‘Quite.—You forgive me? Then grant me plenary absolution by giving me a dance for the one I lost last night.’
She rose. A man came up,—a stranger to me; she’s one of the best hunted women in England,—there’s a million with her.
‘This is my dance, Miss Grayling.’
She looked at him.
‘You must excuse me. I am afraid I have made a mistake. I had forgotten that I was already engaged.’
I had not thought her capable of it. She took my arm, and away we went, and left him staring.
‘It’s he who’s the sufferer now,’ I whispered, as we went round,—she can waltz!
‘You think so? It was I last night,—I did not mean, if I could help it, to suffer again. To me a dance with you means something.’ She went all red,—adding, as an afterthought, ‘Nowadays so few men really dance. I expect it’s because you dance so well.’
‘Thank you.’
We danced the waltz right through, then we went to an impromptu shelter which had been rigged up on a balcony. And we talked. There’s something sympathetic about Miss Grayling which leads one to talk about one’s self,—before I was half aware of it I was telling her of all my plans and projects,—actually telling her of my latest notion which, ultimately, was to result in the destruction of whole armies as by a flash of lightning. She took an amount of interest in it which was surprising.
‘What really stands in the way of things of this sort is not theory but practice,—one can prove one’s facts on paper, or on a small scale in a room; what is wanted is proof on a large scale, by actual experiment. If, for instance, I could take my plant to one of the forests of South America, where there is plenty of animal life but no human, I could demonstrate the soundness of my position then and there.’
‘Why don’t you?’
‘Think of the money it would cost.’
‘I thought I was a friend of yours.’
‘I had hoped you were.’
‘Then why don’t you let me help you?’
‘Help me?—How?’
‘By letting you have the money for your South American experiment;—it would be an investment on which I should expect to receive good interest.’
I fidgeted.
‘It is very good of you, Miss Grayling, to talk like that.’
She became quite frigid.
‘Please don’t be absurd!—I perceive quite clearly that you are snubbing me, and that you are trying to do it as delicately as you know how.’
‘Miss Grayling!’
‘I understand that it was an impertinence on my part to volunteer assistance which was unasked; you have made that sufficiently plain.’
‘I assure you—’
‘Pray don’t. Of course, if it had been Miss Lindon it would have been different; she would at least have received a civil answer. But we are not all Miss Lindon.’
I was aghast. The outburst was so uncalled for,—I had not the faintest notion what I had said or done to cause it; she was in such a surprising passion—and it suited her!—I thought I had never seen her look prettier,—I could do nothing else but stare. So she went on,—with just as little reason.
‘Here is someone coming to claim this dance,—I can’t throw all my partners over. Have I offended you so irremediably that it will be impossible for you to dance with me again?’
‘Miss Grayling!—I shall be only too delighted.’ She handed me her card. ‘Which may I have?’
‘For your own sake you had better place it as far off as you possibly can.’
‘They all seem taken.’
‘That doesn’t matter; strike off any name you please, anywhere and put your own instead.’
It was giving me an almost embarrassingly free hand. I booked myself for the next waltz but two—who it was who would have to give way to me I did not trouble to inquire.
‘Mr Atherton!—is that you?’
It was,—it was also she. It was Marjorie! And so soon as I saw her I knew that there was only one woman in the world for me,—the mere sight of her sent the blood tingling through my veins. Turning to her attendant cavalier, she dismissed him with a bow.
‘Is there an empty chair?’
She seated herself in the one Miss Grayling had just vacated. I sat down beside her. She glanced at me, laughter in her eyes. I was all in a stupid tremblement.
‘You remember that last night I told you that I might require your friendly services in diplomatic intervention?’ I nodded,—I felt that the allusion was unfair. ‘Well, the occasion’s come,—or, at least, it’s very near.’ She was still,—and I said nothing to help her. ‘You know how unreasonable papa can be.’
I did,—never a more pig-headed man in England than Geoffrey Lindon,—or, in a sense, a duller. But, just then, I was not prepared to admit it to his child.
‘You know what an absurd objection he has to—Paul.’
There was an appreciative hesitation before she uttered the fellow’s Christian name,—when it came it was with an accent of tenderness which stung me like a gadfly. To speak to me—of all men,—of the fellow in such a tone was—like a woman.
‘Has Mr Lindon no notion of how things stand between you?’
‘Except what he suspects. That is just where you are to come in, papa thinks so much of you—I want you to sound Paul’s praises in his ear—to prepare him for what must come.’ Was ever rejected lover burdened with such a task? Its enormity kept me still. ‘Sydney, you have always been my friend,—my truest, dearest friend. When I was a little girl you used to come between papa and me, to shield me from his wrath. Now that I am a big girl I want you to be on my side once more, and to shield me still.’
Her voice softened. She laid her hand upon my arm. How, under her touch, I burned.
‘But I don’t understand what cause there has been for secrecy,—why should there have been any secrecy from the first?’
‘It was Paul’s wish that papa should not be told.’
‘Is Mr Lessingham ashamed of you?’
