A few days afterwards Sylvester received an invitation to the wedding,
accompanied by a despairing note from Lady Milmo. Ella _would_ do
it, and who could prevent her? When a woman was _bent_ on a thing,
especially _matrimony_, no mule in the world was so _obstinate_. Lady
Milmo italicised freely, “obstinate” being doubly underlined. She hoped,
however, that the lovers would be happy, explained that the wedding
would be as quiet as her enormous circle of acquaintance would allow,
and besought Sylvester to come and support her as the only soul that
sympathised with her in this disastrous occurrence. Sylvester read the
letter through somewhat grimly. Then he glanced at the silver-printed
card. The conjuncture of the names caused him a sudden feeling of
repugnance, and with an impulse he did not seek to explain, he threw the
card into the fire. As for the invitation, he declined it on the score
of professional engagements; also because he disapproved of marriage
in the abstract. If all the race for one generation, he wrote, passed
a self-denying ordinance of celibacy, there would be an end of this
miserable thing that was called humanity.
On receipt of this letter, Lady Milmo smiled astutely and took advantage
of a confidential hour before bedtime to tread upon delicate ground.
“I shall always wonder why you refused Sylvester Lanyon, Ella,” she said
meditatively.
The blood flew angrily into Ella's cheeks, and she turned away her head.
“I never refused him because he never did me the honour to ask me to
marry him.”
“Perhaps he needed a little encouragement, dear,” said Lady Milmo,
somewhat taken aback.
“He needs a lot to make a man of him that only his Maker could give
him,” replied Ella, turning round vindictively. “His blood is a kind
of Condy's Fluid, and his heart is a glass retort. He's just a piece of
sentient mechanism. How do you think a man like that could ask a girl to
marry him?”
“Well, he did once,” murmured Lady Milmo.
“He was different then,” said Ella, with a queer little shock of pain.
“I used to like him. But now--now there is no one in the whole wide
world I dislike so much. Sometimes when he comes here and talks to me
in that cold, emotionless voice of his, I absolutely hate him. And if it
wasn't for my dear old Uncle Matthew--” she broke off and rang the bell
for her maid. “It's about time to go to bed, auntie.”
Lady Milmo made no response. A flash of the truth occurred to her;
but the whole matter of Ella's state of mind was very complicated. She
yawned behind gracefully lifted Angers.
“I think so too, my dear,” she said.
They bade each other good-night, and Ella fell asleep while cataloguing
the infirmities of the man whom she was not about to marry.
The man whom she was to marry in ten days' time was meanwhile passing
through a period of sweet delight alternating with the most poignant
anxiety. Ready money for the ordinary expenses of the wedding he had in
plenty. Some overdue royalties on prints from a couple of pictures came
in most opportunely, and these, added to an advance made by a friendly
editor for whose weekly he wrote the art article, put him beyond the
fear of embarrassment. But the thought of the £3,000 which he could not
restore, haunted him night and day. Urquhart had twice asked casually
for a cheque for the amount of his deposit, and he had promised in his
off-hand way. A third demand had been made somewhat threateningly; he
had laughed airily, apologised for his forgetfulness, and undertaken
to send him a cheque for £2000 by return of post. After that Roderick
avoided his club and the haunts where he was likely to meet Urquhart.
That was three days ago. Roderick hoped that Urquhart would not renew
his request till after his marriage. Then he could obtain a large sum
from Ella, who would be no longer under Matthew Lanyon's trusteeship,
but would be free to dispose of her money as she chose. Besides, no man
would pester another for money during his honeymoon. He would have ample
time to arrange things. He had been rather sore at Matthew's absolute
refusal to allow Ella to make any marriage settlements. Not that he had
taken the initiative in the matter. Matthew himself had done so, in a
friendly letter in which he referred to the greater dignity and feeling
of independence of the man upon whom none of his wife's fortune had
been settled. Roderick had acquiesced with good grace, and in his heart
wished that he really possessed the delicacy of sentiment that would
have made his deprecation of such things as marriage settlements
genuine. For he had grown to love Ella genuinely, and he hated himself
for counting on her money.
“Just one week more, dear, and then we shall begin our new life
together.” So ran a sentence of a letter from Ella, which Roderick was
reading at breakfast. He sighed, rested his elbows on the table and his
chin in his hands, his yellow beard protruding over his fingers, and
gazed sadly over the elegantly set meal. Their new life! He was
past forty, past the age of fresh ideals. Hitherto his had been the
gratification of the lust of the eyes and the lust of the flesh.
