In the Thick of the Fight

Front matter

IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT.

BY L. T. MEADE

I.—Matthew Gray'S Wife

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STORY I.—MATTHEW GRAY'S WIFE.

Chapter I.

IT was the night of the weekly debate at the Vanguard Club for Women, when Matthew Gray determined to put his fortunes to the test. The subject of the debate this evening was “Woman,” and the opener was a man. When Matthew made his way into the crowded room the speaking had already begun. He was a young man of about twenty-six years of age, and had been a journalist from the time he was twenty. He had done well in journalism as he did in everything else he undertook, and six months ago had published his first novel. This novel had proved an unusual success—it had hit the caprice of the hour, being out of the common without being too much so—it appealed to popular taste, and soothed rather than irritated public opinion. Matthew suddenly found himself on the high road both to fame and opulence. Orders for future works began to pour in—fortune smiled brightly, in short, he felt himself entitled to try for the dearest wish of his life and to ask Diana Harrington to become his wife. She had invited him as a guest to the Vanguard Club, and he now listened to the fluent speech of the man who had opened the debate with a certain amused attention—he noticed the ill-concealed impatience of some of the audience—he observed that the speaker was giving forth a string of platitudes on the duties of wives and mothers—he agreed with all that was said, for in his heart of hearts he hated the so-called advanced woman, but wished that the matter might be put more concisely, and, if possible, with words more likely to arrest attention and demand respect. Matthew felt sure that he could have spoken better, he was elated and full of hope about everything to-night—his book was on the eve of going into a fifth edition—all the world therefore smiled upon him in short, his success almost intoxicated him. His bright eyes watched her as she sat with the rest of the committee—he quickly made up his mind that he would ask her the vital question before the night was over.

The speaker on the platform sat down at last amid murmurs other than those of applause. Directly he did so a slim girl, with dark hair and eyes, full of suppressed emotion, sprang to her feet. Matthew drew a step nearer and watched her attentively. She wore the simplest of dresses, slightly open at her neck and wrist—her hair was arranged low down on her neck, she looked the essence of all that was feminine—the young man's heart was stirred within him. Would Diana support the views of the last speaker? Her terse clear voice smote almost sharply on his ear. Diana was, without doubt, a vigorous fighter—she intended now to fight for her sisters and for herself. She spoke softly, scarcely raising her voice, but her eyes were full of fire, her voice rang with delicate scorn, and when her speech was finished the whole room was in an uproar of applause.

The debate came to an end, and Diana came straight up to where Gray was standing.

“I am so glad you were able to come,” she said, “did I do it well? What do you think of it all?”

“You looked splendid,” said Gray, smiling into her eyes.

“Oh! what did my looks matter?” she gave him a glance half of impatience. “Did I say anything to help the Woman's Cause?

“You are an earnest and true woman yourself,” he answered. “I don't quite agree with you—but forgive me, I don't want to go into that subject to-night. I am selfish, I wish to talk to you about myself.”

“Well, come down and have some coffee. Ah! there is Mr. Raymond—I must speak to him; and I should like to introduce you. He is the man who opened the debate.”

“Here you are,” she continued, as Raymond approached her side. “Let me introduce my friend Mr. Gray. Of course you know each other by repute,” she added, her bright eyes sparkling; “one edits the Hyde Park Gazette, the other has written a book.”

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” said Raymond to Gray. “I have just read your book—'The Shadow of the Duke'—it is about the most original thing which has appeared in the market for a long time, carrying one back into the Middle Ages, and yet having a delicious touch of modernity about it.”

Gray murmured something in response—it was nice to hear his book praised, but he did not want to lose sight of Diana.

“Come down, both of you,” she said, “and let me give you coffee.”

“You have not forgotten, Miss Harrington, that you are coming to supper with my sister and me to-night,” said Raymond.

“I was going to ask you to excuse me” she replied; “I have a stupid headache.”

There was quite a crush on the stairs, and Raymond was forced to go on in front.

“I want to say something to you; do give me a chance to-night,” said Gray in Diana's ears.

Something in his tone caused her to look at him; her eyes were full of a soft, beautiful light; they fell beneath his; the colour rose higher on her cheek.

“I know a corner in the coffee-room where we can be alone,” she said in a semi-whisper. “Ah! here we are at the door; let us make straight for it.”

They threaded their way through the crowded room, and at last found themselves standing behind a little table which screened them from the rest of the crowd. Several men were present, and the women of the club were all eagerly entertaining their guests.

“What a babel of sound!” said Gray. “Do you really come here every night?”

“Yes, I delight in it. I never enjoyed myself so much as since I joined the Vanguard.”

