SIR CHARLES LEWIS.SIR CHARLES LEWIS.
It was in the Session of 1874 that he bounded into fame. Conservatives were in high spirits, just entering under Mr. Disraeli's leadership upon a long lease of untrammelled power. Mr. Lewis, unnoticed in the preceding Parliament, came to the front in the earliest weeks of the new one, buzzing around in what some of his contemporaries were inclined to regard as an unnecessarily blatant manner. He attracted the notice of theWorld, just then founded, and, under the new and vigorous system of editorship inaugurated by Mr. Edmund Yates, boldly striking out for a leading place in weekly journalism. Mr. Lewis, whom his most relentless detractors would not accuse of lack of courage, resented the playfully bitter attacks of theWorld, and brought before Mr. Justice Coleridge and a special jury what, at the time, achieved some notoriety as the great White Waistcoat question.
It must be admitted that whether a member of the House of Commons wears a white waistcoat or a black one is no business of anyone but himself; certainly has nothing to do with his political position. But of Mr. Lewis's once famous white waistcoat it may be said, as was written long ago in another connection, "which thing is an allegory." A white waistcoat worn in sultry weather with light tweed or other summer suit is appropriate to the occasion and pleasant to the eye. It was an indication of Mr. Lewis's character—perhaps too subtly, possibly erroneously, deduced—that in bleak March weather he should have breasted an angry House of Commons in a spacious white waistcoat, made all the more aggressive since it was worn in conjunction with a stubbornly-shaped black frock-coat and a pair of black trousers of uncompromising Derry cut. However it be, Mr. Lewis would stand no reflections upon his white waistcoat, and gave the newWorldan appreciable fillip on its career by haling it into court on a charge of libel, which Lord Coleridge dismissed without thinking it necessary to trouble a jury.
That was not a hopeful start for a new member. But Mr. Lewis was not the kind of man to be daunted by repulse. It supplies testimony to his strong personality that, whilst more or less damaging himself, he succeeded on more than one occasion in seriously compromising his political friendsand the House itself. In the whirlwind that followed it was forgotten that it was Mr. Lewis (now Sir Charles, "B.B.K." as the Claimant put it) who brought about the appointment of the Parnell Commission and all it boded. When in May, 1887, theTimespublished an article accusing Mr. Parnell of wilful and deliberate falsehood in denying his connection with P. J. Sheridan, Sir Charles Lewis reappeared on the scene, and, with protest of his desire that the Irish leader should have the earliest opportunity of clearing his character from the slur cast upon it, moved that the printers of theTimesbe brought to the Bar on a charge of breach of privilege. Mr. W. H. Smith, then fresh to the leadership, did his best to shake off this inconvenient counsellor. Sir Charles's proposal was burked; but he had laid the powder, which was soon after fired and led to the successive explosions around the Parnell Commission.
That in later life Sir Charles Lewis should have taken this precise means of bringing himself once more to the front was fresh proof of his courage. It was on an analogous motion that he had made his earliest mark. A Select Committee sitting on Foreign Loans, the morning papers had, as usual, given some report of the proceedings. But though this was customary, it was, none the less, technically a breach of Standing Order. Mr. Charles Lewis, availing himself of the existence of the anachronism, moved that the printers of theTimesand theDaily Newsbe summoned to the Bar, charged with breach of privilege. Mr. Disraeli, then leader, did his best to get out of the difficulty. Mr. Lewis, in full flush with the white waistcoat, was inexorable. The printers were ordered to appear. They obeyed the summons, and the House finding itself in a position of ludicrous embarrassment, they were privily entreated to withdraw, and, above all, to be so good as to say nothing more on the matter.
Never since the House of Commons grew out of the Wittenagemot has that august Assembly been brought so nearly into the position of Dogberry. "You shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the Prince's name." "How, if a' will not stand?" queried the wary second watchman. "Why, then," said the unshakable City officer, "take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave." Thus, in the spring of 1875, under the temporary leadership of Mr. Charles Lewis, did the House of Commons act towards the representatives of theTimesand theDaily News, with the added embarrassment that the vagrom men in question had not refused to stand, but were even then in the lobby awaiting judgment.
In the following Session Mr. Lewis succeeded in stirring up another historic scene. It was he who brought under the notice of the House of Commons Mr. Lowe's historic declaration, made in a speech delivered at Retford, that before Mr. Disraeli had undertaken to pass a Bill creating the Queen Empress of India, two other Prime Ministers had been approached on the subject by Her Majesty, and had declined to be a party to the proceedings. Mr. Lewis was utterly devoid of sense of humour, a poverty that largely accounts for his failure in public life. The only joke he ever made was unconsciously produced. It happened one night in Committee of Supply, when, girding at the Irish members opposite, he sarcastically expressed the hope that the vote before the Committee "would not prove another fly in the ointment to spoil the digestion of honourable gentlemen opposite."
