"After all, what do we know of each other! You don't know me—not as I am. And I feel—"
"Doubts?" he said, smiling. "Do you imagine that that seems anything but natural to me?Ican have none; butyou—After all, we are not quite boy and girl, you and I; we have lived, both of us! But ask yourself—has not destiny brought us together? Think of it all!"
Their eyes met again. Hers sank under the penetration, the flame of his. Yet, throughout, he was conscious of the doorway to his right, of the figures incessantly moving across it. His own eloquence had convinced and moved himself abundantly. Yet, as he saw her yielding, he was filled with the strangest mixture of passion—and a sort of disillusion—almost contempt! If she had turned from him with the dignity worthy of that head and brow, it flashed across him that he could have tasted more of theabandonmentof love—have explored his own emotion more perfectly.
Still, the situation was poignant enough—in one sense complete. WasRaeburn still there—in that next room?
"My answer?" he said to her, pressing her hand as they sat in the shelter of the flowers. Forhewas aware of the practical facts—the hour, the place—if she was not.
She roused herself.
"I can't," she said, making a movement to rise, which his strong grasp, however, prevented. "Ican'tanswer you to-night, Mr. Wharton. I should have much to think over—so much! It might all look quite different to me. You must give me time."
"To-morrow?" he said quietly.
"No!" she said impetuously, "not to-morrow; I go back to my work, and I must have quiet and time. In a fortnight—not before. I will write."
"Oh, impossible!" he said, with a little frown.
And still holding her, he drew her towards him. His gaze ran over the face, the warm whiteness under the lace of the dress, the beautiful arms. She shrank from it—feeling a sudden movement of dislike and fear; but before she could disengage herself he had pressed his lips on the arm nearest to him.
"I gave you no leave!" she said passionately, under her breath, as he let her go.
He met her flashing look with tender humbleness.
"Marcella!"
The word was just breathed into the air. She wavered—yet a chill had passed over her. She could not recover the moment of magic.
"Notto-morrow," she repeated steadily, though dreading lest she should burst into tears, "and not till I see clearly—till I can—" She caught her breath. "Now I am going back to Lady Winterbourne."
For some hours after he reached his own room, Wharton sat in front of his open window, sunk in the swift rushing of thought, as a bramble sways in a river. The July night first paled, then flushed into morning; the sun rose above the empty street and the light mists enwrapping the great city, before he threw himself on his bed, exhausted enough at last to fall into a restless sleep.
The speculation of those quick-pulsed hours was in the end about equally divided between Marcella and the phrases and turns of his interview with Mr. Pearson. It was the sudden leap of troubled excitement stirred in him by that interview—heightened by the sight of Raeburn—that had driven him past recall by the most natural of transitions, into his declaration to Marcella.
But he had no sooner reached his room than, at first with iron will, he put the thought of Marcella, of the scene which had just passed, away from him. His pulses were still quivering. No matter! It was the brain he had need of. He set it coolly and keenly to work.
Mr. Pearson? Well!—Mr. Pearson had offered him abribe; there could be no question as to that. His clear sense never blinked the matter for an instant. Nor had he any illusions as to his own behaviour. Even now he had no further right to the sleep of the honest man.
Let him realise, however, what had happened. He had gone to Lady Masterton's party, in the temper of a man who knows that ruin is upon him, and determined, like the French criminal, to exact his cigar andeau de viebefore the knife falls. Never had things looked so desperate; never had all resource seemed to him so completely exhausted. Bankruptcy must come in the course of a few weeks; his entailed property would pass into the hands of a receiver; and whatever recovery might be ultimately possible, by the end of August he would be, for the moment, socially and politically undone.
There could be no question of his proposing seriously to Marcella Boyce. Nevertheless, he had gone to Lady Masterton's on purpose to meet her; and his manner on seeing her had asserted precisely the same intimate claim upon her, which, during the past six weeks, had alternately attracted and repelled her.
Then Mr. Pearson had interrupted.
Wharton, shutting his eyes, could see the great man lean against the window-frame close to the spot where, a quarter of an hour later, Marcella had sat among the flowers—the dapper figure, the long, fair moustaches, the hand playing with the eye-glass.
"I have been asked—er—er—" What a conceited manner the fellow had!—"to get some conversation with you, Mr. Wharton, on the subject of the Damesley strike. You give me leave?"
Whereupon, in less than ten minutes, the speaker had executed an important commission, and, in offering Wharton a bribe of the most bare-faced kind, had also found time for supplying him with a number of the most delicate and sufficient excuses for taking it.
The masters, in fact, sent an embassy. They fully admitted the power of theClarionand its owner. No doubt, it would not be possible for the paper to keep up its strike fund indefinitely; there were perhaps already signs of slackening. Still it had been maintained for a considerable time; and so long as it was reckoned on, in spite of the wide-spread misery and suffering now prevailing, the men would probably hold out.
In these circumstances, the principal employers concerned had thought it best to approach so formidable an opponent and to put before him information which might possibly modify his action. They had authorised Mr. Pearson to give him a full account of what was proposed in the way of re-organisation of the trade, including the probable advantages which the work-people themselves would be likely to reap from it in the future.
Mr. Pearson ran in a few sentences through the points of the scheme. Wharton stood about a yard away from him, his hands in his pockets, a little pale and frowning—looking intently at the speaker.
Then Mr. Pearson paused and cleared his throat.
Well!—that was the scheme. His principals believed that, when both it and the employers' determination to transfer their business to the Continent rather than be beaten by the men were made fully known to the owner of theClarion, it must affect his point of view. Mr. Pearson was empowered to give him any details he might desire. Meanwhile—so confident were they in the reasonableness of the case that they even suggested that the owner of theClarionhimself should take part in the new Syndicate. On condition of his future co-operation—it being understood that the masters took their stand irrevocably on the award—the men at present responsible for the formation of the Syndicate proposed to allot Mr. Wharton ten Founder's Shares in the new undertaking.
Wharton, sitting alone, recalling these things, was conscious again of that start in every limb, that sudden rush of blood to the face, as though a lash had struck him.
For in a few seconds his mind took in the situation. Only the day before, a city acquaintance had said to him, "If you and your confounded paper were out of the way, and this thing could be placed properly on the market, there would be a boom in it at once. I am told that in twenty-four hours the Founder's Shares would be worth 2,000l.apiece!"
There was a pause of silence. Then Wharton threw a queer dark look at the solicitor, and was conscious that his pulse was thumping.
"There can be no question I think, Mr. Pearson—between you and me—as to the nature of such a proposal as that!"
"My dear sir," Mr. Pearson had interrupted hastily, "let me, above all, ask you to taketime—time enough, at any rate, to turn the matter well over in your mind. The interests of a great many people, besides yourself, are concerned. Don't give me an answer to-night; it is the last thing I desire. I have thrown out my suggestion. Consider it. To-morrow is Sunday. If you are disposed to carry it further, come and see me Monday morning—that's all. I will be at your service at any hour, and I can then give you a much more complete outline of the intentions of the Company. Now I really must go and look for Mrs. Pearson's carriage."
