Evelyn alone of the congratulatory group was dumb. To have one's prayers answered openly is sometimes a betrayal of what those prayers have meant to one. Farquharson came quietly up to her, and, voiceless still, her eyes searched his face. How he had aged the last few months! There was a great patch of grey hair on the right-hand side of his brow. She wondered if she would ever see again the look of boyish exaltation he had had that night at Bramley.Hare, glancing at them, quietly drew Lady Wereminster's attention to the fact that Mrs. Farquharson was still sitting apart from the rest with Meavy. "Would it not be correct to congratulate her too?" he suggested."And you—have you nothing to say?" Farquharson asked. They were practically alone for the first time since his marriage.Evelyn looked down. Her eyes were wet."Don't—don't!" she said; "it's beyond all words—the gladness, I mean. You know the little desert song—"'No one but God and IKnow what is in my heart.'That's what I feel.""Now, Evelyn, Evelyn, come over here with my husband, or I shall feel quite jealous," called Mrs. Farquharson from the other end of the room.CHAPTER III"A sacred burden is the life ye bear:Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly;Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly;Fail not for sorrow; falter not for sin,But onward, upward, till the goal ye win."F. A. KEMBLE."Once upon a time," said Lady Wereminster, "I used to meet treachery with openness. I believed that to raise the standard of right meant victory. Now I know it doesn't, from this world's point of view. Men and women who batten upon each other, who, being insensitive to the feelings of others, mock at the halt and blind, get all they want from life. Life, like the judge in the importunate widow story, gives only to those who ask persistently.""I used to pride myself on asking very little from life; now I've found out that what I want is priceless," said Evelyn. Lady Wereminster had come in to see her one afternoon after a big function at Holland House, and stayed, as was her custom."You think you're alone in your suffering," said Lady Wereminster; "well, you're not. Your friends suffer with you, they see you shamed and broken in the world's eyes, and they stand on the pillory with you, and are beaten with stripes as you are. Don't think I'm trying to force your confidence. I'm not. I only want you to know what people like you so seldom realize, that, as you walk to the Cross, a host of invisible followers pursue you, the people you've helped, the people who love you, the people to whom your hurt is more than their own. We're not all of us called upon to make great sacrifices, Evelyn. It's only a few people like you in a century upon whom the demand is made. If I were a pagan I should say that the gods were jealous of the gift of love. Take any of the lives you know, and you'll see that, where love is, the real communion between men and women, the tie is rudely broken either by death or some more imminent disaster. I keep my faith in spite of being sure that the Great Power behind only allows us to taste supreme joy for a short time. Human beings are born with the capacity of holding a certain amount of strength and force and happiness. If they take all their happiness at once, as those of us do who drink the cup at its fullest, they must go thirsty for the remainder of their days."She turned suddenly and held out her hand to Evelyn."You don't want to talk about it, I know. I don't, either. I had to tell you, for I'm an old woman who has seen many seeming injustices in the world, and who will rebel against them to the end—and so I am sorry for you. Because I believe in happiness I should have arranged the world differently to the way in which God has arranged it. But because He is God, and has rolling centuries to match my little half-hour of knowledge, I fold my hands and trust His purposes, although I absolutely fail to see their meaning. Now let's talk of something else. Have you seen Dora Farquharson lately?""Only casually in the street," said Evelyn. "She seems rather to have avoided me of late.""Nor her husband?" asked Lady Wereminster, intent on fastening her cloak.Evelyn shook her head."We live very far out, you know, and of late, even had the Farquharsons been disengaged, we've entertained so little that I've had no excuse for asking them.""If you had asked her, she'd have refused to come," said Lady Wereminster from the door. "She's jealous. A woman who is common at heart takes common means of showing jealousy. But, mark my words, the time will come when Dora's in trouble, and she'll send for you then irrevocably as the one person she can trust."Fond as she was of Lady Wereminster, Evelyn saw her go with a sigh of relief. Unseen wounds hurt enough in any case, without being torn open daily by our friends.—How hot and sultry it was!One of the minor evils of what is called the artistic temperament is its dependence on the changes of the season. So far, Evelyn had loved spring and summer, had counted the days till April like a child awaiting some coveted adventure. She loved to see the orchards break into bloom, on the way to Kew; the first pink flush of almond blossom, the coming of little green shoots on barren trees had struck her with a new significance each year till now. The gradual coming of life was so tender, so wonderful, so mysterious.... But this year, the light and glow, the call of mating birds, the caress of the soft air, only served to deepen her sense of pain. Everything spoke of the joy and promise of life from which she stood aloof. Nature itself seemed to have taken up arms against her, and its array of happy changes found her lonely and sad.The ordinary routine of life went on, untouched by mood or whim. It was an especially busy season, but lately she had lost her hold on things, and found it difficult to keep up even the little weekly salon in which she had once taken such pride. To be mated with sorrow is little by little to lose all vitality and youth; the lassitude that had come upon Evelyn presently became physical, gripped her closer day by day, as she strove against it with ever-weakening strength. Society had no longer any power to amuse her; indeed she dreaded going out, lest she should be forced to listen to more of Dora's confidences about Farquharson. Religion left her cold. At home, Brand was perhaps a trifle more cynical than before; he had found her vulnerable spot, and turned his knowledge to account. On those rare evenings when they were alone together in the little flat at West Kensington (she often dined now in her own room), she would surprise him sometimes watching her through half-closed lids, and smiling as if at some private reminiscence."Why do you look at me like that?" she asked one night, when for the third time she had met his mocking look fixed full upon her."Oh, I grant you it's rather amazing that a man should find anything to look at in his wife after so many years of marriage," said Brand, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "You should be flattered at the compliment. A husband's tribute to his wife's charms is worth at least twice as much as that of any—other. By the way, our Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs is mounting steadily up the ladder of fame, isn't he?""The papers seem to think well of him," said Evelyn coldly.The postman's knock at the door brought welcome interruption in the shape of a bulky letter from Cummings. She took it to her room."By the time this reaches you I shall have set sail for the East once more," he wrote. "I have got all the good I shall out of my trip; it's no use staying any longer. It was like you to try to make my father and mother see me again—I knew they would not. Amongst many jealous mistresses—ambition, pleasure, the quest of forgetfulness or peace—love of home never loses her sway on a man's heart. A man may travel far and try to stifle, in other countries and other surroundings, the claims of his own lands and his own people, but their voices compel him, until at last he is bound either to obey or else for ever to cut himself adrift. And for the future I shall cut myself adrift."It was like you, too, to collect all that array of good things for my people; thank you for them all. Not one will be wasted, and I shall look upon them with very especial gratitude, because you thought of me in your own trouble."For that you have got to face trouble—perhaps are facing it now—I know. I have thought about you again and again lately, when fighting my own battles. The hardest test of faith, after all, is to fight when one is not sure the cause is good. Thank God that you and I both know ten thousand difficulties do not make one doubt. Beneath every paradox of the Catholic Church truth lies concealed, if we will but dig down to it. But there are days when toil is impossible; when merely to attempt work so hard and difficult brings sweat to one's brow. And you will tell me, very truly, that, face to face with mental wreckage, to talk of paradox is small comfort."You are a unit of a big battalion; only a unit, but you count. There are others to right and to left, in front and in rear of you; they will fall if you fail. You know that a regiment once was lost through one man's cowardice. You and I have got to go on, whatever happens. We are not great generals—we are under command. Obedience is our watchword."I remember in the South African War, before a certain action, the general sent out an army order to his men, which I copied at the time, but cannot lay my hands on just now. It ran something like this: 'You are dealing with a treacherous enemy; one who seeks to lower your honour by his own intrigue. Face that fact, and face him; it is the only way.' The one simple thing in life for you and me lies in the fact that, after all, we have but one thing to do. We are fighting under a standard that we are going to uphold to the end. We shall bleed for it—a few drops of blood, more or less, really don't matter; we shall probably fall for it—we shall have to remember then to hold our heads up, because the world might think that we were afraid; we shall die for it, knowing that it is still raised high in the sight of men, and that it will so rise, please God, through all the coming centuries as it has done in all its glorious past."Rather cold comfort I am giving you, I suppose you will say. But you have been abroad, and seen life under different aspects, and watched great issues come to a climax as I have. Out in India, at the great Mahomedan festivals, I have walked ankle-deep through narrow streets reeking with blood. I once stood by the unlitghât, and watched a man's dead body thereon, and saw his little widow of twenty years old set a light to the pyre with her own slender fingers, in default of a son old enough to undertake the office. Such things make one think."I shall never forget her shriek when the flame rose, nor the dreary misery of her look when, afterwards, she collected her husband's ashes, and, being only a peasant, was stripped of her fine garments, stripped of her ornaments, stripped of all that made life bearable from her limited point of view, to begin a new life of drudgery working in the fields, scorned and mocked by all, an unclean being to be stoned by the very boys in the street because, as a widow, she had lost her caste."Experiences like these wrench you out of yourself, and make you thank God you are not God to judge between the sins and errors of nations and of individuals. You and I rebel at drinking our cup of vinegar and gall because we are merely human, and so don't like the bitter draught. But it is because sin came first, that there is so much suffering now. Better drink the bitter cup to its dregs here than pay the penalty of drinking it hereafter. And whether or no it comforts us at the moment, the light of faith is still ours. 