Charles Sylvester was a man of a somewhat austere punctuality, and
there were few of his habits in which he took a juster pride than in
the immemorial regularity with which he distributed the first few
hours of his day. To rise at half-past seven, whatever might be the
state of the temperature or the condition of the air; to reach the
breakfast-room on the stroke of eight, and to devote half an hour to
the perusal of the _Times_ and of his more intimate correspondence--of
course, there were certain letters which he reserved until his
arrival in chambers--while he discussed a moderate breakfast which
seldom varied; to ride in the Row for another half-hour; and
finally, having delivered his horse to a groom, who met him at the
corner of Park Lane, to enter the precincts of the Temple, after a
brisk walk through Piccadilly and the Strand, shortly after
ten--these were infallible articles in his somewhat rigid creed.
Mrs. Sylvester, therefore, was struck with all the surprise which
results from an unprecedented breach of custom when, descending to
breakfast at her own laxer hour one dark morning in February, she
found her son still presiding at the table, absorbed in his letters.
He pushed aside these and a packet of telegram forms as she entered,
and, rising to accept her discreet kiss, responded to her implicit
inquiry as to whether anything was wrong--her eyes had strayed
involuntarily to the clock--by pointing her attention to a paragraph
in the morning paper. His manner was more solemn than usual; it
betrayed an undercurrent of suppressed excitement.
"This is unusual," he remarked; "but, you see, I have an excuse."
She followed the direction of his finger: "Death of the Member for
North Mallow." The cream of the news was contained for her in the
heading, and so she did not read the rest of the notice, which was a
short one.
Now, North Mallow was the respectable constituency in which a
coalition of two parties had selected Mr. Sylvester to be their
candidate at the next election, which this death had transferred
into the immediate present.
"My dear boy!" said Mrs. Sylvester sympathetically.
Then she checked herself, recognising that a too open satisfaction
in the event--opportune as it might be--would be hardly decent.
"Of course, it is very sad for him, poor man!" she remarked. "But I
cannot help feeling glad that you should be in the House, and so
much sooner than we expected."
He interrupted her with another discreet embrace.
"My dear boy!" she said again vaguely, contentedly, as she poured
herself a cup of tea.
"He has been in bad health for some time," continued Charles. "He
died two days ago at Cannes. It is astonishing that I did not hear
the news before. I have wired to Hutchins, my election agent, and if
I can manage it, I shall run down to Mallow. Of course one is sorry,
but since it has been ordered so, after all, one has to think of the
party."
"Ah yes, the party," murmured Mrs. Sylvester sympathetically; "of
course that is the great thing. I am sure you will distinguish
yourself. I suppose there is no danger of a defeat?"
"Oh, it is a safe seat! But one has always to canvass; there is
always a certain risk. I sometimes wish----" He stopped short,
pulled nervously at his collar, finding it a little difficult to
express his meaning. "I think," he went on at last with a visible
effort, flushing somewhat, "that I must marry. An intelligent woman
devoted to my interests would be of great service to me now."
Mrs. Sylvester allowed her eyes to remain in discreet observation of
the tablecloth.
"I have often thought so," she said at last quietly.
"Indeed!" he remarked politely. "Yes; it is a matter, perhaps, which
I should have discussed with you before. I am fully aware of the
right you have---- I would not, I mean, have failed----"
"Oh, my son!" she protested, "I am sure you have always been most
correct."
"I have tried to be," he said simply. "If I have said nothing to
you, it has been because I wished to be cautious, not to commit
myself, to be very sure----"
"Of the lady's affection, do you mean?"
"Ah, can one ever be sure of that? No; I mean rather of my own
attitude, of my own situation. It has always seemed to me that
marriage is a very great undertaking, a thing to be immensely
considered, not to be embarked on rashly."
"You view everything so justly!" she exclaimed. "Have you--am I to
understand that you have a particular person in view?"
He waved aside the compliment with a bland gesture, which asserted
that only his magnanimity prevented him from acknowledging its
truth.
"Surely, surely!" he said. "You are perhaps aware how immensely
I admire Miss Masters; that I have paid her very great
attention--marked attention, I may say?"
