forward—­Mrs. Wade’s servant; but the girl made no kind of allusion to Northway’s visit—­didn’t, in her own mind, connect it with Mrs. Quarrier’s behaviour.  She was merely asked to describe in what way the unfortunate lady had left the house.  In Glazzard and Mrs. Wade, Denzil of course reposed perfect confidence.  Northway, if need were, could and should be bought off.

Toby Liversedge got wind of the scandal in circulation, and his rage knew no bounds.  Lest his wife should somehow make the discovery, he felt obliged to speak to her—­representing the change in its mildest form.

“There’s a vile story going about that Lilian was jealous of Mrs. Wade’s influence with Denzil; that the two quarrelled that day at the cottage, and the poor girl drowned herself in despair.”

Mary looked shocked, but was silent.

“I suppose,” added her husband, “we must be prepared for all sorts of rumours.  The thing is unintelligible to people in general.  Any one who knew her, and saw her those last days, can understand it only too well.”

“Yes,” murmured Mrs. Liversedge, with sad thought fulness.

She would not speak further on the subject, and Toby concluded that the mere suggestion gave her offence.

On the day after Denzil departed, leaving by a night train for London.

He was in town for a week, then took a voyage to Madeira, where he remained until there was only time enough to get back for the opening of Parliament.  The natural plea of shaken health excused him to his constituents, many of whom favoured him with their unsolicited correspondence. (He had three or four long letters from Mr. Chown, who thought it necessary to keep the borough member posted in the course of English politics.) From Glazzard he heard twice, with cheerful news.  “How it happened,” he had written to his newly-married friend, in telling of Lilian’s death, “I will explain some day; I cannot speak of it yet.”  Glazzard’s response was full of manly sympathy.  “I don’t pretend,” wrote the connoisseur, “that I am ideally mated, but my wife is a good girl, and I understand enough of happiness in marriage to appreciate to the full how terrible is your loss.  Let confidences be for the future; if they do not come naturally, be assured I shall never pain you by a question.”

Denzil’s book had now been for several weeks before the public; it would evidently excite little attention.  “A capital present for a schoolboy,” was one of the best things the critics had yet found to say of it.  He suffered disappointment, but did not seriously resent the world’s indifference.  Honestly speaking, was the book worth much?  The writing had at first amused him; in the end it had grown a task.  Literature was not his field.

Back, then, to politics!  There he knew his force.  He was looking to the first taste of Parliament with decided eagerness.

In Madeira he chanced to make acquaintance with an oldish man who had been in Parliament for a good many years; a Radical, an idealist, sore beset with physical ailments.  This gentleman found pleasure in Denzil’s society, talked politics to him with contagious fervour, and greatly aided the natural process whereby Quarrier was recovering his interest in the career before him.