E. Phillips Oppenheim - A Lost Leader

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> A Lost Leader

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 16945-h.htm or 16945-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/0/6/16945/16945-h/16945-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/7/0/6/16945/16945-h.zip)

A LOST LEADER

by

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

Author of "A Maker of History," "Mysterious Mr. Sabin," "The Master
Mummer," "Anna the Adventuress," Etc.

Illustrated by Fred Pegram

Boston
Little, Brown & Company

1907

CONTENTS

BOOK I

Chapter

I Reconstruction

II The Woman with an Alias

III Wanted--A Politician

IV The Duchess Asks a Question

V The Hesitation of Mr. Mannering

VI Sacrifice

VII The Duchess's "At Home"

VIII The Mannering Mystery

IX The Pumping of Mrs. Phillimore

X The Man with a Motive

XI Mannering's Alternative

BOOK II

I Borrowdean makes a Bargain

II "Cherchez la Femme"

III One of the "Sufferers"

IV Debts of Honour

V Love _versus_ Politics

VI The Conscience of a Statesman

VII A Blow for Borrowdean

VIII A Page from the Past

IX The Faltering of Mannering

X The End of a Dream

XI Borrowdean shows his "Hand"

XII Sir Leslie Borrowdean incurs a Heavy Debt

XIII The Woman and--the Other Woman

BOOK III

I Matrimony and an Awkward Meeting

II The Snub for Borrowdean

III Clouds--and a Call to Arms

IV Disaster

V The Journalist Intervenes

VI Treachery and a Telegram

VII Mr. Mannering, M.P.

VIII Playing the Game

IX The Tragedy of a Key

X Blanche finds a Way Out

BOOK IV

I The Persistency of Borrowdean

II Hester Thinks it "A Great Pity"

III Summoned to Windsor

IV Checkmate to Borrowdean

V A Brazen Proceeding

A LOST LEADER

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

RECONSTRUCTION

The two men stood upon the top of a bank bordering the rough road which
led to the sea. They were listening to the lark, which had risen
fluttering from their feet a moment or so ago, and was circling now above
their heads. Mannering, with a quiet smile, pointed upwards.

"There, my friend!" he exclaimed. "You can listen now to arguments more
eloquent than any which I could ever frame. That little creature is
singing the true, uncorrupted song of life. He sings of the sunshine, the
buoyant air; the pure and simple joy of existence is beating in his
little heart. The things which lie behind the hills will never sadden
him. His kingdom is here, and he is content."

Borrowdean's smile was a little cynical. He was essentially of that order
of men who are dwellers in cities, and even the sting of the salt breeze
blowing across the marshes--marshes riven everywhere with long arms of
the sea--could bring no colour to his pale cheeks.

"Your little bird--a lark, I think you called it," he remarked, "may be a
very eloquent prophet for the whole kingdom of his species, but the song
of life for a bird and that for a man are surely different things!"

"Not so very different after all," Mannering answered, still watching the
bird. "The longer one lives, the more clearly one recognizes the absolute
universality of life."

Borrowdean shrugged his shoulders, with a little gesture of impatience.
He had left London at a moment when he could ill be spared, and had not
travelled to this out-of-the-way corner of the kingdom to exchange
purposeless platitudes with a man whose present attitude towards life at
any rate he heartily despised. He seated himself upon a half-broken rail,
and lit a cigarette.

"Mannering," he said, "I did not come here to simper cheap philosophies
with you like a couple of schoolgirls. I have a real live errand. I want
to speak to you of great things."

Mannering moved a little uneasily. He had a very shrewd idea as to the
nature of that errand.

"Of great things," he repeated slowly. "Are you in earnest, Borrowdean?"

"Why not?"

"Because," Mannering continued, "I have left the world of great things,
as you and I used to regard them, very far behind. I am glad to see you
here, of course, but I cannot think of any serious subject which it would
be useful or profitable for us to discuss. You understand me, Borrowdean,
I am sure!"

Borrowdean closely eyed this man who once had been his friend.

"The old sore still rankles, then, Mannering," he said. "Has time done
nothing to heal it?"

Mannering laughed easily.

"How can you think me such a child?" he exclaimed. "If Rochester himself
were to come to see me he would be as welcome as you are. In fact," he
continued, more seriously, "if you could only realize, my friend, how
peaceful and happy life here may be, amongst the quiet places, you would
believe me at once when I assure you that I can feel nothing but
gratitude towards those people and those circumstances which impelled me
to seek it."

