MARGARET
I
During their passage to England, John and Hugh heard many golden
legends of the East, but, apart from these, they had a reason of their
own for looking eagerly towards the future. Mr. Alter had said that
Mrs. Fane-Herbert and Margaret were going to China. This news, which,
while he himself expected to remain west of the Straits, had promised
Hugh nothing but that he would spend in strangers’ houses what little
leave he might obtain, now made his good fortune seem more fortunate.
It meant that his own people would be often accessible to him. And
into John’s imaginings of the East Margaret persistently entered.
Though his acquaintance with her was so short, he never thought of
her as of a stranger. The very brevity of their contact made vivid
his memory of her. Her personality appeared to him as a thing apart,
strangely complete, and significant on account of its completeness
and its independence of the rest of his life. The impression she had
made upon him was an impression of contrast. His own existence was set
about with a wall of steel. A door had opened for a moment, and he had
seen her. When the door was closed, still he saw her, an occupant of
another world, the citizenship of which was denied him. For all the
interdicts he had laid upon himself in his attempt to settle down where
Fate had cast him, he made from time to time dream-sorties into that
other world, and on these occasions of secret adventure it was Margaret
whom he encountered. But the country in which he found her was strange
to him. He was conscious always of having overstepped his boundaries.
To stray, even in dreams, beyond his steel wall was to expose himself
to forces outside his experience, and now life seemed indefinably
dangerous as it had never seemed before.
It is this sense of danger, experienced by all natures neither utterly
animal nor merely trivial, that gives to love both its dignity and its
finest colour. It is never more acute than in minds that have been
isolated or confined, for to these the new world is new indeed. John
was so much a stranger to the perilous country that as yet he did not
call it by any name. In childhood his shy reserve had withheld him from
close friendship. His mother had been an invalid--“too frail to be
hugged”--and it was not until circumstances had placed her beyond his
reach that her strength had in some measure returned to her. His nurse,
unusually free from a mistress’s supervision, had been too occupied
with her own affairs to accept the devotion which John would have given
so eagerly. He had no sister upon whom to expend his affection. For
lack of outlet, emotion had accumulated within him until its force
could no longer be resisted.
Margaret had seemed so inaccessible, by reason of her own position and
of the distances which must always divide him from her, that John had
never regarded her as a prize he might hope to win. The thought of her
was as a clear bugle awakening the finest legions of his mind--thoughts
which had slept long, and, being aroused, were masters of the evil in
him, masters of sorrow and loneliness and pain, as faith is master of
us all while faith endures.
And now, though the difficulty of her position remained, the miles
between them were to be swept away. For on the China Station ships
remained long in one port, and leave was more generously given than
elsewhere. John listened gladly to the tales that were told of Yokohama
and Tokio, of Hong Kong and Shanghai, but repeated to himself, happy
in the possession of his secret, “She will be there, and there will
be no London to absorb her.” It was almost incredible that the news
which, when it was given, had seemed disastrous should have become the
substance of his happiness.
Then doubt arose. The first letters Margaret wrote to Hugh on the
subject had confirmed Mr. Alter’s tale; both her father and mother had
been in favour of her going. Then her tone had become less assured.
“_I don’t know whether I shall go to China after all_,” she wrote.
“_Father is discovering difficulties--or, rather, Mr. Ordith, who has
been to China, is discovering them for him; and now he talks of taking
mother with him, and leaving me in the charge of some aunt--I don’t
know which aunt._”
And in a later letter:
“_Father seems to have decided now that I am to stay in England.
I am horribly disappointed. It may be the only chance I shall ever
have of seeing the East--and the East is changing so fast. Mother is
still on my side, I think, though she doesn’t like to say very much.
It is so difficult for her and for me to argue, because neither of us
knows anything about China, and Mr. Ordith, who has been staying with
us again, is full of facts and figures. I wonder why he is so much
against my going? He is always pointing out difficulties. He has a
mind like a blue-book, all tabulated and accurate. You can almost hear
him saying, ‘Section Two, Sub-section Four--so-and-so; Sub-section
Five--so-and-so.’ What can an ordinary human being do in face of
that? Of course, father is tremendously impressed. He says it is so
refreshing to meet a young man with an orderly mind. There’s no doubt
that Mr. Ordith is clever, and very attractive--in a way. I dare say he
is right about the Chinese horrors, but, even if he is, there’s no need
to tell the truth so often. But I still have hopes. Nothing is definite
yet. Perhaps if I light enough of father’s cigarettes and warm his_
Times _for him every morning, he may relent. Or perhaps all the aunts
will refuse to have me, if I get my word in first._”
When these letters arrived Hugh paid little attention to them. He had
made up his mind that his family was leaving England, and he refused
to be deluded by false hopes. But now, when his attitude towards
the matter had been changed, he read over with real anxiety such of
Margaret’s letters as he had not destroyed.
