poetry, lord cantacute was saying at dinner, is like a wind-egg—aberration in the producer, useless for consumption. you don’t attempt to eat a wind-egg. it is remarkable, perhaps; but, once gaped at, you had best leave it to the parent fowl that will be glad of it. “you encourage cannibalism?” asked the rector, with a lifting eyebrow. really, lord cantacute saw nothing against it. perhaps it was a matter of taste—but so was poetry. and who else could thrive upon the stuff? since all this was apropos of the absent tristram, whose talents and fluency were admitted while their trend was deplored, mrs. james could not fail to remember a thriving consumer of his wares. had she not caught him administering wind-egg by spoonfuls to a hatless young lady? the excursion was closed with a flash by miss hertha de speyne, who, from her golden throne, said that poetry was very well if the mortal poet did not practise what he sang. no other art, she thought, had that grain of vice in it. now, we were not ready to practise poetry.
mr. germain contributed nothing to the game, but ate his dinner, or gazed solemnly at one speaker after another. this was unusual; he was fond of abstract discussion, and had his ideas about poetry. he had his favourite practitioners, too—virgil, pope, gray; poetry, for him, must be elegant above all things. elegant, fastidious, deliberately designed. dante he could not admire. petrarch and tasso were the italians, their conceits not conceited, for him. he had even—but this was a profound secret—pitched a slender pipe of his own, and was now resuming the exercise. his vein was the courtly-pastoral. the nymph mero, let us say, was sought by the god sylvanus, who wooed her in a well-watered vale. or a young shepherdess—call her marina—was the dear desire of cratylus the mature, who offered her with touching diffidence, the well-found hearth, the stored garners, the cellar, for whose ripe antiquity (alas!) he himself could vouch. the maid was not cold; it was himself who doubted whether he were not frigid. he besought her not to despise his silvering beard, the furrow on his brow. boys, urged he, are hot and prone; but the wood-fire leaps and dies, while the steady glow of the well-pressed peats endures until the morning, and a little breath revives all its force. thus cratylus to marina in his heart.
the inexpert poet is not content with numbers; as miss de speyne had said, he is apt to probe what he expounds. also, by a merciful provision of our mother, no man is permitted to think himself ridiculous, nor indeed is necessarily so. the poets are right there. the intentions of mature cratylus may be as honourable, his raptures as true, his sighs as deeply fetched as any of beardless corydon’s. only, when desire fades in us, o’ god’s name let us die. our friend here cried in his heart that his had never bloomed before. spell-bound to a beautiful vision, he walked enraptured in the light of it, travelling up the path of its beam, sighing, not that it should be so long, but that his steps should lag so short of his urgency. and to the lips of his heart—as it were—recurred and recurred the dear, familiar phrases, true once and true now to who so love. the well-found hearth, and one beside it: surely, happily there! denied him for so long; now in full sight! the buffeting, windy world outside, the good door barred, the ruddy fire, the welcoming arms, the low glad voice! happy, studious evenings—an arm within an arm, a petition implied, and a promise—a held-out hand, a little hand caught within it—a prayer, an exchange of vows, a secret shared—a secret, a wonderful hope! happy cratylus, happy poet! nay, it was not too late for that—not too late, please god!
in his now exalted mood, every faculty shared the high tension. his reasoning was exalted, and told him that his deep distrust of his own class proceeded from deep experience. the fierce, querulous, and dead beauty of lady diana passed over the scene; palely and feverishly she hunted her pleasures; and ?gisthus stalked behind, attentive, to whisper in her ear at the offered moment. no hopes could be justified under the white light of that torturing memory. he knew very well, he told himself, that no woman of his daily acquaintance could give him what he longed for. in her degree each and every one must be for him a diana wymondesley—with her friendships, connexions, thousand calls this way, that way, every way, any way; with her flying, restless crowded life, winters in cairo, summers in cowes, scottish autumns, sicilian springs. when could she be at home? and he, with his longings for the hearth, that infinitely holy place, must stand, be courteous, play the great gentleman, flog himself to cairo, biarritz, algiers, and feel behind the mask he wore the taloned bird rake at his vitals. never, never more! life is to be lived once, and to each his appointed way; appointed if you must, chosen if you can. ah, me, if choice were his at this late hour! his heart was beating high as he rose in his place for the ladies to leave the dining-room. miss de speyne, presuming on familiar use or her prerogative, sailed out first, a very juno; mrs. james lingered for a parting shot at her rector.