“But some of those women! See how they dress!” Gray glanced as he spoke in the direction of a tall lady with short hair, the upper part of whose figure could not have been told from that of a man.

“Oh! the dress happens to be her little weakness,” said Diana. “I detest that sort of dress myself, but she fancies it. Why should she be abused for it? You don't know what a noble soul she is. Shall I tell you her history?”

“Not now; I have something to say to you myself.”

“Yes,” she said, looking full up into his face.

“Something to say about myself and about you,” he continued, speaking in a husky voice. “Diana, you hold all my future in your hands. I consider myself at this moment successful, but I shall be the greatest failure that ever lived, if you refuse the request I am going to make to you.”

She did not reply, her eyes sought the ground, her firm, pretty delicately cut lips trembled slightly.

“You know, you must know, what I feel for you,” he said. “I love you with all my heart. Will you be my wife, Diana? I can afford to marry now. Will you say 'yes'?”

“Yes, Matthew,” she replied, looking full up into his face and speaking with simple directness; then she blushed, and her lips faltered. “I am not to be one of the million women left outside the pale of happy wives,” she said in a broken voice. “I am very glad.”

“I knew you were a true woman, my darling,” said Matthew; “you have made me the happiest man in the world.”

Raymond came up at that moment.

“Won't you offer me some coffee?” he said to Diana.

She controlled her emotion in an instant, and turned a bright smiling face towards him.

“How rude I am!” she said. “Have a cup, won't you? I don't know if we can find seats. How full the room is!”

“I wish you would reconsider your decision,” said Raymond, coming nearer to her; “surely this hot air is bad for your head. My carriage will be round directly, and Esther will be so disappointed.”

“Oh! I'll come if you wish,” she answered; she felt too happy at this moment to refuse any request made of her.

Matthew stood near, but did not speak—his cup of bliss was perfectly full—he was now quite indifferent to anything Raymond might happen to say to Diana.

A few moments later Miss Harrington found herself driving to Hugh Raymond's flat in Winsley Gardens in his perfectly appointed brougham.

“I thought Esther was with you,” she said, as she stepped into the carriage.

“No; she went on first and begged of us to follow; some other friends are coming, and she had one or two things to see to. The fact is,” he added, as the carriage rolled smoothly along, “I asked her to go; I wanted to see you for a moment by yourself.”

“Yes,” said Diana, turning round and glancing at him.

“You must know what has been in my heart for a long time, Miss Harrington,” he continued, speaking almost nervously; “I have the highest respect for women. I prove it by earnestly desiring to make one woman my wife. I have loved you for a long time, will you2?”

“Oh! don't,” said Diana.

“Why do you say that? Why do you interrupt me?”

“Because you have said too much, and I ought not to listen to you. Marriage without love would be impossible to me. I don't love you. I never should have loved you. I respect you, and you are kind, but love I could never give you.”

“Are you sure?” he interrupted her, bending forward and speaking with eagerness.

“You must hear me out,” she said; “there is something further to say. Half an hour ago I engaged myself to another man.”

Raymond suddenly subsided into his seat. “You need not tell me his name,” he said. “I know him.”

“Do you? You can only know him slightly. I introduced you to each other tonight. I am proud to tell you that I am now the affianced wife of Matthew Gray.”

“This is the second time that man has done me an injury,” muttered Raymond, speaking half under his breath, but Diana heard him.

Chapter II.

A MONTH later Diana was married. There was no reason why her wedding should be delayed. Matthew could afford to take a nice little flat in the neighbourhood of Hyde Park. He could afford to furnish it daintily and to bring his bride to as pretty a set of rooms as any modern girl could desire. Matthew himself was intensely modern in his writing, and, as far as superficial observers could tell, in his opinions, but as regarded women—and in especial—married women, he was strictly conservative. Diana was to find that out by-and-by; she had little idea of it when she promised to be his wife. She was naturally a very affectionate, true-hearted girl, and the life which now opened before her seemed full of attractions. She made a beautiful bride, and on their honeymoon no couple could be happier than the Grays. It was on the night of their return home that the little rift be came perceptible. They were standing in their pretty, bright drawing-room, and Gray had his arm round his wife's slim waist.

“Now you will be as happy as the day is long,” he said.

“I am sure of it,” she answered; “my life will be full—full to the brim.”

“Of course it will, dearest. To tell you the truth, Diana, I could never have married a wife without intellect. You will help me immensely with my books—I mean to make you my proof reader, you will also be my most valued critic. We can do proof reading when we are at home in the evenings—but, of course, we will also go out together, I have several friends I want you to get acquainted with.”

