Mr. Fane-Herbert had recently returned to Wei-hai-wei after what his household was led to believe had been a prosperous absence. He bullied the Chinese boys with cheerful energy; he patted Margaret’s hand, and chuckled at the jokes which he gave her to understand he would have made but for her innocent presence; he allowed his moustache to rest a little longer than usual on the forehead his wife raised to him each morning when, after entering the breakfast-room, he exclaimed, rubbing his hands, “Ah, nice hot coffee! Nice crinkly bacon! What more can a man want?... Well, well—good-morning, everyone. Morning, my dear”—all these being signs that the world was revolving as he wished it to revolve.

Ordith had immediately been in attendance. One morning soon after the Gunroom tea-party he and Mr. Fane-Herbert were shut up together for three hours.

“That dreadful business!” said Mrs. Fane-Herbert. “Why can’t your father take a rest, I wonder?”

“He likes it, mother.”

“Yes, dear, I’m afraid he does. It seems odd—looking back. Times change. Things take a grip on one as one gets old.”

“Not only when you get old, mother.”

“No?... Oh, Margaret, darling, are you happy? I do so want you to be happy. If you let anything spoil your life it will be as if mine were spoiled a——” She dared not say, “a second time”; but she went on quaveringly, determined to say now what she had in her heart lest afterwards she had not the courage to say it. “I’m not very strong, you know. I may not be able to do all I should wish for you.”

“But, mother, you were strong enough in refusing to follow father from place to place when he came here. You put your foot down then, didn’t you? And you won.”

“Ah, yes. But that’s like choosing furniture, or moving from place to place, or any of the small things. I can win because your father yields. He doesn’t really mind. He is very kind about such things. But on matters of essential principle”—how often and often had she heard that ugly phrase, spoken as if by a dictatorial Chairman to a subservient Board?—“on matters of essential principle I don’t oppose very firmly, not now. It only makes trouble, and does no good in the end.... He always makes me feel that perhaps I’m wrong, after all. He’s a very clever man, you know, dear—your father; clever, and strong. He knows more than I do of the world.”

“Dear mother!”

“So, Margaret,” Mrs. Fane-Herbert went on, “you must fight your own battles. And be strong. And whatever I say afterwards—for I’m not often like this ... now—remember what I think.... And that I do love you.... And that compromise with truth is no good—ever. Once beaten, always beaten.”

She rustled into a chair, her white fingers clasped on her lap.

“Fear is—oh, dreadful! like a foot in the door. You can never shut it out. You never seem to be—to be quite alone again.” Then, with an expression of appeal and warning in her eyes, she added: “That’s all I can say—I think that is all I can say.”

There was more finality in her tone than was warranted by the closing of a conversation. When the door had shut softly on its latch and Margaret stood alone, she realized that her mother had spoken to her as she was not likely to speak again.

With a sensation of sadness creeping over her she went out into the garden—its cool air, its pale sunshine. As she passed the window of the room in which Ordith and her father were discussing business she thought she heard her own name—“Margaret.” Why were they speaking of her? Perhaps her imagination had cheated her. Chance anyway!

With a little toss of her head she walked down the gritty path and paused, turning her face into the wind, which blew cool on her forehead and throat. The clouds were like great tigers springing up from behind the hills. The water was flecked. The ships’ white ensigns were driven out on the wind so that they seemed stiff, like toy flags painted on tin.

II

When, after many congratulatory farewells and an exchange of confident good wishes for the future, Ordith had parted from Mr. Fane-Herbert, he saw Margaret in the garden. He paused with his hand on the outer door, which he forebore to close lest the sound of its catch should make her aware of his presence. Her right shoulder was turned to him, and she was looking seaward. He threw over the slim form, slightly inclined against the wind, a glance both critical and passionate; for it was a peculiarity of his mind that, unless he were in wine, its faculty of criticism was little affected by desire. Yet, even as he thought calmly of her beauty and the amazing excellence of her body’s pose against that pale, tawny sky, the idea of possession—or, rather, an impulse towards such an idea, for there was nothing deliberate, no defined imagining in this—came to him, and passed over him like a cool hand, infinitely light of touch, causing him to shiver imperceptibly and his eyes to narrow as if they were about to close. His throat opened slightly to receive a breath quick drawn through the mouth. He became conscious of the solidity of the brass knob against his palm, and, as his fingers moved a little, of the chill of the metal they had not previously touched. Then he closed the door, and went forward.

“You, Nick! How long have you been standing there?”

“Standing?”

“I—I had an idea that you had been.”

“No, this moment I shut the door. What made you think that?”

