CHAPTER XV.
The following afternoon about six o'clock Marcella came in from hersecond round. After a very busy week, work happened to be slack; and shehad been attending one or two cases in and near Brown's Buildings ratherbecause they were near than because they seriously wanted her. Shelooked to see whether there was any letter or telegram from the officewhich 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 ofrest.
She was, indeed, pale and worn. The moral struggle which had filled thepast fortnight from end to end had deepened all the grooves and strainedthe forces of life; and the path, though glimmering, was not whollyplain.
A letter lay unfinished in her drawer--if she sent it that night, therewould be little necessity or inducement for Wharton to climb thosestairs 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, sunkin 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 hadled her to give Wharton the hold upon her she had given him had becomeplain to her. What lay between them, and the worst impulses that poisonthe lives of women, but differences of degree, of expression? Afterthose wild hours of sensuous revolt, a kind of moral terror was uponher.
What had worked in her? What was at the root of this vehemence of moralreaction, this haunting fear of losing for ever the _best_ inlife--self-respect, the comradeship of the good, communion with thingsnoble and unstained--which had conquered at last the mere _woman_, theweakness of vanity and of sex? She hardly knew. Only there was in her asort of vague thankfulness _for her daily work_. It did not seem to bepossible to see one's own life solely under the aspects of selfishdesire while hands and mind were busy with the piteous realities ofsickness and of death. From every act of service--from every contactwith the patience and simplicity of the poor--_something_ had spoken toher, that divine ineffable something for ever "set in the world," likebeauty, like charm, for the winning of men to itself. "Follow truth!" itsaid to her in faint mysterious breathings--"the truth of your ownheart. The sorrow to which it will lead you is the only _joy_ thatremains to you."
Suddenly she looked round her little room with a rush of tenderness. Thewindows were open to the evening and the shouts of children playing inthe 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 "TheDivine Comedy," one of her mother's very rare gifts to her, in hermotherless youth--for of late she had turned thirstily to poetry. Therewas a great peace and plainness about it all; and, besides, touches ofbeauty--tokens of the soul. Her work spoke in it; called to her;promised comfort and ennobling. She thought with yearning, too, of herparents; of the autumn holiday she was soon to spend with them. Herheart went out--sorely--to all the primal claims upon it.
* * * * *
Nevertheless, clear as was the inner resolution, the immediate futurefilled her with dread. Her ignorance of herself--her excitablefolly--had given Wharton rights which her conscience admitted. He wouldnot let her go without a struggle, and she must face it.
As to the incidents which had happened during the fortnight--LouisCraven's return, and the scandal of the "People's Banking Company"--theyhad troubled and distressed her; but it would not be true to say thatthey had had any part in shaping her slow determination. Louis Cravenwas sore and bitter. She was very sorry for him; and his reports of theDamesley strikers made her miserable. But she took Wharton's "leaders"in the _Clarion_ for another equally competent opinion on the samesubject; and told herself that she was no judge. As for the Companyscandal, she had instantly and proudly responded to the appeal of hisletter, and put the matter out of her thoughts, till at least he shouldgive his own account. So much at any rate she owed to the man who hadstood by her through the Hurd trial. Marcella Boyce would not readilybelieve in his dishonour! She did not in fact believe it. In spite oflater misgivings, the impression of his personality, as she had firstconceived it, in the early days at Mellor, was still too strong.
No--rather--she had constantly recollected throughout the day what wasgoing 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 uphis great task.
* * * * *
An imperious knocking on her thin outer door roused her. She went toopen 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 theafternoon papers?"
"No," she said in astonishment, "I was just going to send for them. Whatis wrong?"
He followed her into the sitting-room without speaking; and then heunfolded the _Pall Mall_ he had in his hand and pointed to a large-printparagraph on the central page with a shaking hand.