Wharton followed the great man half mechanically across the little room, his mind in a whirl of mingled rage and desire. Then suddenly he stopped his companion:
"Has George Denny anything to do with this proposal, Mr. Pearson?"
Mr. Pearson paused, with a little air of vague cogitation.
"George Denny? Mr. George Denny, the member for Westropp? I have had no dealings whatever with that gentleman in the matter."
Wharton let him pass.
Then as he himself entered the tea-room, he perceived the bending form of Aldous Raeburn chatting to Lady Winterbourne on his right, and that tall whiteness close in front, waiting for him.
His brain cleared in a flash. He was perfectly conscious that a bribe had just been offered him, of the most daring and cynical kind, and that he had received the offer in the tamest way. An insult had been put upon him which had for ever revealed the estimate held of him by certain shrewd people, for ever degraded him in his own eyes.
Nevertheless, he was also conscious that the thing was done. The bribe would be accepted, the risk taken. So far as his money-matters were concerned he was once more a free man. The mind had adjusted itself, reached its decision in a few minutes.
And the first effect of the mingled excitement and self-contempt which the decision brought with it had been to drive him into the scene with Marcella. Instinctively he asked of passion to deliver him quickly from the smart of a new and very disagreeable experience.
* * * * *
Well! why should he not take these men's offer?
He was as much convinced as they that this whole matter of the strike had of late come to a deadlock. So long as the public would give, the workers, passionately certain of the justice of their own cause, and filled with new ambitions after more decent living, would hold out. On the other hand, he perfectly understood that the masters had also in many ways a strong case, that they had been very hard hit by the strike, and that many of them would rather close their works or transfer them bodily to the Continent than give way. Some of the facts Pearson had found time to mention had been certainly new and striking.
At the same time he never disguised from himself for an instant that but for a prospective 20,000l.the facts concerned would not have affected him in the least. Till to-night it had been to his interest to back the strike, and to harass the employers. Now things were changed; and he took a curious satisfaction in the quick movements of his own intelligence, as his thought rapidly sketched the "curve" theClarionwould have to take, and the arguments by which he would commend it.
As to his shares, they would be convertible of course into immediate cash. Some man of straw would be forthcoming to buy what he would possess in the name of another man of straw. It was not supposed—he took for granted—by the men who had dared to tempt him, that he would risk his whole political reputation and career for anything less than a bird in the hand.
Well! what were the chances of secrecy?
Naturallytheystood to lose less by disclosure, a good deal, than he did. And Denny, one of the principal employers, was his personal enemy. He would be likely enough for the present to keep his name out of the affair. But no man of the world could suppose that the transaction would pass without his knowledge. Wharton's own hasty question to Mr. Pearson on the subject seemed to himself now, in cold blood, a remarkably foolish one.
He walked up and down thinking this point out. It was the bitter pill of the whole affair.
In the end, with a sudden recklessness of youth and resource, he resolved to dare it. There wouldnotbe much risk. Men of business do not as a rule blazon their own dirty work, and public opinion would be important to the new Syndicate.
Somerisk, of course, there would be. Well! his risks, as they stood, were pretty considerable. He chose the lesser—not without something of a struggle, some keen personal smart. He had done a good many mean and questionable things in his time, but never anything as gross as this. The thought of what his relation to a certain group of men—to Denny especially—would be in the future, stung sharply. But it is the part of the man of action to put both scruple and fear behind him on occasion. His career was in question.
Craven? Well, Craven would be a difficulty. He would telegraph to him first thing in the morning before the offices closed, and see him on Monday. For Marcella's sake the man must be managed—somehow.
And—Marcella! How should she ever know, ever suspect! She already disliked the violence with which the paper had supported the strike. He would find no difficulty whatever in justifying all that she or the public would see, to her.
Then insensibly he let his thoughts glide into thinking of the money. Presently he drew a sheet of paper towards him and covered it with calculations as to his liabilities. By George! how well it worked out! By the time he threw it aside, and walked to the window for air, he already felt himself abonâ-fidesupporter of the Syndicate—the promoter in the public interest of a just and well-considered scheme.
Finally, with a little joyous energetic movement which betrayed the inner man, he flung down his cigarette, and turned to write an ardent letter to Marcella, while the morning sun stole into the dusty room.
Difficult? of course! Both now and in the future. It would take him half his time yet—and he could ill afford it—to bring her bound and captive. He recognised in her the southern element, so strangely mated with the moral English temper. Yet he smiled over it. The subtleties of the struggle he foresaw enchanted him.
And she would be mastered! In this heightened state of nerve his man's resolution only rose the more fiercely to the challenge of her resistance.
Nor should she cheat him with long delays. His income would be his own again, and life decently easy. He already felt himself the vain showman of her beauty.
A thought of Lady Selina crossed his mind, producing amusement and compassion—indulgent amusement, such as the young man is apt to feel towards the spinster of thirty-five who pays him attention. A certain sense of re-habilitation, too, which at the moment was particularly welcome. For, no doubt, he might have married her and her fortune had he so chosen. As it was, why didn't she find some needy boy to take pity on her? There were plenty going, and she must have abundance of money. Old Alresford, too, was fast doddering off the stage, and then where would she be—without Alresford House, or Busbridge, or those various other pedestals which had hitherto held her aloft?
* * * * *
Early on Sunday morning Wharton telegraphed to Craven, directing him to "come up at once for consultation." The rest of the day the owner of theClarionspent pleasantly on the river with Mrs. Lane and a party of ladies, including a young Duchess, who was pretty, literary, and socialistic. At night he went down to theClarionoffice, and produced a leader on the position of affairs at Damesley which, to the practised eye, contained one paragraph—but one only—wherein the dawn of a new policy might have been discerned.
Naturally the juxtaposition of events at the moment gave him considerable anxiety. He knew very well that the Damesley bargain could not be kept waiting. The masters were losing heavily every day, and were not likely to let him postpone the execution of his part of the contract for a fortnight or so to suit his own convenience. It was like the sale of an "old master." His influence must be sold now—at the ripe moment—or not at all.
At the same time it was very awkward. In one short fortnight the meeting of the party would be upon him. Surrender on the Damesley question would give great offence to many of the Labour members. It would have to be very carefully managed—very carefully thought out.
By eleven o'clock on Monday he was in Mr. Pearson's office. After the first involuntary smile, concealed by the fair moustaches, and instantly dismissed, with which the eminent lawyer greeted the announcement of his visitor's name, the two augurs carried through their affairs with perfect decorum. Wharton realised, indeed, that he was being firmly handled. Mr. Pearson gave theClariona week in which to accomplish its retreat and drop its strike fund. And the fund was to be "checked" as soon as possible.