“This fellow Ordith,” he said to John, when the extracts had been read
aloud, “seems likely to be an infernal nuisance. He is a Gunnery
Lieut. R.N.--a star-turn at Whaley, an inventor and that kind of thing.
My father’s firm, Ibble and Company, has a lot of Admiralty contracts.
I suppose that’s how they met.”
“What has your sister said about it since?”
“I tore up the letters before we left the _King Arthur_. I kept
these only by chance--mixed up with some books. But, so far as I can
remember, she hasn’t said anything--certainly nothing definite. And she
hasn’t mentioned Ordith, I’m sure. It’s odd, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think she has had a row with him?”
“No; but---- Anyway, we shan’t know anything until we get home to
England.”
Hugh laughed. “I believe you are just as keen as I am that my--that my
people should go to China.”
John answered quickly: “You see, I am counting on your invitations to
give me an excuse for leave.”
II
After spending nearly a week at home, John came up to London on the
first Friday of his leave. He was to stay with the Fane-Herberts, who
were giving a dance on the following day, and before he returned to the
country he and Hugh were to go together to Mr. Reeve’s London branch
and order the clothes they would need in China.
“I am afraid it is no good,” Hugh told him. “It seems to be definitely
fixed that Margaret is to remain in England.”
But at dinner that night they were thrown once more into perplexity.
Mr. Fane-Herbert was away in the North, and was not expected home until
Saturday afternoon, when he would bring Mr. Ordith with him.
“I believe Mr. Ordith is a wonderful dancer,” Mrs. Fane-Herbert said.
“From all accounts,” Hugh replied, “he must be wonderful at everything.”
“My dear Hugh, you speak as if you disliked him already, without ever
having seen him.”
“I don’t dislike him, but I can’t see what he has to do with our
affairs.”
“Our affairs?”
“Margaret’s going to China. It was all fixed up before Ordith came on
the scene.”
Mrs. Fane-Herbert smiled. This was a chance better than she had hoped
for. “Now,” she said, “shall I show you how wrong you are? I had a
letter from father this afternoon, and, so far as I can judge, for he
is not at all definite, he has been thinking it all over, and has come
to the conclusion----”
“That I am to go after all, mother?” Margaret interrupted. “Do say I am
to go!”
“Well, dear, I don’t want you to be disappointed again, but I must
say that father seems to incline more towards taking you.... So you
see, Hugh, how little Mr. Ordith had to do with the matter. It is very
foolish to make rash judgments.”
“But why has father changed his mind?”
“It doesn’t matter why,” said Margaret. “The point is that he has
changed it.”
Hugh shrugged his shoulders. “It beats me, I confess.”
His mother allowed Hugh’s suspicion to fade into silence. To have
attempted to remove it would have been to emphasize it, and this she
wished to avoid. Her husband’s letter had given her two pieces of
information, the last of which explained the first. “_I think_,” he
had written, “_that, after all, Margaret had better come with us when
we leave England. Edith might not wish to be burdened with her. I know
you would like to have her with you, and that she herself is anxious
to come. There are many obstacles, but, if you have really set your
heart on taking her, none that I am not prepared to overcome if I can.
We will talk it over when I reach home_.” Mrs. Fane-Herbert, when she
read this, was as astonished as Hugh had been when he heard of it;
but at the end of the letter, separated from her husband’s decision
by more pages than he usually troubled to write to her, was a brief
announcement which made all clear: “_Ordith has been appointed to the_
Pathshire _as an additional Gunnery Lieutenant. Isn’t it a strange
coincidence in connection with Hugh?_” To Mrs. Fane-Herbert it was an
illumination uncomfortably brilliant.
She established at once the connection between her husband’s change of
mind and Mr. Ordith’s change of plan. But would Margaret establish it?
If possible, that must be prevented. Mrs. Fane-Herbert was tempted to
say nothing of the contents of her letter, to leave her husband to make
the best of it on his return. But his best, in this instance, would,
she knew, be bad indeed. He thought of Margaret as of a child without
perception. He would not trouble to deceive her.
Mrs. Fane-Herbert realized that she herself must give these two pieces
of information to Margaret in such a manner as might prevent their
being connected with each other. The responsibility and the chance of
failure made her nervous and troubled. Dinner was to be an ordeal. She
wished that her husband was not so successful a man--at any rate, that
success had not blinded him to so many things she would have liked him
to see and value. She wished that Mr. Ordith had not so much ability
and charm; that she could bring herself to dislike him frankly, and so
to form a clear policy with regard to him. He might make an admirable
husband. She did not think so. But what was there against him? Nothing
but her instinct and Mr. Alter’s saying that the young man had a
systematized soul. Her husband wanted him in Ibble and Company. She
had seen, scribbled on a blotting-pad in the writing that, years ago,
had filled her love-letters, the words “Ibble and Ordith--Ordith and
Ibble,” as if the amalgamation was already accomplished and a dispute
about the nomenclature had begun. Mr. Ordith would leave the Service
and succeed his father, Sir George Ordith, as head of Ordith and Co.
