If genius is mad, sensitiveness degenerate, and emotionality neurotic, and if heredity is the determining principle in the causation of character, comparative psychology enables us to account for many things. On these lines it could fairly be argued that one family taint of neurosis, manifesting itself diversely, had driven Stephen Chisely to the gaol and brought his cousin, the Canon, to the feet of Yvonne. Though there may be fallacies in the premises, there is, however, a certain plausibility in the deduction. Through both men ran a vein of artistic feeling carrying with it a perception of the beautiful and an impulse toward its attainment This malady of sensitiveness—to speak by the book—had carried Stephen beyond the bounds of moral principle. It prevailed at times over Canon Chisely’s natural austerity and hardness. If in the one case it had been a curse, in the other it was a blessing.
In politics a Tory, in social attitude proud of caste, in creed a rigid Anglican, in morals conventional, in affairs a man of cold, crystalline judgment, he had few of the undegenerate qualities that make for lovableness of character. The aesthetic sense, deeply spreading, was the redeeming vice of a sternly virtuous man. It was his social salvation, his vehicle of happiness, his bond of sympathy with his fellow-creatures.
The beauty of Yvonne’s voice had attracted him toward her, years before—afterwards, the beauty of her face. But it was not until the conception of her nature’s beauty, idealised by he knew not what artistry within him from voice and face and simple thoughts and acts, arose within his mind, that he became conscious of deeper feelings. At first it seemed as if he had disintegrated the soul of his favourite Greuze—fathomed the unplumbed innocence of its eyes as its hand closes over the apple—and was regarding it with a poet’s wonder. But then his sterner nature asserted itself, restoring mental equilibrium. He realised that his feelings for her were what men call love, and soberly he thought of marriage.
He had often, previously, considered the advantages of matrimony. It was an honourable estate, becoming to his position, involving parental responsibilities which, for God’s greater glory, it behoved a man of his calibre to seek. The wife he had contemplated was to be a woman of culture, reserve, high principle, who could grace his table, aid him in spiritual affairs, and bear him worthy offspring. He was called upon now to reorganise his conceptions. It is true that his idea of the advantages of the married state was unaffected, save by the addition of one undreamed of—the sunshine of a sweet woman’s face in his cold home. But the disparity between the ideal woman and the real one was alarming. Socially, parentally, spiritually, was Yvonne the woman to hold the high office of his wife? He gave the matter months of anxious reflection. He was marrying at leisure, certainly, he thought grimly; would he repent in haste? At length his love for Yvonne wove itself into his schemes for the Festival. Yvonne should come to Fulminster, take her place at once in society under Mrs. Winstanley’s chaperonage and win her welcome with her voice. Thus he would have an opportunity of judging her within his own environment. A complex mingling of passion and calculation.
And Yvonne, demurely innocent, had passed through the ordeal. As the Canon drove away from the “Elijah,” he doubted no longer. Before she left Fulminster he would ask her to be his wife. It is characteristic of the man that he had no serious fears of her refusal.
The Festival was over. It was the day after. Miss Vicary and Vandeleur had returned to town by an early train and Yvonne was spending an idle morning over the fire. She had wandered round the shelves of the morning-room in search of a novel, and had selected “Corinne” because it was French. But Yvonne was a child of the age, and children of the age do not appreciate Madame de Staël. One can understand a dear old lady in curls and cap sighing lovingly over “Corinne,” bringing back as it does memories of inky fingers and eternal friendships; but not—well, not Yvonne. She loved “Gyp.” An unread volume was in her trunk upstairs. She felt too tired and lazy to get it. Besides, she was not quite sure whether the sight of “Gyp” would not shock Mrs. Winstanley, who was engaged over her voluminous correspondence at a table by the window.
“They have such queer prejudices,” thought Yvonne. “One never knows.”
So she dropped “Corinne” on to the floor and looked at the fire. In spite of her awe of Mrs. Winstanley, she was sorry to leave Fulminster. Life had been made very pleasant for her the last few days. Her throat was somewhat relaxed after the strain. She wished she could give it a long rest. But on Monday she was engaged to sing at a club concert at the Crystal Palace and in the morning she was to resume her singing lessons; and the weather in London was wet and muggy. It would be bliss to be idle, not to think of earning money and just to sing when you wanted. She turned her head and caught a chance glimpse of her hostess’s face. The morning light streaming full upon it showed up pitilessly the network of lines beneath her eyes and the fallen contours of her lips and the roughness of her skin. Yvonne was startled at seeing her look so old and faded—a letter to a sister-in-law detailing Everard’s folly did not conduce to sweetness of expression—and she wondered whether she, Yvonne, would be happy when she came to look like that. She shivered a little at the thought. Yes, the years would pass, leaving their footprints, and she would grow old and her voice would pass away. It was dreadful. When Yvonne did enter the gloom, she made it very dark indeed, and summoned every available bogey. What should she do in her old age, when she could no longer earn her living? Geraldine was always preaching thrift, but she had put nothing by as yet. If she became incapacitated to-morrow, she did not know how she would live. She looked at the fire wistfully, her brow knitted in faint lines, and found her position very pathetic. But just then Bruce, Mrs. Winstanley’s collie, rose from the rug and came and laid his chin on her knees, looking at her with great, mournful eyes. Yvonne broke into a sudden laugh, which astonished both Bruce and his mistress, and taking the dog’s silky ears in her hands, she kissed his nose and rallied him gaily on his melancholy. So Yvonne stepped out of the darkness into the sunshine again.
Presently a servant entered.
“Canon Chisely would be glad if he could see Madame Latour for a moment.”
“Where is the Canon?” asked Mrs. Winstanley.
“In the drawing-room, ma’am.”
Yvonne rose quickly and went to her hostess, who slipped a sheet of blotting-paper over her half-finished page.
“Shall I go down?”
“Naturally.”