"Mr. Chairman," observed Mr. Delahunty, who then represented Waterford City, "we have many peculiarities in Ireland, but we don't eat ointment."
Thus, though Mr. Lewis had no humour in his own nature, he was occasionally the cause of its ebullition in others. The short note he elicited from Mr. Lowe when he assumed the right to call the right hon. gentleman to task for this indiscretion hugely delighted the House of Commons.
MR. LOWE.MR. LOWE.
"Sir," snapped Mr. Lowe, "my recent speech at Retford contains nothing relating to you. I must therefore decline to answer your questions."
That would have shut up some men. It had the effect of inciting Mr. Charles Lewis to further action. He brought forward a motion for a return setting forth the text of the oath of Privy Councillors, explaining that he desired to show that Mr. Lowe had, in the disclosure made, violated his oath. There followed an animated and angry scene. Disraeli, whilst dealing a back-handed blowat the inconvenient friend behind him, struck out at his ancient enemy, Lowe, whose statement he said was "monstrous, if true." He added that he was permitted to state on the personal authority of the Queen it was absolutely without foundation.
These are some of the episodes writ large in a notable Parliamentary career. Their range shows that Mr. Lewis was a man of high, if ill-directed, capacity. No mere blunderer could have stirred the depths of the House of Commons as from time to time he did. He was, in truth—and here is the pity of it—a man of great ability, an admirable speaker. If his instincts had been finer and his training more severe he would have made a position of quite another kind in Parliamentary annals. Vain, restless, with narrow views and strong prejudices, he was his own worst enemy. But he will not have lived in vain if new members, entering the House from whatever quarter, sitting on whichever side, will study his career, and apply its lesson. His character in its main bearings is by no means unfamiliar in the House of Commons. It was his special qualities of courage and capacity that made him so beneficially prominent as an example of what to avoid.
Amongst the characteristics of the present Government that make them in Ministries a thing apart is the almost total absence of the air of mystery that, through the ages, has enveloped Cabinets and their consultations. Never in times ancient or modern was there on the eve of a new Session so little mystery about the intentions of the Government. There was still practised by the morning newspapers the dear old farce of purporting to forecast the unknown. On the morning that opens the new Session there appears in all well-conducted morning papers an article delivered in the style of the Priestess Pythia in the temple at Delphi. Nothing is positively assumed, but the public are told that when the Queen's Speech is disclosed "it will probably contain promise of legislation" on such a head, whilst it will "doubtless be found that Her Majesty's Ministers have not been unmindful of" such another question.
This fashion was invented generations ago, either by theTimesor theMorning Chronicle. The editor, having access to those gilded saloons to which Lord Palmerston once made historic reference, or profiting by personal acquaintance with a Minister, obtained more or less full knowledge of what the Queen's Speech would contain. But he was bound in honour to preserve his informant from possibly inconvenient consequences of his garrulity, and so the oracular style was adopted. When other papers, put on the track, obtained information in the same way they adopted the same quaint practice, till now it has become deeply ingrained in journalism. To-day, whilst there is no secret of the sources of information very properly conveyed to the Press on the eve of the Session, this same style of dealing with it, in which Mr. Wemmick would have revelled, is sedulously observed.
At the beginning of this Session other than newspaper editors had been made aware of the general legislative intentions of the Government. Ministers speaking at various public meetings had openly announced that their several departments were at the time engaged upon the preparation of particular Bills, the main directions of which were plainly indicated. It is true that details of the Home Rule Bill were lacking, though two or three weeks in advance of its presentation one journal, theSpeaker, gave an exceedingly close summary of its clauses. But that a Home Rule Bill was to be introduced, that it would take precedence of all other measures, and that it would be thorough enough to satisfy the Irish members, were commonplaces of information long before the Speech was read in the House of Lords. It used to be different. Within the range of recent memory, the publication of the Queen's Speech, or at least a forecast in the morning papers, was the first authoritative indication of the drift of legislation in the new Session.
LORD PALMERSTON.LORD PALMERSTON.
Talking of this new departure with one of the oldest members of the House, he tells me a delightful story, which I have never foundrecalled in print, and it is too good to be buried in the pages ofHansard. At one time, in the run of the Parliament of 1859-65, Lord Palmerston being Premier, a rumour shook the political world, affirming the resignation of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Mr. Gladstone. The newspapers were neither so alert nor so well informed in those days, and the rumour drifted about, neither confirmed nor contradicted. At length, Mr. Horsman could stand the uncertainty no longer, and from his place in the House of Commons he asked Lord Palmerston whether there was any truth in the report.
