Without investigating her motives, Irene Derwent deferred as long as
possible her meeting with the man to whom she had betrothed herself.
Nor did Arnold Jacks evince any serious impatience in this matter. They
corresponded in affectionate terms, exchanging letters once a week or
so. Arnold, as it chanced, was unusually busy, his particular section
of the British Empire supplying sundry problems just now not to be
hurriedly dealt with by those in authority; there was much drawing-up
of reports, and translating of facts into official language, in
Arnold's secretarial department. Of these things he spoke to his
bride-elect as freely as discretion allowed; and Irene found his
letters interesting.
The ladies in Cheshire were forewarned of the new Irene who was about
to visit them; political differences did not at all affect their
kindliness; indeed, they saw with satisfaction the girl's keen mood of
loyalty to the man of her choice. She brought with her the air of
Greater Britain; she spoke much, and well, of the destinies of the
Empire.
"I see it all more clearly since this bit of Colonial experience," she
said. "Our work in the world is marked out for us; we have no choice,
unless we turn cowards. Of course we shall be hated by other countries,
more and more. We shall be accused of rapacity, and arrogance, and
everything else that's disagreeable in a large way; we can't help that.
If we enrich ourselves, that is a legitimate reward for the task we
perform. England means liberty and enlightenment; let England spread to
the ends of the earth! We mustn't be afraid of greatness! We _can't_
stop--still less draw back. Our politics have become our religion. Our
rulers have a greater responsibility than was ever known in the world's
history--and they will be equal to it!"
The listeners felt that a little clapping of the hands would have been
appropriate; they exchanged a glance, as if consulting each other as to
the permissibility of such applause. But Irene's eloquent eyes and
glowing colour excited more admiration than criticism; in their hearts
they wished joy to the young life which would go on its way through an
ever changing world long after they and their old-fashioned ideas had
passed into silence.
In a laughing moment, Irene told them of the proposal she had received
from Trafford Romaine. This betokened her high spirits, and perchance
indicated a wish to make it understood that her acceptance of Arnold
Jacks was no unconsidered impulse. The ladies were interested, but felt
this confidence something of an indiscretion, and did not comment upon
it. They hoped she would not be tempted to impart her secret to persons
less capable of respecting it.
During these days there came a definite invitation from Mrs. Borisoff,
who was staying in Hampshire, at the house of her widowed mother, and
Irene gladly accepted it. She wished to see more of Helen Borisoff,
whose friendship, she felt, might have significance for her at this
juncture of life. The place and its inhabitants, she found on arriving,
answered very faithfully to Helen's description; an old manor-house,
beautifully situated, hard by a sleepy village; its mistress a rather
prim woman of sixty, conventional in every thought and act, but too
good-natured to be aggressive, and living with her two unmarried
daughters, whose sole care was the spiritual and material well-being of
the village poor.
"Where I come from, I really don't know," said Helen to her friend. "My
father was the staidest of country gentlemen. I'm a sport, plainly. You
will see my mother watch me every now and then with apprehension. I
fancy it surprises her that I really do behave myself--that I don't
even say anything shocking. With you, the dear old lady is simply
delighted; I know she prays that I may not harm you. You are the first
respectable acquaintance I have made since my marriage."
In the lovely old garden, in the still meadows, and on the
sheep-cropped hillsides, they had many a long talk. Now that Irene was
as good as married, Mrs. Borisoff used less reserve in speaking of her
private circumstances; she explained the terms on which she stood with
her husband.
"Marriage, my dear girl, is of many kinds; absurd to speak of it as one
and indivisible. There's the marriage of interest, the marriage of
reason, the marriage of love; and each of these classes can be almost
infinitely subdivided. For the majority of folk, I'm quite sure it
would be better not to choose their own husbands and wives, but to
leave it to sensible friends who wish them well. In England, at all
events, they _think_ they marry for love, but that's mere nonsense. Did
you ever know a love match? I never even heard of one, in my little
world. Well," she added, with her roguish smile, "putting yourself out
of the question."
Irene's countenance betrayed a passing inquietude. She had an air of
reflection; averted her eyes; did not speak.
