Creagh and Beadon walked away in silence. It was not until they had reached the lodge gates that the former spoke."Well, what have you decided to do for him?"Beadon smiled."That's just like you! So you take my belief for granted, eh? Well, you're right. One might not like him, but one must believe in him. That impassive, implacable type of man always gets on. Look at his chin! But one can't decide these things in a hurry. There's the Blue Book to be looked through first."Oh, if it only depends on the Blue Book"—Creagh shrugged his shoulders—"that's right enough. I read the proofs this morning."CHAPTER V"... A bar was broken betweenLife and life ...In spite of the mortal screen."—BROWNING.An American's advice to Farquharson at this particular juncture of his career would have been to "make things hum." The phrase itself is vulgar enough, but, employed with discretion, American methods have something in their favour. Farquharson, for one, knew their value. He brought infinite tact to bear upon his capture of London; to have captured London is, luckily for the nation, still to have captured the world.He started well, of course. He had come at an effective moment, and his coming was judiciously pioneered. Then, too, he had the right influence to back him, and an amazing personality. It was impossible to ignore or be indifferent to him; he set too big forces in motion. Among the leaders of society he awoke, indeed, something like enthusiasm, and the plastic mob followed. Commercial enterprise has not yet robbed us of our love of the romantic, and there was something essentially romantic about Farquharson's past."The man takes one back to Scherazade and her thousand and one tales," Lady Wereminster decided. "He's unique. If he were to disappear before your eyes on a magic carpet, or turn your inferior electro-plate into solid gold, or vice versa, at an afternoon call, it wouldn't surprise you in the least. And yet he is utterly without pose. Then the man's voice! Well, Gladstone could talk about nothing for a solid hour or two, and make you think you were overflowing with knowledge until you analyzed what he had told you in cold blood. I believe this man could go on talking half the night, and hypnotize you into believing the most incredible facts."That Lady Wereminster should take up any new-comer so warmly was in itself a proof of Farquharson's success. Hare rallied her on the subject."You've a positiveflairfor him. How long will it last?"Lady Wereminster shrugged her shoulders."One must be in the fashion; his name is everywhere, like Odol advertisements."Things had, indeed, opened out amazingly for the new-comer. Public curiosity was awakened, and public curiosity is another way of spelling success. Then, too, the political horizon was uniformly dull. Farquharson's doings were a positive godsend to the Press. The Stock Exchange was soon alive to his importance; Taorman bonds went up in leaps and bounds two days after his arrival.Beadon, coming to visit him one morning and finding him at work with his secretary upon a mail from which he had separated a pile of invitation cards, glanced from them to him dubiously. Even distinguished people were anxious to be the first to exploit this man of the future; social charity, which popularizes your entertainments with no commensurate demands upon your purse-strings, is just as much sought after in Park Lane as in South Kensington."Feeling rather helpless, eh?"Farquharson pointed despairingly at the invitations."Shall I accept or refuse the lot wholesale?" Beadon frowned."A difficult question. A secretary can't help you here; very few people could. It doesn't do to go everywhere; it lessens your value. And you can't afford to waste a moment's time upon unnecessary people. No, the Press is no guide. In theMorning Postyou'll find long accounts of functions you mustn't dream of being seen at." He took up four or five invitations haphazard, glancing at the names. "Merrimans, Churchleighs, Halliways—what impertinence! You must refuse all those. I'll tell you who could help you—Mrs. Brand. She's a great friend of Creagh's; you met her at his house, I think. Put yourself in her hands—you can't do better. She's a good woman, always ready to help. Give her the whole bundle and take her advice implicitly."It was the second time that the idea had been mooted to Farquharson.He sat for a moment idly after Beadon had left, pondering. This would be the first occasion on which he had ever appealed to a woman for help. More, indeed, almost the first time that he had been brought into intimate companionship with one. To know a woman well you must see her in her home, surrounded by her individual accessories, the little personal touches which are so sure a guide to character. And he wanted to know Evelyn better, to trace the exact extent of her resemblance to the portrait at Glune, which in the days of his worst loneliness he had re-christened as his "Bride of Dreams."He motored down to West Kensington that very afternoon, and found Mrs. Brand in and alone. He went directly to the point, as was his habit; her slight hesitation in accepting surprised and even slightly piqued him. People were usually proud to do small services for him.They met again next day by arrangement; he found her work practical and business-like, and she was quick in decision like himself. It was the first of many visits.Little by little Calvert dropped out of the fray; having put his man in the arena, he could trust him to hold his own against any opponent. He was beginning to feel his age. But now at last he seemed on the verge of reaping his reward for many yeas' toil and struggle. Farquharson had saved him from going to the grave a disappointed man. For Calvert had loved Cummings like a son, and the lad's change of front had dealt his uncle the sharpest blow of his life. The Roman Catholic priesthood was, in Calvert's view, a network of intrigue and deception, the betrayal of a man's heritage of freedom; he looked upon Cummings as an enemy of the State.Calvert's interest had been purely impersonal at first; courage is after all instinctive, and may spring as easily from love of adventure as from nobler motives. "The crowded hour of life" is no real test of character. But Farquharson won him in spite of himself. He outstripped Cummings in a stride. Farquharson was born to give orders, Cummings to obey them. Calvert found himself erecting a pedestal for the one, while for the other he had made a home.Calvert watched the growth of Farquharson's friendship with Mrs. Brand with openly expressed delight. Farquharson needed softening. The situation might have proved a trifle awkward in some cases, but Brand was a mere nonentity—an asp whose sting had been drawn long ago. Some years before a matter of a somewhat shady business transaction had brought the two men together; Brand had presumed on his distant connection with Calvert to use his name, and had been at once repudiated by the elder man. By now he had probably forgotten the incident. There had doubtless been many transactions of a like nature in Brand's career.To Evelyn, these daily meetings with Farquharson were the fulfilment of a great ambition. She had wanted this ideal companionship all her life; the real "give and take" from which alone happy marriages are formed, if men and women would but realize the fact. It seemed to Evelyn that to be useful to such a man as Farquharson, to be at hand whenever he wanted her, and away when her presence might have been a distraction, to listen and understand his aims while keeping her independent judgment, to share the undramatic part of his work and leave him the substantial success, was a task any woman might be proud of. She threw herself with absolute ardour into his most minute interests and schemes; after a time he trusted her even with the outline of plans which had not yet taken tangible shape, recognizing the value of her quick perceptions and sincerity."You limit my acquaintances, but you yourself know far too many people," said Farquharson one day abruptly. "They make claims upon you and you give in to them. When I left you the other day there were four people waiting in the dining-room, pensioners, claimants, I don't know what they were, but they annoyed me. You are a woman who could do something if you set your mind to it. If these good folks want sympathy, let them go to an idle or frivolous person who can afford to spend on them the time you should devote to better things. Every one should have a set purpose in life; trivial claims and small anxieties distract one in spite of oneself.""What set purpose can there be in the life of an ordinary woman of no especial talent?" said Evelyn. "Only women of genius have real lives of their own. Most of us are like poor little Alice—'part of the Red King's dream'—or some one else's. If I died to-morrow, some of my friends would canonize me and the rest forget. As far as acquaintances go, one divides them into two sets: those one likes to know, and those who like to know one. I am nice to the first because I want to be, and nice to the second because I ought. I am not applying the rule to you, of course—what is selfishness in a woman is singleness of purpose in a man, remember."Farquharson frowned."Leave cynicism to others. By the way, we haven't looked at my morning letters yet."At the Wereminsters' dinner party a week later, Farquharson was paired off with Dora Beadon, encased as usual in her unyielding armour of self-esteem. It was a compliment for which he was not perhaps sufficiently grateful. He always found Miss Beadon dull, but to-night she harassed him with a stream of impertinent questions intended to show sympathy: "Why on earth don't you do this? Haven't you really done the other? Everybody says——" and so forth."One hears of you on all sides," she said archly. "Oh, we all know about these little West Kensington visits of yours; there will be quite a scandal if you don't take care. I suppose you'll think we're all dreadful gossips, but you can't expect charming women to talk nothing but politics all day, can you? Personally, I always think a man wants a thorough change when he comes home. Suppose he's in an office, for instance, why, the last thing in the world