Success was the passion of John Malham's life, mediocrity was his bane.
The ordinary commonplace life which brings happiness and content to
millions of his fellow men filled him with a passion of disgust. As he
left the Tube station morning and night, and filed out into the street
among the crowd of black-coated, middle-class workers, an insignificant
unit in an insignificant whole, a feeling of physical nausea overcame
him. There were grey-haired men by the hundred among the throng, men
not only elderly, but old, working ceaselessly day by day at the same
dull grind, returning at night to small houses in the suburbs. From
youth to age they had toiled and expended their strength, and this was
their reward! In a few years' time they would die, and be buried, and
the great machine would grind on, oblivious of their loss. Slaves,
puppets, automata who were content to masquerade in the guise of men!
John Malham squared his great shoulders and drew a deep breath of
contempt. Not for him this dull path of monotony. By one means or
another, he had vowed to his own heart to rise to the top of the tree,
and make for himself a place among men.
Malham was a barrister by profession; a barrister, without influence,
and with a private income of a hundred a year. His impressive
personality, and unmistakable gift of argument had brought him a
moderate success, but while others congratulated him, his own feeling
was an ever-mounting discontent. He was waiting for the grand
opportunity, and the grand opportunity did not come. Like an actor who
finds no scope for his talent in the puny parts committed to his charge,
but feels ever burning within him the capacity to shine as a star, so
did Malham fret and chafe; intolerantly waiting for his chance.
As an outlet for his energies Malham had plunged into politics, and here
success had been more rapid. As an apt and powerful speaker he was much
in request, and his circle of influential acquaintances grew apace. He
was asked to dinner, on visits to country houses where he was
entertained with cordiality, as a _quid pro quo_ for a speech at the
County Hall. Politicians began to say to him with a smile: "We must
have you in the House, Malham." "I shall be speaking for _you_ another
day, Malham!" "A man like you, Malham, ought to be in the Cabinet."
Steadily, slowly, the conviction had generated that in politics lay his
best hope of success.
But he must have money. Even in the days of paid members a man without
private means was handicapped in the race. Once again he could not be
content to be a unit in a crowd. He wished to be known; to make himself
felt. To do this it would be necessary to entertain, to have a home of
which he could be proud. A home, and--a wife.
At this point Malham's hard face would soften into the tender, humorous
smile which was reserved for but one person on earth--for Celia Bevan, a
high school mistress to whom he had been engaged for five long years.
Pew of his friends, and none of his acquaintances, had heard of his
engagement, for Malham was a secretive man, and Celia was not in his own
set. He had met her on a fishing holiday when they happened to be
staying in the same small inn, and for the first and only time in his
life had been carried away on a wave of impulse.
Five years ago, and--this was the extraordinary thing!--his heart had
never regretted the madness. Celia was poor, unknown, getting
perilously near thirty, but there was an ageless charm about Celia, an
ever-new, ever-changing, ever-lovable charm, which held him captive,
despite the cold remonstrances of his brain. Nowadays he met dozens of
wealthy and distinguished women, but no duchess in her purple had for
him the charm of Celia in her shabby blouses, seated in her shabby
lodging, wrestling with the everlasting pile of exercise books.
She loved him--heavens! how she loved him. There was nothing tepid
about Celia. Even eight years' teaching at a high school had been
powerless to beat down her individuality, or damp the ardour of her
spirit. She loved him with a passion which was her very being, and he
loved her in return as devotedly as it was in his nature to love. She
was his mate, the one woman in the world who could understand, and
sympathise, and console.
But--there was Lady Anne! Lady Anne was the unmarried daughter of his
most influential political patron, and of late it had been impossible
for Malham to disguise from himself the fact that Lady Anne had fallen a
victim to his powerful personality and clever, versatile tongue. She
was a pitiful creature, this scion of a noble house, a thin, wizened
woman of thirty-seven, plain with a dull, sexless plainness which had in
it no redeeming point, so diffident as to be almost uncouth in manner,
overwhelmed with the consciousness of her own social failure. Wealthy
and influential as was her family, no one had ever wished to marry "poor
Anne," yet hidden within the unattractive exterior lived a loving,
sensitive heart, which had gone hungry from the hour of her birth.