‘Sydney!’
‘Or does he fear your father?’
‘You are unkind. You know perfectly well that papa has been prejudiced against him all along, you know that his political position is just now one of the greatest difficulty, that every nerve and muscle is kept on the continual strain, that it is in the highest degree essential that further complications of every and any sort should be avoided. He is quite aware that his suit will not be approved of by papa, and he simply wishes that nothing shall be said about it till the end of the session,—that is all’
‘I see! Mr Lessingham is cautious even in love-making,—politician first, and lover afterwards.’
‘Well!—why not?—would you have him injure the cause he has at heart for want of a little patience?’
‘It depends what cause it is he has at heart.’
‘What is the matter with you?—why do you speak to me like that?—it is not like you at all.’ She looked at me shrewdly, with flashing eyes. ‘Is it possible that you are—jealous?—that you were in earnest in what you said last night?—I thought that was the sort of thing you said to every girl.’
I would have given a great deal to take her in my arms, and press her to my bosom then and there,—to think that she should taunt me with having said to her the sort of thing I said to every girl.
‘What do you know of Mr Lessingham?’
‘What all the world knows,—that history will be made by him.’
‘There are kinds of history in the making of which one would not desire to be associated. What do you know of his private life,—it was to that that I was referring.’
‘Really,—you go too far. I know that he is one of the best, just as he is one of the greatest, of men; for me, that is sufficient.’
‘If you do know that, it is sufficient.’
/>
‘I do know it,—all the world knows it. Everyone with whom he comes in contact is aware—must be aware, that he is incapable of a dishonourable thought or action.’
‘Take my advice, don’t appreciate any man too highly. In the book of every man’s life there is a page which he would wish to keep turned down.’
‘There is no such page in Paul’s,—there may be in yours; I think that probable.’
‘Thank you. I fear it is more than probable. I fear that, in my case, the page may extend to several. There is nothing apostolic about me,—not even the name.’
‘Sydney!—you are unendurable!—It is the more strange to hear you talk like this since Paul regards you as his friend.’
‘He flatters me.’
‘Are you not his friend?’
‘Is it not sufficient to be yours?’
‘No,—who is against Paul is against me.’
‘That is hard.’
‘How is it hard? Who is against the husband can hardly be for the wife,—when the husband and the wife are one.’
‘But as yet you are not one.—Is my cause so hopeless?’
‘What do you call your cause?—are you thinking of that nonsense you were talking about last night?’
She laughed!
‘You call it nonsense.—You ask for sympathy, and give—so much!’
‘I will give you all the sympathy you stand in need of,—I promise it! My poor, dear Sydney!—don’t be so absurd! Do you think that I don’t know you? You’re the best of friends, and the worst of lovers,—as the one, so true; so fickle as the other. To my certain knowledge, with how many girls have you been in love,—and out again. It is true that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, you have never been in love with me before,—but that’s the merest accident. Believe me, my dear, dear Sydney, you’ll be in love with someone else tomorrow,—if you’re not half-way there to night. I confess, quite frankly, that, in that direction, all the experience I have had of you has in nowise strengthened my prophetic instinct. Cheer up!—one never knows!—Who is this that’s coming?’
It was Dora Grayling who was coming,—I went off with her without a word,—we were half-way through the dance before she spoke to me.
‘I am sorry that I was cross to you just now, and—disagreeable. Somehow I always seem destined to show to you my most unpleasant side.’
‘The blame was mine,—what sort of side do I show you? You are far kinder to me than I deserve,—now, and always. ‘That is what you say.’
‘Pardon me, it’s true,—else how comes it that, at this time of day, I’m without a friend in all the world?’
‘You!—without a friend!—I never knew a man who had so many!—I never knew a person of whom so many men and women join in speaking well!’
‘Miss Grayling!’
‘As for never having done anything worth doing, think of what you have done. Think of your discoveries, think of your inventions, think of—but never mind! The world knows you have done great things, and it confidently looks to you to do still greater. You talk of being friendless, and yet when I ask, as a favour—as a great favour!—to be allowed to do something to show my friendship, you—well, you snub me.’
‘I snub you!’
‘You know you snubbed me.’
‘Do you really mean that you take an interest in—in my work?’
‘You know I mean it.’
She turned to me, her face all glowing,—and I did know it.
‘Will you come to my laboratory to-morrow morning?’
‘Will I!—won’t I!’
‘With your aunt?’
‘Yes, with my aunt.’
‘I’ll show you round, and tell you all there is to be told, and then if you still think there’s anything in it, I’ll accept your offer about that South American experiment,—that is, if it still holds good.’
‘Of course it still holds good.’
‘And we’ll be partners.’
‘Partners?—Yes,—we will be partners.’
‘It will cost a terrific sum.’
‘There are some things which never can cost too much.’
‘That’s not my experience.’
‘I hope it will be mine.’
‘It’s a bargain?’
‘On my side, I promise you that it’s a bargain.’
