"I do not need to be reminded of it," he answered quietly. "Your
brother asked me to stay to supper--I think he had forgotten that you
were there. I was in my working clothes, and I am afraid that the
flannel shirt was a fact."
She smiled.
"Yes, and you laid down the law upon Ruskin, criticised 'Sesame and
Lilies,' and talked of Walter Pater as though you had known him all
your life. You were a revelation and a puzzle to me. I was so weary
of life just then. I believe you were the first living person who had
interested me for many months."
His eyes were looking into vacancy. His words were spoken in the
slightest of whispers. Yet she heard.
"And afterward you sang to us. It was wonderful."
Then the talk buzzed round them, but they were silent. The woman who
had represented her queen in a great country and the man who had been
climbing with steady feet the ladder of fame were both thinking of
that little country vicarage among the hills. She saw him, the first
of his type she had ever met, reserved, forceful, at times strangely
eloquent, in soiled clothes and brusque manner, yet speaking of the
great things of life as one who understood--who meant to conquer. And
he remembered her, the first woman of her order with whom he had ever
spoken, the first beautiful woman whose hand he had ever touched.
He remembered her soft voice, her lazy, musical laugh, her toilet
and her jewels, which, though simple enough, were a revelation to
him. She represented to him from that moment a new world of delight.
All those forgotten love verses whose form alone he had been able to
appreciate, welled up in his heart, sang in his blood, filled for him
with glorious color the whole literature of love and passion. Her
coming had given him understanding. He looked back upon those days as
he had done many a time during the last few years--but to-night there
was a difference. Like a flash he realized what her coming back meant
to him. The old madness was unquenched--unquenchable. He had thought
himself cured! What folly! The battle was before him yet.
He was roused from his abstraction by a word from her, and found
himself apologizing to his left-hand neighbor for a twice-asked
question. The conversation became political. A moment later he was
again gravely discussing the prospects of the "Better Housing of the
Poor" bill. Amid a rustling of laces and swish of silk, which sounded
to him like the winged flight of many tropical birds, the women passed
out. Strone noticed that Lady Malingcourt avoided his eager gaze as
she followed her hostess from the room.
A couple of hours later Strone pushed his way through the little crowd
of servants, who were waiting about the entrance to Sydenham House,
and turned westward on foot. This meeting, always looked forward to,
always counted upon as a certain part of his future, had taken place
at last. She was unchanged, as beautiful as ever, and her old power
over him was not one whit lessened. More vividly than ever he realized
how his present position was almost wholly owing to the stimulus of
her appeal to him. Step by step he had fought his way doggedly onward.
Difficulties had been brushed away, obstacles surmounted. He had kept
his word, he had justified her belief in him. He had taken his place,
if not in her world, at least among those who had the right to enter
it. Henceforth they might meet often. Surely the summer of his life
had come.
And as he walked through the quieter streets, more daring thoughts
even came to him. He dreamed of a friendship which should become the
backbone of his life, which should bring him into constant association
with her, which should give him the right to offer at her feet the
honors he might win--she, the woman who had first inspired him. He
saw nothing of the passers-by; the faint importunities of the waifs
who floated out from the shadows and vanished again like moths were
unheard. The old music was singing in his blood; he walked as one
whose footsteps fell upon the air. And then--crash down to earth
again. He was in front of his house in Kensington, unlit and gloomy.
He made his way quietly in with the aid of a latchkey, and stood for
a moment in the hall, hesitating.
From a room on the ground floor came the glimmer of a light. He made
his way there softly and opened the door. A woman was stretched upon
an easy-chair, asleep. He stood over her with darkening face.
Milly had not improved. Her prettiness had vanished before a
coarsening of features; she was stouter and untidy even to
slatternliness. Her cheeks just now were flushed and she was breathing
heavily. On the table by her side was a tumbler. He took it up,
smelled it, and set it down with a little gesture of disgust.