he should do when he gets back is to talk over troublesome business with his wife.""I've heard a good many unsympathetic and incapable wives urge that as an excuse for obvious neglect," said Farquharson dryly."Well, I know I never let my father say a word about politics or anything he's really interested in—it's ever so much better for him to hear what I've been doing all day," said Dora, defending herself."Salt, please."Miss Beadon reddened slightly and tried another tack."You lazy person, there is some on your left. You've got an ally worth having in Evelyn Brand, by the bye. Father says he has never known even her work so hard. She's rather an extraordinary person too, you know. She can make any one do anything she wants. Well, I suppose one shouldn't say it"—she laughed consciously—"but pretty women generally can, can't they?""Mrs. Brand's power doesn't depend on mere looks," said Farquharson shortly. Across the table, as he spoke, he met the full look of her animated face, too pale for perfect beauty to-night, yet glowing with what, had he been a man whose mind lent itself readily to religious thoughts, he would have called the light of the spirit.There were other far prettier women present; there were many more notable in the world's eyes. He looked with distaste at his colourless companion—her name would be published in the papers to-morrow and Evelyn's omitted. Yet scarcely one topic of conversation was broached that night at table, of which Mrs. Brand had not some special knowledge—knowledge so eminently marketable that, had it been in her husband's possession, the little West Kensington flat might soon have been exchanged for more congenial quarters."Fancy your not admiring her," Miss Beadon rattled on, delighted. "She's certainly very white to-night, and of course her features never were good. But if one's fond of a person their looks make little or no difference to one. Love is the only permanent beauty doctor, I think."Miss Beadon always gave out her platitudes with the triumph of one throwing a searchlight on a gloomy corner."Don't you agree with me?" she asked coquettishly, mentally determining to bombard Meavy with the same phrase later."Love's a subject I know nothing of, I'm afraid," said Farquharson impatiently. Yet he paid Dora Beadon the tribute of remembering one of the many hints she had let fall. What she implied was true; he did already owe Evelyn a big debt of gratitude. The hours she had spent in his service, the letters she had written, the advice she had given on social matters, even the parties she had planned, the expense to which she had been put, her sympathy—he had taken it all for granted, as though she were his wife and it his due.Thinking it over later, he was aghast at his own lack of consideration. Then, characteristically, he made the best of things. Woman was made for man after all. Was it Joubert or some other French philosopher who said one should choose for a wife only such a woman as he would choose for a friend were she a man?A wife! The word, coming so readily to his lips, startled him. A wife ... a helpmate and companion, the tenderest of mistresses, and best of friends. For a moment he saw a vision, a picture of what his life might be with such a woman....Such thoughts were not for him. Abruptly leaning out of the motor, he hailed a passer-by, a mere casual acquaintance, who was delighted to be recognized. He even drove on to the man's rooms in an access of quite unusual cordiality.The little interruption dispersed the vision. But it came back to him, as dreams will, when he turned on the light in his empty room and stood for a moment absently by the table laden with its mass of documents and official pamphlets. It looked bare and cold—not right, somehow.Wife! He tried to close the door of his heart upon the thought in vain. He said Evelyn's name aloud, and smiled as he re-christened her."Evelyn—that would do for the world. To me she must always be Eve, the first woman."He drew a long breath, and set to work. The rough draft of accounts in connection with a native industry he was opening out in Taorna had to be checked and examined before dawn.CHAPTER VI"Those who want to lead must never hesitate about sacrificing their friends."—LORD BEACONSFIELD.Miss Beadon returned from the Wereminsters' dinner party even more than usually self-satisfied. The Prime Minister himself had had a chat with her, while as for Farquharson, he was constantly at her side. Another conquest, she supposed—one worth considering this time, for Farquharson was in his way aparti.After all, as nominal housekeeper to her father, life had little more to offer her. Even the best servants like a change of place occasionally! The wife of an important man gets more attention than his daughter. And some important post would doubtless fall to Farquharson's share ere long. Dora had only to mention the matter to her father, to let fall a few of those ready tears which so quickly subjugate a man's will and reason, to get her way later, when there was a change of Government. Her father was notoriously—she flattered herself most men were—indulgent where her wishes were concerned.Miss Beadon blissfully believed that all her acquaintances who had done well in life, owed the position to her patronage. "So and so would never have got that post by himself. Why, I had to beard the Prime Minister in his den and do my poor little best to get round him before he consented," she would say, in reference to some coveted appointment which obvious merit, or a signed note from Beadon, had procured. Outsiders, recognizing her vanity and her father's weakness, played up to both because the game paid so well. If to make Miss Beadon believe she was thedeus ex machinaof all social and political events was to secure her father as ally, it was worth while to frame a few extravagant compliments, and spend half-an-hour or so, which might have been more amusingly employed, in her company.Miss Beadon fell a very easy prey to the schemes of intriguing mothers. She was besieged with requests for recommendations by indolent young men who had no qualifications for any opening which demanded work. At public meetings she was invariably pursued by wives of provincial town-clerks eager to advance their husbands' opportunities; she plaintively complained that at bazaars her stall was the rest-house of nervous mothers with marriageable daughters, who reckoned on Miss Beadon's philanthropy to procure them coveted invitations. Bred in the atmosphere of favour, and herself totally unable to tell good from bad, Dora distributed smilingly innumerable small acts of favour, of which either her father, or some minister anxious to please him, ultimately paid the cost. Miss Beadon had the credit of a good action, which was all that mattered so far as she was concerned. One questions if the Holy Father grants his indulgences with as much inward satisfaction as did Dora.The night after the Wereminsters' dinner party, the Beadons and some others had been invited by Hare to meet at his rooms and hear a famous scientist lecture on radium. Functions like these bored Dora inexpressibly, but to-night her maid was closeted with her for over two hours before she succeeded in pleasing her dictatorial mistress. For Farquharson was to be present, and Miss Beadon had always laid to heart the adage that attractive clothes complete a man's subjugation.So Felice, who had been kept up until the small hours of the previous morning, was made to arrange and unpick, to drape and re-drape, to alter and exchange article upon article of Dora's attire."Mademoiselle est ravissante!" she cried at length, with the easy lie of the Latin races, as, the task completed, Miss Beadon surveyed her reflection in the mirror with a satisfied smile. From crown to foot she represented wealth, and yet how simple was the whole costume! The dress itself was suitable only for adébutantein her first youth—Dora always dressed twenty years younger than her looks—but her jewels were worth a fortune.Brand, arriving at the party with his wife rather late in the evening, noticed them at once and took in their significance."You have excelled even yourself to-night," he said, adopting the tone of solemn fervour in which a very pious Catholic speaks of relics. "Better not say such things, perhaps, but circumstances are sometimes too strong for one. Yours is a regal power, Miss Beadon, yet you dispense your favours with quite exquisite simplicity."Dora looked up, surprised. Up to the present she had found little in common with Brand; now she began to think she had misjudged him."Oh, well, it's always nice to help one's friends," she said, awkwardly fingering her fan. "Evelyn does it too, doesn't she? She and Mr. Farquharson are quite inseparable, I hear.""Oh, Evelyn——" Brand shrugged his shoulder, and, obeying the invitation of her gesture, seated himself deferentially beside her. "What of that? Compare her years to yours, my dear young lady. Why, she's like a mother to Farquharson. I dare say they are really about the same age, but Evelyn's hard life makes her appear many years his senior. Now you, young and fresh——" He paused and sighed. "Ah, Richard Farquharson's a lucky fellow in more ways than one," he said daringly."I can't think what you mean. How quite absurd of you!" giggled Miss Beadon."You must really ask the Brands to dine next week, father," she announced a little later. "We've all been mistaken in Mr. Brand, I'm sure; there's ever so much more in him than one would think. We had a most interesting talk together just now. And I'm rather sorry for him, too. I'm afraid dear Evelyn doesn't make him happy. She's such an icicle, and from what he said to me just now I'm sure he's a man of extraordinarily deep feelings. There's nothing sadder, dear, is there, than to see a woman sow sympathy broadcast as Evelyn does, and yet not spare a grain of it for her husband?"Easy indifference to the faults and failings of ourselves and our personal friends carry a man unscathed through many a social dilemma, but there are certain obvious misdemeanours to which he cannot well be blind. Sin—if it be but brave in face of danger—does not actually alienate us as mere meanness does. Love in itself, for