It lasted for ten minutes or more, and then followed a long silence. Her body still quivered; she lay with her face half hidden against the hearth-rug, lips parted, but teeth set, breathing heavily.
The clock upon her mantelpiece sounded the third quarter—a quarter to nine. It drew her attention, and at length she half raised herself. Still she had the look of one who listens. She stood up, mechanically smoothed her hair, and twice walked the length of the room. Nearing the door yet again, she opened it, and went upstairs.
Five minutes, and she had made herself ready to go out. At the foot of the stairs she called to her servant.
"I must go into Polterham, Annie. If Mr. Quarrier should come whilst I'm away, say that Mrs. Quarrier and I have gone out, but shall be back very soon. You understand that?"
Then she set forth, and hurried along the dark road.
CHAPTER XXV
Only one vehicle passed her before she came within sight of the streets; it was a carriage and pair, and she recognised the coachman of a family who lived towards Rickstead. Quarrier was doubtless still in the town, but to find him might be difficult. Perhaps she had better go to his house and despatch a servant in search of him. But that was away on the other side of Polterham, and in the meantime he might be starting for Pear-tree Cottage. The polling was long since over; would he linger with his friends at the committee room?
Yet she must go to the house first of all; there was a reason for it which only now occurred to her.
The main thoroughfares, usually silent and forsaken at this hour, were alive with streams of pedestrians, with groups of argumentative electors, with noisy troops of lads and girls who occasionally amused themselves with throwing mud at some unpopular person, or even breaking a window and rushing off with yells into the darkness of byways. Public-houses were doing a brisk trade, not without pugilism for the entertainment of such as lounged about the doors. For these sights and sounds Mrs. Wade had no attention, but frequently her ear was smitten with the name "Quarrier," spoken or roared by partisan or adversary. Her way led her through the open place where stood the Town Hall; here had gathered some hundreds of people, waiting for the result of the poll. As she hurried along the ragged edge of the crowd, a voice from somewhere close at hand checked her.
"If you imagine that Quarrier will do more for the people than any other politician, you will find yourselves mistaken. Party politics are no good—no good at all. You working men ought to have the sense to form a party of your own."
It was Northway, addressing a cluster of mill-hands, and evidently posing as one of a superior class who deigned to give them disinterested advice. She listened for a minute longer, but heard nothing that could excite her alarm.
When she reached the house it was a quarter to ten. This part of the town lay in obscurity and quietness; not a shout sounded in her hearing.
Mr. Quarrier had not been at home since early in the afternoon.
"He must be found at once," said Mrs. Wade, adding quickly, "I suppose Mrs. Quarrier hasn't come?"
The servant gave a surprised negative.
"You must please send some one to find Mr. Quarrier, without a moment's delay. I will come in and wait."
The coachman happened to be in the kitchen. Mrs. Wade had him summoned, and despatched him for his master. Though her limbs shook with fatigue, she could not remain seated for more than a few minutes at a time; she kept the drawing-room door open, and kept going out to listen. Her suspense lasted for more than half an hour; then at length she heard a cab rattle up the drive, and in another moment Quarrier stood before her. This was the second time within a few days that her face had been of ill omen to him; he frowned an anxious inquiry.
"You haven't seen Lilian?" she began.
"Seen her?"
"She has gone—left the cottage—I can't find her."
"Gone? When did she go?"
"I have bad news for you. Northway has come back; he called at the cottage about seven o'clock. I didn't let him know Lilian was there, and soon got rid of him; he said he would have to see you again. Lilian was dreadfully agitated, and when I happened to leave the room, she went out—disappeared—I thought she must have come home "–
"What do the servants say?"
"They haven't seen her."
"But she may have gone to Mary's?"
Arrested in the full flow of his jubilant spirits by this extraordinary announcement, Denzil could not admit grave alarm. If Lilian had fled from the proximity of her pursuer, she must of course have taken refuge with some friend.
"Let us go to the Liversedges'," he exclaimed. "I have a cab"–
"Stop, Mr. Quarrier.—I haven't told you the worst. She ran from the house just as she was, without her hat"–
"What do you mean? Why should she–?"
"She was in a dreadful state. I had done my best to soothe her. I was just going to send for you. My servant saw her run out from the sitting-room into the garden, and the gate wasn't opened—she must have gone the back way—into the fields."
"Into the fields–?"
