Marcia, who, with something of her old absolutism, came to his house
continually to inquire and give orders, and to his room to see him every
afternoon, found out for herself in the course of his convalescence this
strange death of the sensuous side of Jocelyn's nature. She had said
that Avice was getting extraordinarily handsome, and that she did not
wonder her stepson lost his heart to her--an inadvertent remark which
she immediately regretted, in fear lest it should agitate him. He merely
answered, however, 'Yes; I suppose she is handsome. She's more--a wise
girl who will make a good housewife in time.... I wish you were not
handsome, Marcia.'
'Why?'
'I don't quite know why. Well--it seems a stupid quality to me. I can't
understand what it is good for any more.'
'O--I as a woman think there's good in it.'
'Is there? Then I have lost all conception of it. I don't know what has
happened to me. I only know I don't regret it. Robinson Crusoe lost
a day in his illness: I have lost a faculty, for which loss Heaven be
praised!'
There was something pathetic in this announcement, and Marcia sighed as
she said, 'Perhaps when you get strong it will come back to you.'
Pierston shook his head. It then occurred to him that never since the
reappearance of Marcia had he seen her in full daylight, or without
a bonnet and thick veil, which she always retained on these frequent
visits, and that he had been unconsciously regarding her as the Marcia
of their early time, a fancy which the small change in her voice well
sustained. The stately figure, the good colour, the classical profile,
the rather large handsome nose and somewhat prominent, regular teeth,
the full dark eye, formed still the Marcia of his imagination; the
queenly creature who had infatuated him when the first Avice was
despised and her successors unknown. It was this old idea which, in his
revolt from beauty, had led to his regret at her assumed handsomeness.
He began wondering now how much remained of that presentation after
forty years.
'Why don't you ever let me see you, Marcia?' he asked.
'O, I don't know. You mean without my bonnet? You have never asked me
to, and I am obliged to wrap up my face with this wool veil because I
suffer so from aches in these cold winter winds, though a thick veil is
awkward for any one whose sight is not so good as it was.'
The impregnable Marcia's sight not so good as it was, and her face
in the aching stage of life: these simple things came as sermons to
Jocelyn.
'But certainly I will gratify your curiosity,' she resumed
good-naturedly. 'It is really a compliment that you should still take
that sort of interest in me.'
She had moved round from the dark side of the room to the lamp--for the
daylight had gone--and she now suddenly took off the bonnet, veil
and all. She stood revealed to his eyes as remarkably good-looking,
considering the lapse of years.
'I am--vexed!' he said, turning his head aside impatiently. 'You are
fair and five-and-thirty--not a day more. You still suggest beauty. YOU
won't do as a chastisement, Marcia!'
'Ah, but I may! To think that you know woman no better after all this
time!'
'How?'
'To be so easily deceived. Think: it is lamplight; and your sight is
weak at present; and... Well, I have no reason for being anything but
candid now, God knows! So I will tell you.... My husband was younger
than myself; and he had an absurd wish to make people think he had
married a young and fresh-looking woman. To fall in with his vanity I
tried to look it. We were often in Paris, and I became as skilled in
beautifying artifices as any passee wife of the Faubourg St. Germain.
Since his death I have kept up the practice, partly because the vice is
almost ineradicable, and partly because I found that it helped me
with men in bringing up his boy on small means. At this moment I
am frightfully made up. But I can cure that. I'll come in to-morrow
morning, if it is bright, just as I really am; you'll find that Time has
not disappointed you. Remember I am as old as yourself; and I look it.'
The morrow came, and with it Marcia, quite early, as she had promised.
It happened to be sunny, and shutting the bedroom door she went round to
the window, where she uncovered immediately, in his full view, and said,
'See if I am satisfactory now--to you who think beauty vain. The rest
of me--and it is a good deal--lies on my dressing-table at home. I shall
never put it on again--never!'
But she was a woman; and her lips quivered, and there was a tear in her
eye, as she exposed the ruthless treatment to which she had subjected
herself. The cruel morning rays--as with Jocelyn under Avice's
scrutiny--showed in their full bareness, unenriched by addition,
undisguised by the arts of colour and shade, the thin remains of
what had once been Marcia's majestic bloom. She stood the image and
superscription of Age--an old woman, pale and shrivelled, her forehead
ploughed, her cheek hollow, her hair white as snow. To this the face he
once kissed had been brought by the raspings, chisellings, scourgings,
bakings, freezings of forty invidious years--by the thinkings of more
than half a lifetime.