At times he deceived himself, an exuberant mood carrying its own
persuasiveness. But there were hours, and they had been very frequent of
late, when he saw himself as he was and hated the picture. A _poseur_,
a sham, a creature of imperfect moral sense; gifted, it is true, with
certain artistic faculties, wherewith he imposed upon a superficial
world and so made his living; but insincere, devoid of real enthusiasms,
cynically despising the gospel that he preached. For the first time
he had touched a fervent and earnest soul, and the sense of his
responsibility overwhelmed him. He rose and looked into the Empire
mirror over the fireplace. He was middle-aged, puffed, wrinkled, worn
out. There could be no new ideals,--only a reattiring of the old shams
that had peopled his life. He threw himself down in an armchair and read
Ella's letter through again.
“My God,” said he, from his heart, as a million futile men have said,
“if only I had ordered my life differently!”
A trim maid-servant, one of the staff of the mansions in which his
chambers were situated, entered with the announcement of a visitor. A
moment afterwards Bevis Urquhart came in, languid, supercilious, with an
ugly expression on his flabby face. Roderick rose, assumed at once his
jaunty manner.
“Sit down, my dear friend. You come like a ray of morning sunshine
piercing through the fog.”
Urquhart put his hat on the table and unbuttoned his gloves. “No, I
won't sit down, thank you,” he drawled. “My brougham is at the door, and
I'm in a hurry. I rather want that subscription back.”
“Why, my dear fellow, you 're worse than a bankrupt bootmaker,” cried
Roderick, pleasantly.
“Perhaps I am, but I want the money,” replied the young man.
“I'll send you a cheque this afternoon, 'pon my soul,” said Roderick.
“You've told me that before, Usher. I want you to write the cheque now.”
Roderick looked him between the eyes, and threw off his mask of
cordiality.
“Suppose I say I don't like your tone, and will see you damned before I
do otherwise than suit my own convenience?”
“Then I shall conclude you have bagged the money and can't repay.”
“You are insulting,” said Roderick.
“I believe I am stating facts. It was rather odd your meeting those
bills that Willie Lathrop backed, just at that time, wasn't it?”
Roderick again cursed Willie Lathrop under his breath. He turned aside
and lit a cigarette, so as to gain time. Then he forced a laugh.
“Come, come, Urquhart. This is all nonsense. It was too large a sum to
leave idle at my bankers,--besides, there's always a risk, you know,--so
I invested it,--in Trust Funds, of course. One can't buy and sell stock
over a counter. There are delays of correspondence. And I've been
so devilish busy with wedding preparations, you know, that I haven't
attended to it. I'll write at once to my broker. There.”
Urquhart listened with an incredulous smile. He gathered up his hat and
gloves.
“Sometimes it pleases me to act the Godforsaken fool you did yourself
the pleasure to call me. Sometimes it doesn't. I'll give you till
to-morrow night to send me your cheque for £2,000 with the per cent
interest. If you don't--”
“Well, my dear friend, what if I don't?”
“I'll publish it all over London that you have bagged the money--and
make sure that Miss Defries hears it.”
“And what if I kick you down the ten flights of stairs of these
mansions?” snarled Roderick, his hands clenched and the sweat standing
on his forehead through the effort to maintain self-control.
“I'll publish it at once,” said the young man, languidly. “Good day,
Usher. Till tomorrow evening, then?” He nodded superciliously and
disappeared, leaving his enemy impotent with wrath and fear.
“Revengeful devil!” he exclaimed stupidly.
The servant came in to clear away the breakfast things. Roderick pushed
aside the _portiere_ and went into his studio. The great window was
open. He stood by it, heedless of the raw, damp air. From beneath the
veil of fog came the uncanny rumbling of the traffic in the street.
Everything was hidden. He seemed to be an immeasurable height from the
earth. All below was abysmal, inscrutable.
A thought shuddered through his being. One plunge into the unknown,
and the sordid fears of living would be at an end. But the fog made him
cough, and the tiny check threw him back again, like a wheel, into his
normal groove. He shut the window and walked moodily to the studio fire.
Two thousand pounds had to be obtained by to-morrow night. Otherwise,
social disaster and loss of Ella. He had not the faith to trust her with
his wretched story. “I promised to marry a gentleman, and not a thief,”
he heard her saying. The tone of her voice stabbed him with a greater
pain than he had thought himself capable of feeling. There was only
one way out of it,--another appeal to his father. He would go down to
Ayresford at once. It was characteristic of him that he shivered at the
thought of the comfortless journey.
A few hours later he stood, white and haggard, in the porch of Mr.
Usher's house, bidding his father good-bye. It was fresh and clear
at Ayresford, and the gathering twilight deepened the country hush of
things.
“I've always looked upon myself as a bad lot, but compared with you I'm
an innocent babe,” said Roderick, in a queer, low voice.
The old man put out a deprecatory hand and looked at his son out of
expressionless blue eyes.
