After that night it is difficult to believe that Gabrielle any longer
deceived herself, though I do not suppose that Arthur realised the true
meaning of their relation. The significant feature in it is that he
was gradually and almost imperceptibly becoming a normal human being.
Gabrielle had begun by developing in him a substitute for a conscience;
for since he had begun to consider everything that he said or did in
the light of its probable effect upon his idol, it had become a habit
with him to follow a definite code of conduct, and the saying that
habit is second nature finds an example in his extraordinary case.
It is fascinating, but I believe profitless, to speculate on the subtle
hereditary influences that underlay their attraction for each other.
One can imagine that their state presented an example of the way in
which people of abnormal instincts tend to drift together: Arthur, the
a-moral prodigy, and Gabrielle, the last offshoot of the decayed house
of Hewish, daughter of the definitely degenerate Sir Jocelyn. But I do
not think that there was anything abnormal or decadent in Gabrielle's
composition. Her nature was gay and uncomplicated, in singular
contrast to her involved and sombre fate. One is forced to the
conclusion that the Payne miracle was the result of nothing more
uncommon than the natural birth of a tender passion between two young
people of opposite sexes, whom chance had isolated and thrown into each
other's company. The specialist who had vaguely suggested to Mrs.
Payne the hope that manhood might work a change in Arthur had been
nearer the mark than he himself supposed, for though the physical state
effected nothing in itself, its first consequence, the growth of an
ideal love, became his soul's salvation.
Of all that happened during the Easter term we can know nothing, save
that it was spring, that they were supremely happy, and that Considine
was blind ... blind, that is, to everything in the case but the results
of Arthur's infatuation. These, indeed, were so obvious that he could
not very well miss them. The boy's essential childishness, the thing
that had added an aspect of horror to his habits of stealth and
cruelty, gradually disappeared. He began to grow up. I mean that his
mind grew up, for he had already shown a premature physical
development. Practically the space of a single term had changed him
from a child into a man. Considine, seeing this, innocently flattered
himself upon the admirable results of his educational system. A
country life, with plenty of exercise in the open air, and an
unconventional but logical type of literary education that was his own
invention. Result: "_Mens sana in corpore sano_." Arthur was a show
case, and seemed to make possible the acquisition of a long series of
"difficult" pupils at enormous and suitable fees.
When once the boy got going, the rate of his mental development made it
difficult for Considine to keep pace with him. His mind, that had once
been slow, worked with a sort of feverish activity, as though he were
subconsciously aware that he had whole years of leeway to make up. The
other pupils, who had always taken Arthur's comparative dulness for
granted, and looked down upon him for it, noticed the change, and found
that if they were not careful he would outstrip them. At the same time
they began to discover that he was a thoroughly good fellow and to
wonder how on earth they had been so mistaken in him before. From
being something of an outcast he now became a favourite, asserting, for
the first time, the full advantage of his physical maturity.
Considine was quick to take advantage of the change. He had always
been tempted by the idea of examination successes, and although he
realised the disadvantage with which Arthur, in his renaissance, was
starting, he saw no reason why the boy should not eventually do him
credit in some public competition. There should be no difficulty for
example, in getting him into Sandhurst ... or, perhaps, Woolwich, as
his new aptitude for mathematics suggested. He wrote at length to Mrs.
Payne, discussing these possibilities. This was his quiet and
considered way of revealing to her his success.
Mrs. Payne, whose glimpses of the new Arthur in the Christmas holidays
had buoyed her with hopes in which she dared not place too much faith,
replied to his letter in a fever of excitement. Was it really possible
to think of such a career? Was there now no fear that if Arthur went
to Woolwich or Sandhurst something terrible might happen? Of course,
seeing what he had done already, she was prepared to trust Dr.
Considine's judgment in everything; but in any case, if the future that
he suggested were remotely possible, she would very much rather that
Arthur should not go into the army. One of their neighbours had lately
been killed in the Boer War.
Her letter paved the way for Considine's triumph. He wrote and told
her that he thought he could now safely say that there was nothing at
all abnormal about her son. He did not wish to take undue credit for
the revolutionary change in Arthur's disposition, but could not help
feeling that the boy was a credit to the Lapton regime. Seeing that
Arthur was her only son he could quite understand her objection to his
adopting the hazardous calling of a soldier. As an alternative he now
suggested the Civil Service. Arthur's money--if he might descend to
such a practical consideration--would be extremely useful to him if he
served under the Foreign Office. Of course he could not promise
success, but under the new conditions he thought it worth while trying
to prepare Arthur for one of the examinations. Mrs. Payne consented.
She only hoped that Considine had not been deceived.
Arthur did not object to the process of cramming that he now underwent
at Considine's hands. His newly-awakened thirst for knowledge was not
easily quenched. Considine, taking his education as a serious
proposition for the first time, naturally considered that the many
hours that Arthur spent with Gabrielle were waste. He also felt that
since he was now acceptable to them as a sportsman, Arthur should take
his place again with the other boys. He had not calculated the effect
of his decision on Gabrielle or on Arthur himself. That it could have
any effect at all upon her had never entered his mind.
Gabrielle painfully decided that she would say nothing, but Arthur
found himself torn between two interests. Even during the growth of
his devotion to Gabrielle he had always felt a sneaking suspicion that
his constant enjoyment of her society was a little derogatory to his
manly dignity. He knew that his big limbs were made for more active
pursuits than walking over a hillside at a woman's pace, or driving a
pony-cart into Dartmouth. At the same time he saw that he could not
now desert her without a feeling of shame in addition to that of love.
"What shall I do about it?" he said to her.
"You must do what you think right." The sentence would have had no
meaning less than six months before.
"It isn't that exactly, I suppose I must do what Dr. Considine orders."