She showed no signs of waking. After a moment's hesitation he
ensconced himself in a neighboring easy-chair, and, taking a roll of
papers from his pocket, began to read, pencil in hand. For some time
he worked; then the manuscript slipped from his hand. He sank a little
down in his chair. With wide-open eyes he sat watching the extinct
gray ashes on the hearth. The clock ticked and the woman's breathing
grew louder. There was no other sound in the house. He was alone with
his fate.
Something woke her at last. She sat up and looked at him.
"Hello!" she exclaimed. "How long have you been there?"
"An hour--perhaps more," he answered. "You were asleep."
"No wonder," she grumbled. "Enough to make one sleepy to sit here hour
after hour alone, with you at your everlasting Parliament work."
It struck him that there were several empty glasses about and the room
smelled of tobacco smoke.
"Have you had visitors?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Yes. Mr. Fagan and his wife."
He frowned.
"I don't see why Fagan should come when he knew I was out," he
remarked.
She laughed hardly.
"You'd grudge me even their company, would you? Well, they came in to
sit with me, and Fagan let a hint or two drop. You better look out, my
man."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"They ain't none too well pleased with you, these Labor chaps aren't,
and I don't wonder at it. What do you want going to lords' dinner
parties dressed up like one of them? Fagan says that ain't what you
were sent to Parliament for."
"Fagan is an ignorant ass," Strone exclaimed passionately. "I am doing
my best for the cause, and my way is the right way. My presence at
Lord Sydenham's to-night was no personal matter. It was a recognition
of our party, and a valuable recognition. I am surprised that you
should listen to such rubbish, Milly."
"Fagan may be right and he may be wrong," she answered, "but he
reckons that you're getting too big for your boots. It don't want fine
gentlemen to speak for workingmen. Were there any women at your party
to-night?"
"Yes," Strone answered, "there were women there."
"Then why wasn't I asked?" she demanded, setting down her empty glass.
"It is so hard to make you understand, Milly," he said. "I was not
there as a private guest at all. Socially every one was of a different
rank. I was there as a man who could command votes. You would not have
been comfortable, and I am sure that you would not have enjoyed it."
Always these scenes wrought themselves into a quarrel and ended by
Milly's dissolving into tears and their planning a gala day on the
morrow, when Milly would have her fill of delight at some cheap little
theatre her taste had prompted for their holiday.
But there were other and more painful occasions when Strone, returning
home, found his house brilliantly lighted--while strains of ribald
song floated out into the streets--and he knew that Milly was
entertaining her friends from Gascester.
Strone had never ranked as an orator even among his own party. He
was looked upon as a keen and skillful debater, a man of sturdy
common sense, marvelously clear-headed and thoroughly earnest. On the
night of his great speech, however, he made a new reputation. His
opening phrases scarcely gave promise of anything of the sort. He was
unaccountably nervous, overanxious to do justice to the cause which
was so dear to him, and at the same time horribly aware that he was
not succeeding. Suddenly, however, after a somewhat prolonged pause,
a wave of memory swept in upon him.
He remembered what he himself had passed through, the underworld of
the great cities was laid bare before him. It stretched away before
him, a ghostly panorama, its wailing rang in his ears, the death-cries
of its children shook his heart. Then, indeed, he straightened to his
task. His speech was stilted no longer, his deep voice shook with
passion. These rows of unemotional men, some sorting papers, some
whispering, some giving him a labored attention--they, too, must see
and hear. And they did! It was as though a great canvas were stretched
before them, and Strone, with the lightning brush of a great master,
was painting with lurid touches a terrible picture, a picture growing
every moment in horror, yet from the sight of which there was no
escape.
There were statistics, a plain statement of the practical measures
necessary, and a brief but passionate peroration. A thrill went
through the House when Strone spoke of himself, only newly come
from that world for whose salvation he pleaded. All the sins of the
universe, all that was ugly and vicious and detestable sprang from
that pestilential undercurrent down which were ever drifting the great
stream of lost humanity. Drink was an effect, not a cause. A miserable
existence begat despair, despair drink, and drink crime. Let them
awake from their indifference, their cynicism, or false philosophies,
and strike a mighty blow at the great heart of the hideous monster.
