Robert Orange
her muff, his outstretched hand.
"I have called on your mother," said she. "I thought you would be on
your way to Rome."
Her lips were red and rather full: her cheeks were pink, her throat and
brows were white. Her demeanour was, while modest, neither shy nor
self-conscious. David was struck by her height and the extreme
slightness of her figure. She wore a large Gainsborough hat with long
plumes, a black gown, and a collar of old _point de Venise_. She had
come up from the country, and her presence brought its freshness.
"Why are you in town?" he asked abruptly.
"I was bored at home."
"And the trousseau?"
"The trousseau?" she said, lifting her eyes for the first time to his.
"They say it is unlucky to try on your wedding-dress," he continued,
seeking relief in the very torture of reminding himself that the date of
her marriage with Lord Reckage was fixed.
"I never think about luck," she answered.
"I met Reckage at the play last night. I lunched with him to-day," said
Rennes.
"I am so glad that you are friends. I want you to like him."
"No doubt he thinks me mad. Politicians always regard artists as
madmen."
"But Beauclerk is considered very cultured. I hate the word. He is
interested in art."
"No doubt--as a means of investment, an educational influence, or a
topic of conversation for light moments."
"You are severe. Yet I like to hear you talk."
She hoped that his talk would drown the singing in her heart, the
whispering in her ears, the footsteps of doubt--doubt of herself, doubt
of Reckage, coming nearer and nearer. She had been taught everything.
She had discovered nothing. Love itself had come to her in the shape of
a cruel code of responsibilities. Lately she had been dwelling with an
almost feverish emphasis on the question of duty. She had wearied
Reckage; she had exhausted herself by the tenacity of her mind toward
that dull subject. And the real truth about much in life was forcing
itself upon her. She was essentially a woman of affairs. Her face
absorbed the poetry of her nature, just as a flower extracts every
excellence from its surrounding soil, and, shining out for the sun,
wastes no blossom underground. It had been her earliest ambition to
marry a Member of Parliament and help him--by her prayers and
counsel--on his conscientious career toward Downing Street. She had
received an austere education, and even her native generosity of heart
could not soften the indignation she had been trained to feel against
any neglect of duty. Duty was a term which she applied to that science
of things generally expedient which tradition has presented to us in the
household proverbs and maxims of every nation. Early rising, controlling
one's temper, paying one's debts, consideration for others, working
while it is day, taking stitches in time--all these to that orthodox
mind were matters of imperative obligation, if not Divine command.
David's impulsive nature and self-indulgent habits filled her with
overwhelming sorrow and dismay. She could not understand the rapid
changes of mood, the disordered views, the storm and violence which are
characteristic of every artist whose work is a form of autobiography
rather than a presentment of impersonal forms and effects.
In Rennes there were two principles constantly at work: the David who
acted, and the David who observed, criticised, and reproduced in
allegorical guise, the inspiring performance. Agnes knew nothing of this
common phenomenon in creative genius, and when her friend refreshed his
imagination by appearing in a new _role_, she was as terrified as a
child before some clever trick in experimental chemistry. From time to
time he expressed opinions which startled her. She begged him once to
paint a "religious" picture. He would not. A feeling that she had
experienced some bitter disappointment weighed upon her spirit. Yet when
she seemed to give that disappointment a cause, she was careful to leave
it in obscurity. She would not permit herself to think, and, pale with
suffering, she would check the painful questions which rose already
answered. Her affection for Rennes was one of those serious passions
which sometimes take root in an unsentimental nature, and derive a
strength from philosophy which romantic considerations, pleasant as they
are, can never bestow. Romance will add a magical delight to the
pleasures of existence, but for the burden of the day one needs a
sobriety of thought which would ring singularly flat in a love-lyric,
which is certainly opposed to those emotions which produce what is
commonly regarded as interesting behaviour. Agnes had not been drawn to
Rennes at first sight, but rather by degrees and against her better
judgment. She had found him unstable and affected; on the other hand,
she admired his fine figure, his talent, his conversation, and the fire
in his brilliant eyes. She told herself that she was deeply anxious
about his soul, but, in a crowd, she watched for his broad shoulders and
his handsome face. Such was her friendship, and she had known him for
two years. Her first season had been a startling success. She had the
misery of rejecting several suitors of whom her father fully
approved--one was an Archdeacon. She had been drawn more than kindly
toward a consumptive violinist whom she had met at a Saturday
entertainment for the poor at Kensal Green. Not a single word of love
ever passed between them. He called once or twice at her aunt's house in
Chester Square, and they had played together some of Corelli's sonatas.
