Tallente, notwithstanding the glow of happiness which had taken him down
to Westminster with the bearing of a young man, felt occasional little
shivers of doubt as he leaned back in his seat during the intervals of a
brief but portentous debate and let his mind wander back to that short
hour when he seemed to have emptied out all the hidden yearnings which
had been lurking in the dark corners of his heart and soul. His love
for Jane had no longer the boyish characteristics of a vague worship.
He made no further pretences to himself. It was Jane herself, and not
the spirit of her sex dwelling in her body, which he desired. A tardy
heritage of passion at times rejuvenated him and at others stretched him
upon the rack.
He walked home later with Dartrey, clinging to the man with a new
sympathy and drinking in with queer content some measure of his
happiness. Dartrey himself seemed a little ashamed of its exuberance.
"If it weren't that Nora is so entirely a disciple of our cause,
Tallente," he said, "I think I should feel a little like the man in the
'Pilgrim's Progress,' who stopped to pick flowers by the way. She is
such a help, though. It was she who pointed out the flaw in that second
amendment of Saunderson's, which I had very nearly passed. Did you read
her article in the National, too?"
"Wonderful!" Tallente murmured. "There is no living woman who writes
such vivid and convincing prose."
"And the amazing part of it all is," Dartrey went on, "that she seeks no
reward except just to see the cause prosper. She hasn't the faintest
ambition to fill any post in life which could be filled by a man. She
would write anonymously if it were possible. She has insight which
amounts to inspiration, yet whenever I am with her she makes me feel
that her greatest gift is her femininity."
"It must be the most wonderful thing in life to have the help of any one
like Nora," Tallente said dreamily.
"My friend," the other rejoined, "I wish I could make you believe this.
There is room in the life of the busiest man in the world for an
understanding woman. I'll go further. No man can do his best work
without her."
"I believe you are right," Tallente assented.
His friend pressed his arm kindly.
"You've ploughed a lonely furrow for a good many years, Tallente," he
said. "Nora talks of you so often and so wistfully. She is such an
understanding creature.--No, don't go. Just one whisky and soda. It
used to be chocolate, but Nora insists upon making a man of me."
Tallente was a little in the shadow of the hall and he witnessed the
greeting between Nora and her husband: saw her come out of the study,--a
soft, entrancing figure in the little circle of firelight gleaming
through the open door. She threw her arms around Dartrey's neck and
kissed him.
"Dear," she exclaimed, "how early you are! Come and have an easy-chair
by the fire and tell me how every one's been behaving."
Dartrey, with his arm around her waist, turned to Tallente.
"An entirely unrehearsed exhibition, I can assure you, Tallente," he
declared.
Nora pouted and passed her other arm through Tallente's.
"That's just like Stephen," she complained, "advertising his domestic
bliss. Never mind, there is room for an easy-chair for you."
Tallente took a whisky and soda but declined to sit down.
"I walked home with Stephen," he said, "and then I felt I couldn't go
away without seeing you just for a moment, Nora."
"Dear man," she answered, "I should have been terribly hurt if you had.
Do make yourself comfortable by the fire. You will be able to check all
that Stephen tells me about the debate to-night. He is so inexact."
Tallente shook his head. "I am restless to-night, Nora," he said
simply. "I shall walk up to the club."
She let him out herself, holding his hand almost tenderly. "Oh, you
poor dear thing!" she said. "I do wish I knew--"
"What?"
"What to wish you--what to hope for you."
He walked away in silence. They both understood so well.--He found his
way to the club and ate sandwiches with one or two other men, also just
released from the House, but the more he tried to compose himself, the
more he was conscious of a sort of fierce restlessness that drove the
blood through his veins at feverish pace. He wandered from room to
room, played a game of billiards, chafing all the time at the necessity
of finishing the game. He hurried away, pleading an appointment. In
the hall he met Greening, who led him at once to a secluded corner.
"Prepared with your apologia, Tallente?" he enquired.
"It's in your office at the present moment," Tallente replied, "finished
this morning."
Greening stroked his beard. He was a lank, rather cadaverous man, with
a face like granite and eyes like polished steel. Few men had anything
to say against him. No one liked him.
"How are you regarding the appearance of these outpourings of yours,
Tallente?" he asked.
"With equanimity," was the calm rejoinder. "I think I told you what I
thought of you and your journalism for having any dealings with a thief
and for making yourself a receiver of stolen property. I have nothing
to add to that. I am ready to face the worst now and you may find the
thunders recoil on your own head."
"No one will ever be able to blame us," Greening replied, "for
publishing material of such deep interest to every one, even though it
should incidentally be your political death warrant. As a matter of
fact, Tallente, I was rather hoping that I might meet you here to-night.
The chief and Horlock appear to have had a breeze."
"How does that concern me?" Tallente asked bluntly.
"It may concern you very much indeed. A few days ago I should have told
you, as I did, that nothing in the world could stop the publication of
that article. To-day I am not so sure. At any rate, I believe there is
a chance. Would you care to see the chief?"
