by Lucas Malet
XII
Laurence drew himself up with a sharp sensation of annoyance, genialityand wistfulness alike departing from his aspect. The matter had neverpresented itself to him in this combination before, and it offended histaste, even, in a degree, his sense of decency. He paused a moment, andthen took refuge in slight insincerity.
"Always assuming, dear Mrs. Bellingham, that there is a family spectrefor Virginia, or anybody else, to be on terms with?"
"Why, you do not really propose to call that thrilling fact inquestion?" the lady answered, very brightly. "That would be toomortifying. It would constitute the climax of the _ennui_ from which Ihave suffered during the many months of this English winter. I hadpromised myself at least one vital sensation when you and I should meet,and you should tell me the true, inward history of that romantic, oldhouse of yours, Stoke Rivers."
She sat in an attitude, arranged the folds of her boxcloth shirt,patted the lace into place about her neck.
"You make me feel very badly," she said.
Laurence objected to soiling his conscience by lying at least as much asmost men. But surely, he argued, there are cases of justifiable perjury,as of justifiable homicide.
"I am awfully sorry," he said, "to dash your hopes of a sensation. But,you see, neither the romantic, old house or its inward history are myproperty as yet, so I can't give either away however much I may desireto do so."
"I know it. I do not ask you to commit any indiscretion. I do not askyou to tell me anything."
Laurence braced himself.
"How fortunate, since there's nothing to tell!" he said.
His hostess looked hard at him for a moment, and then at the floor.
"There was a time, before I lived among them, when I believed theEnglish to be a simple and undiplomatic nation," she said. "I knowbetter now."
Laurence was half-amused, half-irritated.
"Oh, come!" he retorted, "it's too bad to make it an internationalquestion."
"I had promised myself such a fine time in that house," she continued,still gazing abstractedly at the floor. "Virginia is, I consider--and Ibelieve you know that--the most perfectly lovely woman of myacquaintance. She represents the last word of our American culture; andI would advise every young girl, who was ambitious of social success, tostudy her as a model. She catches right on to everything new at once,and her power of repartee is great. My admiration for Virginia is sooverpowering, that it would really be a wonderful encouragement to myself-respect to get a step ahead of her for once. Well, I concluded Icould do that in a perfectly legitimate manner. I planned to ask you tolet me go right around that house from cellar to garret, and acquaintmyself with the whole interior. I wanted to see it before Virginia hadbrought our younger and more complex Western civilisation to bear uponit. I promised myself great gratification from doing that."
As she finished speaking, Mrs. Bellingham raised her eyes. That she wasin earnest, keenly inquisitive, there could be no doubt.
"But, unhappily, in asking that you would be asking me to commit thegreatest possible indiscretion," Laurence answered, laughing a little."You see, my uncle is alive as yet. And while he lives I must obeyorders."
"Orders?"
"Yes; and they are such preposterously unchivalrous orders that Itremble to mention them to you."
Mrs. Bellingham looked away. She grew a trifle anxious, having thegreatest fear of hearing anything even remotely, morally or socially,incorrect. But the young man's manner tended to reassure her. Heappeared particularly engaging at that moment.
"Yes, it will shock you," he said, "shock you outrageously, coming asyou do from a country where no member of your delightful sex is everrequested to take a back seat. My uncle is a brilliantly clever person,but on some points he is a little mad. And simply at Stoke Rivers--Iblush to mention it--no woman is admitted, no woman is permitted toexist."
Mrs. Bellingham's eyes positively flashed, her face went extremely pink.
"But this is the most unparalleled country!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Rivers,do you seriously intend me to believe that no lady may enter that house?Why, I ask you, how is it possible to conduct a domestic establishmentunder such circumstances?"
"Ah! that's the worst of it," Laurence said. He was beginning to beamused again. "I tell you, the condition of that house suggests the mostawful reflections."
"I am glad to hear it."