Yvonne spoke a word to the servant, who retired, and then gave her hair a few tidying touches before the mirror in the over-mantel.
“I wonder if he has brought me those old Provençal songs.”
“I hope he has, my dear,” said Mrs. Winstanley, drily.
“Well, he is sure to have something nice to tell me, at any rate,” replied Yvonne, in her sunny way.
The Canon was standing on the hearthrug, his hands behind his back. On the table lay his hat and gloves. Yvonne advanced quickly across the room to meet him, her face lit with genuine pleasure. He greeted her gravely and held her hand in both of his.
“I have come to have a serious talk with you.”
“Have I been doing anything wrong?” asked Yvonne, looking up into his face.
“We shall see,” he said, smiling. “Let us sit down.”
Still holding her hand, he drew her to the couch by the fireside, and they sat down together.
“It is about yourself, Yvonne—I may call you Yvonne?—and about myself too. You have always felt that you have had a friend in me?”
“Ah! a dear friend, Canon. No one is to me the same as you. I shan’t mind at all if you scold me.”
She looked at him so guilelessly, so trustingly, that his heart melted over her. Verily she was the wife sent to him by heaven.
“I was but jesting, Yvonne. Besides, how could I dare scold you? It is I who come as a suppliant to you, my dear. I love you, and it is the dearest wish of my heart to make you my wife.”
The sun died out of Yvonne’s eyes, her heart stopped beating, she looked at him in piteous amazement.
“You—want me—?”
“Yes. Is it so strange?”
“You are jesting still—I don’t understand—” She had withdrawn her hand from his clasp, and was sitting upright, twisting her handkerchief and trembling all over. It was so unexpected. She could scarcely trust her senses. She had regarded him more as an influence than as a man. To Geraldine’s wit she had given not a moment’s thought. To marry Canon Chisely—the idea seemed unreal, preposterous. And yet she heard his voice pleading. She was overwhelmed by the sudden magnitude of responsibility. He had swooped down and caught her up through the vast moral spaces that lay between them, and she was dizzy and breathless.
“I do not press you for your answer,” she heard him saying. “To-morrow—a week, a month hence—what you will. Take your time. I can give you a good name, comfort in worldly things—the ease and freedom from care which, thank God, my means allow—an honourable position, and a deep, true affection. Would you like me to wait a month before I speak to you again?”
“A month could make no difference,” murmured Yvonne. “It would seem as strange then as now.” There was a sudden pause in the whirl of her thoughts. Was it a bewildering device of his to show her kindness, provide for her future?
“I could n’t accept it from you,” she added incoherently.
“But it is I who want you, Yvonne,” said the Canon, earnestly. “It is I who must have you to brighten my home and comfort my life. If your life is lying idle, as it were, Yvonne, give it me to use for my happiness. For months I have given this my deepest, most anxious thought. I am not a man to talk lightly of love and marriage. When I say that I want you, it means that you are necessary to me. And you trust me?”
“Above all men—of course—”
“Then your answer—‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ or ‘wait.’”
She was silent. He put his arm round her shoulders and drew her to him.
“You must be my wife, Yvonne. Why not say ‘yes’ now?”
She felt powerless beneath the strong will and authority of the man. Why he should wish to marry her, she could not understand; but his words had all the weight of an imperative.
“If you must have me, then—” said she in a quavering little voice, “I must do as you say.”
“You will be happy, my child,” he said, reassuringly. “I will make it all sunshine for you—you need have no fears.”
He drew her yet closer to him and kissed her forehead; then he released her gently.
“So it’s a promise?”
“Yes,” said Yvonne.
“Then look into my eyes and say, ‘Everard, I will take you for my husband.’”
He said it loverwise, and, dignitary though he was, with a touch of a lover’s fatuity. The tone revived Yvonne’s animation.
“Oh, I could n’t,” she cried, with a queer little laugh, midway between despair and gaiety. “I shouldn’t dare—it wouldn’t sound respectful.”
“Try,” said he. “Say ‘Everard.’”
But Yvonne shook her head. “I must practise it by myself.”
The Canon laughed. He was well contented with the world. Her modesty and innocence charmed him. Married though she had been, the fragrance of maidenhood seemed still to hover round her. She was an exquisite thing to have taken possession of.
“Are you happy?” he asked, taking her small brown hand that lay clasped with the other on her lap.
“I am too frightened to be happy—yet,” she replied softly, with a shy lift of her eyes.
“I don’t quite understand what has happened. Half an hour ago I was a poor little singer—and now—”
“You are my affianced wife,” said the Canon, with grave promptness.
“That’s what I can’t realise. Everything seems topsy-turvy. Oh, itisyour wish, Canon Chisely, isn’t it? You are so good and wise, you wouldn’t let me do anything that was not right?”
“Always trust to me for your happiness, Yvonne, and all will be well,” answered the Canon.
Presently she rose, gave him her hand with simple dignity.
“I must go and think it over by myself. You will let me? Another time I will stay with you as long as you want me.”
The Canon led her to the door, kissed her hand, bending low over it in an old-fashioned way, and bowed her out of the room. Then he rang for the servant and sent a message to Mrs. Winstanley. He was a man of prompt execution.
In the interview that followed, the Canon came off triumphant. He parried his cousin’s thrusts of satire with a solicitude for her own welfare that was not free from irony. If she had not so openly showed him her distaste for the marriage, he might have displayed some sympathy for her in the loss ofprestigethat she was sustaining as lady ruler of the Rectory. As matters stood, he considered she had forfeited it by her caprice. Besides, he had shrewdly determined that there should not be a triple dominion in his house.
“I hope she will extend your sphere of usefulness, Everard, as a wife should,” said Mrs. Winstanley. “But she is inexperienced in these matters. You will not be hard upon her.”
“I am only hard on those who disregard my authority. Then it is duty and not severity. Have you ever found me a harsh taskmaster, Emmeline?”