Now as it happened Lady Anne's brother was nursing a certain
constituency in the neighbourhood of his father's place, and being
neither clever nor fluent he was thankful to avail himself of the
services of an eloquent young barrister, who was ever ready to run down
from town for a few days' visit, and deliver a rousing address in
furtherance of his cause. So it came about that during the summer and
autumn John Malham was a frequent visitor at Home Castle, and at each
visit the secret of Lady Anne became more and more apparent to the eyes
of onlookers.
Lady Anne wished to marry Malham. Her father recognised as much, and
decided resignedly that for "poor Anne" no better match could be
expected. Malham was a gentleman, came of a good stock, and--given a
start--was the type of man who was bound to come to the front. "We
could find him a seat," the Earl said to his son, "and Anne's jointure
would keep them going till he found his feet. If he proposes for her,
there'll be no trouble from me. At this time of day we must be thankful
for what we can get."
Cautiously, guardedly, in after-dinner confidences the young man was
allowed to infer that the coast was clear. At first he had thrust aside
the suggestion with a laugh, as something preposterous and impossible,
but the poison worked. He began to dally with the thought, to project
himself into an imaginary future when the circumstances of life should
make in his favour, instead of acting as a handicap. Slowly and surely
the poison worked.
One evening he took his way to Grosvenor Square in a frame of mind
bordering on desperation. For months past he had been building on the
possibility of securing a brief in a case which promised to afford one
of the sensations of the year. He had a chance, a promising chance it
had appeared, but that afternoon he had received the news that the brief
had gone past him in favour of another man, no whit more capable than
himself. There were reasons for the choice of which he was ignorant,
but in his morbid depression, the only explanation lay in his own
insignificance, in the higher social standing of his rival. He had
known many such disappointments, and had smarted beneath them, but this
was the final straw which broke down his remaining strength, and as it
chanced he was left alone with Lady Anne after dinner, and she ventured
a timid question as to the cause of his depression.
Of what happened next he had no clear recollection; he answered, and she
sympathised, faltered out a wish that she might help; he thanked her,
and--what did he say next? He could not remember, but he knew that he
had accepted the offered help, and with it the hand of the donor.
There were tears in Lady Anne's eyes as she plighted her troth. It was
the one desire of her heart to share his life. He was the most
wonderful, the most gifted of men. To be able to smooth his way would
be the proudest privilege which the world could afford. She held out
her thin hand as she spoke, and Malham pressed it in his own, and bent
over it in elaborate acknowledgment. The chill of those fingers struck
to his heart; he left the house and, walking along the streets, the
question clamoured insistently at his heart:
_Would she expect him to kiss her_?
He had made an early retreat, and now went straight to Celia's lodgings.
It was part of the strength of his character that he never deferred a
difficult duty, and to-night he knew himself faced with the most painful
ordeal of his life.
Celia was sitting as usual before a pile of exercise books in her shabby
little parlour. Her white blouse was mended in several places, but it
was daintily fresh, and her auburn hair flamed into gold beneath the
hanging lamp. She did not rise as he entered, but tilted herself back
on her chair, and stretched her tired arms with a sigh of welcome.
"Oh, dearest and best, is that you? Oh, how lovely it is when you don't
expect, and the good things come! I was never more happy to see you...
Kiss me several times!"
But he stood stiff and straight on the shabby hearth-rug, and delivered
himself of his message:
"I am going to many Lady Anne Mulliner."
Celia rose from the chair, and seated herself on the side of the table.
She had grey eyes fringed with dark lashes, and a large, well-shaped
mouth with lips which tilted agreeably at the corners what time she was
amused. They tilted now, and the grey eyes danced. Malham was jesting
in the good old way in which he used to jest before he grew so silent
and preoccupied. It had pleased them then to make believe, and act
little plays for the other's benefit. How good it was to jest again!
Celia hunched her shoulders to her ears, and pointed at him with a
dramatic finger. Her voice rang in loud, stagey accents:
"False caitiff, wouldst thou indeed betray my innocent trust? Pull many
a year have I waited in love and fealty, and wouldst thou spurn the poor
maiden's heart?" She pulled her handkerchief out of her belt,
flourished it to her eyes, then suddenly subsided into laughter, and an
easy: "The poor old scarecrow! Jack! it's not kind... What about that
kiss?"
"I am going to marry Lady Anne Mulliner," repeated Malham once more.