Her aunt carried her away to Brighton, and no more was heard of the
young violinist till a rumour reached them that he was drinking himself
to death at St. Moritz. Agnes said many prayers for him. At last a
second rumour reached her that the first was wholly incorrect. He had
married a very nice girl with a lot of money and was building a villa at
Cannes. Agnes told herself that she was thankful to hear it. The next
year she became engaged to a young Member of Parliament with really fine
prospects. She was not in love, but she liked him better than all her
friends. She felt serene, and at last useful. Then a story reached her
about another woman, and yet another woman before that one. The story
was true and not at all pretty. The Bishop was obliged to support his
daughter in her refusal to regard matters in what her betrothed
described as a sane and reasonable manner. He had sinned and he was
sorry, and what was more, he had every desire to reform. But Agnes
remained firm, although she had probably never been so nearly in love
with him as she was on the day when she returned all his charming
letters and the ring and his photograph. It was a trying moment. She
was ordered abroad, and she spent the winter at Rome, where she read
ancient history and visited churches and excited a great deal of
admiration. Mrs. Rennes and David were also at Rome. The three met at
the house of an irreproachable Marchesa. They became friends. Miss
Carillon's aunt, who was a maiden lady with means, succumbed to the
fascinating eloquence of an amateur _connoisseur_ of antique gems. In
her new character of _fiancee_, she found it inconvenient to chaperon a
young niece. She joined a widowed friend, and gladly assented to the
suggestion that dear Agnes should visit Mrs. Rennes in Paris. The Bishop
saw no impediment to the plan. He had been at Oxford with the late
Archibald Rennes, an odd fellow but high-minded. Mrs. Rennes was the
daughter of a General Hughes-Drummond. Every one knew the
Hughes-Drummonds. They were very good people indeed. The Bishop hoped
that Agnes would enjoy herself, give her kind friend as little trouble
as possible, and come home fully restored in spirits. He forgot David.
It may be that others omitted to mention him. The Bishop was not pleased
when the rumour reached him that this artist was included in the party.
What were his habits? What were his prospects? Were his artistic talents
such that he might reasonably hope to become a Royal Academician and
maintain an establishment? What _class_ of pictures did he paint? Were
they lofty in tone? Did they exalt and purify the mind? Would they make
good engravings--such engravings as one might hang on one's walls? The
correspondence and the questions were endless. David spent a week end at
the Episcopal Palace, and behaved so well that he became frightened at
his own capabilities for John Bullism. He was a little annoyed, too, to
find himself at ease in a British home circle. The Bishop was, at all
events, satisfied. Agnes was enchanted, and, transfigured by unconscious
passion, looked more beautiful than ever. David enjoyed the services in
the cathedral; he liked the quiet Sunday afternoon, he was impressed by
Dr. Carillon's real earnestness in the pulpit. The visit was a great
success. Before he left, he begged Agnes to write to him "when she could
spare the time." The young man had tried everything except a Platonic
friendship with a lovely girl. He fancied that he found in Agnes
Carillon that purity coupled with magnetism which makes such experiments
attractive. They corresponded regularly, but they did not meet again for
several months. When he returned, a little tired of platonism,
letter-writing, intellectuality, and longing a great deal for the sight
of her face, he found her engaged to Lord Reckage. So nature revenges
itself. He detected a certain triumph and also a certain deep reproach
in her gaze. She insisted that she was more than happy, but something
under these words seemed to murmur--"You have spoilt our lives." Her
manner, nevertheless, never altered. She was invariably sympathetic,
gracious, delicately emotional. In letters she signed herself, "Yours
affectionately, Agnes Carillon."
"How I should like to paint you in this light!" he said, all at once.
"That is the dress I love best. Don't wear it often." The remark was
slight enough as a pretty speech within the bounds of flirtation, but
the tone in which he uttered it meant more, and the girl's womanly
instinct told her that the dangerous limit in their "friendship" had
been reached. He saw her turn pale. She looked away from him, and
swallowed thoughts which were far more bitter than any words she could
have spoken.
"You never used to say these things," she exclaimed at last; "why do you
say them now?"
"I thought them--always," he answered. "But I am a Pagan. I tried to
keep my Paganism for others, and what you would call 'the best in me'
for you. You may be able to understand. Anyhow, I made a mistake--a
terrible mistake. It was a false position, and I couldn't maintain it.
Now I don't even want to maintain it. Then it was a kind of vanity. I
mean that time when I was at the Palace. I had been reading a lot of
beautiful unreal stuff about the soul. I thought I had reached a very
high place. Of course I had--because nothing is higher or purer than
real human love. But I wouldn't call it love. So I went abroad, and
wrote any amount of 'literature' to you. And all the time Reckage was
here--asking you, wisely enough, to marry him. And you, wisely enough,
accepted him."
Agnes sat still, with her eyes down, cold, silent, forbidding. She did
not understand him. She had neither the knowledge of life, nor the
imagination, which could make such understanding possible. But she saw
in his look that he loved her, that he was unhappy. She knew that
Reckage had never shown so much feeling. Yet had she not given her word
to Reckage? Was it not irrevocable? Was Rennes behaving well in speaking
out--too late? Was it too late? A torrent of questions poured into her
mind. She dragged off her gloves, and spread out her hands, which were
slim and white, and stared at her sapphire engagement ring.