The Premier approached the table in his gravest manner, and the crowded House was hushed in silence for the anticipated disclosure. He had, he said, just come from a meeting of the Cabinet Council, and could not pretend to be uninformed on the matter of the question submitted to him. The House, however, knew how stringent was the oath of a Privy Councillor, and how impossible it was for one in ordinary circumstances either to affirm or deny a report current as to what had taken place within its doors. Lord Palmerston was evidently struggling between a desire to tell something and disinclination to tamper with his oath. As his manner grew more embarrassed, the interest of the House was quickened. All heads, including that of Mr. Horsman, were craned forward as he went on to observe that, perhaps, in the peculiar circumstances of the case, he would be justified in saying that, at the Council just held, the Chancellor of the Exchequer had been present and had displayed no sign of intended resignation.
"In fact," said Lord Palmerston, turning round to face Mr. Horsman, seated at the corner bench below the Gangway, "my right hon. friend has had his ear at the keyhole of the wrong door."
I have received a sheaf of correspondence arising out of the article in the February number, cataloguing the Old Guard who were in the House of Commons twenty years ago and stand there to-day. One or two demand acknowledgment as adding to the information there garnered. Mr. Thomas Whitworth, of Liverpool, a member of the House of Commons from 1869 to 1874, has made independent investigation, with the result of adding several to the names I gave. These are Sir Charles Dalrymple, Mr. Duff (who has just retired from Parliament on his appointment to the Governorship of New South Wales), Sir Julian Goldsmid, Sir John Hibbert, Sir J. W. Pease, Mr. J. G. Talbot, Mr. Abel Smith, and Mr. James Round. Mr. Whitworth adds Mr. Charles Seeley. That is an error, since Mr. Seeley does not sit in the present Parliament—having been defeated at the General Election when he stood for the Rushcliffe Division of Nottinghamshire.
MR. DUFF.MR. DUFF.
"Sir Thomas Lea (not Mr. Lea) was, in 1873," Mr. Whitworth writes, "member for Kidderminster, and is the only English member of that date who has changed into an Irish one."
The present member for Londonderry was certainly "Mr." Lea in 1873, his baronetcy dating from 1892, being one of the recognitions made by Lord Salisbury of the services of the Dissentient Liberal allies. The reference to Sir William Dyke as Liberal Whip was, as the context shows, an obvious slip of the pen, Sir William having been for many years prominent in the Conservative ranks as an able Whip.
One of the late Mr. Miall's kinsmen points out that "it was Edward Miall, M.P. for Bradford, not Charles," who, side by side with the late Mr. Fawcett, fought Mr. Gladstone on the Irish University Bill, and did much to bring about the subsequentdébâcleof the Liberals.
Finally, Mr. Johnston, of Ballykilbeg, writes from the House of Commons: "In your interesting paper, 'From Behind the Speaker's Chair,' inThe Strand Magazinefor this month, you say, 'Mr. Johnston, still of Ballykilbeg, but no longer a Liberal, as he ranked twenty years ago.' In politics I am to-day what I was twenty years ago. Always anxious to vote for measures for the good of the country, and sometimes being in the Lobby with Liberals, I never belonged to that party. Mr. Disraeli, in a letter whichI have, expressed his regret that I should have been opposed, in 1868, by some Belfast Conservatives, and did all in his power to prevent this. I was always, as he knew, and Lord Rowton knows, a loyal follower of Disraeli."
MR. JOHNSTON.MR. JOHNSTON.
In conversation, Mr. Johnston adds the interesting fact that when in 1868 he was first returned for Belfast, he was in the habit of receiving whips from both sides of the House, a remarkable testimony to the impression of his absolute impartiality thus early conveyed to observers. The House of Commons, by the way, is ignorant that in this sturdy Protestant it entertains a novelist unawares. Mr. Johnston has written at least two works of fiction, one entitled "Nightshade," which presumably deals with the epoch of the fellest domination of Rome; and the other "Under Which King?" a, perhaps unconscious, reflection of the unsettled state of mind with which the hon. gentleman entered politics, and which led to embarrassing attention from the rival Whips.
The interest attached to Lord Randolph Churchill's reappearance on the Parliamentary scene proved one of the most interesting and significant incidents in the early days of the new Parliament. There is no doubt that, whatever be his present views and intentions, Lord Randolph years ago convinced himself that he was cut adrift from the political world, and that it had no charms to lure him back. He began by giving up to Newmarket what was meant for mankind, took a share in a stable, and regulated his social and other engagements in London not by the Order Book of the House of Commons, but by the fixtures in the "Racing Calendar." He was seen only fitfully in his place at the corner seat behind his esteemed friends and leaders then in office. A year later he went off to Mashonaland, and for a full Session Westminster knew him no more.
"NEWMARKET.""NEWMARKET."
"MASHONALAND.""MASHONALAND."