“you may be right, james—it is not for me to contradict you. but tristram is better at pau than here; and i have good reasons for saying so.” the rector bowed to his wife, and for once approved hertha’s easy manners.
returned to the rectory, when the rector had gone to smoke his cigar, mr. germain had a little conversation with mrs. james. if he did not deliberately seek, he deliberately provoked the turn it took. but it began innocently enough.
she asked him his time of departure on monday, supposing that he must go, and tailed off into to-morrow’s engagements. it was now that his face went a thought greyer, and that a shade more stiffening thrilled his spine. a visit to certain manwarings was proposed for the afternoon. “your morning you claim, i imagine?” she had said.
“no,” he replied, “i gladly make it yours. to-morrow’s, that is,” and there he paused, and she waited.
he took up his tale greatly. “on saturday my morning is arranged for. i have, as you know, taken upon myself to be interested in the concerns of your miss middleham”—he marked, but chose not to remark, the flash in the lady’s eyes. her miss middleham! “to-morrow i am to be allowed yet further into them; matters of moment, perhaps—i know not. that is for saturday, at eleven.”
“oh,” said mrs. james—and the vowel held a volume, held it tightly. “really she ought to be very much obliged to you.”
“not at all. the obligation, in my view, is quite the other way. at my time of life, my dear constantia, we are apt to plume ourselves upon the confidences of the young. i should not venture——”
“the confidences of that particular young person,” said mrs. james with point—a dry point—“are likely to be modified on this occasion. but if she should happen to be unreserved, i could wish you would use your influence for her good.”
“doubtless,” he agreed, “that is my sincere desire. if you could suggest to me any direction in which my services——”
mrs. james looked at him, and he, while meeting her gaze, must needs remark upon her hard-rimmed eyes. it was as if they had been set in metal. “we spoke of tristram at dinner—i don’t know whether you heard. i said that he was better even at pau with poor lord bramleigh just now, than here. you may not have heard me.”
mr. germain blinked. “i am not sure that i should have conceived you, had i overheard the remark. you paint misperton in dark colours, if what i have heard of young bramleigh be true. and—to resume the first subject of our conversation——”
“unfortunately the subjects are connected,” said mrs. james, and saw him flinch. “tristram is old enough to look after himself; but surely you will agree that his companionship is not the best for a girl in her position.”
he had not for nothing worn a mask some twenty years of his life. wearers of these defences become very expert by use, and can turn them against themselves at will. mrs. james got no joy out of her revelation, and he little pain; he gave her a stately bow.
“i entirely agree,” he said.
“of course, of course.” she accepted him, but went on; “we cannot but regret it, those of us who take an interest. unfortunately i can hardly speak to her upon such a subject, since i have no authority over her—and james will not. he is pleased to be diverted at what i have to tell him—you know his way. i don’t know how far your kindly inquiries——”
“we have hardly reached her matrimonial projects,” said mr. germain, so simply that mrs. james lost her head.
“matrimony! a nursery governess! my dear john, pray don’t misunderstand me.” he continued to blink urbanely at her, master now of the position.
“i wish to avoid precisely that. little claim as i have to discuss such matters with miss middleham, i should certainly ask her to pause if i believed that she could accept the addresses of a young man like tristram. perhaps i am prejudiced—but——”
“tristram,” said mrs. james tartly, “is as likely to marry mary middleham as you are.”
“is he, though?” he said, with a little jocularity. but he blinked again.
from the chamber of the beglamoured cratylus i may pass to that of his mero—or marina, if you prefer it—who (with no manwarings in prospect to afford distraction) had a day of routine to go through before the interview could be reached. there was little in this to fix her mind or woo it back from straying into the vague. it is not surprising, therefore, to find her on the morrow of her midnight adventure—a note of apology and excuse despatched to the sanctuary—snug in her bed at an unwonted hour, nursing her cheek and remembrances together, as much alive to the fact that she had been interested yesterday as to those which promised her that she was to be absorbed to-morrow.
and then, as she lay wide-eyed, dreaming, wondering, softly-smiling, quick-breathing, her wide horizons opened up to her by flashes, or were clouded up suddenly, enfolded in the rosy mists of conscious pursuit. to know, as she must, that her company was desired, courted, deeply considered by a considerable gentleman could not but give a tinge of rose to her dream-senses. the warm fleeces enwrapped her, hugged her; they could be felt, they made her cheeks tingle as her blood coursed free. against this passive ecstasy—this rapture of the chase—there rose in strife a new feeling, a dawning sense of power to judge and weigh, a discretion imparted, a dignity of choice. and as this prevailed and her mind leapt back to her friend of the night, see the mists thin and part and grow pallid; see her caught breath and brightening eyes as she strained to watch the far-stretching plains of life, the distant seas, blue hills—wonderful vistas, beholding which she seemed to lay her hand upon the pivot of the world. the battle raged over her form supine. like a dormouse in her nest she lay, but within her breast, within her mind, the armies engaged swept forward and back.