"Yes, awful," he repeated. "For it is the best mounted, the best served,the best kept house I have ever stayed in. It is as clean as a new pin.The whole thing moves on wheels--and yet never the trace of a petticoat!It follows that one is assailed by the unholy suspicion that woman maybe, after all, a quite superfluous luxury; and that the work of theworld, even in its humble, domestic aspects, can get along just as wellwithout her. My uncle entertains this opinion anyhow, and gives the mostconvincing practical exposition of it. He has supplied me with a largeamount of information under this head; and, upon my word, I'm afraid Iam beginning to see the force of his arguments. After that, I'd bettergo, hadn't I?"
"Well, I really believe perhaps you had," she answered. For once shelooked perplexed, almost flurried. Her face was still decidedly pink.But she rallied herself, and fired a parting shot.--"Unless," she added,"to make amends for having told me so very plainly that my presencewould not be tolerated at Stoke Rivers, you relent and give me the wholestory of that family spectre."
Laurence raised his head sharply, and once more his sense of amusementevaporated. The return to this theme jarred on him. The lady'spersistence appeared to him in singularly bad taste. The reiteration ofthat word angered him moreover. In hearing it he was sensible of a turnin his blood, as though an insult were being offered to one very dear tohim.
"Spectre?" he said slowly. "Pardon me--I--I don't quite follow you. Whatspectre?"
His hostess was roused in her turn.
"Why, Mr. Rivers, what has happened to you?" she inquired. "What have Isaid to disturb your equanimity? I had not supposed you to be sosensitive."
Whereupon the folly of his anger became extremely apparent to Laurence;the more so that he had so recently concluded to eschew ambitiousadventures and decline upon the large and unexciting levels of theCommonplace. In those regions hasty resentments, hot blood, thefine-gentleman-duelling-spirit, in short, is clearly out of the picture.And then, why quarrel with Mrs. Bellingham of all people? She was a verycharming, little person, specially when--as just now--her glance dweltfondly upon her red-coated babies and their escort of nurses, donkey,and dogs. If she had trodden on his toes, it was unwittingly, andwithout any intention of malice. So he proceeded to make _amendehonorable_ with proper despatch.
"Forgive me," he said; "I am an idiot. But the legends to which my poorold uncle's crankiness have given rise really begin to get upon mybrain. Wherever I go they crop up. You can understand it becomes alittle exasperating.--Good-bye. I have had a delightful time. Love toJack."
The lady smiled upon him, yet with an air of criticism and slightreserve.
"Oh yes," she said, "certainly, Mr. Rivers, love to Jack. But I am goingto write to Virginia and report on our interview. I believe it isincumbent on me as a true friend to do that.--Yes, you may come againjust as soon as you like. Now, do I not display a perfectly lovelyspirit in inviting you here after you have done just all you know toexplode my romance? Mr. Rivers, this day will leave a scar. I know it. Ido regret that spectre."
Laurence smiled back, looking down at her.
"Yes, it's a pity, isn't it," he said, "ever to explode a romance? Therearen't too many of them about. Perhaps I too could find it in my heartto regret that spectre."
And there, at least, the young man spoke truth, for regrets pursued himon his homeward way. All this talk, moreover, was a nuisance, anintolerable nuisance. And, though he did not stay to analyse theprobabilities of when and how, he apprehended up-croppings,developments, and ramifications of the said nuisance in the future. Mrs.Bellingham's question, as to the attitude Virginia might adopt toward
sthe occult element in her husband's fine inheritance, was moreuncomfortably pertinent than the questioner could by any means haveimagined. It suggested most disturbing complications. Thus Laurence rodeonward heedlessly, harassed by vexatious and perplexing thoughts.
"What a confounded bother it all is!" he exclaimed impatiently. "I wishto goodness the poor old man would live for ever--outlive me anyhow.That would be the simplest solution of the situation."
