Master of Men Part 8

"I will do more than pretend, Milly," he said.

She came close to him--almost shyly. A look of ineffable content shone in her face.

Ever the same deep stillness, a sort of brooding calm as though the land slept, the faint rustling of a west wind, the slighter murmuring of insects. And, save for these things, silence. Strone stood on the threshold of the empty cottage, which as yet he had not unlocked, looking down upon the familiar patchwork of fields and woods, looking away, indeed, through the blue filmy light with unseeing eyes, for a whole flood of old memories were tugging at his heartstrings.

A curious sense of detachment from himself and his surroundings possessed him. Milly, his house at Gascester, his shattered political career, were like dreams, something chimerical, burdens which had fallen away. A rare sense of freedom was upon him. He took long breaths of the clear, bracing air. The place had its old delight for him. He threw himself upon the turf, and closed his eyes. Here at last was peace.

Then the old madness again, burning in his brain, hot in his blood, driving him across the hills, stirring up again the old recklessness, the old wild delight. She was going to marry Lord Sydenham. She was pa.s.sing forever out of his reach, and once she had been very near. His heart shook with pa.s.sionate recollections. With every step he took, his fierce unrest became a more ungovernable thing. What a farce it all was--his stern attempt at self-control, his life shut off now from everything worth having, a commonplace, dronelike existence. After all, what folly! The cup of life had been offered to him, his lips had touched the brim. Was it poison, after all, which he had seen among the dregs? Yet what poison could be worse than this?

Past the Devenhills' house, whence the music of her voice beat the air around him, filled his ears with longing, brought almost the tears to his eyes. Had he lived, indeed, through such delights as these mocking memories would have him believe, when he had watched the roses fluttering through the darkness, elf flowers, yet warm and fragrant enough when he had s.n.a.t.c.hed them from the dusty road, and crept away with them into the shadows! Oh, what manner of man had he become to be the slave of such memories? He was ashamed, yet drunk with the madness of it.

Nowhere in this strange country of flowers and sweet odors, of singing birds and delicate breezes, could he hope to escape from the old thrall. The dreary machinery of life seemed no longer possible to him.

Milly and her unconquerable vulgarity, his narrowing career, even his work, mocked him with their emptiness. He turned backward, but he did not go home.

Twilight came on and the gray stillness slept softly on hill and valley. Night crept apace and brought no abatement in the struggle of the man. Again and again with cameo distinctness he saw Lord Sydenham's face with its queer incredulous smile when Strone told him of his decision to leave London, and he heard again as though they were there spoken the older man's reply uttered with a note of anger in his thin well-modulated voice.

"The thing is absurd," he had declared.

"Your refusal I must accept if you insist. I should do so with less regret, perhaps, because sooner or later you must come to us. The step may seem a bold one to you to-day. In a year or so it will become inevitable. I might be content to wait, although you will be wasting some of the best years of your life. But when you tell me that you are giving up your career--leaving Parliament--going back to your manufacturing--oh, rubbis.h.!.+ I haven't the patience to argue with you."

Strone's face was haggard and his lips were dry as he walked on.

There was a subtle witchery in the night that closed in on him overpoweringly. Memories crowded with startling vividness--parties of bejeweled and bedecked women--the soft hum of laughter and pleasant voices mingled with the music of the violins. The air seemed suddenly heavy with the odor of flowers and cigarettes and many strange perfumes, and through it all came a frail exquisite face and voice that said:

"My friend, it is you yourself who are responsible for our unlived lives. You hold the gates open before you--you----"

He started back and closed his eyes. The past had him in its grip....

Nowhere in this strange country of flowers and sweet odors, of singing birds and delicate breezes, could he hope to escape from the old thrall. The dreary machinery of life seemed no longer possible to him. Milly and her unconquerable vulgarity, his narrowing career, even his work, mocked him with their emptiness. He caught the evening express with a moment to spare, flung himself, breathless, among the cus.h.i.+ons of an empty carriage just as the train glided from the station. Without any clear purpose in his mind, he obeyed an impulse which seemed irresistible. He must go to her.

At St. Pancras he remembered for a moment that he was wearing his ordinary homespun clothes, disordered, too, with his long walk and race for the train. Nevertheless, he did not hesitate. He called for a hansom, and drove to her house. The servant who admitted him looked him over with surprise, but believed that Lady Malingcourt was within.

She was even then dressing for the opera. Strone was shown into her study--and waited.

It was nearly half an hour before she came to him, and whatever feelings his sudden arrival had excited she had had time to conceal them. She came to him b.u.t.toning her gloves, and followed by her maid carrying her opera cloak. The latter withdrew discreetly. Strone rose up--a strange figure enough, with his wind-tossed hair and burning eyes.

"You?" she exclaimed, with raised eyebrows. "How wonderful!"

The sight of her, the sound of her voice, were fuel to his smoldering pa.s.sion. His heart was hot with the love of her.

"Is it true?" he asked fiercely. "I have seen your brother. He says that you are going to marry Lord Sydenham."

She looked at him in faint surprise.

"And why on earth should I not marry Lord Sydenham?" she asked.

It was like a sudden chill. She was angry, then, or she did not care.

Yet there had been times when she had looked at him indifferently. He made an effort at repression.

"There is no reason why you should not," he admitted. "There is no reason why you should not tell me--if it be true. For G.o.d's sake, tell me!"

"It is perfectly true," she answered.

"Lord Sydenham is nothing to you," he cried.

"Well, he soon will be--my husband."

"You do not care for him."

"An excellent reason to marry him, then. I shall have no disenchantment to fear."

"Oh, this is mockery!" he cried. "You can juggle with words, I know.

I am no match for you at that. Don't!"

"Don't what?"

"Marry Lord Sydenham."

She nodded her head thoughtfully.

"On certain conditions," she answered, "I will not."

"What are they?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

"You accept the place in the government which was offered to you and reenter political life."

"Well?"

"You never ask more of my friends.h.i.+p than I am willing to give."

"Well?"

"You leave your wife altogether."

He started and shook his head slowly.

"You don't understand. Milly has--a weakness. Even now I have to be always watching."

"I know more of your wife than you think," she answered. "I know the circ.u.mstances of your marriage, and something of her life since. My condition must stand."

"Do you know," he said, "that it would mean ruin to her--body and soul?"

"She is not fit to be your wife," Lady Malingcourt said coldly.

"You can never make her fit. I think that you would be justified in ignoring her claim upon you. There are limits to one's responsibility."

"These," he said, "are your conditions?"

"Yes."