Master of Men Part 4

After all, good might come of it. The sweetness of solitude, of crowding the brain with delicate fancies, of basking in the joy of beautiful places, was in many senses a paralyzing sweetness. Man was made for creation, not contemplation. So he turned his eyes upon the new world, and there were big things there to wrestle with. The cry of his fellows was in his ears, the cry of those to whom life was a desert place, the long-drawn-out murmur of the great nether world.

Life would be good there where the giants fought. Perhaps some day he might even win forgetfulness.

There followed for Enoch Strone during the three succeeding years all the varied lights that shine on a quick success. Not long after his arrival in London he was elected to Parliament, and the ringing maiden speech and rapid progress in the House of the new Labor member were the talk of political circles for a long time. During this period the calls of home and friendship were many, yet he moved through it all singularly unspoilt, impersonally attending in an official capacity only the brilliant dinners and social gathering where he found himself a man among men, but which threw into cruel relief the atmosphere of his own home. Wherever he went Strone was treated with much deference, for he was without doubt in the political world a person of some importance. The balance of parties being fairly even, the government was dependent upon the support of the Labor men to neutralize the Irish faction. And of late Strone had been pushing his claims with calm but significant persistence. The government was pledged to his "Better Housing of the Poor" bill, and he had firmly refused to have it shelved any longer.

This fact he made plain among the men gathered at Lord Sydenham's one evening.

"You don't let the gra.s.s grow beneath your feet, my friend," remarked his host, "and your bill on Thursday is going to hit the landlords very hard, you know."

"There are a good many landlords whom I would rather see hanged than merely hit," Strone answered.

The Duke of Ma.s.singham moved across to them.

"Come, come, Strone. What's this I hear--you want to hang the landlords?"

"Not all, your grace," Strone answered, with a gleam in his eye. "Only those who house men and women like rats, who let their property tumble to ruin while they drag the last shilling of their rents from starving men and women. To such as these I would make the criminal laws apply.

They are responsible for many human lives--for the lower physique of our race."

Lord Sydenham turned round and touched him upon the shoulder.

"Strone," he said, "I want to introduce you to my cousin. Beatrice, allow me to present Mr. Strone--Lady Malingcourt."

Under the fire of dinner-table talk they relapsed easily enough into more familiar relations.

"I am not at all sure that I like you," she said, looking at him critically. "Your dress coat came evidently from Saville Row and your tie is perfection. You are not in character at all. I expected a homespun suit, hobnailed boots, and a flannel shirt. I wasn't sure about the collar, but I counted upon a red tie. Please don't tell me that you are a club man, and that you go to afternoon teas."

He laughed. Even his voice was subdued.

"No fear of that," he declared. "When I go out it is generally to meat teas in the suburbs or midday dinners with my const.i.tuents in Gascester. I have even a red tie of which I am very fond."

She stole another glance at him. There were streaks of gray in his black hair, deep lines in his hard, clean-shaven face. If a dinner such as this was a rare event to him, he showed no signs of awkwardness. He joined now and then in the conversation around. Most of the men seemed known to him.

"I have read of you," she said abruptly, "of your maiden speech and rapid progress in the House."

He lowered his voice.

"It was what you wished?"

"Nothing has ever given me more pleasure," she said simply. "You got my cable?"

He nodded.

"Two words only--'Well done.' I have it in my pocket to-night."

She abandoned the subject precipitately.

"And your social schemes?"

"They progress," he answered thoughtfully. "I have had disappointments, but on the whole--yes, I am satisfied. When you are at Gascester, I should like to show you some of my experiments."

She talked for a few minutes to her neighbor on the other side. Then she turned to him and smiled.

"This is the second time we have met at dinner," she said.

"I do not need to be reminded of it," he answered quietly. "Your brother asked me to stay to supper--I think he had forgotten that you were there. I was in my working clothes, and I am afraid that the flannel shirt was a fact."

She smiled.

"Yes, and you laid down the law upon Ruskin, criticised 'Sesame and Lilies,' and talked of Walter Pater as though you had known him all your life. You were a revelation and a puzzle to me. I was so weary of life just then. I believe you were the first living person who had interested me for many months."