Life and freedom were gifts common to all. Those who sought to make
them a monopoly for the rich must pass through life to the shadow of
death with an appalling burden upon their shoulders. And more than
any in the world, those men to whom he then spoke must face this
responsibility.
So he pleaded, no longer at a loss for words, passionate, forceful,
touched for those few minutes, at any rate, with a spark of that
divine fire which carries words straight to the hearts of men, the
gift of true eloquence. When at last, and with a certain abruptness,
he resumed his seat, there reigned for several moments a respectful
and marvelous silence. Then a storm of cheering broke the tension,
cheering from all parts of the House, led by the prime minister,
joined in by the leader of the opposition. Strone gained much for his
cause that night--his own reputation he made forever. He had become
a power among strong men. He was henceforth a factor to be reckoned
with. During the debate which followed, pitifully tame it seemed, men
craned their heads to look at him, reporters eagerly collected such
crumbs of information as they could gather concerning his history, his
past, and his future. And Strone himself sat with impassive features
but beating heart, for up in the wire-covered gallery he had seen a
pale, beautiful face, whose eyes were fixed upon his, who seemed to be
sending a message to him through the great sea of space. Presently,
indeed as he passed from the body of the House, a note was thrust into
his hand, hastily written in pencil:
"Well done, my friend. Some people are having supper with me at the
Milan Restaurant. Will you come on there as soon as you can? Do give
me the pleasure of telling you what I think of your speech."
Strone crumpled the note up in his hand, hesitated for a moment, and
turned toward the exit. But he was not to escape so easily. His way
was besieged and his hand shaken by many whose faces were strange
to him. The leader of the House spoke a few courteous words, Lord
Sydenham patted him on the back. He passed out into the cool night air
with burning cheeks and eyes bright with the joy of life. Yet even
then the man was true to himself, steadfast to his great aims. It was
the triumph of his cause which delighted him, his personal laurels
were to him a matter of secondary importance. He had made people feel,
if only for a moment, the things which he felt. He had pierced, if
only for a short time and for a little way, beneath the surface that
marvelous cast-iron indifference with which nineteen-twentieths of the
world regard the agony of the submerged twentieth. Good must come of
it. Not only was his bill safe, but the way was paved for other and
more drastic measures. The work of his life stretched out before him.
It seemed to him then a fair prospect.
He passed through the streets with a wonderful sense of
light-heartedness. His own troubles were for the moment small things.
He had found the panacea for all sorrow. At the Milan he handed
his coat and hat to a liveried servant, and was ushered to a table
brilliant with flowers and lights at the head of the room. Lady
Malingcourt rose to receive him and held out both her hands.
"Welcome, master of men," she exclaimed, with a gayety which seemed
intended to hide the deep feeling which shone in her eyes and even
shook a little her voice. "You have given us a new sensation. We are
deeply and humbly grateful."
The Duke of Massingham patted him good-naturedly upon the shoulder.
"I can congratulate you with a whole heart," he said, "for you have
spared me. Your cause will not be the loser, Mr. Strone. If it costs
me a year's income, I will mend my ways."
Strone had embarked upon a career in which reputations are swiftly
made and lost. His own never wavered from the night of his first
great speech. Chance made his little party a very important factor in
the political history of the next few months. Chance also made his
own share in the struggle a great and arduous one. For this little
handful of men sent to represent the vast interests of the democracy
were mostly of the type of Fagan and his class. Earnest enough and
steeped with the justice of their cause, they were yet in many ways
marvelously narrow-minded. Obstruction and clamor seemed to them their
most natural and reasonable weapons.
They did not understand Strone's methods, his broader views, his
growing friendship with Lord Sydenham and the more enlightened members
of the government. To them he seemed always to be losing golden
opportunities. More than once he helped the government out of a tight
corner without demanding anything in the shape of a recompense.
They failed altogether to understand how Strone was building up in
the regard of thoughtful men both in the House and throughout the
country an immensely increased respect for the new social doctrines
of which he was the exponent and the little party of which he was the
recognized leader.
Strone himself knew that the thing could not last. Nothing but sheer
force of will and the expenditure of much persuasive eloquence kept
his followers faithful to him. Day by day the tension grew more acute.
