I saw you? John brought you into dinner."
"If I had known," he remarked, smiling, "that there was a woman there,
I should have run for my life."
"Yet I do not think that you were shy. What a surprise you were to me.
You wore the clothes of a mechanic, and you talked--as even John could
never have talked. Do you know, I think that you are a very wonderful
person. It is so short a time ago."
He turned toward her, and his face was suddenly haggard.
"It is a lifetime--a chaos of months and years. Let us talk of
something else."
"No! Why?"
"Don't you understand?" he asked fiercely.
There was a short, tense silence. The diamond star upon her bosom rose
and fell. Lady Malingcourt did not recognize herself in the least.
Only she knew that he at any rate had been swift to recognize the
wonderful transfiguring change which that moment of self-revelation
had wrought in her life. But for that she knew that his self-control
would not have precipitated the crisis. A sort of glad recklessness
possessed her. At least, she had found, if only for a moment,
something which filled to the brim the great empty cup of life.
"You are so enigmatic," she murmured.
"You had better not tempt me to be otherwise," he answered.
The delight of it carried her away. Their eyes met, and the memory of
that moment went with him through life--to be cherished jealously,
even when death came.
"Why not?"
"Because I love you. Because you know it! You have filled my life. You
have made everything else of no account. I love you!"
He had found her the victim of a mood, marvelously plastic,
marvelously alluring. He drew nearer to her. Then from the street
below came an interruption. A furiously driven hansom was pulled up, a
man sprang out, glanced upward, and waved his hand. A curse trembled
upon Strone's lips. Lady Malingcourt sat up and returned his greeting.
"So like Sydenham," she murmured. "However he may have loitered on the
way, he always arrives in a desperate hurry."
Strone and Lord Sydenham came face to face in the hall--the latter
recognized him with amazement.
"Was it you whom I saw with my cousin?" he asked.
"Yes," Strone answered. "I was just leaving. Good night."
"Wait a moment," Lord Sydenham exclaimed. "I wanted to see you
particularly. Come upstairs again."
"All right at the House?" Strone asked.
Lord Sydenham laughed curiously.
"That depends on how you look at it," he answered. "The division came
off, after all."
"I was paired," Strone said quickly.
"I know! But your men went solid with the opposition."
Strone stood still in blank amazement. It had come, then--already.
Lord Sydenham watched him and was satisfied. He led the way into
the drawing-room. Strone followed like a man in a dream. He heard
a greeting pass between the two. Their first few sentences were
unintelligible to him.
It had come and sooner than Strone had expected. His men went with the
opposition as a result of their bickerings and mistrust. Lord Sydenham
contentedly lit a cigarette. Strone stood with clinched hands, his
head thrown back, his eyes ablaze with anger. He had been deceived and
tricked, and by the very men whose cause in his hands was becoming a
religion. It was ignoble. The man and woman watched him curiously.
"My opportunity is gone," Strone said at last. "They have thrown me
over."
"It is a proof," Lord Sydenham answered, "of their colossal folly. As
for you, Strone, it will be the making of your political career. Come,
we are perhaps keeping Lady Malingcourt up. I will walk a little way
with you and explain what I mean."
They passed out into the cool night. Lord Sydenham removed his hat and
walked for some distance, carrying it in his hand. Suddenly he turned
to his companion.
"Strone," he said, "you must join us."
Strone laughed--enigmatically.
"I am handicapped," he remarked, "with principles. Besides, imagine
the horror with which your old-fashioned Conservatives would regard my
social schemes. It is impossible."
"I hope to convince you," Lord Sydenham said earnestly, "that it is
nothing of the sort. In the first place, I want you to remember that
during the last ten years a marvelous change has transformed the
relative positions of the two great political parties. The advent of
the Liberal Unionists into our ranks was the consummation of what was
fast becoming inevitable. To-day it is the Conservative party who are
the party of progress. It is the party to which you must naturally
belong."
"In the event of your refusal, let me ask you seriously whether you
realize what you are doing. You have rare gifts--you have all the
qualities of the successful politician. I offer you a firm footing
upon the ladder--your ascent is a certainty. I will not appeal to your
personal ambition. I appeal to your religion."
