amuse him."
She shook her head.
"He is always the same. He has always that weary look. He is living
with absolute recklessness. It cannot possibly last long."
"He knows the price," Brooks answered. "He lives as he chooses."
"I wonder," she murmured. "Sometimes I wonder whether we do not
misjudge him--you and I, Kingston. For you know we have been his
judges. You must not shake your head. It is true. You have judged him
to be unworthy of a son, and I--I have judged him to be unworthy of a
wife. You don't think--that we could possibly have made a mistake--that
underneath there is a little heart left--eaten up with pride and
loneliness?"
"I have never seen," Brooks answered, "the slightest trace of it."
"Nor I," she answered. "Yet I knew him when he was young. He was so
different, and annihilation is very hard, isn't it? Supposing he were
to die, and we were to find out afterwards?"
"You," he said, slowly, "must be the judge of your own actions. For my
part I see in him only the man who abandoned my mother, who spent the
money of other people in dissipation and worse than dissipation. Who
came to England and accepted my existence after a leisurely interval as
a matter of course. I have never seen in any one of his actions, or
heard in his tone one single indication of anything save selfishness so
incarnate as to have become the only moving impulse of his life. If
ever I could believe that he cared for me, would find in me anything
save a convenience, I would try to forget the past. If he would even
express his sorrow for it, show himself capable of any emotion
whatsoever in connection with anything or any person save himself, I
would be only too thankful to escape from my ridiculous position."
Then they were silent for a moment, each occupied with their own
thoughts, and Lord Arranmore, pale and spare, taller than most men
there, notwithstanding a recently-acquired stoop, came wearily over to
them.
"Dear me," he remarked, "what gloomy faces--and I expected to see Brooks
at least radiant. Am I intruding?"
"Don't be absurd, Arranmore," she said kindly. "Why don't you bring up
that chair and sit down? You look tired."
He laughed--a little hardly.
"I have been tired so long," he said, "that it has become a habit.
Brooks, will you think me guilty of an impertinence, I wonder? I have
intruded upon your concerns."
Brooks looked up with his eyes full of questioning. "That fellow
Lavilette," Arranmore continued, seemed worried about your anonymous
subscription. I was in an evil temper yesterday afternoon, and Verity
amused me. So I wrote and confounded the fellow by explaining that it
was I who sent the money--the thousand pounds you had."
"You?" Lady Caroom exclaimed, breathlessly.
"You sent me that thousand pounds?" Brooks cried.
They exchanged rapid glances: A spot of colour burned in Lady Caroom's
cheeks. She felt her heart quicken, an unspoken prayer upon her lips.
Brooks, too, was agitated.
"Upon my word," Lord Arranmore remarked, coldly, "I really don't know
why my whim should so much astound you. I took care to explain that I
sent it without the slightest sympathy in the cause--merely out of
compliment to an acquaintance. It was just a whim, nothing more, I can
assure you. I think that I won it at Sandown or something."
"It was not because you were interested in this work, then?" Lady Caroom
asked, fearfully.
"Not in the slightest," he answered. "That is to say, sympathetically
interested. I am curious. I will admit that. No more."
The colour faded from Lady Caroom's cheeks. She shivered a little and
rose to her feet. Brooks' face had hardened.
"We are very much obliged to you for the money," he said. "As for
Lavilette, I had not thought it worth while to reply to him."
Lord Arranmore shrugged his shoulders.
"Nor should I in your place," he answered. "My position is a little
different, of course. I am positively looking forward to my next week's
Verity. You are leaving now, I see. Good-night!"
"I have kept Mr. Brooks away from his friends," she said, looking at
him. "Will you see me to my carriage?"
He offered her his arm with courtly grace. They passed down the crowded
staircase together.
"You are looking ill, Philip," she said, softly. "You are not taking
care of yourself."
"Care of myself," he laughed. "Why, for whom? Life is not exactly a
playground, is it?"
"You are not making the best of it!"
"The best! Do you want to mock me?"
"It is you," she whispered, "who stand before a looking-glass, and mock
yourself. Philip, be a man. Your life is one long repression. Break
through just once! Won't you?"
He sighed. "Would you have me a hypocrite, Catherine?"
She shook her head. Suddenly she looked up at him.
"Philip, will you promise me this? If ever your impulse should come--if
you should feel the desire to speak, to act once more as a man from
your heart--you will not stifle it. Promise me that." He looked at her
with a faint, tired smile. "Yes, I promise," he answered.
CHAPTER V
LADY SYBIL LENDS A HAND
Brooks glanced at the card which was brought in to him, at first
carelessly enough, afterwards with mingled surprise and pleasure.
"Here is some one," he said to Mary Scott, "whom I should like you to
meet. Show the young lady in," he directed.
Some instinct seemed to tell her the truth.
"Who is it?" she asked quickly. "I am very busy this morning."
"It is Lady Sybil Caroom," he answered. "Please don't go. I should
like you to meet her."
Mary looked longingly at the door of communication which led into the
further suite of offices, but it was too late to think of escape. Sybil
had already entered, bringing into the room a delicious odor of
violets, herself almost bewilderingly beautiful. She was dressed with
extreme simplicity, but with a delicate fastidiousness which Mary at any
rate was quick to appreciate. Her lips were slightly parted in a
natural and perfectly dazzling smile. She came across to Brooks with
outstretched hand and laughter in her eyes.
"Confess that you are horrified," she exclaimed. "I don't care a bit.
I've waited for you to take me quite long enough. If you won't come now
I shall go by myself."
"Go where?" he exclaimed.
"Why, to one of the branches--I don't care which. I can help for the
rest of the day." He laughed.
"Well, let me introduce you to Miss Scott," he said, turning round.
"Mary, this is Lady Sybil Caroom. Miss Scott," he continued, turning to
the younger girl, "has been my right hand since we first started. If
ever you do stand behind our counter it will have to be under her
auspices."
Sybil turned courteously but with some indifference towards the girl,
who was standing by Brooks' chair. In her plain black dress and white
linen collar Mary perhaps looked more than her years, especially by the
side of Sybil. As the eyes of the two met, Sybil saw that she was
regarded with more than ordinary attention. She saw, too, that Mary was
neither so plain nor so insignificant as she had at first imagined.
"I am sure you are very much to be congratulated, Miss Scott," she said.
"Mr. Brooks' scheme is a splendid success, isn't it? You must be proud
of your share in it."
"My share," Mary said, in quiet, even tones, "has been very small
indeed. Mr. Brooks is alone responsible for it. The idea was his, and
the organization was his. We others have been no more than machines."
"Very useful machines, Mary," Brooks said, with a kind glance towards
her. "Come, we mustn't any of us belittle our share in the work."
Mary took up some papers from the desk.
"I think," she said, "that if you have no more messages for Mr. Flitch
I had better start. We are very busy in Stepney just now."
"Please don't hurry," Brooks said. "We must try and manage something
for Lady Sybil."
Mary looked up doubtfully.
"Unless you ask Lady Sybil to look on," she said, "I don't quite see how
it is possible for her to come."
"Lady Sybil knows the conditions," Brooks answered. "She wants to have
a try as a helper."
Mary raised her eyebrows slightly.
"The chief work in the morning is washing children," she remarked.
"They come to us in a perfectly filthy condition, and we wash about
twenty each, altogether."
Sybil laughed.
"Well, I'm not at all afraid of that," she declared. "I could do my
share. I rather like kiddies."
"The other departments," Mary went on, "all need some instruction.
Would you think it worth while for one day? If so, I should be pleased
to do what I can for you."
Sybil hesitated. She glanced towards Brooks.
"I don't want to give a lot of unnecessary trouble, of course," she
said. "Especially if you are busy. But it might be for more than one
day. You have a staff of supernumerary helpers, haven't you, whom you
send for when you are busy? I thought that I might be one of those."
"In that case," Mary answered, "I shall be very glad, of course, to put
you in the way of it. I am going to my own branch this morning at
Stepney. Will you come with me?"
"If you are sure I shan't be a nuisance," Sybil answered, gratefully.
"Good-bye, Mr. Brooks. I'm awfully obliged to you, and will talk it
all over at the Henages' to-night."
The two girls drove off in Sybil's brougham. Mary, in her quiet little
hat and plain jacket, seemed to her companion, notwithstanding her air
of refinement, to be a denizen of some other world. And between the two
there was from the first a certain amount of restraint.
"Do you give up your whole time to this sort of work?" Sybil asked,
presently.
"I do now," Mary answered. "I had other employment in the morning, but
I gave that up last week. I am a salaried official of the Society from
last Monday."
Sybil stole a swift side-glance at her.
"Do you know, I think that it must be a very satisfactory sort of life,"
she said.
Mary's lips flickered into the faintest of smiles. "Really!"
"Oh, I mean it," Sybil continued. "Of course, I like going about and
enjoying myself, but it is hideously tiring. And then after a year or
two of it you begin to realize a sort of sameness. Things lose their
flavour. Then you have odd times of serious thought, and you know that
you have just been going round and round in a circle, that you have done
nothing at all except made some show at enjoying yourself. Now that
isn't very satisfactory, is it?"
"No," Mary answered, "I don't suppose it is."
"Now you," Sybil continued, "you may be dull sometimes, but I don't
suppose you are, and whenever you leave off and think--well, you must
always feel that your time, instead of having been wasted, has been well
and wholesomely spent. I wish I could have that feeling sometimes."
Despite herself, Mary felt that she would have to like this girl. She
was so pretty, so natural, and so deeply in earnest.
"There is no reason why you shouldn't, is there?" she said, more kindly
than she had as yet spoken. "I can assure you that I very often have
the blues, and I don't consider mine by any means the happiest sort of
life. But, of course, one feels differently a little if one has tried
to do something--and you can if you like, you know."
Sybil's face was perfectly brilliant with smiles.
"You think that I can?" she exclaimed. "How nice of you. I don't mind
how hard it is at first. I may be a little awkward, but I don't think
I'm stupid."
"You think this sort of work is the sort you would like best?"
"Why, yes. It seems so practical, you know," Sybil declared. "You must
be doing good, even if some of the people don't deserve it. I don't
know about the washing, but I don't mind it a bit. Do you think it will
be a busy morning?"