'May we walk therein until the day of eternal light breaks forth, and the shadows and figures pass away.'""You've been worrying again," said Lady Wereminster, returning. "Don't. Nothing in the world is worth worrying about more than half-an-hour.Worryingabout, I said, not grieving over. Legitimate grief at a legitimate blow is one thing—racking your brains out adjusting something which ought never to have gone askew is another. Worry puts a spoke in the wheel of thought; it may stop the machinery from moving. And then——" She shrugged her shoulders significantly."I don't think any self-respecting person can be well in this weather," said Evelyn; "it would be rather rude not to acknowledge its power.""It's no use looking at the door," said Lady Wereminster; "I am not going for hours yet. I returned with the intention of bullying you, and shan't stir until I've done it. I am in a bad temper, and must wreak it on somebody. One ought to give way to one's temper sometimes, you know, on the principle of a kettle boiling over and doing serious damage.""I'm quite impervious to your tempers," said Evelyn; "they are more easy to deal with than the amenities of other people!""This is an unlucky day," said Lady Wereminster, seating herself. "Wherever I turn I run up against Dora Farquharson. Nothing annoys me more. I shopped in Sloane Street this morning—she was there. I lunched with Lady Ennly quite unexpectedly; unluckily, that dear idiot Creagh had run across Dora in the Park, and brought her on. She patted her husband on his back all luncheon time; metaphorically, of course—mercifully for him he was absent. If I were a caricaturist I should draw her putting him flat on his stomach across her knee and thumping him as if he were a troublesome infant. If that woman lived with Savonarola, she would bring him down eventually to the level of Simple Simon in the old nursery rhyme.""Oh, she can't do him any real harm," Evelyn said. "You do exaggerate things so delightfully. The marriage is not successful, I know—but no one would know it wasn't if she had any tact. For he's patient enough and forbearing.""Too forbearing," said Lady Wereminster. "If a man marries a fool he should treat her according to her folly. Once to give in to a blatant self-sufficient creature like Dora Farquharson is to give in for all eternity, and so pave the way to your own downfall. Fools and scandal-mongers are at the bottom of all the mischief in the world. There are very few systematic schemers and plotters, in spite of Sicilian melodrama. Mrs. Farquharson has a common soul. One doesn't know how to deal with such a woman; the whole art of social warfare has to be re-learned. She's flagrant; she uses every one; she's used you; in the old days she traded on her father's influence; now she trades on her husband's.""Dora is rather inconsiderate," said Evelyn. "Her husband's success might well turn her head.""Oh, her head's a tee-to-tum," said Lady Wereminster; "you have only got to touch it with the finger of flattery for it to spin round and round like a top. She gives me a sort of moral vertigo. It's rather a dangerous quality, by the bye, for the wife of a Minister in so important an office. A judicious questioner could get anything in the world out of Dora Farquharson; she'd be worth a fortune to Fleet Street——" She stopped abruptly.The eyes of the two women met."Yes?" said Evelyn."This is a secret," said Lady Wereminster, dropping her voice; "a real secret, mind. Your husband's out, isn't he? and the servant, I suppose, is concealed in that dark hole of yours you call a kitchen. All the same, I would be rather glad if you would open the door and take the trouble to look well down the passage before I tell you what I've got to say.""How absurd you are," said Evelyn, returning. "You're quite safe; there's no one in the house. I've looked in every room and under the beds!""Thank you," said Lady Wereminster, with a sigh of relief. "It's a serious matter, really, Evelyn. You know what friends Wereminster and Beadon have always been—allies from boyhood. Wereminster, of course, is like a rock. You strike and strike at him, and you don't get even the vaguest echo. He's the safest man in the world to confide in. He always declares he would never have found out that he was in love with me if I hadn't told him first. And though I talk so much, I don't as a rule talk personalities. That's why people look upon us as safety valves, and we learn a good deal about small intrigues and difficulties that other people never hear.""Don't say names, will you? I do so hate being told what I'm not meant to know.""If I don't tell somebody I shall burst," said Lady Wereminster. "You're safe. You're a well; people pour their souls into you, and other people lean over from the brink and see nothing. It appears that various small matters have leaked out lately in the Press, and no one can account for the authorship. And in each case, unluckily, the impression given has been true. So far only comparatively minor matters have been disclosed; but who knows when something really important won't be given away before its time, and so lead to irreparable harm? I know, as a fact, that the P.O. is worried about it.""How long has this been going on?""Six or eight months. That's the unfortunate part of it. It dates back to the time when Richard Farquharson was made Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Oh, don't look like that—nobody suspects him, but it's an unlucky incident. Why, even his appointment, which was, so far as we know, known only to the King and his immediate household, to the Prime Minister and to thepersonnelwho met at Mr. Calvert's famous dinner party on the second of November, was announced in all the morning papers, although Mr. Beadon had expressly told us that it was to be kept private for the next forty-eight hours.""Mr. Beadon has new secretaries, I suppose," said Evelyn. "He would probably require more help as Prime Minister than as Leader of the Opposition.""Oh, they're above reproach," said Lady Wereminster; "personal friends mostly, and all men who have worked with him for years. Besides, it's not necessarily John Beadon's news that has been given away. It is chiefly minute turns of the tide which affect the rise and fall of shares, etc. Anyway, the whole position is discomforting, a source of real annoyance to the Prime Minister and his colleagues.""Stocks and shares," repeated Evelyn. She had grown very pale. "Yes, of course an intimate knowledge of foreign affairs would make all the difference in speculation. But no one, however base, could do such a thing—no one in our set, I mean——" She faltered."Some men and women would do anything for money," said Lady Wereminster. "What's happened so far does not affect the nationen grand. It's merely that events have proved that small founts of knowledge, whose source is supposed to be only known to the initiated, have obviously been tapped by some mysterious person, whose identity is as yet unknown. And as these things deal mainly with his office they look like stabs in the dark aimed at Mr. Farquharson himself. Such a man must have enemies, of course, but I never knew—did you?—that any special person bore him a grudge?""I want to ask you a question," said Evelyn. Her husband found her in the hall, awaiting him, when, some time after midnight, he turned the key in the door. "You have been comparatively generous to me lately. So far as I know, our income is the same as it has always been, but you have been less troubled about money matters. Why?"Brand put one hand on her shoulder heavily, and with the other dragged her face sharply upwards into the full glare of the electric light, and looked at her searchingly."I think I shouldn't make too many inquiries into the question if I were you," he said deliberately. "Your way of life and mine are not quite the same. I am a plain man, and I go a man's way to work. I don't pose or talk cant. Luck comes my way now and again, although it's more often dead against me. It's with me now, and I mean to make the most of it. I owe part of it to you, you know, and that's why I've been generous.""You owe it to me—tome?" said Evelyn blankly.He pulled the door-chain, laughing, and she heard him laughing again as he went up-stairs. The night was warm, but she stood shivering like a frightened child in the empty hall at the thought which struck her.CHAPTER IV"If we could see ourselves as others see us, many of us would wear a mask"—ANON."It destroys one's nerves to be amiable every day to the same human being."—LORD BEACONSFIELD.In work, says an old philosopher, a man may find his refuge for all ills of the mind; to drink deep of the fount of knowledge is to bring peace to the troubled soul. But work had been too long the mainspring of Farquharson's life for him to find in it now the comfort which might have lulled another man's anxiety. His life had been one of toil throughout. At Glune he had wrestled and fought for freedom; in the succeeding years, after his escape, he had struggled for knowledge and mere daily bread; in Taorna, fortune and fame had been his two objectives; in England he sought power. And after a time strain tells even upon the strong. It is often the most brilliant brain that snaps.A normal man must have an outlet for his feelings and emotions. Farquharson's long self-repression in the past had made him the readier to be swayed by the right woman's influence when it came. He had never fully realized all that his daily communion with Evelyn had meant until after the wrench of their parting at Bramley.The pain that can be sympathized with openly is endurable, but hidden pain is crushing. There is conceivable relief for a surcharged brain which can explain the why and wherefore of its sorrow; but in the world daily we meet widows who were never wives, and whose despair is the more hopeless because they have no lawful claim upon our sympathy.In his separation from Evelyn, Farquharson had lost the friend, companion, helpmate, and bride of his dreams. Work—to a habitual worker—cannot heal so deep a wound as this; only complete change of circumstance and scene might possibly change a man's thoughts after such a blow. And for him there was no change. Shorn of all joy and pride in his work, he yet toiled ceaselessly at it; returning daily to a home which, worse than being bare and desolate, contained the wrong woman.There are women who pry into the smallest details of a man's privacy. Farquharson's dressing-room even was not his own. In certain moods Dora discovered that the angle of his looking-glass pleased her better than her own; short of actually locking the door against her, he was never secure from interruption even there. She had developed a thousand whims and fancies since her marriage. She had her own boudoir and drawing-room, and a little sanctum on the stairs which she called her library, where she began to write many letters which were never finished, and to grapple with accounts which were always thrown aside a moment later. Farquharson, unaccustomed to women's society, never once thought of forbidding her to invade his own large and austerely furnished study at the back of the house; it was not until returning unexpectedly one day he found her rummaging amongst some papers on the table that he spoke to her with unusual severity."You have your own room, Dora; kindly keep there. I