When the new Parliament began its sittings Lord Randolph in private conversation was not less insistent as to the permanency of his act of renunciation. He was tired of politics, he said, and saw no future for himself in an assembly where at one time he was a commanding figure. Some of his friends, whilst puzzled and occasionally staggered by his insistence on this point, have always refused to accept his view of the possibilities of the future. A dyspeptic duck gloomily eyeing an old familiar pond might protest that never again would it enter the water. But as long as the duck lives and the water remains, they are certain to come together again. So ithas been with Lord Randolph Churchill, who in this Session has, quite naturally, returned to his old haunts, and with a single speech regained much of his old position.
It is possible that accident, untoward in itself, may have had something to do with hastening the conclusion. When the House first met amid a fierce tussle for seats, Lord Randolph found his place at the corner of the second bench in peril of appropriation. If he desired to retain it, it would obviously be necessary for him to be down every day in time for prayers. Rather than face that discipline he would suffer the company of his old colleagues on the Front Opposition Bench. As a Privy Councillor and ex-Minister he had a right to a seat on that bench equal, at least, to that of Sir Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett. One evening, coming in at question time and finding his seat appropriated by an Irish member, he dropped on to the remote end of the Front Opposition Bench, hoping he did not intrude. His old colleagues warmly welcomed him, made much of him, entreated him to go up higher, and it came to pass that the House of Commons grew accustomed to seeing the strayed reveller sitting in close companionship with Mr. Arthur Balfour. If the whole story of the tragedy of Christmas, 1886, were known, it would appear more remarkable still that from time to time he should have been observed in friendly conversation with Mr. Goschen.
"IN CLOSE COMPANIONSHIP.""IN CLOSE COMPANIONSHIP."
It was from this quarter that, within the first fortnight of the Session, Lord Randolph rose to make hisrentrée. It was characteristic of him that he had sat silent through the long debate on the Address. That meant nothing, except the occupation of a certain space of time. There was no substantial amendment before the House, nor any prospect of the existence of the new Government being challenged on a division. But when the Home Rule Bill was brought in, things were different; there was a tangible substance round which statesmen might give battle.
"ROSE TO MAKE HIS RENTRÉE.""ROSE TO MAKE HIS RENTRÉE."
It was known that Lord Randolph would resume the debate on this particular night, and the thronged state of the House testified to the deathless personal interest he commands. Not since Mr. Gladstone had, a few nights earlier, risen to expound the Bill was the House so crowded. The Prince of Wales, accompanied by the Duke of York, returned to his seat over the clock, whilst noble lords jostled each other in the effort to obtain seats in the limited space allotted to them. It happened that thedébutantwas destined to undergo a serious and unexpected ordeal. His time should have come not later than five o'clock, questions being then over, and the House permitted to settle down to the business of the day. But there intervened a riotous scene, arising on a question of a breach of privilege. This extended over an hour, and throughout it Lord Randolph sat in a state of almost piteous nervousness.
That was a sore trial for the intending orator, but it reacted with even worse effect on the audience. The House of Commons, though it likes its dishes highly spiced, cares for only one such at a meal. Like the modest person in the hymn, "all it asks for is enough"; and in such a scene as that which raged round the Irish indictment of theTimesfor breach of privilege it found sufficiency. There are only two, or at most three, men in the House who could have kept the audience together after the prolonged excitement sprung upon it. Very few left their seats when, at six o'clock, Lord Randolph Churchill appeared at the table.
"PITEOUS NERVOUSNESS.""PITEOUS NERVOUSNESS."
What had just happened, taken in conjunction with this peculiar position, plainly told upon him. He was nervous, occasionally to the point of being inaudible, and did not mend matters by violently thumping the box at the precise moment when otherwise the conclusion of his sentence might have been heard. Some people said in their haste he was but the shadow of his former self, and that he had done well all these years to remain in the background. But the faults of this speech were all of manner. Those who listened closely, with whatever painful effort, recognised in it the old straightforward, vigorous blows, the keen insight, the lucid statement, the lofty standpoint from which the whole question was viewed with the gaze of a statesman rather than with the squint of a politician. Those whose opportunities were limited to reading a full report of the speech perceived even more clearly that Lord Randolph had lost none of his ancient power, had even, with added years and garnered experience, grown in weighty counsel.
His second speech, delivered on the Welsh Suspensory Bill, being free from the accidental circumstances that handicapped his first effort, confirmed this impression. Reassured in his position, confident of his powers, encouraged by a friendly audience, he equalled any of the earlier efforts that established his fame.
