What a Man Wills Part 22

Five years ago, and--this was the extraordinary thing!--his heart had never regretted the madness. Celia was poor, unknown, getting perilously near thirty, but there was an ageless charm about Celia, an ever-new, ever-changing, ever-lovable charm, which held him captive, despite the cold remonstrances of his brain. Nowadays he met dozens of wealthy and distinguished women, but no d.u.c.h.ess in her purple had for him the charm of Celia in her shabby blouses, seated in her shabby lodging, wrestling with the everlasting pile of exercise books.

She loved him--heavens! how she loved him. There was nothing tepid about Celia. Even eight years' teaching at a high school had been powerless to beat down her individuality, or damp the ardour of her spirit. She loved him with a pa.s.sion which was her very being, and he loved her in return as devotedly as it was in his nature to love. She was his mate, the one woman in the world who could understand, and sympathise, and console.

But--there was Lady Anne! Lady Anne was the unmarried daughter of his most influential political patron, and of late it had been impossible for Malham to disguise from himself the fact that Lady Anne had fallen a victim to his powerful personality and clever, versatile tongue. She was a pitiful creature, this scion of a n.o.ble house, a thin, wizened woman of thirty-seven, plain with a dull, s.e.xless plainness which had in it no redeeming point, so diffident as to be almost uncouth in manner, overwhelmed with the consciousness of her own social failure. Wealthy and influential as was her family, no one had ever wished to marry "poor Anne," yet hidden within the unattractive exterior lived a loving, sensitive heart, which had gone hungry from the hour of her birth.

Now as it happened Lady Anne's brother was nursing a certain const.i.tuency in the neighbourhood of his father's place, and being neither clever nor fluent he was thankful to avail himself of the services of an eloquent young barrister, who was ever ready to run down from town for a few days' visit, and deliver a rousing address in furtherance of his cause. So it came about that during the summer and autumn John Malham was a frequent visitor at Home Castle, and at each visit the secret of Lady Anne became more and more apparent to the eyes of onlookers.

Lady Anne wished to marry Malham. Her father recognised as much, and decided resignedly that for "poor Anne" no better match could be expected. Malham was a gentleman, came of a good stock, and--given a start--was the type of man who was bound to come to the front. "We could find him a seat," the Earl said to his son, "and Anne's jointure would keep them going till he found his feet. If he proposes for her, there'll be no trouble from me. At this time of day we must be thankful for what we can get."

Cautiously, guardedly, in after-dinner confidences the young man was allowed to infer that the coast was clear. At first he had thrust aside the suggestion with a laugh, as something preposterous and impossible, but the poison worked. He began to dally with the thought, to project himself into an imaginary future when the circ.u.mstances of life should make in his favour, instead of acting as a handicap. Slowly and surely the poison worked.

One evening he took his way to Grosvenor Square in a frame of mind bordering on desperation. For months past he had been building on the possibility of securing a brief in a case which promised to afford one of the sensations of the year. He had a chance, a promising chance it had appeared, but that afternoon he had received the news that the brief had gone past him in favour of another man, no whit more capable than himself. There were reasons for the choice of which he was ignorant, but in his morbid depression, the only explanation lay in his own insignificance, in the higher social standing of his rival. He had known many such disappointments, and had smarted beneath them, but this was the final straw which broke down his remaining strength, and as it chanced he was left alone with Lady Anne after dinner, and she ventured a timid question as to the cause of his depression.

Of what happened next he had no clear recollection; he answered, and she sympathised, faltered out a wish that she might help; he thanked her, and--what did he say next? He could not remember, but he knew that he had accepted the offered help, and with it the hand of the donor.

There were tears in Lady Anne's eyes as she plighted her troth. It was the one desire of her heart to share his life. He was the most wonderful, the most gifted of men. To be able to smooth his way would be the proudest privilege which the world could afford. She held out her thin hand as she spoke, and Malham pressed it in his own, and bent over it in elaborate acknowledgment. The chill of those fingers struck to his heart; he left the house and, walking along the streets, the question clamoured insistently at his heart:

_Would she expect him to kiss her_?

He had made an early retreat, and now went straight to Celia's lodgings.

It was part of the strength of his character that he never deferred a difficult duty, and to-night he knew himself faced with the most painful ordeal of his life.

Celia was sitting as usual before a pile of exercise books in her shabby little parlour. Her white blouse was mended in several places, but it was daintily fresh, and her auburn hair flamed into gold beneath the hanging lamp. She did not rise as he entered, but tilted herself back on her chair, and stretched her tired arms with a sigh of welcome.

"Oh, dearest and best, is that you? Oh, how lovely it is when you don't expect, and the good things come! I was never more happy to see you...

Kiss me several times!"

But he stood stiff and straight on the shabby hearth-rug, and delivered himself of his message:

"I am going to many Lady Anne Mulliner."

Celia rose from the chair, and seated herself on the side of the table.

She had grey eyes fringed with dark lashes, and a large, well-shaped mouth with lips which tilted agreeably at the corners what time she was amused. They tilted now, and the grey eyes danced. Malham was jesting in the good old way in which he used to jest before he grew so silent and preoccupied. It had pleased them then to make believe, and act little plays for the other's benefit. How good it was to jest again!