can't allow you to come here. There are papers of importance which mustn't be touched. What's that you've got crumpled up in your hand? It looks like—why, these are some notes Blair made for me this morning. How did you manage to get hold of them?""It's perfectly absurd that Mr. Blair should be allowed to come in here and go out as he likes even if he is your secretary, when you forbid your own wife to come in," said Dora angrily. "Stupid old notes, I'm sure I don't want them; I brought in papers of my own, and I suppose they've got mixed up, somehow. They're written on just the same sort of paper as Louise's bill. How on earth was I to know the difference? Besides, anyway it's absurd to make such a fuss about a trifle like that. If I did happen to glance at your dull notes and see a word or two, who has a better right than I to read them, after all?"Farquharson smoothed out the paper and glanced down it."There's nothing that matters in this as it happens. Blair's quite a careful boy; he would never leave out anything really important. But we are rather busy people, Dora, he and I, and he has his own way of arranging things. He's complained to me before now that they're upset and made disorderly by your coming in. Now, I don't suppose, for instance, that you've the smallest notion where you got this from. Try and tax your memory, and put it back in exactly the same place.""How absurd, how maddening you are!" said Dora, fuming. "What on earth does it matter where the stupid old things come from?" She tore the paper into a dozen pieces and flung them down, white with rage. "You shut me out from everything. What's the good of being the wife of a man in your position if you keep everything so secret? I'm the same as yourself; I've a right to know everything that you know. I know there is some big intrigue going on at this very moment between England and—well, you know which foreign Power better than I; all the newspapers are hinting at it—anybody would give anything to get hold of a little private knowledge about it. But here you are keeping it all to yourself, when it's my right to know, when you ought to confide in me. It's hateful, it's despicable, it's absolutely lowering; no wife in the world was ever treated so cruelly as you treat me."Farquharson sighed hopelessly."We had better understand each other once and for all. I should have thought that you, the daughter of a man who, in the past, was once Colonial Minister, would have understood matters without need of explanation. With an ordinary wife things may be different, I don't know. The wife of a man holding my office must be content to know neither more nor less than the rest of the world about the work he is engaged in. A man's political and domestic life are absolutely apart. We have a lot of years before us, Dora, to live out side by side. This point must be made clear now. You must submit to me utterly in this; in everything else I give you your own way, so far as is compatible with common sense. It seems to me a monstrous thing that you should even contemplate the possibility of my being a spy to satisfy your curiosity. Leave my room now, at once, and remember that I put you on your honour never to enter it again without permission.""How dare you? how dare you?" cried Dora, catching her breath hysterically. "It's my right, it's my due, to go where I like and do as I choose. I won't be shut out of your life like this. You owe everything to me, and this is your gratitude. Taorna—who cares twopence-halfpenny about Taorna and what's done there? If I hadn't pleaded with and begged my father to give you some place in the Ministry, do you think you'd be there now? If you hadn't married me you would have been nowhere and done nothing. And what have I gained through marriage with you? I was happier before. People loved me and admired me. You never give me a word of love or admiration. You go out with me—yes, because you've got to; because it's to your advantage to show me off at parties. But you never even notice my new gowns; you never even take the trouble to pay me one of the compliments I was surfeited with, till I met you. I might be—why, I might be just like anybody else the way you treat me; not a woman of importance, a woman with wealth and charm, and all the rest of it—who expects to hear a trumpery secret now and again, as her right, and is grudged even that."She stopped for want of breath, and caught at the table for support.Farquharson leant back in his chair and looked at her critically. He was very pale."Three minutes by the clock, my dear Dora. There's a prize given at Dunmow annually to the woman who talks longer and faster than any other in the competition. It doesn't matter what nonsense she talks. You would do well to enter for it. I believe it comes off in July."Dora turned suddenly and confronted him. He looked at her as at a stranger. He had had little experience of hysterical women; the outward signs of his mother's conflicts with self had been so sternly repressed that it was only lately that he had guessed how often that rigid figure quailed under the strain of its inward wounds. No other woman had come into his life as more than a momentary pastime till he met Evelyn. The sight of his wife's short, stricken figure roused no pity in him, only disgust. He had had no very high ideal of women in childhood; that he should have linked himself to a woman whose motives were so mean, one who, having no real interest in the cause, could seek to degrade her husband's honour for the mere sake of satisfying personal curiosity, of flaunting her knowledge in the eyes of others, roused his disgust and shame.He put his watch down on the table."In five minutes I shall expect you to leave the room," he said. "If you haven't withdrawn by then I shall ring for your maid. In any case I should advise you to send for her. You aren't yourself. I think even the glass in my dressing-room would fail to satisfy you as to your appearance at the present moment."His cigarette case lay on the table; he reached his hand out for it, but paused midway.Dora sprang at him, her eyes blazing. She clutched his arm in her grasp, almost like a mad woman."I hate you," she gasped. "You've killed my love. What right have you to make me suffer? to hurt me so appallingly, mentally, spiritually, physically? When I think of all I've got to bear for you it almost drives me mad. It's too humiliating and degrading. Weeks, months of pain for you—for you that I hate. I've seen the doctor to-day; he left just before you came. Nothing can save me. I've got to have a child—a child that will be like you, hard, cruel and implacable."For a moment Farquharson sat in silence, aghast, shaken at the torrent of words. This was the explanation, then; the excuse of all the waywardness and hysteria he had not understood. He hardly knew if he was glad or sorry at the news. The dream-wife he had longed for would never now be his; ... the dream-child he had longed for, for whose dear sake he had striven to win Glune....Dream-bride, dream-mother—he shut his eyes. And Dora was the reality, and Dora was suffering.... His anger died, and a wave of tenderness and sympathy, pity for her as well as for himself, and awe and wonder that even in this moment the new tie pulled at his heart-strings, made him stretch out his arms to her, and take her on his knee almost as though he loved her."My dear, my dear, forgive me. I didn't understand or know—I ought to have guessed and been kinder to you," he said, holding her close.But even in the moment of reconciliation a picture shaped itself before his eyes—a picture which he resolutely strove to put away, but which returned again and again during the night. How differently the dream-wife would have told him—and what would it not have meant to him and to her?CHAPTER V"Every work that is corruptible shall fail, and the worker thereof shall go with it."—ECCLESIASTICUS.To achieve success by certain ways is not, after all, very difficult. The schemers and plotters, even the merely selfish, have all in their hands for a time. One need not necessarily be wicked to flourish as a green bay-tree. Persistently to use other people to your own ends, to appeal to pity at the right moment, to take what is offered you as your due, without gratitude or sense of obligation, is to lay a very sure nest-egg of security for the future.Brand had planned and schemed to some avail. He had every right to be satisfied with the result. For years he had cherished the remembrance of slights long since forgotten by their authors. Well, he had been able to wipe off a great many of such slights lately. He had struck at Evelyn through Farquharson; he had struck at Lady Wereminster through Evelyn; he had struck at Farquharson through Dora; he would strike at Calvert through Farquharson. It was quite simple, after all, to pull the strings of puppets so foolish as to be swayed by the great forces of love and honour, no matter how important the stage on which they played.Sitting at ease in the lounge of the Grand Hotel at Brighton one afternoon in June, he reviewed the situation critically. He was better off than he had been, too—always a pleasant matter of contemplation. Secretly as he worked, he was recognized by the Press as a man who could tap many mines of marketable knowledge, "one in the know," as the phrase goes, unhampered by petty scruples as to parting with his knowledge for a valuable sum. He had easily learned the journalists' knack of dressing his knowledge in pertinent phrase; that fact told too. Thanks to Evelyn, he was received everywhere now; the world forgets very easily, unless its memory is jogged. The inscriptions on his sisters' tombstones were now illegible for want of care, and Brand himself was not the type of man whom ghosts haunt.He was careful in small details, sure in his heart that Evelyn could not do more than suspect him, and had no means of proving her knowledge. Her hands were tied too. To prove that Dora Farquharson had told her husband's secrets to a man who, in turn, sold them to the daily Press, was, after all, to drag down Farquharson from his high place. Cæsar's wife—he laughed; in this case she had proved a very useful buffer! Since the episode in the hall, Brand had been more careful in concealing matters from his wife. He went to another banker, and kept his cheque-book under lock and key, for instance—not that that was necessary with Evelyn—but he took care that she should no longer benefit by the price he was paid for his items of news.And, little by little, he was sowing seeds of suspicion among the Opposition. It was his dearest hope to drag Farquharson's name in the dust. He never forgot that it was Farquharson who had ousted him for ever from the place which he might have taken in Calvert's regard. For ever?