She moved her shoulders and smiled, dismissing the idea.

“You’re not staying to lunch?”

“No, I’m lunching at the Club. I’m coming again in the afternoon.”

III

He summoned Aggett by signal to share the meal, and when he arrived gave him cocktails and a carefully censored account of the business negotiations with Mr. Fane-Herbert. For several days, well aware that negotiations were in progress, Aggett had pressed for information, only to be met by a shaking of Ordith’s head.

“Not yet, my dear fellow. Honestly, I don’t know how we stand. I’m not clear in my own mind how far Fane-Herbert has advanced. All in good time. As soon as I have anything definite to tell you, I shall let you know at once.”

Aggett had waited impatiently, but with a show of patience. Upon Ordith’s good-will depended his chances of leaving the Service and of obtaining a position on the technical staff of that imaginary firm, Ibble and Ordith. He had, therefore, a personal interest in the foreshadowed amalgamation. He knew, too, that until these arrangements for amalgamation reached their final stage Ordith and Mr. Fane-Herbert, though they were ostensibly allies with regard to the Eastern Contracts, would continue to provide for the competing interests of their respective firms, strengthening each one his own position in preparation for the ultimate settlement.

Aggett feared that this rivalry, conducted under the cloak of friendly co-operation, might cause a rupture. Ordith, confident of his own powers, might snap his fingers at Ibble’s; or Mr. Fane-Herbert, relying upon Ibble’s weightier establishment, might decide to remain independent of the younger firm. Amalgamation was almost certainly to the interests of both parties; without doubt it was to Aggett’s interest. Breakdown now would be disastrous, and Ordith, he knew, was prepared to go far to prevent it. But could he be trusted?

Aggett was not without misgivings. A disagreement in detail, a slight on Ordith’s pride, an angry word—Aggett imagined his friend gathering up his papers and walking out of Mr. Fane-Herbert’s room, never to return. Moreover, Aggett perceived clearly by what personal, as distinct from commercial, motive Mr. Fane-Herbert was urged towards the amalgamation. He had no son worthy to receive his vast bequest of influence and wealth—for Hugh’s powers were obviously inadequate. And the firm of Ibble was to him more than a business. It was his life’s work. For its sake he had sacrificed many things that when he was young he would have sworn never to sacrifice. In it he had invested not only money, but an unrealizable capital of labour and affection, and his sentiment insisted that, when he was gone, Ibble’s should continue to be identified with one of his own blood. Yet, if none of his own blood possessed the necessary ability, outside help must be accepted. There was but one way to compromise. His daughter must carry on the personal tradition; her husband must provide the administrative capacity. Also, because Mr. Fane-Herbert had learnt not to give without receiving, he was determined that the husband must bring with him more than brains. He must add like to like, possession to possession. And the choice had fallen on Ordith, who was qualified in youth, ability, and endowment.

But Mr. Fane-Herbert’s view of the world led him to believe that the amalgamation without the marriage ought to be opposed. If she were not tied to Ordith, Margaret might marry any fool, and cease to exercise the influence on policy which her immense holding would place at her command. She might even sell out, and devote the proceeds to God knew what ridiculous frippery. The Fane-Herbert tradition might come to an end. He might lose his immortality.... The projects of marriage and amalgamation were therefore inseparable in Mr. Fane-Herbert’s mind. This was the fact upon which Aggett dwelt. Ordith must act, must act immediately. Every moment of delay was dangerous, pregnant with discord. The marriage once effected, the settlement once made—the settlement was the point—there could be no retreat from amalgamation.

As Aggett came ashore he had decided, at the risk of unpleasantness, to draw Ordith’s attention to this aspect of the matter; but he was soon to discover that the risk was unnecessary. Lunch was a tedious meal, at which conversation on engrossing topics was debarred by the presence of others, but when it was over, and the patron saints of armament firms had been invoked, in silence but with perfect understanding, over many a glass of wine, the two men returned to their quiet corner and were again at ease.

“It amounts to this,” said Ordith presently. “Point one, the Eastern Contracts: he has been doing good work, so have I. There’s much yet to be done, but the outlook is excellent.”

“Does he know that you have been squaring your own yard-arm when he wasn’t looking?”

“He does. I know as much of him. That cancels out.”

“Right. I don’t like it—I’ll tell ye why in a shake. But go on.”

“Point Two, the Amalgamation: we have both agreed to support it—I, of course, on my father’s behalf—but on one condition. Point Three, Yourself: your billet is fixed. You go on the permanent staff. Start at fifteen hundred—I’ll get seventeen-fifty for you when it comes to the point. Rises after that by agreement. As for those plans and gadgets in my cabin, there’s nothing said yet. Nothing can safely be said of them till the amalgamation’s completed. But you stand in with me there. You’ll have to trust me.... Satisfied?”