“You would n’t compare us surely?”
“Certainly not. I could compare my wife with no other woman. It would be in all respects wrong.”
“Well,” she replied, bidding him adieu, “I hope that you will be happy.”
“My dear Emmeline,” said the Canon, “I have been humbly conscious for years that my happiness has always been one of your chief considerations.”
From Mrs. Winstanley’s he proceeded at once to Lady Santyre’s, where he received congratulations and luncheon. He left with the comfortable certainty that all Fulminster would ring with the news of his engagement during the course of the afternoon. His announcement was as public as if he had proclaimed it from the pulpit. And Fulminster did ring as he had expected—not that it was unprepared, for the Canon’s attentions to Madame Latour had been a subject of universal speculation. Murmurings arose in certain quarters. The neighbourhood abounded in the aristocratic fair unwedded, and the Canon was highly eligible. One of the aggrieved declared that all the Chiselys were eccentric, and instanced the unfortunate Stephen.
“My dear,” replied in remonstrance her interlocutor, who had just married her last daughter to the leading manufacturer in Fulminster, “You must not talk as if the Canon had run off with a ballet-girl.”
But generally his indiscretion was condoned. It had been a stroke of genius to let Yvonne charm her critics from a public platform at the very outset.
For Yvonne herself, the remainder of her visit passed in a whirl. Families called upon her; mothers congratulated her; the “Fulminster Gazette” interviewed her; the Santyres changed the small dinner-party, to which she had been already asked, into a solemn banquet in her honour; and the Canon was ever at her side, attentive, courteous, dignified, authoritative, playing his part to perfection. The flattery pleased her. The universal deference paid to the Canon, of which she had grown more keenly conscious, awakened a shy pride. But it all seemed an incongruous dream, out of which she would awake when she found herself in her tiny flat in the Marylebone Road. She was afraid to go back. If it was a dream, she would regret this sudden lifting from her shoulders of all sordid cares, the dread of losing her voice, of poverty, and the grasshopper’s wintry old age. If it continued true, she feared lest the familiar surroundings might pain her with regret for the life she was abandoning—the sweet artist’s life, with all its inconsequences and its purposes, its hopes and fears, its freedom and its claims. Even now, she cried a little at the prospect of giving it up. And then she wouldn’t know herself. Hitherto, her conception of herself had been Yvonne Latour, the singer. That was her Alpha and Omega. It would be like looking in the glass and seeing a total stranger. It was pathetic.
On Sunday she received a series of sensations. She believed such elemental doctrines as she had received at her mother’s knee: in a beautiful heaven and a fearful hell, in Christ and the angels—she was not quite certain about the Virgin Mary—in the Lord’s Prayer, which she said every night at her bedside, and in the goodness of going to church. Her religion might have been that of a bird of the air for all the shackles it laid upon her soul. But the outer forms of worship impressed her strongly—church music, solemn silences, vestments, stained windows, even words. She felt very solemn when she called her innocent self a “miserable sinner” in the Litany, and the word “Sabbaoth,” in the “Te Deum,” always seemed fraught with mystic meaning. The symbolic hushed her into awe. Even the surplices of the choir-boys set them apart for the moment, in her mind, from the baser sort of urchins. And,a fortiori, the clergyman, in surplice and stole, had always appealed to her childish imagination as a being that moved in an especial odour of sanctity. It is fair to add that Yvonne’s church-going had never been as regular as might have been desired, so these reverential feelings had not been staled by custom. However, when the Canon appeared at the reading-desk, and his fine voice rang through the Abbey, Yvonne felt a sudden pang of alarm. The night before he had been so tender and playful that he had almost seemed to be upon her level. And now, he was far, far away. The distance between her, poor, insignificant little Yvonne, and him performing his sacred office, appeared immeasurably vast. And when he mounted the pulpit, her awe grew greater. She could not realise that he was her affianced husband.
He preached on the text from the story of Nicodemus, “Except a man be born again.” The words caught her fancy as being apposite to her own case, and, disregarding the thread of the Canon’s discourse, she preached a little sermon to herself. She was going to be born again. Yvonne the singer would die, and a new, regenerate Yvonne, the lady of the Rectory, Mrs. Everard Chisely, would appear in her stead. She caught a phrase in which the Canon touched upon the spiritual pain attending on the death of the old Adam. She wondered whether she would be called upon to suffer the fire of purification. It was like the Phoenix. At this point she pulled herself up short. To mix up the Phoenix and Nicodemus might be profane. So she bestowed her best attention on the remainder of the sermon.
That afternoon he took her through the Rectory—a great rambling Elizabethan house, with nineteenth-century additions. She followed him meekly from room to room, filled with wonder at the beauty of her future home. The Canon had spent much money over his collections—overmuch, some critics said—and the house was a museum of art treasures. Pictures, statuary, wood-carvings, rare furniture met her in every apartment, at every turn of the stairs. At first, the awe with which his sacerdotal character had inspired her kept her subdued, but gradually the new impressions effaced it. He spoke as if all these things were already hers—established, as it were, a joint ownership.
“This is your own boudoir,” he said, as he led her into a pleasant room, overlooking the lawn and commanding a view of the Abbey. “Do you think you will be happy in it?”
“I must be,” she said, gratefully. “Not only because you have given me the most beautiful room in the whole house, but because you are so good to me in all things.”
“Who could help being good to you, my child?” said the Canon.
He was sincere. Yvonne felt humbled and yet lifted. Her eyes dwelt for a shy moment on his. He seemed so kind, so loyal, so indulgent, and yet a man so greatly to be venerated and honoured, that all her sweet womanhood was moved. Standing, too, in this room that was to be her own, she felt the future melt into the present. Her hand slipped timidly through his arm.
“I shall never know why you want me,” she said, in a low voice, “but I pray God I may be a good and loving and obedient wife to you.”