“Yes, dear,” she answered, moving rather restlessly as she spoke. “Oh! by the way, I found a letter from Esther Raymond waiting for me amongst others in my sweet little boudoir—she wants to know if I will open a debate at the Vanguard to-morrow evening—the subject is to be 'Brave Women and Fair Men'—it is just like Esther to take up that modern note. Why, what is the matter, Matthew?—you have got quite an unbecoming frown between your brows.”

Gray smoothed away the obnoxious expression.

“I was wondering if you would do something for me, darling,” he said, after a pause.

“Why, of course—how can you ask in that doubtful sort of voice? You know I would do anything in the world for you.”

“Perhaps, Di, you won't quite like to do this. I want you to withdraw from the Vanguard Club.”

Diana opened her dark eyes very wide.

“My dear Matthew,” she exclaimed; “what in the world do you mean?”

“What I say, my love,” he stooped as he spoke and poked the fire irritably; “the fact is, Diana, I hate women's clubs—they may be necessary for some women, but surely a young wife need not mix herself up with such a set.”

“Such a set,” echoed Diana; “my noblest and warmest and best friends belong to it.”

“Well, darling, you can ask them here—anyone you like will be abundantly welcome here—but why go to the club now?”

“Only that I am deeply interested in it, Mat; my heart is with those women and with their cause; you do not surely mean what you say—you don't lay this on me as a command?”

“Not I—I won't command you in anything—it is a wish of mine, but if it troubles you I won't say anything more about it. I will leave it to your own good sense, darling.”

“Now, that is quite horrid of you. I would fifty times rather you blew me up. The fact is, my dear old boy, I do not feel it possible to gratify your wishes in this particular.”

“Very well, Diana—don't let us spoil our very first evening at home by talking any more on the matter.”

“Of course not,” she answered brightly, and yet with an obstinate line round her lips. “Ah! there's our supper gong—how delicious to have supper all alone with you in our own house.”

Gray said something nice, but he said it with an effort—there was a slight restraint between the pair as they sat down to their first meal at home.

Matthew went out early the next morning to see his publishers, and Diana was alone in her pretty new home. Instead of unpacking her things and making herself generally active and useful, she sat by the fire and with a frown between her pretty brows, drew a letter out of her pocket. The letter was from her dressmaker, with a request that Mrs. Gray would send her a cheque for the enclosed amount, at her very earliest convenience. Diana glanced at the sum total with a slight shiver. She had been running up bills with her dressmaker for some time previous to her engagement—she had a bill also with her milliner. In short, this apparently immaculate young lady was in debt to the tune of very nearly two hundred pounds. She could scarcely tell even now how the debts had begun, but she knew very well how they had crept up and up until she was frightened at their proportions—she knew how they weighed upon her spirits and alarmed her even in her happiest moments. When she was first engaged to Matthew she firmly resolved not to marry until the debts were paid, but it was impossible to be a bride without a trousseau, and although Diana's trousseau was an essentially modest one, it considerably increased her bills. Her modest earnings, for she had supported herself by journalistic work for two or three years, were quite inadequate to meet these heavy demands, and, in short, she became a bride with a secret which she dared not unburden to her husband.

“I will never tell my husband,” she said, speaking half aloud as was her wont. “I vow and declare that I will earn the money myself. I won't let my dear Matthew pay these horrid bills for dresses and capes and gloves and bonnets which I wore out and hated before he proposed to me, for all the world. Yes, I must find some way of earning the money. What shall I do. In the whirl of my brief engagement I almost forgot those odious debts, but now something must be sent to Madame Lefroy. I will write her a little note and enclose—let me see, how much have I in my purse?” Diana opened her pretty little sealskin purse—it contained something over five pounds.

“I will send her five pounds—that will keep her quiet for a month or so,” she thought.

She went to her desk and wrote a few lines, and then, putting on her hat, went to the nearest post office to get postal orders for the amount. These were enclosed to Madame Lefroy, and the young bride heaved a sigh of relief.

“She will wait at least for a month now,” she thought to herself, “and by that time I shall be earning something. How I wish Mr. Raymond would give me a post on the Hyde Park Gazette; he half promised to once, but I daren't ask him favours now. Dear old Matthew—to think of a man like Hugh Raymond presuming to ask me to marry him—and yet he is rich and Matthew is not really-rich; he is just successful, and we shall get along very nicely, but I could not ask him to give me two hundred pounds and to ask me no questions why I wanted it, and I do not fancy I should greatly mind asking Hugh Raymond for that modest little sum if I happened to be his wife. Hugh has not a high ideal of women—but Matthew! he thinks I am a princess—a white angel, somebody immaculate without even the stain of a passing weakness. He shall never, never know that I was vain enough to go in debt for pretty clothes. Dear old fellow, how much I love him—who would have supposed, though, that he was so narrow-minded? Fancy his wanting me to give up the Vanguard! That I can never do. I must bring him round to my views—that will be noble work— how splendidly Matthew could help the cause of woman, if only he would throw his soul into the matter.”

