SIR GEORGE'S LOVE AFFAIR
The great house stood out boldly against the wintry sky, and Dick
Faversham could plainly see the window of the room where, years before,
he had taken the pen to sign the paper which would have placed him in
Count Romanoff's power. Like lightning his mind flashed back to the
fateful hour. He saw himself holding the pen, saw the words which
Romanoff had written standing clearly out on the white surface, saw
himself trying to trace the letters of his name, and then he felt the
hand on his wrist. It was only a light touch, but he no longer had the
power to write.
Was it a moral impulse which had come to him, or was it some force which
paralysed his senses, and made him incapable of holding the pen? It
seemed to be both. He remembered having a loathing for the thing
Romanoff wanted him to do. Even then he felt like shuddering at the dark
influences which sapped his will-power, and made wrong seem like right.
But there was more than that. Some force _outside_ himself kept him from
writing.
And he was glad. True, he was a poor man, and instead of owning the
stately mansion before him, he would presently return to his tiny flat,
where he would have to calculate about every sixpence he spent. But he
was free; he was master of his soul. He was a man of some importance
too. He was the Labour Member for Eastroyd; he had secured the
confidence of many thousands of working people, and his voice was
listened to with much respect by Labour leaders, and in Labour
conferences.
But he was not quite satisfied. He did not want to be the representative
of one class only, but of all classes. He remembered that he had been
lately spoken of as being "too mealy-mouthed," and as "having too much
sympathy with the employers."
"A voting machine at four hundred a year!"
Romanoff's words still stung him, wounded him. He longed for a larger
life, longed to speak for all classes, longed to mingle with those of
his own upbringing and education.
"What are you thinking of?"
For the moment he had forgotten the girl at his side, almost forgotten
the subject they had been discussing.
"Of many things," he replied.
"You were thinking of that man, Count Romanoff."
"Was I? Yes, I suppose I was. How did you know?"
"Telepathy," she replied. "Shall we go back?"
"If you will. Did you not say you wanted to go to the house?"
"I don't think I do now. I'm afraid it would be painful to you. But, Mr.
Faversham, I'm glad I helped you; glad you do not own Wendover Park."
"So am I," he replied; "the price would have been too terrible."
She looked at him questioningly. She did not quite understand his words.
"I wonder if you would think it an impertinence if I asked you to
promise me something," she said.
"Nothing you could ask would be an impertinence," he responded eagerly;
"nothing."
"That Count Romanoff is evil," she said, "evil; I am sure he is. I know
nothing about him, but I am sure of what I say. Will you promise to have
nothing to do with him? I think you will meet him again. I don't know
why, but I have a feeling that you will. That is why I wanted to say
this, and I wanted to say it in sight of the house which you love."
"I promise," replied Dick. "It is very good of you to have so much
interest in me."
"In a way, I don't know that I have very much interest," she said
simply; "and I'm afraid I'm acting on impulse. Granddad says that that
is my weakness."
"I don't think it is a weakness. I'm not likely to see Count Romanoff
again; but I promise, gladly promise, that if I do I'll yield to him in
nothing. Is that what you mean?"
"Yes, that's what I mean."
Her humour suddenly changed. She seemed to have no further interest in
Wendover Park, or its possessor, whoever it might be, and their
conversation became of the most commonplace nature. They chatted about
the possibilities of peace, the future of Germany, and the tremendous
problems Britain would have to face, but all interest in the question
which had engrossed her mind seemed to have left her. Dick was to her
only an ordinary acquaintance who had casually crossed the pathway of
her life, and who might never do so again. Indeed, as presently they
reached the highroad, he thought she became cold and reserved, it might
seem, too, that he somewhat bored her.
Presently they heard the sound of horses' hoofs coming toward them, and
they saw a lady on horseback.
"That's Lady Blanche Huntingford," she said; "do you know her?"
"I did know her slightly," replied Dick, who felt no excitement whatever
on seeing her.
"Oh yes, of course you did. She's a great beauty, isn't she?"
"I suppose so." Dick remembered how, in London months before, she had
refused to recognise him.
For a moment Lady Blanche seemed surprised at seeing Dick. She
scrutinised him closely, as if she was not quite sure it was he. Then
her colour heightened somewhat, and with a nod which might have embraced
them both, she passed on.
"We must get back to the house," Beatrice said; "Granddad and Sir George
will have returned by this time, and they will want their tea."
"Sir George is leaving you to-morrow, isn't he?" asked Dick.
"Yes," she replied, and Dick's heart grew heavy as he saw the look in
her eyes. He did not know why.
"He's a great soldier, I suppose? I think I've been told so."
"The greatest and bravest man in the army," she replied eagerly. "He's
simply splendid. It's not often that a soldier is a scholar, but
Granddad says there are few men alive who are greater authorities on
Egyptian questions."
A feeling of antagonism rose in Dick's heart against Sir George Weston,
he felt angry that Beatrice should think so highly of him.