What will happen to Lord Randolph in the future is a matter which, I believe, depends entirely upon the state of his physical health. I have written elsewhere, with perhaps tiresome iteration through the six years he has been wilfully trying to lose himself in the wilderness, that he might win or regain any prize in public life to the attainment of which he chose seriously to devote himself. His indispensability to the Conservative party is testified to by the eagerness with which hands are held out to him at the earliest indication of desire to return to the fold. That by his loyalty to the party he has earned such consideration is a truth not so fully recognised as it might be if he were less modest in putting forth a claim. If he had been a man of small mind and mean instincts, what a thorn in the flesh of Lord Salisbury, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Balfour he might have proved in the whole period following on his resignation up to the dissolution of the last Parliament!
"BIRMINGHAM.""BIRMINGHAM."
There were many inviting turning points in his career where he had only to lift hand and voice, and a belated Government, living upon the sufferance of not too-affectionate allies, would have found themselves in a strait place. It will suffice to recall one. It happened four years ago last month. On one of the earliest days of April, 1889, the Conservatives of Birmingham turned to Lord Randolph and invited him to contest the seat vacated by the death of Mr. Bright. I have reason to believe that at that time, and for some years earlier, it had been the dearest object of his political life to represent Birmingham.As early as 1885 he had, recklessly as it seemed, gone down and tried to storm the citadel even when it was held by so redoubtable a champion as Mr. Bright. He had not been very badly beaten then. Now, with the Conservatives enthusiastically and unanimously clamouring for him, and with the assistance of the Dissenting Liberals which, had he presented himself, could not have been withheld under penalty of losing the seat, he would have been triumphantly returned.
Happening at this particular time, in view of his strained relations with Lord Salisbury, election by such a constituency would have placed Lord Randolph in a position of personal influence not equalled by that of any private member. The moment seemed ripe for the birth of an organized party raising the standard of social Toryism, and under that or any other flag there are always ready to rally round Lord Randolph a number of Conservatives sufficient to make things uncomfortable at Hatfield. He had only to go in and win, and had he been inclined to play his own game he would have done so. But it was represented to him that his candidature was distasteful to a powerful ally of the Government; that if he insisted in accepting the invitation, the compact between Dissenting Liberals and the Conservatives would be straightway broken up; and that thereupon Mr. Gladstone would romp in with his Home Rule Bill. It was a bitter pill. But Lord Randolph swallowed it. Unmoved by the angry, almost passionate, protestations of the deputation from Birmingham that waited upon him, he withdrew his candidature, sacrificing himself and his prospects on the party shrine.
Now, Lord Randolph, travelling on other less independent and less interesting lines, seems half inclined to make his way back.
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The one afternoon train was due at Middleford, a small, straggling, and not very prosperous town, where terminated a branch line from a junction on the South-Western Railway—a line for which, after long-protracted opposition and delay, a grant had been obtained too late, traffic having merged in the direction of a neighbouring place.
"Middleford! Middleford!"
As the train drew up at the platform, one passenger only, a young man of about eight or nine and twenty, stepped out and stood for a few moments looking about him as if in some uncertainty. He was, in fact, debating with himself as to whether he would, after all, pay the chance visit he had gone there to make.
He had not gone by invitation other than was conveyed in the words: "Don't forget to look me up, if you chance to be anywhere in our neighbourhood, Meredith," spoken by a young fellow between whom and himself there had been some degree of intimacy at the University, as the two parted to go their different ways. The usual words, not generally estimated above their value; and the idea of acting upon them had not occurred to Allan Meredith until he found himself stranded for some hours at the junction, and, turning over the leaves of Bradshaw, came upon the name of Middleford, and remembered that it was Laurence Verschoyle's place. Finding that it was not more than five or six miles from the junction, and that the train was just starting, he had, on the impulse of the moment, taken a ticket and jumped in.
He stood for another moment or two still hesitating, little imagining the influence his decision would have on his future life, and unable to account for his irresolution—a state of mind so unusual with him. He presently shook himself free of the feeling, and decided, since he had got so far, that he would go on. He inquired the way of the porter, who had been curiously eyeing him, and, leaving his bag at the station, set forth for the Priory.
"HE INQUIRED THE WAY.""HE INQUIRED THE WAY."
As he walked along the not very interesting country road, his thoughts reverted again to the man he was going to see. What had become of him since they had parted three years previously—Verschoyle, the first favourite of his set, who, with his good intellect, brilliant, witty, and versatile, had seemed capable of almost any mental feat? True, he had done nothing beyond give the impression that he could do a great deal ifhe chose; "and," thought Allan Meredith, "carry home a sheaf of bills, I expect. He ought to have been the moneyed man, and I the one obliged to keep to the grindstone, perhaps. I don't know; the very necessity for doing something may have given him the kind of impetus he needed—to say nothing of having to keep up the prestige of an ancient name, which must be some spur to a man."
