"Yes. At this moment every newspaper office is in a fever-to-morrow all England will be ringing with the news. It is a thunderbolt."
She started up, snatching her hand away, every nerve a-quiver with excitement. "And you kept this from me all through dinner?"
"I hadn't a chance, darling-I came straight from the scrimmage."
"You won't gloss it over by calling me novel names. I hate stale thunderbolts. You might have breathed a word in my ear."
"I shall make amends by beginning with the part that is only for your ear. Do you know what next Monday is?"
"The day you address your constituents, of course. Oh, I see, this thunderbolt is going to change your speech."
"Is going to change my speech altogether. Next Monday is the seventh anniversary of our wedding."
"Is it? But what has that to do with your speech at Highmead?"
"Everything." He smiled mysteriously, then went on softly, "Amber, do you remember our honeymoon?"
She smiled faintly. "Oh, I haven't quite forgotten."
"If you had quite forgotten the misery of it, I should be glad."
"I have quite forgotten."
"You are kinder than I deserve. But I was so startled to find my career was less to you than a kiss that I was more churlish than I need have been. I even wished that you might have a child, so that you might be taken up with it instead of with me."
She blushed. "Yes, I dare say I showed my hand clumsily as soon as it held all the aces."
"Ah, Amber, you were an angel and I was a beast. How gallantly you swallowed your disappointment in your bargain, how loyally you worked heart and soul that I might gain my one ideal-Power!"
"It was a labour of love," she said deprecatingly.
"My noble Amber. But did you think, selfishly engrossed though I have been with the Fight for Power, that this love-labour of yours was lost on me? No, 'terrible ambitious' as I was, I could still see I got the blackberries and you little more than the scratches, and the less you began to press your claim upon my heart, the more my heart was opening out with an answering passion. I began to watch the play of your eyes, the shimmer of light across your cheek, the roguish pout of your lips, the lock that strayed across your temple-as it is straying now."
She pushed it back impatiently. "But what has all this to do with the Cabinet Secret?"
"Patience, darling! How much nicer to listen to you than to the Opposition."
"I shall be in the Opposition unless you get along faster."
"That is what I want-your face opposite me always, instead of bald-headed babblers. Ah, if you knew how often, of late, it has floated before me in the House, reducing historic wrangles to the rocking of children's boats in stormy ponds, accentuating the ponderous futility." He took her hand again, and a great joy filled him as he felt its gentle responsive pressure.
"Ponderous, perhaps," she said, smiling faintly; "but not futile, Walter."
"Futile, so far as I am concerned, dearest. Ah, you are right. Love is the only reality-everything else a game played with counters. What are our winnings? A few cheers drowned in the roar that greets the winning jockey, a few leading articles, stale as yesterday's newspaper."
"But the good to the masses-" she reminded him.
"Don't mock me with my own phrases, darling. The masses have done me more good than I can ever do them. Next Monday, dear Amber Roan, we'll try our honeymoon over again." And his lips sought hers.
She drew back. "Yes, yes, after the Speech. But now-the Secret!"
"There will be no speech-that is the secret."
She drew away from him altogether. "No speech!" she gasped.
"None save to your adorable ear-and the moonlit waters. Woodham has lent us his yacht-"
"In the middle of a Cabinet Crisis?"
"Which concerns me less than anybody." And he beamed happily.
"Less than anybody?" she repeated.
"Yes-since it is my resignation that makes the crisis."
She fell back into a chair, white and trembling. "You have resigned!"
"For ever. And now, hey for the great round, wonderful world! Don't you hear our keel cutting the shimmering waters?"
"No," she said savagely. "I hear only Woodham's mocking laughter!... And it sounds like a goat bleating."
"Darling!" he cried in amaze.
"I told you not to 'darling' me. How dared you change our lives without a word of consultation?"
"Amber!" His voice was pained now. "I prepared a surprise for the anniversary of our wedding. One can't consult about surprises."
"Keep your quibbles for the House! But perhaps there is no House, either."
"Naturally. I have done with it all. I have written for the Chiltern Hundreds."
"You are mad, Walter. You must take it all back."
"I can't, Amber. I have quarrelled hopelessly with the Party. The Prime Minister will never forgive what I said at the Council to-day. The luxury of speaking one's mind is expensive. I ought never to have joined any Party. I am only fit to be Independent."
"Independence leads nowhere." She rose angrily. "And this is to be the end of your Career! The Career you married me for!"
"I did wrong, Amber. But before one finds the true God, one worships idols."
"And what is the true God, pray?"
"The one whose angel and minister you have always been, Amber"-he lowered his voice reverently-"Love."
"Love!" Her voice was bitter. "Any bench in the Park, any alley in Highmead, swarms with Love." 'Twas as if Caesar had skipped from his imperial chariot to a sociable.
All her childish passion for directing the life of the household, all her girlish relish in keeping lovers in leading strings, all that unconscious love of Power which-inversely-had attracted her to Walter Bassett, and which had found so delightful a scope in her political activities, leapt-now that her Salon was threatened with extinction-into agonised consciousness of itself.
Through this brilliant husband of hers, she had touched the destinies of England, pulled the strings of Empire. Oh, the intoxication of the fight-the fight for which she had seconded and sponged him! Oh, the rapture of intriguing against his enemies-himself included-the feminine triumph of managing Goodman Waverer or Badman Badgerer!
And now-oh, she could no longer control her sobs!
He tried to soothe her, to caress her, but she repulsed him.
"Go to your yacht-to your miserable shimmering waters. I shall spend my honeymoon here alone.... You discovered I was Irish."
THE WOMAN BEATER
I.
She came "to meet John Lefolle," but John Lefolle did not know he was to meet Winifred Glamorys. He did not even know he was himself the meeting-point of all the brilliant and beautiful persons, assembled in the publisher's Saturday Salon, for although a youthful minor poet, he was modest and lovable. Perhaps his Oxford tutorship was sobering. At any rate his head remained unturned by his precocious fame, and to meet these other young men and women-his reverend seniors on the slopes of Parnassus-gave him more pleasure than the receipt of "royalties." Not that his publisher afforded him much opportunity of contrasting the two pleasures. The profits of the Muse went to provide this room of old furniture and roses, this beautiful garden a-twinkle with Japanese lanterns, like gorgeous fire-flowers blossoming under the white crescent-moon of early June.
Winifred Glamorys was not literary herself. She was better than a poetess, she was a poem. The publisher always threw in a few realities, and some beautiful brainless creature would generally be found the nucleus of a crowd, while Clio in spectacles languished in a corner. Winifred Glamorys, however, was reputed to have a tongue that matched her eye; paralleling with whimsies and epigrams its freakish fires and witcheries, and, assuredly, flitting in her white gown through the dark balmy garden, she seemed the very spirit of moonlight, the subtle incarnation of night and roses.
When John Lefolle met her, Cecilia was with her, and the first conversation was triangular. Cecilia fired most of the shots; she was a bouncing, rattling beauty, chockful of confidence and high spirits, except when asked to do the one thing she could do-sing! Then she became-quite genuinely-a nervous, hesitant, pale little thing. However, the suppliant hostess bore her off, and presently her rich contralto notes passed through the garden, adding to its passion and mystery, and through the open French windows, John could see her standing against the wall near the piano, her head thrown back, her eyes half-closed, her creamy throat swelling in the very abandonment of artistic ecstasy.