"I observed something of the kind at Lucerne. I did not know if it
had continued; sometimes I thought so. Have you proposed to her?"
"No," he said slowly; "I have not yet proposed to her. Naturally, I
wished to consult you first."
"I am sure, Charles," said his mother cheerfully, "that I shall be
extremely pleased. She is a very nice girl. She is a great-niece of
Lord Hazelbury, and connected with the Marshes, and I know she will
have at least sixty thousand pounds."
He glanced across at her, frowning a little, with a certain
irritation.
"I shall not marry her for her money," he said.
"My dear boy," she retaliated, "I did not suppose you would be
mercenary; only, a little money is very desirable; and Lady Garnett
has a great deal, and Mary will certainly get her share of it."
"Ah, I don't like her," put in Charles inconsequently; "she is a
profane old woman."
"Neither do I; but one must accept her. And Mary, after all, is only
her niece."
"She has a beautiful character," he continued slowly. (This time he
was not speaking of Lady Garnett.) "I admire it more than I can say;
it has very great depths."
His mother looked up at him quickly, struck by his strenuous accent,
for which she was scarcely prepared. She had a high notion of his
character, of his ability, and was pleased, more pleased than she
cared to admit, at the suitability of the match. He had always been
an excellent, even a sympathetic son; and it had been part of his
excellence that whenever he should marry, she had been quite certain
that he would marry like this, selecting with dignity a young woman
whom one could emphatically approve--a testimony to his constancy in
certain definite traditions in which he had been reared, traditions,
it may be said, which he adhered to with a tenacity that even
exceeded her own.
It had never entered into her calculations, however, to look upon
him as an ardent lover, and yet it was as an ardent lover that he
had just spoken. She recognised the tone.
And, strangely enough, for the moment it happened to touch her, to
give her an increased interest in the affair, though afterwards she
could reflect that in a man of Charles' character, so soberly
practical and mature, it was perhaps a trifle incongruous, and, at
the best, not precisely the tone by which women are most likely to
be won.
She said placidly:
"I hope you will succeed. If you take my advice, you will speak at
once."
"I had meant to take the first occasion," he said.
"Ah, my dear," she put in, "you had better make one yourself."
Charles simply smiled. Her approbation of his views, and the
unwonted dissipation of a prolonged and indolent breakfast, together
with the pleasant excitement of shortly taking the political field,
had rendered him singularly mild.
He remembered that he was invited that night to a dance of some
magnitude, at a house big enough for privacy to be easily secured,
and where Mary would certainly be.
"Perhaps I will," he said, gathering up his voluminous papers as he
prepared for departure, "this evening."
He was still in the same mood of cheerful resolution when, after an
exceptionally busy day, which had also ministered in an exceptional
degree to his self-esteem (it had included an interview with one of
the whips of his party, as well as a satisfactory conversation with
his agent on the temper of the constituency whose member was so
seasonably deceased), he had dressed at his club, and dawdled at his
accustomed table in the large bright room over a solitary dinner.
His head had been very full of his political ambitions, into which
the image of Miss Masters had not inconveniently intruded. He had
eminently that orderly faculty of detachment which allows a man to
separate and disconnect the various interests of his life, admitting
each only in its due order and place; but none the less had he been
conscious all along that somewhere in the background of his mind her
image subsisted, and now that he was at leisure again to give her
that place of honour in his consideration which she had long been
insensibly acquiring, he was more than ever determined to do all
that lay in his power to make her his wife.
It amazed him almost that he had not put the important question long
before, so vital and inevitable had it become; and he scarcely
considered, in his curious egoism, his scant acquaintance with the
subtilty of a woman's mind, how much Mary herself might have
contributed to the delay by her careful avoidance of intimate
topics, by the cloak of elaborate indifference in which she had
wrapped herself whenever she had not been able to avoid being alone
with him; so that, however much he had desired it, he could never,
without doing her gross violence, have succeeded in striking the
precisely right personal note.
