Book 2, Chapter 8 of Marcella This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Paul Stevens. Marcella by Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Book 2, Chapter 8. Scarcely a word was exchanged between Marcella and her mother on the drive home. Yet under ordinary circumstances Marcella's imagination would have found some painful exercise in the effort to find out in what spirit her mother had taken the evening, the first social festivity in which Richard Boyce's wife had taken part for sixteen years. In fact Mrs. Boyce had gone through it very quietly. After her first public entry on Lord Maxwell's arm, she had sat in her corner, taking keen note of everything, enjoying probably the humours of her kind. Several old acquaintances who had seen her at Mellor as a young wife in her first married years, had come up with some trepidation to speak to her. She had received them with her usual well-bred indifference, and they had gone away under the impression that she regarded herself as restored to society by this great match that her daughter was making. Lady Winterbourne had been shyly and therefore formidably kind to her, and both Lord Maxwell and Miss Rayburn had been genuinely interested in smoothing the effort to her as much as they could. She meanwhile watched Marcella, except through the encounter with Lord Wondle, which she did not see, and found some real pleasure in talking both to Aldous and to Hallin. Yet all through she was preoccupied, and towards the end very anxious to get home, a state of mind which prevented her from noticing Marcella's changed looks after her reappearance with Aldous in the ballroom, as closely as she otherwise might have done. Yet the mother had observed that the end of Marcella's progress had been somewhat different from the beginning, that the girl's greetings had been gentler, her smiles softer, and that in particular she had taken some pains, some wistful pains, to make Hallin talk to her.  Only Miss Rayburn held indignantly aloof, and would not pretend, even to Mrs. Boyce. And now Marcella was tired, dead tired, she said to herself, both in mind and body. She lay back in the carriage, trying to sink herself into her own fatigue, to forget everything, to think of nothing. Outside the night was mild and the moon clear. For some days passed after the break-up of the long frost, there had been heavy rain. Now the rain had cleared away, and in the air there was already an early promise of spring. As she walked home from the village that afternoon, she had felt the buds and the fields stirring. When they got home, Mrs. Boyce turned to her daughter at the head of the stairs. Shall I unlace your dress, Marcella? Oh, no, thank you. Can I help you? No, good night. Mama, Marcella turned and ran after her. I should like to know how papayas. I will wait here, if you will tell me. Mrs. Boyce looked surprised.  Marcella waited outside, leaning against the old oak gallery which ran round the hall, her candle the one spot of light and life in the great dark house. He seems to have slept well, said Mrs. Boyce, reappearing and speaking under her breath. He has not taken the opiate I left for him, so he cannot have been in pain. Good night. Marcella kissed her and went. Somehow, in her depression of nerve and will, she was loath to go away by herself. The loneliness of the night, and of her wing of the house, weighed upon her. The noises made by the old boards under her steps, the rustling drafts from the dark passages to right and left startled and troubled her. She found herself childishly fearing lest her candle should go out. Yet as she descended the two steps to the passage outside her door, she could have felt little practical need of it, for the moonlight was streaming in through its uncovered windows, not directly, but reflected from the Tudor front of the house, which ran at right angles to this passage, and was tonight a shining silver palace. Every battlement, window, and molding, in sharpest light and shade, under the radiance of the night. Beneath her feet, as she looked out into the cedar garden, was a deep triangle of shadow, thrown by that part of the building in which she stood. And beyond the garden, the barred black masses of the cedars closing up the view, lent additional magic to the glittering, unsubstantial fabric of the moonlit house, which was, as it were, embosomed and framed among them. She paused a moment, struck by the strangeness and beauty of the spectacle. The Tudor front had the air of some fairy banqueting-hall, lit by unearthly hands for some weird gathering of ghostly nights.  Yet she made no hurry. She fell on the first chair that offered. Her candle behind her had little power over the glooms of the dark tapestry room, but it did serve to illuminate the lines of her own form, as she saw it reflected in the big glass of her wardrobe, straight in front of her. She sat with her hands round her knees, absently looking at herself. A white, long-limbed apparition struck out of the darkness. But she was conscious of nothing save one mounting, overwhelming, passionate desire, almost a cry. Mr. Wharton must go away. He must, or she could not bear it. Quick alternations of insight, memory, self-recognition, self-surrender rose and broke upon her. At last physical weariness recalled her.  As she did so she started, hearing a noise that made her turn her head. Just outside her door a little spiral staircase led down from her corridor to the one below, which ran at the back of the old library, and opened into the cedar garden at its furthest end. Steps surely, light steps, along the corridor outside, and on the staircase. Nor did they die away. She could still hear them as she sat, arrested, straining her ears, pacing slowly along the lower passage. Her heart, after its pause, leapt into fluttering life. This room of hers, the two passages, the library and the staircase, represented that part of the house to which the ghost stories of Mella clung most persistently. Substantially the block of building was of early Tudor date, but the passages and the staircase had been alterations made with some clumsiness at the time of the erection of the eighteenth century front, with a view to bringing these older rooms into the general plan. Marcella, however, might demonstrate, as she pleased, that the boys who were supposed to have stabbed himself on the staircase, died at least forty years before the staircase was made. Nonetheless, no servant would go alone, if she could help it, into either passage after dark. And there was much excited marvelling how Miss Boyce could sleep where she did. Deacon abounded in stories of things spiritual and peripatetic, of steps, groans, lights in the library, and the rest. Marcella had consistently laughed at her. Yet all the same she had made in secret a very diligent pursuit of this ghost, settling in the end to a certain peak with him that he would not show himself to so ardent a daughter of the house. She had sat up waiting for him. She had lingered in the corridor outside and on the stairs, expecting him. By the help of a favourite carpenter she had made researches into roofs, water pipes, panelling, and old cupboards, in the hope of finding a practical clue to him. In vain. Yet here were the steps, regular, soft, unmistakable. The colour rushed back into her cheeks. Her eager, healthy youth forgot its woes, flung off its weariness, and panted for an adventure, a discovery. Springing up she threw her fur wrap round her again, and gently opened the door, listening. For a minute, nothing. Then a few vague sounds as of something living and moving down below, surely in the library. Then the steps again. Impossible that it should be anyone breaking in. No burglar would walk so leisurely. She closed her door behind her, and, gathering her white satin skirts about her, she descended the staircase. The corridor below was in radiant moonlight, checkered by the few pieces of old furniture it contained, and the black and white of the old portrait prints hanging on the walls. At first her seeking, excited eyes could make out nothing. Then in a flash they perceived the figure of Wharton at the further end near the garden door, leaning against one of the windows. He was apparently looking out at the moonlit house, and she caught the faint odour of a cigarette. Her first instinct was to turn and fly, but Wharton had seen her. As he looked about him at the sound of her approach, the moon, which was just rounding the corner of the house, struck on her full, amid the shadows of the staircase, and she heard his exclamation. Dignity and natural pride made her pause. She came forward slowly, he eagerly. I heard footsteps, she said, with a coldness under which she plainly saw her embarrassment. I could not suppose that anybody was still up, so I came down to see. He was silent a moment, scanning her with laughing eyes. Then he shook his head. Confess you took me for the ghost, he said. She hesitated, then must laugh too. She herself had told him the stories, so that his guess was natural. Perhaps I did, she said. One more disappointment. Good night. He looked after her a quick undecided moment as she made a step in front of him. Then at the half-burnt cigarette he held in his hand, through the end away with a hasty gesture, overtook her and walked beside her along the corridor. I heard you and your mother coming in, he said, as though explaining himself. Then I waited till I thought you must both be asleep, and came down here to look at that wonderful effect on the old house. He pointed to the silver palace outside. I have a trick of being sleepless, a trick too of wandering at night. My own people know it and bear with me, but I am a bash that you should have found me out. Just tell me, in one word, how the ball went. He paused at the foot of the stairs, his hands on his sides, as keenly wide awake as though it were three o'clock in the afternoon instead of three in the morning. Womanlike, her mood instantly shaped itself to his. It went very well, she said perversely, putting her sat in slippered foot on the first step. There were six hundred people upstairs, and four hundred coachmen and footmen downstairs, according to our man. Everybody said it was splendid. His piercing enigmatic gaze could not leave her. As he had often frankly warned her, he was a man in quest of sensations. Certainly, in this strange meeting with oldest ray-bones betrothed, in the midst of the sleep-bound house, he had found one. Her eyes were heavy, her cheek pale. But in this soft, vague light, white arms and neck now hidden, now revealed by the cloak she had thrown about her glistening sat in, she was more enchanting than he had ever seen her. His breath quickened. He said to himself that he would make Miss Boyce stay and talk to him. What harm to her or to Rayburn? Rayburn would have chances enough before long. Why admit his monopoly before the time? She was not in love with him. As to Mrs. Grundy, absurd. What in the true reasonableness of things was to prevent human beings from conversing by night, as well as by day. One moment, he said, delaying her, you must be dead tired, too tired for a romance. Else, I should say to you, turn aside an instant and look at the library. It is a sight to remember. Inevitably she glanced behind her and saw that the library door was a jar. He flung it open and the great room showed wide. Its high domed roof lost in shadow, while along the bare floor and up the lattice books crept here streaks and fingers and there wide breads of light from the unshuttered and curtain-less windows. Isn't it the very poetry of night and solitude, he said, looking in with her? You love the place, but did you ever see it so lovable? The dead are here. You did right to come and seek them. Look at your namesake in that ray. Tonight she lives. She knows that is her husband opposite. Those are her books beside her. And the rebel, he pointed smiling to the portrait of John Boyce.  