He stared at her with a look of gathering horror, and his tongue failed him.
"I followed that way. I searched everywhere. I went a long way over towards"–
She broke off, quivering from head to foot.
"But she must have gone somewhere for refuge—to some one's house."
"I hope so! Oh, I hope so!"
Her voice choked; tears started from her eyes.
"What do you fear? Tell me at once, plainly!"
She caught his hand, and replied with sobs of anguish.
"Why should she have gone into the fields?—without anything on her head—into the fields that lead over to"–
"To—you don't mean to—the water?"
Still clinging to his hand, she sobbed, tried to utter words of denial, then again of fear. For the instant Denzil was paralyzed, but rapidly he released himself, and in a voice of command bade her follow. They entered the cab and were driven towards the Town Hall.
"Did you go to the water," he asked, "and look about there?"
"Yes," she answered, "I did.—I could see nothing."
As they drew near, a roar of triumphant voices became audible; presently they were in the midst of the clamour, and with difficulty their vehicle made its way through a shouting multitude. It stopped at length by the public building, and Quarrier alighted. At once he was recognized. There rose yells of "Quarrier for ever!" Men pressed upon him, wanted to shake hands with him, bellowed congratulations in his ear. Heedless, he rushed on, and was fortunate enough to find very quickly the man he sought, his brother-in-law.
"Toby!" he whispered, drawing him aside, "we have lost Lilian! She may be at your house; come with us!"
Voiceless with astonishment, Mr. Liversedge followed, seated himself in the cab. Five minutes brought them to his house.
"Go in and ask," said Quarrier.
Toby returned in a moment, followed by his wife.
"She hasn't been here. What the deuce does it all mean? I can't understand you. Why, where should she have gone?"
Again Denzil drew him aside.
"Get a boatman, with lights and drags, and row round as fast as possible to Bale Water!"
"Good heavens! What are you talking about?"
"Do as I tell you, without a minute's delay! Take this cab. I shall be there long before you."
Mrs. Liversedge was talking with Mrs. Wade, who would say nothing but that Lilian had disappeared. At Denzil's bidding the cab was transferred to Toby, who, after whispering with his wife, was driven quickly away. Quarrier refused to enter the house.
"We shall find another cab near the Town Hall," he said to Mrs. Wade. "Good-night, Molly! I can't talk to you now."
The two hastened off. When they were among the people again, Mrs. Wade caught sentences that told her the issue of the day. "Majority of over six hundred!—Well done, Quarrier!—Quarrier for ever!" Without exchanging a word, they gained the spot where one or two cabs still waited, and were soon speeding along the Rickstead Road.
"She may be at the cottage," was all Denzil said on the way.
But no; Lilian was not at the cottage. Quarrier stood in the porch, looking about him as if he imagined that the lost one might be hiding somewhere near.
"I shall go—over there," he said. "It will take a long time."
"What?"–
"Liversedge is rowing round, with drags.—Go in and wait.—You may be wrong."
"I didn't say I thought it! It was only a fear—a dreadful possibility."
Again she burst into tears.
"Go in and rest, Mrs. Wade," he said, more gently. "You shall know—if anything"–
And, with a look of unutterable misery, he turned away.
Lilian might have taken refuge somewhere in the fields. It seemed a wild unlikelihood, but he durst not give up hope. Though his desire was to reach the waterside as quickly as possible, he searched on either hand as he went by the path, and once or twice he called in a loud voice "Lilian!" The night was darker now than when Mrs. Wade had passed through the neighbouring field; clouds had begun to spread, and only northwards was there a space of starry brilliance.
He came in sight of the trees along the bank, and proceeded at a quicker step, again calling Lilian's name more loudly. Only the soughing wind replied to him.
The nearest part of the water was that where it was deepest, where the high bank had a railing; the spot where Mrs. Wade and Lilian had stood together on their first friendly walk. Denzil went near, leaned across the rail, and looked down into featureless gloom. Not a sound beneath.
He walked hither and thither, often calling and standing still to listen. The whole sky was now obscured, and the wind grew keener. Afraid of losing himself, he returned to the high bank and there waited, his eyes fixed in the direction whence the boat must come. The row along the river Bale from Polterham would take more than an hour.
As he stood sunk in desperate thoughts, a hand touched him. He turned round, exclaiming "Lilian!"
"It is I," answered Mrs. Wade's voice.