The plan was cut and dried, as were all Mr. Fane-Herbert’s plans. But
she hated the whole project. Even if the result were excellent, she
hated this involving of Margaret in the affairs of Ibble and Co., for
Ibble and Co. had already robbed her husband of the qualities she had
loved best in him. She disliked it the more because her husband had
never dared speak openly of it, and because _she_ had never dared
mention it to him. She knew how he would answer. Was he trying to force
the girl? Absurd! He was trying to give a fair chance to a young
man whom he liked--surely a reasonable and proper course? Oh yes,
reasonable and proper! Mrs. Fane-Herbert thought helplessly. But wrong,
she felt--wrong in motive and bad in effect. If it were not wrong, why
did it already compel her to fence with her own children?
Hugh had helped her at the beginning of dinner. The first piece of
information had been naturally given, she thought. Now for the second,
which was the test. She led the conversation into new channels, and
talked much and well--just as Mr. Fane-Herbert had written those
intermediate pages in his letter. But too long a delay would draw
attention to itself. Margaret would wonder why she had put off speaking
of Mr. Ordith. When should she speak?
She waited until dinner was ended. Then she paused in the open doorway.
“Oh, and Hugh, father said in his letter something of Mr. Ordith’s
being appointed as additional Gunnery Lieutenant to the _Pathshire_.
Isn’t that an odd chance?”
“Ordith, _too_, going to China?”
“I suppose so.”
Mrs. Fane-Herbert made her way towards the drawing-room. She knew
Margaret was watching her. Why, oh why, had Hugh said, “Ordith _too_?”
Or was it her imagination and not his voice that had so laid the
emphasis? She did not look round to search Margaret’s face, though her
desire to do so was almost too strong for her. In a moment Margaret
would speak, and her tone, even more clearly than her words, would
indicate how much she had guessed.
But as they entered the drawing-room Margaret said: “If I am to go
East, mother, I shall want dozens of new frocks, shan’t I?”
And Mrs. Fane-Herbert was left without enlightenment.
III
Mr. George Ordith, later a baronet, and head of the great armament
firm honoured by the serious jealousy of Ibble and Co., had trained
his son Nicholas with extraordinary care and consistency. He had been
terrified lest Nick, who was to inherit all that a life’s toil had
accumulated, should value it little and dissipate it rashly. Therefore,
almost as soon as Nick’s fingers were able to close about the coin, a
penny had been thrust into his palm, and, when he had held it a little
while, been taken from him and dropped loudly into a money-box bearing
his name. Nick enjoyed the tinkle, and crowed in accompaniment. The
process was repeated every Saturday morning, until at last, because he
was never allowed to play with them, Nick came to have a respect for
pence. The money-box was cleared annually, its contents supplemented by
a sovereign, which was George Ordith’s Christmas gift to his baby (for
it was left to womenfolk to present what were described as “baubles and
gewgaws”), and the whole was added to Nick’s deposit in the Post Office
Savings Bank. By the time he was out of dresses he was a capitalist.
Only Mrs. Ordith’s earnest entreaties saved her son from being taught
to read from the financial columns of the newspapers. At school,
Stocks and Shares were to Nick an exciting reality, and, at the age of
fifteen, he withdrew from the Post Office all his money except half a
crown, gave it to his father in return for a cheque drawn in favour of
the parental broker, and instructed this gentleman to purchase on his
behalf certain Meat Shares in the Argentine.
From this it must not be deduced either that George Ordith was a miser
or that he wished his son to become one. He said a thousand times that
money was not everything; that it could not purchase happiness; that,
though it was a blessing to wise men, it was a curse to fools. And
Nick said, “Yes, father,” and asked, as other children might ask for a
coveted toy, when he might have some of those coupons that were cut off
with scissors. George Ordith had acted upon a theory that the sons of
hard-working, careful men are often wasters. He had wished to nip in
the bud any natural tendency in Nick to become a waster. And he erred
in this, that Nick had been so made that waste would in any case have
been repugnant to him. If George had not provided a money-box, Nick
would have been impelled by instinct to manufacture one out of the
first empty tobacco-tin whose lid he could pierce. If George had not
built up the firm of Ordith, Nick would probably have established it.
Thus had nature and training, instead of counteracting each other’s
effects, as Sir George Ordith had intended, been allies in the
production of the young Gunnery Lieutenant in whom Mr. Fane-Herbert
found so much to admire. He had taken firsts in every examination in
which it had been possible for him to take firsts; he had created a
reputation for himself at Whale Island; he had played cricket and
Rugby football for the Navy; he had smiled and danced himself into
the favour of innumerable hostesses; he had a nice taste in wines,
a beautiful touch in billiards, a safe seat on any horse, and an
inexhaustible supply of words, which flowed like oil from his lips.