“Amen, dear,” said the Canon, kissing her.
So Yvonne was married, and for six months was completely happy. Fulminster and the county entertained her, and she entertained Fulminster and the county. Her husband petted her and relieved her of serious responsibilities. She won the hearts of Mrs. Dirks the housekeeper, of Jordan the gardener, and Fletcher the coachman, three autocrats in their respective spheres of influence—victories whereby she controlled the menu, filled the house with whatever flowers struck her fancy, and had out the horses at the moment of her caprice. Her quick wit soon obtained a grasp upon domestic affairs and her headship in the household was a practical fact which the Canon proudly recognised. Her social duties she performed with the tact born of simplicity. Mrs. Winstanley went away raging after her first dinner-party. She had expected a consoling proof of incapacity and had witnessed a little triumph of hostess-ship.
Not a cloud had appeared on her horizon since the wedding-day, when they had started upon a magic month in Italy, among blue lakes and bluer skies and gorgeous pictures and marble palaces. After that, there had been the excitement of home-coming, the fluttering sweetness of taking possession, the bewildering succession of fresh faces in her drawing-room, the long drives to return calls, and to attend parties in her honour. The new duties interested her. She revelled in an infants’ class at the Sunday school, which she instructed in a theology undreamed of by the Fathers. She sang at local concerts. She dressed herself in dainty raiment to please her husband’s eye. In fact she made a study of his æsthetic tastes from food to music, and delighted in gratifying them. With feminine pliancy she strove to adapt her moods to his. His face became a book which she loved to read when they met after a few hours’ absence; and, according to what she read, she became demure, or gay, or businesslike. In her leisure hours she sang to herself, read French novels, which she obtained in unlimited supply from London, and sought the society of Sophia Wilmington and her brother, who quickly constituted themselves her chief friends and advisers in Fulminster. Often she sat idle and gave herself up to dreamy contemplation of her beatitude.
In these moods comparisons would arise between her two marriages, and between the two men. Scenes, almost forgotten during the years of her widowhood, revived in her memory. Phases of present wedded relations brought back vividly analogous phases in the past. The contrast sometimes produced an emotion that seemed too great for self-containment, and she longed to open her heart to her husband. But she dared not. Love might have broken down barriers, but not the grateful, respectful affection she bore the Canon. Besides, beyond one little talk, two years ago, at the house of Stephen’s mother during her last illness, no mention had been made between them of Amédée Bazouge.
Man-like, he preferred to dismiss the circumstance from his mind as unpleasant. But the woman found pleasure in remembering, and in using the contrasts to heighten her present happiness.
Thus for six months she had known no trouble, and had laughed at her old tremulous misgivings as to her capacity for filling her present position.
Suddenly, one afternoon in early June, as they were sitting in the shadow of the old Abbey, cast across half the lawn, the Canon laid down the review he was reading by the foot of his chair, and, deliberately folding his gold pince-nez and thrusting it in his waistcoat, looked at her and said, “Yvonne.”
She closed “Le Petit Bob” with a snap, and became dutiful and smiling attention.
“I have something to say to you,” he remarked gravely; “something perhaps painful—about certain possible little changes in our lives.”
“Changes?” echoed Yvonne blankly.
“Yes, I have been wishing to speak for some months past. I think, dear, you ought to be more serious, and give me greater help than you have done hitherto. Do you follow me?”
If the quiet Rectory garden had suddenly been transformed into a Sahara, and the golden laburnum by which she was sitting, into a pillar of fire, she could not have been more bewildered. But she felt a horrible pain, as from a stab, and the tears started to her eyes.
“No. Not at all—what is it?”
“I don’t wish to be unkind to you, Yvonne. I am only speaking from a sense of duty. Once said, it will be, I am sure, enough.”
“But what is it? What is it?” she repeated piteously. “What have I done to displease you?”
He took up his parable, with crossed legs and joined finger tips, and in a quiet, unemotional voice catalogued her failings. She was not sufficiently alive to the deeper responsibilities of her position. Many parochial duties that devolved upon the Rector’s wife, she had left undone. She took no pains to improve her acquaintance with doctrinal and ecclesiastical affairs.
“I am not exaggerating,” he said, “for you did tell the Sunday-school children that St. John the Baptist was present at the Crucifixion, Yvonne, did n’t you?”
He smiled, as if to soften the severity of his charges; but Yvonne’s face was fixed in tragic dismay, and the tears were rolling down her cheeks.
He rose and advanced to her with outstretched arms. She obeyed his suggestion mechanically and allowed herself to stand in his embrace.
“It is best to say it all out at once, Yvonne,” he said gently. “And you will think over it, I know. You must n’t be hurt, little wife.”
But she was—to the depths of her heart. “I did n’t know you were not pleased with me,” she said with trembling lip. “I thought I was doing my very best to make you happy.”
“And you have, my child—very happy.”
“Oh no—I have n’t. I will try to do what you want, Everard. But I told you I was n’t fit for you—I can do nothing, nothing but just sing a little. But I will try Everard. Forgive me.”
“Freely, freely, dearest,” said the magnanimous man, patting her on the shoulder. “There, there,” he added, kissing her forehead. “It pained me intensely to say what I did. But if duties were always pleasant, it would be a world of righteousness. Dry your eyes and smile, Yvonne. And come and play my accompaniment for a few minutes before dinner.”
He drew her arm within his and led her into the house, through the open French window, talking of trifles to assure her of his affectionate forgiveness. It was not in Yvonne’s nature to show resentment. She fell outwardly into his humour, and thanked him sweetly for his somewhat exaggerated attentions in arranging the piano and music; but as she played, the notes became blurred.
“A little out there,” he said, standing behind her, his violin under his chin. “Let us go back four bars.”
She struggled on bravely, biting her lip to keep back the tears that would come and render the page illegible. At last a drop fell on a black note, as she was bending her head towards the music-book. The Canon stopped short and laid his violin and bow hastily on the piano.
