What a Man Wills Part 23

"You think so now, Celia, but you will find life easier without me.

This hopeless waiting is hard on a woman, and I've drawn on you all these years, always asking, always needing. It's a wrench, but it will be better for us both. Celia, I haven't given you up without a struggle. I make no defence. I know I am treating you abominably, but this thing is stronger than myself. I _cannot_ go on. I must go my own way."

"I will _never_ give you up!" said Celia firmly. She held out her left hand the third finger of which was encircled by the engagement ring, an inexpensive trifle in turquoise and pearls. "You put that ring there, and made me swear that it should never come off until the wedding-ring was put in its place. It never shall! It's no use giving me back my promise. You don't realise what you are asking. It is an impossibility. I can never believe that you seriously intend to marry another woman until I see her walking out of church on your arm. And then--"

"Then--"

"It would kill me, Jack. I could not live."

Malham rose hastily, and strode across the room. His endurance was at an end. Of what use to prolong the agony? His mind was made up, it was useless to go on torturing Celia and himself.

"It is too late, the thing is done. There is no drawing back. We are engaged."

"Will you walk about all night, Jack, in case you fall asleep and find it is a dream? Will you write a letter in pencil and slip it into her letterbox so that she may have it at breakfast?"

"Celia, don't! For G.o.d's sake, don't... I can't stand this!"

"Will you quarrel with her, Jack, and kiss, and make it up? Will she stroke your head when you are tired, to take away the pain, and will you lie and look up in her face, and make up little verses about her eyes?

I've got all your verses, Jack, dozens of them, locked away in my desk."

"You know I won't. That sort of thing is over for ever. It is the price I shall have to pay. One can't have the one big thing, and everything else into the bargain. I have made my choice, and the rest must go."

"But we must make quite sure what _is_ the big thing. _I_ am your big thing, Jack. You are tired and discouraged, and when people are discouraged things look out of proportion. To-day you put success first, and Celia second, but you will find out your mistake. You can't live without me, Jack, any more than I can live without you. It's gone deeper than you think."

Malham's hand was on the door, but he turned at that last word and looked at her across the room. She sat as he had so often seen her, leaning forward from the waist, her chin cupped in her hand, her grey eyes bent on him with an intensity of love. Among the drab furnis.h.i.+ngs of the room, the glowing ma.s.s of her hair shone with a burnished splendour. The sight of her represented all that was gracious and beautiful--his thought leaped to that other woman from whom he had parted but an hour before, he saw the two faces side by side, and for a moment he wavered. Only a moment, then he hardened himself, and turned once more.

"It is too late. I have made my choice. Goodbye, Celia."

"_Au revoir_, Jack. _My_ Jack! You will come back to me!"

Her voice rang strong and valiant. In just that voice she had put courage into him time and again when he had come nigh to despair. In just that voice had she breathed her undying confidence in the future.

But this time when he was lost to sight, and the thud of the closing door sounded through the little house, Celia laid her bright head on the table, and her tears fell fast on the scattered papers.

In aristocratic circles engagements are of short duration. Malham was thankful of the fact, and acceded eagerly to a proposed date less than six weeks ahead. A furnished flat was secured in which he and Lady Anne could set up housekeeping, leaving the choice of a permanent residence to be made at leisure. He welcomed that decision as a relief from a painful ordeal. It had been a favourite amus.e.m.e.nt of Celia's to go house-hunting on holiday afternoons, and under her guidance it had proved a beguiling occupation. When luck was in the ascendant she would put on her best hat, obtain orders to view mansions in West End squares, and give herself airs to the caretaker on the subject of ball-room accommodation. When luck waned she would escort him to garden suburbs, and gush over a sitting-room four yards by five. And the furniture for mansion and villa alike had been chosen a hundred times over from a point of vantage outside shop windows. It would have been molten torture to go house-hunting and furnis.h.i.+ng with Lady Anne!