Marcella read:
"EXCITING SCENES IN THE HOUSE.--MEETING OF THE LABOUR MEMBERS.--Acommittee of the Labour representatives in Parliament met this afternoonat 2 o'clock for the purpose of electing a chairman, and appointingwhips to the party, thus constituting a separate parliamentary group.Much interest was felt in the proceedings, which it was universallysupposed would lead to the appointment of Mr. H. S. Wharton, the memberfor West Brookshire, as chairman and leader of the Labour party. Theexcitement of the meeting and in the House may be imagined when--after ashort but very cordial and effective speech from Mr. Bennett, the memberfor North Whinwick, in support of Mr. Wharton's candidature--Mr.Wilkins, the miner's member for Derlingham, rose and made a series ofastounding charges against the personal honour of the member for WestBrookshire. Put briefly, they amount to this: that during the recentstrike at Damesley the support of the _Clarion_ newspaper, of which Mr.Wharton is owner and practically editor, was _bought_ by the employersin return for certain shares in the new Syndicate; that the money forthese shares--which is put as high as 20,000 _l._--had already gone intoMr. Wharton's private pocket; and that the change of policy on the partof the _Clarion_, which led to the collapse of the strike, was thusentirely due to what the Labour members can only regard under thecircumstances as a bribe of a most disgraceful kind. The effect producedhas been enormous. The debate is still proceeding, and reporters havebeen 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 hecould not repress. "Now," he added, as his lameness forced him to sitdown, "will you kindly allow me some conversation with you? It wasyou--practically--who introduced Louis to that man. You meant well toLouis, and Mr. Wharton has been your friend. We therefore feel that weowe you some explanation. For that paragraph"--he pointed to thepaper--"is, substantially--Louis's doing, and mine."
"_Yours?_" she said mechanically. "But Louis has been going on workingfor the paper--I persuaded him."
"I know. It was not we who actually discovered the thing. But we set afriend to work. Louis has had his suspicions all along. And at last--bythe merest chance--we got the facts."
Then he told the story, staring at her the while with his sparklingeyes, his thin invalid's fingers fidgeting with his hat. If there was intruth any idea in his mind that the relations between his companion andHarry Wharton were more than those of friendship, it did not avail tomake him spare her in the least. He was absorbed in vindictive feeling,which applied to her also. He might _say_ for form's sake that she hadmeant well; but in fact he regarded her at this moment as a sort ofodious 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 andambitions had for years centred in his brother. And now Louis was notonly violently thrown out of employment, but compromised b
y theconnection with the _Clarion_; was, moreover, saddled with a wife--andin debt.
So that his explanation was given with all the edge he could put uponit. 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 wifeand bread and butter, to go on working for the _Clarion_, as a reviewer.But his mind was all the time feverishly occupied with the apostasy ofthe paper and its causes. Remembering Wharton's sayings and lettersthroughout the struggle, he grew less and less able to explain theincident by the reasons Wharton had himself supplied, and more and moreconvinced that there was some mystery behind.
He and Anthony talked the matter over perpetually. One evening Anthonybrought home from a meeting of the Venturists that George Denny, the sonof one of the principal employers in the Damesley trade, whose name hehad mentioned once before in Marcella's ears. Denny was by this time thecandidate for a Labour constituency, an ardent Venturist, and thelaughing-stock of his capitalist family, with whom, however, he wasstill on more or less affectionate terms. His father thought him anincorrigible fool, and his mother wailed over him to her friends. Butthey were still glad to see him whenever he would condescend to visitthem; and all friction on money matters was avoided by the fact thatDenny had for long refused to take any pecuniary help from his father,and was nevertheless supporting himself tolerably by lecturing andliterature.
Denny was admitted into the brothers' debate, and had indeed puzzledhimself a good deal over the matter already. He had taken a livelyinterest in the strike, and the articles in the _Clarion_ which led toits collapse had seemed to him both inexplicable and enraging.
After his talk with the Cravens, he went away, determined to dine athome on the earliest possible opportunity. He announced himselfaccordingly in Hertford Street, was received with open arms, and thendeliberately set himself, at dinner and afterwards, to bait his fatheron social and political questions, which, as a rule, were avoidedbetween them.