A little later, when Wharton abruptly demanded a guarantee of secrecy,Mr. Pearson allowed himself his first—visible—smile.
"My dear sir, are such things generally made public property? I can give you no better assurance than you can extract yourself from the circumstances. As to writing—well!—I should advise you very strongly against anything of the sort. A long experience has convinced me that in any delicate negotiation the less that iswrittenthe better."
Towards the end Wharton turned upon his companion sharply, and asked:
"How did you discover that I wanted money?"
Mr. Pearson lifted his eyebrows pleasantly.
"Most of the things in this world, Mr. Wharton, that one wants to know, can be found out. Now—I have no wish to hurry you—not in the least, but I may perhaps mention that I have an important appointment directly. Don't you think—we might settle our business?"
Wharton was half-humorously conscious of an inward leap of fury with the necessities which had given this man—to whom he had taken an instantaneous dislike—the power of dealing thus summarily with the member for West Brookshire. However, there was no help for it; he submitted, and twenty minutes afterwards he left Lincoln's Inn carrying documents in the breast-pocket of his coat which, when brought under his bankers' notice, would be worth to him an immediate advance of some eight thousand pounds. The remainder of the purchase-money for his "shares" would be paid over to him as soon as his part of the contract had been carried out.
He did not, however, go to his bank, but straight to theClarionoffice, where he had a mid-day appointment with Louis Craven.
At first sight of the tall, narrow-shouldered form and anxious face waiting for him in his private room, Wharton felt a movement of ill-humour.
Craven had the morning'sClarionin his hand.
"Thiscannotmean"—he said, when they had exchanged a brief salutation—"that the paper is backing out?"
He pointed to the suspicious paragraph in Wharton's leader, his delicate features quivering with an excitement he could ill repress.
"Well, let us sit down and discuss the thing," said Wharton, closing the door, "that's what I wired to you for."
He offered Craven a cigarette, which was refused, took one himself, and the two men sat confronting each other with a writing-table between them. Wharton was disagreeably conscious at times of the stiff papers in his coat-pocket, and was perhaps a little paler than usual. Otherwise he showed no trace of mental disturbance; and Craven, himself jaded and sleepless, was struck with a momentary perception of his companion's boyish good looks—the tumbling curls, that Wharton straightened now and then, the charming blue eyes, the athlete's frame. Any stranger would have taken Craven for the older man; in reality it was the other way.
The conversation lasted nearly an hour. Craven exhausted both argument and entreaty, though when the completeness of the retreat resolved upon had been disclosed to him, the feeling roused in him was so fierce that he could barely maintain his composure. He had been living among scenes of starvation and endurance, which, to his mind, had all the character of martyrdom. These men and women were struggling for two objects—the power to live more humanly, and the free right of combination—to both of which, if need were, he would have given his own life to help them without an instant's hesitation. Behind his blinking manner he saw everything with the idealist's intensity, the reformer's passion. To be fair to an employer was not in his power. To spend his last breath, were it called for, in the attempt to succour the working-man against his capitalist oppressors, would have seemed to him the merest matter of course.
And his mental acuteness was quite equal to his enthusiasm, and far more evident. In his talk with Wharton, he for a long time avoided, as before, out of a certain inner disdain, the smallest touch of sentiment. He pointed out—what, indeed, Wharton well knew—that the next two or three weeks of the strike would be the most critical period in its history; that, if the work-people could only be carried through them, they were almost sure of victory. He gave his own reasons for believing that the employers could ultimately be coerced, he offered proof of yielding among them, proof also that the better men in their ranks were fully alive to and ashamed of the condition of the workers. As to the Syndicate, he saw no objection to it,providedthe workers' claims were first admitted. Otherwise it would only prove a more powerful engine of oppression.
Wharton's arguments may perhaps be left to the imagination. He would have liked simply to play the proprietor and the master—to say, "This is my decision, those are my terms—take my work or leave it." But Craven was Miss Boyce's friend; he was also a Venturist. Chafing under both facts, Wharton found that he must state his case.
And he did state it with his usual ability. He laid great stress on "information from a private source which I cannot disregard," to the effect that, if the resistance went on, the trade would be broken up; that several of the largest employers were on the point of making arrangements for Italian factories.
"I know," he said finally, "that but for theClarionthe strike would drop. Well! I have come to the conclusion that the responsibility is too heavy. I shall be doing the men themselves more harm than good. There is the case in a nutshell. We differ—I can't help that. The responsibility is mine."
Craven rose with a quick, nervous movement. The prophet spoke at last.
"You understand," he said, laying a thin hand on the table, "that the condition of the workers in this trade isinfamous!—that the award and your action together plunge them back into a state of things which is ashameand acurseto England!"
Wharton made no answer. He, too, had risen, and was putting away some papers in a drawer. A tremor ran through Craven's tall frame; and for an instant, as his eye rested on his companion, the idea of foul play crossed his mind. He cast it out, that he might deal calmly with his own position.
"Of course, you perceive," he said, as he took up his hat, "that I can no longer on these terms remain theClarion'scorrespondent. Somebody else must be found to do this business."
"I regret your decision, immensely," said Wharton, with perfect suavity, "but of course I understand it. I trust, however, that you will not leave us altogether. I can give you plenty of work that will suit you. Here, for instance"—he pointed to a pile of Blue Books from the Labour Commission lying on the table—"are a number of reports that want analysing and putting before the public. You could do them in town at your leisure."
Craven struggled with himself. His first instinct was to fling the offer in Wharton's face. Then he thought of his wife; of the tiny new household just started with such small, happy, self-denying shifts; of the woman's inevitable lot, of the hope of a child.
"Thank you," he said, in a husky voice. "I will consider, I will write."
Wharton nodded to him pleasantly, and he went.
The owner of theClariondrew a long breath.
"Now I think on the whole it would serve my purpose best to sit down and write toher—after that. It would be well thatmyaccount should come first."
A few hours later, after an interview with his bankers and a further spell of letter-writing, Wharton descended the steps of his club in a curious restless state. The mortgage on theClarionhad been arranged for, his gambling debts settled, and all his other money matters were successfully in train. Nevertheless, the exhilaration of the morning had passed into misgiving and depression.
Vague presentiments hung about him all day, whether in the House of Commons or elsewhere, and it was not till he found himself on his legs at a crowded meeting at Rotherhithe, violently attacking the Government Bill and the House of Lords, that he recovered that easy confidence in the general favourableness of the universe to Harry Wharton, and Harry Wharton's plans, which lent him so much of his power.
A letter from Marcella—written before she had received either of his—reached him at the House just before he started for his meeting. A touching letter!—yet with a certain resolution in it which disconcerted him.
