Robert Orange
uncommon in this especial disposition. One may describe it as ascetic,
anaemic, sentimental, hysterical, neurotic; but the men and women who
possess this fragile organism show, as a rule, powers of endurance and a
strength of will by no means characteristic of the average sanguine and
sensual creature who eats, drinks, fights, loves, and does his best in a
world which he calls vile, yet would not renounce for all the ecstasies
of Paradise.
The carriage wheels rolled on--as swift and noiseless as the sand in an
hour-glass. Why was the road so short? Why could they not be carried
thus for ever, tranquil with happiness, wanting nothing, seeking
nothing, bound no-whither? Foolish questions and a foolish longing: yet
happiness consists in being able to formulate wishes with the serene
knowledge that a better wisdom directs their fulfilment. Neither
passers-by nor other vehicles, neither houses nor streets caught the
entranced attention of these young lovers. The delight of being purely
self-absorbed is very great and intoxicating to those who are
constantly--either by desire or the force of circumstances--unselfish. A
faint flush swept into Brigit's face under the effect of an experience
so novel. Their twofold consciousness had all the pathos of
self-effacement, and all the thrill of satisfied egoism. Such instants
cannot last, and they are shortest when one's habits of thought are
antagonistic to such luxury. Brigit sighed deeply, and roused herself
with a painful sense that the minute she wilfully cut short had been the
sweetest in her life.
"Pensee," she said, "has been so kind to me. She gave me her room at
Wight House last night. She had the little dressing-room just off it.
Did you notice her dress? She was very anxious that you should like it."
"She seemed all right," said Robert; "and wasn't Reckage splendid?"
Having spoilt their perfect moment, they became as mere mortals, more at
ease in this planet, where complete joy has an unfamiliar mien. Brigit's
actual physical beauty returned. The sunshine stole in at the open
window and lit up her golden hair, which was half hidden by a hat with
white plumes. She looked down at her hand with its new wedding ring, and
was pleasantly aware of Robert's admiration.
"I am so glad," she exclaimed, "that you think my hand is nice. Because
I have given it to you for all time. And if you are ever tired, or
discouraged, or unhappy, or lonely, and you want me, I shall come to
you."
"But you will be with me now always."
"Yes," she answered. "Yes, Robert, always."
They had now reached Almouth House. Her little foot, with its arched
instep, seemed too slight and delicate for the pavement. Robert knew
that her arm rested upon his, because he felt it trembling. They crossed
the threshold together. The doors closed after them.
"And he never once kissed her on the way from church!" exclaimed the
footman.
But the coachman did not think this very peculiar. "I don't hold with
kissing," said he; "to my mind there's nothing in it. Kissing is for
boys and gals--not for men and wives."
Baron Zeuill was unable to join them all at breakfast, but Pensee, and
Reckage, and David Rennes (who had been especially invited the night
before because he had proved so entertaining), did more than their duty
as friends by talking feverishly, eating immoderately, and affecting the
conventional joyousness universally thought proper at such times. Pensee
ventured to make a reference to the forthcoming marriage of the "best
man," and expressed the faltering hope that "dear Agnes would be as
happy as dear Brigit." Reckage scowled. Rennes was seized with a fit of
coughing. It was the one unlucky hit in the whole conversation, and it
was soon forgotten by every one present except Orange, who remembered
it frequently in later days. At last the hour for departure came.
Pensee, weeping, kissed Brigit on both cheeks, looked into her grave
eyes long and lovingly, put her arms around the slight, girlish form
with that exquisite, indefinable tenderness, unconscious,
unpremeditated, and protective, which married women show toward very
youthful brides. Robert handed his wife into the brougham, the order was
given "To Waterloo," the horses started, rice and slippers were thrown.
"They go into the world for the first time," exclaimed Rennes.
Then Pensee was assisted into the barouche, and drove homewards.
"We shall meet again," she said, as she parted from Reckage; "we meet at
Sara's at lunch."
The two men were thus left alone. They decided to smoke, for they were
both a little affected by the pathos of the situation.
"Explain Robert," said his lordship, as they returned to the
dining-room, "explain that kind of love. You are an artist."
"Well, it isn't my way," rejoined the other, with a forced laugh, "but
there are many manifestations of personal magnetism."
"This kind is very interesting," said Reckage, "although it is, of
course, high-flown. Orange is romantic and scrupulous--he knows next to
nothing of the sensual life; and that next to nothing is merely a source
of disgust and remorse. You follow me?"
"Perfectly," said Rennes. "It is a question of temperament. The wonder
is that he has not entered, in some delirium of renunciation, the
priesthood."
"That would mean, for his gifts, a closed career. It beats my wits to
guess how this marriage will turn out. He is madly in love. He has
suffered frightfully. Too much moral anguish has a depraving effect in
the long run."
"I am not so sure of that."
"I think so, at any rate. Now many a decent sort of fellow can get along
well enough--if he has a woman to his taste and wine which he considers
good. You observe I condense the situation as much as possible. But
Orange is different."