He was tall, dark, and technically handsome. Moreover, he had a level
head--a head so level that business men, while they admired him, looked
back sometimes to the days of their own youth, and reflected that,
after all, young Ordith must be missing a great deal. They would have
liked an opportunity to raise their eyebrows now and then, and to say,
“Ah well, boys will be boys!”
But Nick never gave them a chance. He condescended so far as to appear
gallant and rash in the presence of women who he thought would like
that kind of thing; but in the presence of men from whom something
might be expected he gave no judgment which was not a considered
judgment, offered no opinion without quoting his authority for the
facts upon which it was based, relapsed into thoughtful silence when he
had no opinion to offer, and added little by little to his reputation
for soundness.
In a book to which he made frequent reference he wrote down such
details concerning his friends’ habits and tastes as might aid him in
his dealings with them. A glance into this volume reveals much of the
writer.
“FANE-HERBERT, WALTER.--_Proud of cellar. Always offers to pay for
things--don’t let him. Likes to be taken aside from large company as if
conversation private and important. Sharp business man--try no tricks.
Wants me in Ibble’s--obviously with view to amalgamation. Be dense
about this. Probably fond of daughter when it comes to the pinch.
Personalty (authority, K.S.K.), over 700 thou. One son in addition to
daughter. Pleased with his feet--ask size of boots occasionally. Eton
best school in the world. Expectancy of life, 15 yrs._
“FANE-HERBERT, MRS.--_Avoid cynicism. Ask her advice often. Points for
flattery: upbringing of children; fineness of bed and table linen;
acquaintance with Parnell--touch this carefully; Irish descent, rather
remote. Keep off subject of husband’s success. Keep business in the
background. Money not mentioned--except in connection charitable
purposes. Acute woman. Guesses about Ibble and Ordith, and about
daughter. Private income probably small. Ought to die well first._
“FANE-HERBERT, MARGARET.--_Exceptional, requiring exceptional
treatment. Flattery must be restrained and veiled. Probable points
for flattery: shape of fingers; piano; knowledge of books; power to
see through pretences. Certain points for flattery: imperviousness
to it--and ability to keep secret. Necessary to cultivate literary
conversation. (Literature Primers, Edited by J. H. Green, and English
Lit. by Stopford Brooke, Macmillan and Co.; for contemporary lit.
try Bookman--? something more advanced.) Be careful not to split
infinitives; also use singular after none--e.g., ‘none of them_ is....’
_Introduce ideals into all talk of the future. Might talk of improving
the conditions of Ordith’s workpeople, and thus establish_ secret
_between her and me--but make quite sure bunkum of that kind doesn’t
spread and make things awkward at Ordith’s. Probably make good hostess.
Not extravagant, but might develop philanthropic tendencies. To me very
attractive: keep this clear in mind, as it may be dangerous. Don’t
touch her too much; guard eyes. Go slow. Impulsiveness would probably
be effective, but I am not good at this, so better act judiciously._”
Nick Ordith clearly perceived his own weakness. He wished that
Margaret, the girl, were less important to him, and that he could
regard her as no more than a link with Ibble’s and a beneficiary under
her father’s will. This amalgamation was to be a big affair, and he
would have preferred to approach it with a cool head--with a head, that
is, not inflamed by any passion that disputed his customarily perfect
control. But, though you bind the Devil hand and foot, he will lash you
with his tail. All Nick’s care to restrict every tendency in him that
might interfere with his material success could not prevent him from
losing command a little in Margaret’s presence, and he knew that some
day, at a moment when he least expected it, that command might break
down altogether. He thrilled at her touch; he thought of her at night
when he ought to have been thinking of fire-control instruments. And he
knew he stood in danger of revealing all this. Women, a few women, had
so twisted him before. He had no confidence in his ability to handle
Margaret as if she were built of the cool ivory of a chess-piece. She
was young--ten years his junior, and she was unspoiled. Youth and
the unspoiled had for him an attraction more powerful than his will.
There might come a time when he would lose the game as a result of his
reluctance to sacrifice his Queen. Certainly she would exercise an
undue influence upon his strategy.
He determined to dance with her that Saturday night as often as he
dared neglect more urgent business, and at dinner primed himself
for brilliance. Mr. Hartfeld of the Foreign Office and Mr. Street
of the Admiralty were present, and treated him with more deference
than the ordinary naval officer has a right to expect from Government
Departments. Mr. Fane-Herbert established himself with his back to the
smoking-room fire when dinner was over, smiling at Street, Hartfeld,
and Ordith, and glaring at Hugh until he suggested that he and John
should go and play billiards. At last the four great men were left
alone to discuss the prospects of the Empire overseas.