"He's a Devonshire man, isn't he?" he asked.
"Yes; he has a lovely old place down there. The house is built of grey
granite. It is very, very old, and it looks as though it would last for
hundreds and hundreds of years. It is situated on a wooded hillside, and
at the back, above the woods, is a vast stretch of moorland. In front is
a lovely park studded with old oaks."
"You describe the place with great enthusiasm." There was envy in his
tones, and something more than envy.
"Do I? I love Devonshire. Love its granite tors, its glorious hills and
valleys. No wonder it is called 'Glorious Devon.'"
By the time they reached the cottage Sir George Weston and Hugh Stanmore
had returned, and tea was on the table. Sir George seemed somewhat
excited, while old Hugh Stanmore was anything but talkative. It might
seem as though, during the afternoon, the two had talked on matters of
greater interest than the tombs of Egyptian kings.
When the time came for Dick to depart, Hugh Stanmore said he would walk
a little way with him. For a happy, and singularly contented man, he
appeared much disturbed.
"I am so glad you came, Mr. Faversham," said Beatrice as she bade him
good-bye. "We had a lovely walk, hadn't we?"
"Wonderful," replied Dick. "I shall never forget it."
"And you'll not forget your promise, will you?"
"No, I shall not forget it."
"You will let us know, won't you, when you are going to speak in the
House of Commons? I shall insist on Granddad taking me to hear you."
Sir George Weston looked from one to the other suspiciously. He could
not understand her interest in him.
"What do you think of Weston?" asked Hugh Stanmore, when they had walked
some distance together.
"I suppose he's a very fine soldier," evaded Dick.
"Oh yes, there's no doubt about that. But how did he strike
you--personally?"
"I'm afraid I didn't pay much attention to him. He seemed a pleasant
kind of man." Dick felt very non-committal. "Do you know him well?"
"Yes; fairly well. I met him before the war. He and I were interested in
the same subjects. He has travelled a great deal in the East. Of course
I've known of his family all my life. A very old family which has lived
in the same house for generations. I think he is the eighth baronet. But
I was not thinking of that. I was thinking of him as a man. You'll
forgive my asking you, won't you, but do you think he could make my
little girl happy?"
Dick felt a strange weight on his heart. He felt bitter too.
"I am afraid my opinion would be of little value," he replied. "You see
I know nothing of him, neither for that matter am I well acquainted with
Miss Stanmore."
"No, I suppose that's true, and perhaps I ought not to have asked you. I
often scold Beatrice for acting so much on impulse, while I am
constantly guilty of the same offence. But I don't look on you as a
stranger. Somehow I seem to know you well, and I wanted your opinion. I
can speak freely to you, can't I?"
"Certainly."
"He has asked me this afternoon if I'll consent to Beatrice becoming his
wife."
Dick was silent. He felt he could not speak.
"Of course, from a worldly standpoint it would be a good match," went on
Hugh Stanmore. "Sir George is a rich man, and has a fine reputation, not
only as a scholar and a soldier, but as a man. There has never been a
blemish on his reputation. He stands high in the county, and could give
my little girl a fine position."
"Doubtless," and Dick hardly knew that he spoke.
"I don't think I am a snob," went on the old man; "but such things must
weigh somewhat. I am not a pauper, but, as wealth is counted to-day, I
am a poor man. I am also old, and in the course of nature can't be here
long. That is why I am naturally anxious about my little Beatrice's
future. And yet I am in doubt."
"About what?"
"Whether he could make her happy. And that is everything as far as I am
concerned. Beatrice, as you must have seen, is just a happy child of
nature, and is as sensitive as a lily. To be wedded to a man who is
not--how shall I put it?--her affinity, her soul comrade, would be
lifelong misery to her. And unless I were sure that Sir George is that,
I would not think of giving my consent."
"Aren't you forgetful of a very important factor?" asked Dick.
"What is that?"
"Miss Stanmore herself. In these days girls seem to take such matters
largely into their own hands. The consent of relations is regarded as a
very formal thing."
"I don't think you understand, Faversham. Beatrice is not like the
common run of girls, and she and I are so much to each other that I
don't think for a moment that she would marry any man if I did not give
my sanction. In fact, I'm sure she wouldn't. She's only my
granddaughter, but she's all the world to me, while--yes, I am
everything to her. No father loved a child more than I love her. I've
had her since she was a little mite, and I've been father, mother, and
grandfather all combined. And I'd do anything, everything in my power
for her welfare. I know her--know her, Faversham; she's as pure and
unsullied as a flower."
"But, of course, Sir George Weston has spoken to her?"
"No, he hasn't. For one thing, he has very strict ideas about
old-fashioned courtesies, and, for another, he knows our relations to
each other."
"Do you know her mind?--know whether she cares for him--in that way?"
asked Dick.
