During the next few weeks Peter drifted rapidly into being a Tory. He soon talked himself into a conviction that Marbury must win for national as well as personal reasons. Moreover, in his encounter with the miners of the western end of the constituency, he had an opportunity of measuring the evil effect upon clouded minds of the simple demagogy practised on the other side. Peter provoked more than one riot by the contempt with which he challenged the cheap phrases whereby Mr. Jordan's electioneers were campaigning against squires and men of property. Fresh from a contemplation of Haversham's quiet heroism and devoted industry, he was amazed at the success with which English landlords were presented as conspirators against humanity. He was even more amazed at the impudent assurance with which their opponents, relying almost entirely upon popular text-books, raised a whirlwind of prejudice in favour of replacing men like Haversham by a committee of tradesmen. Arrived from these hot meetings in the West, Peter would stand beside his window and look upon a stream of visitors waiting upon Haversham. Already Haversham was told by the doctors to be ready for the end, and he was now deep in a last review of the estate.

Only half a dozen people knew that this was a grand inquest and farewell, but many of the men with whom Haversham spoke realised they would not see him again. Their affection appeared in a solicitude clumsily expressed, but Haversham encouraged no sentiment, and with easy simplicity checked in his visitors any dwelling upon their personal loss.

Peter especially remembered the last time he sat in the small hut. Instinctively he avoided the thing that filled his mind. Not a word was spoken to suggest that Haversham was an invalid. When Peter came to recall their conversation, he realised that he had talked exclusively of himself under Haversham's quiet prompting. He still saw the interested smile, lighting the face of his host—now brilliant with fever and eloquent with the gesture of his spirit. Long afterwards, Peter shamefully realised how this man, already in the shadow of death, had, in perfect sincerity, bent as from the clouds to encourage his young egoism and to listen.

A few days later, Peter attended a mass meeting of Marbury's opponents. It was Wenderby's meeting, held in the western corner of the constituency, in contempt of landowners. Peter knew nothing of Wenderby beyond his public reputation. He saw in Wenderby only the brass and swagger which, for political purposes, he chose to affect. Peter was deceived. Wenderby was a politician of exquisite finesse, playing the political bruiser partly out of genuine love for his country, partly from a deeply calculated personal ambition. His speech in this by-election well illustrated the intricacy of modern politics under their superficial simplicity. Ostensibly it denounced all Tories and pleaded for economy in naval expenditure. Actually it was Wenderby's cover for a set campaign for extorting as much money out of his own party for the Service as he dared.

Wenderby's position in Marbury's constituency was every way a snare for the politically innocent. He was a friend of Haversham, and usually a guest at Highbury. But, as he wrote to Haversham, to stay at Highbury in the present crisis would perhaps be regarded as a breach of political decency. Peter, seeing in Wenderby the public enemy of a nobleman whose hospitality the speaker had himself enjoyed, could not contain his rage. Wenderby's rhetorical periods were launched with deadly effect at a simmering audience.

At the close of the meeting, Peter, red with anger, rose to ask whether certain remarks concerning the landlords of England were intended to have a personal and local application. Wenderby, seeing he had only to do with a youngster who had lost his temper, smoothly evaded him. Peter sprang to his feet:

"Sir—" he began.

Immediately there were shouts of "Order!" and "Turn him out!" Peter obstinately stood.

"I insist," he shouted, "that my question be answered. An infamous insinuation——"

At this point Peter was choked by half a dozen dirty hands grabbing from all quarters at his neck. He was thrust gasping and struggling from the hall—his coat in ribbons. His battered hat and collar were derisively thrown after him, as he bitterly explained to the police that he was not drunk and disorderly.

Peter showed himself that night to Marbury and stormily told his tale. Marbury, to his mortification, only laughed.

"What is amusing you?" asked Peter, very short and stony.

"Everything."

"For example?"

"I don't know where to begin. First, you were shouting at the wrong man. Wenderby is the favourite godson of Uncle Eustace. He's the only man we can trust."

"But he's on the other side."

"In a way he is."

"He will lose you the seat."

"Perhaps. This by-election is only an incident. Wenderby's speech to-night was one of a series. Unfortunately it happens to lie in our constituency. Wenderby has to manage his own people."

Peter flung up his hands. "I don't understand these politics."