To-night, however, there should be no more fencing; of that he was
thoroughly resolved. He would be eloquent and sustained,
impassioned, and, if necessary, humble--but, above all, perfectly
direct; he would brook no faltering, feminine evasions; would insist
on an answer, and on a right answer too, pointing out, with the
close reasoning acquired in his profession, the superb propriety of
the match. And he believed that she would be convinced. Was it not
half of her attraction that she was a woman of intelligence, not a
silly school-girl, who flirted and danced?
In spite of his self-esteem, however, he was not unwise enough to
feel sure of the result. Were not all women, even the best of them,
notoriously perverse? And there was always, conceivably, that
inopportune third party, a preferred rival, to be counted with, who
might have been first on the field.
Considering these things, he allowed himself a glass of chartreuse
with his coffee, and the unwonted luxury of a cigar, over which he
lingered, growing more nervous as its white ash lengthened and the
occasion drew near. Yet he could remind himself at last that--at any
rate, to his knowledge--there was no one else whose pretensions the
lady preferred, since Rainham, the man whom he had marked as
dangerous, was socially damned, and no longer to be feared.
It was very nearly eleven before he reached the house to which he
had been invited, and where he found a very brilliant party already
in progress. The house was chiefly a legal and political one,
although there seemed to be a fair leaven of literary and artistic
celebrities among the more solid reputations; and for some time he
was engrossed by various of his Parliamentary acquaintances, who
questioned and encouraged him. Two or three had newly arrived from
the House, where an important division had just been declared; and
Charles listened with some impatience to their account of it, gazing
absently, over their heads, at the maze of pretty toilettes, which
made an agreeable _frou-frou_ over the polished floor, although the
debate had been upon a question in which he was warmly interested.
He escaped from them at last with a murmured apology, an intimation
that he wished to find somebody, and made his way slowly into the
adjoining room, from which the strains of waltz music floated in,
and where they danced. His friends found his demeanour noticeable,
and were inclined to wonder with some amusement, knowing his
habitual equanimity, that the vacancy at North Mallow should have
undermined it. When he entered the ball-room he stopped for a
moment, flushing a little. The first person he had seen, between the
heads of the floating couples, was Lady Garnett, on a little raised
seat at the further end of the large room, engaged in an animated
conversation with an ambassador. He realized quickly that she would
not have come alone.
He waited until the music ceased and the dispersal of the dancers
made the passage of the floor practicable, then he set off in her
direction, trusting that he might find her niece in the vicinity.
Halfway down he stopped again; he had recognised his sister, who
fanned herself languidly, seated on one of two chairs partially
concealed by a great mass of exotic shrubbery, in pots, which formed
almost an alcove. She removed her long soft skirt, which she had
thrown over the vacant seat, as he approached; and at this tacit
invitation he accepted it.
"Only until the rightful owner comes," he explained. "But I see you
so seldom now that I must not lose this chance. I suppose you are
keeping it for someone?"
"It is for Miss Masters," said Mrs. Lightmark; "but she won't want
it yet. She has just gone down to supper."
"Ah, so much the better. I want to see her."
"Do you?" she asked indifferently. "Well, you had better keep me
company until she comes. It is a long time since I saw you."
He considered her for a moment with a heavy, fraternal appreciation.
"Yes," he said--"yes, it is a long time, Eve. But, of course, we
have each our own occupations, our own duties now. And being the
wife of a successful painter must involve almost as many as
being--if I may say so--a fairly successful barrister. Gratified as
we are, my dear--my mother and I--at the success of your marriage,
which has proved more brilliant even than we hoped, I must say that
we often regret having lost you. We are duller people, I fear, since
you have left us. However, we can still think of the old days, as
you, no doubt, do sometimes."
She gave a faint, little, elusive smile, behind her fan.
"Oh, I am afraid I have forgotten them," she said. Then she went on
quickly, before he had time to reply: "Another thing, too, I had
almost forgotten--to congratulate you--on Mr. Humphrey's death."
"My dear Eve!" He looked at her with some reproof, with an air of
finding her a little crude. "You should not say such things, Eve! I
deeply deplore----"
"Shouldn't I?" she asked flippantly. "Dick told me you were to
succeed to his seat. Isn't it true?"