He raised his head and looked about him, then became aware that he musthave taken some wrong turn in the labyrinth of cross-country roadsbetween Bishop's Pudbury and Stoke Rivers, that he must have struck toofar southward and so lost his way. The mouth of the steep, rutted lane,shut in by copse on either hand, which he had been following, nowdebouched on a high-lying table-land. Small, rough fields bordered theroad, their crumbling, ill-kept banks bare of trees. Some fifty yardsahead, where four roads crossed, stood a lonely, one-story, turnpikehouse; it was six-sided, white-washed, and had a slated roof, risingextinguisher-like to a single central chimney. Placed in an angle of theintersecting roads, it was without garden ground. The turnpike-gate hadlong ago disappeared; and the house, a thing that had lost its use andbecome obsolete, was in a half-ruinous condition. An air of cheapdesolation pervaded it. Bundles of rags bulged from the brokenwindow-panes. Long-legged, high-shouldered fowls pecked and squatted inthe dust before the half-open door. Yet, seeing it, Laurence wassensible that this unsightly building had a tally somewhere in hismemory, and claimed recognition. And this impression received unexpectedreinforcement when suddenly its squalid walls changed from dirty-whiteto warm primrose, while the surviving glass in its rickety windows gaveoff dazzling splendours of light.
Anxious to learn the cause of this transformation, the young man drewup, and, laying his right hand upon his horse's sleek quarters, turnedhalf round in the saddle, and stayed thus, looking and listening.
The view was very noble. Southward the fall of the ground wassufficiently abrupt to exclude all middle distance, with the result thatthe rough grasses, withered bents and sorrel-stalks of the nearpasture-field were outlined against the immense sweep of the flatcoastline far below--this last, mauve, and russet, and dim green, wasbroken here and there by a pallor of sandhills and the shimmer ofseaward-tending streams. Looking west, the suave contours of the Downsand Beachy Head rose, in indigo and purple, against a great space ofsaffron-coloured sky. Above them, but with a bar of strong lightbetween, heavy masses of purple-grey cloud gathered, from out which thefreshening wind blew chill. The sea, steel-blue and dashed withwhite-capped waves, lifted a hard, serrated edge against the horizon.
All this Laurence saw. It made a rather splendid picture, big with thedrama of approaching storm. Yet he was persuaded something was lacking.As three days ago upon first entering the yellow drawing-room at StokeRivers, he had, after the first moment of surprise, instinctively lookedfor certain ornaments and pieces of furniture, and derived a singularsatisfaction from the conviction that they still occupied theiraccustomed place--so now and here, though to his knowledge he had neverbefore ridden across this piece of exposed and but half-reclaimedcommon-land, or seen the great view under its existing aspect,--heinstinctively gazed seaward in search of that which should support hishalf-awakened memory, and complete the scene to his satisfaction. Forsurely--yes, surely--bowling up Channel, under crowded canvas, beforethe freshening breeze, he should behold a fleet of some eight or tensquare-rigged East Indiamen, their carven poops standing high out of thewater,--vessels of about a thousand tons' burden, laden with tea andspices, bales of delicate muslins and silks, flasks of utter, porcelain,ivory fans, bright-hued parrots, and unseemly, little apes.
And as convoy of these rich cargoes, to secure them, their merchantcaptains and bronzed and sturdy crews, against the rapacity ofprivateers sweeping out from St. Malo and other ports of NorthernFrance, he should behold--yes, surely he should--a couple of smartEnglish frigates, square-rigged too, whose clean scrubbed decks and theblack mouths of whose port holes displayed grim argument of cannon,ready for action should occasion so demand. The ships, hugging the landfor greater safety from alert and hungry foes, seemed--while the windfilled the bellying sails, straining their tall masts, as they heeledupon that uneasy, blue-grey sea--like some flight of huge,golden-plumage birds; for all the saffron glory now streaming frombeneath the gathering storm-clouds in the west must lie full on them.
For such gallant sight Laurence watched, singularly moved, and with asingular eagerness. And so clear was the vision to his mind, sonecessary to the completion of the scene upon which his eyes rested,that for some moments he failed to distinguish where actuality endedand hallucination began. He contemplated the creation of his own brainin absorbed interest; then turned and looked at the rough road anddilapidated turnpike house, and then again out to sea. Only ablack-hulled, ocean-going tramp, her deckhouses piled up amidships closeagainst her reeking funnel, laboured slowly down channel in the teeth ofthe gusty breeze. This was all; and then the young man understood, notwithout amazement, that the gallant show had been a thing of theimagination only,--at most a thing remembered, but how and whenceremembered he could not tell. For how, upon any reasonable hypothesis,could the memory of a man like himself of but just over thirty, put backthe clock by close upon a century, and disport itself with incidentsbelonging by rights to, at least, two generations ago? It was all mostexceedingly strange. It amounted to being disquieting. Really he did nothalf like it. Yet the imagined spectacle had been very inspiring all thesame. It had made his blood tingle, and had effectually (ordisastrously) exorcised that spirit of indolence and _laisser aller_which he had solicited to take up its abode with him. He sent his horseforward at a sharp trot, while once again he proceeded to revise thesituation.
