Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “And you think,” Basset said — the other’s story had won his respect— “that Peel has found himself in such a position?”

  “To compare great issues with small, I do. I suspect that he has gone through an agony — that is hardly too strong a word — such as I went through. My impression is that when he came into office he was in advance of his party. He saw that the distress in the country called for measures which his followers would accept from no one else. He believed that he could carry them with him. Perhaps, even then, he held a repeal of the Corn Laws possible in some remote future; perhaps he did not, I don’t know. For suddenly there came on him the fear of this Irish famine — and forced his hand.”

  “But don’t you think,” Basset asked, “that the alarm is premature?” A dozen times he had heard the famine called a flam, a sham, a bite, anything but a reality.

  “You have never seen a famine?” the other replied gravely. “You have never had to face the impossibility of creating food where it does not exist, or of bringing it from a distance when there are no roads. I have had that experience. I have seen people die of starvation by hundreds, women, children, babes, when I could do nothing because steps had not been taken in time. God forbid that that should happen in Ireland! If the fear does not outrun the dearth, God help the poor! Now I am told that Peel witnessed a famine in Ireland about ‘17 or ‘18, and knows what it is.”

  “You have had interesting experiences?”

  “The experience of every Indian officer. But the burden which rests on us makes us alive to the difficulties of a statesman’s position. I see Peel forced — forced suddenly, perhaps, to make a choice; to decide whether he shall do what is right or what is consistent. He must betray his friends, or he must betray his country. And the agony of the decision is the greater if he has it burnt in on his memory that he did this thing once before, that once before he turned his back on his party — and that all the world knows!”

  “I see.”

  “If a man in that position puts self, consistency, reputation all behind him — believe me, he is doing a fine thing.”

  Basset assented. “But you speak,” he added, “as if Sir Robert were going to do the thing himself — instead of merely standing aside for others to do it.”

  “A distinction without much difference,” the other rejoined. “Possibly it will turn out that he is the only man who can do it. If so, he will have a hard row to hoe. He will need the help of every moderate man in the country, if he is not to be beaten. For whether he succeeds or fails, depends not upon the fanatics, but upon the moderate men. I don’t know what your opinions are?”

  “Well,” Basset said frankly, “I am not much of a party-man myself. I am inclined to agree with you, so far.”

  “Then if you have any influence, use it. Unfortunately, I am out of it for family reasons.”

  Basset looked at the stranger. “You are not by any chance Colonel Mottisfont?” he said.

  “I am. You know my brother? He is member for Riddsley.”

  “Yes. My name is Basset.”

  “Of Blore? Indeed. I knew your father. Well, I have not cast my seed on stony ground. Though you are stony enough about Wootton under Weaver.”

  “True, worse luck. Your brother is retiring, I hear?”

  “Yes, he has just horse sense, has Jack. He won’t vote against Peel. His lad has less and will take his place and vote old Tory. But there, I mustn’t abuse the family.”

  They had still half an hour to spend together before Basset got out at Stafford. He had time to discover that the soldier was faced by a problem not unlike his own. His service over, he had to consider what he would do. “All I know,” the Colonel said breezily, “is that I won’t do nothing. Some take to preaching, others to Bath, but neither will suit me. But I’ll not drift. I kept from brandy pawnee out there, and I am going to keep from drift here. For you, you’re a young man, Basset, and a hundred things are open to you. I am over the top of the hill. But I’ll do something.”

  “You have done something to-day,” Basset said. “You have done me good.”

  Later he had time to think it over during the long journey from Stafford to Blore. He drove by twisting country roads, under the gray walls of Chartley, by Uttoxeter and Rocester. Thence he toiled uphill to the sterile Derbyshire border, the retreat of old families and old houses. He began to think that he had gained some ideas with which he could sympathize, ideas which were at one with Mary Audley’s burning desire to help, while they did not clash with old prejudices. If he threw himself into Peel’s cause, he would indeed be seen askance by many. He would have to put himself forward after a fashion that gave him the goose-flesh when he thought of it. A landowner, he would have to go against the land. But he would not feel, in his darker moods, that he was the dupe of cranks and fanatics. He saw Peel as Mottisfont had pictured him, as a man putting all behind him except the right; and his heart warmed to the picture. Many would fall away, few would be staunch. From this ship, as from every sinking ship, the rats would flee. But so much the stronger was the call.

  The result was that the Peter Basset who descended at the porch of the old gabled house, that sat low and faced east in the valley under Weaver, was a more hopeful man than he who had entered the train at Euston. A purpose, a plan — he had gained these, and the hope that springs from them.

  He had barely doffed his driving-coat, however, before his thoughts were swept in another direction. On the hall table lay two letters. He took up one. It was from Colet and written in deep dejection. “The barber was a Tory and had given him short notice. Feeling ran high in the town, and other lodgings were not to be had. The Bishop had supported the rector’s action, and he saw no immediate prospect of further work.” He did not ask for shelter, but it was plain that he was at his wit’s end, and more than a little surprised by the storm which he had raised.