Old Denny fell into the trap, lost his temper and self-controlcompletely, and at a mention of Harry Wharton--skilfully introduced atthe precisely right moment--as an authority on some matter connectedwith the current Labour programme, he threw himself back in his chairwith an angry laugh.
"Wharton? _Wharton_? You quote that fellow to _me?_"
"Why shouldn't I?" said the son, quietly.
"Because, my good sir,--he's a _rogue_,--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, anddrawing out a small leather case, in which he was apt to carry importantpapers about with him, extracted from it a list containing names andfigures, and held it with a somewhat tremulous hand under his son'seyes.
"Read it, sir! and hold your tongue! Last week my friends and I _bought_that man--and his precious paper--for a trifle of 20,000 _l._ orthereabouts. It paid us to do it, and we did it. I dare say _you_ willthink the preceding questionable. In my eyes it was perfectlylegitimate, a piece of _bonne guerre_. The man was ruining a wholeindustry. Some of us had taken his measure, had found out too--by goodluck!--that he was in sore straits for money--mortgages on the paper,gambling debts, and a host of other things--discovered a shrewd man toplay him, and made our bid! He rose to it like a gudgeon--gave us notrouble whatever. I need not say, of course"--he added, looking up athis son--"that I have shown you that paper in the _very strictestconfidence_. But it seemed to me it was my duty as a father to warn youof the nature of some of your associates!"
"I understand," said George Denny, as, after a careful study of thepaper--which contained, for the help of the writer's memory, a list ofthe sums paid and founders' shares allotted to the various "promoters"of the new Syndicate--he restored it to its owner. "Well, I, father,have _this_ to say in return. I came here to-night in the hope ofgetting from you this very information, and in the public interest Ihold myself not only free but _bound_ to make public use of it, at theearliest possible opportunity!"
The family scene may be imagined. But both threats and blandishmentswere entirely lost upon the son. There was in him an idealist obstinacywhich listened to nothing but the cry of a _cause_, and he declared thatnothing would or should prevent him from carrying the story of the bribedirect to Nehemiah Wilkins, Wharton's chief rival in the House, and sosaving the country and the Labour party from the disaster and disgraceof Wharton's leadership. There was no time to lose, the party meeting inthe House was only two days off.
At the end of a long struggle, which exhausted everybody concerned, andwas carried on to a late hour of the night, Denny _pere_, influenced bya desire to avoid worse things--conscious, too, of the abundant evidencehe possessed of Wharton's acceptance and private use of the money--and,probably, when it came to the point, not unwilling,--undercompulsion!--to tumble such a hero from his pedestal, actually wrote,under his son's advice, a letter to Wilkins. It was couched in the mostcautious language, and professed to be written in the interests ofWharton himself, to put an end "to certain ugly and unfounded rumoursthat have been brought to my knowledge." The negotiation itself wasdescribed in the driest business terms. "Mr. Wharton, upon cause shown,consented to take part in the founding of the Syndicate, and in returnfor his assistance, was allotted ten founders' shares in the newcompany. The transaction differed in nothing from those of ordinarybusiness"--a last sentence slily added by the Socialist son, andinnocently accepted by one of the shrewdest of men.
After which Master George Denny scarcely slept, and by nine o'clock nextmorning was in a hansom on his way to Wilkins's lodgings in Westminster.The glee of that black-bearded patriot hardly needs description. Heflung himself on the letter with a delight and relief so exuberant thatGeorge Denny went off to another more phlegmatic member of theanti-Wharton "cave," with entreaties that an eye should be kept on themember for Derlingham, lest he should do or disclose anything before thedramatic moment.
Then he himself spent the next forty-eight hours in ingenious efforts toput together certain additional information as to the current value offounders' shares in the new company, the nature and amount of Wharton'sdebts, and so on. Thanks to his father's hints he was able in the endto discover quite enough to furnish forth a supplementary statement. Sothat, when the 10th arrived, the day rose upon a group of menbreathlessly awaiting a play within a play--with all their partsrehearsed, and the prompter ready.