"Why have you come? What good can you do here?"
"Don't be angry with me!" she implored. "I couldn't stay at home—I couldn't!"
"I don't mean to speak angrily.—Think," he added, in low shaken voice, "if that poor girl is lying"–
A sob broke off his sentence; he pointed down into the black water. Mrs. Wade uttered no reply, but he heard the sound of her weeping.
They stood thus for a long time, then Denzil raised his hand.
"Look! They are coming!"
There was a spot of light far off, moving slowly.
"I can hear the oars," he added presently.
It was in a lull of the soughing wind. A minute after there came a shout from far across the black surface. Denzil replied to it, and so at length the boat drew near.
Mr. Liversedge stood up, and Quarrier talked with him in brief, grave sentences. Then a second lantern was lighted by the boatman, and presently the dragging began.
Wrapped in a long cloak, Mrs. Wade stood at a distance, out of sight of the water, but able to watch Denzil. When cold and weariness all but overcame her, she first leaned against the trunk of a tree, then crouched there on the ground. For how long, she had no idea. A little rain fell, and afterwards the sky showed signs of clearing; stars were again visible here and there. She had sunk into a half-unconscious state, when Quarrier's voice spoke to her.
"You must go home," he said, hoarsely. "It's over."
She started up.
"Have they found"–
"Yes.—Go home at once."
He turned away, and she hurried from the spot with bowed head.
CHAPTER XXVI
"Oh, depend upon it," said Mrs. Tenterden, in her heavy, consequential way, "there's more behind than we shall ever know! 'Unsound mind,' indeed She was no more of unsound mind than I am!"
It was after church, and Mrs. Mumbray, alone this morning, had offered the heavy lady a place in her brougham. The whole congregation had but one topic as they streamed into the unconsecrated daylight. Never was such eagerness for the strains of the voluntary which allowed them to start up from attitudes of profound meditation, and look round for their acquaintances. Yesterday's paper—the Polterham Examiner unfortunately—reported the inquest, and people had to make the most of those meagre paragraphs—until the Mercury came out, when fuller and less considerate details might be hoped for. The whispering, the nodding, the screwing up of lips, the portentous frowning and the shaking of heads—no such excitement was on record!
"To me," remarked Mrs. Mumbray, with an air of great responsibility, "the mystery is too plain. I don't hint at the worst—it would be uncharitable—but the poor creature had undoubtedly made some discovery in that woman's house which drove her to despair."
Mrs. Tenterden gave a start.
"You really think so? That has occurred to me. Mrs. Wade's fainting when she gave her evidence—oh dear, oh dear! I'm afraid there can be only one explanation."
"That is our honourable member, my dear!" threw out Mrs. Mumbray. "These are Radical principles—in man and woman. Why, I am told that scarcely a day passed without Mrs. Wade calling at the house."
"And they tell me that he was frequently at hers!"
"That poor young wife! Oh, it is shameful! The matter oughtn't to end here. Something ought to be done. If that man is allowed to keep his seat"–
Many were the conjectures put forward and discussed throughout the day, but this of Mrs. Mumbray's—started of course in several quarters—found readiest acceptance in Conservative circles. Mrs. Wade was obviously the cause of what had happened—no wonder she fainted at the inquest; no wonder she hid herself in her cottage! When she ventured to come out, virtuous Polterham would let her know its mind. Quarrier shared in the condemnation, but not even political animosity dealt so severely with him as social opinion did with Mrs. Wade.
Mr. Chown—who would on no account have been seen in a place of worship—went about all day among his congenial gossips, and scornfully contested the rumour that Quarrier's relations with Mrs. Wade would not bear looking into. At the house of Mr. Murgatroyd, the Radical dentist, he found two or three friends who were very anxious not to think evil of their victorious leader, but felt wholly at a loss for satisfactory explanations. Mr. Vawdrey, the coal-merchant, talked with gruff discontent.
"I don't believe there's been anything wrong; I couldn't think it—neither of him nor her. But I do say it's a lesson to you men who go in for Female Suffrage. Now, this is just the kind of thing that 'ud always be happening. If there isn't wrong-doing, there'll be wrong-speaking. Women have no business in politics, that's the plain moral of it. Let them keep at home and do their duty."