“I only point the way, my son. These reverses on the Stock Exchange have
brought me near to penury. I look forward to your marriage, so that you
can provide for your poor old father.”
“You could easily have lent me the money,” muttered Roderick.
“I have shown you how to obtain it. Do not fear Matthew Lanyon, my son.
We are not friends, and I will meet him no longer. But he is a snake
with the fangs drawn; and I have drawn them. I have power over men. It
is my way.”
There was a touch of savage exultation in the old man's tone which was
new to Roderick.
“You are quite sure about it?” he asked quickly.
“He would not dare to hurt a hair of my dear boy's head.”
“What the devil is this hold you have got over him?”
“I'll leave that to you as your inheritance, my son.”
Roderick watched the old, ignoble figure with a feeling of horrible
repulsion. He turned, bidding him an abrupt farewell, and walked fast
through the garden and out at the gate on to the road that led to the
station. At the refreshment bar he drank a shilling's worth of brandy.
Late that night he went into his club,--not the desolate Hyde Park where
he had drunk tea with Ella,--but the little Belvidere in St. James's
Street where they talk Art in Gothic capitals and play “bridge” for
high stakes. As he had hoped, he found Urquhart in the smoking-room
surrounded by half a dozen men who formed the esoteric ring of the club.
The young semi-millionaire was holding forth on his newly discovered
genius, Pradovitch.
“Thought rapt, deep, unexpressive,--that is the only medium for the
soul. The only ideal of life is to express all consciousness in terms of
abstract and absolute thought--I don't know if I make myself clear. But
that in vulgar language is his doctrine. As for Art, what is it but the
scum that rises to the surface of the pure well of thought?”
“Oh, rot!” exclaimed young Willie Lathrop, rising with a yawn. “The
Venus of Milo and Beethoven are good enough for me. Let's have a
flutter. Hallo, Usher--”
Roderick came forward, elegant in his evening dress and great white bow,
and suave in manner.
“Gentlemen,” he said formally, in a voice that commanded attention, “I
am glad to find you all here. Urquhart came to my rooms this morning
and expressed himself in a manner that I am sure he will see calls for a
public apology. I take you all to witness that I hand him my cheque for
£2,050, being the amount he deposited with me as his subscription to the
funds of the Walden Art Colony, together with the interest on the same.”
And with his grandest gesture he held out the cheque to Urquhart. There
was a great silence as every one looked at the young man to see what
he would do. He took the cheque, eyed it for a moment, and then met
Roderick's mocking glance.
“It is quite correct?”
“Quite,” said Urquhart; and then somewhat desperately, “I have much
pleasure in withdrawing anything I said this morning that you may have
objected to.”
“Hooray!” cried Lathrop. “Now shake hands, you two, and be friends
again. And Urquhart shall stand the crowd supper on the interest.”
And so peace was concluded. But Roderick did not sleep that night, and
the next day it was torture to meet a girl's honest eyes.
She noticed his preoccupation, was tenderly solicitous. What were his
anxieties?
“If I have any, they are lest any unforeseen disaster should occur
between now and Wednesday,” he replied.
“Why, what should come?” she asked.
“It is only a man's inability to realise that such happiness can ever be
his.”
He burst into rapturous speech, carrying the girl with him on its flood.
For the moment she forgot his troubled look, and when he had gone her
attention was absorbed by practical details. In fact, during these days
of hurried preparation, the material affairs of life were sufficient for
her content. Countless letters had to be written, innumerable purchases
to be made, plans for future living to be discussed. At no time does
modern civilisation allow sentiment to come less within a woman's
spiritual horizon than during the week before her marriage.
As usually happens, the wedding preparations extended far beyond the
original design. The guest list swelled day by day. Instead of a mere
vicar, Lady Milmo's favourite colonial bishop was engaged for the
ceremony. The bridesmaids increased in number from two to six. The
meeting of a few intimates at Lady Milmo's to drink the bride and
bridegroom's health was gradually magnified into a vast reception for
which the house was being turned upside down. On one point Ella remained
firm. She would be married in a travelling dress. Then there were after
arrangements to be considered. Lady Milmo's old friends, Lord and Lady
Greatorex, who were wintering in Cairo, had put their little place in
Shropshire at the disposal of the young couple for their honeymoon. When
they came back to London, they would take a furnished flat until a house
could be found to suit them; but the furnished flat had first to be
obtained. The days passed in a whirl of occupation, and when Ella laid
her head upon the pillow at night, sheer physical fatigue sent her
forthwith to sleep.