* * * * *
Such in substance, was Anthony's story. So carried away was he by theexcitement and triumph of it, that he soon ceased to notice what itseffect might be upon his pale and quick-breathing companion.
"And now what has happened?" she asked him abruptly, when at last hepaused.
"Why, you saw!" he said in astonishment, pointing to the eveningpaper--"at least the beginning of it. Louis is at the House now. Iexpect 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 carryhim to the outer door. Louis came in. Marcella rose mechanically. Hepaused on the threshold, his short sight trying to make her out in thedusk. Then his face softened and quivered. He walked forward quickly.
"I know you have something to forgive us," he said, "and that this willdistress you. But we could not give you warning. Everything was sorapid, and the public interests involved so crushing."
He was flushed with vengeance and victory, but as he approached her hislook was deprecating--almost timid. Only the night before, Anthony forthe first time had suggested to him an idea about her. He did notbelieve it--had had no time in truth to think of it in the rush ofevents. But now he saw her,
the doubt pulled at his heart. Had he indeedstabbed the hand that had tried to help him?
Anthony touched him impatiently on the arm. "What has happened, Louis? Ihave shown Miss Boyce the first news."
"It is all over," said Louis, briefly. "The meeting was breaking up as Icame away. It had lasted nearly five hours. There was a fierce fight, ofcourse, between Wharton and Wilkins. Then Bennett withdrew hisresolution, refused to be nominated himself--nearly broke down, in fact,they say; he had always been attached to Wharton, and had set his heartupon making him leader--and finally, after a long wrangle, Molloy wasappointed 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 thespeech was curiously ineffective. One would have expected him to do itbetter. But he seemed to be knocked over. He said, of course, that hehad satisfied himself, and given proof in the paper, that the strikecould not be maintained, and that being so he was free to join anysyndicate he pleased. But he spoke amid dead silence, and there was ageneral groan when he sat down. Oh, it was not this business only!Wilkins made great play in part of his speech with the Company scandaltoo. 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. Anthonyhas told you how it came out?"
She made a sign of assent. She was sitting erect and cold, her handsround 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 on _fire_--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 nowand then the passionate tears rose in Marcella's eyes; her heartcontracted. That very night when he spoke to her, when he used all thosebig words to her about his future, those great ends for which he hadclaimed her woman's help--he had these things in his mind.
"I think," said Louis Craven presently, touching her gently on thearm--he had tried once in vain to attract her attention--"I think I hearsome one asking for you outside on the landing--Mrs. Hurd seems to bebringing them in."
As he spoke, Anthony suddenly sprang to his feet, and the outer dooropened.
"Louis!" cried Anthony, "it is _he_!"
"Are yer at home, miss?" said Minta Hurd, putting in her head; "I canhardly 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 ofthe three figures. At the same moment Mrs. Hurd lit the gas in thelittle passage. The light streamed upon his face, and showed him theidentity of the two men standing beside Marcella.
Never did Marcella forget that apparition--the young grace and power ofthe figure--the indefinable note of wreck, of catastrophe--the Luciferbrightness of the eyes in the set face. She moved forward. Anthonystopped her.
"Good-night, Miss Boyce!"
She shook hands unconsciously with him and with Louis. The two Cravensturned 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 walkedby him.
Contemptuous hate breathed from every feature, but he was perfectlyself-controlled.
"Yes--" said Craven, calmly--"Now it is your turn."
The door was no sooner shut than Wharton strode forward and caught herhand.
