Part 71 (2/2)

”Don't be too sure o' that!” said Sandy cautiously. ”There's always America, ye ken. He can mak' a holy martyr o' himsel' there! He may gain as muckle a reputation as Henry Ward Beecher--ye canna ever tell what may happen--'tis a queer warld!”

”Queer, indeed!” a.s.sented Lorimer as they all rose and left the restaurant together. ”If our present existence is the result of a fortuitous conglomeration of atoms,--I think the atoms ought to have been more careful what they were about, that's all I can say!”

They reached the open street, where Macfarlane shook hands and went his way, promising to call on Errington as soon as Thelma should be again at home.

”He's turned out quite a fine fellow,” said Lorimer, when he had gone.

”I should never have thought he had so much in him. He has become a philanthropist.”

”I fancy he's better than an ordinary philanthropist,” replied Philip.

”Philanthropists often talk a great deal and do nothing.”

”Like members of Parliament,” suggested Lorimer, with a smile.

”Exactly so. By-the-by--I've resigned my candidates.h.i.+p.”

”Resigned? Why?”

”Oh, I'm sick of the thing! One has to be such a humbug to secure one's votes. I had a wretched time yesterday,--speechifying and trying to rouse up clodhoppers to the interests of their country,--and all the time my darling at home was alone, and breaking her heart about me! By Jove! if I'd only known! When I came back this morning to all this misery--I told Neville to send in my resignation. I repeated the same thing to him the last thing before I left the house.”

”But you might have waited a day or two,” said Lorimer wonderingly.

”You're such a fellow of impulse, Phil--”

”Well, I can't help it. I'm tired of politics. I began with a will, fancying that every member of the house had his country's interests at heart,--not a bit of it! They're all for themselves--most of them, at any rate--they're not even sincere in their efforts to do good to the population. And it's all very well to stick up for the aristocracy; but why, in Heaven's name, can't some of the wealthiest among them do as much as our old Mac is doing, for the outcast and miserable poor? I see some real usefulness and good in _his_ work, and I'll help him in it with a will--when--when Thelma comes back.”

Thus talking, the two friends reached the Garrick Club, where they found Beau Lovelace in the reading-room, turning over some new books with the curious smiling air of one who believes there can be nothing original under the sun, and that all literature is mere repet.i.tion. He greeted them cheerfully.

”Come out of here,” he said. ”Come into a place where we can talk.

There's an old fellow over there who's ready to murder any member who even whispers. We won't excite his angry pa.s.sions. You know we're all literature-mongers here,--we've each got our own little particular stall where we sort our goods--our mouldy oranges, sour apples, and indigestible nuts,--and we polish them up to look tempting to the public. It's a great business, and we can't bear to be looked at while we're turning our apples with the best side outwards, and boiling our oranges to make them swell and seem big! We like to do our humbug in silence and alone.”

He led the way into the smoking-room--and there heard with much surprise and a great deal of concern the story of Thelma's flight.

”Ingenuous boy!” he said kindly, clapping Philip on the shoulder. ”How could you be such a fool as to think that repeated visits to Violet Vere, no matter on what business, would not bring the dogs of scandal yelping about your heels! I wonder you didn't see how you were compromising yourself!”

”He never told _me_ a word about it,” interposed Lorimer, ”or else I should have given him a bit of my mind on the subject.”

”Of course!” agreed Lovelace. ”And--excuse me--why the devil didn't you let your secretary manage his domestic squabbles by himself?”

”He's very much broken down,” said Errington. ”A hopeless, frail, disappointed man. I thought I could serve him--”

”I see!” and Beau's eyes were bent on him with a very friendly look.

”You're a first-rate fellow, Errington,--but you shouldn't fly off so readily on the rapid wings of impulse. Now I suppose you want to shoot Lennox--that can't be done--not in England at any rate.”

”It can't be done at all, anywhere,” said Lorimer gravely. ”He's dead.”

Beau Lovelace started back in amazement. ”Dead! You don't say so! Why, he was dining last night at the Criterion--I saw him there.”

Briefly they related the sudden accident that had occurred, and described its fatal result.

”He died horribly!” said Philip in a low voice. ”I haven't got over it yet. That evil, tortured face of his haunts me.”

Lovelace was only slightly shocked. He had known Lennox's life too well, and had despised it too thoroughly, to feel much regret now it was thus abruptly ended.

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