For the idea presented itself that perhaps he had been overself-confident, arrogating to himself a far greater freedom of will thanhe, in point of fact, possessed. It was all very fine to foreswearadventure, but what if adventure refused to be foresworn? He mighteasily propose to decline upon modernity, mediocrity, and theCommonplace; but what if these, as seemed just now highly probable,asserted in unmistakable language their determination to have none ofhim? He reflected that temperament may constitute your genius or yourfate, your opportunity or your ruin, as you have the wit to deal withit; but that temperament is indestructible, and that escape fromit,--however inconvenient and contrary to your desire that temperamentmay be,--is obviously and inherently impossible.
As he meditated thus, the road he followed dipped slightly, leaving thebare upland and passing along the under side of a thick belt of wood,which cut off the seaward view. On the left, between the interspaces ofthe hedgerow trees, the inland country now lay disclosed for many miles.Clouds had gathered so rapidly in the last ten minutes that the sun wasobscured, and all the wide expanse was drowned in heavy violet andindigo shadow. Only a ridge of hill, some three-quarters of a miledistant, was caught by long shafts of wild, rainbow light, so that itfloated as a narrow, fish-shaped island upon the ocean of stormy colour.And upon that island, uplifted, transmuted, etherealised, rendered atonce unreal yet insistent, vividly defined by the unnatural andsearching light, Laurence beheld Stoke Rivers--the long, low house, andits double range of windows, its avenues, and carriage-ways, the blockof stable buildings; every detail of the Italian garden, its cypressspires as of full-toned amethyst, its white balustrades and statuesiridescent as though made of long-buried Roman glass, its great lawnsgreen as malachite, the dome of its lime-grove touched by a dim glow asof uncut rubies. In this strange and unearthly radiance, Stoke Riversseemed to call upon Laurence, to challenge his admiration, to assert itsexistence and its claim upon his heart, with a singular power. It waspart of him, and he of it. It laid hands on his past and his futurealike. It refused to be taken lightly. As a woman wears her jewels tostartle and enthral a desired lover, so this dwelling-place of hispeople arrayed itself in marvellous wise to conquer his waveringallegiance and command his thought. It would fo
rce him not to disregardits secrets. It wooed him to intimacy, to discovery. It cried to himout, as it seemed, of some unplumbed depth of experience in himself.
That night Mr. Rivers engaged his nephew until past midnight. His mannerwas gracious, his mind, apparently, unusually at peace. His conversationwas remarkably brilliant, both in range of subject and readiness ofexpression. First dealing with the earliest known examples of art, anddisplaying critical acquaintance with Chaldean cylinders and stelae, hepassed on to the persistent influence of Eastern ideas upon Westernreligious thought. He discoursed of Hindu sacred literature and thecrowded pantheon of Hindu gods, noting how certain practices connectedwith their worship and certain symbols pertaining to it have passed intothe common use of the Catholic Church. He discoursed of the Gnosticsects, and their influence upon African and Syrian Christianity. Then,invading the Spanish peninsular in the train of the Moors, he deliveredhimself of a spirited disquisition upon Averrhoes, the lawyerphilosopher of Cordova, his doctrine of the Universal Reason and denialof the immortality of the individual soul.
Laurence went forth onto the bright, hot corridor, and paused at thestairhead. He was honestly tired both in mind and body. He needed, andwould take, an honest night's rest. But one thing was sure. Whether hehad decided or merely yielded, whether he represented the positive ornegative element, he knew not; but this he did know, that theCommonplace, and all the ease of it, might wait. He was not ready forthat just yet.