Celia put her head on one side, and looked at him with her winsome look,
the look he most loved to see.
"All right, ducky doo! Why shouldn't you? She'll be _most_ pleased.
But for to-night, you see, you belong to me, and--er--I haven't seen you
for three whole days!"
"Celia, you must believe me. I mean it. I proposed to Lady Anne an
hour ago, and she accepted me. We are engaged. I came straight here to
tell you."
The smile faded from Celia's face. She looked startled and grave, but
there was no serious alarm on her face.
"Jack--why?"
He threw out his arms with a gesture of despair.
"Because I can't endure this life. I've missed that case; it has gone
past me as usual, to a fellow with influence. There is no hope for a
man who has no position, no one behind. It would drive me mad to go on
year after year with this hopeless struggle. It is driving me mad now.
To-night I felt desperate. I would have given anything in the world to
buy my chance, and the opportunity came. I took it. I had not the
power to refuse."
"Poor Jack!" she said softly. "Poor Jack!"
He had expected reproaches, tears, wild protestations. Celia was
impetuous by nature, and the peace between them had not been unbroken by
storms. He was prepared for violence, but this gentleness played havoc
with his composure. His face twitched, he turned towards her with
passionate entreaty.
"Celia, I'm a brute, a coward. Nothing that you can say of me is bad
enough. You've been an angel, and I know, I knew all the time that I
hurt you by delaying our marriage. You would have been satisfied with a
small beginning; it was I who was not content. I've kept you waiting
year after year, and now at the end I have sold myself to another
woman."
"You can't sell what is not your own. You can't _give_ what is not your
own. You belong to me. I'm not going to give you up!"
She rose, and going up to him clasped both hands round his arm. Her
face was white, but she smiled still; on her pale cheek a dimple dipped
and waned.
"You were tired and depressed. You saw the chance, and for a moment it
seemed the easiest way, but you can't do it, Jack; you can't do it!
There's something else that you had forgotten. There's _me_! You love
me, Jack."
She raised her face to his with a wooing smile, and a groan burst from
his lips. This was torture. His heart was torn, but his resolution
remained unchanged.
"Heaven knows I do. You are the only woman I can ever love. I love you
more dearly than anything on earth. Except one!"
"And that?"
"Myself. Success. The career that Lady Anne can give--"
"Poor Jack!" sighed Celia again. She leaned her head on his shoulder
with her old movement of confiding love. For five long years those
broad shoulders had been her resting-place, a bulwark between herself
and the outer world. She drew him with her to the sofa, and rested
there now. It was impossible to thrust her away.
"If you loved another woman, darling, if you had grown tired of me, I'd
let you go without a word. I'd _want_ you to go, but I'm not going to
let you spoil your life. I haven't loved you all these years without
knowing your faults as well as your virtues. The outside world sees
your cleverness and charm, but the best in you, the very best Jack--that
belongs to me! If you lost me, it would die. There'd be nothing left
but the husk of John Malham. The cold, hard husk with nothing inside."
"You may be right, Celia. I expect you are right, but I have made my
choice. You can't understand, no woman could understand how men can put
ambition before love, but they do it. It is done every day. I don't
say I shall not suffer--you know I shall suffer!" His voice broke
suddenly. "Celia, _darling_!"
She was silent for a moment, lying motionless against his heart, then
she spoke in a soft murmur of reminiscent tenderness.
"D'you remember, Jack, the evening we were engaged? You walked about
all night because you were afraid you might go to sleep and think it was
a dream, and you scribbled a letter in pencil beneath a lamp-post, and
put it into the letter-box so that I might have it at breakfast. I've
got it yet--in tissue paper, to keep the pencil fresh."
"Celia--don't! You torture me. Of course I remember."
"D'you remember that day up the river when we quarrelled, and I cried
all over the tea? When I got home at night my face was all smudged.
I'd been handling the kettle, and then dried my eyes, and you had never
said a word about it, but had been so _lovely_ to me all the way home.
I _did_ love you for that, Jack!"
"I had made you cry to start with. I've made you cry too often. Don't
cry for me now, Celia! I'm not worth it. You will be better without
me."
Then for the first time there came a flash of anger. She sat up
suddenly and faced him with flashing eyes.