"I am sure it will," Mary answered. "A number of the people are getting
to work again now, since the Tariff Revision Bill passed, and they keep
coming to us for clothes and boots and things. I shall give you the
skirts and blouses to look after as soon as the washing is over.
"Delightful," Sybil exclaimed. "I am sure I can manage that."
"And on no account must you give any money to any one," Mary said.
"That is most important."
"I will remember," Sybil promised.
Two hours later she broke in upon her mother and half-a-dozen callers,
her hat obviously put on without a looking-glass, her face flushed, and
her hair disordered, and smelling strongly of disinfectant.
"Some tea, mother, please," she exclaimed, nodding to her visitors. "I
have had one bun for luncheon, and I am starving. Can you imagine what
I have been doing?"
No one could. Every one tried.
"Skating!"
"Ping-pong!"
Getting theatre-tickets at the theatre! She waved them aside with
scorn.
"I have washed fourteen children," she declared, impressively, "fitted
at least a dozen women with blouses and skirts, and three with boots.
Besides a lot of odd things."
Lord Arranmore set down his cup with a little shrug of the shoulders.
"You have joined Brooks' Society?" he remarked.
"Yes! I have been down at the Stepney branch all the morning. And do
you know, we're disinfected before we leave."
"A most necessary precaution, I should think," Lady Caroom exclaimed,
reaching for her vinaigrette, "but do go and change your things as
quickly as you can.
"I must eat, mother, or starve," Sybil declared. "I have never been so
hungry."
A somewhat ponderous lady, who was the wife of a bishop, felt bound to
express her disapprobation.
"Do you really think, dear," she said, "that you are wise in encouraging
a charity which is not in any way under the control of the Church?"
"Oh, isn't it?" Sybil remarked. "I'm sure I didn't know. But then the
Church hasn't anything quite like this, has it? Mr. Brooks is so
clever and original in all his ideas."
The disapprobation of the bishop's wife became even more marked.
"The very fact," she said, "that the Church has not thought it wise to
institute a charitable scheme upon such--er--sweeping lines, is a proof,
to my mind, that the whole thing is a mistake. As a matter of fact, I
happen to know that the bishop strongly disapproves of Mr. Brooks'
methods."
"That's rather a pity, isn't it?" Sybil asked, sweetly. "The Society
has done so much good, and in so short a time. Every one admits that."
"I think that the opinion is very far from universal," the elder lady
remarked, firmly. "There appears to be no discrimination shown whatever
in the distribution of relief. The deserving and the undeserving are
all classed together. I could not possibly approve of any charity
conducted upon such lines, nor, I think, could any good churchwoman."
"Mr. Brooks thinks," Sybil remarked, with her mouth full of cake, "that
it is the undeserving who are in the greatest need of help."
"One could believe anything," the bishop's wife said stiffly, "of a man
who adopted such principles as that. And although I do not as a rule
approve of Mr. Lavilette or his paper, I am seriously inclined to agree
with him in some of his strictures upon Mr. Brooks."
Sybil laughed softly.
"I hadn't read them," she remarked. "Mother doesn't allow the man's
paper in the house. Do you really mean that you have it at the palace,
Mrs. Endicott?"
The bishop's wife stiffened.
"Mr. Lavilette has at times done great service to the community by his
exposure of frauds of all sorts, especially charitable frauds," she
said. "It is possible that he may shortly add to the number."
Lord Arranmore shook his head slowly.
"Mr. Lavilette," he said, "has also had to pay damages in one or two
rather expensive libel cases. And, between you and me, Mrs. Endicott,
if our young friend Brooks chose to move in the matter, I am afraid Mr.
Lavilette might have to sign the largest cheque he has ever signed in
his life for law costs."
The bishop's wife rose with an icy smile.
"I seem to have found my way into Mr. Brooks' headquarters," she
remarked. "Lady Caroom, I shall hope to see you at the palace shortly."
"Poor me," Sybil exclaimed, as their visitor departed. "She only asked
you, mummy, so as to exclude me. And poor Mr. Brooks! I wish he'd
been here. What fun we should have had."
"Oh, these Etrusians," Lord Arranmore murmured. "I thought that a
bishop was very near heaven indeed, all sanctity and charity, and that a
bishop's wife was the concentrated essence of these things--plus the
wings."
Sybil laughed softly.
"Sanctity and charity," she repeated, "and Mrs. Endicott. Oh!"
CHAPTER VI
THE RESERVATION OF MARY SCOTT
The two girls were travelling westwards on the outside of an omnibus, in
itself to Sybil a most fascinating mode of progression, and talking a
good deal spasmodically.
"It's really too bad of you, Miss Scott," Sybil declared. "Now to-day,
if you will come, luncheon shall be served in my own room. We shall be
quite cosy and quiet, and I promise you that you shall not see a soul
except my mother--whom I want you to know."
Mary shook her head.
"Don't think me unkind," she said. "I really must not begin visiting.
I have only just time for a hurried lunch, and then I must look in at
the office and get down to Bermondsey."
"You might just as well have that hurried lunch with me," Sybil
declared. "I'll send you anywhere you like afterwards in the carriage."
"It is very kind of you," Mary answered, "but my visiting days are over.
I am not a social person at all, you know. My role is usefulness, and
nothing else."
"You are too young to talk like that," Sybil said. "I am ten years
older than you are," Mary reminded her. "You are twenty-eight," Sybil
answered. "I think it is beautiful of you to be so devoted to this
work, but I am quite sure a little change now and then is wholesome."
"In another ten years I may think of it," Mary said. "Just now I have
so much upon my hands that I dare not risk even the slightest
distraction."
"In another ten years," Sybil said, "you will find it more difficult to
enlarge your life than now. I can't believe that absorption in any one
thing is natural at your age."
Mary looked steadfastly down at the horses.
"We must all decide what is best for ourselves," she said. "I have not
your disposition, remember."
"Nothing in the world," Sybil said, "would convince me that it is well
for any girl of your age to crowd everything out of her life except
work, however fine and useful the work may be. Now you have admitted
that except for Mr. Brooks and the people you have met in connection
with his work you have no friends in London. I want you to count me a
friend, Miss Scott. You have been very kind to me, and made everything
delightfully easy. Why can't you let me try and repay it a little?"
"I have only done my duty," Mary answered, quietly. "I am supposed to
show new helpers what to do, and you have picked it up very quickly. And
as for the rest--don't think me unkind, but I have no room for
friendships in my life just now."
"I am sorry," Sybil answered, softly, for though Mary's tone had been
cold enough, she had nevertheless for a single moment lifted the
curtain, and Sybil understood in some vague manner that there were
things behind into which she had no right to inquire.
The two girls parted at Trafalgar Square, and Sybil, still in love with
the fresh air, turned blithely westward on foot. In the Haymarket she
came face to face with Brooks.
He greeted her with a delightful smile.
"You alone, and walking," he exclaimed. "What fortune. May I come?"
"Of course," she answered. "You know where I have come from, I
suppose?"
He glanced at her plain clothes and realized that the odour of
disinfectants was stronger even than the perfume of the handful of
violets which she had just bought from a woman in the street.
"Stepney!" he exclaimed.
"Quite right. I had a card last evening, and was there at nine o'clock
this morning. I suppose I look a perfect wreck. I was dancing at
Hamilton House at three o'clock."
He looked towards her marvelling. Her cheeks were prettily flushed, and
she walked with the delightful springiness of perfect health.
"I have never seen you look better," he answered.
"And you," she remarked, glancing in amusement at his blue serge
clothes, which, to tell the truth, badly needed brushing. "What are you
doing in the West End at this time in the morning?
"I have been to Drury Lane," he answered, "with some surveyors from the
County Council. There is a whole court there I mean to get condemned.
Then I looked in at our new place there, but there was such a howling
lot of children that I was glad to get away. How they hate being
washed!"
"Don't they!" she exclaimed, laughing. "I had the dearest, naughtiest
little girl this morning, and, do you know, when I got her clean, her
own brothers and sisters didn't know her again. I'm so glad I've seen
you, Mr. Brooks. I want to ask you something." "Well?"
"About Miss Scott. She's been so good to me, and I like her awfully.
We've just come up on the omnibus together."
"She has been my right hand from the very first," Brooks said, slowly.
"I really don't see how I could have done without her. She is such a
capital organizer, too."
"I know all that," Sybil declared. "She's wonderful. I don't want, of
course, to be inquisitive," she went on, after a moment's hesitation,
"but she interests me so much, and it was only this morning that I felt
that I understood her a little bit."
Brooks nodded.
"She is a very reserved young woman," he said.
"Yes, but isn't there some reason for it?" Sybil continued, eagerly. "I
have asked her lots of times to come and see me. She admits that she
has no friends in London, and I wanted to have her come very much. You
see, I thought she would be sure to like mother, and if she doesn't care
for society, we might go to the theatre or the opera, a it would be a
little change for her, wouldn't it?"
"I think it is very kind of you indeed," Brooks said.
"Well, she has always refused, but I have been very persistent. I just
thought that she was perhaps a little shy, or found it difficult to
break through her retirement--people get like that, you know, when they
live alone. So this morning I really went for her, and I happened to be
looking, and I saw something in her face which puzzled me. It stopped
my asking her any more. There is something underneath her quiet manner
and self-devotion. She has had trouble of some sort."
"How do you know?" he asked.
"A girl can always tell," Sybil answered. "Her self-control is
wonderful, but she just let it slip--for a moment. She has some
trouble, I am sure. I thought perhaps you might know. Isn't there
anything we could do? I am so sorry for her."
Brooks was very grave, and his face was curiously pale.
"Are you quite sure?" he asked.
"Certain!"
They walked on in silence for a few moments.
"You have asked me a very difficult question," he said at last. "She
has had a very unhappy sort of life. Her father and mother died in
Canada--her father shot himself, and her mother died of the shock. She
went to live with an uncle at Medchester, who was good to her, but his
household could scarcely have been very congenial. I met her there--she
was interested in charitable works then, and she came to London to try
and attain some sort of independence. At first she had a position on a
lady's magazine which took up her mornings, but we have just induced her
to accept a small salary and give us all her time." "That seems like a
comprehensive sketch of her life," Sybil remarked, thoughtfully, "but
are you sure--that you have not missed anything out?"
