Chapter III: Their Goal

The Duchess of Groseville was holding a large reception at her magnificent house in Queen’s Gate, and all London was there. The stately, flower-laden rooms were crowded with guests.

Languorous strains of music floated through the air, at times drowned by laughter and the hum of voices, and at others rising timidly, tremblingly above them with alluring, haunting sweetness.

By the pillars of an archway stood a middle-aged man with rather corpulent curves, talking to a retired General. He had commented on a statue a little distance away, and his companion grunted a rather unintelligible reply; he was not a lover of Art and knew very little about it. His taste had developed on quite different lines.

“Fine crowd here to-night,” observed the first speaker, dropping the subject of sculpture.

The soldier straightened a little. “Yes, very fine indeed; these London crowds know how to dress--not any real beauties about though.” He looked round with the fastidious eye of a connoisseur. “I am going round to the Club presently--I suppose you will be coming along too?” he added, turning questioningly to his companion.

But the latter was paying little heed to the General; his face had suddenly lightened and his eyes were fixed on some new arrivals talking to the hostess in the doorway.

“There are Lord and Lady Lennox--thought they would put in an appearance to-night,” he said, still watching the group at the door.

The General put on his pince-nez with less deliberation than usual, and looked in the same direction. “Ah!” he said at last, adjusting the glasses more perfectly; then he gave another long-drawn “Ah!”

“Can’t say London has no beauties now, eh?”

“By Jove, no! She is ripping--got the right air about her too.” After a pause he added: “But how in the name of thunder did Lennox come to marry her? Wasn’t she Dearn’s daughter, the girl all the men went mad about a year or two ago, but were all turned down? How in the world did Lennox get her?”

“My dear fellow, surely you read the story--why, the papers were full of it a couple of months ago.”

“Of course I heard something about it--I never bother about Society columns though. Now when I come to think of it, didn’t they meet in a cave in Australia, or was it a coal-mine where there was no light?--some dark place, I believe; and it was love at first sight--wasn’t it?”

The other man laughed. “How could they fall in love with each other in the dark? But they are coming in this direction; I think I shall go and speak to them.”

Iris and Justin were making their way through the thronged rooms. It was slow progress, as they were constantly being arrested by people speaking to them. They stood now by a tall marble pedestal laden with exquisite roses, a circle of friends around them. Wherever they moved, they immediately became the centre of interest and conversation.

Iris was looking irresistibly lovely in an exquisite ivory-tinted gown. The famous Strathfell diamonds flashed from her snowy throat and glittered among the bright waves of her hair. The superb dignity of her regal bearing had increased, and there was a new, subtle charm in her presence--a charm born of a joy which was unearthly in its greatness. Her large blue eyes shone with bewildering radiance, and the smile curving her lips was dazzling.

“Lady Lennox is even more lovely now than she was as Iris Dearn!” exclaimed an Ambassador’s wife in black, with some priceless emeralds round her rather thin neck; “and isn’t he handsome? I don’t wonder she fell so desperately in love with him! It was quite a romance--fancy meeting out there in the wilds, and he was only a driver; but she fell in love with him all the same, and would have married him long before she knew he was Lord Lennox. It was real love, there is no doubt about that! But then he is so delightful; I don’t think any girl could resist him if he made love to her--he always had that charm about him!”

“But wasn’t there some--reason for his going out there and hiding as a driver?” inquired her companion, an American woman who had lately arrived in London Society.

The Ambassador’s wife lifted her thin shoulders with an indulgent movement. “Nothing serious at all--just a little unmanageable, a little headstrong, wanted to have his own way--quarrelled with his father because he wanted to be a singer. But that wonderful wife of his has tamed him. Did you notice the way he looked at her just then? They are most delightfully in love still! But he is charming to every one; he is quite the most popular man in London, though they don’t go into Society much. Look at the way he is smiling at her now--did you ever see such teeth and such eyes?”

The American watched Iris and Justin with an ill-suppressed hunger in her not very large eyes. “Ah,” she thought to herself, “they are the real thing; only England can produce such types! Lucky woman to have a handsome man like that--with his charm and delightful, easy grace, his air of distinction and stamp of breeding--making love to her!” The girl from New York stifled a sigh. “Don’t they really go into Society much?” she inquired after a pause.

“No, they spend most of their time in their beautiful home in Yorkshire. They do a great deal for the poor; people say they know every man, woman and child personally on their estate; the villagers simply worship the ground they walk on! They are specially interested in--well, men with failings; I believe they have had quite a number staying with them, and have had some wonderful cures. Do you see that tall, fair man standing next to Lady Lennox, smiling at her now? That is Lord Westwood; it is only lately he has appeared again; he used to be quite too impossible--disgraced himself at every function, till he was--dropped! Now he is quite cured; never drinks at all since he stayed at Strathfell Court--it is miraculous! Lord Lennox had a weakness that way once, though you would never think so to look at him now, would you? But they never allow intoxicants in their home. That is the Earl of Strathfell standing over there--the tall, distinguished-looking man with the white hair, talking to the Princess. The difference in him since his son returned is wonderful! Before that he shut himself up in Strathfell Castle and wouldn’t go anywhere; but Justin always was his favourite son, and he simply adores Iris--he is lucky to have such a daughter-in-law.”