He was never actually sure of their allegiance until the division bell
had rung. One or two waverers had already taken up an independent
attitude. Fagan himself seemed to be contemplating something of the
sort.
Strone knew the men and their natures--small, jealous, suspicious. He
recognized their point of view, and despised it. He knew in his heart
that if these were the prophets whom the great cities had sent to be
his coadjutors that the time must come before long when he must choose
another party or form one of his own. They were honest men, most of
them, but ignorant and prejudiced. They would never prevail against
men of trained reasoning power, men of acumen and intelligence.
A rough sort of eloquence to which most of them owed their election
went for nothing in the House. Strone knew that certain lofty dreams
of his, as yet but dimly conceived, but gaining for themselves power
and reality every day, could never be realized with the aid of such
as these. The crusade must be among the thinking men and women of
the world. Hyde Park oratory and all akin to it was a useless power.
Personal influence, the reviews, the conversion, one by one, of those
who led the world in thought, these must be the means whereby his
cause would be won. These men only cumbered the way, brought disrepute
upon a glorious cause. Yet for the moment they were necessary. Before
long they would be calling him apostate. In years to come they would
deem him their enemy.
No wonder that in those exciting times he reverted to his old attitude
toward Milly. There were no more shopping excursions or visits to
music halls. Dimly he began to realize what the future might have held
for him. In those days he set his heel grimly upon all the poetry and
the sweeter things of life. He refused numerous political and general
invitations. He avoided every place as much as possible where he was
likely to meet Lady Malingcourt.
One night he was walking home earlier than usual when he caught
a glimpse of her in Piccadilly. A brougham passed by, and he saw
her leaning back with pale face and listless eyes. He bent forward
eagerly, and a moment afterward regretted it. For she saw him and
immediately pulled the checkstring.
He threaded his way among the stream of vehicles to where her carriage
remained on the other side of the road. A footman opened the door for
him. She gathered up a snowy profusion of white satin skirt and made
room for him by her side.
"You are my salvation," she murmured, with a faint smile. "Please
hurry."
He hesitated.
"But----"
An imperious little gesture. He was by her side, and the door was
softly closed.
"To Amberley House, your ladyship?" the man asked, glancing discreetly
at Strone's gray clothes and soft hat.
"Home."
The carriage stopped before the corner house of a handsome square.
They passed up the steps together.
"This is your first visit to me," she remarked, "and you have had to
be dragged here. We will go upstairs."
They passed through a dimly lighted drawing-room, the air of which
seemed to Strone faint and sweet with the perfume of many flowers, out
onto a shaded balcony, over which was a long, striped awning. In the
corner were two low basket chairs. She sank into one and motioned him
to take the other.
"This," she murmured, "is luxury. Smoke, if you will--and talk to me.
Tell me how you are getting on in the House."
"None too well," he answered gloomily. "I am all the while upon the
brink of a volcano--and somehow I do not fancy that it will be long
before the eruption comes."
"What do you mean?" she asked, turning her pale face toward him. "I do
not understand. I cannot believe that there is any one in the House
whose position is more secure than yours."
He smiled grimly.
"My party," he said, "are thinking of dropping me!"
"Well," she said, "let them throw you over. Who but themselves would
suffer! Personally, I believe that your association with them is only
a drag upon you."
"That is all very well," he answered. "They are a rough lot, I know,
and most of them fatally ignorant. I do not believe that any class of
men in the world are so girt about with prejudices as those whose eyes
have been opened a little way. But, after all, they each have a vote,
and as parties are at present they are an immensely powerful factor in
the situation."
"That," she said, "is only a temporary matter, a matter of weeks or
months. After all, you must remember they are an isolated body of men
in the House. Your place is with the only great party of progress. You
are moving toward them day by day. Your joining them sooner or later
is inevitable."
He smiled.
"Lord Sydenham has been very kind to me," he said, "but I fancy I
should be a sort of ugly duckling among the Conservatives."