The detail of their conversation is not for the ears of the less
fortunate who hold no stock in armament firms, but the spirit of it may
be revealed in its conclusion.
“Of course,” said Mr. Fane-Herbert, “it is understood that we shall
act with the greatest reserve. Ordith’s presence out there will appear
accidental--or at any rate, whatever they may think, no one will
dare to say that it is otherwise. He will be my friend and personal
adviser--in no way personally interested.”
“The Foreign Office has nothing to do with it,” said Hartfeld.
“Nor the Admiralty,” Street echoed.
Street flicked the ash from his cigarette. “It is of the utmost
importance that we should be committed to nothing.”
“But we can rely upon your support?”
Hartfeld nodded. “Speaking for myself alone; I can’t answer for others.”
“Isn’t that a little nebulous?” Ordith asked.
“We can do no more than promise to do our utmost,” said Street, in the
pained voice of one whose offer of his life’s blood has been scorned.
“We shall be grateful,” said Ordith.
“Most grateful,” Mr. Fane-Herbert added solemnly. He knew how foolish
it was to ruffle officials. “Another brandy, Street? A cigar?”
“But, apart from the question of gratitude and the gentlemanly
preamble,” Ordith continued, “let’s see exactly how we stand. As I see
it----”
“My dear fellow,” Hartfeld exclaimed, flourishing a delicate hand,
“why this passion for black and white? Everything depends upon the
fluctuations of circumstance----”
“Lord help us! Why not say of ‘Change’?”
Mr. Fane-Herbert gave him a glance which advised that, since these
were not business men, they should not be treated as such. They must
be allowed to talk if they wanted to. “You were saying, Hartfeld--the
fluctuations of circumstance?”
“Upon the fluctuations of circumstance and the--er--signs of the times.
Definite commitments in affairs of this kind are always dangerous, and
are only to be obtained at the price of elasticity.”
“In other words,” said Street, “we want to give you the freest possible
hand.”
Three of them nodded wisely. Ordith’s fingers moved lightly on the arms
of his chair. He had not wanted these people brought into it. “They
can’t help,” he had said. But Mr. Fane-Herbert had taken him by the
shoulder; “No, they can’t help--granted. But they can hinder. Look on
their talk as the price you pay for a retainer, see?”
“Then what it comes to,” Ordith said, “is that you are concerned in
these contracts that we hope to obtain simply from the point of view
of the national interest, eh?” So far as he knew the question was
meaningless, but he felt that it would please them.
“Exactly,” they answered together.
“And you afford facilities?--a diplomatic phrase, surely?”
“Every facility.”
Mr. Fane-Herbert’s approving eye was upon him. “Then success ought to
be assured so long as there are no competitors.” That was the point.
“Competitors?” said Hartfeld. “We can’t answer for foreign competition.”
“No; I was thinking of competition from home. Ibble’s is not the only
firm in the British Isles.”
“By no means,” said Street gracefully.
“Oh, I can answer for Ordith’s; we have arranged that. There are
others.”
“I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly interfere with legitimate commercial
competition.”
“No one would ask it of you. But your attitude towards us will be at
least benevolent?” Ordith said.
“Certainly,” Hartfeld answered.
“Good.”
“It will be a brilliant success!” Street exclaimed.
“Success,” said Ordith, “depends less upon genius than upon an adequate
appreciation of the platitudes.”
This faith, so authoritatively expressed by a successful young man,
was put to the test soon after the dance had begun. He saw Margaret
dancing with John--her eyes shining with happiness in a manner that
might have caused another lover a little uneasiness. But Ordith did not
for a moment feel insecure. He could see that John had gained ground,
that the first ramparts of reserve had been overpassed; but he had no
fear. “Unlike poles attract,” he repeated, choosing his platitude, and
confident of his power to carry attack upon that line to a successful
issue. So, before seeking out the important lady he had seen among
the crowd and had chosen for his immediate favour, he stood gazing at
Margaret’s neck and shoulders and admiring her movement with the eye of
an anatomist.
He did not know that John had advanced farther than the first ramparts.
In the morning, when he and Hugh had gone together to buy their China
equipment, Margaret had come to offer feminine advice on materials. She
had watched them turning over shirts, and hesitating, and retracting
decisions in the manner of men at the counter. Women and their
shopping? Oh, but men were infinitely worse! They had so small a field
of choice, and yet they got lost in it. She laughed at this and a
thousand trifles, and laughter is the truest ranging-arrow in love’s
quiver. London, too, with its bright sun and sky, and the cool wind
that stirred up the sweet scent of her furs, had conspired to bring
them together. Hugh joined the conspiracy by accepting an invitation
to lunch with an old friend whom he met in Mr. Reeve’s shop. John and
Margaret came home by way of Marble Arch and a diagonal cut through the
Park. The dying winter was old and weak--so weak that he could not
gather up and hide away in his dark box the coins of gold scattered
beneath the trees by the sunshine or the strands woven among the
grasses. And, as they went, they talked of all the things on earth they
held most dear--their nurseries and old toys, terra-cotta flower-pots,
the summer sound of lawns being mown, firelight in mirrors, books,
the silky touch of dogs’ ears--each as the centre of some tale which
seemed peculiar to their own autobiographies, though, at that moment,
it was being remembered afresh, in one form or another, by every young
creature--and every old one, too, who wasn’t too stupid to value such
things--from Kensington Palace to the western pavement of Park Lane.