"So far as I know," he answered, gravely, "there is nothing new to
tell."
They walked the rest of the way to Berkeley Square in absolute silence.
"You will come in to lunch?" she said.
He looked down at his clothes.
"I think not," he answered.
"We are almost certain to be alone," she said. "You haven't seen mother
for a long time."
He suffered himself to be persuaded, and almost immediately regretted
it. For there were a dozen people or more round the luncheon-table, and
he caught a glimpse of more than one frock coat. Further, from the dead
silence which followed their entrance, it seemed more than probable that
he himself had formed the subject of conversation.
Lady Caroom greeted him as kindly as ever, and found a place for him by
her side. Brooks, whose self-possession seldom failed him, smiled to
himself as he recognized the bishop, who was his /vis-a-vis/. Hennibul,
however, from a little lower down nodded to him pleasantly, and Lord
Arranmore spoke a few words of dry greeting.
"Your friend Bullsom," he remarked, "has soon distinguished himself.
He made quite a decent speech the other night on the Tariff Bill."
"He has common-sense and assurance," Brooks answered. "He ought to be a
very useful man."
Lord Hennibul leaned forward and addressed Arranmore with blank surprise
on his face.
"You don't mean to say that you read the debates in the House of
Commons, Arranmore?" he exclaimed.
Lord Arranmore shrugged his shoulders.
"Since the degeneration of English humour," he remarked, "one must go
somewhere for one's humour."
"I should try the House of Lords, then," a smart young under-secretary
remarked under his breath, with a glance at the bishop. "There is more
hidden humour in the unshaken gravity of the Episcopal Bench than in
both Houses of Parliament put together."
"They take themselves so seriously," Sybil murmured.
"To our friend there," the younger man continued, "the whole world's a
congregation--and, by Jove, here comes the text."
For the bishop had deliberately cleared his throat, and leaning forward
addressed Brooks across the table.
"I believe," he said, "that I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr.
Brooks--Mr. Kingston Brooks?"
"That is my name," Brooks answered civilly, wondering what avalanche was
to be hurled upon him.
"Would you consider a question, almost a personal question, from a
stranger an impertinence--when the stranger is twice your age?" the
bishop asked.
"By no means," Brooks answered. "On the contrary, I should be delighted
to answer it if I can."
"These aspersions which Mr.--er--Lavilette has been making so freely in
his paper against your new departure--I mean against the financial
management of it--do you propose to answer them?"
"Well," Brooks said, "I have not altogether made up my mind. Perhaps
your lordship would permit me--since you have mentioned the matter--to
ask for your advice."
The bishop inclined his head. This was by no means the truculent sort
of young man he had expected.
"You are very welcome to it, Mr. Brooks," he answered. "I should
advise you most earnestly to at once justify yourself,--not to Mr.
Lavilette, but to the readers of his paper whom he may have influenced
by his statements. One charitable institution, however different its
foundation, or its method of working, or its ultimate aims, leans
largely upon another. Mr. Lavilette's attack, if unanswered, may
affect the public mind with regard to many other organizations which are
grievously in need of support."
"If that is your opinion," Brooks said, after a moment's hesitation, "I
will take the steps you suggest, and set myself right at once."
"If you can do that thoroughly and clearly," the bishop said, "you will
render a service to the whole community."
"There should not be much difficulty," Brooks remarked, helping himself
to omelette. "I never appealed for subscriptions, but directly they
began to come in I engaged a clerk and a well-known firm of auditors,
through whose banking-account all the money has passed. They have been
only too anxious to take the matter up."
"I am more than pleased at your decision, Mr. Brooks," the bishop said,
genially. "I rejoice at it. You will pardon my remarking that you seem
very young to have inaugurated and to carry the whole responsibility of
a work of such magnitude."
"The work," Brooks answered, "has largely grown of itself. But I have
an excellent staff of helpers."
"The sole responsibility though rests with you.
"I am arranging to evade it," Brooks answered. "I am going to adopt
commercial methods and inaugurate a Board of Directors."
The bishop hesitated.
"Again, Mr. Brooks," he said, "I must address a suggestion to you which
might seem to require an apology. You have adopted methods and
expressed views with regard to your scheme which are in themselves
scarcely reconcilable with the point of view with which we churchmen are
bound to regard the same question. But if you thought it worth while
before finally arranging your Board to discuss the whole subject with
me, it would give me the greatest pleasure to have you visit me at the
palace at any time convenient to yourself."
"I shall consider it a great privilege," Brooks answered, promptly, "and
I shall not hesitate to avail myself of it."
The little party broke up soon afterwards, but Lady Caroom touched
Brooks upon his shoulder.
"Come into my room for a few minutes," she said. "I want to talk with
you."
CHAPTER VII
FATHER AND SON
"Do you know," Lady Caroom said, motioning Brooks to a seat by her side,
"that I feel very middle-class and elderly and interfering. For I am
going to talk to you about Sybil."
Brooks was a little paler than usual. This was one of those rare
occasions when he found his emotions very hard to subdue. And it had
come so suddenly.
"After we left Enton," Lady Caroom said, thoughtfully, "I noticed a
distinct change in her. The first evidences of it were in her treatment
of Sydney Molyneux. I am quite sure that she purposely precipitated
matters, and when he proposed refused him definitely."
"I do not think," Brooks found voice to say, "that she would ever have
married Sydney Molyneux."
"Perhaps not," Lady Caroom admitted, "but at any rate before our visit
to Enton she was quite content to have him around--she was by no means
eager to make up her mind definitely. After we left she seemed to
deliberately plan to dispose of him finally. Since then--I am talking
in confidence, Kingston-she has refused t e Duke of Atherstone."
Brooks was silent. His self-control was being severely tested. His
heart was beating like a sledgehammer--he was very anxious to avoid Lady
Caroom's eyes.
"Atherstone," she said, slowly, "is quite the most eligible bachelor in
England, and he is, as you know, a very nice, unaffected boy. There is
only one possible inference for me, as Sybil's mother, to draw, and that
is that she cares, or is beginning to think that she cares, for some one
else."
"Some one else? Do you know whom?" Brooks asked.
"If you do not know," Lady Caroom answered, "I do not."
Brooks threw aside all attempt at disguise. He looked across at Lady
Caroom, and his eyes were very bright.
"I have never believed," he said, "that Sybil would be likely to care
for me. I can scarcely believe it now."
Lady Caroom hesitated.
"In any case," she said, "could you ask her to marry you? You must see
that as things are it would be impossible!"
"Impossible!" he muttered. "Impossible!"
"Of course," she answered, briskly. "You must be a man of the world
enough to know that. You could not ask a girl in Sybil's position to
share a borrowed name, nor would the other conditions permit of your
marrying her. That is why I want to talk to you."
"Well?"
"Is there any immediate chance of your reconciliation with the Marquis
of Arranmore?"
"None," Brooks answered.
"Well, then," Lady Caroom said, "there is no immediate chance of your
being in a position to marry Sybil. Don't look at me as though I were
saying unkind things. I am not. I am only talking common-sense. What
is your income?"
"About two thousand pounds, but some of that half, perhaps more--goes to
the Society."
"Exactly. It would be impossible for you to marry Sybil on the whole of
it, or twice the whole of it."
"You want me then," Brooks said, "to be reconciled to my father. Yet
you--you yourself will not trust him."
"I have not expressed any wish of the sort," Lady Caroom said, kindly.
"I only wished to point out that as things are you were not in a
position to ask Sybil to marry you, and therefore I want you to keep
away from her. I mean this kindly for both of you. Of course if Sybil
is absolutely in earnest, if the matter has gone too far, we must talk
it all over again and see what is to be done. But I want you to give
her a chance. Keep away for a time. Your father may live for
twenty-five years. If your relations with him all that time continue as
they are now, marriage with a girl brought up like Sybil would be an
impossibility."
Brooks was silent for several moments. Then he looked up suddenly.
"Has Lady Sybil said anything to you--which led you to speak to me?"
Lady Caroom shook her head.
"No. She is very young, you know. Frankly, I do not believe that she
knows her own mind. You have not spoken to her, of course?" "No!"
"And you will not?"
"I suppose," Brooks said, "that I must not think of it."
"You must give up thinking about her, of course," Lady Caroom said,
"until--" Until what?
"Until you can ask her--if ever you do ask her--to marry you in your
proper name."
Brooks set his teeth and walked up and down the little room.
"That," he said, "may be never."
"Exactly," Lady Caroom agreed. "That is why I am suggesting that you do
not see her so often."
He stopped opposite her.
"Does he--does Lord Arranmore know anything of this?"
She shook her head.
"Not from me. He may have heard whispers. To tell you the truth, I
myself have been asked questions during the last few days. You have
been seen about a good deal with Sybil, and you are rather a mystery to
people. That is why I felt compelled to speak." He nodded. "I see!"
"You must not blame me," she went on, softly. "You know, Kingston, that
I like you, that I would give you Sybil willingly under ordinary
circumstances. I don't want to speak to her if I can help it. And,
Kingston, there is one thing more I must say to you. It is on my mind.
It keeps me awake at night. I think that it will make an old woman of
me very soon. If--if we should be wrong?"
"There is no possibility of that," he answered, sadly. "Lord Arranmore
is candour itself, even in his selfishness."
"His face haunts me," she murmured. "There is something so terribly
impersonal, so terribly sad about it. He looks on at everything, he
joins in nothing. They say that he gambles, but he never knows whether
he is winning or losing. He gives entertainments that are historical,
and remains as cold as ice to guests whom a prince would be glad to
welcome. His horse won that great race the other day, and he gave up
his place on the stand, just before the start, to a little girl, and
never even troubled to watch the race, though his winnings were
enormous. He bought the Frivolity Theatre, produced this new farce, and
has never been seen inside the place. What does it mean, Kingston?
There must be suffering behind all this--terrible suffering."
"It is a law of retribution," Brooks said, coldly. "He has made other
people suffer all his life. Now perhaps his turn has come. He spends
fortunes trying to amuse himself and cannot. Are we to pity him for
that?"