"What should you think, then," Borrowdean asked, watching his friend
through half-closed eyes, "of those who sought to drag you from it?"

Mannering's laugh was as free and natural as the wind itself. He had
bared his head, and had turned directly seawards.

"Hatred, my dear Borrowdean," he declared, "if I thought that they had a
single chance of success. As it is--indifference."

Borrowdean's eyebrows were raised. He held his cigarette between his
fingers, and looked at it for several moments.

"Yet I am here," he said slowly, "for no other purpose."

Mannering turned and faced his friend.

"All I can say is that I am sorry to hear it," he declared. "I know the
sort of man you are, Borrowdean, and I know very well that if you have
come down here with something to say to me you will say it. Therefore go
on. Let us have it over."

Borrowdean stood up. His tone acquired a new earnestness. He became at
once more of a man. The cynical curve of his lips had vanished.

"We are on the eve of great opportunities, Mannering," he said. "Six
months ago the result of the next General Election seemed assured. We
appeared to be as far off any chance of office as a political party could
be. To-day the whole thing is changed. We are on the eve of a general
reconstruction. It is our one great chance of this generation. I come to
you as a patriot. Rochester asks you to forget."

Mannering held up his hand.

"Stop one moment, Borrowdean," he said. "I want you to understand this
once and for all. I have no grievance against Rochester. The old wound,
if it ever amounted to that, is healed. If Rochester were here at this
moment I would take his hand cheerfully. But--"

"Ah! There is a but, then," Borrowdean interrupted.

"There is a but," Mannering assented. "You may find it hard to
understand, but here is the truth. I have lost all taste for public life.
The whole thing is rotten, Borrowdean, rotten from beginning to end. I
have had enough of it to last me all my days. Party policy must come
before principle. A man's individuality, his whole character, is assailed
and suborned on every side. There is but one life, one measure of days,
that you or I know anything of. It doesn't last very long. The months and
years have a knack of slipping away emptily enough unless we are always
standing to attention. Therefore I think that it becomes our duty to
consider very carefully, almost religiously, how best to use them. Come
here for a moment, Borrowdean. I want to show you something."

The two men stood side by side upon the grassy bank, Mannering
broad-shouldered and vigorous, his clean, hard-cut features tanned with
wind and sun, his eyes bright and vigorous with health; Leslie
Borrowdean, once his greatest friend, a man of almost similar physique,
but with the bent frame and listless pallor of a dweller in the crowded
places of life. Without enthusiasm his tired eyes followed the sweep of
Mannering's arm.

"You see those yellow sandhills beyond the marshes there? Behind them is
the sea. Do you catch that breath of wind? Take off your hat, man, and
get it into your lungs. It comes from the North Sea, salt and fresh and
sweet. I think that it is the purest thing on earth. You can walk here
for miles and miles in the open, and the wind is like God's own music.
Borrowdean, I am going to say things to you which one says but once or
twice in his life. I came to this country a soured man, cynical, a
pessimist, a materialist by training and environment. To-day I speak of a
God with bowed head, for I believe that somewhere behind all these
beautiful things their prototype must exist. Don't think I've turned
ranter. I've never spoken like this to any one else before, and I don't
suppose I ever shall again. Here is Nature, man, the greatest force on
earth, the mother, the mistress, beneficent, wonderful! You are a
creature of cities. Stay with me here for a day or two, and the joy of
all these things will steal into your blood. You, too, will know what
peace is."

Borrowdean, as though unconsciously, straightened himself. If no colour
came to his cheeks, the light of battle was at least in his eyes. This
man was speaking heresies. The words sprang to his lips.

"Peace!" he exclaimed, scornfully. "Peace is for the dead. The last
reward perhaps of a breaking heart. The life effective, militant, is
the only possible existence for men. Pull yourself together, Mannering,
for Heaven's sake. Yours is the _faineant_ spirit of the decadent,
masquerading in the garb of a sham primitivism. Were you born into the
world, do you think, to loiter through life an idle worshipper at the
altar of beauty? Who are you to dare to skulk in the quiet places, whilst
the battle of life is fought by others?"

Another lark had risen almost from their feet, and, circling its way
upwards, was breaking into song. And below, the full spring tide was
filling the pools and creeks with the softly flowing, glimmering
sea-water. The fishing boats, high and dry an hour ago, were passing now
seaward along the silvery way. All these things Mannering was watching
with rapt eyes, even whilst he listened to his companion.