"Forget, if you will, everything that you said to me last night. It might be—I believe it would be—best for us both. But if you will not—if I must give my answer, then, as I said, I must have time. It is only quite recently that I haverealisedthe enormity of what I did last year. I must run no risks of so wrenching my own life—or another's—a second time. Not to besureis for me torment. Why perfect simplicity of feeling—which would scorn the very notion of questioning itself—seems to be beyond me, I do not know. That it is so fills me with a sort of shame and bitterness. But I must follow my nature.
"So let me think it out. I believe you know, for one thing, that your 'cause,' your life-work, attracts me strongly. I should not any longer accept all you say, as I did last year. But mere opinion matters infinitely less to me than it did. I can imagine now agreeing with a friend 'in everything except opinion.' All that would matter to me now would be to feel thatyourheart was wholly in your work, in your public acts, so that I might still admire and love all that I might differ from. But there—for we must be frank with each other—is just my difficulty.Whydo you do so many contradictory things? Why do you talk of the poor, of labour, of self-denial, and live whenever you can with the idle rich people, who hate all three in their hearts? You talk their language; you scorn what they scorn, or so it seems; you accept their standards. Oh!—to the really 'consecrate' in heart and thought I could give my life so easily, so slavishly even! There is no one weaker than I in the world. I must have strength to lean upon—and a strength, pure at the core, that I can respect and follow.
"Here in this nursing life of mine, I go in and out among people to the best of whom life is very real and simple—and often, of course, very sad. And I am another being in it from what I was at Lady Winterbourne's. Everything looks differently to me. No, no! you must please wait till the inner voice speaks so that I can hear it plainly—for your sake at least as much as for mine. If you persisted in coming to see me now, I should have to put an end to it all."
"Strange is the modern woman!" thought Wharton to himself, not without sharp pique, as he pondered that letter in the course of his drive home from the meeting. "I talk to her of passion, and she asks me in return why I do things inconsistent with my political opinions! puts me through a moral catechism, in fact! What is the meaning of it all—confound it! —her state of mind and mine? Is the good oldars amandiperishing out of the world? Let some Stendhal come and tell us why!"
But he sat up to answer her, and could not get free from an inward pleading or wrestle with her, which haunted him through all the intervals of these rapid days.
Life while they lasted was indeed a gymnast's contest of breath and endurance. TheClarionmade its retreat in Wharton's finest style, and the fact rang through labouring England. The strike-leaders came up from the Midlands; Wharton had to see them. He was hotly attacked in the House privately, and even publicly by certain of his colleagues. Bennett showed concern and annoyance. Meanwhile the Conservative papers talked the usual employers' political economy; and the Liberal papers, whose support of the strike had been throughout perfunctory, and of no particular use to themselves or to other people, took a lead they were glad to get, and went in strongly for the award.
Through it all Wharton showed extraordinary skill. The columns of theClarionteemed with sympathetic appeals to the strikers, flanked by long statements of "hard fact"—the details of foreign competition and the rest, the plans of the masters—freely supplied him by Mr. Pearson. With Bennett and his colleagues in the House he took a bold line; admitted that he had endangered his popularity both inside Parliament and out of it at a particularly critical moment; and implied, though he did not say, that some men were still capable of doing independent things to their own hurt. Meanwhile he pushed a number of other matters to the front, both in the paper and in his own daily doings. He made at least two important speeches in the provinces, in the course of these days, on the Bill before the House of Lords; he asked questions in Parliament on the subject of the wages paid to Government employés; and he opened an attack on the report of a certain Conservative Commission which had been rousing the particular indignation of a large mass of South London working men.
At the end of ten days the strike was over; the workers, sullen and enraged, had submitted, and the plans of the Syndicate were in all the papers. Wharton, looking round him, realised to his own amazement that his political position had rather gained than suffered. The general impression produced by his action had been on the whole that of a man strong enough to take a line of his own, even at the risk of unpopularity. There was a new tone of respect among his opponents, and, resentful as some of the Labour members were, Wharton did not believe that what he had done would ultimately damage his chances on the 10th at all. He had vindicated his importance, and he held his head high, adopting towards his chances of the leadership a strong and careless tone that served him well.
Meanwhile there were, of course, clever people behind the scenes who looked on and laughed. But they held their tongues, and Wharton, who had carefully avoided the mention of names during the negotiations with Pearson, did his best to forget them. He felt uncomfortable, indeed, when he passed the portly Denny in the House or in the street. Denny had a way of looking at the member for West Brookshire out of the corner of a small, slit-like eye. He did it more than usual during these days, and Wharton had only to say to himself that for all things there is a price—which the gods exact.
Wilkins, since the first disclosure of theClarionchange of policy, had been astonishingly quiet. Wharton had made certain of violent attack from him. On the contrary, Wilkins wore now in the House a subdued and pre-occupied air that escaped notice even with his own party in the general fulness of the public mind. A few caustic north-countryisms on the subject of theClarionand its master did indeed escape him now and then, and were reported from mouth to mouth; but on the whole he lay very low.
Still, whether in elation or anxiety, Wharton seemed to himself throughout the whole period to be afighter, straining every muscle, his back to the wall and his hand against every man. There at the end of the fortnight stood the three goal-posts that must be passed, in victory or defeat; the meeting that would for the present decide his parliamentary prospects, his interview with Marcella, and—the confounded annual meeting of the "People's Banking Company," with all its threatened annoyances.
He became, indeed, more and more occupied with this latter business as the days went on. But he could see no way of evading it. He would have to fight it; luckily, now, he had the money.
The annual meeting took place two days before that fixed for the committee of the Labour party. Wharton was not present at it, and in spite of ample warning he gave way to certain lively movements of disgust and depression when at his club he first got hold of the evening papers containing the reports. His name, of course, figured amply in the denunciations heaped upon the directors of all dates; the sums which he with others were supposed to have made out of the first dealings with the shares on the Stock Exchange were freely mentioned; and the shareholders as a body had shown themselves most uncomfortably violent. He at once wrote off a letter to the papers disclaiming all responsibility for the worst irregularities which had occurred, and courting full enquiry—a letter which, as usual, both convinced and affected himself.
Then he went, restless and fuming, down to the House. Bennett passed him in the lobby with an uneasy and averted eye. Whereupon Wharton seized upon him, carried him into the Library, and talked to him, till Bennett, who, in spite of his extraordinary shrewdness and judgment in certain departments, was a babe in matters of company finance, wore a somewhat cheered countenance.
They came out into the lobby together, Wharton holding his head very high.
"I shall deal with the whole thing in my speech on Thursday!" he said aloud, as they parted.
Bennett gave him a friendly nod and smile.