"I have heard of people," she said, looking at him intently, "who are
too proud to show the better part of themselves, who rather than court
pity or even sympathy will wear a mask always, will hide the good that
is in them and parade the bad."
"You love him still?" he said, wonderingly.
"Kingston, I do. If I were a brave woman I would risk everything.
Sometimes when I see him, like a Banquo at a feast, with his eyes full
of weariness and the mummy's smile upon his lips, I feel that I can keep
away no longer. Kingston, let us go to him, you and I. Let us see if we
can't tear off the mask."
He shook his head.
"He would laugh at us!"
"Will you try?"
He hesitated.
"No! But, Lady Caroom, you have no such debt of bitterness against him
as I have. I cannot advise you--I would not dare. But if there is a
spark of soul left in the man, such love as yours must fan it into
warmth. If you have the courage--risk it."
Brooks left without seeing Sybil again, and turned northward. In Pall
Mall he heard his name called from the steps of one of the great clubs.
He looked up and found Lord Arranmore leisurely descending.
"A word with you, Brooks," he said, coolly, "on a matter of business.
Will you step inside?"
Brooks hesitated. It was beginning to rain, and neither of them had
umbrellas.
"As you will," he answered. "I have an appointment in half-an-hour."
"I shall not detain you ten minutes," Lord Arranmore answered. "There
is a comfortable strangers' room here where we can chat. Will you have
anything?"
"Nothing to drink, thanks," Brooks answered. "A cigarette, if you are
going to smoke."
Lord Arranmore pushed his cigarette-case across the small round table
which stood between their easy-chairs. The room was empty.
"You will find these tolerable. I promised to be brief, did I not? I
wished to speak for a moment upon a subject which it seems to me might
require a readjustment of our financial relations."
Brooks looked up puzzled but made no remark.
"I refer to the possibility of your desiring to marry. Be so good as not
to interrupt me. I have seen you once or twice with Sybil Caroom, and
there has been a whisper--but after all that is of no consequence. The
name of the young lady would be no concern of mine. But in case you
should be contemplating anything of the sort, I thought it as well that
you should know what the usual family arrangements are."
"I am sorry," Brooks said, "but I really don't understand what you mean
by family arrangements."
"No!" Lord Arranmore remarked, softly. "Perhaps if you would allow me
to explain--it is your own time which is limited, you know. The eldest
son of our family comes in, as you have been told, on his twenty-first
birthday, to two thousand pounds a year, which income you are now in
possession of. On his marriage that is increased to ten thousand a
year, with the possession of either Enton or Mangohfred. in the present
case you could take your choice, as I am perfectly indifferent which I
retain. That is all I wished to say. I thought it best for you to
understand the situation. Mr. Ascough will, at any time, put it into
legal shape for you."
"You speak of this--arrangement," Brooks said, slowly, "as though it
were a corroboration of the settlement upon the eldest son. This
scarcely seems possible. There can be no such provision legally."
"I scarcely see," Lord Arranmore said, wearily, "what that has to do
with it, The ten thousand pounds a year is, of course, not a legal
charge upon the estates. But from time immemorial it has been the
amount which has been the admitted portion of the eldest son upon
marriage. It is no gift from me. It is the income due to Lord Kingston
of Ross. If you wish for any future explanation I must really refer you
to Mr. Ascough. The discussion of business details is by no means a
favourite occupation of mine."
Brooks rose to his feet. His eyes were fixed steadily, almost longingly
upon Lord Arranmore's. His manner was not wholly free from nervousness.
"I am very much obliged to you, Lord Arranmore," he said. "I quite
understand that you are making me the offer of a princely settlement out
of the Arranmore estates to which I have no manner of claim. It is not
possible for me to accept it."
There was a moment's silence. A great clock in the corner ticked
noisily. A faint unusual colour stole into Lord Arranmore's cheeks.
"Accept it! I accord you no favour, I offer you no gift. The allowance
is, I repeat, one which every Lord Kingston has drawn upon his marriage.
Perhaps I have spoken before it was necessary. You may have had no
thoughts of anything of the sort?"
Brooks did not answer.
"I have noticed," Lord Arranmore continued in measured tones, "an
intimacy between you and Lady Sybil Caroom, which suggested the idea to
me. I look upon Lady Sybil as one of the most charming young
gentlewomen of our time, and admirably suited in all respects to the
position of the future Marchioness of Arranmore. I presume that as
head of the family I am within my rights in so far expressing my
opinion?"
"Marriage," Brooks said, huskily, "is not possible for me at present."
"Why not?"
"I cannot accept this money from you. The terms on which we are do not
allow of it."
There was an ominous glitter in Lord Arranmore's eyes. He, too, rose to
his feet, and remained facing Brooks, his hand upon the back of his
chair.
"Are you serious? Do you mean that?"
"I do!" Brooks answered. Lord Arranmore pointed to the door.
"Then be off," he said, a note of passion at last quivering in his tone.
"Leave this room at once, and let me see as little of you in the future
as possible. If Sybil cares for you, God help her! You are a damned
obstinate young prig, sir. Be off!"
Brooks walked out of the club and into the street, his ears tingling and
his cheeks aflame. The world seemed topsy-turvy. It was long indeed
before he forgot those words, which seemed to come to him winged with
a wonderful and curious force.
CHAPTER VIII
THE ADVICE OF MR. BULLSOM
At no time in his life was Brooks conscious of so profound a feeling of
dissatisfaction with regard to himself, his work, and his judgment, as
during the next few weeks. His friendship with Mary Scott, which had
been a more pleasant thing than he had ever realized, seemed to him to
be practically at an end, he had received a stinging rebuke from the one
man in the world whose right to administer it he would have vigorously
denied, and he was forced to admit to himself that his last few weeks
had been spent in a fool's paradise, into which he ought never to have
ventured. He had the feeling of having been pulled up sharply in the
midst of a very delightful interlude--and the whole thing seemed to him
to come as a warning against any deviation whatsoever from the life
which he had marked out for himself. So, after a day of indecision and
nerveless hesitation, he turned back once more to his work. Here, at
any rate, he could find absorption.
He formed his Board--without figure-heads, wholly of workers. There was
scarcely a name which any one had ever heard of before. He had his
interview with the bishop, who was shocked at his views, and publicly
pronounced his enterprise harmful and pauperizing, and Verity, with the
names of the Board as a new weapon, came for him more vehemently than
ever. Brooks, at last goaded into action, sent the paper to his
solicitors and went down to Medchester to attend a dinner given to Mr.
Bullsom.
It was at Medchester that he recovered his spirits. He knew the place
so well that it was easy for him to gauge and appreciate the altered
state of affairs there. The centre of the town was swept clean at last
of those throngs of weary-faced men and youths looking for a job, the
factories were running full time-there seemed to his fancy to be even an
added briskness in the faces and the footsteps of the hurrying crowds of
people. Later on at the public dinner which he had come down to attend,
he was amply assured as to the sudden wave of prosperity which was
passing over the whole country. Mr. Bullsom, with an immense expanse
of white shirt, a white waistcoat and a scarlet camellia in his
button-hole, beamed and oozed amiability upon every one. Brooks he
grasped by both hands with a full return to his old cordiality,
indulgence in which he had rather avoided since he had been aware of the
social gulf between them.
"Brooks," he said, "I owe this to you. It was your suggestion. And I
don't think it's turned out so badly, eh? What do you think?"
"I think that you have found your proper sphere," Brooks answered,
smiling. "I can't think why you ever needed me to suggest it to you."
"My boy, I can't either," Mr. Bullsom declared. "This is one of the
proudest nights of my life. Do you know what we've done up there at
Westminster, eh? We've given this old country a new lease of life. How
they were all laughing at us up their sleeve, eh! Germans, and
Frenchmen, and Yankees. It's a horse of another colour now. John Bull
has found out how to protect himself. And, Brooks, my boy, it's been
mentioned to-night, and I'm a proud man when I think of it. There were
others who did the showy part of the work, of course, the speechmaking
and the bill-framing and all that, but I was the first man to set the
Protection snowball rolling. It wasn't much I had to say, but I said
it. A glass of wine with you, Sir Henry? With pleasure, sir!
"I wonder how long it will last," Brooks' neighbour remarked, cynically.
"The manufacturers are like a lot of children with a new toy. What
about the Colonies? What are they going to say about it?"
"We have no Colonies," Brooks answered, smiling. "You are only half an
Imperialist. Don't you know that they have been incorporated in the
British Empire?
"Hope they'll like it," his neighbour remarked, sardonically. "Plenty
of glory and a good price to pay for it. What licks me is that every
one seems to imagine that this Tariff Bill is going to give the
working-classes a leg-up. To my mind it's the capitalist who's going to
score by it."
"The capitalist manufacturer," Brooks answered. "But after all you
can't under our present conditions dissociate capital and labour. The
benefit of one will be the benefit of the other. No food stuffs are
taxed, you know."
His neighbour grunted.
"Pity Cobden's ghost can't come and listen to the rot those fellows are
talking," he remarked. "We shall see in a dozen years how the thing
works."
The dinner ended with a firework of speeches, and an ovation to their
popular townsman and member, which left Mr. Bullsom very red in the
face and a little watery about the eyes. Brooks and he drove off
together afterwards, and Mr. Bullsom occupied the first five minutes or
so of the journey with a vigorous mopping of his cheeks and forehead.
"A great night, Brooks," he exclaimed, faintly. "A night to remember.
Don't mind admitting that I'm more than a bit exhausted though. Phew!"
Brooks laughed, and leaning forward looked out of the windows of the
carriage.
"Are we going in the right direction?" he asked. "This isn't the way to
'Homelands.'"
Mr. Bullsom smiled.
"Little surprise for you, Brooks!" he remarked. "We found the sort of
place the girls were hankering after, to let furnished, and we've took
it for a year. We moved in a fortnight ago."
"Do I know the house?" Brooks asked. "It's Woton Hall," Mr. Bullsom
remarked, impressively. "Nice old place. Dare say you remember it."
"Remember it! Of course I do," Brooks answered. "How do the young
ladies like it?"
Mr. Bullsom laid hold of the strap of the carriage. The road was
rough, the horses were fresh, and Mr. Bullsom's head had felt steadier.