“My dearest,” he exclaimed, stooping over her. “It is all over. Don’t be unhappy. I did not mean to be unkind to you. I am afraid I was. It is I who am not fit for so tender and sensitive a nature.”
He sat down by her on the broad piano-seat and let her cry upon his shoulder. He had an uncomfortable feeling that in some way he had been brutal. A man must be as hard as Mephistopheles not to experience this sensation the first time he makes a woman cry. The second or third time he calls his attitude firmness; afterwards he characterises her conduct as unreasonable. A wise woman makes the very most of the first tears of her married life. But Yvonne was not a wise woman. She dried her eyes as fast as she could, and felt ashamed and humbled, and went and bathed them in eau-de-cologne and water, and, seeing that the Canon desired her to be her old self, for that evening at any rate, did her best to humour him.
After this, her life went on, not unhappily, but unlifted by the buoyancy of the first six months. Her illusions had been shattered. The spontaneity of her actions was checked. They became little tasks, whose excellence she could not judge until the Canon had pronounced upon them. She made prodigious efforts to fulfil his wishes. Some met with success. Others, such as attempts at parish organisation, failed. Mrs. Winstanley, like Betsy Jane in Artemus Ward’s book, would not be reorganised. The Canon intervened, but his cousin stood firm, and at last he had to yield. In district visiting, Yvonne had hard struggles. If she had carried her own charminginsoucianceinto working homes, she would have won all hearts. But, morbidly conscious of the responsibilities of her position, she judged it her duty to cast frivolity from her and to put on the serious dignity of the Rector’s wife, which fitted her as easily as a suit of armour. As for theology, she read with a zeal only equalled by her incapacity of appreciating the drift of the science. To the end of her days Yvonne could see no other difference between a Churchman and a Dissenter, except that one had a pretty service and the other a dull one. So closely, however, did she pursue her studies that the Canon took pity on her, and came back from London one day with “Gyp’s” latest production in his pocket. It would have done an archbishop good to see the gleam of pleasure in Yvonne’s eyes.
Six more months passed, and Yvonne began to weary of the strain of self-improvement. The sterner side of the Canon’s character showed itself in a hundred little ways. Small censurings became frequent, praise difficult to obtain. With the Canon’s gracious consent, she despatched at last an invitation to Geraldine, who had already paid her a visit in the spring. But that was in the days of her happiness.
Geraldine came, and her keen wit very soon penetrated the situation. Yvonne had been too loyal to complain.
“You’ve just got to tell me all about it,” she said in her determined fashion.
It was their first evening, after dinner, as soon as the Canon had gone down to his library.
“All about what, Dina?” asked Yvonne.
“Oh, don’t pretend not to know. You were as happy as a bird when I was here last, and now you don’t open your mouth.”
“I think I want a change,” said Yvonne. “I am getting too respectable. At first, you see, everything was new, and now I have got used to it. I think if I could run about London by myself for a month, and sing at lots of concerts, it would do me good. And oh, Dina—I should so much like to hear a man say ‘damn’ again!”
“Well, I’m not a man, but I’ ll say it for you—damn, damn, damn. Now do you feel better?”
“Oh, you look so funny as you say it!” cried Yvonne, with a laugh. “I wish it was something artistic and you could teach it to the Canon.”
“It strikes me, if I were to set about it, I could teach the Canon a good many things. First of all, what a treasure he has got—which he does n’t seem quite aware of.”
“Oh, Dina, you mustn’t say that,” said Yvonne, looking shocked. “He is all kindness and indulgence—really, dear. If I feel dull, it is because I am wicked and hanker after frivolous things—Van, for instance, and a comic song. Do you know you have n’t once spoken about Van?”
“Oh, don’t talk of Van,” said Miss Vicary; “I am getting tired of him. He never knows his mind three days together. If I was n’t a fool I would give him up for good and all.”
“But why don’t you marry and make an end of it?” asked Yvonne. “I don’t understand.”
“Ask Van. Don’t ask me. There’s somebody else now. Elsie Carnegie, of all people.”
“Poor Dina.”
“Oh, not at all. Dina is not going to break her heart over Van’s infidelities. I’m quite content as I am. Only I’m a fool—there! I ’ve never told you I was a fool before, Yvonne. That’s because you are so sedate and respectable. I’m getting to venerate you.”
“I should like to talk to him seriously about it—for his good.”
“Oh, heavens, my child, he’d be falling in love with you again and having the whole artillery of the Church about his ears!” Yvonne laughed gaily. The talk was doing her good. Geraldine’s forcible phraseology was a tonic after the politer accents of Fulminster. They drifted away unconsciously from the main subject upon which they had started. Geraldine had many things to tell of the doings in the musical world.
“Oh, I wish I was back for a little,” cried poor Yvonne. “Singing in a amateur way is not like singing professionally, is it?”
“I think you are better where you are,” replied Geraldine, seriously, “in spite of all things. It is no use being discontented.”
“Not a bit,” sighed Yvonne. She was silent for a little, and then she turned round to Geraldine.
“I don’t think you would do very well married, Dina. You are too independent. A woman has to give in so much, you know; and do so much pretending, which you could never do.”
“And why pretend?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You have to—in lots of things. I suppose we women were born for it. Men have all kinds of strange feelings, and they expect us to have the same, and we have n’t, Dina; and yet they would be hurt and miserable if we told them so—so we have to pretend.”
Geraldine looked at her with an expression of pain on her strong face, and then she bent down—Yvonne was on a low stool by her side—and flung her arms about her.
“Oh, my dear little philosopher, I wish to God you could have loved a man—and married him! That is happiness—no need of pretending. I knew it once—years ago. It only lasted a few months, for he died before we announced our marriage—no one has ever known. Only you, now, dear. Try and love your husband, dear—give him your soul and passion. It is the only thing I can tell you to help you, dear. Then all the troubles will go. Oh, darling, to love a man vehemently—they say it is a woman’s greatest curse. It is n’t; it is the greatest blessing of God on her.”