There was in this little man, with his considerable brain and his poet's heart, something of the "imperishable child." Like a wholesome child, he did not easily "think evil"; his temper towards all men—even the owners of "way-leaves" and mining royalties—was optimist. He had the most naïve admiration for Wharton's ability, and for the academic attainments he himself secretly pined for; and to the young complex personality itself he had taken from the beginning an unaccountable liking. The bond between the two, though incongruous and recent, was real; Wharton was as glad of Bennett's farewell kindness as Bennett had been of the younger man's explanations.
So that during that day and the next, Bennett went about contradicting, championing, explaining; while Wharton, laden with parliamentary business, vivid, unabashed, and resourceful, let it be known to all whom it concerned that in his solicitor's opinion he had a triumphant answer to all charges; and that meanwhile no one could wonder at the soreness of those poor devils of shareholders.
The hours passed on. Wednesday was mainly spent by Wharton in a series of conferences and intrigues either at the House or at his club; when he drove home exhausted at night he believed that all was arranged—the train irrevocably laid, and his nomination to the chairmanship of the party certain.
Wilkins and six or seven others would probably prove irreconcilable; but the vehemence and rancour shown by the great Nehemiah during the summer in the pursuit of his anti-Wharton campaign had to some extent defeated themselves. A personal grudge in the hands of a man of his type is not a formidable weapon. Wharton would have felt perfectly easy on the subject but for some odd bits of manner on Wilkins's part during the last forty-eight hours—whenever, in fact, the two men had run across each other in the House—marked by a sort of new and insolent good humour, that puzzled him. But there is a bravado of defeat. Yes!—he thought Wilkins was disposed of.
From his present point of ease—debts paid, banker propitiated, income assured—it amazed him to look back on his condition of a fortnight before. Had the Prince of Darkness himself offered such a bargain it must have been accepted. After all his luck had held! Once get through this odious company business—as to which, with a pleasing consciousness of turning the tables, he had peremptorily instructed Mr. Pearson himself—and the barque of his fortunes was assured.
Then, with a quick turn of the mind, he threw the burden of affairs from him. His very hopefulness and satisfaction had softened his mood. There stole upon him the murmurs and voices of another world of thought—a world well known to his versatility by report, though he had as a rule small inclination to dwell therein. But he was touched and shaken to-night by his own achievement. The heavenly powers had been unexpectedly kind to him, and he was half moved to offer them something in return.
"Do as you are done by"—that was an ethic he understood. And in moments of feeling he was as ready to apply it to great Zeus himself as to his friends or enemies in the House of Commons. He had done this doubtful thing—but why should it ever be necessary for him to do another? Vague philosophic yearnings after virtue, moderation, patriotism, crossed his mind. The Pagan ideal sometimes smote and fired him, the Christian never. He could still read his Plato and his Cicero, whereas gulfs of unfathomable distaste rolled between him and the New Testament. Perhaps the author of all authors for whom he had most relish was Montaigne. He would have taken him down to-night had there been nothing more kindling to think of.
Marcella!—ah! Marcella! He gave himself to the thought of her with a new and delightful tenderness which had in it elements of compunction. After those disagreeable paragraphs in the evening papers, he had instantly written to her. "Every public man"—he had said to her, finding instinctively the note of dignity that would appeal to her—"is liable at some period of his career to charges of this sort. They are at once exaggerated and blackened, because he is a public man. To you I owe perfect frankness, and you shall have it. Meanwhile I do not ask—I know—that you will be just to me, and put the matter out of your thoughts till I can discuss it with you. Two days more till I see your face! The time is long!"
To this there had been no answer. Her last letter indeed had rung sadly and coldly. No doubt Louis Craven had something to do with it. It would have alarmed him could he simply have found the time to think about it. Yet she was ready to see him on the 11th; and his confidence in his own powers of managing fate was tougher than ever. What pleasant lies he had told her at Lady Masterton's! Well! What passion ever yet but had its subterfuges? One more wrestle, and he would have tamed her to his wish, wild falcon that she was. Then—pleasure and brave living! And she also should have her way. She should breathe into him the language of those great illusions he had found it of late so hard to feign with her; and they two would walk and rule a yielding world together. Action, passion, affairs—life explored and exploited—and at last—"que la mort me treuve plantant mes choulx—mais nonchalant d'elle!—et encore plus de mon jardin imparfaict!"
He declaimed the words of the great Frenchman with something of the same temper in which the devout man would have made an act of faith. Then, with a long breath and a curious emotion, he went to try and sleep himself into the new day.
The following afternoon about six o'clock Marcella came in from her second round. After a very busy week, work happened to be slack; and she had been attending one or two cases in and near Brown's Buildings rather because they were near than because they seriously wanted her. She looked to see whether there was any letter or telegram from the office which would have obliged her to go out again. Nothing was to be seen; and she put down her bag and cloak, childishly glad of the extra hour of rest.
She was, indeed, pale and worn. The moral struggle which had filled the past fortnight from end to end had deepened all the grooves and strained the forces of life; and the path, though glimmering, was not wholly plain.
A letter lay unfinished in her drawer—if she sent it that night, there would be little necessity or inducement for Wharton to climb those stairs on the morrow. Yet, if he held her to it, she must see him.
As the sunset and the dusk crept on she still sat silent and alone, sunk in a depression which showed itself in every line of the drooping form. She was degraded in her own eyes. The nature of the impulses which had led her to give Wharton the hold upon her she had given him had become plain to her. What lay between them, and the worst impulses that poison the lives of women, but differences of degree, of expression? After those wild hours of sensuous revolt, a kind of moral terror was upon her.
What had worked in her? What was at the root of this vehemence of moral reaction, this haunting fear of losing for ever thebestin life—self-respect, the comradeship of the good, communion with things noble and unstained—which had conquered at last the merewoman, the weakness of vanity and of sex? She hardly knew. Only there was in her a sort of vague thankfulnessfor her daily work. It did not seem to be possible to see one's own life solely under the aspects of selfish desire while hands and mind were busy with the piteous realities of sickness and of death. From every act of service—from every contact with the patience and simplicity of the poor—somethinghad spoken to her, that divine ineffable something for ever "set in the world," like beauty, like charm, for the winning of men to itself. "Follow truth!" it said to her in faint mysterious breathings—"the truth of your own heart. The sorrow to which it will lead you is the onlyjoythat remains to you."
Suddenly she looked round her little room with a rush of tenderness. The windows were open to the evening and the shouts of children playing in the courtyard came floating up. A bowl of Mellor roses scented the air; the tray for her simple meal stood ready, and beside it a volume of "The Divine Comedy," one of her mother's very rare gifts to her, in her motherless youth—for of late she had turned thirstily to poetry. There was a great peace and plainness about it all; and, besides, touches of beauty—tokens of the soul. Her work spoke in it; called to her; promised comfort and ennobling. She thought with yearning, too, of her parents; of the autumn holiday she was soon to spend with them. Her heart went out—sorely—to all the primal claims upon it.