'I am sorry if I shock you,' she went on huskily but firmly, as he
did not speak. 'But the moth frets the garment somewhat in such an
interval.'
'Yes--yes!... Marcia, you are a brave woman. You have the courage of the
great women of history. I can no longer love; but I admire you from my
soul!'
'Don't say I am great. Say I have begun to be passably honest. It is
more than enough.'
'Well--I'll say nothing then, more than how wonderful it is that a woman
should have been able to put back the clock of Time thirty years!'
'It shames me now, Jocelyn. I shall never do it any more!'
* * *
As soon as he was strong enough he got her to take him round to his
studio in a carriage. The place had been kept aired, but the shutters
were shut, and they opened them themselves. He looked round upon the
familiar objects--some complete and matured, the main of them seedlings,
grafts, and scions of beauty, waiting for a mind to grow to perfection
in.
'No--I don't like them!' he said, turning away. 'They are as ugliness
to me! I don't feel a single touch of kin with or interest in any one of
them whatever.'
'Jocelyn--this is sad.'
'No--not at all.' He went again towards the door. 'Now let me look
round.' He looked back, Marcia remaining silent. 'The Aphrodites--how I
insulted her fair form by those failures!--the Freyjas, the Nymphs and
Fauns, Eves, Avices, and other innumerable Well-Beloveds--I want to see
them never any more!... "Instead of sweet smell there shall be stink,
and there shall be burning instead of beauty," said the prophet.'
And they came away. On another afternoon they went to the National
Gallery, to test his taste in paintings, which had formerly been good.
As she had expected, it was just the same with him there. He saw no more
to move him, he declared, in the time-defying presentations of Perugino,
Titian, Sebastiano, and other statuesque creators than in the work of
the pavement artist they had passed on their way.
'It is strange!' said she.
'I don't regret it. That fever has killed a faculty which has, after
all, brought me my greatest sorrows, if a few little pleasures. Let us
be gone.'
He was now so well advanced in convalescence that it was deemed a most
desirable thing to take him down into his native air. Marcia agreed
to accompany him. 'I don't see why I shouldn't,' said she. 'An old
friendless woman like me, and you an old friendless man.'
'Yes. Thank Heaven I am old at last. The curse is removed.'
It may be shortly stated here that after his departure for the isle
Pierston never again saw his studio or its contents. He had been down
there but a brief while when, finding his sense of beauty in art and
nature absolutely extinct, he directed his agent in town to disperse the
whole collection; which was done. His lease of the building was sold,
and in the course of time another sculptor won admiration there from
those who knew not Joseph. The next year his name figured on the retired
list of Academicians.
* * *
As time went on he grew as well as one of his age could expect to be
after such a blasting illness, but remained on the isle, in the only
house he now possessed, a comparatively small one at the top of the
Street of Wells. A growing sense of friendship which it would be foolish
to interrupt led him to take a somewhat similar house for Marcia quite
near, and remove her furniture thither from Sandbourne. Whenever the
afternoon was fine he would call for her and they would take a stroll
together towards the Beal, or the ancient Castle, seldom going the whole
way, his sciatica and her rheumatism effectually preventing them,
except in the driest atmospheres. He had now changed his style of dress
entirely, appearing always in a homely suit of local make, and of the
fashion of thirty years before, the achievement of a tailoress at East
Quarriers. He also let his iron-grey beard grow as it would, and what
little hair he had left from the baldness which had followed the fever.
And thus, numbering in years but two-and-sixty, he might have passed for
seventy-five.
Though their early adventure as lovers had happened so long ago, its
history had become known in the isle with mysterious rapidity and
fulness of detail. The gossip to which its bearing on their present
friendship gave rise was the subject of their conversation on one of
these walks along the cliffs.
'It is extraordinary what an interest our neighbours take in our
affairs,' he observed. 'They say "those old folk ought to marry; better
late than never." That's how people are--wanting to round off other
people's histories in the best machine-made conventional manner.'
'Yes. They keep on about it to me, too, indirectly.'
'Do they! I believe a deputation will wait upon us some morning,
requesting in the interests of matchmaking that we will please to get
married as soon as possible.... How near we were to doing it forty years
ago, only you were so independent! I thought you would have come back
and was much surprised that you didn't.'