“You are speaking as men have spoken,” replied Yvonne, in a whisper, holding her friend’s hand tightly. “I never knew before—but God will never bless me—like that.”
The autumn hardened into winter and the winter softened into spring, and the relations between Yvonne and the Canon seemed to follow the seasons’ difference. He had learned her limitations and no longer set her tasks beyond her powers.
“You must not try to put a butterfly into harness,” said Mrs. Winstanley, who had gradually been gaining lost influence. He had called to consult her upon some parochial question and the talk had turned upon Yvonne. The Canon bit his lip. He had fallen into the habit of making confidences and regretting them a moment afterwards.
“You do Yvonne injustice.”
“I did once, I grant,” she replied; “but now, as you see, I am pleading for her.”
“Yvonne needs no advocate with me,” said the Canon, stiffly.
“She may.”
“What do you mean, Emmeline?”
“If you don’t understand her nature, you may misinterpret her conduct. You see, Everard, she is young and light-natured—and so, like seeks like. You may always count upon me to keep things straight outside.”
She had laid her hand upon his arm, and spoke in her quiet, authoritative voice. Her manner was too dignified to be intrusive. She was eminently the woman of sense. Her reference was well understood by him, but being a man accustomed to the broad issues of life, he did not appreciate the delicate pleasure such a conversation afforded her.
On this occasion, he went from her house straight to the Rectory, and in the drawing-room found young Evan Wilmington bidding good-bye to Yvonne. Her sunniest smile rested on the young fellow; when the door shut upon him, the after-glow of amusement was still upon her face. The Canon felt an absurd pang of jealousy. Such had not been infrequent of late, since he had abandoned his scheme of reorganisation. In fact, as Yvonne had fallen from his conjugal ideal—the woman who, as an impeccable consort and mother of children was to lend added dignity to his days—his feelings as regards her had been growing more helplessly human. His conception of the dove-like innocence of her nature had suffered no change. Her pure voice had ever been to him the speech of a purer soul. It was no vulgar jealousy that pained him; but jealousy it was, all the same.
He went to her and put his hands against her cheeks and held up her face.
“Don’t smile too much on young Evan,” he said. “It is not good for him. I want all your best smiles for myself, sweetheart.”
“He has been making me laugh,” said Yvonne.
“And I cannot?”
“He is a silly boy and you are the venerable Canon Chisely.”
“That’s it,” he said, rather bitterly, releasing her.
Her expression changed. She caught him, as he was turning away, by the lapels of his coat.
“Are you serious, Everard? You are! Forgive me if I have hurt you. I can’t bear to do it. Do you wish me to see less of Mr. Wilmington—really?”
Looking into her eyes he felt ashamed of his pettiness.
“See your friends as much as you like, my child,” he said, with a revulsion of feeling.
The matter was settled for the time being, but thenceforward the even tenor of their life was disturbed occasionally by such outbursts. Once he grew angry. “You have the same smile for any man who speaks to you, Yvonne.” She replied with gentle logic, “That ought to prove that I like all equally.”
“Your husband included.”
She turned away wounded. “You have no right to say that.”
“Then what have I a right to say, Yvonne?”
“Anything,” she cried, facing him with brightening eyes, “anything except that I do not try with all my heart and soul to be a good wife to you.”
This time it was he who said “Forgive me.” Unconsciously her influence grew upon him in his lighter moods, as he excluded her from participation in his serious concerns. To win from her a flash other than dutiful he would humour any caprice. Yvonne was too shrewd not to perceive this. His tenderness touched her, saddened her a little. On her birthday he gave her a pair of tiny ponies and a diminutive phaeton—a perfect turn-out. He lived for a week on the delight in her face when they were brought round (an absolute surprise) to the front door. Yet that evening she said, with her little air of seriousness, after she had been meditating for some time in silence, with puckered brow:—
“I wonder if I am quite such a child as you think me, Everard. I should like something to happen to show you that I am a woman.”
“Don’t say that, dear,” he replied, contentedly, holding up his glass of port to the light and peering into it—he was a specialist in ports—“such a chance would probably be some calamity.”
Yvonne was not alone in noting the true inwardness of the Canon’s course of action. Mrs. Winstanley did so, to her own chagrin. The ponies were as distasteful to her as the beast of the Apocalypse. She was with Lady Santyre, in the latter’s barouche, when she first saw them. Yvonne, aglow with the effort of driving, was sending them down the Fulminster Road at a rattling pace. She nodded brightly as she passed, pointing to the ponies with her whip.
“How fond the dear Canon is of that little woman,” said Lady Santyre, her thin lips closing as if on an acidulated drop.
“Psha!” said Mrs. Winstanley, with one of her rare exhibitions of temper. “If he were a few years older, it would be senile infatuation! She is beginning to curl him round her finger.”
But there was one subject near to Yvonne’s heart on which the Canon was inflexible—Joyce. Often Yvonne had sought to soften him toward the black sheep, but in his gentlest moods the mention of his cousin’s name turned him to adamant. He even resented Yvonne’s helpful friendship before her marriage. On the afternoon that he had passed Joyce on the stairs, he had spoken as strongly to Yvonne as good taste permitted. Now that he had authority over her, he forbade her to hold further communication with the man who had disgraced his name. Finally she abandoned her attempts at conciliation, but pity prevailing over wifely obedience, she kept up her correspondence with Joyce, unknown to the Canon. That is to say, she wrote cheery, gossipy letters now and then to the address she had received from Cape Town, trusting to luck for their ultimate delivery, but receiving very few in return, for Joyce had often not the heart to write.