The girl from Fifth Avenue looked at the earl, then her mind returned to the other information she had just received. “I wonder how they manage to cure these people,” she reflected thoughtfully.

“You had better ask Lady Lennox herself; I will introduce you if you like; I am going to speak to her presently before they go--they never stay late anywhere--and she will tell you herself; I couldn’t do justice to the subject. It is rather wonderful. They are very religious, you know--no, not in the ordinary way, just going to church a lot and all that kind of thing; they have a kind of new religion, or rather they seem to have gone back to the old one--the kind you read about in the Bible. But you must hear Lady Lennox explain it herself; she will do it far better than I.”

* * * * *

It was still early when Lord Lennox helped his wife into their electric brougham. He tucked the fur rug carefully about her, for the nights were chilly; and then, with a sigh of content and relief, switched off the light and leant back in the car. It did not take long to reach their house in Eaton Square, and, after a few moments, the car stopped and the footman in blue livery opened the door.

Iris dropped her cloak in the hall and entered the drawing-room. It was a large, pale blue room strewn with snowy bearskins. She sank into a deep armchair piled with sea-blue silk cushions, and her eyes rested dreamily on the autumn leaves and roses decorating the sumptuous apartment.

But she was not left alone long: the door opened gently and Justin entered. He glanced at her happily, then made his way to the grand piano a little distance away from her. His fingers ran over the keys lightly, haltingly; and, keeping his eyes upon her, he began to sing in an undertone--

“I’ll sing thee songs of Araby.”

Every note caressed her, every tone seemed like a clinging kiss from his lips. As he sang the old familiar words, lingering tenderly on the haunting phrases, Iris paled and suddenly caught her breath.

As the last muted words had trembled towards her he rose and held out his arms.

She came to him, and something soft and misty blinded her eyes as he clasped her to his breast.

For some minutes they stood together in deep, rapturous silence; then he lifted her face and their lips met in a long kiss.

He felt the thrill that always passed through her yielding form when his lips touched hers. “Iris,” he whispered, “you care just--just the same as when we were first married?”

“Oh, Justin, it is worse now--I mean--I am more helplessly----” she faltered.

“In love?” he inquired, as he gathered her closer.

“And you?”

“Deeper than the sea,” he murmured; “higher than the stars. These six months with you have been--Paradise! And, dearest, you are so wonderful, too, in helping all these people.”

“But you help them just as much; and it is lovely to be able to do it, isn’t it? And what a good thing we brought old Turner with us! He says he has never been so happy in his life before!”

“Yes, it was a dear thought of yours. By the way, what are you going to take him when we go back to-morrow?”

“I thought of getting him a warm coat with a big fur collar; the weather is getting so cold, and it would keep him comfortable in the winter.”

He stroked her pink cheek tenderly. “My kind-hearted little sweetheart!”

“You taught me,” she said softly. “Do you know, Justin, I often have a feeling when I leave Turner’s bright little cottage, and he looks so cheerful and happy, that his mother is looking down on us from somewhere, and that her eyes shine like stars because her prayers for her poor boy are answered at last?”

“I don’t think it is only Turner’s mother who is looking down on you from Angel-land; I believe my own mother watches you with the same starry eyes because you saved her poor, sad boy as well,” he said a little huskily.

She glanced up at him with glowing, splendid eyes. “My beloved Captive Singer is set free--quite free!” she murmured rapturously.

“Yes, thank God! Once he was entombed in the dark caves, far away from all sunshine and gladness. But you found him and led him back to life and--freedom.”

There was a long pause while soul gazed into soul; then a strange look of pain sprang into the grey eyes.

“Oh, Iris,” he whispered, a half-sob in his tones, “it is all too amazing--think of it, for _me_ to have you for my very own--it is miraculous!”

“Not more miraculous than for me to have--you.”

“Yes, Iris, a thousand times more so! Remember what I was--my past, and even--what I did out there----” He shuddered.

“Justin, I will not have you referring to that subject! You know I----” She suddenly drew his face down to her own and kissed his cheek in tenderest sympathy. “My darling boy,” she continued, “you must not think or grieve over it now; after all, it was this sorrow which made you realise your need of God and made us both turn to Him for help. Remember the words you so often sing to me--

“Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee;
_E’en though it be a cross_
That raiseth me;
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!”

“Sing it now!” she said gently.

Once more he sat down at the piano, his fingers striking the chords of the tune Iris loved best, written by a young Australian composer; then his rich, mellow voice rang out a little tremulously--

“There let my way appear
Steps unto Heaven,
All that Thou sendest me
In mercy given.
_Angels to beckon me_
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee.”

As he sang the words, “Angels to beckon me,” his eyes looked with a sudden, wonderful exultation at his wife; and, when the last beautiful note faded into silence, he lifted one of her hands with deep adoration to her lips.

“Justin,” she said, a slight quiver at the corners of her scarlet lips, “Justin!” and her eyes shone with divine splendour.

[Music: Nearer, my God, to Thee.
CECILY EDDY.

Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee!
E’en though it be a cross That raiseth me;
Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee,
nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee.]

“Yes, Sweetheart; so, after all, this was our way to--God.”

It was no longer the Captive Singer that spoke: the Truth that dwells in Love had made him free!

THE END

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