I am nervous about tomorrow. He was bound, as she knew, to a large labour-congress in the Midlands where he was to preside, and sleep will make no terms with me. Ah, how strange! Who can that be passing the avenue? He made a step or two into the room, and put up his hand to his brow, looking intently. Involuntarily, yet with a thrill, Marcella followed. They walked to the window. It is heard, she cried in a tone of distress, pressing her face against the glass. Out at this time, and with a gun! Oh, dear, dear! There could be no question that it was heard. Wharton had seen him linger in the shadowy edge of the avenue, as though reconnoitering, and now, as he stealthily crossed the moonlit grass, his slouching dwarf's figure, his large head, and the short gun under his arm were all plainly visible. What you suppose he is after, said Wharton, still gazing, his hands in his pockets. I don't know. He wouldn't poach on our land. I'm sure he wouldn't. Besides, there is nothing to poach. Wharton smiled. He must be going, after all, to Lord Maxwell's covets. They are just beyond the avenue, on the side of the hill. Oh, it is too disappointing. Can we do anything? She looked at her companion with troubled eyes. This incursion of something sadly and humanly real seemed suddenly to have made it natural to be standing beside him there at that strange hour. Her conscience was soothed. Wharton shook his head. I don't see what we could do. How strong the instinct is! I told you that woman had a secret. Well, it is only one form, the squalid peasant's form, of the same instinct which sends the young fellows of our class ruffling it and chancing it all over the world. It is the instinct to take one's fling, to get out of the rut, to claim one's innings against the powers that be, nature, or the law, or convention. I know all that. I never blame them, cried Marcella. But just now it is so monstrous, so dangerous. Westall especially alert, and this gang about. Besides, I got him work from Lord Maxwell and made him promise me for the wife and children's sake. Wharton shrugged his shoulders. I should think Westall is right, and that the gang have got hold of him. It is what always happens. The local man is the cat's paw. So you are sorry for him, this man? He said in another tone, facing round upon her. She looked astonished and drew herself up nervously, turning at the same time to leave the room. But before she could reply, he hurried on. He may escape his risk. Give your pity, Miss Boyce, rather to one who has not escaped. I don't know what you mean, she said, unconsciously laying a hand on one of the old chairs beside her to steady herself. But it is too late to talk. Good night, Mr. Wharton. Good-bye, he said quietly, yet with a low emphasis, at the same time moving out of her path. She stopped, hesitating. Beneath the lace and faded flowers on her breast, he could see how her heart beat. Not a good-bye. You are coming back after the meeting. I think not. I must not inflict myself on Mrs. Boyce any more. You will all be very busy during the next three weeks. It would be an intrusion if I were to come back at such a time, especially considering the fact, he spoke slowly. That I am as distasteful as I now know myself to be to your future husband. Since you all left tonight, the house has been very quiet. I sat over the fire, thinking. It grew clear to me. I must go and go at once. Besides, a lonely man as I am must not risk his nerve. His task is set him, and there are none to stand by him if he fails. She trembled all over. We are in us an excitement made normal self-control almost impossible. Well, then, I must say thank you, she said indistinctly, for you have taught me a great deal. You will unlearn it, he said gaily, recovering his self-possession so it seemed as she lost hers. Besides, before many weeks are over, you will have heard hard things of me. I know that very well. I can say nothing to meet them, nor should I attempt anything. It may sound brazen, but that past of mine, which I can see perpetually present in oldest Rayburn's mind, for instance, and which means so much to his good aunt, means to me just nothing at all. The doctrine of identity must be true. I must be the same person I was then. But all the same what I did then does not matter a straw to me now. To all practical purposes I am another man.  I have now unlocked the path that suits me. Its quest has transformed me, as I believe ennobled me. I do not ask Rayburn or anyone else to believe it. It is my own affair. Only if we ever meet again in life, you and I, and you think you have reason to ask humiliation of me, do not ask it, do not expect it. The man you will have in your mind has nothing to do with me. I will not be answerable for his sins. As he said these things he was leaning lightly forward, looking up at her. His arms resting on the back of one of the old chairs, one foot crossed over the other. The attitude was easy calm itself. The tone, indomitable, analytic, reflective, matched it. Yet all the same her woman's instinct divined a hidden agitation, and womanlike responded to that and that only. Mr. Rayburn will never tell me old stories about anybody, she said proudly. I asked him once out of curiosity about you, and he would tell me nothing. Generous, said Wharton dryly, I am grateful. No, cried Marcella indignantly, rushing blindly at the outlet for a motion. No, you are not grateful. You are always judging him harshly, criticising, despising what he does. Wharton was silent a moment. Even in the moonlight she could see the reddening of his cheek. So be it, he said at last. I submit, you must know best. But you, are you always content? Does this milieu into which you are passing always satisfy you? Tonight did your royalty please you? Will it soon be enough for you? You know it is not enough, she broke out hotly. It is insulting that you should ask in that tone. It means that you think me a hypocrite, and I have given you no cause. Good heavens, no, he exclaimed, interrupting her, and speaking in a low, hurried voice. I had no motive, no reason for what I said. None but this, that you are going, that we are parting. I spoke in jibes to make you speak, somehow to strike to reach you. Tomorrow it will be too late. And before, almost, she knew that he had moved. He had stooped forward, caught a fold of her dress, pressed it to his lips, and dropped it. Don't speak, he said brokenly, springing up and standing before her in her path. You shall forgive me. I will compel it. See, here we are on this moonlit space of floor, alone in the night. Very probably we shall never meet again, except as strangers. Put off convention, and speak to me, soul to soul. You are not happy altogether in this marriage. I know it. You have as good as confessed it. Yet you will go through with it. You have given your word. Your honor holds you. I recognize that it holds you. I say nothing, not a syllable, against your bond. But here, to-night, tell me, promise me, that you will make this marriage of yours serve our hopes and ends, the ends that you and I have foreseen together. That it shall be your instrument, not your chain. We have been six weeks together. You say you have learnt from me. You have. You have given me your mind, your heart, to write on, and I have written. Henceforward you will never look at life as you might have done if I had not been here. Do you think I triumphed that I boast? Ah, he drew in his breath. What if in helping you and teaching you, for I have helped and taught you, I have undone myself? What if I came here the slave of impersonal causes, of ends not my own? What if I leave maimed in face of the battle? Not your fault? No, perhaps not. But at least you owe me some gentleness now, in these last words. Some kindness in farewell. He came closer, held out his hands. With one of her own she put his back, and lifted the other dizzily to her forehead. Don't come near me, she said, tottering. What is it? I cannot see. Go! And guiding herself, as though blindfolded to a chair, she sank upon it, and her head dropped. It was the natural result of a moment of intense excitement, coming upon nerves already strained and tried to their utmost. She fought desperately against her weakness, but there was a moment when all around her swam, and she knew nothing. Then came a strange awakening. What was this room, this weird light, these unfamiliar forms of things, this warm support against which her cheek lay? She opened her eyes languidly. They met Wharton's half in wonder. He was kneeling beside her, holding her. But for an instant she realised nothing except his look, to which her own helplessly replied. Once she heard him whisper, once then nothing more for ever, and stooping slowly, deliberately, he kissed her. In a stinging flow life shame returned upon her. She struggled to her feet, pushing him from her. You dared, she said, dared such a thing! She could say no more. But her attitude fiercely