"I haven't the slightest desire to," Tallente replied. "I have made my
protest. Nothing in the world can affect the morality of your action.
At the same time, I have got over my first dread of it. I am prepared
with my defence, and perhaps a little in the way of a counterattack.
No, I am not going hat in hand to your chief, Greening. He must do as
he thinks well."
"If that is your attitude," Greening observed, "things will probably
take their course. On the other hand, if you were inclined to have a
heart-to-heart talk with the chief and our other editors, I believe that
something might come of it."
"In other words," Tallente said coldly, "your chief, who is one of the
most magnificent opportunists I ever knew, has suddenly begun to wonder
whether he is backing the right horse."
"Something like it, perhaps," Greening admitted. "Look here, Tallente,"
he went on, "you're a big man in your way and I know perfectly well that
you wouldn't throw away a real advantage out of pique. Consider this
matter. I can't pledge the paper or the chief. I simply say--see him
and talk it over."
Tallente shook his head.
"I am much obliged, Greening," he said, "but I don't want to go through
life with this thing hanging over me. Miller has a copy of the
article, without a doubt. If you turn him down, he'll find some one
else to publish it. I should never know when the thunderbolt was going
to fail. I am prepared now and I would rather get it over."
"Is Dartrey going to back you?" Greening asked.
Tallente smiled.
"I can't give away secrets."
Greening turned slowly away.
"I am off for a rubber of bridge," he said. "I am sorry, Tallente.
Better dismiss this interview from your mind altogether. It very likely
wouldn't have led to anything. All the same, I envy you your
confidence. If I could only guess at its source, I'd have a leader for
to-morrow morning."
Tallente walked down the stairs with a smile upon his lips. He put on
his hat and coat and hesitated for a moment on the broad steps. Then a
sudden wonderful thought came to him, an impulse entirely irresistible.
He started off westward, walking with feverish haste.
The spirit of adventure sat in his heart as he passed through the
crowded streets. The night was wonderfully clear, the stars were
brilliant overhead and from behind the Colliseum dome a corner of the
yellow moon was showing. He was conscious of a sudden new feeling of
kinship with these pleasure-seeking crowds who jostled him here and
there upon the pavement. He was glad to find himself amongst them and
of them. He felt that he had come down from the chilly heights to walk
the lighted highways of the world. The keen air with its touch of frost
invigorated him. There was a new suppleness in his pulses, a queer
excitement in his whole being, which he scarcely understood until his
long walk came to an end and he found himself at a standstill in front
of the house in Charles Street, his unadmitted destination.
He glanced at his watch and found that it was half an hour after
midnight. There was a light in the lower room into which Jane had taken
him on the night of her arrival in town. Above, the whole of the house
seemed in darkness. He walked a little way down the street and back
again. Jane was dining, he knew, with the Princess de Fénaples, her
godmother, and had spoken of going on to a ball with her afterwards. In
that case she could scarcely be home for hours. Yet somehow he had a
joyful conviction that history would repeat itself, that he would find
her, as he had once before, entering the house. His fortune was in the
ascendant. Not even the emptiness of the street discouraged him. He
strolled a little way along and back again. As he passed the door once
more, something bright lying underneath the scraper attracted his
notice. He paused and stooped down. Almost before he had realised what
he was doing, he had picked up a small key, her latch-key, and was
holding it in his hand.
He passed down the street again and there seemed something unreal in the
broad pavement, the frowning houses, the glow of the gas lamps. The
harmless little key burned his flesh. All the passionate acuteness of
life seemed throbbing again in his veins. He retraced his steps, making
no plans, obeying only an ungovernable instinct. The street was empty.
He thrust the key into the lock, opened the door, replaced the key under
the scraper, entered the house and made his way into the room on the
right.
Tallente stood there for a few minutes with fast-beating heart. He had
the feeling that he had burned his boats. He was face to face now with
realities. There was no sound from anywhere. A bright fire was burning
in the grate. An easy-chair was drawn up to the side of a small table,
on which was placed a tumbler, some biscuits, a box of cigarettes and
some matches. A copper saucepan full of milk stood in the hearth, side
by side with some slippers,--dainty, fur-topped slippers. Even these
slight evidences of her coming presence seemed to thrill him. Time
dissolved away into a dream of anticipation. Minutes or hours might
have passed before he heard the motor stop outside, her voice bidding
some friend a cheerful good night, the turning of the key in the door,
the drawing of a bolt, a light step in the hall, and then--Jane.
She was wrapped from head to foot in white furs, a small tiara of
emeralds and diamonds on her head. She entered, humming a tune to
herself, serene, desirable.
"Andrew!"
Her exclamation, the light in her eyes, the pleasure which swiftly took
the place of her first amazement, intoxicated him. He drew her into his
arms and his voice shook.
"Jane," he confessed, "I tried to keep away and I couldn't. I stole in
here to wait for you. And you're glad--thank heavens you're glad!"
"But how long have you been here?" she asked wonderingly.
He shook his head.
"I don't know. I walked down the street, hoping for a miracle. Then I
saw your key under the scraper. I let myself in and waited.--Jane, how
wonderful you are!"