"The average male or female is _never_ in love," pursued Helen. "They
are incapable of it. And in this matter I--_moi qui vous parle_--am
average. At least, I think I am; all evidence goes to prove it, so far.
I married my husband because I thought him the most interesting man I
had ever met. That was eight years ago, when I was two-and-twenty.
Curiously, I didn't try to persuade myself that I was in love; I take
credit for this, my dear! No, it was a marriage of reason. I had money,
which Mr. Borisoff had not. He really liked me, and does still. But we
are reasonable as ever. If we felt obliged to live always together, we
should be very uncomfortable. As it is, I travel for six months when
the humour takes me, and it works _a merveille_. Into my husband's
life, I don't inquire; I have no right to do so, and I am not by nature
a busybody. As for my own affairs, Mr. Borisoff is not uneasy; he has
great faith in me--which, speaking frankly, I quite deserve. I am, my
dear Irene, a most respectable woman--there comes in my parentage."
"Then," said Irene, looking at her own beautiful fingernails, "your
experience, after all, is disillusion."
"Moderate disillusion," replied the other, with her humorously judicial
air. "I am not grievously disappointed. I still find my husband an
interesting--a most interesting--man. Both of us being so thoroughly
reasonable, our marriage may be called a success."
"Clearly, then, you don't think love a _sine qua non_?"
"Clearly not. Love has nothing whatever to do with marriage, in the
statistical--the ordinary--sense of the term. When I say love, I mean
love--not domestic affection. Marriage is a practical concern of
mankind at large; Love is a personal experience of the very few. Think
of our common phrases, such as 'choice of a wife'; think of the
perfectly sound advice given by sage elders to the young who are
thinking of marriage, implying deliberation, care. What have these
things to do with love? You can no more choose to be a lover, than to
be a poet. _Nascitur non fit_--oh yes, I know my Latin. Generally, the
man or woman born for love is born for nothing else."
"A deplorable state of things!" exclaimed Irene, laughing.
"Yes--or no. Who knows? Such people ought to die young. But I don't say
that it is invariably the case. To be capable of loving, and at the
same time to have other faculties, and the will to use them--ah!
There's your complete human being."
"I think----" Irene began, and stopped, her voice failing.
"You think, _belle Irene_?"
"Oh, I was going to say that all this seems to me sensible and right.
It doesn't disturb me."
"Why should it?"
"I think I will tell you, Helen, that my motive in marrying is the same
as yours was."
"I surmised it."
"But, you know, there the similarity will end. It is quite
certain"--she laughed--"that I shall have no six-months' vacations. At
present, I don't think I shall desire them."
"No. To speak frankly, I auger well of your marriage."
These words affected Irene with a sense of relief. She had imagined
that Mrs. Borisoff thought otherwise. A bright smile sunned her
countenance; Helen, observing it, smiled too, but more thoughtfully.
"You must bring your husband to see me in Paris some time next year. By
the bye, you don't think he will disapprove of me?"
"Do you imagine Mr. Jacks----"
"What were you going to say?"
Irene had stopped as if for want of the right word She was reflecting.
"It never struck me," she said, "that he would wish to regulate my
choice of friends. Yet I suppose it would be within his right?"
"Conventionally speaking, undoubtedly."
"Don't think I am in uncertainty about this particular instance," said
Irene. "No, he has already told me that he liked you. But of the
general question, I had never thought."
"My dear, who does, or can, think before marriage of all that it
involves? After all, the pleasures of life consist so largely in the
unexpected."
Irene paced a few yards in silence, and when she spoke again it was of
quite another subject.
Whether this sojourn with her experienced and philosophical friend made
her better able to face the meeting with Arnold Jacks was not quite
certain. At moments she fancied so; she saw her position as wholly
reasonable, void of anxiety; she was about to marry the man she liked
and respected--safest of all forms of marriage. But there came
troublesome moods of misgiving. It did not flatter her self-esteem to
think of herself as excluded from the number of those who are capable
of love; even in Helen Borisoff's view, the elect, the fortunate. Of
love, she had thought more in this last week or two than in all her
years gone by. Assuredly, she knew it not, this glory of the poets. Yet
she could inspire it in others; at all events, in one, whose rhythmic
utterance of the passion ever and again came back to her mind.