"You would be in office in less than twelve months," she declared. "Do
let me tell Sydenham that he may talk to you about this."
He shook his head.
"I came into the House as a Labor member," he said, "and unless
something unforeseen happens, a Labor member I must remain. Besides,
I hate to think of myself as a party man. The rank and file remind me
most unpleasantly of a flock of geese. They must follow their leaders
blindly; their personal opinions go for nothing."
Her eyelids quivered--the merest flicker of a smile passed across her
face.
"But how nice not to be obliged to have personal opinions! Think what
a delightfully restful state."
"It would not suit me," he declared bluntly.
She laughed, very softly and very musically.
There was a short silence. A breath of the west wind bent the lilac
boughs toward them, a wave of delicate perfume floated in the air.
Strone half closed his eyes. Their thoughts went backward together.
"Tell me," she murmured, "how does this life compare to you with the
old days at Bangdon Wood? You were a man of contemplation--you have
become a man of action. Go on, my friend. There is a kingdom before
you."
He turned a weary face upon her.
"These are the things," he said, "which I have told myself. But, Lady
Malingcourt, life has another side, and to go through life without
once glancing upon it----"
"Ah, is it worth while?" she interrupted. "What is greater than
power?"
"It is a joy for heroes, but even heroes are sometimes men."
They were silent for a moment. From beyond the square came the tinkle
of bells, the low roar of traffic surging westward. Near at hand was
the rustling of the evening wind in the large-leafed lime trees, the
faintly drawn-out music of a violin from one of the adjoining houses.
"Tell me," she asked suddenly--"about your wife. Does she like London?
Is she interested in your work?"
A curious restraint--almost a nervousness--fell upon them both.
"I do not think that she is," he answered. "London does not suit her
very well. She is not quick at making acquaintances."
He did not allude to her again, nor did she. The vision of Milly
rose up before him as he had seen her last. He sat looking out in
the twilight with stern, set face. Lady Malingcourt watched him.
Perhaps they both saw in the soft darkness some faint picture of those
wonderful things which might in time have come to pass between them.
For when Lady Malingcourt spoke again there was a sweetness in her
voice which was strange to him.
She leaned forward eagerly. The cloud of weariness had passed from
her face. Her white, bejeweled fingers touched his coat sleeve.
"My friend," she said, "you are making a rare but a fatal mistake.
You undervalue yourself. Do not shake your head, for I know what I
am talking about. Lord Sydenham has spoken to me; there have been
others, too. There are many people who are watching you. You must
not disappoint them."
He gazed into her intent face and sighed.
"Sometimes," he said, in a low tone, "I think that it is my fate to
disappoint myself and all other people. Lady Malingcourt, can you tell
me why it is that now when many of the things I have dreamed of are
becoming realities, my desire for them seems sometimes honeycombed
with weakness? Often lately I have wished myself back at my cottage;
I have closed my eyes, and the old days of poverty, of freedom, have
seemed wonderfully sweet. It is weakness," he went on, a sudden hoarse
passion in his voice, "cursed weakness. I will stamp it down. I shall
outgrow it. But it's there, and it's a live thing."
Afterward he liked to think of her as she had seemed that night. The
weariness, the flippancy of her outlook upon life seemed for the
moment to have fallen away like a mask. The woman shone out--flamed in
her eyes, was manifest in her softened tone.
"It is the toll we all have to pay," she said. "We expect too much of
life. The things which look so beautiful to us when we are hammering
at the gates crumble into dust when we have passed through into their
midst, and seek to grasp them."
"Is there nothing in life," he said, "which is real--which remains?"
She did not answer him, her silence was surely purposeful. She sat
with half-closed eyes, as though listening to the music of the
breeze-shaken limes, and Strone felt his heart beating madly. The
significance of his question and her silence were suddenly revealed to
him. A mad desire possessed him to seize her hands, to force her to
look at him. Instinct told him that the moment was propitious, that
the great gulf between them was bridged over by a sudden emotional
crisis, which might never occur again.
She raised her eyes to his, and he was amazed at their wonderful
depth and color. The change came home to him, and his own pulses beat
fiercely.