—the man was old and weak now; who knew but if Farquharson failed him he might not lend a more willing ear to the voice of the ready sympathizer, who was also a near connection?In any case Brand was content to wait. Until he is found out, a cheat is bound to win the greatest number of tricks in a game of skill.Then, too, a physically weak man likes to show his power; he is often more cruel than a stronger man. Brand's meetings with Dora afforded him constant amusement. At first she had tried to baffle and evade him; Dora was the last woman in the world to hold to a bargain when once she had reaped its full benefits. They had quite a disturbing scene one day. She was fully alive to the advantages of her position. As Farquharson's wife she could go anywhere, do anything. And she knew that, did he once learn by what means she had won him—that she had allowed Evelyn's name to be brought into disrepute that she might win her little pitiful triumph, he was capable of repudiating her at once. No love bound them. Separation, scandal, the dreariness of life under such changed conditions—these were unpleasant changes which no woman of sense would wish to face.Brand worried her very little at first, merely drawing her on to disclose small items of news more on the level with Farquharson's appointment. Little by little his demands grew. Much of Farquharson's work was done in cypher at the Foreign Office, but there were certain notes and jottings often in his personal possession at Chester Street. From time to time Dora had got possession of these notes for him. Lady Wereminster was right. In one way and another a good many important disclosures had been made. Some of these Brand sold directly to the Press, others he used entirely for his own advantage, and was the richer man thereby.He had a great scheme in view now—to get a copy of some of the terms of this Foreign Treaty about which there was so much controversy. A third Power would give the weight of each word in gold for even a hint of its contents.... But how to get it? Dora had given herself away so ridiculously on that occasion when Farquharson had found her in his room; she had admitted losing her head through absolute terror after his discovery that she was searching amongst his papers. That was the worst of women, particularly women in her condition. Never level-headed at best, approaching motherhood threw some of them completely off their mental balance, particularly those who, like Dora, rebelled against its very thought.Oh, he had got to the crux of the difficulty, doubtless. He smoked on meditatively, eyeing, one by one, the typical little groups of men and women who were gathered near him: rich Jews, with over-dressed families, actresses, manufacturers' wives from the Midlands, a loud-voiced, blatant throng. Places like these always amused Brand; their little pitiful attempts to compete with the attractions of foreign hotels were so lamentable in their failure, they reminded him of a young bride's efforts to rival an experienced woman of the world.Anhabituéeof the place, a woman to whom he had spoken casually on one or two occasions, came up and seated herself beside him. "You always remind me of Burns' poem, Mr. Brand," she said archly. "You look 'like a chiel amangst us takin' notes.' Aren't you often abused socially for being so critical?""Critical—now I wonder what you mean by critical?" said Brand.The woman laughed again, tugging ruthlessly at her gloves."Oh, pulling holes, I suppose. You look at us all as though you could strip us threadbare. I've heard lots of people say the same. Now tell me, aren't you a great personage in London?"Brand smiled."I am only a looker-on, dear lady. Now and again I give or withhold a word of advice. That's all. Few people have your perspicacity. Men of force are usually supposed to have athletic physiques. Now sport, and all things appertaining thereto, have always seemed to me—rather cruel and terrible. They are always subtle pleasures which appeal to me. Goths and Philistines say that the taste of absinthe reminds them of bad drains; whereas to me it's of a quite unparalleled purity. Now there's an odd flavour about life as there is about absinthe; and the odder it is the more it appeals to me.""I think my friend wants me," said the lady, rather nervously. She swept away hurriedly. Brand watched her exit with a smile. Provincial women have only one charm; it is easy to be rid of them when once they bore you. You have only to hint at abnormality, or give the merest suggestion of what, in their own vernacular, would be called "improper," to send them scuttling away like frightened sheep.He rose leisurely and looked at the clock in the hall. Two—no, Mrs. Farquharson was eight minutes late. Careless, that. For the future he must make her realize that he expected her to be punctual. The position had shifted; it was he who now directed, and she who had to obey.He crossed to the far corner of the lounge, seating himself under the alcove immediately facing the door. Presently the green car arrived, and he saw Dora emerge from it hurriedly, and run up the broad steps, with some amusement. Her obvious inner tremors were a tribute to his power. She spoke to the hall porter anxiously, and was ushered in full of apologies and mental disturbance."I thought I should never get off," she said. "It takes such an awful time to get down here, and the chauffeur took a wrong turning at Croydon. I daren't risk coming to such a place again. What should I do if Richard were to question the man as to where I've been? He knows I never do anything without a motive.""I should have thought you were accustomed to inventing excuses by now," said Brand deliberately. "You've had a good deal of experience, one way and another. You have brought the papers, I suppose? Here, look at the Sketch. Hold it in your left hand, so. Put your bag underneath on your lap; take out the papers, and pass them to me presently. Not just yet, those people over there are looking. Thanks. You're sure they are what I want?""Of course they are what you want," said Dora. "Understand, this is the very last thing I'm going to do for you. I've paid you back a thousandfold for the little you did. For that matter, you did me the worst turn you ever did to any one in all your life. My marriage has brought me nothing but misery and discomfort.""Oh, so you think you have paid your debt, do you?" said Brand. "Tea for two, waiter, please. Hot cakes I think you like, Mrs. Farquharson; or, as it's summer, would you prefer sandwiches? Yes, cucumber sandwiches, I think, please—anything cool. You were saying—by the way, how much you amuse me, Mrs. Farquharson!""Amuse you!" repeated Dora. She pulled her veil down again, shrinking back into the corner as two strangers from the sea front, who had come in for tea, passed by and glanced at the pair curiously."Cream? Sugar?" asked Brand. "What, no sugar? I should take it if I were you."He handed her her teacup with some deliberation. "There's one quality that you lack, Mrs. Farquharson—you have all other charms, of course. You don't balance things quite aptly. Now, as a matter of fact, you owe me a debt that can never be properly repaid. I've done the utmost that a man can do for any woman—I've even jeopardized my wife's honour that you might gain what you desired." He shrugged his shoulders. "The fact that what you then gained is now of no value to you doesn't matter at all. The point is that you haven't paid your debt off yet—that there's still more to be done before you and I can properly call quits.""More still!" said Dora. She was very pale, and her hand was shaking. "More still!" Her voice rose hysterically.Brand leant back in his chair."You shall be free after this one more act, I promise you. It's comparatively a difficult job, I grant. You know that, owing to widespread dissension on the frontier, there's a question of a certain treaty between a very important Power and England. The terms of that treaty intimately concern another Power—she is anxious to know how far her welfare is attacked. Your husband is sure to have notes relating to the negotiations amongst his papers. He is a careful man—you may find it difficult to distinguish them from the rest of his possessions. So on this occasion I must ask you to be wholesale in your methods; you must get at the whole contents of his safe and send them to me. What I don't want I shall destroy—be sure of that.""The whole contents of his safe!" repeated Dora. "What you ask is monstrous. I can't do it—no one can; no one but I and his secretaries know where he keeps his keys. Why, he has often locked up the door of his room himself, since he found me there. The other matters were comparatively easy—mere questions of notes and things that were filed with his ordinary papers. This is impossible; I can't do it—-I won't. It could be traced to me, and he would kill me if he knew."Brand watched her blandly. He thought suddenly of his wife, and of how she would have met such an appeal. The question of her husband's honour, the welfare of her country, meant absolutely nothing to Dora Farquharson. All she dreaded was punishment of her own action, the fear of being found out. She was, indeed, panic-stricken at the thought; little livid patches had broken out on her cheek."You would prefer that I should tell your husband the truth, then?" said Brand pleasantly. "Do take another sandwich. The truth not only about what happened before his marriage, but what has happened since? You are not a very discreet woman, you know. All the communications you've sent me—that you have got hold of so cleverly at my request—have been addressed in your own handwriting; most have been accompanied by personal letters explaining the nature of the matter sent. I am afraid your position in the world would not be very secure, Mrs. Farquharson, when these facts were made known socially. Farquharson is an implacable sort of person, you know; he would always put the honour of his country above that of his own. There would be no question as to which he would sacrifice, and very unpleasant things are said of women who do as you have done. Now, with one little act you can free yourself from me and my demands. The very wholesale nature of the case will look like commonplace burglary. I've got a little instrument here with which you can break the lock of your husband's safe quite easily, also a duplicate key of the study door in case of accidents—an expert made it, and your work will look like that of an expert. I shall want those papers before the end of the week after next. When once they are in my hands I'll never trouble you again." He took out his watch. "It's time you were starting off, isn't it? I've got an appointment in ten minutes. You'll just get back in time for dinner. Good-bye now. Don't forget your promise.""My promise? But——" began Dora again, and broke off, as if hypnotized by his angry movement. She seemed incapable of doing more than repeat his words. She stared at him in hopeless bewilderment, swaying, as though the light of ordinary intelligence had been wiped from her face. He looked at her sharply and then rang the electric bell behind him. When he spoke again his voice was kinder."Get this lady a brandy and soda—a stiff one, please. Drink it off at once; that's right." He took her hand in his and closed her fingers over the key and little instrument. "Put that in your pocket. If I were you I should set about that task to-night, Mrs. Farquharson—it is always better to get a job over. It's quite a little thing really, you know. And in twenty-four hours you will feel a new woman, free from all your worries and difficulties and obligations. You will have done good to a friend who is sincerely fond of you, and, if you are wise, no harm can possibly come either to you or to anybody you care about through your action. You promise, then? That's right. Good-bye."He walked bare-headed out to the vestibule and watched the car out of sight, speeding back on its way home to Chester Street.
Evelyn alone of the congratulatory group was dumb. To have one's prayers answered openly is sometimes a betrayal of what those prayers have meant to one. Farquharson came quietly up to her, and, voiceless still, her eyes searched his face. How he had aged the last few months! There was a great patch of grey hair on the right-hand side of his brow. She wondered if she would ever see again the look of boyish exaltation he had had that night at Bramley.