"Dear friend," he said, "the world can get on very well without me, and
I have no need of the world. The battle that you speak of--well, I have
been in the fray, as you know. The memory of it is still a nightmare to
me."

Borrowdean had the appearance of a man who sought to put a restraint upon
his words. He was silent for a moment, and then he spoke very
deliberately.

"Mannering," he said, "do not think me wholly unsympathetic. There is a
side of me which sympathises deeply with every word which you have said.
And there is another which forces me to remind you again, and again, that
we men were never born to linger in the lotos lands of the world. You do
not stand for yourself alone. You exist as a unit of humanity. Think of
your responsibilities. You have found for yourself a beautiful corner of
the world. That is all very well for you, but how about the rest? How
about the millions who are chained to the cities that they may earn their
living pittance, whose wives and children fill the churchyards, the
echoes of whose weary, never-ceasing cry must reach you even here? They
are the people, the sufferers, fellow-links with you in the chain of
humanity. You may stand aloof as you will, but you can never cut yourself
wholly away from the great family of your fellows. You may hide from your
responsibilities, but the burden of them will lie heavy upon your
conscience, the poison will penetrate sometimes into your most jealously
guarded paradise. We are of the people's party, you and I, Mannering, and
I tell you that the tocsin has sounded. We need you!"

A shadow had fallen upon Mannering's face. Borrowdean was in earnest, and
his appeal was scarcely one to be treated lightly. Nevertheless,
Mannering showed no sign of faltering, though his tone was certainly
graver.

"Leslie," he said, "you speak like a prophet, but believe me, my mind is
made up. I have taken root here. Such work as I can do from my study is,
as it always has been, at your service. But I myself have finished with
actual political life. Don't press me too hard. I must seem churlish and
ungrateful, but if I listened to you for hours the result would be the
same. I have finished with actual political life."

Borrowdean shrugged his shoulders despairingly. Such a man was hard to
deal with.

"Mannering," he protested, "you must not, you really must not, send me
away like this. You speak of your written work. Don't think that I
underestimate it because I have not alluded to it before. I myself
honestly believe that it was those wonderful articles of yours in the
_Nineteenth Century_ which brought back to a reasonable frame of mind
thousands who were half led away by the glamour of this new campaign. You
kindled the torch, my friend, and you must bear it to victory. You bring
me to my last resource. If you will not serve under Rochester, come
back--and Rochester will serve under you when the time comes."

Mannering shook his head slowly.

"I wish I could convince you," he said, "once and for all, that my
refusal springs from no such reasons as you seem to imagine. I would
sooner sit here, with a volume of Pater or Meredith, and this west wind
blowing in my face, than I would hear myself acclaimed Prime Minister of
England. Let us abandon this discussion once and for all, Borrowdean. We
have arrived at a cul-de-sac, and I have spoken my last word."

Borrowdean threw his half-finished cigarette into the ever-widening creek
below. It was characteristic of the man that his face showed no sign of
disappointment. Only for several moments he kept silence.

"Come," Mannering said at last. "Let us make our way back to the house.
If you are resolved to get back to town to-night, we ought to be thinking
about luncheon."

"Thank you," Borrowdean said. "I must return."

They started to walk inland, but they had taken only a few steps when
they both, as though by a common impulse, stopped. An unfamiliar sound
had broken in upon the deep silence of this quiet land. Borrowdean, who
was a few paces ahead, pointed to the bend in the road below, and turned
towards his companion with a little gesture of cynical amusement.

"Behold," he exclaimed, "the invasion of modernity. Even your
time-forgotten paradise, Mannering, has its civilizations, then. What an
anachronism!"

With a cloud of dust behind, and with the sun flashing upon its polished
metal parts, a motor car swung into sight, and came rushing towards them.
Borrowdean, always a keen observer of trifles, noticed the change in
Mannering's face.

"It is a neighbour of mine," he remarked. "She is on her way to the golf
links."

"Golf links!" Borrowdean exclaimed.

Mannering nodded.

"Behind the sandhills there," he remarked.

There was a grinding of brakes. The car came to a standstill below. A
woman, who sat alone in the back seat, raised her veil and looked
upwards.

"Am I late?" she asked. "Clara has gone on--they told me!"

She had addressed Mannering, but her eyes seemed suddenly drawn to
Borrowdean. As though dazzled by the sun, she dropped her veil.
Borrowdean was standing as though turned to stone, perfectly rigid and
motionless. His face was like a still, white mask.