"How _dare_ you say it? How dare you say such a lie? _Without_ you?
What would be left to me if you went? You _are_ my life. There has
been no room for anyone else; you have demanded everything for
yourself,--all my care, all my thought, all interest, all my love,--and
I have given them to you, till there is nothing left, and I am powerless
to live alone. You know it is true!"
"You think so now, Celia, but you will find life easier without me.
This hopeless waiting is hard on a woman, and I've drawn on you all
these years, always asking, always needing. It's a wrench, but it will
be better for us both. Celia, I haven't given you up without a
struggle. I make no defence. I know I am treating you abominably, but
this thing is stronger than myself. I _cannot_ go on. I must go my own
way."
"I will _never_ give you up!" said Celia firmly. She held out her left
hand the third finger of which was encircled by the engagement ring, an
inexpensive trifle in turquoise and pearls. "You put that ring there,
and made me swear that it should never come off until the wedding-ring
was put in its place. It never shall! It's no use giving me back my
promise. You don't realise what you are asking. It is an
impossibility. I can never believe that you seriously intend to marry
another woman until I see her walking out of church on your arm. And
then--"
"Then--"
"It would kill me, Jack. I could not live."
Malham rose hastily, and strode across the room. His endurance was at
an end. Of what use to prolong the agony? His mind was made up, it was
useless to go on torturing Celia and himself.
"It is too late, the thing is done. There is no drawing back. We are
engaged."
"Will you walk about all night, Jack, in case you fall asleep and find
it is a dream? Will you write a letter in pencil and slip it into her
letterbox so that she may have it at breakfast?"
"Celia, don't! For God's sake, don't... I can't stand this!"
"Will you quarrel with her, Jack, and kiss, and make it up? Will she
stroke your head when you are tired, to take away the pain, and will you
lie and look up in her face, and make up little verses about her eyes?
I've got all your verses, Jack, dozens of them, locked away in my desk."
"You know I won't. That sort of thing is over for ever. It is the
price I shall have to pay. One can't have the one big thing, and
everything else into the bargain. I have made my choice, and the rest
must go."
"But we must make quite sure what _is_ the big thing. _I_ am your big
thing, Jack. You are tired and discouraged, and when people are
discouraged things look out of proportion. To-day you put success
first, and Celia second, but you will find out your mistake. You can't
live without me, Jack, any more than I can live without you. It's gone
deeper than you think."
Malham's hand was on the door, but he turned at that last word and
looked at her across the room. She sat as he had so often seen her,
leaning forward from the waist, her chin cupped in her hand, her grey
eyes bent on him with an intensity of love. Among the drab furnishings
of the room, the glowing mass of her hair shone with a burnished
splendour. The sight of her represented all that was gracious and
beautiful--his thought leaped to that other woman from whom he had
parted but an hour before, he saw the two faces side by side, and for a
moment he wavered. Only a moment, then he hardened himself, and turned
once more.
"It is too late. I have made my choice. Goodbye, Celia."
"_Au revoir_, Jack. _My_ Jack! You will come back to me!"
Her voice rang strong and valiant. In just that voice she had put
courage into him time and again when he had come nigh to despair. In
just that voice had she breathed her undying confidence in the future.
But this time when he was lost to sight, and the thud of the closing
door sounded through the little house, Celia laid her bright head on the
table, and her tears fell fast on the scattered papers.
In aristocratic circles engagements are of short duration. Malham was
thankful of the fact, and acceded eagerly to a proposed date less than
six weeks ahead. A furnished flat was secured in which he and Lady Anne
could set up housekeeping, leaving the choice of a permanent residence
to be made at leisure. He welcomed that decision as a relief from a
painful ordeal. It had been a favourite amusement of Celia's to go
house-hunting on holiday afternoons, and under her guidance it had
proved a beguiling occupation. When luck was in the ascendant she would
put on her best hat, obtain orders to view mansions in West End squares,
and give herself airs to the caretaker on the subject of ball-room
accommodation. When luck waned she would escort him to garden suburbs,
and gush over a sitting-room four yards by five. And the furniture for
mansion and villa alike had been chosen a hundred times over from a
point of vantage outside shop windows. It would have been molten
torture to go house-hunting and furnishing with Lady Anne!