John and Margaret, like all the other young creatures, had no idea of
this. They felt as if they were telling each other secrets--which is
the best known of love’s tricks. In truth, they were but beginning to
discover the secrets of themselves, and had not yet had time to become
so confused as the rest of us in life’s attempt to draw a boundary
between the soul and the body. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes! There was
no dust, there were no ashes, their hearts argued; therefore all--her
lips and the colour the wind had whipped into her cheeks, his frank
eyes, and brown, fine-cut hands--all must have something of the soul
in them. What reason had they to doubt? They were not afraid, and fear
goes hand in hand with the Devil. Their happiness was of the clean kind
they would have liked to sing about to all the world.
So it happened that they danced together that evening with all the
memories of daylight and keen air to lend magic to the flowers and the
sparkling lamps and the murmur of stringed instruments.
“I love the little pointed shadows under everybody’s feet,” she said,
“and the vague pools of light in the polished floor. It’s better than
fairies on the village green.”
“That’s not an absolute opinion,” he answered, laughing. “Shouldn’t we
be on the side of the fairies if we were dancing on green grass now?”
To him it mattered only that they were dancing together, and her
silence acquiesced in his mood.
“There’s any number of people,” he exclaimed, “who are wishing the
music would stop. It’s strange to think of other people being tired and
bored.”
“Perhaps this isn’t the music they care for.”
“The old people?”
“Yes; probably they remember other tunes. Shall I ask the orchestra
to play something that was heard all over London thirty--forty--fifty
years ago? Shall I?”
They are for ever asking each other questions.
“Do you think anyone would dance to it?”
“I don’t know. Would we dance to _this_--fifty years on?”
He brushed aside the unimaginable future. At this moment she was his,
her voice speaking close to him, the curve of her cheek and forehead
clear beneath his eyes. He imagined suddenly that he would remember
this instant, that his future would be full of it; and it took to
itself already some of the glamour of history.
“Oh,” said she, “there’s Mr. Ordith watching us!”
The charm was lifted. He could not endure that another should peer over
his shoulder into the history-book of fancy, or that a stranger’s eye
should witness the building of this magic temple in which the moment
was to be preserved against the assaults of all time. Soon the music
faded into silence. A few feet slid on, and then stopped. The room
filled with human voices.
“That’s the end,” she said softly, and he did not find the remark
unnecessary. They sat down somewhere and talked little, each aware
of anticlimax. John was almost glad when Ordith, graceful and
self-confident, came up and took her away.
Perhaps her own emotion was communicated to Ordith; perhaps he,
perceiving it in her, realizing--as she did not--from what source it
flowed, and trying to take advantage of it, was himself entrapped. He
pursued a policy of what he described to himself as “talking big”; he
played upon an imagination already excited.
“I can’t bear to leave London,” he said. “And you are actually eager to
go! Life centres here. The people in this room have their fingers on
the pulse of the world.”
“The politicians?”
He smiled over her shoulder. “Yes. I know it is a middle-class fashion
to despise them. I can’t despise men with power and knowledge. And not
the politicians only. Everybody is here--the artists who matter, the
thinkers who are in touch. And at this moment, a crisis in the history
of the world, I am to go away.”
He made it sound a tragedy.
He knew that to Twenty Years the present is always the opportunity of
mankind--and an unpromising Twenty Years it would be if it thought
otherwise. He knew, too--for his shrewdness went deeper than the
surface--that Twenty Years has an understanding of many truths that
Disappointment, not Philosophy, describes subsequently as illusions.
But, so far as his immediate purpose was concerned, it mattered nothing
whether the ideas that dominated Margaret were illusory or not. Only
the fact of their domination was of importance to him, for they were to
be a means to his own dominion. He spun a web of dreams that he might
entangle her in it. His voice, which he could tune to the very ring of
sincerity, told her how the future was to be glorious. There was to be
battle against all the powers of evil--a new political outlook, new
relations between state and state, and between governors and governed.
That was the mission of their generation.
“We must grip the essentials,” he said. “We must permit no compromise.