instinct through all her physical weakness, with her roused best self, was speech enough. He did not venture to approach her. She walked away. He heard the door close, hurrying steps on the little stairs, then silence. He remained where she had left him, leaning against the latticed wall for some time. When he moved it was to pick up a piece of maiden-hair which had dropped from her dress. That was a scene, he said, looking at it, and at the trembling of his own hand. It carries one back to the days of the romantics. Was I Alfred de Mosse, and she George Sand? Did any of them ever taste a more poignant moment than I, when she lay upon my breast? To be helpless yet yield nothing, it challenged me. Yet I took no advantage, none. When she looked, when her eye her soul was for that instant mine, then well. The world has rushed with me since I saw her on the stairs. Life can bring me nothing of such a quality again. What did I say? How much did I mean? My God, how can I tell? I began as an actor. Did I finish as a man? He paced up and down, thinking, gradually by the help of an iron will quieting down each rebellious pulse. That poacher fellow did me a good turn. Dare, the word gold! But after all, what woman could say less? And what matter? I have held her in my arms in a setting under a moon worthy of her. Is not life enriched thereby beyond robbery? And what harm? Rayburn is not injured. She will never tell, and neither of us will ever forget. Ah, what was that? He walked quickly to the window. What he had heard had been a dull report coming apparently from the woods beyond the eastern side of the avenue. As he reached the window it was followed by a second. That poacher's gun, no doubt, he strained his eyes in vain. Collision, perhaps? And mischief? No matter. I have nothing to do with it. The world is all lyric for me tonight. I can hear in it no other rhythm. The night passed away. When the winter morning broke, Marcella was lying with wide sleepless eyes, waiting and pining for it. Her candle still burnt beside her. She had had no courage for darkness, nor the smallest desire for sleep.  But she would have scorned to pity herself. Was it not her natural, inevitable portion? I will tell oldest everything, everything, she said to herself for the hundredth time, as the light penetrated. Was that only seven striking, seven impossible? She sat up haggard and restless, hardly able to bear the thought of the hours that must pass before she could see oldest, put all to the touch. Suddenly she remembered heard, then old pattern. He was dying last night, she thought, in her moral torment, her passion to get away from herself. Is he gone? This is the hour when old people die, the dawn. I will go and see. Go at once. She sprang up, to baffle this ache within her by some act of repentance of social amends, however small, however futile, to propitiate herself, if but by a hair-breath, this, no doubt, was the instinct at work. She dressed hastily, glad of the cold, glad of the effort she had to make against the stiffness of her own young bones, glad of her hunger and faintness of everything physically hard that had to be fought and conquered. In a very short time she had passed quietly downstairs and through the hall, greatly to the amazement of William, who opened the front door for her. Once in the village road the damp, raw air revived her greatly. She lifted her hot temples to it, welcoming the waves of wet mist that swept along the road, feeling her youth come back to her. Suddenly, as she was nearing the end of a narrow bit of lane between high hedges and the first houses of the village were in sight, she was stopped by a noise behind her, a strange, unaccountable noise as of women's voices calling and wailing. It startled and frightened her, and she stood in the middle of the road waiting. Then she saw coming towards her two women running at full speed, crying and shouting, their aprons up to their faces. What is it? What is the matter, she asked, going to meet them, and recognising two labourer's wives she knew. Oh, miss! Oh, miss! said the foremost, too wrapped up in her news to be surprised at the sight of her. They've just found him. They're bringing of him home. They've got a shutter from Muster Wellen, in the disley farm. It were close by disley wood, they found him. And there's one of his men they sent off riding for the inspector. Here he come, miss. Come out the way. They dragged her back, and a young labourer galloped past them on a farm colt, urging it on to its full pace. His face red and set. Who is found? cried Marcella. What is it? Westall, miss! Lord bless you! Shot him in the head they did, blowed his brains right out. And Charlie dines, oh, he's knocked about shameful, the doctor don't give no hopes of him. Oh, dearie, dearie, me! And we're going for Muster Harden. He must tell the widow, or Miss Mary, none on us can. And who did it? said Marcella, pale with horror, holding her. Why, the poachers, miss, them as they've been waiting for all along, and they do say as Jim Hurds in it, oh, Lord, oh, Lord! Marcella stood petrified, and let them hurry on. End of Book Two, Chapter Eight. Book Two, Chapter Nine of Marcella. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Paul Stevens. Marcella by Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Book Two, Chapter Nine. The lane was still again, save for the unwanted sounds coming from the groups which had gathered round the two women, and were now moving beside them along the village street a hundred yards ahead. Marcella stood in a horror of memory, seeing Hurds' figure cross the moonlit avenue from dark to dark. Where was he? Had he escaped? Suddenly she set off running, stung by the thought of what might have already happened under the eyes of that unhappy wife, those wretched children. As she entered the village, a young fellow ran up to her in breathless excitement. They'd got him, miss! He'd come straight home, hadn't made no attempt to run! As soon as Jenkins, Jenkins was the policeman, heard of it, he went straight across to his house and caught him. He were going to make off. His wife had been persuading of him all night, but they'd got him, miss, sure enough! The lad's exaltation was horrible. Marcella waved him aside and ran on. A man on horseback appeared on the road in front of her, leading from Widerington to the village. She recognised Aldous Rayburn, who had checked his horse in sudden amazement as he saw her talking to the boy. My darling, what are you here for?  They have sent for me as a magistrate. Dines is alive.  She shook her head, out of breath and speechless with running.  A man ran out from it, seeing the horse and its rider. Mr Rayburn, Mr Rayburn! They've coched him. Jenkins has got him. Ah, said Aldous, drawing a long, stern breath. He didn't try to get off, then. Marcella, you were not going there, to that house. He spoke in a tone of the strongest remonstrance. Her soul rose in anger against it. I am going to her, she said, panting. Don't wait. And she left him and hurried on. As soon as the crowd round the cottage saw her coming, they divided to let her pass. She's quiet now, Miss, said a woman to her significantly nodding towards the hovel. Just after Jenkins got in, you could hear a crying out pitiful. That was when they were a handcuffing him, said a man beside her. Marcella shuddered. Will they let me in? she asked. They won't let none of us in, said the man. There's Herd's sister. And he pointed to a weeping woman supported by two others. They've kept her out. But here's the inspector, Miss. You ask him. The inspector, a shrewd officer of long experience, fetched in haste from a miles distance, galloped up, and gave his horse to a boy. Marcella went up to him. He looked at her with sharp interrogation. You are Miss Boyce, Miss Boyce of Mella. Yes, I want to go to the wife. I will promise not to get in your way. He nodded. The crowd let them pass. The inspector knocked at the door, which was cautiously unlocked by Jenkins, and the two went in together.  To think of her being in it, at this time of day, you could see Mr. Rayburn was a teller-nover to go home. But she's always pampered them, Herds. The speaker was Ned Patton, old Patton's son, and Herds' companion on many a profitable night-walk. It was barely a week since he had been out with Herd on another ferreting expedition, some of the proceeds of which were still hidden in Patton's outhouse. But at the present moment he was one of the keenest of the crowd, watching eagerly for the moment when he should see his old comrade come out, trapped and checkmated, bound safely and surely to the gallows. The natural love of incident and change, which keeps life healthy, had been starved in him by his labourer's condition. This sudden excitement had made a brute of him.  She won't be able to do nothing for him. There isn't a man nor boy in this year's place as didn't know that he ate at Westall like poison, and would be as like as not to do for him some day. That'll count again him now, terrible strong. He were all as one to blabby were. Well, and Westall said just as much, struck in another voice. They were sure to be a fight if ever Westall got at him on the job. You see, they may bring it in as manslaughter after all. How does anyone know he were there at all? Who seed him? Enquired a white-haired, elderly man, raising a loud, quavering voice from the middle of the crowd. Charlie Dines, seed him! cried several together. How do you know he seed him? From the babble of voices which followed, the white-haired man slowly gathered the beginnings of the matter. Charlie Dines, Westall's assistant, had been first discovered by a horsekeeper in Farmer Welling's employment as he was going to his work. The lad had been found under a hedge, bleeding and frightfully injured, but still alive. Close beside him was the dead body of Westall, with shot wounds in the head. On being taken to the farm and given brandy, Dines was asked if he had recognised anybody. He had said there were five of them, townchaps, and then he named heard quite plainly, whether anybody else nobody knew. It was said he would die, and that Mr Rayburn had gone to take his deposition. And them townchaps got off, eh? said the elderly man. Clean! said Patton, refilling his pipe. Trust them. Meanwhile, inside this poor cottage, Marcella was putting out all the powers of the soul. As the door closed behind her and the inspector, she saw heard sitting handcuffed in the middle of the kitchen, watched by a man whom Jenkins, the local policeman, had got in to help him till some more police should arrive. Jenkins was now upstairs searching the bedroom.  