He ignored her question, busied himself with an obdurate button on
his glove. She watched him over her fan, half smiling, with her
brilliant eyes.
"You are cynical," he remarked at last. "I dare say I shall get in.
Is Lightmark here?"
"Yes, he is here. He has taken Mrs. Van der Gucht--the American
Petroleum Queen they call her, don't they?--down to supper. She
wants him to paint her portrait, at his own price. He will be here
to fetch me at half-past eleven. I believe we have to move on
then."
"Move on?" he asked, with an air of mystification.
"Show ourselves at another house," she replied. "It's a convenient
practice, you know; one gets two advertisements in one night.
Besides, one saves one's self a little that way; one sometimes gets
an evening off."
"You talk as if you were an actress," he said, with offended irony.
"I don't understand your tone. Does Miss Masters accompany you?"
"I think not. Did you say you wanted to see her?"
"Particularly; it is chiefly for that I am here."
"She is a very nice girl," remarked his sister gently. "I hope----"
She hesitated slightly; then held out her hand to him, which
involuntarily he clasped. "I hope you will have a satisfactory
conversation, Charles."
He glanced at her for a moment silently, feeling a secret pleasure
in her discrimination.
"You look very well," he said at last, "only rather tired. That is a
very pretty dress."
She smiled vaguely.
"I didn't know you ever noticed dresses. Yes, I am rather tired. Ah,
there is Mary--and Dick."
The girl came towards them at this moment, looking pretty and
distinguished in her square-cut, dark gown; and Lightmark followed,
carrying her bouquet of great yellow roses, which he held
appreciatively under his nose.
He nodded to Charles Sylvester, who was shaking hands with Mary;
then he turned to his wife.
"If you are ready, dear," he said lightly, "I expect the carriage
is. Miss Masters, you know we have another dance to do. My
brother-in-law will see after you and your bouquet, if you will
allow me."
"Oh, give it me, please," cried the girl, with a nervous laugh. "I
really did not know you were carrying it. Thanks so much."
She had succeeded almost mechanically to Mrs. Lightmark's vacated
chair; and as she sat there, with her big nosegay on her lap, he was
struck by her extreme pallor, the lassitude in her fine eyes. He
ventured to remark on it, when the other two had left them, and she
had not made, as he had feared and half anticipated, any motion to
rise.
"Yes, the rooms are hot and dreadfully full. There are too many
sweet-smelling flowers about; they make one faint. It's a relief to
sit down in comparative quiet and calm for a little."
He was emboldened by her quiescence to resume his chair at her side.
"I won't ask you to dance, then," he said; "and allow me to hope
that no one else has done so."
She glanced indifferently at her card.
"No. 10," he added anxiously; "a waltz, after the Lancers."
"I see some vague initials," she said; "but probably my partner will
not be able to find me, thanks to these shrubs."
"I hope not, with all my heart," said Charles devoutly. "At any
rate, I can sit with you until you are claimed."
"As you like," she replied wearily. "Are you not anxious to dance?"
"I am not a great dancer at any time," he protested; "and to-night
my heart would be particularly out of it. I came for another
purpose."
He spoke tensely, and there was a slight tremor in his voice,
ordinarily so clear and dogmatic, which alarmed the girl so that she
forgot her weariness and meditated a retreat.
"Oh, so did I," she replied with forced gaiety. "I came to look
after my aunt, which reminds me that this is hardly the way to do
it. Will you please take me to her?"
"I assure you she does not want you," cried Charles eagerly. "I saw
her not ten minutes ago with M. de Loudéac. They seemed to be
talking most intimately."
"He is an old friend," said Mary; "but, still, they may have
finished by this time. One can say a great deal in ten minutes."
"Ah!" he put in quickly, "only give me them, Miss Masters."
"I really think it is unnecessary," she murmured with a rapid flush.
She made another movement, as if she would rise, dropping her
bouquet in her haste to prevent his speech. He picked it up quickly
and replaced it in her hands.
"No, don't go, Miss Masters," he insisted. "I surely have a right to
be heard. After all, I do not require ten minutes, nor five. Only I
came to say----"
"Ah, don't say it, Mr. Sylvester," she pleaded. "What is the good?"
