1
To any one who did not know of that glowing secret between Isabel and
myself, I might well have appeared at that time the most successful and
enviable of men. I had recovered rapidly from an uncongenial start
in political life; I had become a considerable force through the BLUE
WEEKLY, and was shaping an increasingly influential body of opinion; I
had re-entered Parliament with quite dramatic distinction, and in spite
of a certain faltering on the part of the orthodox Conservatives
towards the bolder elements in our propaganda, I had loyal and unenvious
associates who were making me a power in the party. People were coming
to our group, understandings were developing. It was clear we should
play a prominent part in the next general election, and that, given a
Conservative victory, I should be assured of office. The world opened
out to me brightly and invitingly. Great schemes took shape in my mind,
always more concrete, always more practicable; the years ahead seemed
falling into order, shining with the credible promise of immense
achievement.
And at the heart of it all, unseen and unsuspected, was the secret of my
relations with Isabel--like a seed that germinates and thrusts, thrusts
relentlessly.
From the onset of the Handitch contest onward, my meetings with her had
been more and more pervaded by the discussion of our situation. It had
innumerable aspects. It was very present to us that we wanted to be
together as much as possible--we were beginning to long very much for
actual living together in the same house, so that one could come as
it were carelessly--unawares--upon the other, busy perhaps about some
trivial thing. We wanted to feel each other in the daily atmosphere.
Preceding our imperatively sterile passion, you must remember, outside
it, altogether greater than it so far as our individual lives were
concerned, there had grown and still grew an enormous affection and
intellectual sympathy between us. We brought all our impressions and all
our ideas to each other, to see them in each other's light. It is hard
to convey that quality of intellectual unison to any one who has not
experienced it. I thought more and more in terms of conversation with
Isabel; her possible comments upon things would flash into my mind,
oh!--with the very sound of her voice.
I remember, too, the odd effect of seeing her in the distance going
about Handitch, like any stranger canvasser; the queer emotion of her
approach along the street, the greeting as she passed. The morning of
the polling she vanished from the constituency. I saw her for an instant
in the passage behind our Committee rooms.
“Going?” said I.
She nodded.
“Stay it out. I want you to see the fun. I remember--the other time.”
She didn't answer for a moment or so, and stood with face averted.
“It's Margaret's show,” she said abruptly. “If I see her smiling there
like a queen by your side--! She did--last time. I remember.” She caught
at a sob and dashed her hand across her face impatiently. “Jealous fool,
mean and petty, jealous fool!... Good luck, old man, to you! You're
going to win. But I don't want to see the end of it all the same....”
“Good-bye!” said I, clasping her hand as some supporter appeared in the
passage....
I came back to London victorious, and a little flushed and coarse with
victory; and so soon as I could break away I went to Isabel's flat and
found her white and worn, with the stain of secret weeping about her
eyes. I came into the room to her and shut the door.
“You said I'd win,” I said, and held out my arms.
She hugged me closely for a moment.
“My dear,” I whispered, “it's nothing--without you--nothing!”
We didn't speak for some seconds. Then she slipped from my hold. “Look!”
she said, smiling like winter sunshine. “I've had in all the morning
papers--the pile of them, and you--resounding.”
“It's more than I dared hope.”
“Or I.”
She stood for a moment still smiling bravely, and then she was sobbing
in my arms. “The bigger you are--the more you show,” she said--“the more
we are parted. I know, I know--”