Hare, glancing at them, quietly drew Lady Wereminster's attention to the fact that Mrs. Farquharson was still sitting apart from the rest with Meavy. "Would it not be correct to congratulate her too?" he suggested.
"And you—have you nothing to say?" Farquharson asked. They were practically alone for the first time since his marriage.
Evelyn looked down. Her eyes were wet.
"Don't—don't!" she said; "it's beyond all words—the gladness, I mean. You know the little desert song—
"'No one but God and IKnow what is in my heart.'
"'No one but God and IKnow what is in my heart.'
"'No one but God and I
Know what is in my heart.'
That's what I feel."
"Now, Evelyn, Evelyn, come over here with my husband, or I shall feel quite jealous," called Mrs. Farquharson from the other end of the room.
CHAPTER III
"A sacred burden is the life ye bear:Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly;Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly;Fail not for sorrow; falter not for sin,But onward, upward, till the goal ye win."F. A. KEMBLE.
"A sacred burden is the life ye bear:Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly;Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly;Fail not for sorrow; falter not for sin,But onward, upward, till the goal ye win."F. A. KEMBLE.
"A sacred burden is the life ye bear:
Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly;
Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly;
Fail not for sorrow; falter not for sin,
But onward, upward, till the goal ye win."
F. A. KEMBLE.
F. A. KEMBLE.
"Once upon a time," said Lady Wereminster, "I used to meet treachery with openness. I believed that to raise the standard of right meant victory. Now I know it doesn't, from this world's point of view. Men and women who batten upon each other, who, being insensitive to the feelings of others, mock at the halt and blind, get all they want from life. Life, like the judge in the importunate widow story, gives only to those who ask persistently."
"I used to pride myself on asking very little from life; now I've found out that what I want is priceless," said Evelyn. Lady Wereminster had come in to see her one afternoon after a big function at Holland House, and stayed, as was her custom.
"You think you're alone in your suffering," said Lady Wereminster; "well, you're not. Your friends suffer with you, they see you shamed and broken in the world's eyes, and they stand on the pillory with you, and are beaten with stripes as you are. Don't think I'm trying to force your confidence. I'm not. I only want you to know what people like you so seldom realize, that, as you walk to the Cross, a host of invisible followers pursue you, the people you've helped, the people who love you, the people to whom your hurt is more than their own. We're not all of us called upon to make great sacrifices, Evelyn. It's only a few people like you in a century upon whom the demand is made. If I were a pagan I should say that the gods were jealous of the gift of love. Take any of the lives you know, and you'll see that, where love is, the real communion between men and women, the tie is rudely broken either by death or some more imminent disaster. I keep my faith in spite of being sure that the Great Power behind only allows us to taste supreme joy for a short time. Human beings are born with the capacity of holding a certain amount of strength and force and happiness. If they take all their happiness at once, as those of us do who drink the cup at its fullest, they must go thirsty for the remainder of their days."
She turned suddenly and held out her hand to Evelyn.
"You don't want to talk about it, I know. I don't, either. I had to tell you, for I'm an old woman who has seen many seeming injustices in the world, and who will rebel against them to the end—and so I am sorry for you. Because I believe in happiness I should have arranged the world differently to the way in which God has arranged it. But because He is God, and has rolling centuries to match my little half-hour of knowledge, I fold my hands and trust His purposes, although I absolutely fail to see their meaning. Now let's talk of something else. Have you seen Dora Farquharson lately?"
"Only casually in the street," said Evelyn. "She seems rather to have avoided me of late."
"Nor her husband?" asked Lady Wereminster, intent on fastening her cloak.
Evelyn shook her head.
"We live very far out, you know, and of late, even had the Farquharsons been disengaged, we've entertained so little that I've had no excuse for asking them."
"If you had asked her, she'd have refused to come," said Lady Wereminster from the door. "She's jealous. A woman who is common at heart takes common means of showing jealousy. But, mark my words, the time will come when Dora's in trouble, and she'll send for you then irrevocably as the one person she can trust."
Fond as she was of Lady Wereminster, Evelyn saw her go with a sigh of relief. Unseen wounds hurt enough in any case, without being torn open daily by our friends.—How hot and sultry it was!
One of the minor evils of what is called the artistic temperament is its dependence on the changes of the season. So far, Evelyn had loved spring and summer, had counted the days till April like a child awaiting some coveted adventure. She loved to see the orchards break into bloom, on the way to Kew; the first pink flush of almond blossom, the coming of little green shoots on barren trees had struck her with a new significance each year till now. The gradual coming of life was so tender, so wonderful, so mysterious.... But this year, the light and glow, the call of mating birds, the caress of the soft air, only served to deepen her sense of pain. Everything spoke of the joy and promise of life from which she stood aloof. Nature itself seemed to have taken up arms against her, and its array of happy changes found her lonely and sad.
The ordinary routine of life went on, untouched by mood or whim. It was an especially busy season, but lately she had lost her hold on things, and found it difficult to keep up even the little weekly salon in which she had once taken such pride. To be mated with sorrow is little by little to lose all vitality and youth; the lassitude that had come upon Evelyn presently became physical, gripped her closer day by day, as she strove against it with ever-weakening strength. Society had no longer any power to amuse her; indeed she dreaded going out, lest she should be forced to listen to more of Dora's confidences about Farquharson. Religion left her cold. At home, Brand was perhaps a trifle more cynical than before; he had found her vulnerable spot, and turned his knowledge to account. On those rare evenings when they were alone together in the little flat at West Kensington (she often dined now in her own room), she would surprise him sometimes watching her through half-closed lids, and smiling as if at some private reminiscence.
"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked one night, when for the third time she had met his mocking look fixed full upon her.
"Oh, I grant you it's rather amazing that a man should find anything to look at in his wife after so many years of marriage," said Brand, flicking the ash from his cigarette. "You should be flattered at the compliment. A husband's tribute to his wife's charms is worth at least twice as much as that of any—other. By the way, our Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs is mounting steadily up the ladder of fame, isn't he?"
"The papers seem to think well of him," said Evelyn coldly.
The postman's knock at the door brought welcome interruption in the shape of a bulky letter from Cummings. She took it to her room.
"By the time this reaches you I shall have set sail for the East once more," he wrote. "I have got all the good I shall out of my trip; it's no use staying any longer. It was like you to try to make my father and mother see me again—I knew they would not. Amongst many jealous mistresses—ambition, pleasure, the quest of forgetfulness or peace—love of home never loses her sway on a man's heart. A man may travel far and try to stifle, in other countries and other surroundings, the claims of his own lands and his own people, but their voices compel him, until at last he is bound either to obey or else for ever to cut himself adrift. And for the future I shall cut myself adrift.
"It was like you, too, to collect all that array of good things for my people; thank you for them all. Not one will be wasted, and I shall look upon them with very especial gratitude, because you thought of me in your own trouble.
"For that you have got to face trouble—perhaps are facing it now—I know. I have thought about you again and again lately, when fighting my own battles. The hardest test of faith, after all, is to fight when one is not sure the cause is good. Thank God that you and I both know ten thousand difficulties do not make one doubt. Beneath every paradox of the Catholic Church truth lies concealed, if we will but dig down to it. But there are days when toil is impossible; when merely to attempt work so hard and difficult brings sweat to one's brow. And you will tell me, very truly, that, face to face with mental wreckage, to talk of paradox is small comfort.
"You are a unit of a big battalion; only a unit, but you count. There are others to right and to left, in front and in rear of you; they will fall if you fail. You know that a regiment once was lost through one man's cowardice. You and I have got to go on, whatever happens. We are not great generals—we are under command. Obedience is our watchword.
"I remember in the South African War, before a certain action, the general sent out an army order to his men, which I copied at the time, but cannot lay my hands on just now. It ran something like this: 'You are dealing with a treacherous enemy; one who seeks to lower your honour by his own intrigue. Face that fact, and face him; it is the only way.' The one simple thing in life for you and me lies in the fact that, after all, we have but one thing to do. We are fighting under a standard that we are going to uphold to the end. We shall bleed for it—a few drops of blood, more or less, really don't matter; we shall probably fall for it—we shall have to remember then to hold our heads up, because the world might think that we were afraid; we shall die for it, knowing that it is still raised high in the sight of men, and that it will so rise, please God, through all the coming centuries as it has done in all its glorious past.
"Rather cold comfort I am giving you, I suppose you will say. But you have been abroad, and seen life under different aspects, and watched great issues come to a climax as I have. Out in India, at the great Mahomedan festivals, I have walked ankle-deep through narrow streets reeking with blood. I once stood by the unlitghât, and watched a man's dead body thereon, and saw his little widow of twenty years old set a light to the pyre with her own slender fingers, in default of a son old enough to undertake the office. Such things make one think.
"I shall never forget her shriek when the flame rose, nor the dreary misery of her look when, afterwards, she collected her husband's ashes, and, being only a peasant, was stripped of her fine garments, stripped of her ornaments, stripped of all that made life bearable from her limited point of view, to begin a new life of drudgery working in the fields, scorned and mocked by all, an unclean being to be stoned by the very boys in the street because, as a widow, she had lost her caste.