instance, glows with so white a flame that its reflection lights the face of any woman who has given herself for love alone. Such a one hangs hourly upon the cross of wounded honour, crowding more sacrifices for her lover into a day than most of us can compass in a lifetime. But women who lie for the sake of lying, who secure confidences by base means to sell or betray them at the first prick of jealousy, and men who run up gambling debts and leave their womenkind to pay them, are on a different level. They return, like dogs, to their vomit, and the stench is surely foul in the nostril of God and man alike.Yet even for these allowance is made—so prone is society to condone the faults of its immediate circle, if the men are good-natured enough to entertain dull dowagers at dinner parties, and the women in question have large enough balances at their bankers' to give large sums in public charity or to found philanthropic annuities. A witty raconteur, Brand's eye for detail, and memory for those trifles which sum up many of life's minor comforts, had stood him in good stead for some years. Luckily for him, they failed him only when he could count upon his wife's popularity to keep him in the position he had once held unaided. Some men "drop out or go under" without wincing; Brand was not of the number. His hold upon his social niche, such as it was, was insecure enough, at best; he meant to grasp it, to which end he laid successful siege to Dora Beadon.He was no coward; he faced facts unflinchingly when alone. Only a fool makes the same mistake twice in life, the wise man turns mistakes to his own ends. He knew well enough where he had gone wrong.... Handicapped at the outset, he had still won some prizes early in his career. The first years of his social life were eminently successful; he played a good hand at whist, and learned the knack of paying compliments discreetly. He made himself indispensable to the type of person anxious to give parties, but unluckily a trifle hazy as to how the actual invitations should be worded. He dabbled tentatively in stocks and shares, with singular good fortune, as it appeared to those who did not know his methods, paying part of his way by taking boys abroad at the request of their parents. After a time it became known amongst his friends that "Brand was a good fellow, always ready with a pony when you needed one!"—at sixty per cent. interest, and the amount doubled if the day of reckoning brought no cheque. His influence grew; amongst those who had not borrowed from him he began to be quoted as a man to apply to when you were in difficulties of any doubtful nature, one who would help you pleasantly to evade the consequences of almost any imaginable action. Oh yes, Brand, too, had been a favourite in his day.But night falls suddenly upon tropical days; it had so fallen upon Brand's.He dated his ill-luck to the hour of meeting Cummings. Yet he had never paid more attention to the development of any scheme. At the beginning everything seemed to play into his hands. His idea, of course, was ultimately to oust Cummings from his position as Calvert's heir, and afterwards very delicately to insinuate himself into the vacant place. He manoeuvred Cummings through the open door of the Catholic Church with quite consummate skill—no female convert could have thrown herself into the task with greater ardour. From thence to the priesthood, after Calvert's indignant repudiation of Cummings and his creed, was an easy, and obviously a final, step. But the sincerity of Cummings' detachment had lifted him to heights which Brand could never realize. Never for one moment did he regret his vocation, his only sorrow being at his relations' pain and the withdrawal of his uncle's trust. Actual financial loss affected him not at all. The priest's eyes now were as clear and steady as when, a boy, he had stood upon the Glune road, nervously trying to match his untried blade of argument against the older man's skilled weapons. His smile, when it came, illumined his whole face. If it were possible—yet how could it be possible?—Brand might have thought him happy in his life.So much for the scheme; Calvert himself upset its fulfilment. Rumours of Brand's treatment of his sisters had reached the older man, and on the single occasion when, in the past, Brand and he had come across each other, he taxed him openly with having done to death two innocent women. More than this. He accused him of having cleverly engineered Cummings into "that hotbed of lying and deception, the Roman Church." He stated facts so clearly that the pose of outraged honour and hurt susceptibility, with which Brand at first met his attack, broke down completely. The very setting of the interview was undignified. It took place in the hall, with butler and footman within hearing."There's a notice up, inside, no dogs admitted," said Calvert grimly.Advancing years weakened convictions; Brand always hoped that with increasing age Calvert's opinions might change. But with Farquharson's entry into Taorna, the last hope died. It was doubly unfortunate for Brand that, at this period, his name should often have been mentioned in connection with a notorious case where there was a strong inference of blackmail, even if it could not actually be proved.Oh, those hysterical women, with their love of keeping letters!All this took place some years before Brand's marriage. He went abroad again until the storm blew over. This rumour, at least, had never reached Evelyn. Had others, he wondered? In all such matters she was so strictly rigid; he often wondered if her uncompromising views of sin were the result of temperament or convent education. Uncompromising to sin, that is to say—not to the sinner. His wife seemed to separate action from actor. The sin itself was loathsome, repulsive—it made her shrink. The sinner was wounded, and for him she had healing balms and ointments. But where another woman would have slurred over the cause of the hurt, she spoke of it confidently by name, confronting adultery or theft as she would any other mortal combat."We talk of Magersfontein and Colenso," she said once. "If we'd met sin on another kind of battle-field and been defeated, why should we be ashamed to call the battle-field by its own name?"That Evelyn was original her husband conceded—at times he even took a certain pride in her looks and ways. They were useful. But her attitude to him personally was unendurable. She had never loved him, of course—such a man does not ask for love; he would not have recognized it had he found it. On the other hand, he had never claimed anything from her to which she had not made instant response so far as she was able. She had swept his floors and cooked for him, in their poorer days, like the docile wife of any village labourer; she had mended his reputation as well as his clothes, Hare once said, chuckling. When he was ill she nursed him; when he was well she stayed with him or left him as he wished. But day by day the wall that separated them grew higher; he had married a pliable child, who had become a woman in an hour.If he spoke of it at all—which was seldom, for, try as he would, he could find no tangible ground for complaint—it was only to rail at her religion."Those damned priests and directors are behind this pose of yours. I'll break it down, as well as you, before I've done with you."In an access of fury one day he dragged from her bedroom wall a Delia Robbia plaque of the Madonna and Child, before which a lamp was burning, and flung it to the ground.Evelyn was smiling when he turned to her."Do you think one's faith depends on such things?" she asked, carefully gathering up the broken pieces. "They're quite immaterial. Your lover's picture is in your heart, whether you have his photograph or not. I'm sorry you broke this, it is one of the few valuable things we have. You may break or burn every outward needless symbol that I have, if you choose—I'll put them away if you dislike them. What you do or what you don't do doesn't touch anything in me. You killed my love long ago, and as for faith—that's just between myself and God."She blew out the lamp, when he cursed her, and it was never lighted again.Points of view such as these were indescribably irritating. In his excuse it must be admitted that with increasing years Brand's physical health had grown worse; long paroxysms of pain often seized him when he was alone. Once he had been man enough to fight against his irritability; he tended it now, watering it with his sense of ill-usage, and kept its fruits for his wife. Her unshaken calm, her peace, her air of quiet rest and strength when he was nervous and suffering, tried him beyond words; there were times when he could have stopped short at nothing to wreck her control, to subdue the unconquerable spirit that passed through the mines and tunnels of the world, as though the way was lit by an enduring light. The idea grew to an obsession. He himself was powerless to hurt her; he must act through some one else. Life had been unfair to him throughout; it had marred him first, then broken him. Well, it should mar and break her too.And if in the fall some other enemy could be made to suffer too, so much the better ... some one to whom the gods had been lavish, as in the case of Richard Farquharson.Farquharson was drawn to Evelyn, Evelyn was drawn to Farquharson; there was no doubt of that. And Miss Beadon meant to marry Farquharson, and, by herself, would never accomplish her purpose. Why, there were all the elements of a successful comedy in view if Brand could only teach the puppets their parts.An opportunity came shortly. A few days later, as Brand was sitting in his little smoking-room, where the best, the most comfortable chairs and sofas were collected, he heard his wife's knock at the door.He glanced at the open letter in her hand through half-closed eyes as she approached.She held it out for him to read."Mr. Calvert's chauffeur has just brought this. The Bedfords have lent him their box at the opera to-night; the Beadons are going, and he wants us too. The man is waiting for an answer. We're free, of course, but you don't care for Wagner opera, do you?"Brand took the letter and read it with unusual deliberation."'Tristan and Isolde, and please be in your place a quarter of an hour before the orchestra strikes up. We are a party of six,'" he quoted slowly. "That means Calvert, Beadon, Miss Dora, you and I and Farquharson, I suppose.""Am I to refuse or accept?" asked Evelyn. "You look very tired to-night. Are you up to going?""I'm right enough," said Brand. "I think—I'm sure, in fact, it will amuse me, although, perhaps, that wasn't exactly the intention of the composer."He looked at her from head to foot critically, then fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a sovereign."Get some flowers to wear—malmaison carnations for choice, if the neighbourhood can produce them. The colour suits you. This is the first invitation Calvert has ever given me, it mustn't be the last. Remember, I rely upon you to do all you can in that direction. Wear white to-night by the bye, you're one of the few women who can; and if the carnations fail, get roses of the same shade.""Thank you," said Evelyn, lingering still. So sudden, so complete a change of manner made her vaguely uneasy. Brand never gave her money without expecting its full value back in kind."Give yourself plenty of time to dress, Evelyn. I want you to look your best. It's really an occasion."He was still smiling as she closed the door.CHAPTER VII"Je connais trop tard quel est l'essential!"