She was reading, one day, his last letter, many pages closely filled. It had come that morning, under Miss Vicary’s cover, according to her request. The envelope lay on the table in the centre of the room; but she had taken the letter to the broad, cushioned window-seat, her favourite place in summer, where she could see the old abbey, and enjoy the scent of the mignonette and syringa from the beds below. It was the quiet afternoon hour, before tea, when she generally read or idled or sang to herself. She was at peace with all the world, and her heart was full of pity for Joyce.
Yet it was the most hopeful of the four letters she had received from him. The previous ones had told of struggles and privations innumerable; the aimless tramp from one town to another in the search for more than starvation wages; the hopeless attempts to live in mining camps, where unskilled labour was a drug in the market; sickness, and the dwindling of his little capital. This one took up the tale broken off some months before. Noakes and himself had left the mines, had wandered, sometimes alone, sometimes with other adventurers, into Bechuanaland, where he had purchased with his last remaining pounds a share in a small farm. It was a haven of rest. But the country was unhealthy. The work was hard. Noakes lay ill in bed; medical advice was a hundred and fifty miles away. To cheer the invalid, he had schemed out a novel on the life they had recently passed through, and was writing it at nights for Noakes to read during the day. He was writing it on a bundle of yellow package-paper which had remained over from the stock of a small “store” once run by the chief owner of the farm.
He spoke of the comfort of her letters. Four of them had just come to his hands at once. He had read them aloud to Noakes, who was even more friendless than himself. Yvonne’s heart was touched at the thought of the poor man who never got a letter, and had to extract vicarious comfort from his friend’s. She knew him quite well through Joyce’s description, and loved him for the quaint lovableness that appeared in the narrative of their joint fortunes.
“He shall have a letter all to himself,” said Yvonne aloud; and she rose to put her idea into execution.
But just as she was bringing her writing materials to the window-seat, which was strewn with the sheets of Joyce’s letter, the Canon came into the room.
“Can you give me some tea quickly, dear?” he said, ringing the bell. “I am called away to Bickerton.”
He sank into a chair with a sigh of relief. It had been a busy day and the weather was hot.
“Would you like me to drive you over?” asked Yvonne.
“Dearly,” said the Canon. He leaned back, and stretched out his hand in a gesture of contented invitation.
“It won’t be taking you from your correspondence? You seem up to your eyes in it.”
“Oh, it can wait,” said Yvonne, smiling down upon him as he held her hand.
Soon the servant brought the tea, and Yvonne established herself over the tea-cups. The Canon, whilst waiting, glanced idly at the books and odds and ends on the table by his side. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of surprise. He had become aware of the foreign envelope, with the Cape Colony stamp and its address to “Mrs. Chisely, care of Miss Vicary.” He also recognised Joyce’s handwriting which happened to be singularly striking in character. His brow grew dark.
“What is the meaning of this, Yvonne?”
“A letter from Stephen,” she replied with a sudden qualm.
“And sent to you clandestinely. You have been corresponding with him secretly in defiance of my express desire. How dared you do it?”
He spoke in harsh tones, bending upon her all the hardness of a stern face. She had never seen him angered like this before. She was frightened, but she steadied herself and looked him in the face.
“I couldn’t help it, Everard,” she said, gently. “The poor fellow regards me as his only friend. I was forced to disobey you.”
“That poor fellow has been guilty of mean robbery. He has herded with ruffians in a common gaol. He has dragged an old honoured name through the mire. For a man like that—once a knave always a knave. I don’t choose to have my wife keeping up friendly relations with an outcast member of my family. I am deeply offended with you—I pass over the underhand nature of the correspondence, which in itself deserves reprobation.”
“I believe in Stephen,” replied Yvonne, growing very white. “He has been punished a thousand times over. He will live an honourable man to the end of his life. And if you read how he speaks of the few silly letters I have written him—his joy and gratitude—you would not wish to deprive him of them.”
“Do you mean to say that you are deliberately setting yourself in opposition to my wishes, Yvonne?” asked the Canon in angry surprise.
Yvonne was in great distress. She could not defy him openly, and yet she knew that no power on earth would prevent her from doing Joyce her little deeds of mercy.
She looked at him piteously for a moment, and then sank by his chair and clasped his knees. “I can’t do what you want, Everard,” she cried. “We were such friends in days past—And when I met him again, he looked so broken and lonely—I could n’t in my heart let him go—and having given him my friendship, I can’t be so cruel as to take it from him now. I can’t feel what you do about the disgrace. I haven’t the capacity perhaps. And I promised his dead mother to be kind to him. ====== I did indeed. “I can’t do what you want, Everard,” she cried. “We were such friends in days past—And when I met him again, he looked so broken and lonely—I could n’t in my heart let him go—and having given him my friendship, I can’t be so cruel as to take it from him now. I can’t feel what you do about the disgrace. I haven’t the capacity perhaps. And I promised his dead mother to be kind to him. === I did indeed, Everard, friendship, I can’t be so cruel as to take it from him now. I can’t feel what you do about the disgrace. I haven’t the capacity perhaps. And I promised his dead mother to be kind to him. I did indeed. “I can’t do what you want, Everard,” she cried. “We were such friends in days past—And when I met him again, he looked so broken and lonely—I could n’t in my heart let him go—and having given him my friendship, I can’t be so cruel as to take it from him now. I can’t feel what you do about the disgrace. I haven’t the capacity perhaps. And I promised his dead mother to be kind to him. I did indeed, Everard—and a promise like that I must keep.”
He put her not unkindly from him and, rising to his feet, took two or three turns about the room. Stopping, he said:—
“Why did you not tell me of this promise before?”
“I was afraid to vex you,” said Yvonne.
“You have vexed me much more by deceiving me,” he replied.
But there the matter had to end. He could not bid her break her word, nor would he allow himself to yield to a tempting sophistry that women’s ante-nuptial promises were annulled by marriage. To regain his good graces, however, Yvonne pledged herself never to intercede with him on Joyce’s behalf in the future—in fact to preserve an absolute silence concerning the black sheep and his doings.