Strone looked up with a queer smile.
"My religion?"
"Yes! I use the word in the broadest sense. Consciously or
unconsciously, you have proclaimed it in your conversation--the
House--the reviews. If you are not one of those who love their
fellow-men, you, at least, have a pity for them so profound that it
has become the _motif_ of your life. It is a great cause, yours,
Strone. You have made it your own. None but you can do it justice.
Think of the submerged millions who have been waiting many years for a
prophet to call them up from the depths. You have put on the mantle.
Dare you cast it away?"
"Never in your life," he said, "will there come to you such an
opportunity as this. I offer you a place in the party which will be
in the majority next session--the lawmakers. I offer you also my own
personal support of the Labor measures we have discussed. It must be
yes or no by to-morrow."
When Strone let himself into his house a few moments later the room on
the ground floor was almost in total darkness.
"Milly!"
No answer. Yet she was in the room, for he could hear her heavy
breathing and trace the dim outline of her form upon the sofa. An ugly
suspicion seized him. He turned up the gas and groaned.
An empty tumbler lay on the ground beside her. Strone bent over her.
This was the woman to whom he was chained for all his days, whom he
had pledged himself to love and cherish, the woman who bore his name,
and who must rise with him to whatever heights his ambition and genius
might command. There was no escape--there never could be any escape.
He walked restlessly up and down the room. The woman slept on.
Presently he saw that she had been writing--a proceeding so unusual
that he came to a standstill before the table. An envelope and a
letter lay open there; the first words of the latter, easily legible
in Milly's round characters, startled him. He glanced at the address.
It was to Mr. Richard Mason, Fairbanks, Gascester. Without any further
hesitation, he took the letter into his hand and read it.
"Dear Dick: The last time I saw you I turned you out of this house
because you asked me something as you didn't ought. I am writing these
few lines to know if you are still in the same mind. I don't want you
to make a mistake. I don't care one brass button for you--never shall.
But things have turned out so that I ain't happy here. I never ought
to have married Enoch, that's sure. He ain't the same class as you
and me. He don't care for me, and he never will. That's why I reckon
I'm going to leave him. Now if you want me to go to Ireland with you
next journey, say so, and I'll go. If I try to live here any longer, I
shall go mad. You ain't to think that it's because I like you better
than him, because I don't, and no born woman in her right sense would.
What I'm looking at is, that if I go away with you, he'll be free.
That's all. There's no other way that I can think of, except for me to
do away with myself and that I dursn't do. So if you say come, I shall
be ready. Yours, Milly."
The sheet of paper fluttered from his fingers. He turned to find her
sitting up--watching him.
"You've been reading my letter," she cried, with a little gasp.
"Yes," he answered. "I have read it."
She stared at him, heavy-eyed, still dull of apprehension. There was
a short silence. She struggled into a sitting posture; by degrees her
memory and consciousness returned.
"I don't care if you have," she declared. "Put it in the envelope and
post it. It would have been on the way now if Mary hadn't brought in
the whisky. It's what you want, ain't it? You'll be quit of me then,
and you can go to her."
He tore the letter across and flung it into the fire. She watched it
burn idly.
"I don't know why you've done that," she said wearily. "You know you
want to be free. I don't know as I blame you. I saw you with her
to-night."
"What do you mean?" he asked quickly.
"Just that. I took Mary to the St. James', and coming back we stopped
to watch the people driving by. She's very beautiful, Enoch, and she's
your sort. I ain't."
There was a silence. Their eyes met, and the hopeless misery in her
face went to his heart like a knife. In that moment he realized how
only salvation could come to her. He saw her suddenly with a great
pity and beyond her all the great underneath millions he wanted to
help. The moment was like a flash of light. He crossed the room and
sat down by her side.
"Milly," he said gently, "let us try and talk like sensible people. I
am afraid I haven't been a very good husband to you, and this sort of
thing"--he touched the decanter--"has got to be stopped. Now tell me
how we are to turn over a new leaf. What would you like to do?"
She drew a little breath which became a sob.
"It's me," she exclaimed passionately. "I'm a beast. I ain't fit to
be your wife, Enoch. Let me go my way. I'll never interfere with you.
