'IL NE FAUT PAS POUSSER AU BOUT LES MALHEUREUX.'
Churchill Penwyn was one of those men who are sure to obtain a certain
amount of notice in whatsoever circle they appear—a man upon whom the
stamp of good blood, or good breeding, had been set in a distinct and
palpable manner—a man who had no need for self-assertion.
It would have been difficult for any one to state in what the
distinction lay. He was not particularly good-looking. Intellect,
rather than regularity of feature, was the leading characteristic of
his countenance. Already, though he was still on the sunward side of
his thirtieth birthday, the dark brown hair grew thinly upon the broad
high brow, showing signs of premature baldness. His features were
sharply cut, but by no means faultless, the mouth somewhat sunken, the
lips thin. His light grey eyes had a keen, cold lustre; only those
who saw Churchill Penwyn in some rare moment of softer feeling knew
that those severe orbs could be beautiful. Mr. Penwyn was a barrister,
still in the uphill stage of his career. He got an occasional brief,
went on circuit assiduously, and did a little in the literature of
politics—a hard, dry kind of literature, but fairly remunerative—when
he got it to do. He had contributed hard-headed statistical papers to
the _Edinburgh_ and the _Westminster_, and knew a good deal about the
condition of the operative classes. He had lectured in some of the
northern manufacturing towns, and knew the black country by heart.
People talked of him as a young man who was sure to make his mark by
and by; but by and by might be a long way off. He would be fifty years
of age, perhaps, before he had worked his way to the front.
Churchill Penwyn went a great deal into society, when it is considered
how hard and how honestly he worked; but the houses in which he was
to be found were always houses affected by the best people. He never
wasted himself among second-rate circles. He was an excellent art
critic; knew enough about music to talk of it cleverly, though he had
hardly the faculty of distinguishing one tune from another; waltzed
like a Viennese; rode like a centaur; spoke three Continental languages
perfectly. It was his theory that no man should presume to enter
society who could not do everything that society could require him to
do. Society was worth very little in itself, according to Churchill
Penwyn, but a man owed it to himself to be admired and respected by
society.
'I see a good many men who go into the world to stare about them
through eye-glasses,' said Churchill. 'If I couldn't do anything more
than that I should spend my evenings in my own den.'
Churchill Penwyn went into the gay world with a definite aim—some of
the people he met must needs be useful to him sooner or later.
_Ohne Hast, ohne Rast_—without haste, without rest—was his motto. He
had it engraved on his signet ring, instead of the Penwyn crest. He was
never in a hurry. While striving for success he had the air of a man
who had already succeeded. He occupied a third floor in the Temple, and
lived like an anchorite, but his tailor and bootmaker were among the
best in London, and he was a member of the Travellers' and the Garrick.
He was to be seen sometimes lunching at his club, and occasionally
entertained a friend at luncheon, but he rarely dined there, and was
never seen to drink anything more costly than a pint of La Rose, or
Medoc. No man had ever mastered the art of economy more thoroughly than
Churchill Penwyn, and yet he had never laid himself open to the charge
of meanness.
Miss Bellingham received him with a bright look of welcome, despite
the dowager's warning, and their hands met, with a gentle pressure on
Churchill's part. Viola was discreetly occupied in showing Mrs. Noyce
a new photograph, and only gave the visitor a bow and a smile. So he
had a fair excuse for seating himself next Madge, on the divan by the
fireplace, where there was just room for those two.
'I did not think you would come to-night,' said Madge, opening and
shutting her large black fan, with a slightly nervous movement.
'Why not?'
'I saw your name in the paper, at Halifax, or somewhere, hundreds of
miles away.'
'I was at Halifax the day before yesterday, but I would not miss my
Saturday evening here. You see I have come a quarter of an hour in
advance of your people, so that I might have you to myself for a few
minutes.'
'It is so good of you,' faltered Madge, 'and you know I am always glad.'
'I should be wretched if I did not know it.'
This was going further than Mr. Penwyn's usual limits. The man was the
very soul of prudence. No sweet words, no tender promises, had ever
passed between these two, and yet they knew themselves beloved. Madge
knew it to her sorrow, for she was fain to admit the wisdom of the
dowager's warning. It would never do for her to marry Churchill Penwyn.
Happily for her, up to this time Churchill had never asked her to be
his wife.
'He is too wise,' she said to herself, with the faintest touch of
bitterness. 'Too much a man of the world.'
But that this man of the world loved her she was very sure.
For just ten minutes they sat side by side, talking of indifferent
things, but only as people talk who are not quite indifferent to each
other. And then more visitors were announced. Sir Nugent and his
friends came upstairs; the rooms began to fill. Musical people arrived.
A German with long rough hair, bony wrists, and an eye-glass, seated
himself at the piano, and began a performance of so strictly classical
a character that he had the enjoyment of it all to himself, for nobody
else listened. Minor chords chased one another backwards and forwards
about the middle of the piano as if they were hunting for the melody
and couldn't find it. Little runs and arpeggio passages went under
and over each other, and wriggled in and out and up and down in a
distracted way, still searching for the subject, and finally gave up
the quest in utter despair, appropriately expressed by vague grumblings
in the bass, which slowly faded into silence. Whereupon every one
became enthusiastic in their admiration.
After this a young lady in pink sang an airy little _chanson_, with
elaborate variations—using her bright soprano voice as freely as if
she had been Philomel, trilling her vespers in the dusky woods of June.
And then Madge Bellingham sat down to the piano, and played as few
young ladies play—as if her glad young soul were in the music.
It was only an Hungarian march that she played. There were no musical
fireworks—no difficulties conquered; none of those passages which
make the listeners exclaim, 'Poor girl! how she must have practised!'