And, above all, we mustn’t lose ourselves in mere talk--we must act
temperately, and according to a clearly-conceived plan.... And women!”
he exclaimed. “What a tremendous chance! Your influence is growing
every day; soon it will be direct as well as indirect. And then the
best of you will not be content to manipulate the party strings at
dinner-tables. You will be cutting them where they are obstructive. You
will come with free hands--no stale tradition--no fear of precedent--no
corruption of ideals.”
He felt proud when he had delivered himself of this. It would win
him laurels, he thought, among the forward young men, with their
pamphlets and loose collars, their carpet-slippers and their political
ikons. And Margaret was in a mood to question little. Cynicism and
doubt had small influence over her that night. Was not Mr. Ordith her
father’s friend?--and, Heaven knew! he was no vague idealist. And had
not Mr. Ordith a reputation for soundness and level-headedness where
such a reputation was most difficult to win? She paused neither to
doubt nor to believe. It was enough that his enthusiasm awakened in
her a sensation of warmth and brilliance, of assurance and power.
And, though she danced with him a second and a third time, and though
intervals elapsed between the dances, the sensation endured, and grew
in intensity, grew until--so inflammatory are wine, ideals, and the
contact of dancing--Ordith, too, became aware of its heat, and flamed
amazingly, so that he was cool-headed no more. The conflagration, he
found, gave him greater power over her--though power of a new kind. He
was too wise to speak personal endearments to her, even the lightest,
but his voice assumed a lower, more intimate tone, and vibrated now
with a passion that was not artificial. He spoke of the foolishness and
selfishness of other women, their blindness to ideals--how he loved
that word!--their fear of sacrifice, their failure to understand the
_real needs_ of the world. It was implied that she was wonderfully
different from them all. How many and far-reaching were the victories
within the scope of a mind inspired by her motives! Somehow he was to
be her ally in these victories. “We,” he said, and “I,” but never
“You,” thereby binding her to him without emphasizing her submission to
the bond. The reality of triumph is in an opponent’s ignorance of his
own defeat.
But control was slipping from Ordith. After a brief struggle he let
it go, and rejoiced in his freedom. His eyes, looking down on her,
lost their breadth of vision, and saw none of her surroundings. Her
proximity obscured all else; his touch on her overwhelmed every other
sensation. His muscles tightened his grip, but it seemed to him only
that her body was laying a heavier and heavier weight upon his arm. He
danced faster, but was aware only of greater rapidity of movement and
breathing close to his heart.
Slowly this extraordinary concentration of his mind produced its
effect upon her. First she became conscious of having, in his view,
lost individuality, of having been relegated somehow to the position
of an instrument. Her will was to revolt against that, but revolt
was contrary to her inclination. She found a certain pleasure in the
strength of the current that was bearing her away, even while she
feared it. She said something; he did not answer. She repeated it; and
from his silence understood that his mind would not receive her words.
It was as if a wave, sweeping over her head and robbing her voice of
its effect, had roused her to resistance. His arm had grown firmer
about her. Her feet were scarce touching the ground. She wanted breath
and foothold. She became frightened, active, determined to break free.
“Why are you dancing so fast?” was all she contrived to say.
But he heard, and looked down to drink in her powerlessness, to exult
in his own power, to strengthen his grip again. He could not talk. His
imagination was running on and on, dragging him with it. His thoughts,
which had no traceable sequence, were presenting to him pictures of
such vividness that he screwed up his eyes as if he might physically
see them.
“I am tired,” Margaret said, shrinking into the conventional. “Shall
we stop?” Then, a moment later, with a flash of determination that
compelled his attention: “I want to stop.”
He let her go suddenly--too suddenly. Her eyes were raised
questioningly for an instant, and, as he met them, were abruptly turned
away. He took her out of the crowd. He wanted to get beyond the range
of the many eyes that he imagined were turned upon him. She sat down
where he told her to sit.
“Listen,” he said. “I told you just now that I was sorry to leave
England. I want to tell you why. There’s so much to do here--so
much danger to be warded off. And this going away is”--he paused
feelingly--“is somehow shirking the fight. My father and I don’t agree
on all points. I should like to see Ordith’s run differently--the
position of our labour improved. I am on their side.... They know
it.... Further, the whole attitude of armament firms must be changed.
As matters stand their ambitions are warlike; their influence on
political action is--well, you can understand that. And my chance to
change all this is unique. No other young man has my opportunities. But
I stand alone, absolutely alone. I----”
“But why are you telling this to me?”
“Because--oh, don’t you feel as I do? Don’t you----”
“But why are you telling it to me _now_?”
He was seized by an impulse to put away even this rattling imitation
of reason, to make his spring now. All the world was moving so swiftly
about him that he felt only force and sensation could keep pace with
it. It pleased him to see that her eyes were frightened, and that,
though she wanted to go away, she could not move. This was power; but
he would not use it yet; he must not use it for months to come. Now he
would go on saying something while he watched her.
