Part 31 (1/2)
”Certainly.”
”He has asked me this afternoon if I'll consent to Beatrice becoming his wife.”
d.i.c.k was silent. He felt he could not speak.
”Of course, from a worldly standpoint it would be a good match,” went on Hugh Stanmore. ”Sir George is a rich man, and has a fine reputation, not only as a scholar and a soldier, but as a man. There has never been a blemish on his reputation. He stands high in the county, and could give my little girl a fine position.”
”Doubtless,” and d.i.c.k hardly knew that he spoke.
”I don't think I am a sn.o.b,” went on the old man; ”but such things must weigh somewhat. I am not a pauper, but, as wealth is counted to-day, I am a poor man. I am also old, and in the course of nature can't be here long. That is why I am naturally anxious about my little Beatrice's future. And yet I am in doubt.”
”About what?”
”Whether he could make her happy. And that is everything as far as I am concerned. Beatrice, as you must have seen, is just a happy child of nature, and is as sensitive as a lily. To be wedded to a man who is not--how shall I put it?--her affinity, her soul comrade, would be lifelong misery to her. And unless I were sure that Sir George is that, I would not think of giving my consent.”
”Aren't you forgetful of a very important factor?” asked d.i.c.k.
”What is that?”
”Miss Stanmore herself. In these days girls seem to take such matters largely into their own hands. The consent of relations is regarded as a very formal thing.”
”I don't think you understand, Faversham. Beatrice is not like the common run of girls, and she and I are so much to each other that I don't think for a moment that she would marry any man if I did not give my sanction. In fact, I'm sure she wouldn't. She's only my granddaughter, but she's all the world to me, while--yes, I am everything to her. No father loved a child more than I love her. I've had her since she was a little mite, and I've been father, mother, and grandfather all combined. And I'd do anything, everything in my power for her welfare. I know her--know her, Faversham; she's as pure and unsullied as a flower.”
”But, of course, Sir George Weston has spoken to her?”
”No, he hasn't. For one thing, he has very strict ideas about old-fas.h.i.+oned courtesies, and, for another, he knows our relations to each other.”
”Do you know her mind?--know whether she cares for him--in that way?” asked d.i.c.k.
”No, I don't. I do know that, a week ago, she had no thought of love for any man. But, of course, I couldn't help seeing that during the past week he has paid her marked attention. Whether she's been aware of it, I haven't troubled to ascertain.”
In some ways this old man was almost as much a child as his granddaughter, in spite of his long life, and d.i.c.k could hardly help smiling at his simplicity.
”Of course, I imagine she'll marry sometime,” and d.i.c.k's voice was a trifle hoa.r.s.e as he spoke.
”Yes,” replied Hugh Stanmore. ”That is natural and right. G.o.d intended men and women to marry, I know that. But if they do not find their true mate, then it's either sacrilege or h.e.l.l--especially to the woman. Marriage is a ghastly thing unless it's a sacrament--unless the man and the woman feel that their unity is of G.o.d. Marriage ceremonies, and the blessing of the Church, or whatever it is called, is so much mockery unless they feel that their souls are as one. Don't you agree with me?”
”Yes, I do. I suppose,” he added, ”you stipulate that whoever marries her--shall--shall be a man of wealth?”
”No, I shouldn't, except in this way. No man should marry a woman unless he has the wherewithal to keep her. He would be a mean sort of fellow who would drag a woman into want and poverty. But, of course, that does not obtain in this case.”
”I'm afraid I can't help, or advise you,” said d.i.c.k. ”I'm afraid I'm a bit of an outsider,” and he spoke bitterly. ”Neither do I think you will need advice. Miss Stanmore has such a fine intuition that----”
”Ah, you feel that!” broke in Hugh Stanmore almost excitedly. ”Yes, yes, you are right! I can trust her judgment rather than my own. Young as she is, she'll choose right. Yes, she'll choose right! I think I'll go back now. Yes, I'll go back at once. Our conversation has done me good, and cleared my way, although I've done most of the talking. Good-night, Faversham. I wish you well. I think you can do big things as a politician; but I don't agree with you.”
”Don't agree with me? Why?”
”I don't believe in these party labels. You are a party man, a Labour man. I have the deepest sympathy with the toilers of the world. I have been working for them for fifty years. Perhaps, too, the Labour Party is the outcome of the injustice of the past. But all such parties have a tendency to put cla.s.s against cla.s.s, to see things in a one-sided way, to foster bitterness and strife. Take my advice and give up being a politician.”
”Give up being a politician! I don't understand.”
”A politician in the ordinary sense is a party man; too often a party hack, a party voting machine. Be more than a politician, be a statesman. All cla.s.ses of society are interdependent. We can none of us do without the other. Capital and labour, the employer and the employee, all depend on each other. All men should be brothers and work for the common interest. Don't seek to represent a cla.s.s, or to legislate for a cla.s.s, Faversham. Work for all the cla.s.ses, work for the community as a whole. And remember that Utopia is not created in a day. Good-night. Come and see us again soon.”