Every now and then he was shaken with coughing, but still he looked, with the dumb, devoted attention of some watching animal. Heard, too, was sitting silent. His eyes, which seemed wider open and more brilliant than usual, wandered restlessly from thing to thing about the room. His great earth-stained hands in their fetters twitched every now and then on his knee. Haggered and dirty as he was, there was a certain aloofness, a dignity even, about the misshapen figure which struck Marcella strangely. Both criminal and victim may have it, this dignity. It means that a man feels himself set apart from his kind. Heard started at the sight of Marcella. I want to speak to her, he said hoarsely, as the inspector approached him, to that lady nodding towards her. Very well, said the inspector, only it is my duty to warn you that anything you say now will be taken down and used as evidence at the inquest. Marcella came near. As she stood in front of him, one trembling ungloved hand crossed over the other, the diamond in her engagement ring catching the light from the window sparkled brightly, diverting even for the moment the eyes of the little fellow against whom her skirts were brushing.  I didn't mean nothing to what happened. He and Charlie came on us round Disley Wood. He didn't take no notice of them. It was they who beat Charlie.  I thought he was for beating my brains out, and I up with my gun and fired. He was so close. That was how he got it all in the head. But he might have killed me just as well. He paused, staring at her with a certain anguished intensity, as though he were watching to see how she took it, nay, trying its effect on both her and himself. He did not look afraid or cast down. Nay, there was a curious buoyancy and steadiness about his manner for the moment which astonished her. She could almost have fancied that he was more alive, more of a man than she had ever seen him. Mind and body better fused, more at command. Is there anything more you wish to say to me? She asked him, after waiting. Then suddenly his manner changed. Their eyes met. Hers, with all their subtle inheritance of various expression, their realized character, as it were, searched his, tried to understand them, those peasant eyes so piercing to her strained sense in their animal urgency and shame. Why had he done this awful thing? Deceived her, wrecked his wife. That was what her look asked.  I haven't made nubba to poor return to you, miss, he said in a shambling way, as though the words were dragged out of him. Then he threw up his head again. But I didn't mean nothing of what happened, he repeated, doggedly going off again into a rapid yet on the whole vivid and consecutive account of West Hall's attack, to which Marcella listened, trying to remember every word. Keep that for your solicitor, the inspector said at last, interrupting him. You're only giving pain to Miss Boyce. You would better let her go to your wife. Herd looked steadily once more at Marcella. It'd be a bad end I'm come to, he said after a moment. But I thank you kindly all the same. They'll want seen after. He jerked his head towards the boy, then towards the outhouse or scullery where his wife was. She takes it terrible hard. She wanted me to run. But I said, no, I'll stand it out. Mr. Brown at the court will give you the bit wages, he owes me. But they'll have to go on the union. Everybody will turn their backs on them now. I will look after them, said Marcella, and I will do the best I can for you. Now I will go to Mrs. Herd. Minter Herd was sitting in a corner of the outhouse on the clay floor, her head leaning against the wall.  When Marcella saw her, she knew that the unhappy woman had already wept so much in the hour since her husband came back to her that she could weep no more. The two little girls in the scantiest of clothing half fastened, sat on the floor beside her, shivering and begrimed, watching her. They had been crying at the tops of their voices, but were now only whimpering miserably, and trying at intervals to dry their tear-stained cheeks with the skirts of their frocks. The baby, wrapped in an old shawl, lay on its mother's knee, asleep and unheeded.  The children were blue. The mother felt like ice as Marcella stooped to touch her. Outcast misery could go no further. The mother moaned as she felt Marcella's hand, then started wildly forward, straining her thin neck and swollen eyes that she might see through the two open doors of the kitchen and the outhouse. They're not taking him away, she said fiercely. Jenkins swore to me that they'd give me notice. No, he's still there, said Marcella, her voice shaking. The inspector's come. You shall have notice. Mrs. Hurd recognized her voice, and looked up at her in amazement. You must put this on, said Marcella, taking off the short fur cape she wore. You are perished. Give me the baby, and wrap yourself in it. But Mrs. Hurd put it away from her with a vehement hand. I'm not cold, Miss. I'm burning hot. He made me come in here. He said he'd do better if the children and I had go away a bit.   Her mind repelled its own memories with haste. Moreover, she was aware of the inspector standing at the kitchen door and beckoning to her. She stole across to him so softly that Mrs. Hurd did not hear her. We have found all we want, he said in his official tone, but under his breath—the clothes, anyway—we must now look for the gun. Jenkins is first going to take him off to Widington. The inquest will be held tomorrow here at the Green Man. We shall bring him over. Then he had it in another voice, touching his hat. I don't like leaving you, Miss, in this place. Shall Jenkins go and fetch somebody to look after that poor thing? They'll be all swarming in here as soon as we've gone. No, I'll stay for a while. I'll look after her. It won't come in if I'm here. Except his sister, Mrs. Mullins, she may come in, of course, if she wants. The inspector hesitated. I'm going now to meet Mr. Rayburn, Miss. I'll tell him that you're here. He knows, said Marcella briefly. Now are you ready? He signed a scent, and Marcella went back to the wife. Mrs. Hurd, she said, kneeling on the ground beside her. They're going. The wife sprang up with a cry and ran into the kitchen, where Hurd was already on his feet between Jenkins and another policeman, who were to convey him to the jail at Widington. But when she came face to face with her husband, something, perhaps the nervous appeal in his strained eyes, checked her, and she controlled herself piteously. She did not even attempt to kiss him. With her eyes on the ground, she put her hand on his arm. They'll let me come and see you, Jim, she said, trembling. Yes, you can find out the rules, he said shortly. They'll let them children cry. They want their breakfast to warm them. There's plenty of coal. I bought a sack home from Jellabies last night myself. Goodbye. Now, March, said the inspector sternly, pushing the wife back. Marcella put her arm round the shaking woman. The door opened, and beyond the three figures as they passed out, her eye passed to the waiting crowd, and then to the misty expanse of common and the dark woods behind, still wrapped in fog. When Mrs Hurd saw the rows of people waiting within a stone's throw of the door, she shrank back. Perhaps it struck her, as it struck Marcella, that every face was the face of a foe. Marcella ran to the door as the inspector stepped out, and locked it after him. Mrs Hurd, hiding herself behind a bit of bay's curtain, watched the two policemen mount with Hurd into the fly that was waiting, and then followed it with her eyes, along the bit of straight road, uttering sounds the while of a low anguish, which rung the heart in Marcella's breast. Looking back in after-days, it always seemed to her that for this poor soul, the true parting, the true wrench between life and life, came at this moment. She went up to her, her own tears running over. You must come and lie down, she said, recovering herself as quickly as possible. You and the children are both starved, and you will want your strength if you are to help him. I will see to things. She put the helpless woman on the wooden settle by the fireplace, rolling up her cloak to make a pillow.  Daisy, where's the cradle? Put the baby down and come and help me make the fire. The day's children did exactly as they were told, and the mother lay like a log on the settle. Marcella found coal and wood under Daisy's guidance, and soon lit the fire, piling on the fuel with a lavish hand. Daisy brought her water, and she filled the kettle and set it on to boil, while the little girl, still sobbing at intervals like some weeping automaton, laid the breakfast. Then the children all crouched round the warmth, while Marcella rubbed their cold hands and feet and mothered them. Shaken as she was with emotion and horror, she was yet full of a passionate joy that this pity, this tendance, was allowed to her. The crushing weight of self-contempt had lifted. She felt morally free and at ease. Already she was resolving what she could do for her. It was as clear as daylight to her that there had been no murder, but a free fight, and even chance between him and Westall. The violence of a hard and tyrannous man had provoked his own destruction. So it stood for her passionate protesting sense. That, at any rate, must be the defence, and some able man must be found to press it. She thought she would write to the Cravens and consult them. Her thoughts carefully avoided the names both of Oldus Rayburn and of Wharton. She was about to make the tea when someone knocked at the door. It proved to be her sister, a helpless woman, with a face swollen by crying, who seemed to be afraid to come into the cottage, and afraid to go near her sister-in-law. Marcella gave her money and sent her for some eggs to the neighbouring shop, then told her to come back in half an hour and take charge. She was an incapable, but there was nothing better to be done. Where is Miss Harden? she asked the woman. The answer was that ever since the news came to the village, the rector and his sister had been with Mrs Westall and Charlie Dine's mother. Mrs Westall had gone into fit after fit. It had taken two to hold her. And Charlie's mother, who was in bed recovering from pneumonia, had also been very bad. Again Marcella's heart contracted with rage rather than pity.  