A temptation had assailed her (but she resisted it) to repeat those
verses of Piers Otway to her friend. And in thinking of them, she half
reproached herself for the total silence she had preserved towards
their author. Perhaps he was uncertain whether the verses had ever
reached her. It seemed unkind. There would have been no harm in letting
him know that she had read the lines, and--as poetry--liked them.
Was her temper prosaic? It would at any time have surprised her to be
told so. Owing to her father's influence, she had given much time to
scientific studies, but she knew herself by no means defective in
appreciation of art and literature. By whatever accident, the friends
of her earlier years had been notable rather for good sense and good
feeling than for aesthetic fervour; the one exception, her cousin Olga,
had rather turned her from thoughts about the beautiful, for Olga
seemed emotional in excess, and was not without taint of affectation.
In Helen Borisoff she knew for the first time a woman who cared
supremely for music, poetry, pictures, and who combined with this a
vigorous practical intelligence. Helen could burn with enthusiasm, yet
never exposed herself to suspicion of weak-mindedness. Posturing was
her scorn, but no one spoke more ardently of the things she admired.
Her acquaintance with recent literature was wider than that of anyone
Irene had known; she talked of it in the most interesting way, giving
her friend new lights, inspiring her with a new energy of thought. And
Irene was sorry to go away. She vaguely felt that this companionship
was of moment in the history of her mind; she wished for a larger
opportunity of benefiting by it.
Dr. Derwent and his son were now at Cromer; there Irene was to join
them; and thither, presently, would come Arnold Jacks.
On the day of her departure there arose a storm of wind and rain, which
grew more violent as she approached the Norfolk coast; and nothing
could have pleased her better. Her troubled mood harmonised with the
darkened, roaring sea; moreover, this atmospheric disturbance made
something to talk about on arriving. She suffered no embarrassment at
the meeting with her father and Eustace, who of course awaited her at
the station. To their eyes, Irene was in excellent spirits, though
rather wearied after the tiresome journey. She said very little about
her stay in Hampshire.
The last person in the world with whom Irene would have chosen to
converse about her approaching marriage was her excellent brother
Eustace; but the young man was not content with offering his good
wishes; to her surprise, he took the opportunity of their being alone
together on the beach, to speak with most unwonted warmth about Arnold
Jacks.
"I really was glad when I heard of it! To tell you the truth, I had
hoped for it. If there is a man living whom I respect, it is Arnold.
There's no end to his good qualities. A downright good and sensible
fellow!"
"Of course I'm very glad you think so, Eustace," replied his sister,
stooping to pick up a shell.
"Indeed I do. I've often thought that one's sister's choice in marriage
must be a very anxious thing; it would have worried me awfully if I had
felt any doubts about the man."
Irene was inclined to laugh.
"It's very good of you." she said.
"But I mean it. Girls haven't quite a fair chance, you know. They can't
see much of men."
"If it comes to that," said Irene merrily, "men seem to me in much the
same position."
"Oh, it's so different. Girls--women--are good. There's nothing
unpleasant to be known about them."
"Upon my word, Eustace! _On n'est pas plus galant_! But I really feel
it my duty to warn you against that amiable optimism. If you were so
kind as to be uneasy on my account, I shall be still more so on yours.
Your position, my dear boy, is a little perilous."
Eustace laughed, not without some amiable confusion. To give himself a
countenance, he smote at pebbles with the head of his walking-stick.
"Oh, I shan't marry for ages!"
"That shows rather more prudence than faith in your doctrine."
"Never mind. Our subject is Arnold Jacks. He's a splendid fellow. The
best and most sensible fellow I know."
It was not the eulogy most agreeable to Irene in her present state of
mind. She hastened to dismiss the topic, but thought with no little
surprise and amusement of Eustace's self-revelation. Brothers and
sisters seldom know each other; and these two, by virtue of widely
differing characteristics, were scarce more than mutually well-disposed
strangers.
Less emphatic in commendation, Dr. Derwent appeared not less satisfied
with his future son-in-law. Irene's scrutiny, sharpened by intense
desire to read her father's mind, could detect no qualification of his
contentment. As his habit was, the Doctor, having found an opportunity,
broached the subject with humorous abruptness.