Celia hunched her shoulders to her ears, and pointed at him with a dramatic finger. Her voice rang in loud, stagey accents:

"False caitiff, wouldst thou indeed betray my innocent trust? Pull many a year have I waited in love and fealty, and wouldst thou spurn the poor maiden's heart?" She pulled her handkerchief out of her belt, flourished it to her eyes, then suddenly subsided into laughter, and an easy: "The poor old scarecrow! Jack! it's not kind... What about that kiss?"

"I am going to marry Lady Anne Mulliner," repeated Malham once more.

Celia put her head on one side, and looked at him with her winsome look, the look he most loved to see.

"All right, ducky doo! Why shouldn't you? She'll be _most_ pleased.

But for to-night, you see, you belong to me, and--er--I haven't seen you for three whole days!"

"Celia, you must believe me. I mean it. I proposed to Lady Anne an hour ago, and she accepted me. We are engaged. I came straight here to tell you."

The smile faded from Celia's face. She looked startled and grave, but there was no serious alarm on her face.

"Jack--why?"

He threw out his arms with a gesture of despair.

"Because I can't endure this life. I've missed that case; it has gone past me as usual, to a fellow with influence. There is no hope for a man who has no position, no one behind. It would drive me mad to go on year after year with this hopeless struggle. It is driving me mad now.

To-night I felt desperate. I would have given anything in the world to buy my chance, and the opportunity came. I took it. I had not the power to refuse."

"Poor Jack!" she said softly. "Poor Jack!"

He had expected reproaches, tears, wild protestations. Celia was impetuous by nature, and the peace between them had not been unbroken by storms. He was prepared for violence, but this gentleness played havoc with his composure. His face twitched, he turned towards her with pa.s.sionate entreaty.

"Celia, I'm a brute, a coward. Nothing that you can say of me is bad enough. You've been an angel, and I know, I knew all the time that I hurt you by delaying our marriage. You would have been satisfied with a small beginning; it was I who was not content. I've kept you waiting year after year, and now at the end I have sold myself to another woman."

"You can't sell what is not your own. You can't _give_ what is not your own. You belong to me. I'm not going to give you up!"

She rose, and going up to him clasped both hands round his arm. Her face was white, but she smiled still; on her pale cheek a dimple dipped and waned.

"You were tired and depressed. You saw the chance, and for a moment it seemed the easiest way, but you can't do it, Jack; you can't do it!

There's something else that you had forgotten. There's _me_! You love me, Jack."

She raised her face to his with a wooing smile, and a groan burst from his lips. This was torture. His heart was torn, but his resolution remained unchanged.

"Heaven knows I do. You are the only woman I can ever love. I love you more dearly than anything on earth. Except one!"

"And that?"

"Myself. Success. The career that Lady Anne can give--"

"Poor Jack!" sighed Celia again. She leaned her head on his shoulder with her old movement of confiding love. For five long years those broad shoulders had been her resting-place, a bulwark between herself and the outer world. She drew him with her to the sofa, and rested there now. It was impossible to thrust her away.

"If you loved another woman, darling, if you had grown tired of me, I'd let you go without a word. I'd _want_ you to go, but I'm not going to let you spoil your life. I haven't loved you all these years without knowing your faults as well as your virtues. The outside world sees your cleverness and charm, but the best in you, the very best Jack--that belongs to me! If you lost me, it would die. There'd be nothing left but the husk of John Malham. The cold, hard husk with nothing inside."

"You may be right, Celia. I expect you are right, but I have made my choice. You can't understand, no woman could understand how men can put ambition before love, but they do it. It is done every day. I don't say I shall not suffer--you know I shall suffer!" His voice broke suddenly. "Celia, _darling_!"

She was silent for a moment, lying motionless against his heart, then she spoke in a soft murmur of reminiscent tenderness.

"D'you remember, Jack, the evening we were engaged? You walked about all night because you were afraid you might go to sleep and think it was a dream, and you scribbled a letter in pencil beneath a lamp-post, and put it into the letter-box so that I might have it at breakfast. I've got it yet--in tissue paper, to keep the pencil fresh."

"Celia--don't! You torture me. Of course I remember."

"D'you remember that day up the river when we quarrelled, and I cried all over the tea? When I got home at night my face was all smudged.

I'd been handling the kettle, and then dried my eyes, and you had never said a word about it, but had been so _lovely_ to me all the way home.

I _did_ love you for that, Jack!"

"I had made you cry to start with. I've made you cry too often. Don't cry for me now, Celia! I'm not worth it. You will be better without me."

Then for the first time there came a flash of anger. She sat up suddenly and faced him with flas.h.i.+ng eyes.

"How _dare_ you say it? How dare you say such a lie? _Without_ you?

What would be left to me if you went? You _are_ my life. There has been no room for anyone else; you have demanded everything for yourself,--all my care, all my thought, all interest, all my love,--and I have given them to you, till there is nothing left, and I am powerless to live alone. You know it is true!"