"Well," Mr. Bullsom said, "you'd think to hear em we'd stepped
straight into heaven. We're close to the barracks, you know, and I'm
blest if half the officers haven't called already. They drop in to
luncheon, or dinner, or whatever's going on, in the most friendly way,
just as they used to, you know, when Sir Henry lived there, him as took
wine with me, you remember. Lord, you should hear Selina on the
military. Can't say I take to 'em much myself. I'll bet there'll be
one or two of them hanging about the place to-night. Phew!"
Mr. Bullsom mopped his forehead again. The carriage had turned in at
the drive, and he glanced towards Brooks a little uneasily.
"Do I look-as though I'd been going it a bit?" he asked. "Since
Selina's got these band-box young men hanging around she's so mighty
particular."
Brooks leaned forward and rescued Mr. Bullsom's tie from underneath his
ear.
"You're all right," he said, reassuringly. "You mustn't let the girls
bully you, you know."
Mr. Bullsom sat bolt upright.
"You are quite right, Brooks," he declared. "I will not. But we took
on the servants here as well, and they're a bit strange to me. After
all, though, I'm the boss. I'll let 'em know it, too."
A footman threw open the door and took Brooks' dressing-case. A butler,
hurrying up from the background, ushered them into the drawing-room.
Mr. Bullsom pulled down his waistcoat and marched in; whistling softly
a popular tune. Selina and Louise, in elaborate evening gowns, were
playing bridge with two young men.
Selina rose and held out her hand to Brooks a little languidly.
"So glad to see you, Mr. Brooks," she declared. "Let me introduce Mr.
Suppeton, Captain Meyton!"
The two young men were good enough to acknowledge the introduction, and
Brooks shook hands with Louise. Selina was surveying her father with
uplifted eyebrows.
"Why, father, where on earth have you been?" she exclaimed. "I never
saw anybody such a sight. Your shirt is like a rag, and your collar
too."
"Never you mind me, Selina," Mr. Bullsom answered, firmly. "As to
where I've been, you know quite well. Political dinners may be bad for
your linen, and there may be more healths drunk than is altogether wise,
but a Member of Parliament has to take things as he finds 'em. Don't
let us interrupt your game. Brooks and I are going to have a game at
billiards."
One of the young men laid down his cards.
"Can't we join you?" he suggested. "We might have a game of pool, if it
isn't too late."
"You are soon tired of bridge," Selina remarked, reproachfully. "Very
well, we will all go into the billiard-room."
The men played a four-handed game. Between the shots Selina talked to
Brooks.
"Were you surprised?" she asked. "Had you heard?"
"Not a word. I was astonished," he answered.
"You hadn't seen it in the papers either? Most of them mentioned it--in
the county notes."
"I so seldom read the newspapers," he said. "You like it, of course?"
Selina was bereft of words.
"How we ever existed in that hateful suburb," she whispered under her
breath. "And the people round here too are so sociable. Papa being a
member makes a difference, of course. Then the barracks--isn't it
delightful having them so close? There is always something going on. A
cricket match to-morrow, I believe. Louise and I are going to play.
Mrs. Malevey--she's the Colonel's wife, you know persuaded us into it."
"And your mother?" Brooks asked a minute or two later.
Selina tossed her head.
"Mother is so foolish," she declared. "She misses the sound of the
trains, and she actually calls the place dead alive, because she can't
sit at the windows and see the tradesmen's carts and her neighbours go
by. Isn't it ridiculous?"
Brooks hesitated.
"I suppose so," he answered. "Your mother can have her friends out
here, though. It really is only a short drive to Medchester."
"She won't have them oftener than I can help," Selina declared,
doggedly. "Old Mrs. Mason called the other day when Captain Meyton and
Mrs. Malevey were here. It was most awkward. But I don't know why I
tell you all these things," she declared, abruptly. "Somehow I always
feel that you are quite an old friend."
Selina's languishing glance was intercepted by one of her admirers from
the barracks, as she had intended it to be. Brooks went off to play his
shot and returned smiling.
"I am only too happy that you should feel so," he declared. "Your
father was very kind to me."
"Isn't it almost a pity that you didn't stay in Medchester, Mr.
Brooks?" Selina remarked, with a faint note of patronage in her tone.
"Papa is so much more influential now, you know, and he was always so
fond of you."
"It is rather a pity," Brooks remarked, with twinkling eyes. "One can't
foresee these things, you know."
Selina felt it time to bestow her attention elsewhere, and the game soon
came to an end. The girls glanced at the clock and reluctantly
withdrew.
"Remember, Miss Bullsom, that we are relying upon you to-morrow," the
younger of the two officers remarked, as he opened the door. "Two
o'clock sharp--but you lunch with Mrs. Malevey first, don't you?"
"We shan't forget," Selina assured him, graciously. "Good-night."
The two young men left soon afterwards. Mr. Bullsom mixed himself a
whisky-and-soda, and stood for a few minutes on the hearthrug before
retiring.
"You're not up to the mark, Brooks, my boy," he said, kindly.
Brooks shrugged his shoulders. "I am about as usual," he answered.
Mr. Bullsom set down his glass.
"Look here, Brooks," he said, "you've given me many a useful piece of
advice, even when you used to charge me six and eightpence for it. I'm
going to turn the tables. One doesn't need to look at you twice to see
that things aren't going altogether as they should do with you. See
here! Are you sure that you're not cutting off your nose to spite your
face, eh?"
"Perhaps I am," Brooks answered. "But it is too late to draw back now."
"It is never too late," Mr. Bullsom declared, vigorously. "I've no
fancy for weathercocks, but I haven't a ha'porth of respect for a man
who ain't smart enough to own up when he's made a mistake, and who isn't
willing to start again on a fresh page. You take my advice, Brooks. Be
reconciled with your father, and let 'em all know who you are. I've
seen a bit of Lord Arranmore, and I'll stake my last shilling that he's
not a bad 'un at heart. You make it up with him, Brooks. Come, that's
a straight tip, and it's a good one."
Brooks threw away his cigarette and held out his hand.
"It is very good advice, Mr. Bullsom," he said, "under any ordinary
circumstances. I wish I could take it. Good-night."
Mr. Bullsom grasped his hand.
"You're not offended, my boy?" he asked, anxiously.
"Not I," Brooks answered, heartily. "I'm not such an idiot."
"I don't want to take any liberties," Bullsom said, "and I'm afraid I
forget sometimes who you are, but that's your fault, seeing that you
will call yourself only Mr. Kingston Brooks when you're by rights a
lord. But if you were the Prince of Wales I'd still say that my advice
was good. Forgive your father anything you've got against him, and
start afresh."
"Well, I'll think about it," Brooks promised.
CHAPTER IX
A QUESTION AND AN ANSWER
Brooks returned to London to find the annual exodus already commenced.
Lady Caroom and Sybil had left for Homburg. Lord Arranmore was yachting
in the Channel. Brooks settled down to work, and found it a little
wearisome.
He saw nothing of Mary Scott, whose duties now brought her seldom to the
head office. He began to think that she was avoiding him, and there
came upon him about this time a sense of loneliness to which he was
sometimes subject. He fought it with hard work--early and late, till
the colour left his cheeks and black lines bordered his eyes. They
pressed him to take a holiday, but he steadily declined. Mr. Bullsom
wrote begging him to spend a week-end at least at Woton Hall. He
refused this and all other invitations.
One day he took up a newspaper which was chiefly concerned with the
doings of fashionable people, and Lady Caroom's name at once caught his
eye. He read that her beautiful daughter Lady Sybil was quite the belle
of Homburg, that the Duke of Atherstone was in constant attendance, that
an interesting announcement might at any moment be made. He threw aside
the paper and looked thoughtfully out into the stuffy little street,
where even at night the air seemed stifling and unwholesome. After all,
was he making the best of his life? He had started a great work.
Hundreds and thousands of his fellow creatures would be the better for
it. So far all was well enough. But personally--was this entire
self-abnegation necessary?--was he fulfilling his duty to himself? was
he not rather sacrificing his future to a prejudice--an idea? In any
case he knew that it was too late to retract. He had renounced his
proper position in life, it was too late for him now to claim it. And
there had gone with it--Sybil. After all, why should he arrogate to
himself judgment? The sins of his father were not his concern. It was
chiefly he who suffered by his present attitude, yet he had chosen it
deliberately. He could not draw back. He had cut himself off from her
world--he saw now the folly of his ever for a moment having been drawn
into it. It must be a chapter closed.
The weeks passed on, and his loneliness grew. One day the opening of
still another branch brought him for a moment into contact with Mary
Scott. She too was looking pale, but her manner was bright, even
animated. She seemed to feel none of the dejection which had stolen
away from him the whole flavour of life. Her light easy laugh and
cheerful conversation were like a tonic to him. He remembered those
days at Medchester After all, she was the first woman whom he had ever
looked upon as a comrade, whom he had ever taken out of her sex and
considered singly.
She spoke of his ill-looks kindly and with some apprehension.
"I am all right," he assured her, "but a little dull. Take pity on me
and come out to dinner one night this week."
They dined in the annex of a fashionable restaurant practically out of
doors--a cool green lawn for a carpet and a fountain playing close at
hand. Mary wore a white dinner-gown, gossamer-like and airy. Her rich
brown hair was tastefully arranged, her voice had never seemed to him so
soft and pleasant. All around was the hum of cheerful conversation. A
little world of people seemed to be there whose philosophy of life after
all was surely the only true one, where hearts were light with the joy
of the moment. The dinner was carefully served, the wine, which in his
solitude he had neglected, stole through his veins with a pleasant
warmth. Brooks felt his nerves relax, the light came back to his eyes
and the colour to his cheeks. Their conversation grew brighter--almost
gay. They both carefully avoided all mention of their work--it was a
holiday. The burden of his too carefully thought out life seemed to
pass away. Brooks felt that his youth was coming to him a little late,
but with delicious freshness.
He smoked a cigarette and sipped his coffee, glancing every now and then
at his companion with approving eyes. For Mary, whose dress was so
seldom a matter of moment to her, chanced to look her best that night.
The delicate pallor of her cheeks under the rich tone of her hair seemed
quite apart from any suggestion of ill-health, her eyes were wonderfully
full and soft, a quaint pearl ornament hung by a little gold chain from
her slender, graceful neck. A sort of dreamy content came over Brooks.