Diana's mind was now considerably relieved, and she spent the rest of the day happily enough. Her husband came home to lunch, and brought her good news from his publishers. His novel was still the rage of the season: it was rapidly passing from one edition to another; a cheap edition was now in contemplation, and certain corrections for this were necessary.

“I must do it to-night, Di,” said Matthew, “for the public must have the edition by next week, so I am greatly afraid I shall not be able to take you to the play as I promised, dearest.”

“Oh, it doesn't matter, Mat,” she answered, “for you know this is the night of the debate at the Vanguard; and although, acceding to your wish, I am not going to take an active part in the proceedings, I shall of course like to be there.”

“But you cannot come back alone.”

“I have done so hundreds of times already—why should I mind it to-night?”

“I will call for you, Diana, when the debate is over,” said Gray, speaking with a certain stiffness. “I cannot prevent my wife going to her own club, but I insist on her not walking through the streets of London alone after dusk.”

“Oh, Mat, Mat, how you will spoil me!” she replied. She spoke lightly, but she was conscious of a little sense of irritation—her silken chains began to fret her.

When Mrs. Gray, looking radiant in one of her pretty bridal dresses, appeared amongst the members of the committee that night at the Vanguard Club, she was received with quite a little ovation.

“So glad you are back again,” one member after another whispered to her.

“How well you look, and how happy!” said others; but others, again, twitted her on her state of slavery, and asked her what she now thought about the matrimonial condition.

“The best and happiest in the world,” was her quick response; and then gently freeing herself from her tormentors, she went down into the body of the room and sat by her friend, Esther Raymond.

“I am so delighted to see you again, Di,” whispered Esther. “I quite hoped you would be here to-night; but, my dear, why did you not lead the debate?—we were all so anxious to hear you.”

“I was not prepared,” said Di, lightly. “I had such a jolly honeymoon that perhaps my weapons of repartee and sarcasm and argument have grown a little rusty.”

“Well, another time you shall do it. You certainly do look remarkably well. I told Hugh that you were likely to be here, and he said he would drop in.”

Esther looked markedly at Diana, who coloured faintly.

“He asked me to coax you to come back to supper,” continued Esther.

“Oh, I cannot do that,” replied Mrs. Gray, “my husband is coming for me.”

“Well, what of that? We shall be very pleased to see him also.”

“He is too busy, Esther; a cheap edition of 'The Shadow of the Duke' is coming out next week, and every moment of Matthew's time is occupied getting it through the press.”

“What it is to be famous!” said Esther; “I am sure I congratulate you; and certainly Mr. Gray is a very distinguished-looking man. I only hope he won't narrow your views, Diana; you must be very careful on that score.”

“Trust me,” answered Diana; “you know I am heart and soul in the cause.”

“What a pretty gown you are wearing,” said Esther; “where did you get it?”

“Madame Lefroy made it for me,” replied Mrs. Gray. Her brow fell as she spoke—she had forgotten that horrid nightmare of debt, but now it returned with overbearing force.

“By the way, Esther,” she said, “I am really glad your brother is coming, for I want to speak to him on a most particular subject.”

“Well, here he is; let us go to him before he is snapped up. Ah, he sees us.”

Hugh Raymond made his way across the room. A moment later his hand clasped Diana's with a slight lingering pressure, which in her heart of hearts she resented. The thought of her horrible debt, however, made her inclined to be friendly, and when Esther whispered to her tall brother that Mrs. Gray had something very special to say to him, she found herself the next moment walking by his side downstairs to coffee.

It seemed but yesterday that she had walked downstairs by Gray's side on the beautiful blissful night when he had asked her to be his wife. Now she was a wife, the wedding was over, the honeymoon was past, she was the happiest woman in the world; but why did her heart beat and her lips tremble as she looked up at Hugh Raymond's smooth, dark, somewhat sinister cast of face?

“You know I shall be only too pleased to do anything for you,” he said. “I am flattered at your wanting to confide in me—the fact of such a devoted young wife having confidences to make is in itself flattering—you may be quite sure that I shall not betray them.”

Diana found herself blushing uncomfortably.

“I want to ask you a great favour,” she said boldly. “You know that in my opinion both husband and wife should help to contribute to the common purse.”

