Theodore was still at Stirmingham watching them; perhaps a sterner keeper than Theodore might turn the key upon one or both ere long. He set his teeth firmly with a frown as he thought of that possibility. Marese was not the man to be threatened with impunity. At all events they were quite safe for a good length of time—till long after his marriage. The marriage once over and he feared nothing. No scandal could seriously injure him after that. He should be secured with a triple wall of brass—of wealth, power, position.
The property at Stirmingham was falling into his hands like an over-ripe pear. Let the companies strive how they might, they could no longer discover any pretext to delay its surrender. The American claimants had vanished into the distance—that great dread had departed. He had paid off in hard cash a large share of the claims the building societies made upon him, for expenses they had incurred in improving the property. He had obtained a rule that the remainder of the claims should be discharged by instalments; and as now in a short time he should enjoy almost unlimited credit, there would be no difficulty in raising the necessary sums.
With other societies he had corresponded; with the Corporation he was on the best of terms, having used his influence in Parliament already to pass a private bill of theirs, and they had no legal power to prevent his seizure of his rights. With the rest of his creditors he was not only on good terms—he was pressed to borrow more. Literally he felt himself, as he surveyed his monetary affairs, the richest man in the world.
Another success came to him. He had delivered his maiden speech in the House, and whether it really was clever or appropriate, or whether people were predisposed in his favour, certain it was that it had produced an impression. The papers were full of it; the reviewers considered it an omen of an honourable parliamentary career. It was quoted from one end of the kingdom to the other. His party begun to cast an eye upon him. Here was that rare combination—a rich man with talent. Could they not turn him to account?
Then came the announcement of the engagement with Lechester, and they went a step further, and said something must be done. Something was forthwith done. An office was offered to him—not a high office, nor very remunerative, but still an office; and one only a degree beneath that of a Minister. It was well understood that no man ever filled that post without subsequently becoming a Minister. It was a kind of political cadetship. Marese accepted the office, and wrote to Lady Lechester, who saw in this a new proof of the career in store for her; and he received in reply the warmest note he had hitherto had.
Lastly, he was about to marry into one of the oldest families in England. This marriage was the sure and certain prelude to a coronet; not that he would take it till he had exhausted his powers, and felt it time to retire to the House of Lords. Yet it was this marriage that alone caused any anxiety to Marese. He grew, for him, nervously anxious as the time approached. It certainly was not affection for her personally; it was the extraordinary good fortune which now smiled upon him. Once a gamester—still largely gambling upon the Stock Exchange—he had imbibed a little of the superstition of the race. Hard as he was—cool, self-possessed, and equal to any emergency—there arose in his mind a certain feverish eagerness to get it over; not sufficient to curtail his rest, or cause him to exhibit any outward sign, or even to diminish his glory in his success; but there was just this dash of uncertain bitter in the cup that was rising to his lip. He dared not hurry on the ceremony, knowing Lady Lechester’s temperament too well: he must await the arrival of the date that she herself had fixed.
There was some little difficulty at The Towers as to where the marriage should take place. The church at Bury Wick was the natural resort, easiest of access, and nearest; but Agnes, even in her pride and self-will, could not altogether make up her mind to be married in that church. The memory of the wedding-party so strangely and fearfully interrupted there, had not yet died away. It would seem like a bad omen to be married there.
Barnham was so far, and the vicar a Low Churchman, and not to her taste. Marese suggested Stirmingham: but no, that would not do. My lady would be married from her own ancestral Towers; and finally hit upon the plan of resuscitating the ancient family chapel at The Towers, and having the ceremony performed in it. This could be done by a special licence: which, of course, was no obstacle. It was true that she disliked and even hated The Towers; but the pride of family and long descent overcame that feeling. She would be married in the old chapel. Accordingly, workmen were sent for, and the sound of hammer and plane resounded through the place. The chapel, disused ever since the Lechesters left the Church of Rome—about a century ago—was completely renovated, cleaned, painted, gilded, and adorned in every possible manner.
Time flew, and Agnes’ pen was busy in marking the list of names of those who were eligible to receive an invitation to the marriage. The dresses were ordered. Agnes was very hard to please—even a simple village maiden likes to exercise her choice for that once in her life. Judge, then, of the difficulty of pleasing the mistress of The Towers, soon to be the richest lady in the world. Nothing was good enough: the orders were countermanded day after day, and nothing but the enormous sums that were to be expended could have reconciled the tradesmen to her incessant caprices.
Yet through all this loud sound of preparation, through all this silk and satin, through everything that could be devised to make the heart content, there penetrated a trouble. Agnes would at times retire to her private room, and remain secluded for hours. After these solitary fits her step was slower, and her countenance pale and melancholy, till she gradually recovered herself. She had broken off her habit of visiting the Kickwell Pot. It had been a great trial to her to do so; but she had at last firmly made up her mind, and had conquered the singular fascination which drew her thither. She had decided upon the earthly career: she would close her eyes to the immortal one. But the memory of the spirit was not so easily effaced: she mused on its shape, its graceful, swaying elegance of motion, the glow in its wonderful eyes, and felt at times the thrill of its electric touch. It required immense strength of mind to resist the temptation to converse once more with her phantom-lover.