For what? for the protection of a hateful sport, which demoralised the rich and their agents no less than it tempted and provoked the poor. When she had fed and physically comforted the children, she went and knelt down beside Mrs Heard, who still lay with closed eyes in heavy breathing stupor. Dear Mrs Heard, she said, I want you to drink this tea and eat something. The half-stupified woman signalled refusal, but Marcella insisted. You have got to fight for your husband's life, she said firmly, and to look after your children. I must go in a very short time, and before I go you must tell me all that you can of this business. Heard would tell you to do it. He knows, and you know, that I am to be trusted. I want to save him. I shall get a good lawyer to help him. But first you must take this, and then you must talk to me. The habit of obedience to a lady, established long ago in years of domestic service, held. The miserable wife submitted to be fed, looked with forlorn wonder at the children round the fire, and then sank back with a groan. In her tension of feeling Marcella for an impatient moment thought her a poor creature. Then with quick remorse she put her arms tenderly round her, raised the dishevelled grey-streaked head on her shoulder, and stooping kissed the marred face, her own lips quivering. You are not alone, said the girl with her whole soul. You shall never be alone while I live. Now tell me. She made the white and gasping woman sit up in a corner of the settle. And she herself got a stool and established herself a little way off, frowning, self-contained, and determined to make out the truth. Shall I send the children upstairs? she asked.  I'm not going. Oh, he's safe, as will he, said Mrs. Hurd, looking at him, but strangely, and as it were from a long distance. And the other is just too little. Then gradually Marcella got the story out of her. First the misery of alarm and anxiety, in which she had lived ever since the tuddly end-raid, owing first to her knowledge of Hurd's connection with it, and with the gang that had carried it out, then to her appreciation of the quick and ghastly growth of the hatred between him and Westall, lastly to her sense of ingratitude towards those who had been kind to them. I knew we was acting bad towards you. I told him so. I couldn't hardly bear to see you come in. But there, Miss, I couldn't do anything. I tried. Oh, the Lord knows I tried. There was never no happiness between us at last. I talked so. But I don't believe he could help himself. He's not made like other folks, isn't Jim? Her features became convulsed again with the struggle for speech. Marcella reached out for the toil-disfigured hand that was fingering and clutching at the end of the settle, and held it close. Gradually she made out that although Hurd had not been able, of course, to conceal his night absences from his wife, he had kept his connections with the Oxford gang absolutely dark from her, till, in his wild exultation over Westall's discomforture in the tuddly end raid, he had said things in his restless snatches of sleep, which had enabled her to get the whole truth out of him by degrees. Her approaches, her fears, had merely angered and estranged him. Her nature had had somehow to accommodate itself to his, lest affection should lose its miserable all. As to this last fatal attack on the Maxwell covets, it was clear to Marcella, as she questioned and listened, that the wife had long foreseen it, and that she now knew much more about it than, suddenly, she would allow herself to say. For in the midst of her outpouring she drew herself together, tried to collect and calm herself, looked at Marcella with an agonised, suspicious eye, and fell silent. "'I don't know nothing about it, Miss,' she stubbornly declared at last, with an inconsequent absurdity which smoked Marcella's pity afresh. How am I to know? There were seven of the Moxford Fellows at tuddly end. That, I know. Who's to say as Jim was with them at all last night? Who's to say as it wasn't them as?' She stopped, shivering. Marcella held her reluctant hand. "'You don't know,' she said quietly, that I saw your husband in here for a minute before I came into you, and that he told me, as he had already told Jenkins, that it was in a struggle with him that Westall was shot, but that he had fired in self-defense because Westall was attacking him. You don't know, too, that Charlie Dines is alive, and says he saw her. "'Charlie Dines!' Mrs. Hurd gave a shriek, and then fell to weeping and trembling again, so that Marcella had need of patience. "'If you can't help me more,' she said at last in despair, I don't know what we shall do. Listen to me. Your husband will be charged with Westall's murder, that I am sure of. He says it was not murder, that it happened in a fight. I believe it. I want to get a lawyer to prove it. I am your friend. You know I am. But if you are not going to help me by telling me what you know of last night, I may as well go home, and get your sister-in-law to look after you and the children.' She rose as she spoke. Mrs. Hurd clutched at her. "'Oh, my God!' she said, looking straight before her vacantly at the children, who had once began to cry again. "'Oh, my God!' "'Look here, Miss!' her voice dropped. Her swollen eyes fixed themselves on Marcella. The words came out in a low, hurried stream. It was just after four o'clock I heard that daughter. I got up in my nightgown and ran down, and there was Jim. "'Put that light out,' he says to me, sharp like. "'Oh, Jim,' says I, "'wherever have you been? "'You'll be the death of me and then, poor children. "'You go to bed,' he says to me, "'and I'll come presently.' But I could see him because of the moon, almost as plain as day, and I couldn't take my eyes off him. And he went about the kitchen so strange-like, putting down his hat and taking it up again, and I saw he hadn't got his gun. So I went up and caught hold of him. And he gave me a push back. "'Can't you let me alone?' he says. "'You're no soon enough.' And then I looked at my sleeve where I touched him. "'Oh, my God, my God!' Marcella, white to the lips and shuddering too, held her tight. She had the seeing-facility which goes with such quick, nervous natures. And she saw the scene as though she had been there— the moonlit cottage, the miserable husband and wife, the life-blood on the woman's sleeve. Mrs. Hurd went on in a torrent of half-finished sentences and fragments of remembered talk. She told her husband's story of the encounter with the keepers, as he had told it to her. Of course, with additions and modifications already struck out by the agony of inventive pain. She described how she had made him take his blood-stained clothes and hide them in a hole in the roof. Then how she had urged him to strike across country at once, and get a few hours' start before the ghastly business was known. But the more he talked to her, the more confident he became of his own story, and the more determined to stay and to brave it out. Besides, he was shrewd enough to see that escape for a man of his deformity was impossible, and he tried to make her understand it so. But she was mad and blind with fear, and at last, just as the light was coming in, he told her roughly, to end their long wrestle, that he should go to bed and get some sleep. She would make a fool of him, and he should want all his wits.  And when her had seen him, he went and cuddled him up, and rubbed his legs and feet to warm them, and I could hear him groaning, and I say to him, Chim, if you won't go for my sake, will you go for the boys? For you see, miss, there was a bit of money in the house, and I thought he'd hide himself by day and walk by night, and so get to Liverpool, perhaps, and off to the States. And it seemed as though my head would burst with listening for people coming, and him taking up there like a rat in a trap, and no way of proving the truth and everybody again him because of the things he'd said. And he burst out crying, and Willie cried, and I came and entreated of him, and he kissed me, and at last he said he'd go. And I made haste, the light was getting so terrible strong, and just as he'd got to the foot of the stairs, and I was holding little Willie in my arms and saying good-bye to him, she let her head sink against the settle. There was no more to say, and Marcella asked no more questions. She sat thinking. Willie stood a wasted worn figure by his mother, stroking her face. His horse breathing was for the time the only sound in the cottage. Then Marcella heard a loud knock at the door. She got up and looked through the casement window. The crowd had mostly dispersed, but a few people stood about on the green, and a policeman was stationed outside the cottage. On the steps stood Aldous Rayburn, his horse held behind him by a boy. She went and opened the door. I will come, she said at once. There I see Mrs Mullins crossing the common, now I can leave her. Aldous, taking off his hat, closed the door behind him, and stood with his hand on Marcella's arm, looking at the huddled woman on the settle, and the pale children. There was a solemnity in his expression, a mixture of judgment and pity, which showed that the emotion of other scenes also, scenes through which he had just passed, was entering into it. Poor, unhappy souls, he said slowly, under his breath. You say that you have got someone to see after her. She looks as though it might kill her, too. Marcella nodded. Now that her task for the moment was nearly over, she could hardly restrain herself nervously, or keep herself from crying. Aldous observed her with disquiet as she put on her hat. His heart was deeply stirred. She had chosen more nobly for herself than he would have chosen for her, in thus daring and awful experience for the sake of mercy. His moral sense exalted and awed by the sight of death, approved, worshiped her. His man's impatience pined to get her away, to cherish and comfort her. Why, she could hardly have slept three hours since they parted on the steps of the court, amidst the crowd of carriages. Mrs. Mullins came in, still scared and weeping, and dropping frightened curses to muster ray-bone. Marcella spoke to her a little in a whisper, gave some counsels which filled Aldous with admiration for the girl's practical sense and thoughtfulness, and promised to come again later. Mrs. Hurd neither moved nor opened her eyes. Can you walk, said Aldous, bending over her as they stood outside the cottage? I can see that you are worn out. Could you sit my horse, if I led him? No, let us walk. They went on together, followed by the eyes of the village, the boy leading the horse some distance behind. Where have you been, said Marcella, when they had passed the village? Oh, please don't think of my being tired. I had so much rather know it all, I must know it all.  