After all, why should he throw himself in despair against the gates of
that other world, outside which he himself had elected to dwell? It was
only madness for him to think of Sybil. While Lord Arranmore lived he
must remain Kingston Brooks--and for Kingston Brooks it seemed that even
friendship with her was forbidden. He could live down those memories.
They were far better crushed. He thought of that moment in Mary's
sitting-room, that one moment of her self-betrayal, and his heart beat
with an unaccustomed force. Why not rob her of the bitterness of that
memory? He looked at the white hand resting for a moment on the table
so close to his, and a sudden impulse came over him to snatch it up, to
feel his loneliness fade away for ever before the new light in her face.
"Let us go and sit on the other side of the lawn," he said, leaning over
towards her. "We can hear the music better."
They found a quiet seat where the music from the main restaurant reached
them, curiously mingled with the jingling of cab bells from Piccadilly.
Brooks leaned over and took her hand. "Mary," he said, "will you marry
me?"
She looked at him as though expecting to find in his face some vague
sign of madness, some clue to words which seemed to her wholly
incomprehensible. But he had all the appearance of being in earnest.
His eyes were serious, his fingers had tightened over hers. She drew a
little away, and every vestige of colour had vanished from her cheeks.
"Marry you?" she exclaimed.
He bent over her, and he laughed softly in the darkness. A mad impulse
was upon him to kiss her, but he resisted it.
"Why not? Does it sound so dreadful?"
She drew her fingers away slowly but with determination.
"I had hoped," she said, "that you would have spared me this."
"Spared you!" he repeated. "I do not understand. Spared you!"
She looked at him with flashing eyes.
"Oh, I suppose I ought to thank you," she said, bitterly. "Only I do
not. I cannot. You were kinder when you joined with me and helped me
to ignore--that hateful moment. That was much kinder."
"Upon my honour, Mary," Brooks declared, earnestly, "I do not understand
you. I have not the least idea what you mean."
She looked at him incredulously.
"You have asked me to marry you," she said. "Why?"
"Because I care for you."
"Care for me? Does that mean that you--love me?"
"Yes."
She noted very well that moment's hesitation.
"That is not true," she declared. "Oh, I know. You ask me out of
pity--because you cannot forget. I suppose you think it kindness. I
don't! It is hateful!"
A light broke in upon him. He tried once more to take her hand, but she
withheld it.
"I only half understand you, Mary," he said, earnestly, "but I can
assure you that you are mistaken. As to asking you out of pity--that is
ridiculous. I want you to be my wife. We care for the same things--we
can help one another--and I seem to have been very lonely lately."
"And you think," Mary said, with a curious side-glance at him, "that I
should cure your loneliness. Thank you. I am very happy as I am.
Please forget everything you have said, and let us go."
Brooks was a little bewildered--and manlike a little more in earnest.
"For some reason or other," he said, "you seem disinclined to take me
seriously. I cannot understand you, Mary. At any rate you must answer
me differently. I want you to be my wife. I am fond of you--you know
that--and I will do my best to make you happy."
"Thank you," Mary said, hardly. "I am sorry, but I must decline your
offer--absolutely. Now, let us go, shall we?"
She would have risen, but he laid his hand firmly upon her shoulder.
"Not till I have some sort of explanation," he said. "Is it that you do
not care for me, Mary?"
She turned round upon him with colour enough in her cheeks and a strange
angry light burning in her eyes.
"You might have spared me that also," she exclaimed. "You are
determined to humiliate me, to make me remember that hateful afternoon
in my rooms--oh, I can say it if I like--when I kissed you. I knew then
that sooner or later you would make up your mind that it was your duty
to ask me to marry you. Only you might have done it by letter. It
would have been kinder. Never mind. You have purged your conscience,
and you have got your answer. Now let us go."
Brooks looked at her for a moment amazed beside himself with wonder and
self-reproach.
"Mary," he said, quietly, "I give you my word that nothing which I have
said this evening has the least connection with that afternoon. I give
you my word that not for a moment have I thought of it in connection
with what I have said to you to-night."
She looked at him steadfastly, and her eyes were full of things which he
could not understand.
"When did you make up your mind--to ask me this?"
He pointed to the little table where they had been sitting.
Only a few minutes ago. I confess it was an impulse. I think that I
realized as we sat there how dear you had grown to me, Mary--how dull
life was without you."
"You say these things to me," she exclaimed, "when all the time you love
another woman."
He started a little. She smiled bitterly as she saw the shadow on his
face.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," she said, deliberately, "that you love Sybil Caroom. Is it
not true?"
His head drooped a little. He had never asked himself even so much as
this. He was face to face now with all the concentrated emotions which
lately had so much disturbed his life. The problem which he had so
sedulously avoided was forced upon him ruthlessly, with almost barbaric
simplicity.
"I do not know," he answered, vaguely. "I have never asked myself. I
do not wish to ask myself. Why do you speak of her? She is not of our
world, the world to which I want to belong. I want to forget her."
"You are a little mad to-night, my friend," Mary said. "To-morrow you
will feel differently. If Sybil Caroom cares for you, what does it
matter which world she belongs to? She is not the sort of girl to be
bound by old-fashioned prejudices. But I do not understand you at all
to-night. You are not yourself. I think that you are--a little cruel."
"Cruel?" he repeated.
Her face darkened.
"Oh, it is only natural," she said, with a note of suppressed passion in
her how tone. "It is just the accursed egotism of your sex. What right
have you to make us suffer so--to ask me to marry you--and sit by my
side and wonder whether you care for another woman? Can't you see how
humiliating it all is? It is an insult to ask a woman to marry you to
cure your loneliness, to make you a home to settle your indecision. It
is an insult to ask a woman to marry you for any reason except that you
care for her more than any other woman in the world, and can tell her so
trustfully, eagerly. Please to put me in a cab at once, and never speak
of these things again."
She was half-way across the lawn before he could stop her, her head
thrown back, carrying herself proudly and well, moving as it seemed to
him with a sort of effortless dignity wholly in keeping with the vigour
of her words. He obeyed her literally. There was nothing else for him
to do. His slight effort to join her in the cab she firmly repulsed,
holding out her hand and speaking a few cheerful words of thanks for her
evening's entertainment. And when the cab rolled away Brooks felt
lonelier than ever.
CHAPTER X
LADY SYBIL SAYS "YES"
The carriage plunged into the shadow of the pine-woods, and commenced
the long uphill ascent to Saalburg. Lady Caroom put down her parasol
and turned towards Sybil, whose eyes were steadfastly fixed upon the
narrow white belt of road ahead.
"Now, Sybil," she said, "for our talk."
"Your talk," Sybil corrected her, with a smile.
I'm to be listener."
"Oh, it may not be so one-sided after all," Lady Caroom declared. "And
we had better make haste, or that impetuous young man of yours will come
pounding after us on his motor before we know where we are. What are
you going to do about him, Sybil?"
"I don't know."
"Well, you'll have to make up your mind. He's getting on my nerves.
You must decide one way or another."
Sybil sighed.
"He's quite the nicest young man I know--of his class," she remarked.
"Exactly," Lady Caroom assented. "And though I think you will admit
that I am one of the least conventional of mothers, I must really say I
don't think that it is exactly a comfortable thing to do to marry a man
who is altogether outside one's own circle."
"Mr. Brooks," Sybil said, "is quite as well bred as Atherstone."
"He is his equal in breeding and in birth," Lady Caroom declared. "You
know all about him. I admit," she continued, "that it sounds like a
page out of a novel. But it isn't. The only pity is--from one point of
view--that it makes so little difference."
"You think," Sybil asked, "that he will really keep his word--that he
will not be reconciled with Lord Arranmore?"
"I am sure of it, my dear," Lady Caroom answered. "Unless a miracle
happens, he will continue to be Mr. Kingston Brooks for the next ten or
fifteen years, for Lord Arranmore's lifetime, and you know that they are
a long-lived race. So you see the situation remains practically
unaltered by what I have told you. Mr. Kingston Brooks is a great
favourite of mine. I am very fond of him indeed. But I very much
doubt--even if he should ask you--whether you would find your position
as his wife particularly comfortable. You and I, Sybil, have no secrets
from one another. I wish you would tell me exactly how you feel about
him."
Sybil smiled--a little ruefully.
"If I knew--exactly," she answered, "I should know exactly what to do.
But I don't. You know how uninteresting our set of young men are as a
rule. Well, directly I met Mr. Brooks at Enton I felt that he was
different. He interested me very much. Then I have always wanted to do
something useful, to get something different into my life, and he found
me exactly the sort of work I wanted. But he has never talked to me as
though he cared particularly though I think that he does a little."
"It is easy to see," Lady Caroom remarked, "that you are not head over
ears in love."
"Mother," Sybil answered, "do you believe that girls often do fall head
over ears in love? If Mr. Brooks and I met continually, and if he and
his father were reconciled, well, I think it would be quite easy for me
very soon to care for him a great deal. If even now he had followed me
here, was with us often, and showed that he was really very fond of me,
I think that I should soon be inclined to return it--perhaps even--I
don't know--to risk marrying him, and giving up our ordinary life. But
as it is I like to think of him, I should like him to be here; but I am
not, as you say, head over ears in love with him."
"And now about Atherstone?" Lady Caroom said.
"Well, Atherstone has improved a great deal," Sybil answered,
thoughtfully. "There are a great many things about him which I like
very much. He is always well dressed and fresh and nice. He enjoys
himself without being dissipated, and he is perfectly natural. He is
rather boyish perhaps, but then he is young. He is not afraid to laugh,
and I like the way he enters into everything. And I think I like his
persistence."
"As his wife," Lady Caroom said, "you would have immense opportunities
for doing good. He has a great deal of property in London, besides
three huge estates in Somerset."
"That is a great consideration," Sybil said, earnestly. "I shall always
be thankful that I met Mr. Brooks. He made me think in a practical way
about things which have always troubled me a little. I should hate to
seem thoughtless or ungrateful to him. Will you tell me something,
mother?" Of course."
"Do you think that he cares--at all?"
I think he does--a little!
"Enough to be reconciled with his father for my sake?"