"It's no business of mine; I don't wish to be impertinent; but if I
_may_ be allowed to express approval----"
Irene raised her eyes for a moment, bestowing upon him a look of
affection and gratitude.
"He's a thorough Englishman, and that means a good deal in the
laudatory sense. The best sort of husband for an English girl, I've no
manner of doubt."
Dr. Derwent was not effusive; he had said as much as he cared to say on
the more intimate aspect of the matter. But he spoke long and carefully
regarding things practical. Irene had his entire confidence; nothing in
the state of his affairs needed to be kept from her knowledge. He spoke
of the duty he owed to his two children respectively, and in sufficient
detail of Arnold Jacks' circumstances. On the death of John Jacks
(which the Doctor suspected was not remote) Arnold would be something
more than a well-to-do man; his wife, if she aimed that way, might look
for a social position such as the world envied.
"And on the whole," he added, "as society must have leaders, I prefer
that they should be people with brains as well as money. The ambition
is quite legitimate. Do your part in civilising the drawing-room, as
Arnold conceives he is doing his on a larger scale. A good and
intelligent woman is no superfluity in the world of wealth nowadays."
Irene tried to believe that this ambition appealed to her. Nay, at
times it certainly did so, for she liked the brilliant and the
commanding. On the other hand, it seemed imperfect as an ideal of life.
In its undercurrents her thought was always more or less turbid.
A letter from Arnold announced his coming. A day after, he arrived.
Many times as she had enacted in fancy the scene of their meeting,
Irene found in the reality something quite unlike her anticipation.
Arnold, it was true, behaved much as she expected; he was perfect in
well-bred homage; he said the right things in the right tone; his face
declared a sincere emotion, yet he restrained himself within due limits
of respect. The result in Irene's mind was disappointment and fear.
He gave her too little; he seemed to ask too much.
The first interview--in a private sitting-room at the hotel where they
were all staying--lasted about half an hour; it wrought a change in
Irene for which she had not at all prepared herself, though the doubts
and misgivings which had of late beset her pointed darkly to such a
revulsion of feeling. She had not understood; she could not understand,
until enlightened by the very experience. Alone once more, she sat down
all tremulous; pallid as if she had suffered a shock of fright. An
indescribable sense of immodesty troubled her nerves: she seemed to
have lost all self-respect: the thought of going forth again, of facing
her father and brother, was scarcely to be borne. This acute distress
presently gave way to a dull pain, a sinking at the heart. She felt
miserably alone. She longed for a friend of her own sex, not
necessarily to speak of what she was going through, but for the moral
support of a safe companionship. Never had she known such a feeling of
isolation, and of over-great responsibility.
A few tears relieved her. Irene was not prone to weeping; only a great
crisis of her fate would have brought her to this extremity.
It was over in a quarter of an hour--or seemed so. She had recovered
command of her nerves, had subdued the excess of emotion. As for what
had happened, that was driven into the background of her mind, to await
examination at leisure. She was a new being, but for the present could
bear herself in the old way. Before leaving her room, she stood before
the looking-glass, and smiled. Oh yes, it would do!
Arnold Jacks was in the state of mind which exhibited him at his very
best. An air of discreet triumph sat well on this elegant Englishman;
it prompted him to continuous discourse, which did not lack its touch
of brilliancy; his features had an uncommon animation, and his slender,
well-knit figure--of course clad with perfect seaside
propriety--appeared to gain an inch, so gallantly he held himself. He
walked the cliffs like one on guard over his country. Without for a
moment becoming ridiculous, Arnold, with his first-rate English
breeding, could carry off a great deal of radiant self-consciousness.
Side by side, he and Irene looked very well; there was suitability of
stature, harmony of years. Arnold's clean-cut visage, manly yet
refined, did no discredit to the choice of a girl even so striking in
countenance as Irene. They drew the eyes of passers-by. Conscious of
this, Irene now and then flinched imperceptibly; but her smile held
good, and its happiness flattered the happy man.
Eustace Derwent departed in a day or two, having an invitation to join
friends in Scotland. He had vastly enjoyed the privilege of listening
to Arnold's talk. Indeed to his sister's amusement, he plainly sought
to model himself on Mr. Jacks, in demeanour, in phraseology, and in
sentiments; not without success.