You've been too good to me already. You can't care for me! Why should
you?"
He took her hand in his.
"Milly," he said, "we are husband and wife, and we've got to make the
best of it. Now I want you to promise to give up that stuff, and, in
return, I will do anything you ask."
"Then care for me a little," she cried; "or if you can't, pretend to.
If you'd only kiss me now and then without me asking, act as though I
were flesh and blood--treat me as a woman instead of a ghost--I'd be
easily satisfied! Can't you pretend just a little, Enoch? Maybe you
won't mean it a bit--I don't care. I'd close my eyes and think it was
all real."
Her voice broke down, her eyes were wet and shining with tears. He
kissed her on the lips.
"I will do more than pretend, Milly," he said.
She came close to him--almost shyly. A look of ineffable content shone
in her face.
* * * * *
Ever the same deep stillness, a sort of brooding calm as though the
land slept, the faint rustling of a west wind, the slighter murmuring
of insects. And, save for these things, silence. Strone stood on the
threshold of the empty cottage, which as yet he had not unlocked,
looking down upon the familiar patchwork of fields and woods, looking
away, indeed, through the blue filmy light with unseeing eyes, for
a whole flood of old memories were tugging at his heartstrings.
A curious sense of detachment from himself and his surroundings
possessed him. Milly, his house at Gascester, his shattered political
career, were like dreams, something chimerical, burdens which had
fallen away. A rare sense of freedom was upon him. He took long
breaths of the clear, bracing air. The place had its old delight for
him. He threw himself upon the turf, and closed his eyes. Here at last
was peace.
Then the old madness again, burning in his brain, hot in his blood,
driving him across the hills, stirring up again the old recklessness,
the old wild delight. She was going to marry Lord Sydenham. She was
passing forever out of his reach, and once she had been very near. His
heart shook with passionate recollections. With every step he took,
his fierce unrest became a more ungovernable thing. What a farce it
all was--his stern attempt at self-control, his life shut off now from
everything worth having, a commonplace, dronelike existence. After
all, what folly! The cup of life had been offered to him, his lips had
touched the brim. Was it poison, after all, which he had seen among
the dregs? Yet what poison could be worse than this?
Past the Devenhills' house, whence the music of her voice beat the air
around him, filled his ears with longing, brought almost the tears
to his eyes. Had he lived, indeed, through such delights as these
mocking memories would have him believe, when he had watched the roses
fluttering through the darkness, elf flowers, yet warm and fragrant
enough when he had snatched them from the dusty road, and crept away
with them into the shadows! Oh, what manner of man had he become to be
the slave of such memories? He was ashamed, yet drunk with the madness
of it.
Nowhere in this strange country of flowers and sweet odors, of singing
birds and delicate breezes, could he hope to escape from the old
thrall. The dreary machinery of life seemed no longer possible to him.
Milly and her unconquerable vulgarity, his narrowing career, even his
work, mocked him with their emptiness. He turned backward, but he did
not go home.
Twilight came on and the gray stillness slept softly on hill and
valley. Night crept apace and brought no abatement in the struggle
of the man. Again and again with cameo distinctness he saw Lord
Sydenham's face with its queer incredulous smile when Strone told him
of his decision to leave London, and he heard again as though they
were there spoken the older man's reply uttered with a note of anger
in his thin well-modulated voice.
"The thing is absurd," he had declared.
"Your refusal I must accept if you insist. I should do so with less
regret, perhaps, because sooner or later you must come to us. The step
may seem a bold one to you to-day. In a year or so it will become
inevitable. I might be content to wait, although you will be wasting
some of the best years of your life. But when you tell me that you
are giving up your career--leaving Parliament--going back to your
manufacturing--oh, rubbish! I haven't the patience to argue with you."
Strone's face was haggard and his lips were dry as he walked on.
There was a subtle witchery in the night that closed in on him
overpoweringly. Memories crowded with startling vividness--parties of
bejeweled and bedecked women--the soft hum of laughter and pleasant
voices mingled with the music of the violins. The air seemed suddenly
heavy with the odor of flowers and cigarettes and many strange
perfumes, and through it all came a frail exquisite face and voice
that said:
"My friend, it is you yourself who are responsible for our unlived
lives. You hold the gates open before you--you----"
He started back and closed his eyes. The past had him in its grip....