He had reached the cross-roads, and was recalling the somewhat vague directions the porter had given him. "Straight on till you come to a finger-post that seems to point back to the station, but doesn't; take that road, sir—the Priory lane, it's called—until you come to a swing gate, leading into a field; cross that, keeping the footpath to the left, mind you, till you see a stile; get over that, go through the lodge gates right opposite—though it isn't a lodge now, and there ain't no gates, only posts—and up an avenue, where all the trees have been cut down, and there you are. The old place you'll see before you is the Priory."
Time and weather had effaced whatever information the sign-post had once afforded, and there was nothing for it but to take the direction in which it pointed.
He walked slowly on, speculating as to what sort of welcome he was likely to receive from Verschoyle's people. How little he knew about them. Frank to effusiveness in some directions, Verschoyle could be reticent enough in others, and rarely alluded to his family. That he was an only son, and, at his father's death, had inherited but the wreck of a once large property, Allan knew. He had also heard that the widowed mother was still living.
What was Verschoyle doing?—living upon the small property, farming the land; or had he, as he had sometimes talked of doing, gone in for literature, and carried his wares to the London market? At that time his wares had appeared to Allan Meredith likely to be worth a great deal; but, with his three years' added knowledge and experience, he was now inclined to estimate them somewhat differently. Verschoyle's intellect had, indeed, revealed itself chiefly by fitful flashes, brilliant and dazzling enough in their effect at the moment, but leaving no lasting impression of very high powers; and this, with his mercurial temperament, might render his success in the future doubtful.
Allan Meredith had proceeded some distance, and was beginning to think that he must have passed the swing gate without noticing it, when, on turning a bend in the lane, he saw a young girl walking in advance. He quickened his steps a little in order to overtake her, and make inquiry as to whether he was going in the right direction, noting, meanwhile, her general appearance so far as to infer that she was a farmer's daughter; or, rather, as he thought with a half smile, what a farmer's daughter is conventionally supposed to be like. Thick leather shoes, a plainly made gown of some light grey stuff, and short enough for country walking; a large brown straw hat, with neither flower nor feather to adorn it; and ungloved hands, in the one swinging by her side a strap buckled round two or three tattered-looking books. After a moment or two, he recognised something more. Taking note of the firm, light step, the carriage of the head, the perfect ease and freedom of the tall, graceful figure, he mentally ejaculated: "A lady; aye, and with some individuality of her own, too!"
His step had evidently not been heard on the soft, springy turf, and he was fast lessening the distance between them, some curiosity now mingling with his desire for information, when she turned out of the lane and passed through a swing gate. Here she paused for a moment, looking back, and their eyes met.
Yes; just such a face as he, a dreamer of dreams, had sometimes pictured to himself, but hardly hoped to see in the world of reality. A face too grave and troubled for her years—she looked barely eighteen—but how beautiful with its clear, steadfast eyes and general expression so simple, frank, girlish, and, at the same time, so intelligent and thoughtful! She was regarding him with a surprised, questioning look, which reminded him that he was gazing too pertinaciously.
A little consciously he lifted his hat and asked: "Can you direct me to the Priory?"
"The Priory?" she repeated in a low voice, her eyes fixed more intently upon him, and her hand tightening on the gate.
"Mr. Verschoyle's place. I was directed at the railway station, but do not feel sure that——"
"Whom do you want to see there?" she put in abruptly—almost ungraciously.
Nor was the tone assumed; this was not the girl to affect the brusquerie of unconventionality any more than the suavity of conventionality—it was rather that of one in deep anxiety, and unaccustomed to veil her thoughts.
"Mr. Verschoyle," he replied.
"On—business?"—the expression of dread, or whatever it was, deepening in herface, white now to the lips; as, on the impulse of the moment, she pressed back the gate as though to bar the way.
"No," he murmured. To have brought such a look to such a face!
She still eyed him with the same unquiet scrutiny, as though debating something in her mind; then hurriedly asked: "But why? Where do you come from?"
He might very well have asked what interest his relations with Verschoyle could have for her; but he felt that there was some grave reason underlying her anxiety, and was not inclined to take offence. Moreover, there was no necessity for mystery on his side; and, therefore, he might as well reply openly and directly to her question.
"From Grayminster. My name is Meredith."
"Are you a friend of his? Mr. Verschoyle is my brother"; still a little hesitatingly, and, as it were, on the defensive.
He raised his hat again. "We were at Wadham together, Miss Verschoyle, and, chancing to be in this neighbourhood, I thought I would look him up for half an hour's talk over old times."
The colour came into her cheeks and a smile to her beautiful lips, although both faded too quickly. "I remember your name now, Mr. Meredith. I have often heard my brother speak of you," moving aside for him to pass through the gate as she added: "If you will come with me, I will show you the way."
He bowed, passing quickly through to her side. His indecision had entirely vanished now, and a visit to the Priory seemed the most desirable thing in the world. To think of Verschoyle not mentioning that he had a sister—and such a sister!