* * * * *
Nevertheless, clear as was the inner resolution, the immediate future filled her with dread. Her ignorance of herself—her excitable folly—had given Wharton rights which her conscience admitted. He would not let her go without a struggle, and she must face it.
As to the incidents which had happened during the fortnight—Louis Craven's return, and the scandal of the "People's Banking Company"—they had troubled and distressed her; but it would not be true to say that they had had any part in shaping her slow determination. Louis Craven was sore and bitter. She was very sorry for him; and his reports of the Damesley strikers made her miserable. But she took Wharton's "leaders" in theClarionfor another equally competent opinion on the same subject; and told herself that she was no judge. As for the Company scandal, she had instantly and proudly responded to the appeal of his letter, and put the matter out of her thoughts, till at least he should give his own account. So much at any rate she owed to the man who had stood by her through the Hurd trial. Marcella Boyce would not readily believe in his dishonour! She did not in fact believe it. In spite of later misgivings, the impression of his personality, as she had first conceived it, in the early days at Mellor, was still too strong.
No—rather—she had constantly recollected throughout the day what was going on in Parliament. These were for him testing and critical hours, and she felt a wistful sympathy. Let him only rise to his part—take up his great task.
* * * * *
An imperious knocking on her thin outer door roused her. She went to open it and saw Anthony Craven,—the perspiration standing on his brow, his delicate cripple's face white and fierce.
"I want to talk to you," he said without preface. "Have you seen the afternoon papers?"
"No," she said in astonishment, "I was just going to send for them. What is wrong?"
He followed her into the sitting-room without speaking; and then he unfolded thePall Mallhe had in his hand and pointed to a large-print paragraph on the central page with a shaking hand.
Marcella read:
"EXCITING SCENES IN THE HOUSE.—MEETING OF THE LABOUR MEMBERS.—A committee of the Labour representatives in Parliament met this afternoon at 2 o'clock for the purpose of electing a chairman, and appointing whips to the party, thus constituting a separate parliamentary group. Much interest was felt in the proceedings, which it was universally supposed would lead to the appointment of Mr. H. S. Wharton, the member for West Brookshire, as chairman and leader of the Labour party. The excitement of the meeting and in the House may be imagined when—after a short but very cordial and effective speech from Mr. Bennett, the member for North Whinwick, in support of Mr. Wharton's candidature—Mr. Wilkins, the miner's member for Derlingham, rose and made a series of astounding charges against the personal honour of the member for West Brookshire. Put briefly, they amount to this: that during the recent strike at Damesley the support of theClarionnewspaper, of which Mr. Wharton is owner and practically editor, wasboughtby the employers in return for certain shares in the new Syndicate; that the money for these shares—which is put as high as 20,000l.—had already gone into Mr. Wharton's private pocket; and that the change of policy on the part of theClarion, which led to the collapse of the strike, was thus entirely due to what the Labour members can only regard under the circumstances as a bribe of a most disgraceful kind. The effect produced has been enormous. The debate is still proceeding, and reporters have been excluded. But I hope to send a fuller account later."
Marcella dropped the paper from her hand.
"What does it mean?" she said to her companion.
"Precisely what it says," replied Anthony, with a nervous impatience he could not repress. "Now," he added, as his lameness forced him to sit down, "will you kindly allow me some conversation with you? It was you—practically—who introduced Louis to that man. You meant well to Louis, and Mr. Wharton has been your friend. We therefore feel that we owe you some explanation. For that paragraph"—he pointed to the paper—"is, substantially—Louis's doing, and mine."
"Yours?" she said mechanically. "But Louis has been going on working for the paper—I persuaded him."
"I know. It was not we who actually discovered the thing. But we set a friend to work. Louis has had his suspicions all along. And at last—by the merest chance—we got the facts."
Then he told the story, staring at her the while with his sparkling eyes, his thin invalid's fingers fidgeting with his hat. If there was in truth any idea in his mind that the relations between his companion and Harry Wharton were more than those of friendship, it did not avail to make him spare her in the least. He was absorbed in vindictive feeling, which applied to her also. He mightsayfor form's sake that she had meant well; but in fact he regarded her at this moment as a sort of odious Canidia whose one function had been to lure Louis to misfortune. Cut off himself, by half a score of peculiarities, physical and other, from love, pleasure, and power, Anthony Craven's whole affections and ambitions had for years centred in his brother. And now Louis was not only violently thrown out of employment, but compromised by the connection with theClarion; was, moreover, saddled with a wife—and in debt.
So that his explanation was given with all the edge he could put upon it. Let her stop him, if she pleased!—but she did not stop him.
The facts were these:
Louis had, indeed, been persuaded by Marcella, for the sake of his wife and bread and butter, to go on working for theClarion, as a reviewer. But his mind was all the time feverishly occupied with the apostasy of the paper and its causes. Remembering Wharton's sayings and letters throughout the struggle, he grew less and less able to explain the incident by the reasons Wharton had himself supplied, and more and more convinced that there was some mystery behind.
He and Anthony talked the matter over perpetually. One evening Anthony brought home from a meeting of the Venturists that George Denny, the son of one of the principal employers in the Damesley trade, whose name he had mentioned once before in Marcella's ears. Denny was by this time the candidate for a Labour constituency, an ardent Venturist, and the laughing-stock of his capitalist family, with whom, however, he was still on more or less affectionate terms. His father thought him an incorrigible fool, and his mother wailed over him to her friends. But they were still glad to see him whenever he would condescend to visit them; and all friction on money matters was avoided by the fact that Denny had for long refused to take any pecuniary help from his father, and was nevertheless supporting himself tolerably by lecturing and literature.
Denny was admitted into the brothers' debate, and had indeed puzzled himself a good deal over the matter already. He had taken a lively interest in the strike, and the articles in theClarionwhich led to its collapse had seemed to him both inexplicable and enraging.
After his talk with the Cravens, he went away, determined to dine at home on the earliest possible opportunity. He announced himself accordingly in Hertford Street, was received with open arms, and then deliberately set himself, at dinner and afterwards, to bait his father on social and political questions, which, as a rule, were avoided between them.
Old Denny fell into the trap, lost his temper and self-control completely, and at a mention of Harry Wharton—skilfully introduced at the precisely right moment—as an authority on some matter connected with the current Labour programme, he threw himself back in his chair with an angry laugh.
"Wharton?Wharton? You quote that fellow tome?"
"Why shouldn't I?" said the son, quietly.
"Because, my good sir,—he's arogue,—that's all!—a common rogue, from my point of view even—still more from yours."
"I know that any vile tale you can believe about a Labour leader you do, father," said George Denny, with dignity.
Whereupon the older man thrust his hand into his coat-pocket, and drawing out a small leather case, in which he was apt to carry important papers about with him, extracted from it a list containing names and figures, and held it with a somewhat tremulous hand under his son's eyes.
