and listened again to Harry Belfield.
"Upon my soul," Harry went on, "I rather envy you your life. A good steady straight job—and only got to stick to it. Now I'm no sooner out of one thing—well out of it—than they begin to kick at me to start another. The pater and Isobel are in the same story about it."
Harry's face was now seriously clouded and hisvoice peevish. He had been through a great deal of trouble lately; he seemed to himself to be entitled to a rest, to a reasonable interval of undisturbed enjoyment. And he was being bothered about that career of his!
"Well, I suppose you oughtn't to miss the next election. The sooner you go in the better, isn't it?"
"It's not so easy to find a safe seat." Harry assumed that the constituency which he honoured should be one certain properly to appreciate the compliment. "I sometimes think I'd like to chuck the whole thing, and enjoy my life in my own way. Oh, I'm only joking, of course; but when they nag, I jib, you know."
Andy nodded, relit his pipe, and opened his telegram.
"That's why I think you're rather lucky to have it all cut and dried for you. Saves a lot of thinking!"
Andy had been reading his telegram, not listening to Harry for the moment. "I beg pardon, Harry?" he said.
"Oh, read it. I'm only gassing," said Harry good-humouredly.
Andy read again; he always liked to read important documents twice. He laid it down on the office table, looking very thoughtful."That's funny!" he observed. "It's from your father."
"Well, I don't see why the pater shouldn't send you a telegram, if he wants to," smiled Harry.
"Asking me to go down to Meriton on Saturday and meet Lord Meriton, Wigram, and himself." He took up the telegram and read the rest of the message—"to discuss important suggestion of public nature affecting yourself. Personal discussion necessary."
"To meet Meriton and Wigram?" Wigram was the Conservative agent in the Division. "What the devil can they want?"
"I don't know," said Andy, "unless—unless it's about the candidature."
"About what?" Harry sharply withdrew the shapely foot from the table and sat upright in his chair.
"Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Still I don't see what else it can be about. What else can there be of a public nature affecting me? 'Affecting yourself' doesn't sound as if they only wanted my advice. Besides, why should they want my advice?"
"Let's see the thing." Harry took it, read it, and flung it down peevishly. "Why the deuce can't he say what he means?"
"Well, a wire's not always absolute secrecy insmall towns, is it? And I daresay they'd want the matter kept quiet till it was settled."
Harry's mood of gay contentment, clouded once or twice before, seemed now eclipsed. He sat tapping his boot impatiently with his stick. His father's telegram—or Andy's interpretation of it—clearly did not please him. In the abstract, of course, he had known that he would have a successor in the place which he had given up, or from which he had fallen. It had never entered his head that anybody would suggest Andy Hayes, his old-time worshipper and humble follower. He was not an ungenerous man, but this idea demanded a radical readjustment of his estimate of the relative positions of Andy and himself. If Andy were to succeed to what he had lost, it brought what he had lost very sharply before his eyes.
"Well, if that is the meaning of it, it certainly seems rather—rather a rum start, eh, Andy? New sort of game for you!" He tried to make his voice pleasant.
"It is—it would be—awfully kind of them to think of it," said Andy, now smiling in candid gratification. "And Wigram, as well as your father, was highly complimentary about some of my speeches. But it would be quite out of the question. I've neither the time nor the money."
"It's a deuced expensive game," Harry remarked. "And, of course, no end of work, especially in the next few months. And when you're in, it's not much good in these days, unless you can give all your time to it."
"I know," said Andy, nodding grave appreciation of all these difficulties. "It seems to me quite out of the question. Still, if that is what they mean, I can hardly refuse to discuss it. You see, it's a considerable compliment, anyhow."
He was thinking the idea over in his steady way, and had not paid heed to Harry's altered mood. The objections Harry put forward were so in tune with his own mind that it did not strike him as at all odd that his friend should urge them even zealously. "In any event," he added, "I should have to be guided entirely by what Gilly Foot thought."
"What Gilly thought?"
"I mean whether he thought it would be compatible with the claims of the business."
"What, you'd really think of it?"
There was such unmistakable vexation, even scorn, in his voice now that Andy could not altogether miss the significance of the tone. He looked across at Harry with an air of surprise. "There's no harm in thinking a thing over. I always like to do that."
"Well, of all the men I thought of as likely to step into my shoes, I never thought of you."
"It's the last thing I should ever have thought of either. You've something in your mind, haven't you? I hope you'll say anything you think quite candidly."
"Oh well, since you ask me, old fellow, from the party point of view I think there are—er—certain objections. I mean, in a place like Meriton family connections and so on still count for a good deal—on our side, anyhow."
Andy nodded, again comprehending and admitting. "Yes, I'm nobody; and my father was nobody, from that point of view." He smiled. "And then there's Jack Rock!"
"Don't be hurt with me, but I call myself a Tory, and I am one. Such things do count, and I'm not ashamed to say I think they ought to. I've never let them count in personal relations."
"I know that, Harry. You may be sure I recognise that. And you're right to mention them now. I suppose they must have reckoned with them, though, before they determined—if they have determined—to make me this offer."
"Well, thank heaven I'm out of it, and I wish you joy of it," said Harry, rising and clapping on his hat.
"Oh, it's not at all likely it'll come to anything. Must you go, Harry?"