Nowhere in this strange country of flowers and sweet odors, of singing
birds and delicate breezes, could he hope to escape from the old
thrall. The dreary machinery of life seemed no longer possible to
him. Milly and her unconquerable vulgarity, his narrowing career,
even his work, mocked him with their emptiness. He caught the evening
express with a moment to spare, flung himself, breathless, among
the cushions of an empty carriage just as the train glided from the
station. Without any clear purpose in his mind, he obeyed an impulse
which seemed irresistible. He must go to her.
At St. Pancras he remembered for a moment that he was wearing his
ordinary homespun clothes, disordered, too, with his long walk and
race for the train. Nevertheless, he did not hesitate. He called for
a hansom, and drove to her house. The servant who admitted him looked
him over with surprise, but believed that Lady Malingcourt was within.
She was even then dressing for the opera. Strone was shown into her
study--and waited.
It was nearly half an hour before she came to him, and whatever
feelings his sudden arrival had excited she had had time to conceal
them. She came to him buttoning her gloves, and followed by her maid
carrying her opera cloak. The latter withdrew discreetly. Strone rose
up--a strange figure enough, with his wind-tossed hair and burning
eyes.
"You?" she exclaimed, with raised eyebrows. "How wonderful!"
The sight of her, the sound of her voice, were fuel to his smoldering
passion. His heart was hot with the love of her.
"Is it true?" he asked fiercely. "I have seen your brother. He says
that you are going to marry Lord Sydenham."
She looked at him in faint surprise.
"And why on earth should I not marry Lord Sydenham?" she asked.
It was like a sudden chill. She was angry, then, or she did not care.
Yet there had been times when she had looked at him indifferently. He
made an effort at repression.
"There is no reason why you should not," he admitted. "There is no
reason why you should not tell me--if it be true. For God's sake, tell
me!"
"It is perfectly true," she answered.
"Lord Sydenham is nothing to you," he cried.
"Well, he soon will be--my husband."
"You do not care for him."
"An excellent reason to marry him, then. I shall have no
disenchantment to fear."
"Oh, this is mockery!" he cried. "You can juggle with words, I know.
I am no match for you at that. Don't!"
"Don't what?"
"Marry Lord Sydenham."
She nodded her head thoughtfully.
"On certain conditions," she answered, "I will not."
"What are they?" he asked hoarsely.
"You accept the place in the government which was offered to you and
reënter political life."
"Well?"
"You never ask more of my friendship than I am willing to give."
"Well?"
"You leave your wife altogether."
He started and shook his head slowly.
"You don't understand. Milly has--a weakness. Even now I have to be
always watching."
"I know more of your wife than you think," she answered. "I know the
circumstances of your marriage, and something of her life since. My
condition must stand."
"Do you know," he said, "that it would mean ruin to her--body and
soul?"
"She is not fit to be your wife," Lady Malingcourt said coldly.
"You can never make her fit. I think that you would be justified
in ignoring her claim upon you. There are limits to one's
responsibility."
"These," he said, "are your conditions?"
"Yes."
He drew near to her. The struggle of the last few months seemed lined
into his face.
"Listen," he said. "I want to be honest--to you. I can't see it any
way but this. There's the woman and all the great underneath millions
I wanted to help on one side--and on the other--you."
"No," she interrupted. "Your life's work was never meant to be in
Gascester. It is your domestic duty, or what you imagine to be your
domestic duty, against your duty to your fellow-creatures. You can
leave me out. Be a man. Free yourself--make use of your powers. The
world is a great place for such as you. Strike off your shackles."
"There will be no more--Lord Sydenhams?" he asked breathlessly.
She smiled upon him--a transforming, transfiguring smile. It was the
woman who looked out upon him from those soft, clear eyes.
"I am not anxious," she said, "to be married at all. Only, one must
do something. And lately London has been very dull. Is that you,
Sydenham? I am quite ready. I am afraid that you must be tired of
waiting."
Lord Sydenham had entered almost noiselessly. He looked from one to
the other doubtfully.
"I am not interrupting anything in the nature of a conspiracy, I
trust?" he inquired, with a faint note of sarcasm.