a day of this must not be, and could not. she must have stimulant, she must have excitants, must do something or go mad. she recollected with a thumping heart that she might see her friend again. she was to report herself and her ankle; he had asked her and she had promised to come. there was an appointment. true, it had been for sunday—but what were sundays to him? it might be to-day. as she dressed she dallied with the temptation, and before she had finished she knew that she had fallen.
early in the afternoon she sprang into her saddle, eager for the encounter. her ankle was forgotten; she felt strong and, exulting in her strength, cleared the miles with that sense of delighted effort which a bicycle only can give—because it replies so readily. her heart beat high as from chidiocks, that suburb of misperton, she saw the white hill atop of which the common began. she walked it deliberately, holding herself back that she might play with the pleasure promised—a pleasure none the worse, mind you, for being perfectly lawful. this man was her friend, and she had never had a man for a friend before. she felt good, and very strong.
there, then, was the white peak of the tent. there, too, was the tilt-cart! so he was waiting for her promise to be kept! there again was the back of the prowling ghost. bingo ran on three legs across the road—dear bingo! and there was her friend! yes, but he was not alone. she was dismayed—had not expected that. a horseman talked to him from the road—a horseman? ah, no, it was a horsewoman; and her friend (if she might continue to think him so) stood there in an animated discussion, and declaimed upon a paper in his hand. her heart fell far, but she pressed on. nothing in the world—neither tact, nor delicacy, nor fear of detection—could have stopped her. she must know more at any cost.
she went as far as she dared by the road, and then, dismounting, moved on to the turf and dropped her bicycle. screened by furze-bushes she got to within fifty, thirty, twenty yards, and there stopped, knelt down, and watched with intensely bright eyes. the mounted lady was miss de speyne, the honourable hertha de speyne, proud daughter of the cantacutes, a personage so far out of her reach that her least act was acceptable as a stroke of great fate—a sunstroke or a thunderbolt. alas, for her joys!
but her friend, no less easy by day than by night, in one company than another, held in his hand a drawing—as she guessed—and talked vehemently of it. she could hear his words—“it’s not bad—it’s not at all bad—i admit it; and thanks very much for allowing me. but if you say that of a drawing, you say the cruellest, worst—unless you call it clever. it wants breadth, it wants ma?trise; it wants, as all half-art wants, the disdainful ease of nature, to produce what nature can never produce. there’s a fine line in baudelaire—well, never mind that. no—i’ve done better than this. i did some savernake things which pleased me—trees and glades, evening things. we had some yellow skies, shot green—wonderful, wonderful! i got some poetry into them. but this”—he gave it a flick of the fingers—“this is rather smug, you know.”
“i don’t think it smug,” said miss de speyne, with her great air of finality. “i like it.”
“glad of that, anyhow,” was the artist’s thanksgiving. “your praise is worth having.”
“i’ve worked very hard,” the lady said; “but i’m afraid i can talk better than i paint.”
“ah, we all do that.”
“yes,” she said, “that’s the worst of it.” they paused: she patted her horse, he looked with narrowed eyes into the weather. presently she said, “i suppose you couldn’t come and see my things—and bring some of your own—could you, do you think? my people would be delighted.” he looked at her, considering.
“so should i be—charmed. yes, i’ll come if you mean it. when?”
“of course i mean it,” miss de speyne rejoined. “could you come to luncheon, the day after to-morrow? that’s sunday.”
“i know it is,” he said with a laugh. “what a heathen you think me! yes, i’ll certainly come. but—where are you, exactly?”
“misperton brand—misperton park. you go through the village, and a little way beyond the rectory you come to a lodge.”
“oh, i know it!” then he laughed at his memories. “i’ll tell you afterwards—after luncheon. thanks, i’ll come. but i must be back pretty early in the afternoon.”
“your own time, of course.” she gathered up her reins. “till sunday,” she said with a nod. he bowed—hatless as before. miss de speyne pushed homeward; and mary middleham, with hot splashes of colour in her cheeks, returned to her fallen bicycle, and never looked behind.
how much the grave benevolence of mr. germain may have gained by this little contretemps we may guess. broad vistas, after all, are very well indeed for the robust; they are bracing and tonic. but if i am to be snug, give me rosy mists.