She even drew her hand out of the arm where Aldous was tenderly holding it, and walked on erect by herself. I have been with poor Dine, said Aldous, sadly. We had to take his deposition. He died while I was there. He died? Yes. The fiends who killed him had left small doubt of that. But he lived long enough, thank God, to give the information which will, I think, bring them to justice. The tone of the magistrate and the magnate goaded Marcella's quivering nerves. What is justice, she cried, the system that wastes human lives in protecting your tame pheasants? A cloud came over the stern clearness of his look. He gave a bitter sigh. The sigh of the man to whom his own position in life had been, as it were, one long scruple. You may well ask that, he said. You cannot imagine that I did not ask it of myself a hundred times as I stood by that poor fellow's bedside. They walked on in silence. She was hardly appeased. There was a deep inner excitement in her, urging her towards difference, towards attack. At last he resumed. But whatever the merits of our present game system may be, the present case is surely clear, horribly clear. Six men, with at least three guns among them, probably more, go out on a pheasant-stealing expedition.  The boy is beaten to death, the keeper shot dead at the first brush, by a man who has been his lifelong enemy, and threatened several times, in public, to do for him. If that is not brutal and deliberate murder, it is difficult to say what is. Marcella stood still in the misty road, trying to command herself. It was not deliberate, she said at last, with difficulty, not in Herd's case. I have heard it all from his own mouth. It was a struggle. He might have been killed instead of Westall. Westall attacked, Herd defended himself. Older shook his head. Of course, Herd would tell you so, he said sadly, and his poor wife. He is not a bad or vicious fellow, like the rest of the rascally pack. Probably when he came to himself, after a moment of rage, he could not simply believe what he had done. But that makes no difference. It was murder. No judge or jury could possibly take any other view. Dines' evidence is clear, and the proof of motive is overwhelming. Then, as he saw her pallor and trembling, he broke off in deep distress. My dear one, if I could but have kept you out of this. They were alone in the misty road. The boy with the horse was out of sight. He would feign have put his arm round her, have consoled and supported her. But she would not let him. Please understand, she said in a sort of gasp, as she drew herself away, that I do not believe Herd is guilty, that I shall do my very utmost to defend him. He is to me the victim of unjust, abominable laws. If you will not help me to protect him, then I must look to someone else. Olders felt a sudden stab of suspicion, pre-sentiment. Of course he will be well defended. He will have every chance. That you may be sure of, he said slowly. Marcella controlled herself, and they walked on. As they entered the drive of Mella, Olders thought passionately of those divine moments in his sitting-room, hardly yet nine hours old, and now, now, she walked beside him as an enemy. The sound of a step on the gravel in front of them made them look up. Past, present, and future met in the girls bewildered and stormy sense, as she recognized Wharton. End of Book 2, Chapter 9. The first sitting of the Birmingham Labour Congress was just over, and the streets about the hall in which it had been held were beginning to fill with the issuing delegates. Rain was pouring down, and umbrellas were plentiful. Harry Wharton, accompanied by a group of men, left the main entrance of the hall, releasing himself with difficulty from the friendly crowd around the doors, and crossed the street to his hotel. Well, I'm glad you think I did decently, he said, as they mounted the hotel stairs. What a beastly day, and how stuffy that hall was. Come in and have something to drink. He threw open the door of his sitting-room as he spoke. The four men with him followed him in. I must go back to the hall to see two or three men before everybody disperses, said the one in front. No refreshment for me, thank you, Mr Wharton, but I want to ask a question. What arrangements have you made for the reporting of your speech? The man who spoke was sin and dark, with a modest kindly eye. He wore a black frock coat and had the air of a minister. Oh, thank you, Bennett, it's all right. The post, the chronicle, and the northern guardian will have full copies. I sent them off before the meeting. And my own paper, of course. As to the rest, they may report it as they like. I don't care. They'll all have it, said another man, bluntly. It's the best speech you've ever made. The best president's speech we've had yet, I say. Don't you think so? The speaker, a man called Casey, turned to the two men behind him, both nodded. Halyn's speech last year was first-rate, he continued, but somehow Halyn damps you down. At least he did me last year. What you want just now is fight, and my word, Mr Wharton, let him have it. And standing with his hands on his sides, he glanced around from one to another. His own face was flushed, partly from the effects of a crowded hall and bad air, but mostly with excitement. All the men present indeed, though it was less evident in Bennett and Wharton than in the rest, had the bright, nervous look which belongs to leaders keenly conscious of standing well with the lead, and of having just emerged successfully from an agitating ordeal. As they stood together, they went over the speech to which they had been listening, and the scene which had followed it, in a running stream of talk, laughter and gossip.  But the pleasure on his smiling lip, and in his roving contented eye, was not to be mistaken. The speech he had just delivered had been first thought out as he paced the Moonlit Library and Corridor at Mella. After Marcella had left him, and he was once more in his own room, he had had the extraordinary self-control to write it out, and make two or three machine copies of it for the press. Neither its range nor its logical order had suffered for that intervening experience. The programme of labour for the next five years had never been better presented, more boldly planned, more eloquently justified. Hallinn's presidential speech of the year before, as Casey said, rang flat in the memory when compared with it. Wharton knew that he had made a mark, and knew also that his speech had given him the whip hand of some fellows who would otherwise have stood in his way. Casey was the first man to cease talking about the speech. He had already betrayed himself about it more than he meant. He belonged to the new unionism, and affected a costume in character. Faustian Trouser's flannel shirt, a full red tie, and workman's coat, all well calculated to set off a fine lion-like head and broad shoulders. He had begun life as a bricklayer's labourer, and was now the secretary of a recently formed union. His influence had been considerable, but was said to be already on the wane, though it was thought likely that he would win a seat in the coming parliament. The other two men were Malloy, secretary to the Congress, short, smooth-faced, and wiry, a man whose pleasant iron manner were often misleading, since he was in truth one of the hottest fighting men of a fighting movement, and Wilkins, a friend of Casey's, ex-iron worker, union official, and labour candidate for a Yorkshire division. An uneducated, passionate fellow speaking with a broad Yorkshire accent, a bad man of affairs, but honest and endowed with the influence which comes of sincerity, together with a gift for speaking and superhuman powers of physical endurance. Well, I'm glad it's over, said Wharton, throwing himself into a chair with a long breath, and at the same time stretching out his hand to ring the bell. Casey, some whisky? No, nor you, Wilkins, nor Malloy. As for you, Bennett, I know it's no good asking you. By George, our grandfathers would have thought us a poor lot. Well, some coffee at any rate you must all of you have before you go back. Waiter, coffee. By the way, I have been seeing something of Hal in Bennett down in the country. He took out his cigarette case as he spoke, and offered it to the others, all refused except Malloy. Casey took his half-smoked pipe out of his pocket and lit up. He was not a tea totler, as the others were, but he would have scorned to drink his whisky or water at the expense of a gentleman like Wharton, or to smoke the gentleman's cigarettes. His class pride was irritably strong. Malloy, who was by nature anybody's equal, took the cigarette with an easy good manners, which made Casey look at him as sconce. Mr. Bennett drew his chair close to Wharton's. The mention of Hal in had roused a look of anxiety in his quick dark eyes. How was he, Mr. Wharton? The last letter I had from him, he made light of his health, but you know he only just avoided a breakdown in that strike business. We only pulled him through by the skin of his teeth, Mr. Rayburn and I. Oh, he's no constitution, never had, I suppose. But he seemed much as usual. He's staying with Rayburn, you know, and I've been staying with the father of the young lady whom Rayburn's going to marry. Ah, I've heard of that, said Bennett, with a look of interest. Well, Mr. Rayburn isn't on our side, but for judgment and fair dealing, there are very few men of his class and circumstances I would trust as I would him. The lady should be happy. Of course, said Wharton dryly. However, neither she nor Rayburn are very happy just at this moment.   