"I am so sorry," Mannering said, "but I have had a most unexpected visit
from an old friend. May I introduce Sir Leslie Borrowdean--Mrs.
Handsell!"

The lady in the car bent her head, and Borrowdean performed an automatic
salute. Mannering continued:

"I am afraid that I must throw myself upon your mercy! Sir Leslie insists
upon returning this afternoon, and I am taking him back for an early
luncheon. You will find Clara and Lindsay at the golf club. May we have
our foursome to-morrow?"

"Certainly! I will not keep you for a moment. I must hurry now, or the
tide will be over the road."

She motioned the driver to proceed, but Borrowdean interposed.

"Mannering," he said, "I am afraid that the poison of your lotos land is
beginning to work already. May I stay until to-morrow and walk round with
you whilst you play your foursome? I should enjoy it immensely."

Mannering looked at his friend for a moment in amazement. Then he laughed
heartily.

"By all means!" he answered. "Our foursome stands, then, Mrs. Handsell.
This way, Borrowdean!"

The two men turned once more seaward, walking in single file along the
top of the grassy bank. The woman in the car inclined her head, and
motioned the driver to proceed.

CHAPTER II

THE WOMAN WITH AN ALIAS

Borrowdean seemed after all to take but little interest in the game. He
walked generally, some distance away from the players, on the top of the
low bank of sandhills which fringed the sea. He was one of those men whom
solitude never wearies, a weaver of carefully thought-out schemes, no
single detail of which was ever left to chance or impulse. Such moments
as these were valuable to him. He bared his head to the breeze, stopped
to listen to the larks, watched the sea-gulls float low over the lapping
waters, without paying the slightest attention to any one of them. The
instinctive cunning which never deserted him led him without any
conscious effort to assume a pleasure in these things which, as a matter
of fact, he found entirely meaningless. It led him, too, to choose a
retired spot for those periods of intensely close observation to which he
every now and then subjected his host and the woman who was now his
partner in the game. What he saw entirely satisfied him. Yet the way was
scarcely clear.

They caught him up near one of the greens, and he stood with his hands
behind him, and his eyeglass securely fixed, gravely watching them
approach and put for the hole. To him the whole performance seemed
absolutely idiotic, but he showed no sign of anything save a mild and
genial interest. Clara, Mannering's niece, who was immensely impressed
with him, lingered behind.

"Don't you really care for any games at all, Sir Leslie?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"I know that you think me a barbarian," he remarked, smiling.

"On the contrary," she declared, "that is probably what you think us. I
suppose they are really a waste of time when one has other things to do!
Only down here, you see, there is nothing else to do."

He looked at her thoughtfully. He had never yet in his life spoken half a
dozen words with man, woman or child without wondering whether they might
not somehow or other contribute towards his scheme of life. Clara
Mannering was pretty, and no doubt foolish. She lived alone with her
uncle, and possibly had some influence over him. It was certainly worth
while.

"I do not know you nearly well enough, Miss Mannering," he said, smiling,
"to tell you what I really think. But I can assure you that you don't
seem a barbarian to me at all."

She was suddenly grave. It was her turn to play a stroke. She examined
the ball, carefully selected a club from her bag, and with a long, easy
swing sent it flying towards the hole.

"Wonderful!" he murmured.

She looked up at him and laughed.

"Tell me what you are thinking," she insisted.

"That if I played golf," he answered, "I should like to be able to play
like that."

"But you must have played games sometimes," she insisted.

"When I was at Eton--" he murmured.

Mannering looked back, smiling.

"He was in the Eton Eleven, Clara, and stroked his boat at college. Don't
you believe all he tells you."

"I shall not believe another word," she declared.

"I hope you don't mean it," he protested, "or I must remain dumb."

"You want to go off and tramp along the ridges by yourself," she
declared. "Confess!"

"On the contrary," he answered, "I should like to carry that bag for you
and hand out the--er--implements."

She unslung it at once from her shoulder.

"You have rushed upon your fate," she said. "Now let me fasten it for
you."

"Is there any remuneration?" he inquired, anxiously.

"You mercenary person! Stand still now, I am going to play. Well, what do
you expect?"

"I am not acquainted with the usual charges," he answered, "but to judge
from the weight of the clubs--"

"Give me them back, then," she cried.

"Nothing," he declared, firmly, "would induce me to relinquish them.
I will leave the matter of remuneration entirely in your hands. I am
convinced that you have a generous disposition."

"The usual charge," she remarked, "is tenpence, and twopence for lunch."