—E. ROSTAND."Oh, my dear, I'm so glad you've come to look after me," said Miss Beadon; "I was getting quite embarrassed amongst this tribe of men."She tried to pull Evelyn playfully down beside her as she spoke into the vacant seat she had kept between herself and her father, but Calvert interposed."I want Mrs. Brand next me, Miss Beadon. We've business to talk over." He lowered his voice. "I'm going to plunge into things as usual. Farquharson and I have just been discussing his plan of campaign. You've worked wonders for him already; I'm trusting to you to concentrate your influence at this critical moment. He's been seen and felt already, but he's not actually been heard in public. Now I know you've great influence with Beadon——"Farquharson, entering the box at that moment; overheard the last sentence, and came straight to Mrs. Brand."Is my chief worrying you again on my behalf?""I refuse to be drawn by that lure," Evelyn laughed lightly. "Don't be ridiculous. I haven't done a single thing for you as yet. Mr. Calvert's right, you know; you ought to speak soon in public. It's the only way to touch the man with the vote, the great uneducated majority. Why, I've seen two or three thousand people at the Albert Hall absolutely swaying to one man's words. Oh, oratory is the power of powers. To play on your audience like an instrument—there's nothing so telling. WhenThe Ambassadorwas being acted at the St. James's Theatre, the manager used to let me go behind and listen in the wings. The big scene was the one between Violet Vanbrugh and Fay Davis, you know, and Violet Vanbrugh had certain words to say—I've forgotten the actual phrase—which always either warmed the house to frenzy or left it cold. I used to stand with my eyes shut waiting for that speech—one became in time so sensitive to the atmosphere of the house as to know before it was given exactly how it would be received. I've never heard you speak; but I know just how the world's going to take your speech when you make one.""Yet I haven't done much in that line," said Farquharson. "The plain audience I'm accustomed to is quite different to critical London. Our whole system in Taorna is different to your system here, of course. We can't afford to have wastrels in our Assembly. The people elect their Council from amongst men who've been proved to have the island's interest at heart. And then each man has his own right of judgment. When an appeal comes before us, we vote according to our individual opinion, not according to party. The President has the casting vote. We put men on their honour, as it were; we don't necessarily oppose because we belong to the Opposition, nor do we change our opinions unanimously because we're afraid to face a general election. If at any time during his tenure of office a minister is found to have failed in his duty according to the opinion of a quorum of his colleagues, he has to come before a sort of political court-martial.""I'm afraid our methods here are less straightforward," said Evelyn. "I know of at least one by-election where an inefficient candidate was pulled through solely because his canvassers said he had a sick wife whose death would be hastened if he didn't get the seat.""As a matter of fact he hadn't lived with her for years, and neither of them took the least interest in the other, but his agent waxed positively hysterical over the sentimental aspect of the case. Had there been universal suffrage I've no doubt that the wife would have plumped her vote for the rival candidate," said Beadon. "By the bye, Farquharson, you're in favour of Tariff Reform, of course. Mrs. Brand asked me the other day to persuade you to speak for us at our monster meeting at the Albert Hall next Monday. You would be in good company; we have a fine show of speakers.""Delighted, of course," said Farquharson impassively. "It begins at eight o'clock, doesn't it?" He took out his note-book.Brand eagerly interposed."Mr. Calvert has just promised to dine with us that evening. Will you come too? Lady Wereminster always invites my wife to her box; Lord Meavy and Lord Creagh are coming too. We shall have to feed at an unearthly hour, but perhaps you won't mind that under the circumstances.""Thanks very much, I shall be delighted," said Farquharson again.Evelyn, amazed, leant back in her seat and whispered to her husband under cover of her fan."I didn't know that they were coming. When did you ask them?"Brand bent down, adjusting his opera-glasses."Don't give yourself away. The others will be glad enough to come if Calvert and Farquharson do. Once capture the coming man and others will follow. You must help me, Evelyn; it means everything to me to have it known Calvert visits us.""Of course I'll do my best. Oh, hush!" said Evelyn. The orchestra had begun playing the first notes of that exquisite prelude toTristan and Isoldewhich,motifbymotif, leads from the first confession of love by way of desire and magic and mystery to the deliverance of death.Wagner opera was to Farquharson a new experience. He had come that night in a cynical enough mood. The darkness that enfolded the great assembly in its mantle, the hush and tension under which it laboured, listening without movement, rather as one corporate body than as a crowd of separate entities, struck him at first as a mere pose. But presently the power and strength and pathos of the music carried him away as it carried others. This was real flesh and blood; impatience, ardour, glory, the very song of the sea, transport and passion, blending with underlying chords of human sorrow—each in turn rang true.And as he listened old memories came thronging back, memories at once exquisite and painful. For now the sufferings of his childhood spread before him like an allegory whose language his mature eyes could read; they had been encrusted for years with the ice of bitterness. But here, under Evelyn's influence, the ice had melted. He detached himself, the man, from the sturdy boyish figure which had flinched and wavered, but yet never given way, and saw how the fire of manhood had been kindled by those hours of stress. Wind and rain, storm and torrent, had formed his character, and mountain fastnesses had been his playground. The whole story of his childhood was a preparation for the battle he was fighting now. His ceaseless combats with men and things, even the mimic raids and sorties he had made as a child upon invisible foes, had stood him in good stead later when struggle was as infallibly his portion as it is the portion of certain men to sleep beside the hearth.But if life for him was a battle-field, it was no less a battle-field for the woman at his side. His foes were worthy opponents, men of strength who brought their artillery to bear upon his little stronghold; hers were mere thieves of the night, but both came armed with weapons that drew blood.Apart in body, separated from each other by every natural barrier, the wheel of the potter, whose toil is endless, had shaped the rough clay of these two human beings from very similar moulds. The voice of the great religion to which Evelyn belonged has its unworthy exponents; it is not always in a convent that the purest souls are reared. "Factus obediens usque ad mortem crucis," is sometimes chanted solemnly by those who betray unconsciously the souls of others; who impose little straws of restrictions upon backs already bent to breaking by God's unswerving laws. Should a Catholic sin, the fault is shrieked from the housetops, so high a standard is demanded of man or woman who subscribes to that high faith.Yet the limits of Catholicism and the limits of Calvinism—apart as they seem—can touch. The bigot of the one may be as the bigot of the other. The gospel of detachment had been preached to Evelyn until, for a short time, she let herself drift upon the waters of submission, and since habitual and unquestioning obedience must crush in time the strongest spirit, yielded in the matter of marriage to the direction of her stepmother and father as she would have yielded to that of a spiritual adviser. Now, too late, she knew that for this retribution would be exacted hourly, for God strikes—not as men do, at the mere twigs and blossoms of human frailty, but at the very roots of being.Unconsciously the thoughts of the man and woman in the box moved on converging lines and met, as the music below swayed onward and upward in Tristan and Isolde's exquisite duet.
Creagh and Beadon walked away in silence. It was not until they had reached the lodge gates that the former spoke.
"Well, what have you decided to do for him?"
Beadon smiled.
"That's just like you! So you take my belief for granted, eh? Well, you're right. One might not like him, but one must believe in him. That impassive, implacable type of man always gets on. Look at his chin! But one can't decide these things in a hurry. There's the Blue Book to be looked through first.