"They have told you everything? Ah!--"
His eye fell upon the evening paper. Letting her go, he felt for a chairand 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 hislife or hers she saw him weak and spent like other men. Even his nervehad been worn down by the excitement of these five fighting hours. Theeyes were lined and hollow--the brow contracted; the young roundness ofthe cheek was lost in the general pallor and patchiness of the skin; thelower part of the face seemed to have sharpened and lengthened,--andover the whole had passed a breath of something aging and withering thetraces 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 tothink 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 beenrushing before him again--the long table in the panelled committee-room,the keen angry faces gathered about it. Bennett, in his blue tie andshabby black coat, the clear moist eyes vexed and miserable--Molloy,small and wiry, business-like in the midst of confusion, cool in themidst of tumult--and Wilkins, a black, hectoring leviathan, thunderingon the table as he flung his broad Yorkshire across it, or mouthing outDenny's letter in the midst of the sudden electrical silence of somethirty amazed and incredulous hearers.
"_Spies,_ yo call us?" with a finger like a dart, threatening theenemy--"Aye; an' yo're aboot reet! I and my friends--we _have_ beentrackin' and spyin' for weeks past. We _knew_ those men, those starvin'women and bairns, were bein' _sold_, but we couldn't prove it. Nowwe've come at the how and the why of it! And we'll make it harder formen like you to _sell 'em again_! Yo call it infamy?--well, _we_ call itdetection."
Then rattling on the inner ear came the phrases of the attack whichfollowed on the director of "The People's Banking Association," theinjured innocent of as mean a job, as unsavoury a bit of vulturousfinance, as had cropped into publicity for many a year--and finally thelast dramatic cry:
"But it's noa matter, yo say! Mester Wharton has nobbut played his partyand the workin' man a dirty trick or two--_an' yo mun have a gentleman!_Noa--the workin' man isn't fit _himself_ to speak wi' his own enemies i'th' gate--_yo mun have a gentleman_!--an' Mester Wharton, he says he'lltak' the post, an' dea his best for yo--an', remember, _yo mun have agentleman_! Soa now--Yes! or No!--wull yo?--or _woan't yo_?"
And at that, the precipitation of the great unwieldy form half acrossthe table towards Wharton's seat--the roar of the speaker's immediatesupporters thrown up against the dead silence of the rest!
As to his own speech--he thought of it with a soreness, a disgust whichpenetrated to bones and marrow. He had been too desperately taken bysurprise--had lost his nerve--missed the right tone throughout. Cooldefiance, free self-justification, might have carried him through.Instead of which--faugh!
All this was the phantom-show of a few seconds' thought. He rousedhimself from a miserable reaction of mind and body to attend toMarcella's question.
"Why did I do it?" he repeated; "why--"
He broke off, pressing both his hands upon his brow. Then he suddenlysat 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 boilingwater was brought and the tea was made, Wharton sat forward with hisface on his hands and saw nothing. Marcella whispered a word in Minta'sear as she came in. The woman paused, looked at Wharton, whom she hadnot recognised before in the dark--grew pale--and Marcella saw her handsshaking as she set the tray in order. Wharton knew nothing and thoughtnothing of Kurd's widow, but to Marcella the juxtaposition of the twofigures 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, hesuddenly realised who this was that was sitting opposite to himministering to him.
She felt his hand--his quick powerful hand--on hers.
"To _you_ I owe the whole truth--let me tell it!"
She drew herself away instinctively--but so softly that he did notrealise it. He threw himself back
once more in the chair beside her--oneknee over the other, the curly head so much younger to-night than theface beneath it supported on his arms, his eyes closed again forrest--and plunged into the story of the _Clarion_.
It was admirably told. He had probably so rehearsed it to himselfseveral times already. He described his action as the result of a doubleinfluence working upon him--the influence of his own debts andnecessities, and the influence of his growing conviction that themaintenance of the strike had become a blunder, even a misfortune forthe people themselves.