"No! Not enough for that," Lady Caroom answered.
Sybil drew a little breath.
"I think," she said, "that that decides me."
The long ascent was over at last. They pulled up before the inn, in
front of which the proprietor was already executing a series of low
bows. Before they could descend there was a familiar sound from behind,
and a young man, in a grey flannel suit and Panama hat, jumped from his
motor and came to the carriage door.
"Don't be awfully cross!" he exclaimed, laughing. "You know you half
promised to come with me this afternoon, so I couldn't help having a
spin out to see whether I could catch you up. Won't you allow me, Lady
Caroom? The step is a little high."
"It isn't any use being cross with you," Sybil remarked. "It never
seems to make any impression."
"I am terribly thick-skimmed," he answered, "when I don't want to
understand. Will you ladies have some tea, or come and see how the
restoration is getting on?"
"We were proposing to go and see what the German Emperor's idea of a
Roman camp was," Sybil answered.
"Oh, you can't shake me off now, can you, Lady Caroom?" he declared,
appealing to her. "We'll consider it an accident that you found me
here, if you like, but it is in reality a great piece of good fortune
for you."
"And why, may I ask?" Sybil inquired, with uplifted eyebrows.
"Oh, I'm an authority on this place--come here nearly every day to give
the director, as he calls himself, some hints. Come along, Lady Caroom.
I'll show you the baths and the old part of the outer wall."
Lady Caroom very soon had enough of it. She sat down upon a tree and
brought out her sketchbook.
"Give me a quarter of an hour, please," she begged, "not longer. I want
to be home for tea."
They strolled off, Atherstone turning a little nervously to Sybil.
"I say, we've seen the best part of the ruins," he remarked. "The
renovation's hideous. Let's go in the wood--and I'll show you a
squirrel's nest."
Sybil hesitated. Her thoughts for a moment were in confusion. Then she
sighed once and turned towards the wood.
"I have never seen a squirrel's nest," she said. "Is it far?"
Lady Caroom put her sketch away as she heard their approaching
footsteps, and looked up. Atherstone's happiness was too ridiculously
apparent. He came straight over to her.
"You'll give her to me, won't you?" he exclaimed. "'Pon my word, she
shall be the happiest woman in England if I can make her so. I'm
perfectly certain I'm the happiest man."
Lady Caroom pressed her daughter's hand, and they all turned to descend
the hill.
"Of course I'm charmed," Lady Caroom said. "Sybil makes me feel so
elderly. But I don't know what I shall do for a chaperon now."
Atherstone laughed.
"I'm your son-in-law," he said. "I can take you out."
Sybil shook her head.
"No, you won't," she declared. "The only woman I have ever been really
jealous of is mother. She has a way of absorbing all the attention from
every one when she is around. I'm not going to have her begin with
you."
"I feel," Atherstone said, "like the man who married a twin--said he
never tried to tell the difference, you know, when a pal asked him how
he picked out his own wife."
"If you think," Sybil said, severely, "that you have made any
arrangements of that sort I take it all back. You are going to marry
me, if you behave yourself."
He sighed.
"Three months is a beastly long time," he said.
Lady Caroom drove back alone. The motor whizzed by her half-way down
the hill--Sybil holding her hat with both hands, her hair blowing about,
and her cheeks pink with pleasure. She waved her hand gaily as she went
by, and then clutched her hat again. Lady Caroom watched them till they
were out of sight, then she found herself looking steadfastly across the
valley to the dark belt of pine-clad hills beyond. She could see
nothing very clearly, and there was a little choking in her throat.
They were both there, father and son. Once she fancied that at last he
was holding out his arms towards her--she sat up in the carriage with a
little cry which was half a sob. When she drove through the hotel gates
it was he who stood upon the steps to welcome her.
CHAPTER XI
BROOKS HEARS THE NEWS
Unchanged! Her first eager glance into his face told her that. Waxen
white, his lips smiled their courteous greeting upon her, his tone was
measured and cold as ever. She set her teeth as she rose from her seat,
and gathered her skirts in her hand.
"You, too, a pilgrim?" she exclaimed. "I thought you preferred salt
water."
"We had a pleasant fortnight's yachting," he answered. "Then I went
with Hennibul to Wiesbaden, and I came on here to see you.
"Have you met Sybil and Atherstone?" she asked him.
"Yes," he answered, gravely.
"Come into my room," she said, "and I will give you some tea. These
young people are sure to have it on the terrace. I will join you when I
have got rid of some of this dust."
He was alone for ten minutes. At the end of that time she came out
through the folding-doors with the old smile upon her lips and the old
lithesomeness in her movements. He rose and watched her until she had
settled down in her low chair.
"So Sybil is going to marry Atherstone!"
"Yes. He really deserves it, doesn't he? He is a very nice boy."
Arranmore shrugged his shoulders.
"What an everlasting fool Brooks is," he said, in a low tone.
"He keeps his word," she answered. "It is a family trait with you,
Arranmore. You are all stubborn, all self-willed, self-centred,
selfish!"
"Thank you!"
"You can't deny it."
I won't try. I suppose it is true. Besides, I want to keep you in a
good humour."
"Do tell me why!"
"If Sybil is going to be married you can't live alone."
"I won't admit that, but what about it? Do you know of a nice
respectable companion?"
"Myself."
She shook her head.
"You may be nice," she answered, "but you certainly aren't respectable."
"I am what you make me," he answered, in a low tone. "Catherine! A
moment ago you accused me of stubbornness. What about yourself?"
"I?"
"Yes, you. You have been the one woman of my life. You are free, you
know that there is no other man who could make you happy as I could, yet
you will not come to me--for the sake of an idea. If I am heartless
and callous, an infidel, an egotist, whatever you choose, at least I
love you. You need never fear me. You would always be safe."
She shook her head.
"Arranmore," she said, "this is so painful to me. Do let us cease to
discuss it. I have tried so hard to make you understand how I feel. I
cannot alter. It is impossible!"
"You tempt me," he cried, "to play the hypocrite."
"No, I do not, Arranmore," she answered, gently, "for there is no acting
in this world which would deceive me."
"You do not doubt that I should make you a good husband?"
"I believe you would," she answered, "but I dare not try it."
"And this is the woman," he murmured, sadly, "who calls me stubborn."
Tea was brought in. Afterwards they walked in the gardens together.
The band was playing, and they were surrounded on all sides by
acquaintances. A great personage stopped and talked to them for a
while. Lady Caroom admitted the news of Sybil's engagement. After that
every one stopped to express pleasure. It was not until the young
people appeared themselves, and at once monopolized all attention, that
Arranmore was able to draw his companion away into comparative solitude.
"Do you by any chance correspond with Brooks?" he asked her.
She shook her head.
"No!" she answered. "I was thinking of that. I should like him to know
from one of us. Can't you write him, Arranmore?"
"I could," he answered, "but it would perhaps come better from you.
Have you ever had any conversation with him about Sybil?"
"Once," she answered, "yes!
"Then you can write--it will be better for you to write. I should like
to ask you a question if I may."
"Yes."
"Have you any idea whether the news will be in any way a blow to him?"
"I think perhaps it may," she admitted.
Arranmore was silent. She watched him half eagerly, hoping for some
look, some expression of sympathy. She was disappointed. His face did
not relax. It seemed almost to grow harder.
"He has only himself to blame," he said, slowly. "But for this
ridiculous masquerading his chance was as good as Atherstone's.
Quixoticism such as his is an expensive luxury."
She shivered a little.
"That sounds hard-hearted," she said. "He is doing what he thinks
right."
Then Lord Arranmore told her what he had told Brooks himself.
"My son is quite a model young man," he said, "but he is a prig. He
thinks too much about what is right and wrong, about what is due to
himself, and he values his own judgment too highly. However, I have no
right to complain, for it is he who suffers, not I. May I dine at your
table to-night? I came over alone."
"Certainly."
They were interrupted a few minutes later by Sybil and Atherstone, and a
small host of their friends. But in consequence of Lord Arranmore's
visit to Homburg, Brooks a few days later received two letters. The
first was from Lord Arranmore.
"RITTER's HOTEL.
"DEAR MR. BROOKS,
"The news which I believe Lady Caroom is sending you to-day may perhaps
convince you of the folly of this masquerading. I make you, therefore,
the following offer. I will leave England for at least five years on
condition that you henceforth take up your proper position in society,
and consent to such arrangements as Mr. Ascough and I may make. In any
case I was proposing to myself a somewhat extensive scheme of travel,
and the opportunity seems to me a good one for you to dispense with an
incognito which may lead you some day into even worse complications. I
trust that for the sake of other people with whom you may be brought
into contact you will accept the arrangement which I propose.
"I remain,
"Yours faithfully,
"ARRANMORE."
The other letter was from Lady Caroom.
"RITTER'S HOTEL.
"MY DEAR 'MR. BROOKS,'
"I want to be the first to tell you of Sybil's engagement to the Duke of
Atherstone, which took place this afternoon. He has been a very
persistent suitor, and he is a great favourite, I think, deservedly,
with every one. He will, I am sure, make her very happy.
"I understand that you are still in London. You must find this weather
very oppressive. Take my advice and don't overwork yourself. No cause
in the world, however good, is worth the sacrifice of one's health.
"I hope that my news will not distress you. You realized, of course,
that your decision to remain known, or rather unknown, as Kingston
Brooks, made it at some time or other inevitable, and I hope to see a
good deal of you when we return to town, and that you will always
believe that I am your most sincere friend,
"CATHERINE CAROOM."
Brooks laid the two letters down with a curious mixture of sensations.
He knew that a very short time ago he might have considered himself
brokenhearted, and he knew that as a matter of fact he was nothing of
the sort. He answered Lady Caroom's letter first.
"27, JERMYN STREET, W.
"DEAR LADY CAROOM,
"It was very kind of you to write to me, and to send me the news of
Sybil's engagement so promptly. I wish her most heartily every
happiness. After all, it is the most suitable thing which could have
happened.
"You are right in your surmise. After our conversation I realized quite
plainly that under my present identity I could not possibly think of
Lady Sybil except as a very charming and a very valued friend. I was,
therefore, quite prepared for the news which you have sent me.