"Oh, if it only depends on the Blue Book"—Creagh shrugged his shoulders—"that's right enough. I read the proofs this morning."
CHAPTER V
"... A bar was broken betweenLife and life ...In spite of the mortal screen."—BROWNING.
"... A bar was broken betweenLife and life ...In spite of the mortal screen."—BROWNING.
"... A bar was broken between
Life and life ...
Life and life ...
In spite of the mortal screen."—BROWNING.
An American's advice to Farquharson at this particular juncture of his career would have been to "make things hum." The phrase itself is vulgar enough, but, employed with discretion, American methods have something in their favour. Farquharson, for one, knew their value. He brought infinite tact to bear upon his capture of London; to have captured London is, luckily for the nation, still to have captured the world.
He started well, of course. He had come at an effective moment, and his coming was judiciously pioneered. Then, too, he had the right influence to back him, and an amazing personality. It was impossible to ignore or be indifferent to him; he set too big forces in motion. Among the leaders of society he awoke, indeed, something like enthusiasm, and the plastic mob followed. Commercial enterprise has not yet robbed us of our love of the romantic, and there was something essentially romantic about Farquharson's past.
"The man takes one back to Scherazade and her thousand and one tales," Lady Wereminster decided. "He's unique. If he were to disappear before your eyes on a magic carpet, or turn your inferior electro-plate into solid gold, or vice versa, at an afternoon call, it wouldn't surprise you in the least. And yet he is utterly without pose. Then the man's voice! Well, Gladstone could talk about nothing for a solid hour or two, and make you think you were overflowing with knowledge until you analyzed what he had told you in cold blood. I believe this man could go on talking half the night, and hypnotize you into believing the most incredible facts."
That Lady Wereminster should take up any new-comer so warmly was in itself a proof of Farquharson's success. Hare rallied her on the subject.
"You've a positiveflairfor him. How long will it last?"
Lady Wereminster shrugged her shoulders.
"One must be in the fashion; his name is everywhere, like Odol advertisements."
Things had, indeed, opened out amazingly for the new-comer. Public curiosity was awakened, and public curiosity is another way of spelling success. Then, too, the political horizon was uniformly dull. Farquharson's doings were a positive godsend to the Press. The Stock Exchange was soon alive to his importance; Taorman bonds went up in leaps and bounds two days after his arrival.
Beadon, coming to visit him one morning and finding him at work with his secretary upon a mail from which he had separated a pile of invitation cards, glanced from them to him dubiously. Even distinguished people were anxious to be the first to exploit this man of the future; social charity, which popularizes your entertainments with no commensurate demands upon your purse-strings, is just as much sought after in Park Lane as in South Kensington.
"Feeling rather helpless, eh?"
Farquharson pointed despairingly at the invitations.
"Shall I accept or refuse the lot wholesale?" Beadon frowned.
"A difficult question. A secretary can't help you here; very few people could. It doesn't do to go everywhere; it lessens your value. And you can't afford to waste a moment's time upon unnecessary people. No, the Press is no guide. In theMorning Postyou'll find long accounts of functions you mustn't dream of being seen at." He took up four or five invitations haphazard, glancing at the names. "Merrimans, Churchleighs, Halliways—what impertinence! You must refuse all those. I'll tell you who could help you—Mrs. Brand. She's a great friend of Creagh's; you met her at his house, I think. Put yourself in her hands—you can't do better. She's a good woman, always ready to help. Give her the whole bundle and take her advice implicitly."
It was the second time that the idea had been mooted to Farquharson.
He sat for a moment idly after Beadon had left, pondering. This would be the first occasion on which he had ever appealed to a woman for help. More, indeed, almost the first time that he had been brought into intimate companionship with one. To know a woman well you must see her in her home, surrounded by her individual accessories, the little personal touches which are so sure a guide to character. And he wanted to know Evelyn better, to trace the exact extent of her resemblance to the portrait at Glune, which in the days of his worst loneliness he had re-christened as his "Bride of Dreams."
He motored down to West Kensington that very afternoon, and found Mrs. Brand in and alone. He went directly to the point, as was his habit; her slight hesitation in accepting surprised and even slightly piqued him. People were usually proud to do small services for him.
They met again next day by arrangement; he found her work practical and business-like, and she was quick in decision like himself. It was the first of many visits.
Little by little Calvert dropped out of the fray; having put his man in the arena, he could trust him to hold his own against any opponent. He was beginning to feel his age. But now at last he seemed on the verge of reaping his reward for many yeas' toil and struggle. Farquharson had saved him from going to the grave a disappointed man. For Calvert had loved Cummings like a son, and the lad's change of front had dealt his uncle the sharpest blow of his life. The Roman Catholic priesthood was, in Calvert's view, a network of intrigue and deception, the betrayal of a man's heritage of freedom; he looked upon Cummings as an enemy of the State.
Calvert's interest had been purely impersonal at first; courage is after all instinctive, and may spring as easily from love of adventure as from nobler motives. "The crowded hour of life" is no real test of character. But Farquharson won him in spite of himself. He outstripped Cummings in a stride. Farquharson was born to give orders, Cummings to obey them. Calvert found himself erecting a pedestal for the one, while for the other he had made a home.
Calvert watched the growth of Farquharson's friendship with Mrs. Brand with openly expressed delight. Farquharson needed softening. The situation might have proved a trifle awkward in some cases, but Brand was a mere nonentity—an asp whose sting had been drawn long ago. Some years before a matter of a somewhat shady business transaction had brought the two men together; Brand had presumed on his distant connection with Calvert to use his name, and had been at once repudiated by the elder man. By now he had probably forgotten the incident. There had doubtless been many transactions of a like nature in Brand's career.
To Evelyn, these daily meetings with Farquharson were the fulfilment of a great ambition. She had wanted this ideal companionship all her life; the real "give and take" from which alone happy marriages are formed, if men and women would but realize the fact. It seemed to Evelyn that to be useful to such a man as Farquharson, to be at hand whenever he wanted her, and away when her presence might have been a distraction, to listen and understand his aims while keeping her independent judgment, to share the undramatic part of his work and leave him the substantial success, was a task any woman might be proud of. She threw herself with absolute ardour into his most minute interests and schemes; after a time he trusted her even with the outline of plans which had not yet taken tangible shape, recognizing the value of her quick perceptions and sincerity.
"You limit my acquaintances, but you yourself know far too many people," said Farquharson one day abruptly. "They make claims upon you and you give in to them. When I left you the other day there were four people waiting in the dining-room, pensioners, claimants, I don't know what they were, but they annoyed me. You are a woman who could do something if you set your mind to it. If these good folks want sympathy, let them go to an idle or frivolous person who can afford to spend on them the time you should devote to better things. Every one should have a set purpose in life; trivial claims and small anxieties distract one in spite of oneself."
"What set purpose can there be in the life of an ordinary woman of no especial talent?" said Evelyn. "Only women of genius have real lives of their own. Most of us are like poor little Alice—'part of the Red King's dream'—or some one else's. If I died to-morrow, some of my friends would canonize me and the rest forget. As far as acquaintances go, one divides them into two sets: those one likes to know, and those who like to know one. I am nice to the first because I want to be, and nice to the second because I ought. I am not applying the rule to you, of course—what is selfishness in a woman is singleness of purpose in a man, remember."
Farquharson frowned.
"Leave cynicism to others. By the way, we haven't looked at my morning letters yet."
At the Wereminsters' dinner party a week later, Farquharson was paired off with Dora Beadon, encased as usual in her unyielding armour of self-esteem. It was a compliment for which he was not perhaps sufficiently grateful. He always found Miss Beadon dull, but to-night she harassed him with a stream of impertinent questions intended to show sympathy: "Why on earth don't you do this? Haven't you really done the other? Everybody says——" and so forth.
"One hears of you on all sides," she said archly. "Oh, we all know about these little West Kensington visits of yours; there will be quite a scandal if you don't take care. I suppose you'll think we're all dreadful gossips, but you can't expect charming women to talk nothing but politics all day, can you? Personally, I always think a man wants a thorough change when he comes home. Suppose he's in an office, for instance, why, the last thing in the world he should do when he gets back is to talk over troublesome business with his wife."