"Read it, sir! and hold your tongue! Last week my friends and Iboughtthat man—and his precious paper—for a trifle of 20,000l.or thereabouts. It paid us to do it, and we did it. I dare sayyouwill think the preceding questionable. In my eyes it was perfectly legitimate, a piece ofbonne guerre. The man was ruining a whole industry. Some of us had taken his measure, had found out too—by good luck!—that he was in sore straits for money—mortgages on the paper, gambling debts, and a host of other things—discovered a shrewd man to play him, and made our bid! He rose to it like a gudgeon—gave us no trouble whatever. I need not say, of course"—he added, looking up at his son—"that I have shown you that paper in thevery strictest confidence. But it seemed to me it was my duty as a father to warn you of the nature of some of your associates!"
"I understand," said George Denny, as, after a careful study of the paper—which contained, for the help of the writer's memory, a list of the sums paid and founders' shares allotted to the various "promoters" of the new Syndicate—he restored it to its owner. "Well, I, father, havethisto say in return. I came here to-night in the hope of getting from you this very information, and in the public interest I hold myself not only free butboundto make public use of it, at the earliest possible opportunity!"
The family scene may be imagined. But both threats and blandishments were entirely lost upon the son. There was in him an idealist obstinacy which listened to nothing but the cry of acause, and he declared that nothing would or should prevent him from carrying the story of the bribe direct to Nehemiah Wilkins, Wharton's chief rival in the House, and so saving the country and the Labour party from the disaster and disgrace of Wharton's leadership. There was no time to lose, the party meeting in the House was only two days off.
At the end of a long struggle, which exhausted everybody concerned, and was carried on to a late hour of the night, Dennypère, influenced by a desire to avoid worse things—conscious, too, of the abundant evidence he possessed of Wharton's acceptance and private use of the money—and, probably, when it came to the point, not unwilling,—under compulsion!—to tumble such a hero from his pedestal, actually wrote, under his son's advice, a letter to Wilkins. It was couched in the most cautious language, and professed to be written in the interests of Wharton himself, to put an end "to certain ugly and unfounded rumours that have been brought to my knowledge." The negotiation itself was described in the driest business terms. "Mr. Wharton, upon cause shown, consented to take part in the founding of the Syndicate, and in return for his assistance, was allotted ten founders' shares in the new company. The transaction differed in nothing from those of ordinary business"—a last sentence slily added by the Socialist son, and innocently accepted by one of the shrewdest of men.
After which Master George Denny scarcely slept, and by nine o'clock next morning was in a hansom on his way to Wilkins's lodgings in Westminster. The glee of that black-bearded patriot hardly needs description. He flung himself on the letter with a delight and relief so exuberant that George Denny went off to another more phlegmatic member of the anti-Wharton "cave," with entreaties that an eye should be kept on the member for Derlingham, lest he should do or disclose anything before the dramatic moment.
Then he himself spent the next forty-eight hours in ingenious efforts to put together certain additional information as to the current value of founders' shares in the new company, the nature and amount of Wharton's debts, and so on. Thanks to his father's hints he was able in the end to discover quite enough to furnish forth a supplementary statement. So that, when the 10th arrived, the day rose upon a group of men breathlessly awaiting a play within a play—with all their parts rehearsed, and the prompter ready.
* * * * *
Such in substance, was Anthony's story. So carried away was he by the excitement and triumph of it, that he soon ceased to notice what its effect might be upon his pale and quick-breathing companion.
"And now what has happened?" she asked him abruptly, when at last he paused.
"Why, you saw!" he said in astonishment, pointing to the evening paper—"at least the beginning of it. Louis is at the House now. I expect him every moment. He said he would follow me here."
Marcella pressed her hands upon her eyes a moment as though in pain.Anthony looked at her with a tardy prick of remorse.
"I hear Louis's knock!" he said, springing up. "May I let him in?" And, without waiting for reply, he hobbled as fast as his crutch would carry him to the outer door. Louis came in. Marcella rose mechanically. He paused on the threshold, his short sight trying to make her out in the dusk. Then his face softened and quivered. He walked forward quickly.
"I know you have something to forgive us," he said, "and that this will distress you. But we could not give you warning. Everything was so rapid, and the public interests involved so crushing."
He was flushed with vengeance and victory, but as he approached her his look was deprecating—almost timid. Only the night before, Anthony for the first time had suggested to him an idea about her. He did not believe it—had had no time in truth to think of it in the rush of events. But now he saw her, the doubt pulled at his heart. Had he indeed stabbed the hand that had tried to help him?
Anthony touched him impatiently on the arm. "What has happened, Louis? I have shown Miss Boyce the first news."
"It is all over," said Louis, briefly. "The meeting was breaking up as I came away. It had lasted nearly five hours. There was a fierce fight, of course, between Wharton and Wilkins. Then Bennett withdrew his resolution, refused to be nominated himself—nearly broke down, in fact, they say; he had always been attached to Wharton, and had set his heart upon making him leader—and finally, after a long wrangle, Molloy was appointed chairman of the party."
"Good!" cried Anthony, not able to suppress the note of exultation.
Louis did not speak. He looked at Marcella.
"Did he defend himself?" she asked in a low, sharp voice.
Louis shrugged his shoulders.
"Oh, yes. He spoke—but it did him no good. Everybody agreed that the speech was curiously ineffective. One would have expected him to do it better. But he seemed to be knocked over. He said, of course, that he had satisfied himself, and given proof in the paper, that the strike could not be maintained, and that being so he was free to join any syndicate he pleased. But he spoke amid dead silence, and there was a general groan when he sat down. Oh, it was not this business only! Wilkins made great play in part of his speech with the Company scandal too. It is a complete smash all round."
"Which he will never get over?" said Marcella, quickly.
"Not with our men. What he may do elsewhere is another matter. Anthony has told you how it came out?"
She made a sign of assent. She was sitting erect and cold, her hands round her knees.
"I did not mean to keep anything from you," he said in a low voice,bending to her. "I know—you admired him—that he had given you cause.But—my mind has been onfire—ever since I came back from thoseDamesley scenes!"
She offered no reply. Silence fell upon all three for a minute or two; and in the twilight each could hardly distinguish the others. Every now and then the passionate tears rose in Marcella's eyes; her heart contracted. That very night when he spoke to her, when he used all those big words to her about his future, those great ends for which he had claimed her woman's help—he had these things in his mind.
"I think," said Louis Craven presently, touching her gently on the arm—he had tried once in vain to attract her attention—"I think I hear some one asking for you outside on the landing—Mrs. Hurd seems to be bringing them in."
As he spoke, Anthony suddenly sprang to his feet, and the outer door opened.
"Louis!" cried Anthony, "it ishe!"
"Are yer at home, miss?" said Minta Hurd, putting in her head; "I can hardly see, it's so dark. Here's a gentleman wants to see you."