"No, I don't. I do know that, a week ago, she had no thought of love for
any man. But, of course, I couldn't help seeing that during the past
week he has paid her marked attention. Whether she's been aware of it, I
haven't troubled to ascertain."
In some ways this old man was almost as much a child as his
granddaughter, in spite of his long life, and Dick could hardly help
smiling at his simplicity.
"Of course, I imagine she'll marry sometime," and Dick's voice was a
trifle hoarse as he spoke.
"Yes," replied Hugh Stanmore. "That is natural and right. God intended
men and women to marry, I know that. But if they do not find their true
mate, then it's either sacrilege or hell--especially to the woman.
Marriage is a ghastly thing unless it's a sacrament--unless the man and
the woman feel that their unity is of God. Marriage ceremonies, and the
blessing of the Church, or whatever it is called, is so much mockery
unless they feel that their souls are as one. Don't you agree with me?"
"Yes, I do. I suppose," he added, "you stipulate that whoever marries
her--shall--shall be a man of wealth?"
"No, I shouldn't, except in this way. No man should marry a woman unless
he has the wherewithal to keep her. He would be a mean sort of fellow
who would drag a woman into want and poverty. But, of course, that does
not obtain in this case."
"I'm afraid I can't help, or advise you," said Dick. "I'm afraid I'm a
bit of an outsider," and he spoke bitterly. "Neither do I think you will
need advice. Miss Stanmore has such a fine intuition that----"
"Ah, you feel that!" broke in Hugh Stanmore almost excitedly. "Yes, yes,
you are right! I can trust her judgment rather than my own. Young as she
is, she'll choose right. Yes, she'll choose right! I think I'll go back
now. Yes, I'll go back at once. Our conversation has done me good, and
cleared my way, although I've done most of the talking. Good-night,
Faversham. I wish you well. I think you can do big things as a
politician; but I don't agree with you."
"Don't agree with me? Why?"
"I don't believe in these party labels. You are a party man, a Labour
man. I have the deepest sympathy with the toilers of the world. I have
been working for them for fifty years. Perhaps, too, the Labour Party is
the outcome of the injustice of the past. But all such parties have a
tendency to put class against class, to see things in a one-sided way,
to foster bitterness and strife. Take my advice and give up being a
politician."
"Give up being a politician! I don't understand."
"A politician in the ordinary sense is a party man; too often a party
hack, a party voting machine. Be more than a politician, be a statesman.
All classes of society are interdependent. We can none of us do without
the other. Capital and labour, the employer and the employee, all depend
on each other. All men should be brothers and work for the common
interest. Don't seek to represent a class, or to legislate for a class,
Faversham. Work for all the classes, work for the community as a whole.
And remember that Utopia is not created in a day. Good-night. Come and
see us again soon."
Hugh Stanmore turned back, and left Dick alone. The young man felt
strangely depressed, strangely lonely. He pictured Hugh Stanmore going
back to the brightness and refinement of his little house, to be met
with the bright smiles and loving words of his grandchild, while he
plodded his way through the darkness. He thought, too, of Sir George
Weston, who, even then, was with Beatrice Stanmore. Perhaps, most likely
too, he was telling her that he loved her.
He stopped suddenly in the road, his brain on fire, his heart beating
madly. A thousand wild fancies flashed through his brain, a thousand
undefinable hopes filled his heart.
"No, it's impossible, blankly impossible!" he cried at length. "A
will-o'-the-wisp, the dream of a madman--a madman! Why, even now she may
be in his arms!"
The thought was agony to him. Even yet he did not know the whole secret
of his heart, but he knew that he hated Sir George Weston, that he
wished he had urged upon old Hugh Stanmore the utter unfitness of the
great soldier as a husband for his grandchild.
But how could he? What right had he? Besides, according to all
common-sense standards nothing could be more suitable. She was his equal
in social status, and every way fitted to be his wife, while he would be
regarded as the most eligible suitor possible.
"A voting machine at four hundred a year!"
Again those stinging words of Count Romanoff. And old Hugh Stanmore had
spoken in the same vein. "A party hack, a party voting machine!"
And he could not help himself. He was dependent on that four hundred a
year. He dared ask no woman to be his wife. He had no right. He would
only drag her into poverty and want.
All the way back to town his mind was filled with the hopelessness of
his situation. The fact that he had won a great victory at Eastroyd and
was a newly returned Member of Parliament brought him no pleasure. He
was a party hack, and he saw no brightness in the future.
Presently Parliament assembled, and Dick threw himself with eagerness
into the excitement which followed. Every day brought new experiences,
every day brought new interests.
But he felt himself hampered. If he only had a few hundreds a year of
his own. If only he could be free to live his own life, think his own
thoughts. Not that he did not agree with many of the ideas of his party.
He did. But he wanted a broader world, a greater freedom. He wanted to
love, and to be loved.
Then a change came. On returning to his flat late one night he found a
letter awaiting him. On the envelope was a coroneted crest, and on
opening it he saw the name of Olga Petrovic.