"Then--just as I was at my wit's end, conscious besides that the paperwas on a wrong line, and must somehow be got out of it--came theovertures from the Syndicate. I knew perfectly well I ought to haverefused them--of _course_ my whole career was risked by listening tothem. But at the same time they gave me assurances that the workpeoplewould ultimately gain--they proved to me that I was helping toextinguish the trade. As to the _money_--when a great company has to belaunched, the people who help it into being get _paid_ for it--it isinvariable--it happens every day. I like the system no more than you maydo--or Wilkins. But consider. I was in such straits that _bankruptcy_lay between me and my political future. Moreover--I had lost nerve,sleep, balance. I was scarcely master of myself when Pearson firstbroached the matter to me--"
"Pearson!" cried Marcella, involuntarily. She recalled the figure of thesolicitor; had heard his name from Frank Leven. She remembered Wharton'simpatient words--"There is a tiresome man wants to speak to me onbusiness--"
It was _then I_--that evening! Something sickened her.
Wharton raised himself in his chair and looked at her attentively withhis young haggard eyes. In the faint lamplight she was a pale vision ofthe purest and noblest beauty. But the lofty sadness of her face filledhim with a kind of terror. Desire--impotent pain--violent resolve, sweptacross him. He had come to her, straight from the scene of his ruin, asto 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 changedvoice--"as I speak--as I look at you--I see in your face that youdistrust--that you have judged me; those two men, I suppose, have donetheir work! Yet from you--_you_ of all people--I might look not only forjustice--but--I will dare say it--for kindness!"
She trembled. She understood that he appealed to the days at Mellor, andher lips quivered.
"No," she exclaimed, almost timidly--"I try to think the best. I see thepressure was great."
"And consider, please," he said proudly, "what the reasons were for thatpressure."
She looked at him interrogatively--a sudden softness in her eyes. If atthat moment he had confessed himself fully, if he had thrown himselfupon her in the frank truth of his mixed character--and he could havedone it, with a Rousseau-like completeness--it is difficult to say whatthe result of this scene might have been. In the midst of shock andrepulsion, she was filled with pity; and there were moments when she wasmore drawn to his defeat and undoing, than she had ever been to hissuccess.
Yet how question him? To do so, would be to assume a right, which inturn would imply _his_ rights. She thought of that mention of "gamblingdebts," then of his luxurious habits, and extravagant friends. But shewas silent. Only, as she sat there opposite to him, one slim handpropping the brow, her look invited him.
He thought he saw his advantage.
"You must remember," he said, with the same self-assertive bearing,"that I have never been a rich man, that my mother spent my father'ssavings on a score of public objects, that she and I started a number ofexperiments on the estate, that my expenses as a member of Parliamentare very large, and that I spent thousands on building up the _Clarion_.I have been ruined by the _Clarion_, by the cause the _Clarion_supported. I got no help from my party--where was it to come from? Theyare all poor men. I had to do everything myself, and the struggle hasbeen more than flesh and blood could bear! This year, often, I have notknown how to move, to breathe, for anxieties of every sort. Then camethe crisis--my work, my usefulness, my career, all threatened. The menwho hated me saw their opportunity. I was a fool and gave it them. Andmy enemies have used it--to the bitter end!"
Tone and gesture were equally insistent and strong. What he was sayingto himself was that, with a woman of Marcella's type, one must "bear itout." This moment of wreck was also with him the first moment ofall-absorbing and desperate desire. To win her--to wrest her from theCravens' influence--that had been the cry in his mind throughout hisdazed drive from the House of Commons. Her hand in his--her strength,her beauty, the romantic reputation that had begun to attach to her, athis command--and he would have taken the first step to recovery, hewould see his way to right himself.
Ah! but he had missed his chance! Somehow, every word he had been sayingrang false to her. She could have thrown herself as a saving angel onthe side of weakness and disaster which had spoken its proper language,and with a reckless and confiding truth had appealed to the largeness ofa woman's heart. But this patriot--ruined so nobly--for suchdisinterested purposes--left her cold! She began to think even--hatingherself--of the thousands he was supposed to have made in the gamblingover that wretched company--no doubt for the "cause" too!
But before she could say a word he was kneeling beside her.
"_Marcella_ I give me my answer!--I am in trouble and defeat--be awoman, and come to me!"
He had her hands. She tried to recover them.
"No!" she said, with passionate energy, "_that_ is impossible. I hadwritten to you before you came, before I had heard a word of this.Please, _please_ let me go!"