In a quiet un.o.btrusive fas.h.i.+on Lady Anne was exacting. She expected daily visits, which were periods of acute misery to her fiance. Her uncouth efforts to worm herself into his confidence shamed and exasperated; he was disagreeably conscious of disappointing her expectations, yet more and more did it become impossible to act the lover's part. Conversation would lag between them and finally come to an end, then Anne's small eyes would redden as from unshed tears, she would lay her chill hands on his, and ask wistfully:

"Is anything the matter, John? Have I offended you in any way?"

"How could you offend me, Anne? You are everything that is good and generous. I am most grateful for all you have done."

"But you must love me, too. I want you to love me. You _do_ love me, John?"

Once or twice at such questioning, a flood of anger and loathing, almost maniacal in its fury, rushed through Malham's veins, urging him on until it was all he could do to refrain from bursting into cruel laughter, into bitter, gibing words. Love _her_! That pitiful, s.e.xless thing--he who had known Celia, and held her in his arms. Was Anne blind that she could not see what manner of woman she was? Had she no sense that she could not realise the nature of the bargain between them?

And every week of that endless six a letter came to him from Celia bearing the same message:

"I have seen it in the paper, Jack, but I know it is not true. You will never do it. You can't do it, Jack. You belong to me. Dear, it will be harder with every day that pa.s.ses. Be brave and end it _now_! I know you better than you know yourself. Nothing that she can give you will make you happy apart from me. It's been hard for you--I know it too well, and you shall never hear a word of reproach, but--come soon, Jack! It's weary waiting. I have given you so much that I've no power to live alone. Your Celia."

Each letter said the same thing in different words, and each time that one arrived the struggle between love and ambition was fought afresh in Malham's mind. Never before had he realised all that Celia had counted for in his life; never had he yearned so pa.s.sionately for her presence.

A dozen times over he started with rapid footsteps to answer her appeal in person, but never once did he arrive at his destination. The very sight of the mean streets through which he was obliged to pa.s.s, served to chill his enthusiasm and awake the remembrance of all that a reconciliation must entail. To break off his engagement with Lady Anne Mulliner at the eleventh hour would be to alienate his political patrons and ring the death knell of his hopes. He would be obliged to drag on year after year waiting for a chance of distinguis.h.i.+ng himself at the Bar, living meantime in one of these mean little houses, in one of these mean little streets, turning out morning after morning to make his way to the Tube, among the crowd of black-coated, middle-cla.s.s workers.

The struggle ended each time in the victory of ambition. He turned and retraced his steps towards his own chambers.

The last letter arrived on the morning of the marriage. Its message was the same, but the valiant confidence had waned, and a note of wildness took its place. Yet even now Celia would not, could not, believe that his decision was irrevocable. Even now she adjured him to reflect, to remember, to be warned! The handwriting was rough and untidy, hardly recognisable as Celia's dainty calligraphy; in every line, in every word there were signs of agitation and despair, but as Malham recognised with a pang, there was still no word of reproach.

He kissed the letter and held it pa.s.sionately to his lips, before he dropped it into the fire. The husband of the Lady Anne Mulliner must not treasure love letters from another woman. The paper flamed orange and blue, then shrivelled into blackened ashes. Malham, looking on, read into the sight a simile with his own life. The beauty, the splendour of it were burnt out; nothing but ashes remained.

It was a curious reflection for a man who would that day plant his foot firmly on the ladder of success!

The fas.h.i.+onable church was filled to overflowing; reporters seated in points of vantage jotted down the names of the aristocratic guests with other details of public interest. "Marriage of an Earl's Daughter."

"Romantic Marriage."

"Marriage in High Life." The t.i.tles were already drawn out awaiting the following description. "The d.u.c.h.ess of A. looked charming in amber velvet with a sable cloak. The Marchioness of B. looked charming in green, with a hat with white plumes. The bridesmaids, eleven in number, were a charming group in grey satin and silver veils. They carried charming bouquets of azaleas, which with charming gold and pearl bangles were the gift of the bridegroom. Their names were --. The bride wore a gown of white satin covered with old English point lace, the court train was draped with the same valuable lace, and lined with silver tissue.

She carried a bouquet of orchids." There were a dozen reporters in the church, and they used the word "charming" many, dozens of times collectively, but not one of them ventured to apply it to the bride!