“Yes,” said Aggett, “though I fancied two thousand.... But what about Point Two and that condition? You skidded over that, sonny.”

Ordith laughed—perhaps with embarrassment. “Simply a—er—personal matter,” he said, and stopped.

Aggett glanced sidelong without moving his head, and winked. “What’s up with ye, Ordith? Think I don’t know? Stammering lover, eh? The part don’t suit ye.... Bo-oy! Couple o’ cocktails.... Yes, you son of a ——, two piece, two peecee! Chop chop!” He held up two fingers at the blinking Chinese waiter. Then to Ordith: “That’s to celebrate.”

Ordith smiled. It wasn’t worth while to get angry with Aggett. “It was rather odd,” he said, “I didn’t care to be too direct about the—about my personal point. It’s devilish difficult to introduce your own marriage into a business discussion without making it sound too business-like. Oh yes, you may grin. It’s damned easy for you to be cynical at long range.... But to me, although you may choose to think otherwise, and although I may at times have given you reason to think otherwise, to me this marriage is something more than a business proposition. I nearly left it out for decency’s sake; very nearly decided to take my chance without preliminary safeguards.”

“But you didn’t leave it out, after all,” said Aggett drily.

“No, Aggett; as you observe, with such sympathetic understanding of my character, I didn’t, after all. You never know; the most callous father may be touched by sentiment and drive a hellish hard bargain at the last moment. Then I should have looked a pretty fool. Besides——”

“Besides, I’ve always read in the pretty story-books that all the best brought up young gents approached the parents first. So you’re in good company.” Aggett drained his glass and shouted for more cocktails. “Drink up, ol’ man, and come to the point.”

“Well, I was infinitely tactful—screwed up my courage and shied off again half a dozen times. Then, thank Heaven! Fane-Herbert opened the subject himself. I thought he had been keeping something back. ‘Ordith,’ he said, ‘you must pardon my questioning you on a side-issue. I shouldn’t venture to do so if I was not reasonably certain of being able correctly to anticipate your answer.’”

“Sounds like a lecture,” said Aggett.

“Probably he had thought it out. He was talking at the picture above my head. ‘I think we’d better be frank,’ he went on. ‘I think you ought to know that I regard your marriage with Margaret as an essential adjunct to any scheme of amalgamation.’ Then he explained why. He as good as told me—but polite as the Devil himself, mind you—that he wouldn’t associate Ibble’s with Ordith’s unless he had guarantees that I should look after the Fane-Herbert interest. And, where I am concerned, he regards a husband’s self-interest as the only reliable guarantee.”

“D’ye blame him?”

“No,” said Ordith, with faint irritation.

“Then the thing’s fixed.”

“You think so? There’s another person concerned, you know.”

“The girl? She’s as keen as mustard. Besides, she’ll do as she’s told.”

“The last statement may be true,” Ordith said, with his trick of formality. “The first is, unfortunately, a lie.”

“I’ve watched her dance with ye.”

“But dancing is not marriage.”

Aggett exposed his teeth. “Less difference than ye think,” he rapped out.

Having reached a stage of mental development at which virginity seemed an unjustifiable defiance of manhood, he delighted in the marriage of any woman he had known unmarried. He was satisfied by it as numberless people, who had no interest in legislation or in the constitution, were satisfied when the House of Lords had its wings clipped. He never refused an invitation to a wedding unless it was that of a widow.

Margaret was a girl the prospect of whose taming particularly pleased him.

“You mark my words,” he said. “She may jib the first time. But you stick to it—it won’t last long. If she tries to stand out, she’s got no one to talk to, not a soul to plot her little rebellion with. Ye soon get fed with rebellin’ alone. The girl don’t stand a chance.”

“Very pleasantly put to the prospective husband.... Incidentally, the father isn’t a brute.”

“How d’ye mean? Surely he’s fixed? You said he was fixed.”

“He might conceivably unfix. He can’t exert pressure beyond a certain point. What’s more, Aggett, I don’t want him to.”

“Now that’s generous of ye, that is—not ‘beyond a certain point.’ God! Ordith, old man, that’s you all over. But don’t ye see that there’s no goin’ back for Fane-Herbert now? It ain’t jus’ a pers’nal question. He’s got Ibble’s behind him.”