This settled, she drove him over to Bickerton in her pony carriage. And the even tenor of her life went on.
It was many weeks before the letters arrived at the farm in South Africa. The monthly ox-waggons that came from the nearest post-town brought them, together with the usual load of farm and household requisites, tinned provisions, and liquors. Day after day, Joyce had stood by the prickly-pear hedge on the rise behind the house, looking over the dreary plain, in wistful watch for the specks on the horizon that alone connected him with civilisation. They arrived at night—a blustering August night, with frost in the air, and a cloudless sky in which the Southern Cross gleamed. Before waiting to help unload and outspan the teams, he rushed into the house with the meagre post-bundle. It contained a few colonial newspapers, some letters for Wilson, the farmer who was away, and the two letters from Fulminster. The rough table, on which he sorted them by the light of a flaring chimneyless lamp, was drawn up to the bedside of Noakes.
“One for you, old man,” said Joyce.
“For me?”
Noakes stretched out his thin arm eagerly, and clutched the undreamed of prize.
“From Yvonne. It’s to cheer you up, old chap, I expect. It’s just like her, you know.”.
Joyce ran through his letter rapidly and went out to superintend the unloading. But Noakes, who was past work, remained in bed and pored over Yvonne’s simple lines till the tears came into his eyes.
When all was settled, the stores taken in, the teams secured, the natives who had driven them established in the huts, and finally the Englishman in charge provided with food and whisky and sent to sleep, Joyce sat down by his friend’s side and gave himself up to the greatest pleasure his life then held. The wind howled outside, and the draught swept in through the cracks on the doors, and the ill-fitting windows, and up the rude chimney beneath which a fire was smouldering. Noakes coughed incessantly. The atmosphere was tainted with the smell of the lamp, the thin smoke from the fuel, the piles of sacking and mealy-bags that lay in corners of the room, and the strips of bultong or dried beef hanging in the gloom of the rafters. The room itself, occupying nearly the whole area of the ground-floor of the rudely built wooden house, was cheerless in aspect. The table, two or three wooden chairs, some shelves holding cooking utensils and odds and ends of crockery, a litter of stores and boxes, a frameless dirty oleograph of the bubble-blowing boy, a churchman’s almanac, two years old, against the wall, and Noakes’s sack bed—that was all the room contained. In a corner was a ladder leading to the loft, where Joyce and the farmer slept, and whence now came the muffled sounds of the snoring of the English driver. But for a few moments Joyce forgot the cheerless surroundings.
He sat late with Noakes, reading the letters aloud and talking of Yvonne. At last, after a short silence, Noakes raised himself on his elbow and gazed earnestly at his friend. He was very gaunt and wasted—
“That’s the only tender thing a woman has ever done for me,” he said. “No,” he added in reply to Joyce’s questioning look, “my wife was never tender. God knows why she married me.”
“We ’ll make our fortunes and go back, and you shall know her,” said Joyce.
“No. I shall never go back. I shall never get half a mile beyond this door again.”
“Nonsense,” said Joyce. “You ’ll pull round when the spring comes.”
“I have performed my allotted task. It was a severe portion and it has finished me off.”
“Look here, old man,” cried Joyce, “for God’s sake don’t talk like that. I can’t live in this accursed place by myself. You’ve been broken down by our hard times—but you ’ll get over it all, with this long rest.”
“I am going to a longer one, Joyce. I don’t mind going, you know. And then you ’ll be free of me. I am but a cumberer of the ground—I am of no use—I never have been of any use—I have been carrying water in a sieve all my life.”
He began to cough. Joyce put his arm around him for support, and tended him gently.
“You have a lot to do, old man,” he said soon after. “The foolscap has come, and a great jar of ink, and you can start copying out the manuscript to-morrow.”
“Ah yes, I can do that,” said Noakes.
“Now go to sleep. I ’ll sit by you, if you like,” said Joyce.
He moved the lamp to a ledge behind Noakes’s head, and sat down near by, with the budget of newspapers. Noakes composed himself to sleep. At last he spoke, without turning round.
“Joyce.”
“Yes, old man.”
“Make me a promise.”
“Willingly.”
“Bury that dear lady’s letter with me.”
“Will it make you happy to promise?”
“Yes.”
“Then I promise,” said Joyce, humouring him. “Now I’m not going to talk to you any more.”
A few minutes later, his breathing told Joyce that he slept. The newspapers fell from Joyce’s hand, and he put his elbows on his knees and crouched over the smouldering logs. Noakes spoke truly. There was little chance of recovery. He would be left alone again soon. It would be very comfortless. The poor wreck who was dragging out his last days upon that wretched bed had been an unspeakable solace to him. Without his womanlike devotion he would have died of fever six months back on the Arato goldfield. Without the influence of his calm fatalism, he would have given up heart long ago. Without his steadfast purity of soul, he would have gone recklessly to the devil. The thought of losing him was a great pang.
He himself, too, was far from strong. The climate, the hard manual labour for which he was physically unfit were telling upon him heavily. He yearned for home, for civilised life, for the lost heritage of honour. Yvonne’s letter, telling of the little commonplaces of the lost sweet life of decent living, had revived the ever dormant longing. He began to dream of her, of that last day he had seen her, of her voice singing Gounod’s serenade.
It was difficult to picture her as married to his cousin Everard, whom, in the days of his vanity, he had despised as a prig and now dreaded as a scornful benefactor. It was a strange mating. And yet she seemed happy and unchanged.
The wind blustered outside. The cold draught whistled through the room. Joyce rose to his feet with a shiver, went to a corner for a couple of sacks, which he threw over the sleeping man, and, after having wistfully read Yvonne’s letter once more, ascended the ladder to the loft, where the shapeless mattress of dried grass and sacking awaited him.