Once she was touched to tears. Matthew Lanyon had given her a
magnificent present which already stood on the special table in the
morning room. But he had also sent her an intimate gift, a little ruby
ring, with a letter of tender affection. “It belonged to my dear wife,”
he wrote; “and I could give you nothing dearer to me,--perhaps it
symbolises a drop of my heart's blood.... I would come to your wedding,
my dear, but this old machine is getting cracked and wheezy, and is at
present laid up for repairs. I must get Sylvester to come and mend me.
But all my love will be with you.” And that night she sat up late in her
room writing him a long, long letter, pouring out her heart to him, as
she had never done before.
*****
The letter reached him on Monday morning. He had been suffering
considerably, and Sylvester was there, having made hasty arrangements
for the care of his patients in town. Matthew submitted to confinement
to the house, but insisted on getting up for breakfast. Bed was not
the proper place for a man to eat in, he declared, and nothing but main
force would have kept him there. So he sat down to table and made a
valiant pretence at eating, while Miss Lanyon cast appealing glances at
Sylvester and suggested arrow-root, and beef-tea, and eggs, and brandy,
at intervals.
“If you hint at any more horrors, Agatha,” said the old man, looking up
from his letter, “I'll go to the office.”
The white reflected glare from a slight fall of snow that covered the
lawn filled the comfortable dining-room. Miss Lanyon glanced through the
French window and shivered. Matthew was quite capable of carrying
out his threat. She refrained from further suggestions, and meanwhile
Matthew finished his letter in peace.
He folded it up when he had read it and put it in his pocket. He felt
happier. Ella had revealed to him a Roderick that he had never realised.
The girl's early struggles showed that she had mistrusted him. Now
she had arrived at the man's heart and found it loyal and worthy. A
fluttering at the glass caused him to rise and gather up a handful
of breadcrumbs for the birds. Having thrown it out on to the lawn, he
closed the window and stood watching the feast, Dorothy by his side. It
was a bright morning, the sun shining from a pale blue sky and glinting
on the myriad facets of the snow. The red clusters on a holly bush and
the breasts of a couple of robins among the fluttering birds made tiny
specks of colour against the white. The earth was sweet. Matthew felt a
sense of exhilaration. After all, perhaps this was the great reparation
that through his indirect agency had been accomplished. Materially,
Roderick was relieved for life from the sordid cares of poverty; and
spiritually, if ever woman could raise a man's soul to gentler things,
that woman was Ella Defries. His life had not been wholly lived in vain.
Soon his managing clerk brought the office letters. They retired to the
library, and Matthew threw himself with more spirit into affairs than
he had been able to show for some time past. At twelve o'clock Sylvester
entered with some medicine. He found his father alone, writing hard amid
a sea of papers. A professional rebuke induced him to desist.
“If you write another line, I'll go straight back to London,” said
Sylvester.
“You are much more needed there than you are here, I assure you,” said
the old man. “I'm as fit as ever I was.”
But he blotted his letter and put his papers by, and pushing his
writing-chair away from the table settled himself comfortably for a
chat. He was full of small interests this morning. There had been fine
doings, he had learned, the evening before, at the Town Council. The
idiots had actually voted against the Free Library that he had schemed
out in every particular. Hodgkins, the progressive butcher, whose face
was like a hollyhock, had said that he blushed to bear the name of
Englishman in common with them. Matthew wondered how he did it. All the
same, he must get about again and put some sense into the Council.
“I don't quite know why they listen to me, but they do,” he said.
Then there were other matters. Jenkins's wife was laid up. That made the
tenth child. Would Sylvester make arrangements for the three youngest
children to board with the Jellicoes as usual?
“Can Jenkins afford it?” asked Sylvester.
“Of course not. Otherwise what would be the sense of our arranging
things?”
Sylvester assented. The old man launched out into an invective against
all the ne'er-do-weels of Ayresford who procreated large families which
they could not support and spent their small earnings in drink. The
brutes! Boiling oil was too dreamy a death for them. As Sylvester knew
that any man of them would, if bidden, have licked his father's boots,
he smoked his pipe imperturbably, unaffected by this outburst of
ferocity.
“I suppose all this is pretty parochial,” said Matthew, at length, “but
it's a bit of the cosmos, anyhow.”
There was a knock at the door, and one of his clerks appeared with a
small leather-covered book. Matthew took it from him and laid it on the
table.
“Take all this stuff to Mr. Findlay,” he said, indicating a pile of
papers. The clerk gathered them up and withdrew.
Matthew continued his parable, but his fingers played with the banker's
pass-book.
“Excuse me for a moment, while I see how the balance stands,” he said at
last.
Sylvester nodded and stretched himself comfortably behind the morning
paper. A few moments passed. Then suddenly he heard a choking sound
and the violent creak of a chair. He started to his feet. There was his
father fallen limp over the arm of the chair, while from his nerveless
fingers a strip of pink paper fluttered to the ground.