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

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.

"A weak man submits to destiny," said Rennes, "a strong one makes his

own. It is what we think of ourselves which determines our fate. If I

regard myself as a poor creature, I shall, no doubt, act the part of a

poor creature. But," he added, with an ironical smile, "it is never too

late to give up one's prejudices. I can't stand by and look on any

longer. I intend to leave England for some years. I hope we may never

meet again. Don't answer me, because there is nothing for you to say.

You have been perfectly kind, perfectly charming, perfectly consistent.

You have never deceived me and you have never deceived yourself."

She interrupted him:

"I hope not. Oh, I hope I have never deceived myself--or you."

"I was grateful for your friendship," he said. "I can't be grateful for

it now."

Agnes drew a long breath and murmured random words about the "time." Was

it getting late?

"Yes," replied Rennes, "too late. Did I ever tell you why my father,

with all his prospects, became a drawing-master? He told me that he had

suffered so much learning why he could never paint, nor hope to paint,

that he was determined to devote his knowledge to the service of

apprentices. It seemed to him such an awful thing to mistake one's

vocation. Now I feel that one of us--perhaps both of us, you and I, are

doing even a worse thing. We are deliberately throwing happiness to the

dogs."

"I don't think so," said Agnes, in a trembling voice. "There is duty,

you know; that is something higher than happiness, I believe."

"Are you so sure?"

"Oh, yes!"

"I envy you. I don't even know what you mean by duty. It seems to me

another name for the tyranny of false sentiment."

"Don't disturb my ideas," she exclaimed, with an appealing gesture.

"Don't say these things. They make me wretched. I can't afford to doubt

and question. One must have a few permanent rules of conduct."

"But if they are fantastic, capricious, insincere?"

"I can't argue. I am not clever. I will not change my views. I dare not.

It would make me hate you."

"You are the slave of convention."

"That may be. That is safer, after all, than being the slave of some

other will stronger than my own. Why do you try to disturb my

life--now--after so many really happy months of friendship?"

"Were they so happy? Agnes, were they happy?"

She hesitated.

"Yes," she said, at last; "relatively, yes."

"It is quite true. Good women drive us to the bad ones."

"Oh! what can you mean? Surely we are saying too much. We shall reproach

ourselves later. I live, again and again, through one conversation. The

phrases come into my mind with every possible shade of significance."

She pushed back her hat, and pressed her hand to her brow, which was

contracting nervously as she spoke.

"I don't wish to be altered by any change in principle," she continued,

"nor distracted, from my plain obligations, into other interests. I

daresay I sound quite heartless and odd. I daresay you won't like me any

more." Her voice faltered, but her lips remained precise. "But one must

know one's mind--one _must_. You don't know yours; that is the whole

trouble, David."

She had never called him by his Christian name before, and now the

forced sternness of her tone gave it almost the accent of a farewell.

"Perhaps we have helped each other," she went on; "at all events, you

have taught me how to look at things. You are clever and original and

all that. I am rather commonplace, and I never have new or surprising

thoughts. The more I learn, the more I grow attached to the ordinary

ways. Once you called me the ideal _bourgeoise_. You were right."

"Not entirely," said Rennes. "You think too much."

"You taught me that. I never used to consider people or notions. I

accepted them without criticism."

"The madness of criticism has entered into you," he said. "It is the

worst, most destructive thing on earth."

"How could I have accepted you--as my friend--without it?" she asked.

"You puzzled me. I tried to understand you. No one had ever puzzled me

before. No one, you may be quite sure, will ever puzzle me, in the same

degree, again."

She gave him a long, tearful glance, in which defiance, reproach,

determination, and a certain cruelty shone like iron under water. He

made a movement toward her. The strength of his more emotional nature

might have made a final assault--not uselessly--on her assumed

"reasonableness." No appeal, no threat could have moved her from the

mental attitude she had decided on--the duty of keeping her word to Lord

Reckage. But she might have been urged to the more candid course of

ascertaining how far his lordship's true happiness was really involved

in the question. At that moment, however, Mrs. Rennes came into the

room. She gave a little cry of surprise when she saw her son. Then she

kissed Agnes, and sat down, looking anxiously from one to the other with

something not unlike grief, not unlike jealousy.

Her life and habits of thought were simple, but she had been highly

educated. She was an accomplished linguist, a good musician, a most

intelligent companion. Things which she could not comprehend she would,

at least, accept on faith. There had never been the shadow of a quarrel

between David and herself. But she felt, by intuition, that Agnes

Carillon had, in some way, affected his life, his work, his whole

nature. She could not blame her, because she knew nothing definite about

the understanding which existed, plainly enough, between her son and

this young lady. She had a horror, however, of flirtation and flirts. It

seemed to her that, under all this talk and correspondence on art,

poetry, scenery, and the like, there was a strong under-current of

emotion. So she smiled upon Agnes with a certain reserve, as though she

were not quite sure whether she had any great reason to feel delighted

at her call. At a glance from David, however, her look softened into

real friendliness.

"I was so surprised to see Mr. Rennes here," said Agnes.

"I am surprised, too," said the older woman.

A restraint fell upon all three. David walked about the room, looking

for things he did not want, and asking questions he did not wish

answered, although he hoped they would interest his mother. But his

spirits soon flagged. The conversation became trivial and absurd.

"Where are you staying?" asked Mrs. Rennes.

"I am with Pensee Fitz Rewes," said Agnes; "she has gone in the carriage

to do a little shopping. She will send it here for me."

The carriage was at that instant announced. David went down the stairs

with Agnes and handed her in. He said nothing. Mrs. Rennes watched the

pair from the window and nodded her farewell with much gravity. When

David returned to her, he found her reading peacefully Trollope's last

novel. It was for these graces that he loved her most. He scribbled

letters at her writing-table for the next hour. Then he spoke--

"I am going," said he, "to the East. I need a change. I suppose it will

mean six months."

"But how you will enjoy it!"

"And what will you do?"

"I live from day to day, my dear. I am quite contented."

"This journey is not a mere caprice. I have been contemplating it for

some time," he said.

Mrs. Rennes' hair was white and her long, equine countenance, sallow.

When her feelings were stirred, she showed it only by a cloudy pallor

which would steal over her face as a kind of veil--separating her from

the rest of mortals.

"One has to get away from England," continued Rennes: "one has to get

away from one's self."

"And where is your self now?" she asked, not venturing to look at him.

"With that girl," he answered, suddenly; "with that girl."

"Do you love her?"

"I don't know. I suppose I do. Oh! I would love her if I could ever be

absolutely sincere. But this I do know--I can't see her married to that

fellow Reckage. So I must go away."

"I am afraid she is a coquette--a serious coquette, my dear boy."

"She is nothing of the kind. She is a true woman. Don't talk about

her."