"Experiences like these wrench you out of yourself, and make you thank God you are not God to judge between the sins and errors of nations and of individuals. You and I rebel at drinking our cup of vinegar and gall because we are merely human, and so don't like the bitter draught. But it is because sin came first, that there is so much suffering now. Better drink the bitter cup to its dregs here than pay the penalty of drinking it hereafter. And whether or no it comforts us at the moment, the light of faith is still ours. 'May we walk therein until the day of eternal light breaks forth, and the shadows and figures pass away.'"
"You've been worrying again," said Lady Wereminster, returning. "Don't. Nothing in the world is worth worrying about more than half-an-hour.Worryingabout, I said, not grieving over. Legitimate grief at a legitimate blow is one thing—racking your brains out adjusting something which ought never to have gone askew is another. Worry puts a spoke in the wheel of thought; it may stop the machinery from moving. And then——" She shrugged her shoulders significantly.
"I don't think any self-respecting person can be well in this weather," said Evelyn; "it would be rather rude not to acknowledge its power."
"It's no use looking at the door," said Lady Wereminster; "I am not going for hours yet. I returned with the intention of bullying you, and shan't stir until I've done it. I am in a bad temper, and must wreak it on somebody. One ought to give way to one's temper sometimes, you know, on the principle of a kettle boiling over and doing serious damage."
"I'm quite impervious to your tempers," said Evelyn; "they are more easy to deal with than the amenities of other people!"
"This is an unlucky day," said Lady Wereminster, seating herself. "Wherever I turn I run up against Dora Farquharson. Nothing annoys me more. I shopped in Sloane Street this morning—she was there. I lunched with Lady Ennly quite unexpectedly; unluckily, that dear idiot Creagh had run across Dora in the Park, and brought her on. She patted her husband on his back all luncheon time; metaphorically, of course—mercifully for him he was absent. If I were a caricaturist I should draw her putting him flat on his stomach across her knee and thumping him as if he were a troublesome infant. If that woman lived with Savonarola, she would bring him down eventually to the level of Simple Simon in the old nursery rhyme."
"Oh, she can't do him any real harm," Evelyn said. "You do exaggerate things so delightfully. The marriage is not successful, I know—but no one would know it wasn't if she had any tact. For he's patient enough and forbearing."
"Too forbearing," said Lady Wereminster. "If a man marries a fool he should treat her according to her folly. Once to give in to a blatant self-sufficient creature like Dora Farquharson is to give in for all eternity, and so pave the way to your own downfall. Fools and scandal-mongers are at the bottom of all the mischief in the world. There are very few systematic schemers and plotters, in spite of Sicilian melodrama. Mrs. Farquharson has a common soul. One doesn't know how to deal with such a woman; the whole art of social warfare has to be re-learned. She's flagrant; she uses every one; she's used you; in the old days she traded on her father's influence; now she trades on her husband's."
"Dora is rather inconsiderate," said Evelyn. "Her husband's success might well turn her head."
"Oh, her head's a tee-to-tum," said Lady Wereminster; "you have only got to touch it with the finger of flattery for it to spin round and round like a top. She gives me a sort of moral vertigo. It's rather a dangerous quality, by the bye, for the wife of a Minister in so important an office. A judicious questioner could get anything in the world out of Dora Farquharson; she'd be worth a fortune to Fleet Street——" She stopped abruptly.
The eyes of the two women met.
"Yes?" said Evelyn.
"This is a secret," said Lady Wereminster, dropping her voice; "a real secret, mind. Your husband's out, isn't he? and the servant, I suppose, is concealed in that dark hole of yours you call a kitchen. All the same, I would be rather glad if you would open the door and take the trouble to look well down the passage before I tell you what I've got to say."
"How absurd you are," said Evelyn, returning. "You're quite safe; there's no one in the house. I've looked in every room and under the beds!"
"Thank you," said Lady Wereminster, with a sigh of relief. "It's a serious matter, really, Evelyn. You know what friends Wereminster and Beadon have always been—allies from boyhood. Wereminster, of course, is like a rock. You strike and strike at him, and you don't get even the vaguest echo. He's the safest man in the world to confide in. He always declares he would never have found out that he was in love with me if I hadn't told him first. And though I talk so much, I don't as a rule talk personalities. That's why people look upon us as safety valves, and we learn a good deal about small intrigues and difficulties that other people never hear."
"Don't say names, will you? I do so hate being told what I'm not meant to know."
"If I don't tell somebody I shall burst," said Lady Wereminster. "You're safe. You're a well; people pour their souls into you, and other people lean over from the brink and see nothing. It appears that various small matters have leaked out lately in the Press, and no one can account for the authorship. And in each case, unluckily, the impression given has been true. So far only comparatively minor matters have been disclosed; but who knows when something really important won't be given away before its time, and so lead to irreparable harm? I know, as a fact, that the P.O. is worried about it."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Six or eight months. That's the unfortunate part of it. It dates back to the time when Richard Farquharson was made Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Oh, don't look like that—nobody suspects him, but it's an unlucky incident. Why, even his appointment, which was, so far as we know, known only to the King and his immediate household, to the Prime Minister and to thepersonnelwho met at Mr. Calvert's famous dinner party on the second of November, was announced in all the morning papers, although Mr. Beadon had expressly told us that it was to be kept private for the next forty-eight hours."
"Mr. Beadon has new secretaries, I suppose," said Evelyn. "He would probably require more help as Prime Minister than as Leader of the Opposition."
"Oh, they're above reproach," said Lady Wereminster; "personal friends mostly, and all men who have worked with him for years. Besides, it's not necessarily John Beadon's news that has been given away. It is chiefly minute turns of the tide which affect the rise and fall of shares, etc. Anyway, the whole position is discomforting, a source of real annoyance to the Prime Minister and his colleagues."
"Stocks and shares," repeated Evelyn. She had grown very pale. "Yes, of course an intimate knowledge of foreign affairs would make all the difference in speculation. But no one, however base, could do such a thing—no one in our set, I mean——" She faltered.
"Some men and women would do anything for money," said Lady Wereminster. "What's happened so far does not affect the nationen grand. It's merely that events have proved that small founts of knowledge, whose source is supposed to be only known to the initiated, have obviously been tapped by some mysterious person, whose identity is as yet unknown. And as these things deal mainly with his office they look like stabs in the dark aimed at Mr. Farquharson himself. Such a man must have enemies, of course, but I never knew—did you?—that any special person bore him a grudge?"
"I want to ask you a question," said Evelyn. Her husband found her in the hall, awaiting him, when, some time after midnight, he turned the key in the door. "You have been comparatively generous to me lately. So far as I know, our income is the same as it has always been, but you have been less troubled about money matters. Why?"
Brand put one hand on her shoulder heavily, and with the other dragged her face sharply upwards into the full glare of the electric light, and looked at her searchingly.
"I think I shouldn't make too many inquiries into the question if I were you," he said deliberately. "Your way of life and mine are not quite the same. I am a plain man, and I go a man's way to work. I don't pose or talk cant. Luck comes my way now and again, although it's more often dead against me. It's with me now, and I mean to make the most of it. I owe part of it to you, you know, and that's why I've been generous."
"You owe it to me—tome?" said Evelyn blankly.
He pulled the door-chain, laughing, and she heard him laughing again as he went up-stairs. The night was warm, but she stood shivering like a frightened child in the empty hall at the thought which struck her.
CHAPTER IV
"If we could see ourselves as others see us, many of us would wear a mask"—ANON.
"It destroys one's nerves to be amiable every day to the same human being."—LORD BEACONSFIELD.
In work, says an old philosopher, a man may find his refuge for all ills of the mind; to drink deep of the fount of knowledge is to bring peace to the troubled soul. But work had been too long the mainspring of Farquharson's life for him to find in it now the comfort which might have lulled another man's anxiety. His life had been one of toil throughout. At Glune he had wrestled and fought for freedom; in the succeeding years, after his escape, he had struggled for knowledge and mere daily bread; in Taorna, fortune and fame had been his two objectives; in England he sought power. And after a time strain tells even upon the strong. It is often the most brilliant brain that snaps.
A normal man must have an outlet for his feelings and emotions. Farquharson's long self-repression in the past had made him the readier to be swayed by the right woman's influence when it came. He had never fully realized all that his daily communion with Evelyn had meant until after the wrench of their parting at Bramley.
The pain that can be sympathized with openly is endurable, but hidden pain is crushing. There is conceivable relief for a surcharged brain which can explain the why and wherefore of its sorrow; but in the world daily we meet widows who were never wives, and whose despair is the more hopeless because they have no lawful claim upon our sympathy.
In his separation from Evelyn, Farquharson had lost the friend, companion, helpmate, and bride of his dreams. Work—to a habitual worker—cannot heal so deep a wound as this; only complete change of circumstance and scene might possibly change a man's thoughts after such a blow. And for him there was no change. Shorn of all joy and pride in his work, he yet toiled ceaselessly at it; returning daily to a home which, worse than being bare and desolate, contained the wrong woman.
There are women who pry into the smallest details of a man's privacy. Farquharson's dressing-room even was not his own. In certain moods Dora discovered that the angle of his looking-glass pleased her better than her own; short of actually locking the door against her, he was never secure from interruption even there. She had developed a thousand whims and fancies since her marriage. She had her own boudoir and drawing-room, and a little sanctum on the stairs which she called her library, where she began to write many letters which were never finished, and to grapple with accounts which were always thrown aside a moment later. Farquharson, unaccustomed to women's society, never once thought of forbidding her to invade his own large and austerely furnished study at the back of the house; it was not until returning unexpectedly one day he found her rummaging amongst some papers on the table that he spoke to her with unusual severity.