"I am going for a few days' golf and sea-bathing into Devonshire, so
don't waste too much sympathy upon me. My best regards to Lady Sybil.
Just now I imagine that she is overwhelmed with good wishes, but if she
will add mine to the number, I can assure you and her that I offer them
most heartily.
"Yours most sincerely,
"KINGSTON BRGOKS."
"P.S.--Have you heard that your friend the Bishop is going to bring a
Bill before the House of Lords which is to exterminate me altogether?"
Lady Caroom sighed for a moment as she read the letter, but immediately
afterwards her face cleared.
"After all, I think it is best," she murmured, "and Atherstone is such a
dear."
CHAPTER XII
THE PRINCE OF SINNERS SPEAKS OUT
The bishop sat down amidst a little murmur of applause. He glanced up
and saw that his wife had heard his speech, and he noted with
satisfaction the long line of reporters, for whose sake he had spoken
with such deliberation and with occasional pauses. He felt that his
indictment of this new charitable departure had been scathing and
logical. He was not altogether displeased to see Brooks himself in the
Strangers' Gallery. That young man would be better able to understand
now the mighty power of the Church which he had so wantonly disregarded.
But it was not the bishop's speech which had filled Brooks with dismay,
which had made his heart grow suddenly cold within him. For this he had
been prepared--but not for the adversary who was now upon his feet
prepared to address the House. At least, he said to himself, bitterly,
he might have been spared this. It was Lord Arranmore, who, amidst some
murmurs of surprise, had risen to address the House--pale, composed,
supercilious as ever. And Brooks felt that what he could listen to
unmoved from the Bishop of Beeston would be hard indeed to bear from
this man.
The intervention of Lord Arranmore so early in the debate was wholly
unexpected. Every one was interested, and those who knew him best
prepared themselves for a little mild sensation. The bishop smiled to
himself with the satisfaction of a man who has secured a welcome but
unexpected ally. Lord Arranmore's views as to charity and its
dispensation were fairly well known.
So every one listened--at first with curiosity, afterwards with
something like amazement. The bishop abandoned his expression of gentle
tolerance for one of manifest uneasiness. It seemed scarcely credible
that he heard aright. For the Marquis of Arranmore's forefinger was
stretched out towards him--a gesture at once relentless and scornful,
and the words to which he was forced to listen were not pleasant ones to
hear.
"It is such sentiments as these," the Marquis of Arranmore was
saying--and his words came like drops of ice, slow and distinct--"such
sentiments as these voiced by such men as the Lord Bishop of Beeston in
such high places as this where we are now assembled, which have created
and nourished our criminal classes, which have filled our prisons and
our workhouses, and in time future if his lordship's theology is correct
will people Hell. And as for the logic of it, was ever the intelligence
of so learned and august a body of listeners so insulted before? Is
charity, then, for the deserving and the deserving only? Are we to put
a premium upon hypocrisy, to pass by on the other side from those who
have fallen, and who by themselves have no power to rise? This is
precisely his lordship's proposition. The one great charitable
institution of our times, founded upon a logical basis, carried out with
a devotion and a self-sacrifice beyond all praise, he finds pernicious
and pauperizing, because, forsooth, the drunkard and criminals are
welcome to avail themselves of it, because it seeks to help those who
save for such help must remain brutes themselves and a brutalizing
influence to others."
There was a moment's deep silence. To those who were watching the
speaker closely, and amongst them Brooks, was evident some sign of
internal agitation. Yet when he spoke again his manner was, if
possible, more self-restrained than ever. He continued in a low clear
tone, without any further gesture and emotion.
"My lords, I heard a remark not intended for my ears, upon my rising,
indicative of surprise that I should have anything to say upon such a
subject as this. Lest my convictions and opinions should seem to you
to be those of an outsider, let me tell you this. You are listening to
one who for twelve years lived the life of this unhappy people, dwelt
amongst them as a police-court missionary--one who was driven even into
some measure of insanity by the horrors he saw and tasted, and who
recovered only by an ignominious flight into a far-off country. His
lordship the Bishop of Beeston has shown you very clearly how little he
knows of the horrors which seethe beneath the brilliant life of this
wonderful city. He has brought it upon himself and you--that one who
does know shall tell you something of the truth of these things."
There was an intense and breathless silence. This was an assembly
amongst whom excitement was a very rare visitant. But there were many
there now who sat still and spellbound with eyes riveted upon the
speaker. To those who were personally acquainted with him a certain
change in his appearance was manifest. A spot of colour flared in his
pale cheeks. There was a light in his eyes which no one had ever seen
there before. After years of self-repression, of a cynicism partly
artificial, partly inevitable, the natural man had broken out once more,
stung into life by time smooth platitudes of the great churchman
against whom his attack was directed. He was reckless of time fact
that Lady Caroom, Brooks, and many of his acquaintances were in the
Strangers' Gallery. For the motion before the House was one to obtain
legal and ecclesiastical control over all independent charities
appealing to the general public for support, under cover of which the
Church, in the person of the Bishop of Beeston, had made a solemn and
deliberate attack upon Brooks' Society, Brooks himself, its aims and
management.
As the words fell, deliberately, yet without hesitation, from his lips,
vivid, scathing, forceful, there was not one there but knew that this
man spoke of the things which he had felt. The facts he marshalled
before them were appalling, but not a soul doubted them. It was truth
which he hurled at them, truth before which the Bishop sat back in his
seat and felt his cheeks grow paler and his eyes more full of trouble.
A great deal of it they had heard before, but never like this--never had
it been driven home into their conscience so that doubt or evasion was
impossible. And this man, who was he? They rubbed their eyes and
wondered. Ninth Marquis of Arranmore, owner of great estates,
dilettante, sportsman, cynic, latter-day sinner--or an apostle touched
with fire from Heaven to open men's eyes, gifted for a few brief minutes
with the tongue of a saintly Demosthenes. Those who knew him gaped like
children and wondered. And all the time his words stung them like drops
of burning rain.
"This," he concluded at last, "is the Hell which burns for ever under
this great city, and it is such men as his lordship the Bishop of
Beeston who can come here and speak of their agony in well-rounded
periods and congratulate you and himself upon the increasing number of
communicants in the East End--who stands in the market-place of the
world with stones for starving people. But I, who have been down
amongst those fires, I, who know, can tell you this: Not all the
churches of Christ, not all the religious societies ever founded, not
all the combined labours of all the missionaries who ever breathed,
will quench or even abate those flames until they go to their labours in
the name of humanity alone, and free themselves utterly from all the
cursed restrictions and stipulations of their pet creed. Starving men
will mock at the mention of a God of Justice, men who are in torture
body and soul are scarcely likely to respond to the teachings of a God
of Love. Save the bodies of this generation, and the souls of the next
may be within your reach."
They thought then that he had finished. He paused for an unusually long
time. When he spoke again he seemed to have wholly regained his usual
composure. The note of passion had passed from his tone. His cheeks
were once more of waxen pallor. The deliberately-chosen words fell with
a chill sarcasm from his lips.
"His lordship the Bishop of Beeston," he said, "has also thought fit, on
the authority, I presume, of Mr. Lavilette and his friends, to make
slighting reference to the accounts of the Society in question. As one
of the largest subscribers to that Society, may I be allowed to set at
rest his anxieties? Before many days the accounts from its very
earliest days, which have all the time been in the hands of an eminent
firm of accountants, will be placed before the general public. In the
meantime let me tell you this. I am willing to sign every page of
them. I pledge my word to their absolute correctness. The author of
this movement has from the first, according to my certain knowledge,
devoted a considerable part of his own income to the work. If others
who are in the enjoyment of a princely stipend for their religious
labours"--he looked hard at the bishop--"were to imitate this course of
action, I imagine that there are a good many charitable institutions
which would not now be begging for donations to keep them alive."
He sat down without peroration, and almost immediately afterwards left
the House. The first reading of the bishop's Bill was lost by a large
majority.
Arranmore sat by himself in his study, and his face was white and drawn.
A cigarette which he had lit on entering the room had burnt out between
his fingers. This sudden upheaval of the past, coming upon him with a
certain spasmodic unexpectedness, had shaken his nerves. He had not
believed himself capable of anything of the sort. The unusual
excitement was upon him still. All sorts of memories and fancies long
ago buried, thronged in upon him. So he sat there and suffered,
striving in vain to crush them, whilst faces mocked him from the
shadows, and familiar voices rang strangely in his ears. He scarcely
heard the softly-opened door. The light footsteps and the rustling of
skirts had their place amongst the throng of torturing memories. But
his eyes--surely his eyes could not mock him. He started to his feet.
"Catherine!"
She did not speak at once, but all sorts of things were in her eyes. He
ground his teeth together, and made one effort to remain his old self.
"You have come to offer--your sympathy. How delightful of you. The
bishop got on my nerves, you know, and I really am not answerable for
what I said. Catherine!"
She threw her arms around his neck.
"You dear!" she exclaimed. "I am not afraid of you any more. Kiss me,
Philip, and don't talk nonsense, because I shan't listen to you."
Brooks drove up in hot haste. The butler stopped him respectfully.
"His lordship is particularly engaged, sir."
"He will see me," Brooks answered. "Please announce me--Lord Kingston
of Ross!"
"I beg your pardon, sir," the man stammered.
"Lord Kingston of Ross," Brooks repeated, casting off for ever the old
name as though it were a disused glove. "Announce me at once."
It was the Arranmore trick of imperiousness, and the man recognized it.
He threw open the study door with trembling fingers, but he was careful
to knock first.
"Lord Kingston of Ross."
He walked to his father with outstretched hand.
"You were right, sir," he said, simply. "I was a prig!"
They stood for a moment, their hands locked. It was a silent greeting,
but their faces were eloquent. Brooks looked from his father to Lady
Caroom and smiled.
"I could not wait," he said. "I was forced to come to you at once.
But I think that I will go now and pay another call."
He stood outside on the kerb while they fetched him a hansom. The fresh
night wind blew in his face, cool and sweet. From Piccadilly came the
faint hum of tram, and the ceaseless monotonous beat of hurrying
footsteps. The hansom pulled up before him with a jerk. He sprang
lightly in.
"No. 110, Crescent Flats, Kensington."