As she spoke, Wharton passed her, and stood—arrested—by the sight of the three figures. At the same moment Mrs. Hurd lit the gas in the little passage. The light streamed upon his face, and showed him the identity of the two men standing beside Marcella.
Never did Marcella forget that apparition—the young grace and power of the figure—the indefinable note of wreck, of catastrophe—the Lucifer brightness of the eyes in the set face. She moved forward. Anthony stopped her.
"Good-night, Miss Boyce!"
She shook hands unconsciously with him and with Louis. The two Cravens turned to the door. Wharton advanced into the room, and let them pass.
"You have been in a hurry to tell your story!" he said, as Louis walked by him.
Contemptuous hate breathed from every feature, but he was perfectly self-controlled.
"Yes—" said Craven, calmly—"Now it is your turn."
The door was no sooner shut than Wharton strode forward and caught her hand.
"They have told you everything? Ah!—"
His eye fell upon the evening paper. Letting her go, he felt for a chair and dropped into it. Throwing himself back, his hands behind his head, he drew a long breath and his eyes closed. For the first time in his life or hers she saw him weak and spent like other men. Even his nerve had been worn down by the excitement of these five fighting hours. The eyes were lined and hollow—the brow contracted; the young roundness of the cheek was lost in the general pallor and patchiness of the skin; the lower part of the face seemed to have sharpened and lengthened,—and over the whole had passed a breath of something aging and withering the traces of which sent a shiver through Marcella. She sat down near him, still in her nurse's cloak, one trembling hand upon her lap.
"Will you tell me what made you do this?" she asked, not being able to think of anything else to say.
He opened his eyes with a start.
In that instant's quiet the scene he had just lived through had been rushing before him again—the long table in the panelled committee-room, the keen angry faces gathered about it. Bennett, in his blue tie and shabby black coat, the clear moist eyes vexed and miserable—Molloy, small and wiry, business-like in the midst of confusion, cool in the midst of tumult—and Wilkins, a black, hectoring leviathan, thundering on the table as he flung his broad Yorkshire across it, or mouthing out Denny's letter in the midst of the sudden electrical silence of some thirty amazed and incredulous hearers.
"Spies,yo call us?" with a finger like a dart, threatening the enemy—"Aye; an' yo're aboot reet! I and my friends—wehavebeen trackin' and spyin' for weeks past. Weknewthose men, those starvin' women and bairns, were bein'sold, but we couldn't prove it. Now we've come at the how and the why of it! And we'll make it harder for men like you tosell 'em again! Yo call it infamy?—well,wecall it detection."
Then rattling on the inner ear came the phrases of the attack which followed on the director of "The People's Banking Association," the injured innocent of as mean a job, as unsavoury a bit of vulturous finance, as had cropped into publicity for many a year—and finally the last dramatic cry:
"But it's noa matter, yo say! Mester Wharton has nobbut played his party and the workin' man a dirty trick or two—an' yo mun have a gentleman!Noa—the workin' man isn't fithimselfto speak wi' his own enemies i' th' gate—yo mun have a gentleman!—an' Mester Wharton, he says he'll tak' the post, an' dea his best for yo—an', remember,yo mun have a gentleman! Soa now—Yes! or No!—wull yo?—orwoan't yo?"
And at that, the precipitation of the great unwieldy form half across the table towards Wharton's seat—the roar of the speaker's immediate supporters thrown up against the dead silence of the rest!
As to his own speech—he thought of it with a soreness, a disgust which penetrated to bones and marrow. He had been too desperately taken by surprise—had lost his nerve—missed the right tone throughout. Cool defiance, free self-justification, might have carried him through. Instead of which—faugh!
All this was the phantom-show of a few seconds' thought. He roused himself from a miserable reaction of mind and body to attend to Marcella's question.
"Why did I do it?" he repeated; "why—"
He broke off, pressing both his hands upon his brow. Then he suddenly sat up and pulled himself together.
"Is that tea?" he said, touching the tray. "Will you give me some?"
Marcella went into the back kitchen and called Minta. While the boiling water was brought and the tea was made, Wharton sat forward with his face on his hands and saw nothing. Marcella whispered a word in Minta's ear as she came in. The woman paused, looked at Wharton, whom she had not recognised before in the dark—grew pale—and Marcella saw her hands shaking as she set the tray in order. Wharton knew nothing and thought nothing of Kurd's widow, but to Marcella the juxtaposition of the two figures brought a wave of complex emotion.
Wharton forced himself to eat and drink, hardly speaking the while. Then, when the tremor of sheer exhaustion had to some extent abated, he suddenly realised who this was that was sitting opposite to him ministering to him.
She felt his hand—his quick powerful hand—on hers.
"ToyouI owe the whole truth—let me tell it!"
She drew herself away instinctively—but so softly that he did not realise it. He threw himself back once more in the chair beside her—one knee over the other, the curly head so much younger to-night than the face beneath it supported on his arms, his eyes closed again for rest—and plunged into the story of theClarion.
It was admirably told. He had probably so rehearsed it to himself several times already. He described his action as the result of a double influence working upon him—the influence of his own debts and necessities, and the influence of his growing conviction that the maintenance of the strike had become a blunder, even a misfortune for the people themselves.
"Then—just as I was at my wit's end, conscious besides that the paper was on a wrong line, and must somehow be got out of it—came the overtures from the Syndicate. I knew perfectly well I ought to have refused them—ofcoursemy whole career was risked by listening to them. But at the same time they gave me assurances that the workpeople would ultimately gain—they proved to me that I was helping to extinguish the trade. As to themoney—when a great company has to be launched, the people who help it into being getpaidfor it—it is invariable—it happens every day. I like the system no more than you may do—or Wilkins. But consider. I was in such straits thatbankruptcylay between me and my political future. Moreover—I had lost nerve, sleep, balance. I was scarcely master of myself when Pearson first broached the matter to me—"
"Pearson!" cried Marcella, involuntarily. She recalled the figure of the solicitor; had heard his name from Frank Leven. She remembered Wharton's impatient words—"There is a tiresome man wants to speak to me on business—"
It wasthen I—that evening! Something sickened her.
Wharton raised himself in his chair and looked at her attentively with his young haggard eyes. In the faint lamplight she was a pale vision of the purest and noblest beauty. But the lofty sadness of her face filled him with a kind of terror. Desire—impotent pain—violent resolve, swept across him. He had come to her, straight from the scene of his ruin, as to the last bulwark left him against a world bent on his destruction, and bare henceforward of all delights.
"Well, what have you to say to me?" he said, suddenly, in a low changed voice—"as I speak—as I look at you—I see in your face that you distrust—that you have judged me; those two men, I suppose, have done their work! Yet from you—youof all people—I might look not only for justice—but—I will dare say it—for kindness!"