"You have your own room, Dora; kindly keep there. I can't allow you to come here. There are papers of importance which mustn't be touched. What's that you've got crumpled up in your hand? It looks like—why, these are some notes Blair made for me this morning. How did you manage to get hold of them?"
"It's perfectly absurd that Mr. Blair should be allowed to come in here and go out as he likes even if he is your secretary, when you forbid your own wife to come in," said Dora angrily. "Stupid old notes, I'm sure I don't want them; I brought in papers of my own, and I suppose they've got mixed up, somehow. They're written on just the same sort of paper as Louise's bill. How on earth was I to know the difference? Besides, anyway it's absurd to make such a fuss about a trifle like that. If I did happen to glance at your dull notes and see a word or two, who has a better right than I to read them, after all?"
Farquharson smoothed out the paper and glanced down it.
"There's nothing that matters in this as it happens. Blair's quite a careful boy; he would never leave out anything really important. But we are rather busy people, Dora, he and I, and he has his own way of arranging things. He's complained to me before now that they're upset and made disorderly by your coming in. Now, I don't suppose, for instance, that you've the smallest notion where you got this from. Try and tax your memory, and put it back in exactly the same place."
"How absurd, how maddening you are!" said Dora, fuming. "What on earth does it matter where the stupid old things come from?" She tore the paper into a dozen pieces and flung them down, white with rage. "You shut me out from everything. What's the good of being the wife of a man in your position if you keep everything so secret? I'm the same as yourself; I've a right to know everything that you know. I know there is some big intrigue going on at this very moment between England and—well, you know which foreign Power better than I; all the newspapers are hinting at it—anybody would give anything to get hold of a little private knowledge about it. But here you are keeping it all to yourself, when it's my right to know, when you ought to confide in me. It's hateful, it's despicable, it's absolutely lowering; no wife in the world was ever treated so cruelly as you treat me."
Farquharson sighed hopelessly.
"We had better understand each other once and for all. I should have thought that you, the daughter of a man who, in the past, was once Colonial Minister, would have understood matters without need of explanation. With an ordinary wife things may be different, I don't know. The wife of a man holding my office must be content to know neither more nor less than the rest of the world about the work he is engaged in. A man's political and domestic life are absolutely apart. We have a lot of years before us, Dora, to live out side by side. This point must be made clear now. You must submit to me utterly in this; in everything else I give you your own way, so far as is compatible with common sense. It seems to me a monstrous thing that you should even contemplate the possibility of my being a spy to satisfy your curiosity. Leave my room now, at once, and remember that I put you on your honour never to enter it again without permission."
"How dare you? how dare you?" cried Dora, catching her breath hysterically. "It's my right, it's my due, to go where I like and do as I choose. I won't be shut out of your life like this. You owe everything to me, and this is your gratitude. Taorna—who cares twopence-halfpenny about Taorna and what's done there? If I hadn't pleaded with and begged my father to give you some place in the Ministry, do you think you'd be there now? If you hadn't married me you would have been nowhere and done nothing. And what have I gained through marriage with you? I was happier before. People loved me and admired me. You never give me a word of love or admiration. You go out with me—yes, because you've got to; because it's to your advantage to show me off at parties. But you never even notice my new gowns; you never even take the trouble to pay me one of the compliments I was surfeited with, till I met you. I might be—why, I might be just like anybody else the way you treat me; not a woman of importance, a woman with wealth and charm, and all the rest of it—who expects to hear a trumpery secret now and again, as her right, and is grudged even that."
She stopped for want of breath, and caught at the table for support.
Farquharson leant back in his chair and looked at her critically. He was very pale.
"Three minutes by the clock, my dear Dora. There's a prize given at Dunmow annually to the woman who talks longer and faster than any other in the competition. It doesn't matter what nonsense she talks. You would do well to enter for it. I believe it comes off in July."
Dora turned suddenly and confronted him. He looked at her as at a stranger. He had had little experience of hysterical women; the outward signs of his mother's conflicts with self had been so sternly repressed that it was only lately that he had guessed how often that rigid figure quailed under the strain of its inward wounds. No other woman had come into his life as more than a momentary pastime till he met Evelyn. The sight of his wife's short, stricken figure roused no pity in him, only disgust. He had had no very high ideal of women in childhood; that he should have linked himself to a woman whose motives were so mean, one who, having no real interest in the cause, could seek to degrade her husband's honour for the mere sake of satisfying personal curiosity, of flaunting her knowledge in the eyes of others, roused his disgust and shame.
He put his watch down on the table.
"In five minutes I shall expect you to leave the room," he said. "If you haven't withdrawn by then I shall ring for your maid. In any case I should advise you to send for her. You aren't yourself. I think even the glass in my dressing-room would fail to satisfy you as to your appearance at the present moment."
His cigarette case lay on the table; he reached his hand out for it, but paused midway.
Dora sprang at him, her eyes blazing. She clutched his arm in her grasp, almost like a mad woman.
"I hate you," she gasped. "You've killed my love. What right have you to make me suffer? to hurt me so appallingly, mentally, spiritually, physically? When I think of all I've got to bear for you it almost drives me mad. It's too humiliating and degrading. Weeks, months of pain for you—for you that I hate. I've seen the doctor to-day; he left just before you came. Nothing can save me. I've got to have a child—a child that will be like you, hard, cruel and implacable."
For a moment Farquharson sat in silence, aghast, shaken at the torrent of words. This was the explanation, then; the excuse of all the waywardness and hysteria he had not understood. He hardly knew if he was glad or sorry at the news. The dream-wife he had longed for would never now be his; ... the dream-child he had longed for, for whose dear sake he had striven to win Glune....
Dream-bride, dream-mother—he shut his eyes. And Dora was the reality, and Dora was suffering.... His anger died, and a wave of tenderness and sympathy, pity for her as well as for himself, and awe and wonder that even in this moment the new tie pulled at his heart-strings, made him stretch out his arms to her, and take her on his knee almost as though he loved her.
"My dear, my dear, forgive me. I didn't understand or know—I ought to have guessed and been kinder to you," he said, holding her close.
But even in the moment of reconciliation a picture shaped itself before his eyes—a picture which he resolutely strove to put away, but which returned again and again during the night. How differently the dream-wife would have told him—and what would it not have meant to him and to her?
CHAPTER V
"Every work that is corruptible shall fail, and the worker thereof shall go with it."—ECCLESIASTICUS.
To achieve success by certain ways is not, after all, very difficult. The schemers and plotters, even the merely selfish, have all in their hands for a time. One need not necessarily be wicked to flourish as a green bay-tree. Persistently to use other people to your own ends, to appeal to pity at the right moment, to take what is offered you as your due, without gratitude or sense of obligation, is to lay a very sure nest-egg of security for the future.
Brand had planned and schemed to some avail. He had every right to be satisfied with the result. For years he had cherished the remembrance of slights long since forgotten by their authors. Well, he had been able to wipe off a great many of such slights lately. He had struck at Evelyn through Farquharson; he had struck at Lady Wereminster through Evelyn; he had struck at Farquharson through Dora; he would strike at Calvert through Farquharson. It was quite simple, after all, to pull the strings of puppets so foolish as to be swayed by the great forces of love and honour, no matter how important the stage on which they played.
Sitting at ease in the lounge of the Grand Hotel at Brighton one afternoon in June, he reviewed the situation critically. He was better off than he had been, too—always a pleasant matter of contemplation. Secretly as he worked, he was recognized by the Press as a man who could tap many mines of marketable knowledge, "one in the know," as the phrase goes, unhampered by petty scruples as to parting with his knowledge for a valuable sum. He had easily learned the journalists' knack of dressing his knowledge in pertinent phrase; that fact told too. Thanks to Evelyn, he was received everywhere now; the world forgets very easily, unless its memory is jogged. The inscriptions on his sisters' tombstones were now illegible for want of care, and Brand himself was not the type of man whom ghosts haunt.
He was careful in small details, sure in his heart that Evelyn could not do more than suspect him, and had no means of proving her knowledge. Her hands were tied too. To prove that Dora Farquharson had told her husband's secrets to a man who, in turn, sold them to the daily Press, was, after all, to drag down Farquharson from his high place. Cæsar's wife—he laughed; in this case she had proved a very useful buffer! Since the episode in the hall, Brand had been more careful in concealing matters from his wife. He went to another banker, and kept his cheque-book under lock and key, for instance—not that that was necessary with Evelyn—but he took care that she should no longer benefit by the price he was paid for his items of news.
And, little by little, he was sowing seeds of suspicion among the Opposition. It was his dearest hope to drag Farquharson's name in the dust. He never forgot that it was Farquharson who had ousted him for ever from the place which he might have taken in Calvert's regard. For ever?—the man was old and weak now; who knew but if Farquharson failed him he might not lend a more willing ear to the voice of the ready sympathizer, who was also a near connection?
In any case Brand was content to wait. Until he is found out, a cheat is bound to win the greatest number of tricks in a game of skill.