“Can’t you understand why I am telling it to you?”
“You talk so fast,” she said, her hand travelling to her forehead.
“Then I’ll talk slower.”
“No,” she said, under her breath; but he paid no attention. His voice
continued--to her ears as inexplicit as music.
“Between us we will lay great plans,” she heard him say presently,
and her protest against being thus included was never uttered. “Out
in the East--the home of all philosophy--we shall have time to think.
Margaret, you will help me to get all this clear in my mind?”
All what? He didn’t know or care. It sufficed that he had bound her
to him by some tie, the more difficult to break because it was so
vague. Moreover, his use of her name had been resisted only by a quick
intaking of breath.
“You will help me?” he repeated. “You must--you must.” Then, too
confident, he stooped over her and reached with his hands for hers.
By his lightest touch the spell he had laid upon her was broken. She
started up, the blood tingling in her. She knew that she had acquiesced
in something she had not considered, as if she had spoken in her sleep.
His ascendancy was revealed as menacing--a cloud that overshadowed her,
and, while it held her attention, warned her to take shelter.
“I can hear the music again.”
“But the next dance is ours.”
“No.”
“You promised. Look--your name.” He offered his programme, sure that
she would not examine it or remember the number of the dance.
And she said without looking, “I can’t dance now.”
He answered as if he were stroking her. “Ah, you are trembling. What is
the matter? Have I frightened you?”
“Frightened?” The sound of her own laugh restored her calmness. “What
is there to be frightened of? But see,” she went on, holding out her
programme, “I am sure you have made a mistake. This dance is Mr.
Lynwood’s.”
John was coming up the stairs towards them. “Then I will find you again
a little later,” said Ordith, and disappeared.
“What has happened?” John asked, looking into her face, which had now
grown pale.
“Happened? Nothing--oh, nothing. I was a little tired, that’s all.”
And, in truth, Margaret knew of no cause for an effect so overwhelming.
Looking back, she wondered how so strong an emotion had taken hold of
her. Why had she been afraid? and why now was she conscious of having
escaped, of having awakened--of having lost something, too?
“Let’s go and dance,” she said.
“No, not now,” John answered, “not if you are tired.” He led her away,
and stopped opposite two chairs. “There,” he said, “sit there for a
little while where it is cool. Don’t talk or worry.”
When she was seated he moved away a few yards, wishing to give her the
time she needed. Gradually she realized that the cloud charged with
so much power over her was indeed gone. The atmosphere seemed less
stifling. Freedom of thought and action was returning. Presently she
remembered John and was grateful because he had taken her away from
the place where she had been with Ordith; and grateful, with warmth of
gratitude, because he had known how to be silent. Her look summoned him.
“You don’t know how good you have been,” she said.
“I hated to see you hurt, to-night of all nights.”
“To-night?”
“Because everything seemed so good. I was looking forward to China and
seeing you there. To-night seemed a kind of celebration of the future.”
“But that remains,” she said, as if the recollection of the fact
surprised her. She could not forget Ordith’s power, or, for the time,
think of any part of her existence as being altogether free from his
influence. Where was he now? Was he near her? Involuntarily her hand
went out to John’s sleeve.
She tried to thank him for what he had done. Her sense of relief, of
safety after danger, made his chance intervention seem the result
of his kindness of heart; and every word she spoke, hesitating and
tremulous, between tears and laughter, was marvellous to him.
“Tell me,” he said, “what can I do? You haven’t told me the facts. Do
you trust me a little?”
“There are no facts.”
“But he----”
“Oh, leave him!” she exclaimed. “Let’s go down to where all the people
are. What time is it?” she added suddenly, as if awaking from a wild
dream to the surer business of the day.
He told her, but was certain she did not hear, her thoughts having fled
great distances by then. As he followed her, he realized dimly with
how great a force he had to contend, but he did not understand how
indirectly this force could act. He felt sure that Ordith must have
been in some manner definitely violent--have tried to kiss her, he
angrily imagined. Then her “Oh, leave him!” echoed in his ears.
“Margaret,” he said, “I haven’t been trying--to find things out. I
wanted to help if I could.”
She turned to him with a little movement of confidence which was a full
reward. “I know. Don’t think I am ungrateful. I shan’t ever forget.
Your coming made everything different--and secure again. I would
tell you about it if I could--if there was anything to tell; I think
telling would help. But there’s nothing--nothing tangible, at least.”
She shivered, as if something cold and flat had touched her. “Only a
feeling of having been caught and of having broken free again.”
Together they went into the ball-room, where faces, still smiling their
response to some jest spoken a moment earlier, seemed out of touch with
reality. This colour, this light on chin and throat, this flash of
jewels and gleaming of shirt-fronts, was as a picture in oils that had
hung unnoticed while life pursued its course swiftly, and to which, now
there was breathing space, attention had reluctantly returned.