"I fear I must have seemed terribly rude when you first spoke to me, Mr. Meredith," she said, looking up into his face with a smile, as they proceeded along the path that skirted the field. "The truth is, I was afraid—that is, I thought you were—someone else," flushing with the consciousness that she was saying more than she had meant to say.
He hastened to assure her that it had been quite evident no discourtesy was intended; mentally, the while, congratulating himself upon not being "someone else," then quietly changed the subject. "I have not seen your brother since we left Oxford, Miss Verschoyle. Your only brother, is he not?"
"Yes; and I am his only sister. My mother, Laurence, and I live at the Priory."
"Mrs. Verschoyle is well, I hope?" with suddenly developed interest in everything that concerned her.
"My mother is not worse, I am glad to say, than she has been the last five years. She is always an invalid." Had not Laurence told him that much?
"THERE IS THE PRIORY!""THERE IS THE PRIORY!"
"Was it anxiety about her mother's health that had brought that look to her face?" he was thinking. "No; it must be something more than, or at any ratedifferent from, the kind of trouble which might spring from such a cause."
He murmured a few words of sympathy; her clear eyes turned to meet his, with how different an expression from that he had first seen in them! There was even a little girlish fun in them, as she asked:—
"What kind of place do you imagine the Priory to be, Mr. Meredith?"
"Well, one naturally attaches a little mediæval romance to the idea of a Priory"; adding, after a moment's reflection—there were certainly no signs of prosperity about her—"and it ought to be somewhat dilapidated, I suppose—in the picturesque stage of decay. It must be difficult to keep those old places in thorough repair."
"Very," she replied, her face shadowing. Then, with a side glance at him and again attempting a jesting tone, she went on: "Difficult, too, as it crumbles away, to find room for ancient retainers, old pictures, heirlooms, and the rest of it. Now prepare your mind, Mr. Meredith, when we turn this next bend—There is the Priory!"
He was prepared now to see some dilapidated old place, but hardly for that which met his view. The Priory! That desolate-looking remnant of a building, standing forlornly against the summer sky! Portions of the walls, some high, some low, and all of great thickness, still remained here and there, indicating the plan of the old Priory; but, at this distance, even these seemed to form part of the surrounding brickfields. By no effort of the imagination could the inhabited part of the building be supposed to be the abode of prosperous people. All was desolation and decay, without picturesqueness. Even the aspect of the grounds about it, which might once have lent their aid as a setting to the picture, seemed now only to accentuate the fallen fortunes of the house. Every acre of the ground about it, once of some extent and beautifully wooded, had been sold piecemeal—the greater part for brickfields. On the side they were approaching there seemed no redeeming feature in the dismal scene. No; not likely to be spacious reception-rooms, nor offices for an army of ancient retainers there! Courtesy itself was dumb!
"The Verschoyles have not much left to be proud of, you see, Mr. Meredith. We are not invaded by picnic parties and artists in search of the picturesque; but you see the worst of it from this side."
At that moment the figure of a man was seen emerging from some side entrance, and hurriedly making his way towards the ruins, in an opposite direction from that whence they were approaching.
"Laurence!"—hurriedly calling out, as he seemed to take no heed: "A friend to see you."
He turned; seemed to hesitate a moment; then came slowly towards them. As he drew nearer, and recognised who the visitor was, he hastened his steps, his whole face brightening. "Meredith!" he ejaculated, in a tone of relief. "Where have you sprung from? How are you, old fellow? Quite an age since I saw you last."
"WHERE HAVE YOU SPRUNG FROM?""WHERE HAVE YOU SPRUNG FROM?"
Allan Meredith grasped the hand extended towards him, all the more heartily, perhaps, because it was the hand of Miss Verschoyle's brother, as he explained, "I was at the junction, and being so near, thought I would look you up."
"Glad to see you, old fellow. You know this is my sister?"
"Yes; Miss Verschoyle was good enough to show me the way."
She turned to leave them with the words: "Dinner will be ready in an hour, Laurence."
"All right!"
Meredith had time now to notice that there was the same expression of dread in the brother's face he had seen in the sister's, but with a difference. In her face it was simply fear; in his it was this and something worse. Unlike his sister, looking straight at you in her trouble, his eyes were either downcast or averted: shifting uneasily from one object to another. The whole man was changed—it seemed demoralized—since Meredith had last seen him. His very figure had lost its elasticity, and become slouching and cowering.
"What have you been doing with yourself the last three years?" asked Meredith.
"Oh, all sorts of things; going to the bad, chiefly. Not much opportunity for doing that or anything else here, you may think," noticing the direction which the other's eyes took. "No; I have gone farther afield. Spent two years in London; tried my hand at all sorts of things, and failed. I am a failure all round."