"Not till you explain!"--he said, still holding her, and roused to awhite heat of emotion--"_why_ is it impossible? You said to me once,with all your heart, that you thanked me, that I had taught you, helpedyou. You cannot ignore the bond between us! And you are free. I have aright to say to you--you thirst to save, to do good--come and save aman that cries to you!--he confesses to _you_, freely enough, that hehas made a hideous mistake--help him to redeem it!"
She rose suddenly with all her strength, freeing herself from him, sothat he rose too, and stood glowering and pale.
"When I said that to you," she cried, "I was betraying "--her voicefailed her an instant--"we were both false--to the obligation thatshould have held us--restrained us. No! _no!_ I will never be your wife!We should hurt each other--poison each other!"
Her eyes shone with wild tears. As he stood there before her she wasseized with a piteous sense of contrast--of the irreparable--of whatmight have been.
"What do you mean?" he asked her, roughly.
She was silent.
His passion rose.
"Do you remember," he said, approaching her again, "that you have givenme cause to hope? It is those two fanatics that have changedyou--possessed your mind."
She looked at him with a pale dignity.
"My letters must have warned you," she said simply. "If you had cometo-morrow--in prosperity--you would have got the same answer, at once.To-day--now--I have had weak moments, because--because I did not knowhow to add pain to pain. But they are gone--I see my way! _I do not loveyou_--that is the simple, the whole truth--I could not follow you!"
He stared at her an instant in a bitter silence.
"I have been warned,"--he said slowly, but in truth losing control ofhimself, "not only by you--and I suppose I understand! You repent lastyear. Your own letter said as much. You mean to recover, the ground--theplace you lost. Ah, well!--most natural!--most fitting! When the timecomes--and my bones are less sore--I suppose I shall have my secondcongratulations ready! Meanwhile--"
She gave a low cry and burst suddenly into a passion of weeping, turningher face from him. But when in pale sudden shame he tried to excusehimself--to appease her--she moved away, with a gesture that overawedhim.
"_You_ have not confessed yourself"--she said, and his look waveredunder the significance of hers--"but you drive me to it. Yes, _Irepent!_"--her breast heaved, s
he caught her breath. "I have been tryingto cheat myself these last few weeks--to run away from grief--and theother night when you asked me--I would have given all I have and am tofeel like any happy girl, who says 'Yes' to her lover. I tried to feelso. But even then, though I was miserable and reckless, I knew in myheart--it was impossible! If you suppose--if you like to suppose--thatI--I have hopes or plans--as mean as they would be silly--you must--ofcourse. But I have given no one any _right_ to think so or say so. Mr.Wharton--"
Gathering all her self-control, she put out her white hand to him."Please--please say good-bye to me. It has been hideous vanity--andmistake--and wretchedness--our knowing each other--from the beginning.I _am_ grateful for all you did, I shall always be grateful. I hope--oh!I hope--that--that you will find a way through this trouble. I don'twant to make it worse by a word. If I could do anything! But I can't.You must please go. It is late. I wish to call my friend, Mrs. Hurd."
Their eyes met--hers full of a certain stern yet quivering power, hisstrained and bloodshot, in his lined young face.
Then, with a violent gesture--as though he swept her out of his path--hecaught up his hat, went to the door, and was gone.
She fell on her chair almost fainting, and sat there for long in thesummer dark, covering her face. But it was not his voice that hauntedher ears.
"_You have done me wrong--I pray God you may not do yourself a greaterwrong in the future!_"
Again and again, amid the whirl of memory, she pressed the sadremembered words upon the inward wound and fever--tasting, cherishingthe smart of them. And as her trance of exhaustion and despair graduallyleft her, it was as though she crept close to some dim beloved form inwhom her heart knew henceforward the secret and sole companion of itsinmost life.
BOOK IV.
"You and I--Why care by what meanders we are hereI' the centre of the labyrinth? Men have diedTrying to find this place which we have found."