I only just heard the outlines of it before I came away, but I got a telegram just before going into Congress, asking me to defend the man charged with the murder. A quick expression of repulsion and disgust crossed Bennett's face. There have been a whole crop of such cases lately, he said. How shall we ever escape from the curse of this game system? We shan't escape it, said Wharton, quietly, knocking the end off his cigarette. Not in your lifetime or mine. When we get more radicals on the bench, we shall lighten the sentences, but that will only exasperate the sporting class into finding new ways of protecting themselves. Oh, the man will be hung. That's quite clear to me. But it will be a good case, from the public point of view. We'll work up well. He ran his hands through his curls, considering. We'll work up admirably, he added, in a lower tone of voice, as though to himself, his eyes keen and brilliant as ever, in spite of the marks of sleeplessness and fatigue visible in the rest of his face, though only visible there since he had allowed himself the repose of his cigarette and armchair. Are you coming to dine at the Peterloo tonight, Mr Wharton? said Wilkins, as Wharton handed him a cup of coffee. But of course you are. Part of your duties, I suppose. While Maloy and Casey were deep in animated discussion of the great meeting of the afternoon, he had been sitting silent against the edge of the table. A short bearded somber figure, ready at any moment to make a grievance to suspect a slight. I'm afraid I can't, said Wharton, bending forward in speaking in a tone of concern. That was just what I was going to ask you all. If you would make my excuses tonight. I have been explaining to Bennett I have an important piece of business in the country. A labourer has been getting into trouble for shooting a keeper. They have asked me to defend him. The assizes come on in little more than a fortnight, worse luck, so that the time is short. And he went on to explain that by taking an evening train back to Warrington he could get the following Saturday morning with the solicitor in charge of the case, and be back in Birmingham, thanks to the convenience of a new line lately opened in time for the second meeting of the Congress, which was fixed for the early afternoon. He spoke with great cordiality and persuasiveness. Among the men who surrounded him, his youth, good looks, and easy breeding shone out conspicuous. In the opinion of Wilkins, indeed, who followed his every word and gesture, he was far too well-dressed and too well educated. A day would soon come when the labour movement would be able to show these young aristocrats the door. Not yet, however. Well, I thought you wouldn't die with us, he said, turning away with a blunt laugh. Bennett's mild eye showed annoyance. Mr. Wharton has explained himself very fully, I think, he said, turning to the others. We shall miss him at dinner, but this matter seems to be one of life and death. And we mustn't forget, anyway, that Mr. Wharton is fulfilling this engagement at great inconvenience to himself. We none of us knew when we elected him last year that he would have to be fighting his election at the same time. Next Saturday, isn't it? Bennett rose as he spoke and carefully buttoned his coat. It was curious to contrast his position among his fellows, one of marked ascendancy and authority, with his small, insignificant physique. He had a gentle, deprecating eye and the heart of a poet. He played the flute and possessed the gift of repeating verse, especially Ebenezer Elliott's corn-law rhymes, so as to stir a great audience to enthusiasm or tears. The Wesleyan community of his native Cheshire village owned no more successful class leader and no humbler Christian. At the same time he could hold a large business meeting sternly in check, was the secretary of one of the largest and oldest unions in the country, had been in parliament for years, and was generally looked upon even by the men who hated his moderate policy as a power not to be ignored. Next Saturday, yes, said Wharton, nodding in answer to his inquiry. Well, are you going to do it? said Casey, looking round at him. Oh, yes, said Wharton cheerfully. Oh, yes, we shall do it. We shall settle old Dodgson, I think. Other ravens as strong as they were, asked Malloy, who knew Brookshire. What landlord is? Since 84 the ground is mined for them all, good and bad, and they know it. The mine takes a long time blowing up, too long for my patience, said Wilkins gruffly. How the country can go on year after year paying its tribute to these plunderers passes my comprehension. But you may attack them as you please. You will never get any forager as long as Parliament and the Cabinet is made up of them and their hangers on. Wharton looked at him brightly, but silently, making a little ascending inclination of his head. He was not surprised that anything should pass Wilkins' comprehension, and he was determined to give him no opening for holding forth. Well, we'll let you alone, said Bennett. You'll have very little time to get off in. We'll make your excuses, Mr Wharton. You may be sure everybody is so pleased with your speech. We shall find them all in a good temper. It was grand. Let me congratulate you again. Good night.  The others followed suit, and they all took leaving character. Malloy, with an eager business reference to the order of the day for Saturday, give me your address at Whidrington. I'll post you everything tonight, so that you may have it all under your eye. Casey, with the offhand patronage of the man who would not for the world have his benevolence mistaken for civility, and Wilkins with as gruff a nod and as limper shake of the hand as possible. It might perhaps have been read in the manner of the last two, that although this young man had just made a most remarkable impression, and was clearly destined to go far, they were determined not to yield themselves to him a moment before they must. In truth, both were already jealous of him, whereas Malloy, absorbed in the business of the Congress, cared for nothing, except to know whether in the next two days' debates Wharton would show himself as good a chairman as he was an orator. And Bennett, while saying no word that he did not mean, was fully conscious of an inner judgment, which pronounced five minutes of Edward Hallen's company to be worth more to him than anything which this brilliant young fellow could do or say. Wharton saw them out, then came back and threw himself again into his chair by the window. The Venetian blinds were not closed, and he looked out on a wide and handsome street of tall red brick houses and shops, crowded with people and carriages, and lit with a lavishness of gas which overcame even the February dark and damp.  He was once more in the mellow drive, Aldous Rayburn and Marcella stood in front of him, the thrill of the moment beat once more in his pulse. He buried his head in his hands and thought, the news of the murder had reached him from Mr. Boyce. The master of Mella had heard the news from William, the manservant, at half-past seven, and had instantly knocked up his guest by way of sharing the excitement with which his own feeble frame was throbbing. By God, I never heard such an atrocious business, said the Invalid, his thin hand shaking against his dressing-gown. That's what your radical notions bring to us. We shall have them plundering and burning in the country houses. Next. I don't think my radical notions have much to do with it, said Wharton, composedly. But there was a red spot in his cheeks which belied his manner. So when he, they, saw heard cross the avenue, he was on his way to this deed of blood. The shot that he, Wharton, had heard had been the shot which slew Westall? Probably. Well, what was the bearing of it? Could she keep her own counsellor? Would they find themselves in the witness-box? The idea quickened his pulse amazingly. Any clue? Any arrests? he asked of his host. Why, I told you, said Boyce, Testerly. There was a matter of fact, he had said nothing. They have got that man heard. The Ruffian has been a marked man by the keepers and police, they tell me, for the last year or more. And there's my daughter has been pampering him and his wife all the time and preaching to me about them. She got Rayburn even to take him on at the court. I trust it will be a lesson to her.  So the man was in custody and there was other evidence. Good. There was no saying what a woman's conscience might be capable of. Even against her friend and herself. When Mr. Boyce at last left him free to dress and make his preparations for the early train, by which the night before, after the ladies' departure for the ball, he had suddenly made up his mind to leave Mella, it was some time before Wharton could rouse himself to action. The situation absorbed him. Miss Boyce's friend was now in imminent danger of his neck. And Miss Boyce's thoughts must be of necessity, concentrated on his plight and that of his family. He foresaw the passion, the Saeva indignatio, that she must ultimately throw the general situation being what it was into the struggle for Herd's life. Whatever the evidence might be, he would be to her either victim or champion, and Westall, of course, merely the hollow furnace of the peace. How would Rayburn take it? Ah, well, the situation must develop. It occurred to him, however, that he would catch an earlier train to Whidrington than the one he had fixed on, and have half an hour's talk with the solicitor who was a good friend of his before going on to Birmingham. Accordingly, he rang for William, who came, all staring and dishevelled, fresh from the agitation of the servant's hall, gave orders for his luggage to be sent after him, got as much fresh information as he could from the excited lad, plunged into his bath, and finally emerged fresh and vigorous in every nerve, showing no trace whatever of the fact that two hours of broken sleep had been his sole portion for the night, in which he had gone through emotions and sustained a travail of brain, either of which would have left their mark on most men. Then the meeting in the drive, how plainly he saw them both, Rayburn, Graven, Pale, Marcella in her dark-surge skirt and cap, with an eye all passion and a cheek white as her hand. A tragic splendour enwrapped her, a fierce heroic air, she was the embodiment of the moment, of the melancholy morning with its rain and leafless woods, of the human anguish throbbing in the little village, and I who had seen her last in her festal dress, who had held her warm, perfumed youth in my arms, who had watched in her white breast the heaving of the heart that I, I had troubled. How did I find it possible to stand and face her? But I did. It rushed through me at once how I would make her forgive me, how I would regain possession