It was but a national melody—simple and spirit-stirring—played as if
the soul of a patriot were guiding those supple fingers. The graceful
figure was bent a little over the key-board—the dark eyes followed
the swift flight of the hands over the keys. She seemed to caress the
notes as she struck them—to play with the melody. Pride, love, hope,
rage, every passion expressed itself by turns as she followed that wild
strange music through the mazes of its variations, never losing the
subject. It sounded like the war-cry of a free people. Even Churchill
Penwyn, who in a general way cared so little for music, listened
entranced to this. He could hardly have recalled the air half an hour
later, but for the moment he was enchanted. He stood a little way from
the instrument, watching the player, watching the beautiful head, with
its dark rippling hair wound into a Greek knot at the back, the perfect
throat, with its classic necklet of old Wedgwood medallions set in
plainest gold; the drooping lashes, as the downcast eyes followed the
flying touch. To hear Madge play was delightful, but to see her was
still better. And this man's love had all the strength of a passion
repressed. He had held himself in check so long, and every time he saw
her he found her more and more adorable.
The evening wore on. People came in and out. Madge played the hostess
divinely, always supported by Lady Cheshunt, who sat in the smaller
drawing-room as in a temple, and had all the best people brought to
her. Some came to Cavendish Row on their way somewhere else, and were
careful to let their acquaintance know that they were 'due' at some
very grand entertainment, and made rather a favour of coming to Sir
Nugent. The last of the guests went about half an hour after midnight,
and among the last Churchill Penwyn.
'May I bring you that book after church to-morrow?' he asked. The book
was a comedy of Augier's lately produced at the Français, which he had
been telling her about.
Madge looked embarrassed. She had a particular wish to avoid a
_tête-à-tête_ with Mr. Penwyn, and Sunday was an awkward day. Sir
Nugent would be at Hurlingham, most likely, and Viola was such a
foolish little thing, almost as bad as nobody.
'If you like' she answered. 'But why take the trouble to call on
purpose? You might bring it next Saturday, if you come to us.'
'I shall bring it you to-morrow,' he said, as they shook hands.
That tiresome Viola was in a hopeless state of headache and prostration
next morning, so Madge had to go to church alone. Coming out of the
pretty little Anglican temple she found herself face to face with
Churchill Penwyn. He had evidently been lying in wait for her.
'I was so afraid I might not find you at home,' he said, half
apologetically, 'so I thought I might as well walk this way. I knew
this was your church. I've brought you the play we were talking about.'
'You're very kind, but I hope you don't think I read French comedies on
Sundays?'
'Of course not; only Sunday is my leisure day, and I thought you would
not shut your door upon me even on Sunday.'
The church was only five minutes' walk from Cavendish Row. When Sir
Nugent's door was opened Mr. Penwyn followed Miss Bellingham into the
house as a matter of course. She had no help for it but to go quietly
upstairs to her fate. She almost knew what was coming. There had been
something in his manner last night that told her it was very near.
'Prudence, courage,' she whispered to herself, and then, 'Viola!' The
last word was a kind of charm.
The rooms looked bright and gay in the noontide sunlight, tempered by
Spanish blinds. The flowers, the feminine prettiness scattered about,
struck Churchill's eye, they gave such a look of home.
'If I could afford to give her as good a home as this!' he thought.
He shut the door carefully behind him, and glanced round the room to
make sure they were alone, and went close to Madge as she stood by one
of the small tables, fidgeting with the clasp of her prayer-book.
'I think you know why I came to-day,' he said.
'You have told me about three times,—to bring me "_La Quarantaine_."'
'I have come to tell you a secret I have kept more than a year. Have
you never guessed it, Madge? Have I been clever enough to hide the
truth altogether? I love you, dearest. I, penniless Churchill Penwyn,
dare to adore one of the belles of the season. I, who cannot for years
to come offer you a house in May Fair. I, who at most can venture to
begin married life in a Bloomsbury lodging, supported by the fruits of
my pen. It sounds like madness, doesn't it?'
'It is madness,' she answered, looking full at him with her truthful
eyes.
The answer surprised and humiliated him. He fancied she loved
him—would be ready to face poverty for his sake. She was so young, and
would hardly have acquired the wisdom of her world yet awhile.
'I beg your pardon,' he said, a curious change coming over his face,
a sudden coldness that made those definite features look as if they
had been cut out of stone. 'I have been deceiving myself all along, it
seems. I did not think I was quite indifferent to you.'
The eyelids drooped over the dark eyes for a moment, and were then
lifted suddenly, and the eyes met Churchill's. That one look told all.
She loved him.
'I have been learning to know the world while other girls are allowed
to dream,' she said. 'I know what the burden of debt means. Poverty
brings debt as a natural sequence. If you were a woodcutter and we
could live in a hovel and pay our way, there would be nothing appalling
in marriage. But our world will not let us live like that. We must play
at being fine ladies and gentlemen while our hearts are breaking, and
our creditors being ruined. Ever so long ago I made up my mind that
I must marry a rich man. If I have ever seemed otherwise to you than
a woman of the world, bent upon worldly success, I humbly beg you to
forgive me.'
'Madge,' cried Churchill, passionately, 'I will forgive anything if
you will only be frank. Were my luck to turn speedily, through some
unlooked-for professional success, for instance, would you have me
then?'
'If I stood alone in the world, if I had not my sister to consider,
I would marry you to-morrow. Yes, though you were a beggar,' she
answered, grandly.
He clasped her to his breast and kissed those proud lips. The first
lover's kiss that had ever rested there.
'I will be rich for your sake, distinguished for your sake,' he said
impetuously, 'if wealth and fame are within the reach of man's effort.'