Lady Anne cried in a softly persistent fas.h.i.+on throughout the ceremony, and the sight of her tears awoke a smouldering fury in Malham's heart.

Why need she cry? She had gained her desire. It was he who should cry!

In the vestry a young married relative came forward, and with deft hands straightened the twisted wreath and arranged the folds of the veil. "Really, Anne!" she cried impatiently, "you positively _must_ think of your appearance. My dear, if you could see yourself! For goodness' sake pull yourself together." As she turned away, she shot a glance at Malham, standing tall and impa.s.sive beside the table, and there came into her eyes a cold comprehending gleam. "There," said her eyes, "stands a man who has sold his soul!" There were eyes all round him, studying him where he stood, and in them all he read the same condemnation, the same scorn.

The organ blared; the bridesmaids ranged themselves behind the bridal couple, the procession left the vestry, and proceeded down the aisle.

Now there were more eyes, hundreds of eyes, staring with merciless gaze.

The bride was trembling with nervousness, her chin shaking like that of a frightened child. All her life she had been snubbed and kept in the background; terror of her conspicuous position for the time being swamped her joy in her handsome spouse. The sound of her panting breath came to Malham's ears; he hurried his pace in fear of another breakdown, and the laces of the bridal train caught in the carved woodwork of a pew.

There was a momentary pause while a bridesmaid came to the rescue, and Malham, turning to discover the nature of the hindrance, felt an icy chill spread down his spine. In the pew by his side, within touch of his hand, stood Celia, tall and slim, gazing straight into his face.

Her hair glowed like flames round her colourless face, her lips were parted, showing a gleam of teeth, her head was thrown back on the white column of her throat,--each cherished detail of her beauty smote on Malham with a separate pang, but it was the expression in her eyes which chilled his blood. _What was the expression in her eyes_?

Malham's heart beat in sickening thuds. Was it a moment, or an hour, during which he stood and stared back into those terrible eyes? To the onlookers the pause was barely perceptible; to him it seemed endless as eternity.

It was only when he was seated beside his bride in the carriage, and Anne was sobbing against his shoulder, that Malham realised the meaning of Celia's eyes.

They were dead eyes. They had _no_ expression!

The reception was a nightmare, but it came to an end at last, and Malham and his bride bade good-bye to their friends, and started on the first stage of their honeymoon. It had been arranged that they should remain in town until the next morning, when they were to make an early start for the Continent. They drove to a fas.h.i.+onable hotel, where a suite of rooms had been secured for their use, and after a couple of hours' rest, went through the ordeal of their first _tete-a-tete_ meal.

Malham felt like a man in a dream. He moved, he spoke, he ate, and drank as might a machine wound up to perform certain actions, but he was conscious of nothing but a pair of dead eyes gazing at him out of a living face. There was only one feeling of which he was capable--a feeling of fear--of deadly, overmastering fear.

Dinner over, Malham excused himself, and repaired to the great lounge of the hotel. Anne had recovered her composure, and had embarked upon a series of sentimental reminiscences which bade fair to drive him demented. At all costs he must escape from her presence.

He seated himself at one of the small tables and automatically lifted an evening paper. The first thing that met his eye was his own name at the head of a column. "Marriage of Mr John Malham and Lady Anne Mulliner."

He crushed the sheet with a savage hand, and thrust it back on the table, and as he did so another paragraph separated itself from the context and smote upon his brain.

"Suicide of a High School Teacher. A well-dressed young woman was drowned in the Serpentine at five o'clock this afternoon. The life-saving apparatus was put in operation with all possible speed, but when the body was recovered, life was found to be extinct. The deceased had letters in her possession addressed to Miss Celia Bevan, 19 Wrothesley Street, Maida Vale. It is believed to be a case of premeditated suicide."

Across the hall two young men were whispering to each other behind their papers.

"That fellow over there, by the big palm,--that's Malham! Reading an account of his own wedding. Clever fellow, but poor as a rat. Been dragging along for years at the Bar, but that's all over now! With a father-in-law like Lord Fluteson to give him a push, he'll soon romp ahead. Jolly good day's work this has been for him!"

His companion looked across the lounge.