"I mean that I love you! I want you immensely to be my wife."
She bent her head over her flowers, so that her eyes were quite
hidden, and he could not see that they were full of tears; and for a
long time there was silence, in which Sylvester's foot kept time
nervously with the music. The girl bitterly reproached her
tiredness, which had dulled apprehension so far that she had not
realized at once the danger of the situation, nor retreated while
there was yet time. She had always dreaded this; and now that it was
accomplished, an illimitable vista of the disagreeable consequences
broadened out before her. The ice being once broken, however she
might answer him now, a repetition, perhaps even several, could
scarcely be avoided; she foresaw that his persistence would be
immense, so that with whatsoever finality she might refuse him, it
would all be to go over again. And with it all was joined her
natural reluctance to give an honest gentleman pain, only heightened
by her sense that, for the first time in her knowledge of the man,
the evident sincerity of his purpose had given simplicity to his
speech. He for once had been neither formal nor absurd, and the
uniqueness of the fact, taken in conjunction with her share in it,
seemed to have given him a claim on her consideration. He had cast
aside the armour of self-conceit at which she could have thrown a
dart without remorse, and the man seeming so defenceless, she had a
desire to deal gently with him.
"Mr. Sylvester," she said at last, looking up at him, "I am so
sorry, but please do not speak of this any more. Believe me, it is
quite impossible. I am sensible of the honour you do me, deeply
sensible, only it is impossible. Let us forget this--this mistake,
and be better friends than we have ever been before."
"Ah, Mary," he broke out, "you must not answer me like that, without
consideration. Why should it be impossible?"
"Forgive me," she said gently; "only I am tired now. And
consideration would not alter it. Let me go."
He put one hand out detaining her, and she sank back again wearily
on her chair.
"If you are tired, so much the more reason that you should hear me.
You will not be tired if you marry me. If you are tired, it is
because your life has no great interests: it's frivolous; it is
dribbled away on little things. You don't really care for it--you
are too good for it--the sort of life you lead."
"The sort of life I lead?"
"The ideals of your set, of the people who surround your aunt, of
your aunt herself. The whole thing is barren."
"Are we more frivolous than the rest?" she asked suddenly.
"You are better than the rest," he said promptly. "That is why I
want you to marry me. You were made for great interests--for a large
scene."
"What are they--your great interests, your ideals?" she asked
presently. "How are they so much better than ours?--though I don't
know what ours may be."
"If you marry me, you will find out," he said. "Oh, you shall have
them, I promise you that! I want you immensely, Mary! I am just
going into public life, I mean to go far--and if I have your
support, your sympathy, if you become my wife, I shall go much
farther. And I want to take you away from all this littleness, and
put you where you can be felt, where your character--I can't say how
I admire it--may have scope."
"I am sorry," she said again; "you are very good, and you do me
great honour: but I can only answer as before--it is not possible."
"Ah, but you give no reason!" he cried. "There is no reason."
"Is it not a good enough one that I do not love you?" said the girl.
"Only marry me," he persisted, "and that will come. I don't want to
hurry you, you know. I would rather you would take time and
consider; give me your answer in a week or two's time."
They were silent for a little; Sylvester was now perfectly composed:
his own agitation seemed to have communicated itself to the girl,
whom he watched intently, with his bland, impartial gaze. She had
closed her eyes, was resting her chin on her bouquet, and appeared
to be deeply meditating his words. She looked up at last with a
little shiver.
"I am very tired," she said. "If I promise to think over what you
have said to-night and to give you my answer in a month's time, will
you try and find Lady Garnett for me now?"
"Ah, Miss Masters--Mary!" he said, "that is all I want."
"And in the meantime," she pursued gently, "to allow the subject to
drop?"
"You must make your own terms," he said; "but surely I may come and
see you?"
"Very well," she consented, after a moment; "if it gives you any
pleasure, you may come."
At which Charles simply took her cold, irresponsive hand in his own,
with a silent pressure. Irresponsive as it was, however, he reminded
himself, she had made no effective protest against the gesture.