"I will take it in kind!" he said.

She laughed gaily.

"Give me a mashie, please."

He peered into the bag.

"Which of these clubs now," he asked, "rejoices in that weird name?"

She helped herself, and played her shot.

"I couldn't think," she said, firmly, "of paying the full price to a
caddie who doesn't know what a mashie is."

"I will be thankful," he murmured, "for whatever you may give me--even if
it should be that carnation you are wearing."

She shook her head.

"It is worth more than tenpence," she said.

"Perhaps by extra diligence," he suggested, "I might deserve a little
extra. By the bye, why does your partner, Mr. Lindsay, isn't it, walk by
himself all the time?"

"He probably thinks," she answered, demurely, "that I am too familiar
with my caddie."

"You will understand," he said, earnestly, "that if my behaviour is not
strictly correct it is entirely owing to ignorance. I have no idea as to
the exact position a caddie should take up."

"What a pity you are going away so soon," she said. "I might have given
you lessons."

"Don't tempt me," he begged. "I can assure you that without me the
constitution of this country would collapse within a week."

She looked at him--properly awed.

"What a wonderful person you are!"

"I am glad," he said, meekly, "that you are beginning to appreciate me."

"As a caddie," she remarked, "you are not, I must confess, wholly
perfect. For instance, your attention should be entirely devoted to the
person whose clubs you are carrying, instead of which you talk to me and
watch Mrs. Handsell."

He was almost taken aback. For a pretty girl she was really not so much
of a fool as he had thought her.

"I deny it _in toto_!" he declared.

"Ah, but I know you," she answered. "You are a politician, and you would
deny anything. Don't you think her very handsome?"

Borrowdean gravely considered the matter, which was in itself a somewhat
humorous thing. Slim and erect, with a long, graceful neck, and a
carriage of the head which somehow suggested the environment of a court,
Mrs. Handsell was distinctly, even from a distance, a pleasant person to
look upon. He nodded approvingly.

"Yes, she is good-looking," he admitted. "Is she a neighbour of yours?"

"She has taken a house within a hundred yards of ours," Clara Mannering
answered. "We all think that she is delightful."

"Is she a widow?" Borrowdean asked.

"I imagine so," she answered. "I have never heard her speak of her
husband. She has beautiful dresses and things. I should think she must be
very rich. Stand quite still, please. I must take great pains over this
stroke."

A wild shot from Clara's partner a few minutes later resulted in a
scattering of the little party, searching for the ball. For the first
time Borrowdean found himself near Mrs. Handsell.

"I must have a few words with you before I go back," he said,
nonchalantly.

"Say that you would like to try my motor car," she answered. "What do you
want here?"

"I came to see Mannering."

"Poor Mannering!"

"It would be," he remarked, smoothly, "a mistake to quarrel."

They separated, and immediately afterwards the ball was found. A little
later on the round was finished. Clara attributed her success to the
excellence of her caddie. Mrs. Handsell deplored a headache, which had
put her off her putting. Lindsay, who was in a bad temper, declined an
invitation to lunch, and rode off on his bicycle. The rest of the little
party gathered round the motor car, and Borrowdean asked preposterous
questions about the gears and the speeds.

"If you are really interested," Mrs. Handsell said, languidly, "I will
take you home. I have only room for one, unfortunately, with all these
clubs and things."

"I should be delighted," Borrowdean answered, "but perhaps Miss
Mannering--"

"Clara will look after me," Mannering interrupted, smiling. "Try to make
an enthusiast of him, Mrs. Handsell. He needs a hobby badly."

They started off. She leaned back in her seat and pulled her veil down.

"Do not talk to me here," she said. "We shall have a quarter of an hour
before they can arrive."

Borrowdean assented silently. He was glad of the respite, for he wanted
to think. A few minutes' swift rush through the air, and the car pulled
up before a queer, old-fashioned dwelling house in the middle of the
village. A smart maid-servant came hurrying out to assist her mistress.
Borrowdean was ushered into a long, low drawing-room, with open windows
leading out on to a trim lawn. Beyond was a walled garden bordering the
churchyard.

Mrs. Handsell came back almost immediately. Borrowdean, turning his head
as she entered, found himself studying her with a new curiosity. Yes, she
was a beautiful woman. She had lost nothing. Her complexion--a little
tanned, perhaps--was as fresh and soft as a girl's, her smile as
delightfully full of humour as ever. Not a speck of grey in her black
hair, not a shadow of embarrassment. A wonderful woman!

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17