Marbury looked affectionately at Peter. Peter had met Marbury going to his room. He was without a collar, and he looked forlorn. Marbury put a hand on his arm:

"Wenderby shall apologise," he said gravely. "He's a charming fellow, and he is very fond of young people."

Lady Mary, fresh from canvassing, shared a late supper with Marbury and Peter. She joined with her brother to wring from Peter a full account of his adventure. Peter began sorely, but at last detected in Lady Mary an unconfessed approval. Clearly she liked him for his protest. He even dared to think that she admired. Peter was gradually more happy, and soon was enjoying his escapade. He even displayed, in mock heroism, the large blue marks upon his neck.

Later, in his room, Peter found in the events of the day a consecration of his devotion to Eustace Haversham. Unessential incidents fell away, and he was glad of his protest—mistaken though it seemed, and ridiculous.

Next day was Sunday, and meetings were suspended. The house was very quiet, and Haversham was not in his usual place. Marbury told Peter he might not again come down.

After dinner, Peter slipped on to the terrace and faced the shadowy moor, lifting his head to a faint breeze from the sea. He stood beside the bronze figure he had so often admired. Before him was the wilderness, but civilisation was behind in the murmured voices from the drawing-room and those harsher cries Peter had lately heard from men made selfish and bitter.

Surely it was well that this triumphant figure should brave the desert, and that in its shadow a beautiful life should be passing. It flung out the challenge of art and wisdom. It was a consummation for which millions worked, and now it confidently stood, as though aware of what it had cost, resolved that it was well worth the price. Peter wondered whether it were justified.

His dreaming was broken. Lady Mary rustled beside him.

"You have found this place?" she said after a silence. They watched the superb silhouette of the statue fading as the light emptied rapidly from the sky.

"I am wondering whether he is worth while?" said Peter, waving his hand at the figure between them.

"What is your riddle?"

"He has cost a thousand lives."

"You are talking like a Socialist," said Lady Mary curtly.

Peter felt in her a coldness that passed. She was looking over the moors as though she followed the blind eyes of the naked boy. Her attitude suggested that she, too, was part of this challenge. Her dress, conveying to Peter an impression of complicated and finished art, fell away from her shoulders as, with head flung back, she filled her eyes with the beauty of earth and sky. She interpreted in radiant life the cold metal of the statue. Civilisation was justified in her, or it could not be justified.

"Have you never any doubt?" said Peter, wistfully impulsive.

Lady Mary turned slowly from the moor. Her calm eyes swept over him.

"Doubt?" she echoed.

"Do you never wonder whether all this"—Peter made one of the large gestures of his mother—"is worth the noise and the dirt over there? Have you no doubt at all?"

"How is it possible to doubt?" she calmly responded. She stood proudly facing him. But she read perplexity in his face and, as it seemed to Peter, she stooped to him.

"Don't you see," she almost pleaded, "that either we must believe in ourselves or make way; and we do believe. I believe in all this"—she faintly parodied Peter's large gesture—"and I believe in myself."

There was a pause, and it was Lady Mary who spoke again. Almost it seemed that she wanted to make her point.

"You, at any rate," she urged him, "have learned to believe a little." She looked towards the hut on the terrace, and Peter followed her thoughts.

The trees stirred a moment, and laughter came from the open room. But these two heard only the voice of Eustace Haversham, and saw his lighted features vivid in memory. The last colour of the sunset was full upon her as she faced her uncle's empty place. Its emptiness to-night was an omen of the eternal emptiness to come. Her mouth quivered, and tears shone suddenly under her lids as she turned again to Peter.

"I believe he is worth the whole world," she said, and her voice broke.

Her tears seemed to remove every barrier. Peter saw in her eyes an appeal for an equal faith. She felt the drops on her cheek, and turned away into the shadow.

"I, too, believe," Peter deeply whispered.

Then he noticed how her hand lay unprotected upon the pedestal of the statue, vaguely delicate upon the hard metal.

He impulsively bent and touched it with his lips. She did not start or cry out, but turned again slowly towards him. She read in his eyes faith merely and dedication.

"I am glad you did that," she said in a level voice.

Then they went, as by consent, towards the lighted windows of the drawing-room.

Next morning, ten days before polling day at Sandhaven, Peter was summoned away by telegram to Hamingburgh. His uncle had suddenly been stricken seriously ill. Peter bade his friends a quick farewell and caught the first train from York.