“Come, that's rank heresy,” said Raymond. “I know for a fact those are not Gray's views.”

“That is just it,” said Diana; “dear old fellow, he is so chivalrous; but, Mr. Raymond, I want to earn money—I must earn money—and if—oh! if you could get me a post on the Hyde Park Gazette.”

“Now that is very strange,” said Raymond, “it was only this morning I was wondering who could take Miss Schofield's place on the woman's column.”

“Oh, is there a vacancy?” said Diana, eagerly. “If there is, and if2”

“If I give it to you will you be able to fill it ably?” asked Raymond, giving her a piercing glance.

“I think so—I believe so.”

“You have done good work, I know,” he said; for the moment he ceased to look at her with admiration and was the keen man of business. “The fact is, the Hyde Park Gazette likes to be a little bit scandalous, it rather builds its reputation on that; we like choice morsels and bits of out-of-the-way gossip—the woman's column has, in short, to get behind the scenes. I can afford to pay well for really valuable services. Here are two vacant seats, for a wonder; let us sit down and discuss the matter.”

The discussion was quickly over. When Gray arrived to fetch his wife home, she had accepted an engagement to write a weekly article for the Hyde Park Gazette, with a salary of two hundred pounds a year.

“You will tell your husband, of course?” said Raymond, as he parted from her.

“I—I don't know,” she answered, her eyes falling as she spoke.

“I only wanted to tell you that I will not mention it without your permission.”

“Thank you,” she said, but her heart was very low as she turned away.

Chapter III.

HUGH RAYMOND was an unscrupulous and successful man. The Hyde Park Gazette was his own property—he had made it pay—it supplied a certain want, but by no means the highest want of human nature. His woman's column was a feature in itself—it required skilful manipulation, and although it was ostensibly the work of a woman, he always superintended it, and always supplied himself the most highly-seasoned pieces of gossip and scandal which it contained.

He was not a man of much affection, but he had fallen passionately in love with Diana Harrington. When she married Matthew Gray, his love for her underwent a subtle change, it turned into active hatred of the man who had supplanted him. Hatred in such a nature as his quickly thinks of revenge, and on the night when Raymond arranged with Mrs. Gray to supply the woman's column of his paper, he also thought out a very subtle mode of action, which would make the wife his instrument for putting the husband to open ridicule, and if possible spoiling his career.

Gray had not only supplanted Raymond with regard to his wife, but years ago, when a young man, had secured a good post on one of the great dailies, which, but for his sudden appearance on the scene, would have been given to Raymond. Gray was now a leader writer on this same journal, but this fact was known only to a few. His caustic and brilliant writing was much admired, but even Diana herself had not the faintest idea that her husband wrote the words which she read morning after morning with sparkling eyes, sometimes of indignation, sometimes of admiration at their undoubted power. It was Gray's pleasure to keep this secret of his journalistic work even from his wife—his novel writing apparently occupied all his time, and Diana never questioned him about mysterious absences which took place almost nightly. He blessed her for this, not caring to appear before the public in a double capacity, and glad for many reasons to keep his incognito. He said to himself that he was the lucky possessor of a wife who was not cursed with Eve's curiosity—he did not guess, however, the true reason for Diana's apparent want of interest in the long hours which he spent from home. She was equally busy on her own account. Not for worlds would she let her husband know what she did day by day at the Vanguard Club. It was there she collected those choice morsels which so delighted Raymond, and so tickled the fancy of his many readers. It was there she worked up her articles into sprightly and readable English. It was from the Vanguard Club that she posted them weekly to the office of the Hyde Park Gazette. As a rule, she never read them in print. Had she done so she would not have recognised these papers for her own. With her many faults, and she had plenty, Diana's real nature was sweet and whole—she could not put on paper the venomous things which appeared week by week in the Gazette—this was Raymond's own office, it was he who turned the witty and brilliant article each week into gall. The gall was none too bitter for his readers, however, and Diana suspected nothing. She received her salary, and had the pleasure of feeling that her debts were sensibly diminishing.

One day, about six months after Diana had undertaken the post of editor of the woman's column on the Hyde Park Gazette, Raymond sent her a note asking her to call early at his office. It came by special messenger, and Gray happened to be with his wife when she received it. She coloured crimson and then grew deadly white.

“Anything wrong?” he asked of her in some surprise.

“No,” she answered, “not exactly,” then she looked boldly into his face. Come, what would, she could not lie to him.

“This is a note from Mr. Raymond,” she said; “he begs of me to call at the Hyde Park Gazette this morning—you know I used to write paragraphs for his paper.”