"Humbug!" cried Mr. Chown, who cared little for the graces of dialogue. "A political principle is not to be at the mercy of party scandal. I, for my part, have never maintained that women were ripe for public duties but Radicalism involves the certainty that they some day will be. The fact of the matter is that Mrs. Quarrier was a woman of unusually feeble physique. We all know—those of us, at all events, who keep up with the science of the day—that the mind is entirely dependent upon the body—entirely!" He looked round, daring his friends to contradict this. "Mrs. Quarrier had overtaxed her strength, and it's just possible—I say its just possible—that her husband was not very prudent in sending her for necessary repose to the house of a woman so active-minded and so excitable as Mrs. Wade We must remember the peculiar state of her health. As far as I am concerned, Dr. Jenkins's evidence is final, and entirely satisfactory. As for the dirty calumnies of dirty-minded reactionists, I am not the man to give ear to them!"
One man there was who might have been expected to credit such charges, yet surprised his acquaintances by what seemed an unwonted exercise of charity. Mr. Scatchard Vialls, hitherto active in defamation of Quarrier, with amiable inconsistency refused to believe him guilty of conduct which had driven his wife to suicide. It was some days before the rumour reached his ears. Since the passage of arms with Serena, he had held aloof from Mrs. Mumbray's drawing-room, and his personality did not invite the confidence of ordinary scandal-mongers. When at length his curate hinted to him what was being said, he had so clearly formulated his own theory of Mrs. Quarrier's death that only the strongest evidence would have led him to reconsider it. Obstinacy and intellectual conceit forbade him to indulge his disposition to paint an enemy's character in the darkest colours.
"No, Mr. Blenkinsop," he replied to the submissive curate, standing on his hearth-rug at full height and regarding the cornice as his habit was when he began to monologize—"no, I find it impossible to entertain such an accusation. I have little reason to think well of Mr. Quarrier; he is intemperate, in many senses of the word, and intemperance, it is true, connects closely with the most odious crimes. But in this case censure has been too quick to interpret suspicious circumstances—suspicious, I admit. Far be it from me to speak in defence of such a person as Mrs. Wade; I think she is a source of incalculable harm to all who are on friendly terms with her—especially young and impressionable women; but you must trust my judgment in this instance: I am convinced she is not guilty. Her agitation in the coroner's court has no special significance. No; the solution of the mystery is not so simple; it involves wider issues—calls for a more profound interpretation of character and motives. Mrs. Quarrier—pray attend to this, Mr. Blenkinsop—represents a type of woman becoming, I have reason to think, only too common in our time, women who cultivate the intellect at the expense of the moral nature, who abandon religion and think they have found a substitute for it in the so-called humanitarianism of the day. Strong-minded women, you will hear them called; in truth, they are the weakest of their sex. Let their energies be submitted to any unusual strain, let their nerves (they are always morbid) be overwrought, and they snap!" He illustrated the catastrophe with his hands. "Unaided by religion, the female nature is irresponsible, unaccountable." Mr. Vialls had been severe of late in his judgment of women. "Mrs. Quarrier, poor creature, was the victim of immoderate zeal for worldly ends. She was abetted by her husband and by Mrs. Wade; they excited her to the point of frenzy, and in the last moment she—snapped! Mrs. Wade's hysterical display is but another illustration of the same thing. These women have no support outside themselves—they have deliberately cast away everything of the kind."
"Let me exhibit my meaning from another point of view. Consider, Mr. Blenkinsop"–
Quarrier, in the meantime, was very far from suspecting the accusation which hostile ingenuity had brought against him. Decency would in any case have necessitated his withdrawal for the present from public affairs, and, in truth, he was stricken down by his calamity. The Liversedges had brought him to their house; he transacted no business, and saw no one beyond the family circle. At the funeral people had thought him strangely unmoved; pride forbade him to make an exhibition of grief, but in secret he suffered as only a strong man can. His love for Lilian was the deepest his life would know. Till now, he had not understood how unspeakably precious she was to him; for the most part he had treated her with playful good-humour, seldom, if ever, striking the note of passion in his speech. With this defect he reproached himself. Lilian had not learnt to trust him sufficiently; she feared the result upon him of such a blow as Northway had it in his power to inflict. It was thus he interpreted her suicide, for Mrs. Wade had told him that Lilian believed disaster to be imminent. Surely he was to blame for it that, at such a pass, she had fled away from him instead of hastening to his side. How perfectly had their characters harmonized! He could recall no moment of mutual dissatisfaction, and that in spite of conditions which, with most women, would have made life very difficult. He revered her purity; her intellect he esteemed far subtler and nobler than his own. With such a woman for companion, he might have done great things; robbed for ever of her beloved presence, he felt lame, purposeless, indifferent to all but the irrecoverable past.