"Very well.... You must do what he orders."
"I shall never see you, Mrs. Considine!" She was still Mrs. Considine
to him. For answer she only took his hand and smiled.
From that time he followed obediently his master's plans. Considine
kept him busy, and the walks and drives that he had taken with
Gabrielle almost ceased. At first, making a deliberate sacrifice, she
had wondered if she would lose him; but she need never have feared
this. The moments in which they met were stolen and therefore sweet.
She still remained the confidante of all his emotions and thoughts, and
since the time in which these confidences could be given to her was now
so short, each moment of it burned with a new intensity. They met by
calculated chances and in strange places; and their meetings were
lovers' meetings, even if they never spoke of love.
If the holidays at Christmas had been a desolation to Gabrielle, her
parting from Arthur next Easter was clouded by a sense of more positive
want. It was the season of lovers, days of bright sunshine, evenings
of a surpassing tenderness. She went to the station with him in the
pony-cart alone. She sat like a statue in the trap while the train
puffed its way slowly up the gradient and its noise died away in a
rhythmical rumble. When she awoke to the fact that he had gone she
felt a sudden impulse to do something desperate, if only she could
think of anything desperate to do. She felt that she would like to
shock Considine and the Halbertons and the whole county, to be, for one
moment, outrageous and unrestrained. But she couldn't do anything of
the kind; her wild spark of energy seemed so pathetically small and
feeble against the vast inertia of that dreamy countryside. Even if
she were to cry out at the top of her voice she couldn't assert her
identity; those huge passive folds of green country wouldn't believe
her. They wouldn't accept the fact that she was Gabrielle Hewish, now
called Considine. To them she was just the wife of a country parson
dawdling through the leafy lanes in a pony-trap. She lashed the pony
into a canter, but felt no better for it. The animal settled down
again into his shamble. No power on earth could make him keep on
cantering over the hills of the South Hams, and he knew it.
Arrived at Lapton she handed over the pony to a groom and set off
walking violently across country, hoping in this way to cool the heat
of her blood. She felt that she would like to go on walking till she
dropped, but as soon as her limbs began to tire she knew that this
would not bring her content. She hurried back to the Manor a few
minutes late for dinner. Considine, to whom unpunctuality was the
eighth deadly sin, was pacing up and down the hall, his hands behind
his back, with the impatience of an animal prowling in a cage.
"Ah, here you are at last!" he said.
They went in to dinner, but she could not eat. Considine's appetite
was as regular as everything else in his time-table. He ate heartily
and methodically. She found it difficult to sit still and watch him
eating.
"What's the matter with you?" he said at last.
"I don't know. I'm restless to-day."
"Well, there's no reason why you shouldn't rest now that the house is
empty again. The holidays come as a great relief in a place like this.
And the Spring Term is always the most trying."
He watched her narrowly, then and for several days afterwards. When he
became solicitous about her health she always knew that he was
wondering if at last she was going to fulfil his desire for a child of
his own. On these occasions he overwhelmed her with attentions.
Meanwhile Arthur, in the best of spirits, had arrived at Overton. Mrs.
Payne awaited him in a state of tremulous emotion. Now, for the first
time, she was to see her son made whole. Her elation was not without
misgiving, for the news of the miracle was almost too good to be true;
she couldn't help feeling that the Considines had judged him with a
scrutiny more superficial than her own, and though it was not for her
to dispute the intellectual blossoming that had raised such hopes in
his master, she couldn't be sure about the deeper, moral change until
she had seen for herself. Certainly his appearance on the station
platform gave her a sudden thrill of pleasure. Her boy had become a
man; his body had gained in solidity and balance, and his upper lip was
fledged with a fair down. He took her in his arms and kissed her with
a serious manliness that was new to her, and made her heart leap with
pride. His voice, too, had deepened. It was soft and low and
uncannily like his father's. Time after time she was struck by little
tricks of gesture and expression that were familiar to her, but had
never appeared in him before. He was indeed a stranger, yet a hundred
times more lovable than the son she had known.
A couple of days convinced her that the change was not merely something
added, but vital and elemental. He showed it in a multitude of small
things--in his consideration for the servants, in his attentions to
herself, in the serious interest that he showed in matters that had not
touched him before, in affairs, in books, in newspaper politics. Even
so she had been flattered too often by transient improvements to be
convinced. Deliberately and fearfully she tested him, but never found
him wanting. Then her joy and thankfulness were too deep for words.
And yet the position was not without its awkwardness. She knew that
Arthur was kinder, more human, and--if that were possible to her--more
lovable, but, in spite of these things, she could not help feeling that
there was something in this new and delightful nature that was foreign
to herself ... foreign, and even, subtly, hostile. It seemed to her
that in some peculiar way he was on the defensive. Up to a certain
point she could enter freely into his confidence, but after that point
she knew in her heart that there was something that he denied her.
Now, more than ever in her life, she wanted to feel that he was wholly
hers; and now, if she were to confess the truth, he seemed less hers
than he had ever been before. At times, indeed, when their intimacy
should have been at its best, she felt that she had lost him
altogether, and that his mind was hundreds of miles away from her, as
indeed it was. She consoled herself by supposing that his life was now
so crowded with new interests and dreams of future adventure that he
could be forgiven if their wonder enthralled and overwhelmed him. It
was indeed a wonderful thing if this son of hers, at the age of
seventeen, should see life with the eyes of a child new-born into the
world. She envied him this ecstasy, even though its real explanation
was far simpler than that which she imagined. When he walked in
silence with her through the fields, or sat dreaming under the cedar on
the lawn when evening came, it is possible that Arthur had sight of the
new heaven and new earth that she imagined, for his eyes were lover's
eyes. But this she never guessed.