In a quiet unobtrusive fashion Lady Anne was exacting. She expected
daily visits, which were periods of acute misery to her fiance. Her
uncouth efforts to worm herself into his confidence shamed and
exasperated; he was disagreeably conscious of disappointing her
expectations, yet more and more did it become impossible to act the
lover's part. Conversation would lag between them and finally come to
an end, then Anne's small eyes would redden as from unshed tears, she
would lay her chill hands on his, and ask wistfully:
"Is anything the matter, John? Have I offended you in any way?"
"How could you offend me, Anne? You are everything that is good and
generous. I am most grateful for all you have done."
"But you must love me, too. I want you to love me. You _do_ love me,
John?"
Once or twice at such questioning, a flood of anger and loathing, almost
maniacal in its fury, rushed through Malham's veins, urging him on until
it was all he could do to refrain from bursting into cruel laughter,
into bitter, gibing words. Love _her_! That pitiful, sexless thing--he
who had known Celia, and held her in his arms. Was Anne blind that she
could not see what manner of woman she was? Had she no sense that she
could not realise the nature of the bargain between them?
And every week of that endless six a letter came to him from Celia
bearing the same message:
"I have seen it in the paper, Jack, but I know it is not true. You will
never do it. You can't do it, Jack. You belong to me. Dear, it will
be harder with every day that passes. Be brave and end it _now_! I
know you better than you know yourself. Nothing that she can give you
will make you happy apart from me. It's been hard for you--I know it
too well, and you shall never hear a word of reproach, but--come soon,
Jack! It's weary waiting. I have given you so much that I've no power
to live alone. Your Celia."
Each letter said the same thing in different words, and each time that
one arrived the struggle between love and ambition was fought afresh in
Malham's mind. Never before had he realised all that Celia had counted
for in his life; never had he yearned so passionately for her presence.
A dozen times over he started with rapid footsteps to answer her appeal
in person, but never once did he arrive at his destination. The very
sight of the mean streets through which he was obliged to pass, served
to chill his enthusiasm and awake the remembrance of all that a
reconciliation must entail. To break off his engagement with Lady Anne
Mulliner at the eleventh hour would be to alienate his political patrons
and ring the death knell of his hopes. He would be obliged to drag on
year after year waiting for a chance of distinguishing himself at the
Bar, living meantime in one of these mean little houses, in one of these
mean little streets, turning out morning after morning to make his way
to the Tube, among the crowd of black-coated, middle-class workers.
The struggle ended each time in the victory of ambition. He turned and
retraced his steps towards his own chambers.
The last letter arrived on the morning of the marriage. Its message was
the same, but the valiant confidence had waned, and a note of wildness
took its place. Yet even now Celia would not, could not, believe that
his decision was irrevocable. Even now she adjured him to reflect, to
remember, to be warned! The handwriting was rough and untidy, hardly
recognisable as Celia's dainty calligraphy; in every line, in every word
there were signs of agitation and despair, but as Malham recognised with
a pang, there was still no word of reproach.
He kissed the letter and held it passionately to his lips, before he
dropped it into the fire. The husband of the Lady Anne Mulliner must
not treasure love letters from another woman. The paper flamed orange
and blue, then shrivelled into blackened ashes. Malham, looking on,
read into the sight a simile with his own life. The beauty, the
splendour of it were burnt out; nothing but ashes remained.
It was a curious reflection for a man who would that day plant his foot
firmly on the ladder of success!
The fashionable church was filled to overflowing; reporters seated in
points of vantage jotted down the names of the aristocratic guests with
other details of public interest. "Marriage of an Earl's Daughter."
"Romantic Marriage."
"Marriage in High Life." The titles were already drawn out awaiting the
following description. "The Duchess of A. looked charming in amber
velvet with a sable cloak. The Marchioness of B. looked charming in
green, with a hat with white plumes. The bridesmaids, eleven in number,
were a charming group in grey satin and silver veils. They carried
charming bouquets of azaleas, which with charming gold and pearl bangles
were the gift of the bridegroom. Their names were --. The bride wore a
gown of white satin covered with old English point lace, the court train
was draped with the same valuable lace, and lined with silver tissue.
She carried a bouquet of orchids." There were a dozen reporters in the
church, and they used the word "charming" many, dozens of times
collectively, but not one of them ventured to apply it to the bride!