In a day or two he was to leave Polterham. Whether Northway would be satisfied with the result of his machinations remained to be seen; as yet nothing more had been heard of him. The fellow was perhaps capable of demanding more hush-money, of threatening the memory of the woman he had killed. Quarrier hoped more earnestly than ever that the secret would not be betrayed; he scorned vulgar opinion, so far as it affected himself, but could not bear the thought of Lilian's grave being defiled by curiosity and reprobation. The public proceedings had brought to light nothing whatever that seemed in conflict with medical evidence and the finding of the coroner's jury. One dangerous witness had necessarily come forward—Mrs. Wade's servant; but the girl made no kind of allusion to Northway's visit—didn't, in her own mind, connect it with Mrs. Quarrier's behaviour. She was merely asked to describe in what way the unfortunate lady had left the house. In Glazzard and Mrs. Wade, Denzil of course reposed perfect confidence. Northway, if need were, could and should be bought off.
Toby Liversedge got wind of the scandal in circulation, and his rage knew no bounds. Lest his wife should somehow make the discovery, he felt obliged to speak to her—representing the change in its mildest form.
"There's a vile story going about that Lilian was jealous of Mrs. Wade's influence with Denzil; that the two quarrelled that day at the cottage, and the poor girl drowned herself in despair."
Mary looked shocked, but was silent.
"I suppose," added her husband, "we must be prepared for all sorts of rumours. The thing is unintelligible to people in general. Any one who knew her, and saw her those last days, can understand it only too well."
"Yes," murmured Mrs. Liversedge, with sad thought fulness.
She would not speak further on the subject, and Toby concluded that the mere suggestion gave her offence.
On the day after Denzil departed, leaving by a night train for London.
He was in town for a week, then took a voyage to Madeira, where he remained until there was only time enough to get back for the opening of Parliament. The natural plea of shaken health excused him to his constituents, many of whom favoured him with their unsolicited correspondence. (He had three or four long letters from Mr. Chown, who thought it necessary to keep the borough member posted in the course of English politics.) From Glazzard he heard twice, with cheerful news. "How it happened," he had written to his newly-married friend, in telling of Lilian's death, "I will explain some day; I cannot speak of it yet." Glazzard's response was full of manly sympathy. "I don't pretend," wrote the connoisseur, "that I am ideally mated, but my wife is a good girl, and I understand enough of happiness in marriage to appreciate to the full how terrible is your loss. Let confidences be for the future; if they do not come naturally, be assured I shall never pain you by a question."
Denzil's book had now been for several weeks before the public; it would evidently excite little attention. "A capital present for a schoolboy," was one of the best things the critics had yet found to say of it. He suffered disappointment, but did not seriously resent the world's indifference. Honestly speaking, was the book worth much? The writing had at first amused him; in the end it had grown a task. Literature was not his field.
Back, then, to politics! There he knew his force. He was looking to the first taste of Parliament with decided eagerness.
In Madeira he chanced to make acquaintance with an oldish man who had been in Parliament for a good many years; a Radical, an idealist, sore beset with physical ailments. This gentleman found pleasure in Denzil's society, talked politics to him with contagious fervour, and greatly aided the natural process whereby Quarrier was recovering his interest in the career before him.
"My misfortune is," Denzil one day confided to this friend, "that I detest the town and the people that have elected me."
"Indeed?" returned the other, with a laugh. "Then lay yourself out to become my successor at–when a general election comes round again. I hope to live out this Parliament, but sha'n't try for another."
About the same time he had a letter from Mrs. Wade, now in London, wherein, oddly enough, was a passage running thus:
"You say that the thought of representing Polterham spoils your pleasure in looking forward to a political life. Statesmen (and you will become one) have to be trained to bear many disagreeable things. But you are not bound to Polterham for ever—the gods forbid! Serve them in this Parliament, and in the meantime try to find another borough."
It was his second letter from Mrs. Wade; the first had been a mere note, asking if he could bear to hear from her, and if he would let her know of his health. He replied rather formally, considering the terms on which they stood; and, indeed, it did not gratify him much to be assured of the widow's constant friendship.