ture of the bargain between them?

And every week of that endless six a letter came to him from Celia
bearing the same message:

"I have seen it in the paper, Jack, but I know it is not true. You will
never do it. You can't do it, Jack. You belong to me. Dear, it will
be harder with every day that passes. Be brave and end it _now_! I
know you better than you know yourself. Nothing that she can give you
will make you happy apart from me. It's been hard for you--I know it
too well, and you shall never hear a word of reproach, but--come soon,
Jack! It's weary waiting. I have given you so much that I've no power
to live alone. Your Celia."

Each letter said the same thing in different words, and each time that
one arrived the struggle between love and ambition was fought afresh in
Malham's mind. Never before had he realised all that Celia had counted
for in his life; never had he yearned so passionately for her presence.
A dozen times over he started with rapid footsteps to answer her appeal
in person, but never once did he arrive at his destination. The very
sight of the mean streets through which he was obliged to pass, served
to chill his enthusiasm and awake the remembrance of all that a
reconciliation must entail. To break off his engagement with Lady Anne
Mulliner at the eleventh hour would be to alienate his political patrons
and ring the death knell of his hopes. He would be obliged to drag on
year after year waiting for a chance of distinguishing himself at the
Bar, living meantime in one of these mean little houses, in one of these
mean little streets, turning out morning after morning to make his way
to the Tube, among the crowd of black-coated, middle-class workers.

The struggle ended each time in the victory of ambition. He turned and
retraced his steps towards his own chambers.

The last letter arrived on the morning of the marriage. Its message was
the same, but the valiant confidence had waned, and a note of wildness
took its place. Yet even now Celia would not, could not, believe that
his decision was irrevocable. Even now she adjured him to reflect, to
remember, to be warned! The handwriting was rough and untidy, hardly
recognisable as Celia's dainty calligraphy; in every line, in every word
there were signs of agitation and despair, but as Malham recognised with
a pang, there was still no word of reproach.

He kissed the letter and held it passionately to his lips, before he
dro