  Basset threw down the letter. “He shall come here,” he thought. “What is it to me whom he marries?” Many solitary hours spent in the streets of London had gone some way towards widening Peter’s outlook.

  He took up the second letter. It was from John Audley, and before he had read three lines, he rang the bell and ordered that the post-chaise which had brought him from Stafford should be kept: he would want it in the morning. John Audley wrote that he had been very ill — he was still in bed. He must see Basset. The matter was urgent, he had something to tell him. He hinted that if he did not come quickly it might be too late.

  Basset could not refuse to go; summoned after this fashion, he must go. But he tried to believe that he was not glad to go. He tried to believe that the excitement with which he looked forward to the journey had to do with his uncle. It was in vain; he knew that he tricked himself. Or if he did not know this then, his eyes were opened next day, when, after walking up the hill to spare the horses — and a little because he shrank at the last from the meeting — he came in sight of the Gatehouse, and saw Mary Audley standing in the doorway. The longing that gripped him then, the emotion that unmanned him, told him all. It was of Mary he had been thinking, towards Mary he had been travelling, of her work it was that the miles had seemed leagues! He was not cured. He was not in the way to be cured. He was the same love-sick fool whom she had driven from her with contumely an age — it seemed an age, ago.

  He bent his head as he approached, that she might not see his face. His knees shook and a tremor ran through him. Why had he come back? Why had he come back to face this anguish?

  Then he mastered himself; indeed he took himself the more strongly in hand for the knowledge he had gained. When they met at the door it was Mary, not he, whose color came and went, who spoke awkwardly, and rushed into needless explanations. The man listened with a stony face, and said little, almost nothing.

  After the first awkward greeting, “Your room has been airing,” she continued, avoiding his eyes. “My uncle has been expecting you for some days. He has asked for you again and again.”

  He explained
that he had been in London — hence the delay; and, further, that he must return to Blore that day. She felt that she was the cause of this, and she colored painfully. But he seemed to be indifferent. He noticed a trifling change in the hall, asked a question or two about his uncle’s state, and inquired what had caused his sudden illness.

  She told the story, giving details. He nodded. “Yes, I have seen him in a similar attack,” he said. “But he gets older. I am afraid it alarmed you?”

  She forced herself to describe Lord Audley’s part in the matter — and Mr. Stubbs’s, and was conscious that she was dragging in Mr. Stubbs more often than was necessary. Basset listened politely, remarked that it was fortunate that Audley had been on the spot, added that he was sure that everything had been done that was right.

  When he had gone upstairs to see John Audley she escaped to her room. Her cheeks were burning, and she could have cried. Basset’s coldness, his distance, the complete change in his manner all hurt her more than she could say. They brought home to her, painfully home to her what she had done. She had been foolish enough to fling away the friend, when she need only have discarded the lover!

  But she must face it out now, the thing was done, and she must put up with it. And by and by, fearing that Basset might suppose that she avoided him, she came down and waited for him in the deserted library. She had waited some minutes, moving restlessly to and fro and wishing the ordeal of luncheon were over, when her eyes fell on the door of the staircase that led up to her uncle’s room. It was ajar.

  She stared at it, for she knew that she had closed it after Basset had gone up. Now it was ajar. She reflected. The house was still, she could hear no one moving. She went out quickly, crossed the hall, looked into the dining-room. Toft was not there, nor was he in the pantry. She returned to the library, and went softly up the stairs.

  So softly that she surprised the man before he could raise his head from the keyhole. He saw that he was detected, and for an instant he scowled at her in the half-light of the narrow passage, uncertain what to do. Mary beckoned to him, and went down before him to the library.

  There she turned on him. “Shut the door,” she said. “You were listening! Don’t deny it. You have acted disgracefully, and it will be my duty to tell Mr. Audley what has happened.”

  The man, sallow with fear, tried to brave it out.

  “You will only make mischief, Miss,” he said sullenly. “You’ll come near to killing the master.”

  “Very good!” Mary said, quivering with indignation. “Then instead of telling Mr. Audley I shall tell Mr. Basset. It will be for him to decide whether Mr. Audley shall know. Go now.”

  But Toft held his ground. “You’ll be doing a bad day’s work, Miss,” he said earnestly. “I want to run straight.” He raised his hand to his forehead, which was wet with perspiration. “I swear I do! I want to run straight.”

  “Straight!” Mary cried in scorn. “And you listen at doors!”

  The man made a last attempt to soften her. “For God’s sake, be warned, Miss!” he cried. “Don’t drive me. If you knew as much as I do — —”

  “I should not listen to learn the rest!” replied Mary without pity. “That is enough. Please to see that lunch is ready.” She pointed to the door. She was not an Audley for nothing.

  Toft gave way and went, and she remained alone, perplexed as well as angry. Mrs. Toft and Etruria were good simple folk; she liked them. But Toft had puzzled her from the first. He was so silent, so secretive, he was for ever appearing without warning and vanishing without noise. She had often suspected that he spied on his master.