"Nonsense, man; if you take that tone you may be."
"There is no other tone to take, now," moodily.
"Give up in that way, with your abilities, and the world before you!"
"It seems easy enough to you, I dare say. It did to me before I tried. There is no need for you to put your theories to the test, or you might find that men occasionally fail, even though they have hands and brains to work with. Some have to go down, and I'm one of them—that's all!"
"That is not Miss Verschoyle's creed, I think?"
"My sister! She has been telling you about the wretched teaching business, I suppose? She, at any rate, is not cursed with the family pride. I can't endure to see her go about giving lessons to the clodhoppers round here. Does no end of drudgery about the house, too."
It had come to this: the sister was working for both; and Verschoyle did not even see what his allowing her to do so meant! "What kind of pride was this?" thought Meredith, his tone showing, perhaps, a little of what was in his mind, as he gravely replied:—
"I can quite understand your objecting to that. You must let your friends use what interests they have to get you into something, Verschoyle."
"It would be of no use; at any rate, until——no necessity for going into that," moodily kicking a stone across the path. What he wanted just then was money, and this was not the man to whom he could turn for that, with his talk about setting to work. How could he say to this man that he had squandered the last remnant of the small property which had come to him; and that they were liable to be turned out of the old home, such as it was, at any moment now—his invalid mother, and the sister who had striven so hard to keep things together—unless he could obtain money to stave off matters, at any rate for a time? Pressure was now being brought to bear upon him, and threats used that, unless he paid off the sum of five hundred pounds—a sum there seemed no possibility of procuring—charges of fraudulent borrowing would be brought against him which he might find it difficult to combat in a court of law; and he was living from hour to hour in fear of arrest.
The Priory itself, and everything it contained of any value, to the last family portrait that hung upon the walls, had been either mortgaged or sold. If a few heirlooms, in the way of carved furniture—a cabinet or what not—had been allowed still to remain, it was to, as long as possible, keep the knowledge of the worst from his mother and sister.
He had, in the first few moments of their meeting, hurriedly speculated as to whether anything could be made out of the other's chance visit; but his hopes, if they amounted to that, had very quickly died as he remembered the past. There had been nothing large-handed or generous, according to his interpretation of the words, in Meredith. He had shown no inclination to part with his money without aquid pro quô, and lived as though he had not a pound to spare, instead of an income of some ten or twelve thousand a year. He had lost his father in his early boyhood, and the property, carefully nursed for him during a long minority, had largely increased.
That, like many who spend littleupon themselves, Meredith could be even lavishly generous to others, and that there was none to whom one in need could so safely turn for help, Verschoyle did not suspect. He would have been not a little surprised could he have known that many a man had to thank Meredith for help given just at the right moment, and given so quietly that none but the two most concerned were in the secret. Meredith, in fact, cared nothing for the luxuries of life. Capable of doing his share in the world's work, steadily exercising his best faculties, and mentally and physically invigorated by the process, he was almost unable to comprehend a man such as Verschoyle had come to be.
"No; it would be of no use," summed up Verschoyle, eyeing him askance. "If I began to tell him about being in need of a few hundreds, he would want to know the whole story; and it would be no good trying to throw dust in his eyes. I wonder what he would do if I told him point-blank that I am liable to be hauled off to gaol at any moment for lack of five hundred pounds? Button up his pockets and scurry off without waiting to test the Priory hospitality, perhaps; or, worse still, begin to preach."
Seeing that the other was disinclined to be communicative, Meredith changed the subject, introducing any topic he could think of which he thought might interest him. In vain. Both felt that they were farther apart than when they had last met. There was, in fact, a barrier between them which neither knew how to remove. Engrossed in his own reflections, Verschoyle did not keep up the first semblance of bonhomie; a little, indeed, resenting Meredith's efforts in one direction, since he did not seem likely to make any in another of more importance.
Both men were equally relieved when a ruddy-cheeked servant-maid appeared at the door, and informed them that dinner would be ready in ten minutes now. Verschoyle led the way into the house, showed Meredith to a room, and then availed himself of the opportunity to say a few hurried words to his sister.
"Remember, Madge: there's no necessity for offering him a bed. Only a chance visit; that means nothing; and, therefore, dinner is quite enough. How have you contrived it?"
"Oh, pretty well. No need for pretence. He must know by the general aspect of things how it is with us."
"Well, give the mother a hint not to press the hospitalities."
"He would not care to remain if she did, I should think; there is nothing to attract him here"; adding, with a little surprise, "but I should have thought you would have been glad to welcome anyone, dull as you find it, Laurence."
"If I were not in such straits I might. You know I am at my wits' end just now; liable to be seized at any moment for that wretched debt."
He had given it the name of debt to her, and she had not the slightest suspicion that it was anything worse.