"Not so different--except in degree, or experience. At present, he
oscillates between the woe of love and the joy of life. You compared him
to St. Augustine. St. Augustine never pretended that earthly happiness
was a delusion. He knew better. He said, 'Do not trust it, but seek the
happiness which hath no end.' Personally, I can accept with gratitude as
much as I can get. 'Is not the life of men upon earth all trial, without
any interval?' This may be; yet it is something to learn how to
sympathise with happiness. Our best men and women devote themselves too
exclusively to the diagnosis of misery."
"You have thought a lot, I can see," said Reckage.
The artist gave him a quick, friendly glance.
"I have played the fool," said he. "I envy Orange. He will know things
that I can never know--now. I haven't lived up to my thoughts. I am not
remorseful--I don't believe in remorse. It is a thing for the
half-hearted. But if I am not sad, I am not especially gay. The middle
course between sentimentality and gallantry seems to me intimately
immoral and ridiculous into the bargain. So I am an idealist with
senses. There are times when I hate life. And why? Because life is evil?
By no means; but because we tell lies about it, and write lies about it,
from morning till night."
"You seem a bit depressed," said Lord Reckage. "But, by the by, how is
the portrait going? My brother Hercy, who paints a little, always
declared that Agnes was unpaintable. Do you find her unpaintable?"
"No," said Rennes; "oh no!"
CHAPTER VII
When Reckage asked Rennes whether he found Miss Carillon "unpaintable,"
the artist was conscious of a swift, piercing emotion, which passed,
indeed, but left an ache. And as the day advanced the smart of the wound
grew more intense. A visit to the National Gallery, a call at his
tailor's, an inspection of maps at his club, afforded little relief to
the indefinable misery. He was tortured by the disingenuousness of his
own mind. He had done so much, and thought so much, and read so much; he
could give so many scientific reasons for each idea and each movement of
his mental and physical being, that the joy of life had been cut up in
its machinery. He had lost the power of being natural either in his
pains or his pleasures. He knew all the answers, but not one of the
questions which trouble youth. He had never wondered at anything.
Wonder--the lovely mistress of wisdom--had taught him none of her
secrets. Dead certainty had dogged his steps from his first appearance
on this unknowable world. Once, when a very little boy, he admired a
vase full of pink roses. "They will keep twice as long," said his
nurse, "in dirty water. It is such a waste to put fresh water on roses!"
This remark--slight in itself--remained in his memory as the first
truth--the Logos, in fact--from which all other truths generated. He was
now nine-and-thirty: he had executed an abnormal amount of work, and he
had a just reputation as a portrait-painter. His technical skill was
considered unique. The something lacking was that mysteriousness which
belongs to all great art, and is, essentially, in life.
"Rennes," said one of his friends, "can work for sixteen hours a day. It
is all taken from without. He gives nothing except his undivided
attention." The saying was not true; he gave himself absolutely--soul,
brain, and heart--to his task, but the gift was too premeditated,
too accurately weighed. There was no self-abandonment, nor
self-forgetfulness. His admiration for Miss Carillon had been of this
kind. Having added up her attractions, her figure, her face, her youth,
her intelligence, her grace, he decided that she was exceptional in many
ways. He found real happiness in her society--she was so sane, so clear,
so unaffected. His attitude toward her had remained for some time one of
fraternal affection, partly by force of will, chiefly because his
relations with other women were not so restrained. But the position was
changing. Certain forces in life were assuming for him a complicated and
threatening aspect. What if, after all, there was an incalculable
element in man?
"Now to be practical," he said to himself. He had not seen his mother
for a fortnight. She lived in Kensington Square. "I must really go and
see my mother!" The cab drove quickly; the little grey house was soon
reached. David opened the door with his latch-key and rushed upstairs
into the small drawing-room, furnished in white and green, with fresh
flowers on the mantelpiece, and many shelves of vellum-bound books. A
bronze lamp hung from the ceiling, and its globe, covered in violet
silk, cast a light like that of the early dawn in hilly regions. A faint
odour of lavender filled the air. In one corner of the room there was a
chess-table with its chessmen showing an interrupted game. A velvet
footstool, much indented by the pressure of a firm foot, stood in front
of the carved armchair in which Mrs. Rennes usually sat. Her
work-basket, lined with blue satin and shining with steel fittings,
stood in its customary place on a gipsy stool near the fireplace. A few
old English prints hung on the walls, and between the windows there was
a Chippendale cabinet filled with Worcester and Crown Derby china. The
aspect of all things was restful, emotionless, and some of its calm
seemed to overtake and soothe David's agitated spirit. He sat down at
the piano and played, with much passion, bits from Wagner's "_Tristan_,"
the first performance of which he had seen at Munich. "Good Heavens!" he
thought. "What a genius! What a soul! What a phrase!" Suddenly the door
opened and Agnes Carillon was ushered in. She hesitated a second, and
then recognised Rennes, who had his back to the light. Her first
instinct was to retreat; her first feeling was a strange sensation of
pleasure and fear. His usually cold and wearied face took an expression
of controlled but unmistakable delight. She blushed, though not with
resentment, yet she avoided, by appearing to have some difficulty with