Hugh Stanmore turned back, and left d.i.c.k alone. The young man felt strangely depressed, strangely lonely. He pictured Hugh Stanmore going back to the brightness and refinement of his little house, to be met with the bright smiles and loving words of his grandchild, while he plodded his way through the darkness. He thought, too, of Sir George Weston, who, even then, was with Beatrice Stanmore. Perhaps, most likely too, he was telling her that he loved her.
He stopped suddenly in the road, his brain on fire, his heart beating madly. A thousand wild fancies flashed through his brain, a thousand undefinable hopes filled his heart.
”No, it's impossible, blankly impossible!” he cried at length. ”A will-o'-the-wisp, the dream of a madman--a madman! Why, even now she may be in his arms!”
The thought was agony to him. Even yet he did not know the whole secret of his heart, but he knew that he hated Sir George Weston, that he wished he had urged upon old Hugh Stanmore the utter unfitness of the great soldier as a husband for his grandchild.
But how could he? What right had he? Besides, according to all common-sense standards nothing could be more suitable. She was his equal in social status, and every way fitted to be his wife, while he would be regarded as the most eligible suitor possible.
”A voting machine at four hundred a year!”
Again those stinging words of Count Romanoff. And old Hugh Stanmore had spoken in the same vein. ”A party hack, a party voting machine!”
And he could not help himself. He was dependent on that four hundred a year. He dared ask no woman to be his wife. He had no right. He would only drag her into poverty and want.
All the way back to town his mind was filled with the hopelessness of his situation. The fact that he had won a great victory at Eastroyd and was a newly returned Member of Parliament brought him no pleasure. He was a party hack, and he saw no brightness in the future.
Presently Parliament a.s.sembled, and d.i.c.k threw himself with eagerness into the excitement which followed. Every day brought new experiences, every day brought new interests.
But he felt himself hampered. If he only had a few hundreds a year of his own. If only he could be free to live his own life, think his own thoughts. Not that he did not agree with many of the ideas of his party. He did. But he wanted a broader world, a greater freedom. He wanted to love, and to be loved.
Then a change came. On returning to his flat late one night he found a letter awaiting him. On the envelope was a coroneted crest, and on opening it he saw the name of Olga Petrovic.
CHAPTER x.x.xIV.
THE DAWN OF LOVE.
The letter from Olga ran as follows: ”DEAR MR. FAVERSHAM,--I have just discovered your address, and I am writing to congratulate you on the fine position you have won. It must be glorious to be a Member of the Mother of Parliaments, to be a legislator in this great free country. I rejoice, too, that you have espoused the cause of the toilers, the poor. It is just what I hoped and expected of you. You will become great, my friend; my heart tells me so. Your country will be proud of you.
”I wonder whether, if in spite of your many interests and duties, you will have time to visit a lonely woman? There are so many things I would like to discuss with you. Do come if you can. I shall be home to-morrow afternoon, and again on Friday. Will you not have pity on me?--Yours, OLGA PETROVIC.”
d.i.c.k saw that her address was a fas.h.i.+onable street in Mayfair, and almost unconsciously he pictured her in her new surroundings. She was no longer among a wild-eyed, long-haired crew in the East End, but in the centre of fas.h.i.+on and wealth. He wondered what it meant. He read the letter a second time, and in a way he could not understand, he was fascinated. There was subtle flattery in every line, a kind of clinging tenderness in every sentence.
No mention was made of their last meeting, but d.i.c.k remembered. She had come to him after that wonderful experience in Staple Inn--on the morning after his eyes had been opened to the facts about what a number of Bolshevists wanted to do in England. His mind had been bewildered, and he was altogether unsettled. He was afraid he had acted rudely to her. He had thought of her as being a.s.sociated with these people. If he had yielded to her entreaties, and thrown himself into the plans she had made, might he not have become an enemy to his country, to humanity?
But what a glorious creature she was! What eyes, what hair, what a complexion! He had never seen any woman so physically perfect. And, added to all this, she possessed a kind of charm that held him, fascinated him, made him think of her whether he would or not.
And yet her letter did not bring him unmixed pleasure. In a way he could not understand he was slightly afraid of her, afraid of the influence she had over him. He could not mistake the meaning of her words at their last meeting. She had made love to him, she had asked him to marry her. It is true he had acted as though he misunderstood her, but what would have happened if old Hugh Stanmore and Beatrice had not come? The very mystery which surrounded her added to her charm. Who was she? Why did she go to the East End to live, and how did she possess the means to live in Mayfair?
He walked around his little room, thinking hard. For the last few days his parliamentary duties had excited him, kept him from brooding; but now in the quietness of the night he felt his loneliness, realised his longing for society. His position as a Labour Member was perfectly plain. His confreres were good fellows. Most of them were hard-headed, thoughtful men who took a real interest in their work. But socially they were not of his cla.s.s. They had few interests in common, and he realised it, even as they did. That was why they looked on him with a certain amount of suspicion. What was to be his future then? A social gulf was fixed between him and others whose equal he was, and whatever he did he would be outside the circle of men and women whose tastes were similar to his own.
No, that was not altogether true. Hugh Stanmore and Beatrice treated him as a friend. Beatrice!