"I've heard a good many unsympathetic and incapable wives urge that as an excuse for obvious neglect," said Farquharson dryly.
"Well, I know I never let my father say a word about politics or anything he's really interested in—it's ever so much better for him to hear what I've been doing all day," said Dora, defending herself.
"Salt, please."
Miss Beadon reddened slightly and tried another tack.
"You lazy person, there is some on your left. You've got an ally worth having in Evelyn Brand, by the bye. Father says he has never known even her work so hard. She's rather an extraordinary person too, you know. She can make any one do anything she wants. Well, I suppose one shouldn't say it"—she laughed consciously—"but pretty women generally can, can't they?"
"Mrs. Brand's power doesn't depend on mere looks," said Farquharson shortly. Across the table, as he spoke, he met the full look of her animated face, too pale for perfect beauty to-night, yet glowing with what, had he been a man whose mind lent itself readily to religious thoughts, he would have called the light of the spirit.
There were other far prettier women present; there were many more notable in the world's eyes. He looked with distaste at his colourless companion—her name would be published in the papers to-morrow and Evelyn's omitted. Yet scarcely one topic of conversation was broached that night at table, of which Mrs. Brand had not some special knowledge—knowledge so eminently marketable that, had it been in her husband's possession, the little West Kensington flat might soon have been exchanged for more congenial quarters.
"Fancy your not admiring her," Miss Beadon rattled on, delighted. "She's certainly very white to-night, and of course her features never were good. But if one's fond of a person their looks make little or no difference to one. Love is the only permanent beauty doctor, I think."
Miss Beadon always gave out her platitudes with the triumph of one throwing a searchlight on a gloomy corner.
"Don't you agree with me?" she asked coquettishly, mentally determining to bombard Meavy with the same phrase later.
"Love's a subject I know nothing of, I'm afraid," said Farquharson impatiently. Yet he paid Dora Beadon the tribute of remembering one of the many hints she had let fall. What she implied was true; he did already owe Evelyn a big debt of gratitude. The hours she had spent in his service, the letters she had written, the advice she had given on social matters, even the parties she had planned, the expense to which she had been put, her sympathy—he had taken it all for granted, as though she were his wife and it his due.
Thinking it over later, he was aghast at his own lack of consideration. Then, characteristically, he made the best of things. Woman was made for man after all. Was it Joubert or some other French philosopher who said one should choose for a wife only such a woman as he would choose for a friend were she a man?
A wife! The word, coming so readily to his lips, startled him. A wife ... a helpmate and companion, the tenderest of mistresses, and best of friends. For a moment he saw a vision, a picture of what his life might be with such a woman....
Such thoughts were not for him. Abruptly leaning out of the motor, he hailed a passer-by, a mere casual acquaintance, who was delighted to be recognized. He even drove on to the man's rooms in an access of quite unusual cordiality.
The little interruption dispersed the vision. But it came back to him, as dreams will, when he turned on the light in his empty room and stood for a moment absently by the table laden with its mass of documents and official pamphlets. It looked bare and cold—not right, somehow.
Wife! He tried to close the door of his heart upon the thought in vain. He said Evelyn's name aloud, and smiled as he re-christened her.
"Evelyn—that would do for the world. To me she must always be Eve, the first woman."
He drew a long breath, and set to work. The rough draft of accounts in connection with a native industry he was opening out in Taorna had to be checked and examined before dawn.
CHAPTER VI
"Those who want to lead must never hesitate about sacrificing their friends."—LORD BEACONSFIELD.
Miss Beadon returned from the Wereminsters' dinner party even more than usually self-satisfied. The Prime Minister himself had had a chat with her, while as for Farquharson, he was constantly at her side. Another conquest, she supposed—one worth considering this time, for Farquharson was in his way aparti.
After all, as nominal housekeeper to her father, life had little more to offer her. Even the best servants like a change of place occasionally! The wife of an important man gets more attention than his daughter. And some important post would doubtless fall to Farquharson's share ere long. Dora had only to mention the matter to her father, to let fall a few of those ready tears which so quickly subjugate a man's will and reason, to get her way later, when there was a change of Government. Her father was notoriously—she flattered herself most men were—indulgent where her wishes were concerned.
Miss Beadon blissfully believed that all her acquaintances who had done well in life, owed the position to her patronage. "So and so would never have got that post by himself. Why, I had to beard the Prime Minister in his den and do my poor little best to get round him before he consented," she would say, in reference to some coveted appointment which obvious merit, or a signed note from Beadon, had procured. Outsiders, recognizing her vanity and her father's weakness, played up to both because the game paid so well. If to make Miss Beadon believe she was thedeus ex machinaof all social and political events was to secure her father as ally, it was worth while to frame a few extravagant compliments, and spend half-an-hour or so, which might have been more amusingly employed, in her company.
Miss Beadon fell a very easy prey to the schemes of intriguing mothers. She was besieged with requests for recommendations by indolent young men who had no qualifications for any opening which demanded work. At public meetings she was invariably pursued by wives of provincial town-clerks eager to advance their husbands' opportunities; she plaintively complained that at bazaars her stall was the rest-house of nervous mothers with marriageable daughters, who reckoned on Miss Beadon's philanthropy to procure them coveted invitations. Bred in the atmosphere of favour, and herself totally unable to tell good from bad, Dora distributed smilingly innumerable small acts of favour, of which either her father, or some minister anxious to please him, ultimately paid the cost. Miss Beadon had the credit of a good action, which was all that mattered so far as she was concerned. One questions if the Holy Father grants his indulgences with as much inward satisfaction as did Dora.
The night after the Wereminsters' dinner party, the Beadons and some others had been invited by Hare to meet at his rooms and hear a famous scientist lecture on radium. Functions like these bored Dora inexpressibly, but to-night her maid was closeted with her for over two hours before she succeeded in pleasing her dictatorial mistress. For Farquharson was to be present, and Miss Beadon had always laid to heart the adage that attractive clothes complete a man's subjugation.
So Felice, who had been kept up until the small hours of the previous morning, was made to arrange and unpick, to drape and re-drape, to alter and exchange article upon article of Dora's attire.
"Mademoiselle est ravissante!" she cried at length, with the easy lie of the Latin races, as, the task completed, Miss Beadon surveyed her reflection in the mirror with a satisfied smile. From crown to foot she represented wealth, and yet how simple was the whole costume! The dress itself was suitable only for adébutantein her first youth—Dora always dressed twenty years younger than her looks—but her jewels were worth a fortune.
Brand, arriving at the party with his wife rather late in the evening, noticed them at once and took in their significance.
"You have excelled even yourself to-night," he said, adopting the tone of solemn fervour in which a very pious Catholic speaks of relics. "Better not say such things, perhaps, but circumstances are sometimes too strong for one. Yours is a regal power, Miss Beadon, yet you dispense your favours with quite exquisite simplicity."
Dora looked up, surprised. Up to the present she had found little in common with Brand; now she began to think she had misjudged him.
"Oh, well, it's always nice to help one's friends," she said, awkwardly fingering her fan. "Evelyn does it too, doesn't she? She and Mr. Farquharson are quite inseparable, I hear."
"Oh, Evelyn——" Brand shrugged his shoulder, and, obeying the invitation of her gesture, seated himself deferentially beside her. "What of that? Compare her years to yours, my dear young lady. Why, she's like a mother to Farquharson. I dare say they are really about the same age, but Evelyn's hard life makes her appear many years his senior. Now you, young and fresh——" He paused and sighed. "Ah, Richard Farquharson's a lucky fellow in more ways than one," he said daringly.
"I can't think what you mean. How quite absurd of you!" giggled Miss Beadon.
"You must really ask the Brands to dine next week, father," she announced a little later. "We've all been mistaken in Mr. Brand, I'm sure; there's ever so much more in him than one would think. We had a most interesting talk together just now. And I'm rather sorry for him, too. I'm afraid dear Evelyn doesn't make him happy. She's such an icicle, and from what he said to me just now I'm sure he's a man of extraordinarily deep feelings. There's nothing sadder, dear, is there, than to see a woman sow sympathy broadcast as Evelyn does, and yet not spare a grain of it for her husband?"