Lady Malingcourt smiled.
"I am endeavoring to make Mr. Strone repent of his hasty decision,"
she said. "I believe that I have succeeded."
The next morning Strone walked in his grounds before breakfast, his
hands behind his back, his face anxious with thought. He had all the
sensations of an executioner. Milly had to be faced--his decision made
known to her. All through the night this thing had been before him,
had hung around his pillow like an ugly nightmare. Now, in the clear
morning sunlight, the brutality of it seemed to be staring him in the
face. She was settling down so eagerly into this new life, so proud
of her home and belongings, so timidly anxious to avoid any of those
small lapses which kindled Strone's irritability.
Of course she could continue exactly as she was. There would be no
difficulty about her income--she could go on her way making friends,
become even a power in the small social world whose recognition had
given her such unqualified delight. But Strone was not a man to
deceive himself, and he knew very well that under the good-natured,
vulgar exterior there remained the woman, passionate, jealous,
hypersensitive. He remembered that last night in Marlow Crescent.
He had saved her then, only to fling her back into the abyss! He
tried hard to reason with himself. There was a world open to him of
which she could not possibly become a denizen. Her presence by his
side would hamper his career--would place him continually in a false
position, would be a serious drawback to him in the great struggle
on behalf of those suffering millions into which he was longing to
throw himself. For Strone, at least, was honest in this. His personal
ambition was a small thing. He was an enthusiast in a great and
unselfish cause. The favor of Lord Sydenham, the social recognition
which Lady Malingcourt was able to secure for him, he welcomed only
as important means toward his great end. He was shrewd enough to see
their importance, but for society as a thing by itself he had no
predilection whatever.
"Enoch!"
She came out to him across the lawn. He turned and watched her
thoughtfully. She wore a loose, white morning wrapper, simply made and
absolutely inoffensive, and he noticed, too, that the fringe against
which he had made several ineffectual protests was brushed back,
greatly to the improvement of her appearance. She was pale, and her
eyes watched him anxiously. Almost it seemed to him that she might in
some way have divined what was in store for her.
"Enoch," she exclaimed. "You are home, then?"
"Yes," he answered. "I came in so late last night that I did not
disturb you. Is breakfast ready?"
"Waiting."
She led the way, and he followed her. She asked him no questions as
to his unexplained absence yesterday, and she made several attempts
at conversation, to which he returned only vague answers. Toward the
close of the meal, he looked up at her.
"I want to have a few words with you, Milly, before I go," he said.
"Will you come into the study when we have finished?"
She nodded.
"Come into my workroom," she said. "I've got something to say to you.
I--I had a visitor yesterday."
Even when they were alone and the door was shut, he shrank from his
task. He looked around, surprised at the evidences of industry.
"Are you making your own dresses?" he asked. "I didn't think that was
in your line."
"No, but there is plenty of work to do," she answered hurriedly.
"Enoch, I had a visitor yesterday."
"You get a good many, don't you?" he answered indifferently.
"This one was different. It was Mr. Martinghoe." He was surprised.
"Did he come to see you?"
"No, he came to see you," she answered. "He had been to the works, but
you were not there. He stayed for a long time, and we had a talk."
"Well?"
She got up, and stood leaning with her elbow on the mantelpiece. For
the first time a certain fragility in her appearance struck him. He
had always considered her the personification of coarse, good health.
She spoke, too, without her usual bluntness, with unusual choice of
words, and some nervousness. Strone awoke to the fact that there was a
change in her.
"Enoch," she said, "Mr. Martinghoe brought some news. You'll hear it
when you get to the works, for he will be there to meet you. Somehow,
though, I'm glad to be the first to tell you. They want you to stand
for Parliament for the Northern Division of Gascestershire." He stared
at her.
"What?"
"It is the Conservatives. There's a deputation of 'em coming. Mr.
Martinghoe doesn't say much, but I think it's through him." Strone was
amazed.
"A rural constituency," he remarked, half to himself. "It wouldn't do
at all. Besides----"
"Please, I want to go on," Milly interrupted. "Enoch, there's
Mellborough in the division. That's quite a large town now." He
nodded.
"Well?"