Then, too, a physically weak man likes to show his power; he is often more cruel than a stronger man. Brand's meetings with Dora afforded him constant amusement. At first she had tried to baffle and evade him; Dora was the last woman in the world to hold to a bargain when once she had reaped its full benefits. They had quite a disturbing scene one day. She was fully alive to the advantages of her position. As Farquharson's wife she could go anywhere, do anything. And she knew that, did he once learn by what means she had won him—that she had allowed Evelyn's name to be brought into disrepute that she might win her little pitiful triumph, he was capable of repudiating her at once. No love bound them. Separation, scandal, the dreariness of life under such changed conditions—these were unpleasant changes which no woman of sense would wish to face.
Brand worried her very little at first, merely drawing her on to disclose small items of news more on the level with Farquharson's appointment. Little by little his demands grew. Much of Farquharson's work was done in cypher at the Foreign Office, but there were certain notes and jottings often in his personal possession at Chester Street. From time to time Dora had got possession of these notes for him. Lady Wereminster was right. In one way and another a good many important disclosures had been made. Some of these Brand sold directly to the Press, others he used entirely for his own advantage, and was the richer man thereby.
He had a great scheme in view now—to get a copy of some of the terms of this Foreign Treaty about which there was so much controversy. A third Power would give the weight of each word in gold for even a hint of its contents.... But how to get it? Dora had given herself away so ridiculously on that occasion when Farquharson had found her in his room; she had admitted losing her head through absolute terror after his discovery that she was searching amongst his papers. That was the worst of women, particularly women in her condition. Never level-headed at best, approaching motherhood threw some of them completely off their mental balance, particularly those who, like Dora, rebelled against its very thought.
Oh, he had got to the crux of the difficulty, doubtless. He smoked on meditatively, eyeing, one by one, the typical little groups of men and women who were gathered near him: rich Jews, with over-dressed families, actresses, manufacturers' wives from the Midlands, a loud-voiced, blatant throng. Places like these always amused Brand; their little pitiful attempts to compete with the attractions of foreign hotels were so lamentable in their failure, they reminded him of a young bride's efforts to rival an experienced woman of the world.
Anhabituéeof the place, a woman to whom he had spoken casually on one or two occasions, came up and seated herself beside him. "You always remind me of Burns' poem, Mr. Brand," she said archly. "You look 'like a chiel amangst us takin' notes.' Aren't you often abused socially for being so critical?"
"Critical—now I wonder what you mean by critical?" said Brand.
The woman laughed again, tugging ruthlessly at her gloves.
"Oh, pulling holes, I suppose. You look at us all as though you could strip us threadbare. I've heard lots of people say the same. Now tell me, aren't you a great personage in London?"
Brand smiled.
"I am only a looker-on, dear lady. Now and again I give or withhold a word of advice. That's all. Few people have your perspicacity. Men of force are usually supposed to have athletic physiques. Now sport, and all things appertaining thereto, have always seemed to me—rather cruel and terrible. They are always subtle pleasures which appeal to me. Goths and Philistines say that the taste of absinthe reminds them of bad drains; whereas to me it's of a quite unparalleled purity. Now there's an odd flavour about life as there is about absinthe; and the odder it is the more it appeals to me."
"I think my friend wants me," said the lady, rather nervously. She swept away hurriedly. Brand watched her exit with a smile. Provincial women have only one charm; it is easy to be rid of them when once they bore you. You have only to hint at abnormality, or give the merest suggestion of what, in their own vernacular, would be called "improper," to send them scuttling away like frightened sheep.
He rose leisurely and looked at the clock in the hall. Two—no, Mrs. Farquharson was eight minutes late. Careless, that. For the future he must make her realize that he expected her to be punctual. The position had shifted; it was he who now directed, and she who had to obey.
He crossed to the far corner of the lounge, seating himself under the alcove immediately facing the door. Presently the green car arrived, and he saw Dora emerge from it hurriedly, and run up the broad steps, with some amusement. Her obvious inner tremors were a tribute to his power. She spoke to the hall porter anxiously, and was ushered in full of apologies and mental disturbance.
"I thought I should never get off," she said. "It takes such an awful time to get down here, and the chauffeur took a wrong turning at Croydon. I daren't risk coming to such a place again. What should I do if Richard were to question the man as to where I've been? He knows I never do anything without a motive."
"I should have thought you were accustomed to inventing excuses by now," said Brand deliberately. "You've had a good deal of experience, one way and another. You have brought the papers, I suppose? Here, look at the Sketch. Hold it in your left hand, so. Put your bag underneath on your lap; take out the papers, and pass them to me presently. Not just yet, those people over there are looking. Thanks. You're sure they are what I want?"
"Of course they are what you want," said Dora. "Understand, this is the very last thing I'm going to do for you. I've paid you back a thousandfold for the little you did. For that matter, you did me the worst turn you ever did to any one in all your life. My marriage has brought me nothing but misery and discomfort."
"Oh, so you think you have paid your debt, do you?" said Brand. "Tea for two, waiter, please. Hot cakes I think you like, Mrs. Farquharson; or, as it's summer, would you prefer sandwiches? Yes, cucumber sandwiches, I think, please—anything cool. You were saying—by the way, how much you amuse me, Mrs. Farquharson!"
"Amuse you!" repeated Dora. She pulled her veil down again, shrinking back into the corner as two strangers from the sea front, who had come in for tea, passed by and glanced at the pair curiously.
"Cream? Sugar?" asked Brand. "What, no sugar? I should take it if I were you."
He handed her her teacup with some deliberation. "There's one quality that you lack, Mrs. Farquharson—you have all other charms, of course. You don't balance things quite aptly. Now, as a matter of fact, you owe me a debt that can never be properly repaid. I've done the utmost that a man can do for any woman—I've even jeopardized my wife's honour that you might gain what you desired." He shrugged his shoulders. "The fact that what you then gained is now of no value to you doesn't matter at all. The point is that you haven't paid your debt off yet—that there's still more to be done before you and I can properly call quits."
"More still!" said Dora. She was very pale, and her hand was shaking. "More still!" Her voice rose hysterically.
Brand leant back in his chair.
"You shall be free after this one more act, I promise you. It's comparatively a difficult job, I grant. You know that, owing to widespread dissension on the frontier, there's a question of a certain treaty between a very important Power and England. The terms of that treaty intimately concern another Power—she is anxious to know how far her welfare is attacked. Your husband is sure to have notes relating to the negotiations amongst his papers. He is a careful man—you may find it difficult to distinguish them from the rest of his possessions. So on this occasion I must ask you to be wholesale in your methods; you must get at the whole contents of his safe and send them to me. What I don't want I shall destroy—be sure of that."
"The whole contents of his safe!" repeated Dora. "What you ask is monstrous. I can't do it—no one can; no one but I and his secretaries know where he keeps his keys. Why, he has often locked up the door of his room himself, since he found me there. The other matters were comparatively easy—mere questions of notes and things that were filed with his ordinary papers. This is impossible; I can't do it—-I won't. It could be traced to me, and he would kill me if he knew."
Brand watched her blandly. He thought suddenly of his wife, and of how she would have met such an appeal. The question of her husband's honour, the welfare of her country, meant absolutely nothing to Dora Farquharson. All she dreaded was punishment of her own action, the fear of being found out. She was, indeed, panic-stricken at the thought; little livid patches had broken out on her cheek.
"You would prefer that I should tell your husband the truth, then?" said Brand pleasantly. "Do take another sandwich. The truth not only about what happened before his marriage, but what has happened since? You are not a very discreet woman, you know. All the communications you've sent me—that you have got hold of so cleverly at my request—have been addressed in your own handwriting; most have been accompanied by personal letters explaining the nature of the matter sent. I am afraid your position in the world would not be very secure, Mrs. Farquharson, when these facts were made known socially. Farquharson is an implacable sort of person, you know; he would always put the honour of his country above that of his own. There would be no question as to which he would sacrifice, and very unpleasant things are said of women who do as you have done. Now, with one little act you can free yourself from me and my demands. The very wholesale nature of the case will look like commonplace burglary. I've got a little instrument here with which you can break the lock of your husband's safe quite easily, also a duplicate key of the study door in case of accidents—an expert made it, and your work will look like that of an expert. I shall want those papers before the end of the week after next. When once they are in my hands I'll never trouble you again." He took out his watch. "It's time you were starting off, isn't it? I've got an appointment in ten minutes. You'll just get back in time for dinner. Good-bye now. Don't forget your promise."
"My promise? But——" began Dora again, and broke off, as if hypnotized by his angry movement. She seemed incapable of doing more than repeat his words. She stared at him in hopeless bewilderment, swaying, as though the light of ordinary intelligence had been wiped from her face. He looked at her sharply and then rang the electric bell behind him. When he spoke again his voice was kinder.
"Get this lady a brandy and soda—a stiff one, please. Drink it off at once; that's right." He took her hand in his and closed her fingers over the key and little instrument. "Put that in your pocket. If I were you I should set about that task to-night, Mrs. Farquharson—it is always better to get a job over. It's quite a little thing really, you know. And in twenty-four hours you will feel a new woman, free from all your worries and difficulties and obligations. You will have done good to a friend who is sincerely fond of you, and, if you are wise, no harm can possibly come either to you or to anybody you care about through your action. You promise, then? That's right. Good-bye."
He walked bare-headed out to the vestibule and watched the car out of sight, speeding back on its way home to Chester Street.