Erskine shook his head.
“Do you then only commit yourself to revolutionary sentiments when there is a chance of winning fame as a poet by them?”
“I will not sign, simply because I do not choose to,” said Erskine warmly.
“My dear fellow,” said Trefusis, almost affectionately, “if a man has a conscience he can have no choice in matters of conviction. I have read somewhere in your book that the man who will not shed his blood for the liberty of his brothers is a coward and a slave. Will you not shed a drop of ink — my ink, too — for the right of your brothers to the work of their hands? I at first sight did not care to sign this petition, because I would as soon petition a tiger to share his prey with me as our rulers to relax their grip of the stolen labor they live on. But Donovan Brown said to me, ‘You have no choice. Either you believe that the laborer should have the fruit of his labor or you do not. If you do, put your conviction on record, even if it should be as useless as Pilate’s washing his hands.’ So I signed.”
“Donovan Brown was right,” said Sir Charles. “I will sign.” And he did so with a flourish.
“Brown will be delighted,” said Trefusis. “I will write to him to-day that I have got another good signature for him.”
“Two more,” said Sir Charles. “You shall sign, Erskine; hang me if you shan’t! It is only against rascals that run away without paying their men their wages.”
“Or that don’t pay them in full,” observed Trefusis, with a curious smile. “But do not sign if you feel uncomfortable about it.”
“If you don’t sign after me, you are a sneak, Chester,” said Sir Charles.
“I don’t know what it means,” said Erskine, wavering. “I don’t understand petitions.”
“It means what it says; you cannot be held responsible for any meaning that is not expressed in it,” said Trefusis. “But never mind. You mistrust me a little, I fancy, and would rather not meddle with my petitions; but you will think better of that as you grow used to me. Meanwhile, there is no hurry. Don’t sign yet.”
“Nonsense! I don’t doubt your good faith,” said Erskine, hastily disavowing suspicions which he felt but could not account for. “Here goes!” And he signed.
“Well done!” said Trefusis. “This will make Brown happy for the rest of the month.”
“It is time for us to go now,” said Erskine gloomily.
“Look in upon me at any time; you shall be welcome,” said Trefusis. “You need not stand upon any sort of ceremony.”
Then they parted; Sir Charles assuring Trefusis that he had never spent a more interesting morning, and shaking hands with him at considerable length three times. Erskine said little until he was in the Riverside Road with his friend, when he suddenly burst out:
“What the devil do you mean by drinking two tumblers of such staggering stuff at one o’clock in the day in the house of a dangerous man like that? I am very sorry I went into the fellow’s place. I had misgivings about it, and they have been fully borne out.”
“How so?” said Sir Charles, taken aback.
“He has overreached us. I was a deuced fool to sign that paper, and so were you. It was for that that he invited us.”
“Rubbish, my dear boy. It was not his paper, but Donovan Brown’s.”
“I doubt it. Most likely he talked Brown into signing it just as he talked us. I tell you his ways are all crooked, like his ideas. Did you hear how he lied about Miss Lindsay?”
“Oh, you were mistaken about that. He does not care two straws for her or for anyone.”
“Well, if you are satisfied, I am not. You would not be in such high spirits over it if you had taken as little wine as I.”
“Pshaw! you’re too ridiculous. It was capital wine. Do you mean to say I am drunk?”
“No. But you would not have signed if you had not taken that second goblet. If you had not forced me — I could not get out of it after you set the example — I would have seen him d — d sooner than have had anything to do with his petition.”
“I don’t see what harm can come of it,” said Sir Charles, braving out some secret disquietude.
“I will never go into his house again,” said Erskine moodily. “We were just like two flies in a spider’s web.”
Meanwhile, Trefusis was fulfilling his promise to write to Donovan Brown.
“Sallust’s House.
“Dear Brown: I have spent the forenoon angling for a couple of very young fish, and have landed them with more trouble than they are worth. One has gaudy scales: he is a baronet, and an amateur artist, save the mark. All my arguments and my little museum of photographs were lost on him; but when I mentioned your name, and promised him an introduction to you, he gorged the bait greedily. He was half drunk when he signed; and I should not have let him touch the paper if I had not convinced myself beforehand that he means well, and that my wine had only freed his natural generosity from his conventional cowardice and prejudice. We must get his name published in as many journals as possible as a signatory to the great petition; it will draw on others as your name drew him. The second novice, Chichester Erskine, is a young poet. He will not be of much use to us, though he is a devoted champion of liberty in blank verse, and dedicates his works to Mazzini, etc. He signed reluctantly. All this hesitation is the uncertainty that comes of ignorance; they have not found out the truth for themselves, and are afraid to trust me, matters having come to the pass at which no man dares trust his fellow.
“I have met a pretty young lady here who might serve you as a model for Hypatia. She is crammed with all the prejudices of the peerage, but I am effecting a cure. I have set my heart on marrying her to Erskine, who, thinking that I am making love to her on my own account, is jealous. The weather is pleasant here, and I am having a merry life of it, but I find myself too idle. Etc., etc., etc.”
CHAPTER XVI
One sunny forenoon, as Agatha sat reading on the doorstep of the conservatory, the shadow of her parasol deepened, and she, looking up for something denser than the silk of it, saw Trefusis.
“Oh!”
She offered him no further greeting, having fallen in with his habit of dispensing, as far as possible, with salutations and ceremonies. He seemed in no hurry to speak, and so, after a pause, she began, “Sir Charles—”
“Is gone to town,” he said. “Erskine is out on his bicycle. Lady Brandon and Miss Lindsay have gone to the village in the wagonette, and you have come out here to enjoy the summer sun and read rubbish. I know all your news already.”
“You are very clever, and, as usual, wrong. Sir Charles has not gone to town. He has only gone to the railway station for some papers; he will be back for luncheon. How do you know so much of our affairs?”
“I was on the roof of my house with a fieldglass. I saw you come out and sit down here. Then Sir Charles passed. Then Erskine. Then Lady Brandon, driving with great energy, and presenting a remarkable contrast to the disdainful repose of Gertrude.”
“Gertrude!