Lady Anne cried in a softly persistent fashion throughout the ceremony,
and the sight of her tears awoke a smouldering fury in Malham's heart.
Why need she cry? She had gained her desire. It was he who should cry!
In the vestry a young married relative came forward, and with deft
hands straightened the twisted wreath and arranged the folds of the
veil. "Really, Anne!" she cried impatiently, "you positively _must_
think of your appearance. My dear, if you could see yourself! For
goodness' sake pull yourself together." As she turned away, she shot a
glance at Malham, standing tall and impassive beside the table, and
there came into her eyes a cold comprehending gleam. "There," said her
eyes, "stands a man who has sold his soul!" There were eyes all round
him, studying him where he stood, and in them all he read the same
condemnation, the same scorn.
The organ blared; the bridesmaids ranged themselves behind the bridal
couple, the procession left the vestry, and proceeded down the aisle.
Now there were more eyes, hundreds of eyes, staring with merciless gaze.
The bride was trembling with nervousness, her chin shaking like that of
a frightened child. All her life she had been snubbed and kept in the
background; terror of her conspicuous position for the time being
swamped her joy in her handsome spouse. The sound of her panting breath
came to Malham's ears; he hurried his pace in fear of another breakdown,
and the laces of the bridal train caught in the carved woodwork of a
pew.
There was a momentary pause while a bridesmaid came to the rescue, and
Malham, turning to discover the nature of the hindrance, felt an icy
chill spread down his spine. In the pew by his side, within touch of
his hand, stood Celia, tall and slim, gazing straight into his face.
Her hair glowed like flames round her colourless face, her lips were
parted, showing a gleam of teeth, her head was thrown back on the white
column of her throat,--each cherished detail of her beauty smote on
Malham with a separate pang, but it was the expression in her eyes which
chilled his blood. _What was the expression in her eyes_?
Malham's heart beat in sickening thuds. Was it a moment, or an hour,
during which he stood and stared back into those terrible eyes? To the
onlookers the pause was barely perceptible; to him it seemed endless as
eternity.
It was only when he was seated beside his bride in the carriage, and
Anne was sobbing against his shoulder, that Malham realised the meaning
of Celia's eyes.
They were dead eyes. They had _no_ expression!
The reception was a nightmare, but it came to an end at last, and Malham
and his bride bade good-bye to their friends, and started on the first
stage of their honeymoon. It had been arranged that they should remain
in town until the next morning, when they were to make an early start
for the Continent. They drove to a fashionable hotel, where a suite of
rooms had been secured for their use, and after a couple of hours' rest,
went through the ordeal of their first _tete-a-tete_ meal.
Malham felt like a man in a dream. He moved, he spoke, he ate, and
drank as might a machine wound up to perform certain actions, but he was
conscious of nothing but a pair of dead eyes gazing at him out of a
living face. There was only one feeling of which he was capable--a
feeling of fear--of deadly, overmastering fear.
Dinner over, Malham excused himself, and repaired to the great lounge of
the hotel. Anne had recovered her composure, and had embarked upon a
series of sentimental reminiscences which bade fair to drive him
demented. At all costs he must escape from her presence.
He seated himself at one of the small tables and automatically lifted an
evening paper. The first thing that met his eye was his own name at the
head of a column. "Marriage of Mr John Malham and Lady Anne Mulliner."
He crushed the sheet with a savage hand, and thrust it back on the
table, and as he did so another paragraph separated itself from the
context and smote upon his brain.
"Suicide of a High School Teacher. A well-dressed young woman was
drowned in the Serpentine at five o'clock this afternoon. The
life-saving apparatus was put in operation with all possible speed, but
when the body was recovered, life was found to be extinct. The deceased
had letters in her possession addressed to Miss Celia Bevan, 19
Wrothesley Street, Maida Vale. It is believed to be a case of
premeditated suicide."
Across the hall two young men were whispering to each other behind their
papers.
"That fellow over there, by the big palm,--that's Malham! Reading an
account of his own wedding. Clever fellow, but poor as a rat. Been
dragging along for years at the Bar, but that's all over now! With a
father-in-law like Lord Fluteson to give him a push, he'll soon romp
ahead. Jolly good day's work this has been for him!"
His companion looked across the lounge.
"Some fellows," he said grudgingly, "have all the luck!"