Easy indifference to the faults and failings of ourselves and our personal friends carry a man unscathed through many a social dilemma, but there are certain obvious misdemeanours to which he cannot well be blind. Sin—if it be but brave in face of danger—does not actually alienate us as mere meanness does. Love in itself, for instance, glows with so white a flame that its reflection lights the face of any woman who has given herself for love alone. Such a one hangs hourly upon the cross of wounded honour, crowding more sacrifices for her lover into a day than most of us can compass in a lifetime. But women who lie for the sake of lying, who secure confidences by base means to sell or betray them at the first prick of jealousy, and men who run up gambling debts and leave their womenkind to pay them, are on a different level. They return, like dogs, to their vomit, and the stench is surely foul in the nostril of God and man alike.
Yet even for these allowance is made—so prone is society to condone the faults of its immediate circle, if the men are good-natured enough to entertain dull dowagers at dinner parties, and the women in question have large enough balances at their bankers' to give large sums in public charity or to found philanthropic annuities. A witty raconteur, Brand's eye for detail, and memory for those trifles which sum up many of life's minor comforts, had stood him in good stead for some years. Luckily for him, they failed him only when he could count upon his wife's popularity to keep him in the position he had once held unaided. Some men "drop out or go under" without wincing; Brand was not of the number. His hold upon his social niche, such as it was, was insecure enough, at best; he meant to grasp it, to which end he laid successful siege to Dora Beadon.
He was no coward; he faced facts unflinchingly when alone. Only a fool makes the same mistake twice in life, the wise man turns mistakes to his own ends. He knew well enough where he had gone wrong.... Handicapped at the outset, he had still won some prizes early in his career. The first years of his social life were eminently successful; he played a good hand at whist, and learned the knack of paying compliments discreetly. He made himself indispensable to the type of person anxious to give parties, but unluckily a trifle hazy as to how the actual invitations should be worded. He dabbled tentatively in stocks and shares, with singular good fortune, as it appeared to those who did not know his methods, paying part of his way by taking boys abroad at the request of their parents. After a time it became known amongst his friends that "Brand was a good fellow, always ready with a pony when you needed one!"—at sixty per cent. interest, and the amount doubled if the day of reckoning brought no cheque. His influence grew; amongst those who had not borrowed from him he began to be quoted as a man to apply to when you were in difficulties of any doubtful nature, one who would help you pleasantly to evade the consequences of almost any imaginable action. Oh yes, Brand, too, had been a favourite in his day.
But night falls suddenly upon tropical days; it had so fallen upon Brand's.
He dated his ill-luck to the hour of meeting Cummings. Yet he had never paid more attention to the development of any scheme. At the beginning everything seemed to play into his hands. His idea, of course, was ultimately to oust Cummings from his position as Calvert's heir, and afterwards very delicately to insinuate himself into the vacant place. He manoeuvred Cummings through the open door of the Catholic Church with quite consummate skill—no female convert could have thrown herself into the task with greater ardour. From thence to the priesthood, after Calvert's indignant repudiation of Cummings and his creed, was an easy, and obviously a final, step. But the sincerity of Cummings' detachment had lifted him to heights which Brand could never realize. Never for one moment did he regret his vocation, his only sorrow being at his relations' pain and the withdrawal of his uncle's trust. Actual financial loss affected him not at all. The priest's eyes now were as clear and steady as when, a boy, he had stood upon the Glune road, nervously trying to match his untried blade of argument against the older man's skilled weapons. His smile, when it came, illumined his whole face. If it were possible—yet how could it be possible?—Brand might have thought him happy in his life.
So much for the scheme; Calvert himself upset its fulfilment. Rumours of Brand's treatment of his sisters had reached the older man, and on the single occasion when, in the past, Brand and he had come across each other, he taxed him openly with having done to death two innocent women. More than this. He accused him of having cleverly engineered Cummings into "that hotbed of lying and deception, the Roman Church." He stated facts so clearly that the pose of outraged honour and hurt susceptibility, with which Brand at first met his attack, broke down completely. The very setting of the interview was undignified. It took place in the hall, with butler and footman within hearing.
"There's a notice up, inside, no dogs admitted," said Calvert grimly.
Advancing years weakened convictions; Brand always hoped that with increasing age Calvert's opinions might change. But with Farquharson's entry into Taorna, the last hope died. It was doubly unfortunate for Brand that, at this period, his name should often have been mentioned in connection with a notorious case where there was a strong inference of blackmail, even if it could not actually be proved.
Oh, those hysterical women, with their love of keeping letters!
All this took place some years before Brand's marriage. He went abroad again until the storm blew over. This rumour, at least, had never reached Evelyn. Had others, he wondered? In all such matters she was so strictly rigid; he often wondered if her uncompromising views of sin were the result of temperament or convent education. Uncompromising to sin, that is to say—not to the sinner. His wife seemed to separate action from actor. The sin itself was loathsome, repulsive—it made her shrink. The sinner was wounded, and for him she had healing balms and ointments. But where another woman would have slurred over the cause of the hurt, she spoke of it confidently by name, confronting adultery or theft as she would any other mortal combat.
"We talk of Magersfontein and Colenso," she said once. "If we'd met sin on another kind of battle-field and been defeated, why should we be ashamed to call the battle-field by its own name?"
That Evelyn was original her husband conceded—at times he even took a certain pride in her looks and ways. They were useful. But her attitude to him personally was unendurable. She had never loved him, of course—such a man does not ask for love; he would not have recognized it had he found it. On the other hand, he had never claimed anything from her to which she had not made instant response so far as she was able. She had swept his floors and cooked for him, in their poorer days, like the docile wife of any village labourer; she had mended his reputation as well as his clothes, Hare once said, chuckling. When he was ill she nursed him; when he was well she stayed with him or left him as he wished. But day by day the wall that separated them grew higher; he had married a pliable child, who had become a woman in an hour.
If he spoke of it at all—which was seldom, for, try as he would, he could find no tangible ground for complaint—it was only to rail at her religion.
"Those damned priests and directors are behind this pose of yours. I'll break it down, as well as you, before I've done with you."
In an access of fury one day he dragged from her bedroom wall a Delia Robbia plaque of the Madonna and Child, before which a lamp was burning, and flung it to the ground.
Evelyn was smiling when he turned to her.
"Do you think one's faith depends on such things?" she asked, carefully gathering up the broken pieces. "They're quite immaterial. Your lover's picture is in your heart, whether you have his photograph or not. I'm sorry you broke this, it is one of the few valuable things we have. You may break or burn every outward needless symbol that I have, if you choose—I'll put them away if you dislike them. What you do or what you don't do doesn't touch anything in me. You killed my love long ago, and as for faith—that's just between myself and God."
She blew out the lamp, when he cursed her, and it was never lighted again.
Points of view such as these were indescribably irritating. In his excuse it must be admitted that with increasing years Brand's physical health had grown worse; long paroxysms of pain often seized him when he was alone. Once he had been man enough to fight against his irritability; he tended it now, watering it with his sense of ill-usage, and kept its fruits for his wife. Her unshaken calm, her peace, her air of quiet rest and strength when he was nervous and suffering, tried him beyond words; there were times when he could have stopped short at nothing to wreck her control, to subdue the unconquerable spirit that passed through the mines and tunnels of the world, as though the way was lit by an enduring light. The idea grew to an obsession. He himself was powerless to hurt her; he must act through some one else. Life had been unfair to him throughout; it had marred him first, then broken him. Well, it should mar and break her too.
And if in the fall some other enemy could be made to suffer too, so much the better ... some one to whom the gods had been lavish, as in the case of Richard Farquharson.
Farquharson was drawn to Evelyn, Evelyn was drawn to Farquharson; there was no doubt of that. And Miss Beadon meant to marry Farquharson, and, by herself, would never accomplish her purpose. Why, there were all the elements of a successful comedy in view if Brand could only teach the puppets their parts.
An opportunity came shortly. A few days later, as Brand was sitting in his little smoking-room, where the best, the most comfortable chairs and sofas were collected, he heard his wife's knock at the door.
He glanced at the open letter in her hand through half-closed eyes as she approached.
She held it out for him to read.
"Mr. Calvert's chauffeur has just brought this. The Bedfords have lent him their box at the opera to-night; the Beadons are going, and he wants us too. The man is waiting for an answer. We're free, of course, but you don't care for Wagner opera, do you?"