His eyes were looking into vacancy. His words were spoken in the slightest of whispers. Yet she heard.

"And afterward you sang to us. It was wonderful."

Then the talk buzzed round them, but they were silent. The woman who had represented her queen in a great country and the man who had been climbing with steady feet the ladder of fame were both thinking of that little country vicarage among the hills. She saw him, the first of his type she had ever met, reserved, forceful, at times strangely eloquent, in soiled clothes and brusque manner, yet speaking of the great things of life as one who understood--who meant to conquer. And he remembered her, the first woman of her order with whom he had ever spoken, the first beautiful woman whose hand he had ever touched.

He remembered her soft voice, her lazy, musical laugh, her toilet and her jewels, which, though simple enough, were a revelation to him. She represented to him from that moment a new world of delight.

All those forgotten love verses whose form alone he had been able to appreciate, welled up in his heart, sang in his blood, filled for him with glorious color the whole literature of love and pa.s.sion. Her coming had given him understanding. He looked back upon those days as he had done many a time during the last few years--but to-night there was a difference. Like a flash he realized what her coming back meant to him. The old madness was unquenched--unquenchable. He had thought himself cured! What folly! The battle was before him yet.

He was roused from his abstraction by a word from her, and found himself apologizing to his left-hand neighbor for a twice-asked question. The conversation became political. A moment later he was again gravely discussing the prospects of the "Better Housing of the Poor" bill. Amid a rustling of laces and swish of silk, which sounded to him like the winged flight of many tropical birds, the women pa.s.sed out. Strone noticed that Lady Malingcourt avoided his eager gaze as she followed her hostess from the room.

A couple of hours later Strone pushed his way through the little crowd of servants, who were waiting about the entrance to Sydenham House, and turned westward on foot. This meeting, always looked forward to, always counted upon as a certain part of his future, had taken place at last. She was unchanged, as beautiful as ever, and her old power over him was not one whit lessened. More vividly than ever he realized how his present position was almost wholly owing to the stimulus of her appeal to him. Step by step he had fought his way doggedly onward.

Difficulties had been brushed away, obstacles surmounted. He had kept his word, he had justified her belief in him. He had taken his place, if not in her world, at least among those who had the right to enter it. Henceforth they might meet often. Surely the summer of his life had come.

And as he walked through the quieter streets, more daring thoughts even came to him. He dreamed of a friendship which should become the backbone of his life, which should bring him into constant a.s.sociation with her, which should give him the right to offer at her feet the honors he might win--she, the woman who had first inspired him. He saw nothing of the pa.s.sers-by; the faint importunities of the waifs who floated out from the shadows and vanished again like moths were unheard. The old music was singing in his blood; he walked as one whose footsteps fell upon the air. And then--crash down to earth again. He was in front of his house in Kensington, unlit and gloomy.

He made his way quietly in with the aid of a latchkey, and stood for a moment in the hall, hesitating.

From a room on the ground floor came the glimmer of a light. He made his way there softly and opened the door. A woman was stretched upon an easy-chair, asleep. He stood over her with darkening face.

Milly had not improved. Her prettiness had vanished before a coa.r.s.ening of features; she was stouter and untidy even to slatternliness. Her cheeks just now were flushed and she was breathing heavily. On the table by her side was a tumbler. He took it up, smelled it, and set it down with a little gesture of disgust.

She showed no signs of waking. After a moment's hesitation he ensconced himself in a neighboring easy-chair, and, taking a roll of papers from his pocket, began to read, pencil in hand. For some time he worked; then the ma.n.u.script slipped from his hand. He sank a little down in his chair. With wide-open eyes he sat watching the extinct gray ashes on the hearth. The clock ticked and the woman's breathing grew louder. There was no other sound in the house. He was alone with his fate.

Something woke her at last. She sat up and looked at him.

"h.e.l.lo!" she exclaimed. "How long have you been there?"

"An hour--perhaps more," he answered. "You were asleep."

"No wonder," she grumbled. "Enough to make one sleepy to sit here hour after hour alone, with you at your everlasting Parliament work."

It struck him that there were several empty gla.s.ses about and the room smelled of tobacco smoke.

"Have you had visitors?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Yes. Mr. f.a.gan and his wife."

He frowned.