  But she had never caught him in the act, and the certainty that he did so, filled her with dismay. It was fortunate, she thought, that Basset was there, and that she could consult him. And the instant that he appeared, forgetting their quarrel and the strained relations between them, she poured out her story. Toft was ungrateful, treacherous, a danger! With Mr. Audley so helpless, the house so lonely, it frightened her.

  It was only when she had run on for some time that Basset’s air of detachment struck her. He listened, with his back to the fire, and his eyes bent on the floor, but he did not speak until she had told her story, and expressed her misgivings.

  When he did, “I am not surprised,” he said. “I’ve suspected this for some time. But I don’t know that anything can be done.”

  “Do you mean that — you would do nothing?”

  “The truth is,” he answered, “Toft is pretty far in his master’s confidence. And what he does not know he wishes to know. When he knows it, he will find it a mare’s nest. The truth — as I see it at any rate — is that your uncle is possessed by a craze. He wants me to help him in it. I cannot. I have told him so, firmly and finally, to-day. Well, I suspect that he will now turn to Toft. I hope not, but he may, and if we report the man’s misconduct, it will only precipitate matters and hasten an understanding. That is the position, and if I were you, I should let the matter rest.”

  “You mean that?” she exclaimed.

  “I do.”

  “But — but I have spoken to Toft!” Her eyes were bright with anger.

  He kept his on the floor. It was only by maintaining the distance between them that he could hope to hide what he felt. “Still I would let him be,” he repeated. “I do not think that Toft is dangerous. He has surprised one half of a secret, and he wishes to learn the other half. That is all.”

  “And I am to take no notice?”

  “I believe that will be your wisest course.”

  She was shocked, and she was still more hurt. He pushed her aside, he pushed her out of his confidence, out of her uncle’s confidence! His manner, his indifference, his stolidity showed that she had not only killed his fancy for her at a stroke, but that he now disliked her.

  And still she protested. “But I must tell my uncle!” she cried.

  “I think I would not,” he repeated. “But there—” he paused and looked at his watch— “I am afraid that if you are going to give me lunch I must sit down. I’ve a long journey before me.”

  Then she saw that no more could be said, and with an effort she repressed her feelings. “Yes,” she said, “I was forgetting. You must be hungry.”

  She led the way to the dining-room, and sat down with him, Toft waiting on them with the impassive ease of the trained man. While they ate, Basset talked of indifferent things, of his journey from town, of the roads, of London, of Colonel Mottisfont — an interesting man whom he had met in the train. And as he talked, and she made lifeless answers, her indignation cooled, and her heart sank.

  She could have cried, indeed. She had lost her friend. He was gone to an immense distance. He was willing to leave her to deal with her troubles and difficulties, it might be, with her dangers. In killing his love with cruel words — and how often had she repented, not of the thing, but of the manner! — she had killed every feeling, every liking, that he had entertained for her.

  It was clear that this was so, for to the last he maintained his coldness and indifference. When he was gone, when the sound of the chaise-wheels had died in the distance, she felt more lonely than she had ever felt in her life. In her Paris days she had had no reason to blame herself, and all the unturned leaves of life awaited her. Now she had turned over one page, and marred it, she had won a friend and lost him, she had spoiled the picture, which she had not wished to keep!

  Her uncle lay upstairs, ready to bear, but hardly welcoming her company. He had his secrets, and she stood outside them. She sat below, enclosed in and menaced by the silence of the house. Yet it was not fear that she felt so much as a sadness, a great depression, a gray despondency. She craved something, she did not know what. She only knew that she was alone — and sad.

  She tried to fight against the feeling. She tried to read, to work, even to interest herself in Toft and his mystery. She failed. And at last she gave up the attempt and with her elbows on her knees and her eyes on the fire she fell to musing, the tickin
g of the tall clock and the fall of the embers the only sounds that broke the stillness of the shadowy room.

  CHAPTER XXI

  TOFT AT THE BUTTERFLIES

  Basset’s view of Toft, if it did not hit, came very near the mark. For many years the man had served his master with loyalty, the relations between them being such as were common in days when servants stayed long in a place and held themselves a part of the family. The master had been easy, the man had had no ambitions beyond those of his fellows, and no temptations except those which turned upon the cellar-book.

  But a year before Mary Audley’s arrival two things had happened. First the curate had fallen in love with Etruria, and the fact had become known to her father, to whom the girl was everything. Her refinement, her beauty, her goodness were his secret delight. And the thought that she might become a lady, that she might sit at the table at which he served had taken hold of the austere man’s mind and become a passion. He was ready to do anything and to suffer anything to bring this about. Nor was he deceived when Etruria put the offer aside. She was nothing if not transparent, and he was too fond of her not to see that her happiness was bound up with the man who had stooped to woo her.

  He was not blind to the difficulties or to the clergyman’s poverty. But he saw that Colet, poor as he was, could raise his daughter in the social scale; and he spent long hours in studying how the marriage might be brought about. He hugged the matter to him, and brooded over it, but he never discovered his thoughts or his hopes either to his wife, or to Etruria.