of her. I had thought the play was closed. It was suddenly plain to me that the second act was but just a beginning. She and Rayburn had already come to words. I knew it directly I saw them. This business will divide them more and more. His conscience will come in, and a Rayburn's conscience is the devil. By now he hates me. Every word I speak to him, still more every word to her, galls him. But he controlled himself when I made him tell me the story. I had no reason to complain, though every now and then I could see him wince, under the knowledge I must need's show of the persons and places concerned, a knowledge I could only have got from her. And she stood by, meanwhile, like a statue. Not a word, not a look, so far, though she had been forced to touch my hand. But my instinct saved me. I roused her, I played upon her. I took the line that I was morally certain she had been taking in there tet-a-tet. Why not a scuffle, a general scrimmage, in which it was a matter of accident who fell? The man surely was inoffensive and gentle, incapable of deliberate murder, and as to the evidence of hatred it told both ways. He stiffened and was silent. What a fine brow he has, a look sometimes when he has moved of antique power and probity. But she, she trembled, animation came back, she would almost have spoken to me, but I did well not to prolong it, to hurry on. Then he took the telegram out of his pocket, which had been put into his hands as he reached the hotel, his mouth quivering again with the exultation which he had felt when he had received it. It recalled to his ranging memory all the details of his hurried interview with the little Widrington solicitor, who had already centred a job in the matter of Herd's defence. This man, needy, shrewd and well equipped with local knowledge, had done work for Wharton and the party, and asked nothing better than to stand well with the future member for the division. There is a lady, Wharton had said, the daughter of Mr Boyce of Mella, who is already very much interested in this fellow and his family. She takes this business greatly to heart. I have seen her this morning, but had no time to discuss the matter with her. She will, I have little doubt, try to help the relations in the arrangements for the defence. Go to her this morning, tell her that the case has my sympathy, that as she knows, I am a barrister, and if she wishes it, I will defend Herd. I shall be hard put to it to get up the case with the election coming on, but I will do it, for the sake of the public interest involved.  Her father is a Tory, and she is just about to marry Mr Rayburn. Her position, therefore, is difficult. Nevertheless, she will feel strongly. She does feel strongly about this case, and about the whole game system, and I feel moved to support her. She will take her own line, whatever happens. See her. See the wife too, who is entirely under Miss Boyce's influence, and why to meet my hotel in Birmingham. If they wish to make other arrangements, well and good, I shall have all the more time to give to the election. Leaving this commission behind him, he had started on his journey. At the end of it, a telegram had been handed to him on the stairs of his hotel. Have seen the lady also, Mrs Herd, you are urgently asked to undertake defence. He spread it out before him now, and pondered it. The bit of flimsy paper contained for him the promise of all he most coveted, influence, emotion, excitement. She will have returns upon herself, he thought smiling, when I see her again. She will be dignified, resentful. She will suspect everything I say or do. Still more, she will suspect herself. No matter. The situation is in my hands. Whether I succeed or fail, she will be forced to work with me, to consult with me. She will owe me gratitude. What made her consent? She must have felt it in some sort, a humiliation. Is it that Raven has been driving her to strong measures? That she wants womanlike to win, and thought me all her best chance, and put her pride in her pocket? Or is it? Ah, one should put that out of one's head. It's like wine, it unsteadies one. And for a thing like this one must go into training. Shall I write to her? There is just time now before I start. Take the lofty tone, the equal masculine tone, which I have noticed she likes. Ask her pardon for an act of madness, before we go together to the rescue of a life. It might do. It might go down. But no, I think not. Let the situation develop itself. Action and reaction. The unexpected. I commit myself to that. She? Marry oldest Raven in a month? Well, she may. Certainly she may. But there is no need for me, I think, to take it greatly into account. Curious. Twenty-four hours ago I thought it all done with, dead and done with. So like Provy, as Bentham used to say, when he heard of anything particularly unseemly in the way of natural catastrophe. Now to dine and be off. How little sleep can I do with in the next fortnight? He rang, ordered his cab, and then went to the coffee room for some hasty food. As he was passing one of the small tables with which the room was filled, a man who was dining there with a friend recognised him, and gave him a cold nod. Watering walked on to the further end of the room, and while waiting for his meal, buried himself in the local evening paper, which already contained a report of his speech. Did you see that? asked a stranger of his friend. The small young fellow with the curly hair. Small young fellow indeed. He's the warriest athlete I know, extraordinary physical strength for his size, and one of the cleverest rascals out as a politician. I'm a neighbour of his in the country. His property joins mine. I knew his father, a little dried up old chap of the old school, very elegant manners and very obstinate, worried to death by his wife.  What's his name? said the friend, interrupting. Wharton, H.S. Wharton. His mother was the daughter of Lord Westgate, and her mother was an actress whom the old Lord married in his dotage. Lady Mildred Wharton was like Garrick, only natural when she was acting, which she did on every possible occasion. A preposterous woman. Old Wharton ought to have beaten her for her handwriting and murdered her for her gowns. Her signature took a sheet of note paper, and as for her dress I could never get out of her way. Whatever part of the room I happened to be in, I always found my feet tangled in her skirts. Somehow I never could understand how she was able to find so much stuff of one pattern. But it was only to make you notice her like all the rest. Every bit of her was a pose, and the maternal pose was the worst of all. H.S. Wharton said the other. Why, that's the man who has been speaking here today. I've just been reading the account of it in the evening star. A big meeting, called by a joint committee of the leading Birmingham trades, to consider the Liberal Election Program as it affects labour. That's the man. He's been at it hammer and tongs, red hot. All the usual devices for harrying the employer out of existence, with a few trifles, graduated income tax and land nationalisation, thrown in. Oh, that's the man, is it? They say he had a great reception, spoke brilliantly, and is certainly going to get into Parliament next week. The speaker, who had the air of a shrewd and prosperous manufacturer, put up his eyeglass to look at this young Robespierre. His vis-à-vis, a stout country gentleman who had been in the army and knocked about the world before coming into his estate, shrugged his shoulders. So I hear, he dents show his nose as a candidate in our part of the world, though of course he does us all the harm he can. I remember a good story of his mother. She quarrelled with her husband and all her relations, his and hers, and then she took to speaking in public, accompanied by her dear boy. On one occasion she was speaking at a market-town near us, and telling the farmers that as far as she was concerned, she would like to see the big properties cut up tomorrow. The sooner her fathers and husbands' estates were made into small holdings stocked with public capital, the better. After it was all over, a friend of mine, who was there, was coming home in a sort of omnibus that ran between the town and a neighbouring village. He found himself between two fat farmers, and this was the conversation, broad Lincolnshire, of course. Did I hear Lady Mildred Wharton say them things, Willam? I did. What did I think, Willam? What did I think, George? Well, I thought Lady Mildred Wharton were a grap fool, Willam, if that asks me. I'll uphold that, George. I'll uphold that, said the other. And then they talked no more for the rest of the journey. The friend laughed. So was it from dear Mamar that the young man got his opinions? Of course. She dragged him into every absurdity she could from the time he was fifteen. When the husband died, she tried to get the servants to come into meals, but the butler struck. So did Wharton himself, who for a socialist has always shown a pretty turn for comfort. I am bound to say he was cut up when she died. It was the only time I ever felt like being civil to him, in those months after she departed. I suppose she was devoted to him, which, after all, is something. Good heavens, said the other, still lazily turning over the pages of the newspaper as they sat waiting for their second course. Here is another poaching murder in Brookshire, the third I have noticed within a month. On Lord Maxwell's property. You know them? I know the old man a little. Fine old fellow. They'll make him president of the council, I suppose. He can't have much work left in him. But it is such a popular, respectable name. Ah, I'm sorry. The sort of thing to distress him terribly. I see the grandson is standing. Oh yes, we'll get in, too. A queer sort of man. Great ability and high character. But you can't imagine him getting on in politics, unless it's by sheer weight of wealth and family influence. He'll find a scruple in every bush. Never stand the rough work of the house, or get on with the men.  By the way, I hear he is making an unsatisfactory marriage. A girl very handsome, but with no manners, and like nobody else. The daughter, too, of an extremely shady father. It's surprising. You'd have thought a man like Aldous Rayburn would have looked for the pick of things. Perhaps it was she looked for the pick of things, said the other, with a blunt laugh. Waiter, another bottle of champagne. End of book two, chapter ten.