Brand took the letter and read it with unusual deliberation.
"'Tristan and Isolde, and please be in your place a quarter of an hour before the orchestra strikes up. We are a party of six,'" he quoted slowly. "That means Calvert, Beadon, Miss Dora, you and I and Farquharson, I suppose."
"Am I to refuse or accept?" asked Evelyn. "You look very tired to-night. Are you up to going?"
"I'm right enough," said Brand. "I think—I'm sure, in fact, it will amuse me, although, perhaps, that wasn't exactly the intention of the composer."
He looked at her from head to foot critically, then fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a sovereign.
"Get some flowers to wear—malmaison carnations for choice, if the neighbourhood can produce them. The colour suits you. This is the first invitation Calvert has ever given me, it mustn't be the last. Remember, I rely upon you to do all you can in that direction. Wear white to-night by the bye, you're one of the few women who can; and if the carnations fail, get roses of the same shade."
"Thank you," said Evelyn, lingering still. So sudden, so complete a change of manner made her vaguely uneasy. Brand never gave her money without expecting its full value back in kind.
"Give yourself plenty of time to dress, Evelyn. I want you to look your best. It's really an occasion."
He was still smiling as she closed the door.
CHAPTER VII
"Je connais trop tard quel est l'essential!"—E. ROSTAND.
"Oh, my dear, I'm so glad you've come to look after me," said Miss Beadon; "I was getting quite embarrassed amongst this tribe of men."
She tried to pull Evelyn playfully down beside her as she spoke into the vacant seat she had kept between herself and her father, but Calvert interposed.
"I want Mrs. Brand next me, Miss Beadon. We've business to talk over." He lowered his voice. "I'm going to plunge into things as usual. Farquharson and I have just been discussing his plan of campaign. You've worked wonders for him already; I'm trusting to you to concentrate your influence at this critical moment. He's been seen and felt already, but he's not actually been heard in public. Now I know you've great influence with Beadon——"
Farquharson, entering the box at that moment; overheard the last sentence, and came straight to Mrs. Brand.
"Is my chief worrying you again on my behalf?"
"I refuse to be drawn by that lure," Evelyn laughed lightly. "Don't be ridiculous. I haven't done a single thing for you as yet. Mr. Calvert's right, you know; you ought to speak soon in public. It's the only way to touch the man with the vote, the great uneducated majority. Why, I've seen two or three thousand people at the Albert Hall absolutely swaying to one man's words. Oh, oratory is the power of powers. To play on your audience like an instrument—there's nothing so telling. WhenThe Ambassadorwas being acted at the St. James's Theatre, the manager used to let me go behind and listen in the wings. The big scene was the one between Violet Vanbrugh and Fay Davis, you know, and Violet Vanbrugh had certain words to say—I've forgotten the actual phrase—which always either warmed the house to frenzy or left it cold. I used to stand with my eyes shut waiting for that speech—one became in time so sensitive to the atmosphere of the house as to know before it was given exactly how it would be received. I've never heard you speak; but I know just how the world's going to take your speech when you make one."
"Yet I haven't done much in that line," said Farquharson. "The plain audience I'm accustomed to is quite different to critical London. Our whole system in Taorna is different to your system here, of course. We can't afford to have wastrels in our Assembly. The people elect their Council from amongst men who've been proved to have the island's interest at heart. And then each man has his own right of judgment. When an appeal comes before us, we vote according to our individual opinion, not according to party. The President has the casting vote. We put men on their honour, as it were; we don't necessarily oppose because we belong to the Opposition, nor do we change our opinions unanimously because we're afraid to face a general election. If at any time during his tenure of office a minister is found to have failed in his duty according to the opinion of a quorum of his colleagues, he has to come before a sort of political court-martial."
"I'm afraid our methods here are less straightforward," said Evelyn. "I know of at least one by-election where an inefficient candidate was pulled through solely because his canvassers said he had a sick wife whose death would be hastened if he didn't get the seat."
"As a matter of fact he hadn't lived with her for years, and neither of them took the least interest in the other, but his agent waxed positively hysterical over the sentimental aspect of the case. Had there been universal suffrage I've no doubt that the wife would have plumped her vote for the rival candidate," said Beadon. "By the bye, Farquharson, you're in favour of Tariff Reform, of course. Mrs. Brand asked me the other day to persuade you to speak for us at our monster meeting at the Albert Hall next Monday. You would be in good company; we have a fine show of speakers."
"Delighted, of course," said Farquharson impassively. "It begins at eight o'clock, doesn't it?" He took out his note-book.
Brand eagerly interposed.
"Mr. Calvert has just promised to dine with us that evening. Will you come too? Lady Wereminster always invites my wife to her box; Lord Meavy and Lord Creagh are coming too. We shall have to feed at an unearthly hour, but perhaps you won't mind that under the circumstances."
"Thanks very much, I shall be delighted," said Farquharson again.
Evelyn, amazed, leant back in her seat and whispered to her husband under cover of her fan.
"I didn't know that they were coming. When did you ask them?"
Brand bent down, adjusting his opera-glasses.
"Don't give yourself away. The others will be glad enough to come if Calvert and Farquharson do. Once capture the coming man and others will follow. You must help me, Evelyn; it means everything to me to have it known Calvert visits us."
"Of course I'll do my best. Oh, hush!" said Evelyn. The orchestra had begun playing the first notes of that exquisite prelude toTristan and Isoldewhich,motifbymotif, leads from the first confession of love by way of desire and magic and mystery to the deliverance of death.
Wagner opera was to Farquharson a new experience. He had come that night in a cynical enough mood. The darkness that enfolded the great assembly in its mantle, the hush and tension under which it laboured, listening without movement, rather as one corporate body than as a crowd of separate entities, struck him at first as a mere pose. But presently the power and strength and pathos of the music carried him away as it carried others. This was real flesh and blood; impatience, ardour, glory, the very song of the sea, transport and passion, blending with underlying chords of human sorrow—each in turn rang true.
And as he listened old memories came thronging back, memories at once exquisite and painful. For now the sufferings of his childhood spread before him like an allegory whose language his mature eyes could read; they had been encrusted for years with the ice of bitterness. But here, under Evelyn's influence, the ice had melted. He detached himself, the man, from the sturdy boyish figure which had flinched and wavered, but yet never given way, and saw how the fire of manhood had been kindled by those hours of stress. Wind and rain, storm and torrent, had formed his character, and mountain fastnesses had been his playground. The whole story of his childhood was a preparation for the battle he was fighting now. His ceaseless combats with men and things, even the mimic raids and sorties he had made as a child upon invisible foes, had stood him in good stead later when struggle was as infallibly his portion as it is the portion of certain men to sleep beside the hearth.
But if life for him was a battle-field, it was no less a battle-field for the woman at his side. His foes were worthy opponents, men of strength who brought their artillery to bear upon his little stronghold; hers were mere thieves of the night, but both came armed with weapons that drew blood.
Apart in body, separated from each other by every natural barrier, the wheel of the potter, whose toil is endless, had shaped the rough clay of these two human beings from very similar moulds. The voice of the great religion to which Evelyn belonged has its unworthy exponents; it is not always in a convent that the purest souls are reared. "Factus obediens usque ad mortem crucis," is sometimes chanted solemnly by those who betray unconsciously the souls of others; who impose little straws of restrictions upon backs already bent to breaking by God's unswerving laws. Should a Catholic sin, the fault is shrieked from the housetops, so high a standard is demanded of man or woman who subscribes to that high faith.
Yet the limits of Catholicism and the limits of Calvinism—apart as they seem—can touch. The bigot of the one may be as the bigot of the other. The gospel of detachment had been preached to Evelyn until, for a short time, she let herself drift upon the waters of submission, and since habitual and unquestioning obedience must crush in time the strongest spirit, yielded in the matter of marriage to the direction of her stepmother and father as she would have yielded to that of a spiritual adviser. Now, too late, she knew that for this retribution would be exacted hourly, for God strikes—not as men do, at the mere twigs and blossoms of human frailty, but at the very roots of being.
Unconsciously the thoughts of the man and woman in the box moved on converging lines and met, as the music below swayed onward and upward in Tristan and Isolde's exquisite duet.