Unconsciously she had unfastened and thrown aside her furs. Her arms
and neck shone like alabaster in the shaded light. She looked into his
face and began to tremble a little.
"You ought not to have done this," she said.
"Why not?" he pleaded.
"If any one had seen you--if the servants knew!"
He laughed and stopped her mouth with a kiss.
"Dear, these things are trifles. The things that count lie between us
two only. Do you know that you have been in my blood like a fever all
day? You were there in the House this afternoon, you walked the streets
with me, you drew me here.--Jane, I haven't felt like this since I was a
boy. You have brought me back my youth. I adore you!"
Again she rested willingly enough in his arms, smiling at him, as he
drew near to her, with wonderful kindness. The fire of his lips,
however, seemed to disturb her. She felt the enveloping turmoil of his
passion, now become almost ungovernable, and extricated herself gently
from his arms.
"Put my saucepan on the fire, please," she begged. "You will find some
whisky and soda on the sideboard there. Parkins evidently thinks that I
ought to have a male escort when I come home late."
"I don't want whisky and soda, Jane," he cried passionately. "I want
you!"
She rested her hand upon his shoulder.
"And am I not yours, dear," she asked,--"foolishly, unwisely perhaps,
but certainly yours?--They were all talking about you to-night at dinner
and I was so proud," she went on, a little feverishly. "Our host was
almost eloquent. He said that Democracy led by you, instead of proving
a curse, might be the salvation of the country, because you have
political insight and imperialistic ideas. It is those terrible people
who would make a parish council of Parliament from whom one has most to
fear."
Tallente made no reply. He was standing on the hearth rug, a few feet
away from her, watching as she stirred her milk, watching the curve of
her body, the grace of her long, smoothly shining arms. And beyond
these things he strove to read what was at the back of her mind.
"We must talk almost in whispers," she went on. "And do have your
whisky and soda, Andrew, because you must go very soon."
"It would disturb you very much if your servants were to know of my
presence here?" he asked, in a queer, even tone.
"Of course it would," she answered, without looking at him. "As you
know, I have lived, from my standpoints, an extraordinarily
unconventional life, but that was because I knew myself and was safe.
But--I have never done anything like this before in my life."
"You have never been in the same position," he reminded her. "There has
never been any one else to consider except yourself."
"True enough," she admitted, "but oughtn't that to make one all the more
careful? I loved seeing you when I came in, and I have loved our few
minutes together, but I am getting a little nervous. Do you see that it
is past two o'clock?"
"There is no one to whom you are accountable for anything in life except
to me," he told her passionately.
She laughed softly but a little uneasily.
"Dear Andrew," she said, "there is my own sense of what is seemly
and--must I use the horrid word?--my reputation to be considered. As it
is, you may be seen leaving the house in the small hours of the
morning."
A little shiver passed through him. All the splendid warmth of living
seemed to be fading away from his heart and thoughts. He was back again
in that empty world of unreal persons. Jane had been a dream. This
kindly faced, beautiful but anxious girl was not the Jane to whose arms
he had come hotfoot through the streets.
"I ought not to have come," he muttered.
"Dear, I don't blame you in the least," she answered, "only be very
careful as you go out. If there is any one passing in the street, wait
for a moment."
"I understand," he promised. "I will take the greatest care."
He took up his hat and coat mechanically. She thrust her arm through
his and led him to the door, looking furtively into his face as though
afraid of what she might find there. Her own heart was beginning to
beat faster. She was filled with a queer sense of failure.
"You are not angry with me, Andrew? You know that I have been happy to
see you?"
"I am not angry," he answered.
There was a little choking in her throat. She felt the rush of strange
things. Her eyes sought his, filled with almost terrified anticipation.
It chanced that he was looking away. She clenched her hands. His
moment had passed.
"There is something else on your mind, Andrew, I know, but to-night we
cannot talk any longer," she said, in something resembling her old tone.
"Be very careful, dear. To-morrow--you will come to-morrow."
He walked down the hall with the footsteps of a cat, let himself out
silently into the empty street and walked with leaden footsteps to his
rooms. It was not until he had reached the seclusion of his study that
the change came. A sudden dull fury burned in his heart. He poured
himself out whisky and drank it neat. Then he seated himself before his
desk and wrote. He did not once hesitate. He did not reread a single
sentence. He dug up the anger and the bitterness from his heart and set
them out in flaming phrases. A sort of lunacy drove him into the
bitterest of extremes. His brain seemed fed with the inspiration of his
suffering, fed with cruel epigrams and biting words. He dragged his
idol down into the dust, scoffed at the piecemeal passion which measures
its gifts, the complacency of an analysed virtue, the sense of
well-living and self-contentment achieved in the rubric of a dry-as-dust
morality. She had failed him, offered him stones instead of bread.--He
signed the letter, blotted it with firm fingers, addressed the envelope,
stamped it and dropped it himself into the pillar box at the corner of
the street. Then he turned wearily homeward, filled with the strange,
almost maniacal satisfaction of the man who has killed the thing he
loves.