When I got outside the room I found that Percy Woodville was at my side. His round face was, in a manner of speaking as long as my arm. He took his glass out of his eye, and rubbed it with his handkerchief,—and directly he put it back he took it out and rubbed it again, I believe that I never saw him in such a state of fluster,—and, when one speaks of Woodville, that means something.
‘Atherton, I am in a devil of a stew.’ He looked it. ‘All of a heap!—I’ve had a blow which I shall never get over!’
‘Then get under.’
Woodville is one of those fellows who will insist on telling me their most private matters,—even to what they owe their washerwomen for the ruination of their shirts. Why, goodness alone can tell,—heaven knows I am not sympathetic.
‘Don’t be an idiot!—you don’t know what I’m suffering!—I’m as nearly as possible stark mad.’
‘That’s all right, old chap,—I’ve seen you that way more than once before.’
‘Don’t talk like that,—you’re not a perfect brute!’
‘I bet you a shilling that I am.’
‘Don’t torture me,—you’re not. Atherton!’ He seized me by the lapels of my coat, seeming half beside himself,—fortunately he had drawn me into a recess, so that we were noticed by few observers. ‘What do you think has happened?’
‘My dear chap, how on earth am I to know?’
‘She’s refused me!’
‘Has she!—Well I never!—Buck up,—try some other address,—there are quite as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it.’
‘Atherton, you’re a blackguard.’
He had crumpled his handkerchief into a ball, and was actually bobbing at his eyes with it,—the idea of Percy Woodville being dissolved in tears was excruciatingly funny,—but, just then, I could hardly tell him so.
‘There’s not a doubt of it,—it’s my way of being sympathetic. Don’t be so down, man,—try her again!’
‘It’s not the slightest use—I know it isn’t—from the way she treated me.’
‘Don’t be so sure—women often say what they mean least. Who’s the lady?’
‘Who?—Is there more women in the world than one for me, or has there ever been? You ask me who! What does the word mean to me but Marjorie Lindon!’
‘Marjorie Lindon?’
I fancy that my jaw dropped open,—that, to use his own vernacular, I was ‘all of a heap.’ I felt like it.
I strode away—leaving him mazed—and all but ran into Marjorie’s arms.
‘I’m just leaving. Will you see me to the carriage, Mr Atherton?’ I saw her to the carriage. ‘Are you off?—can I give you a lift?’
‘Thank you,—I am not thinking of being off.’
‘I’m going to the House of Commons,—won’t you come?’
‘What are you going there for?’
Directly she spoke of it I knew why she was going,—and she knew that I knew, as her words showed.
‘You are quite well aware of what the magnet is. You are not so ignorant as not to know that the Agricultural Amendment Act is on to-night, and that Paul is to speak. I always try to be there when Paul is to speak, and I mean to always keep on trying.’
‘He is a fortunate man.’
‘Indeed,—and again indeed. A man with such gifts as his is inadequately described as fortunate.—But I must be off. He expected to be up before, but I heard from him a few minutes ago that there has been a delay, but that he will be up within half-an-
hour.—Till our next meeting.’
As I returned into the house, in the hall I met Percy Woodville. He had his hat on.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘I’m off to the House.’
‘To hear Paul Lessingham?’
‘Damn Paul Lessingham!’
‘With all my heart!’
‘There’s a division expected,—I’ve got to go.’
‘Someone else has gone to hear Paul Lessingham,—Marjorie Lindon.’
‘No!—you don’t say so!—by Jove!—I say, Atherton, I wish I could make a speech,—I never can. When I’m electioneering I have to have my speeches written for me, and then I have to read ’em. But, by Jove, if I knew Miss Lindon was in the gallery, and if I knew anything about the thing, or could get someone to tell me something, hang me if I wouldn’t speak,—I’d show her I’m not the fool she thinks I am!’
‘Speak, Percy, speak!—you’d knock ’em silly, sir!—I tell you what I’ll do,—I’ll come with you! I’ll to the House as well!—Paul Lessingham shall have an audience of three.’
CHAPTER XV
MR LESSINGHAM SPEAKS
THE HOUSE WAS FULL. Percy and I went upstairs,—to the gallery which is theoretically supposed to be reserved for what are called ‘distinguished strangers,’—those curious animals. Trumperton was up, hammering out those sentences which smell, not so much of the lamp as of the dunderhead. Nobody was listening,—except the men in the Press Gallery; where is the brain of the House, and ninety per cent, of its wisdom.
It was not till Trumperton had finished that I discovered Lessingham. The tedious ancient resumed his seat amidst a murmur of sounds which, I have no doubt, some of the press-men interpreted next day as ‘loud and continued applause.’ There was movement in the House, possibly expressive of relief; a hum of voices; men came flocking in. Then, from the Opposition benches, there rose a sound which was applause,—and I perceived that, on a cross bench close to the gangway, Paul Lessingham was standing up bareheaded.
I eyed him critically,—as a collector might eye a valuable specimen, or a pathologist a curious subject. During the last four and twenty hours my interest in him had grown apace. Just then, to me, he was the most interesting man the world contained.
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