Ordith nodded. He reflected that he himself might have conducted this affair differently if Ordith’s had not been behind him.... And yet—well, it was no damned good to sentimentalize now. He called for more drink as a set-off to Aggett’s frequent generosity, settled himself in his chair, and, banishing misgiving as only the greatly successful men of this world can banish misgiving, allowed Aggett to talk.

Aggett liked to generalize on this his favourite subject. His aids to the imagination and the care he took that his friend’s glass should not long remain empty produced in Ordith a brightening of the eyes and a certain fixity of smile. From the state of mind of which these were the outward signs Aggett drew vicarious pleasure. He explained, with careful avoidance of personalities which Ordith might have resented, his theory of the advantages to be obtained by impetuous attack upon girls of the difficult kind.

“No good hummin’ and hawin’ from t’other end of the room. They can hum and haw better than any of us. ‘Engage the enemy more closely.’ That’s the signal. I always have a feelin’ with the villain in the story-books. I like the breakin’ of these proud young things.”

Never a word of Margaret herself.

Ordith was scarcely listening now, but, as the speaker intended, his thoughts followed Aggett’s, though with change of phrase and manner—followed them through the succeeding talk until at last he rose to go.

“Go an’ prosper, sonny,” Aggett said; “an’ Ibble an’ Ordith’s and all thy gods go with thee.”

Ordith started on his way to the Fane-Herbert’s. It was irritating to one on his quest to be reminded of the assistance of these gods. He didn’t like to think of Margaret in their net—compelled. “She’s got no one to talk to,” Aggett had said. “It ain’t jus’ a pers’nal question. He’s got Ibble’s behind him.... The girl don’t stand a chance.” Poor little Margaret! Poor little——

But Ordith dragged himself out of that slough.

“Ass!” he said. “No good whining that drivel. Too many cocktails.”

He took off his hat, stood still, and gathered self-control. Then, looking at his hat, he thought it a pity that he was not in uniform. Even upon Margaret, used to it as she was, the blue and gold would have produced effect. As he approached the house his mind was clear and calm.

IV

Margaret knew in an instant for what purpose he was come. As he crossed the room and placed himself on the hearthrug she knew that the crisis she had so long expected was upon her at last. Though he spoke of a dozen trivial things of which he had spoken many times before, there was no doubt in her mind that this speech was but preparative to attack. There was a stiffness in his pose like that of an actor who is ill at ease. His feet were apart; his body was inclined slightly towards her; his hands were behind his back. She found that, despite herself, she acted and thought defensively—and in the bottom of her heart was a feeling that even her defence must ultimately prove of no avail.

She heard him telling her calmly that he loved her and wished to marry her. Then she heard him giving reasons, outlining the future, speaking at last as if she had given her consent. His eyes were fixed on her and held her; but, with an effort that was a physical shock, she broke free of his gaze. At least he should not assume consent. She would not be edged by this slow process into compliance. She would say something—anything to break the intolerable evenness of his speech. She let go of the back of the chair by which she had been standing.

“No.... Wait, Nick.... I——”

He waited not an instant, knowing that he must give her no opportunity to recover herself or to reorganize her defence. He put his arms outside hers, and swept her to him. Mind and body, she seemed enveloped, borne down. The strength, the impetus of him overwhelmed her as flames and smoke, bursting suddenly forth, overwhelm the opener of a door in a burning house. She was too sick and faint to do more than force her head a little backwards, and, catching sight of the black and white notes of the piano, attach to them the strange significance which belongs to things far, far distant from us—the significance that the cool frosty stars possess in the mind of one who perceives them from the window of a room in which fire has trapped him. In the same second Ordith was aware that her body, become limp, reposed almost its whole weight on his arms.

And she heard him urging her with words that seemed to grow more and more musical until at last she was listening pleasurably to them. His nearness, his strength, his tenderness even—for where there was no struggle there seemed now no kind of brutality—were becoming sweet to her—just as the snow becomes warm and comforting to the wanderer who, sunk by the roadside, is about to cross the line of sleep and death beyond which is no waking, no resisting, no troubling any more. It was so good to yield, so easy to say the one word he was demanding with murmured reiteration.

But she did not say it. She knew she must hold out, as the lier in the snow knows he must keep awake. “Keep awake!” The words themselves seemed part of a dream. She tried to put up her hands to thrust him away, but the impulse led to no more than a faint movement of her fingers. Then, as she opened her lips and no sound came his kisses fell on her mouth and throat, and her poor little struggle flickered out. She had said no word, but the thought came to her, as of a thing accomplished, “That’s over.... Of course ... I knew.... His wife—his wife. Always.” Whereupon the consciousness that he was still holding her reasserted itself and filled her with sudden horror and fear.

Then miraculously—for she remembered nothing of the movement that released her—she found herself standing clear of Ordith. He had let her go. In the open doorway, upon which Ordith’s eyes were turned, stood Hugh, an amazed, embarrassed Hugh, who was saying, “Heavens! I’m sorry. I didn’t know ...” and hastily shutting the door.

For the first time Ordith was at a loss.

“Well?” he said.

She sank down in a chair.

“Please go away.”

At his least movement towards her she sprang up, white and trembling, but calm of voice.

“No.... I can’t bear it.... And please never come back—never.”

“But you said——”

“I said nothing.”

“No—not said, but——”

“Oh!” she exclaimed quickly; “I may have been wrong outwardly. But don’t blame me for having deceived you. You were never deceived.”

He smiled at her as at a child momentarily in a foolish mood, and went out of the room. On the stairs he met Hugh.

“I’m awfully sorry, sir. I had no idea.”

Ordith laughed. “Nothing,” he said, “nothing at all.... By the way, there’s nothing official—no definite engagement as yet, so don’t go and worry her about it. Better act as if you hadn’t seen, unless she speaks to you of it.... You weren’t meant to see.”

So Hugh was bound. Ordith went on his way to report to Mr. Fane-Herbert the development of the campaign. Together they considered the position and reassembled their forces after the not unexpected reverse.

“The difficulty,” said Ordith, “is that she forbade me to see her again. Having regard to the standard of honour by which we live, that’s something of a tail-twister.”

“You will, of course, continue to come to my house on my business. The rest follows in time.”

Ordith turned the pages of a magazine. “The sad thing is that in five minutes or less she would have consented.”

“You’re a queer fellow, Ordith. But there, I suppose you are in love with her; I’m sure I hope so. Five minutes or five months, what does it matter? Obviously she doesn’t know her own mind. I’ll talk to her this evening.”

Ordith, his head bent over an illustration, looked up under his eyebrows. The most amazing trait in Fane-Herbert’s character was his complacency. There he stood, unruffled, speaking of Margaret as of a baby who had been naughty but who would in time learn to distinguish between right and wrong.

“I’ll talk to her this evening.”

“Oh well,” Ordith thought in excuse for himself, “she’s got to live either with you or with me.”

V

Margaret said nothing to Hugh of what he had seen, nor did he question her. She made no attempt to argue with her father, for there was no arguing against what he called his “plain statement of facts, spoken for her own good.” By this she was given to understand that, in rejecting Ordith, she had acted with rash impetuosity which, on account of her youth, her father was ready to pardon. Next time—and she smiled at the authoritative tone in which he spoke of this second opportunity—next time, of course, she would revise her decision. As for her having forbidden Ordith to see her again—that was ridiculous, childish.

“In any case,” Mr. Fane-Herbert said, “you understand that he is a friend of mine, and the business we are conducting is most important—of the utmost importance. Therefore he must come to my house. You do not intend to shut yourself in your room, I suppose?”

The incident of that afternoon was not afterwards mentioned. Mr. Fane-Herbert would neither himself remember that Margaret had refused Ordith nor would he allow others to take the fact into account. After a decent interval Ordith began to visit the house again. He met Margaret so often, and with such smiling tact, that some kind of reconciliation became inevitable. She met him first in her father’s presence. The encounter was unexpected; there was no retreat; and it was impossible to pretend that she was unaware of Ordith’s presence. Her choice was between a scene, in which her father’s intervention was probable, and a recognition friendly enough to make complete estrangement impossible in future. And she shrank instinctively from such a scene.

The absence of any apparent breach in his sister’s relations with Ordith caused Hugh to assume that, though some difficulty might have arisen, the incident he had witnessed was at least a prelude to the engagement of which Ordith had spoken. For long he said nothing of this to John, but at last the rumour which Aggett had put into circulation made an explanation inevitable.

“They say Ordith is engaged to Margaret,” John said. “Is that true?”

“She has told me nothing of it,” Hugh answered.

“But you know——?”

“I saw——”

“What? Tell me. There’s no harm in telling me now. The whole ship’s talking of it.”

“So far as I know there’s nothing definite. I haven’t heard Margaret or my father or my mother say one word about it. All I have to go on is that I saw him kiss her, and he still comes to the house, and they seem friendly enough. There may be a hitch. Ordith said it was unofficial; and it’s not for me to question Margaret. There it stands. You know all I can tell you, John. These good people may be beforehand with their rumour, but I’m afraid they’re on the right track.”

“Thanks,” said John, after a pause; “now I know, anyhow.”