'My independent ideas were not blameworthy in me, as an islander, though
as a kimberlin young lady perhaps they would have been. There was simply
no reason from an islander's point of view why I should come back, since
no result threatened from our union; and I didn't. My father kept that
view before me, and I bowed to his judgment.'
'And so the island ruled our destinies, though we were not on it.
Yes--we are in hands not our own.... Did you ever tell your husband?'
'No.'
'Did he ever hear anything?'
'Not that I am aware.'
Calling upon her one day, he found her in a state of great discomfort.
In certain gusty winds the chimneys of the little house she had taken
here smoked intolerably, and one of these winds was blowing then. Her
drawing-room fire could not be kept burning, and rather than let a woman
who suffered from rheumatism shiver fireless he asked her to come
round and lunch with him as she had often done before. As they went he
thought, not for the first time, how needless it was that she should be
put to this inconvenience by their occupying two houses, when one would
better suit their now constant companionship, and disembarrass her
of the objectionable chimneys. Moreover, by marrying Marcia, and
establishing a parental relation with the young people, the rather
delicate business of his making them a regular allowance would become a
natural proceeding.
And so the zealous wishes of the neighbours to give a geometrical shape
to their story were fulfilled almost in spite of the chief parties
themselves. When he put the question to her distinctly, Marcia admitted
that she had always regretted the imperious decision of her youth; and
she made no ado about accepting him.
'I have no love to give, you know, Marcia,' he said. 'But such
friendship as I am capable of is yours till the end.'
'It is nearly the same with me--perhaps not quite. But, like the other
people, I have somehow felt, and you will understand why, that I ought
to be your wife before I die.'
It chanced that a day or two before the ceremony, which was fixed to
take place very shortly after the foregoing conversation, Marcia's
rheumatism suddenly became acute. The attack promised, however, to be
only temporary, owing to some accidental exposure of herself in making
preparations for removal, and as they thought it undesirable to postpone
their union for such a reason, Marcia, after being well wrapped up, was
wheeled into the church in a chair.
* * *
A month thereafter, when they were sitting at breakfast one morning,
Marcia exclaimed 'Well--good heavens!' while reading a letter she had
just received from Avice, who was living with her husband in a house
Pierston had bought for them at Sandbourne.
Jocelyn looked up.
'Why--Avice says she wants to be separated from Henri! Did you ever hear
of such a thing! She's coming here about it to-day.'
'Separated? What does the child mean!' Pierston read the letter.
'Ridiculous nonsense!' he continued. 'She doesn't know what she wants.
I say she sha'n't be separated! Tell her so, and there's an end of it.
Why--how long have they been married? Not twelve months. What will she
say when they have been married twenty years!'
Marcia remained reflecting. 'I think that remorseful feeling she
unluckily has at times, of having disobeyed her mother, and caused her
death, makes her irritable,' she murmured. 'Poor child!'
Lunch-time had hardly come when Avice arrived, looking very tearful and
excited. Marcia took her into an inner room, had a conversation with
her, and they came out together.
'O it's nothing,' said Marcia. 'I tell her she must go back directly she
has had some luncheon.'
'Ah, that's all very well!' sobbed Avice. 'B-b-but if you had been
m-married so long as I have, y-you wouldn't say go back like that!'
'What is it all about?' inquired Pierston.
'He said that if he were to die I--I--should be looking out for somebody
with fair hair and grey eyes, just--just to spite him in his grave,
because he's dark, and he's quite sure I don't like dark people! And
then he said--But I won't be so treacherous as to tell any more about
him! I wish--'
'Avice, your mother did this very thing. And she went back to her
husband. Now you are to do the same. Let me see; there is a train--'
'She must have something to eat first. Sit down, dear.'
The question was settled by the arrival of Henri himself at the end
of luncheon, with a very anxious and pale face. Pierston went off to a
business meeting, and left the young couple to adjust their differences
in their own way.
His business was, among kindred undertakings which followed the
extinction of the Well-Beloved and other ideals, to advance a scheme for
the closing of the old natural fountains in the Street of Wells, because
of their possible contamination, and supplying the townlet with water
from pipes, a scheme that was carried out at his expense, as is well
known. He was also engaged in acquiring some old moss-grown, mullioned
Elizabethan cottages, for the purpose of pulling them down because
they were damp; which he afterwards did, and built new ones with hollow
walls, and full of ventilators.
At present he is sometimes mentioned as 'the late Mr. Pierston' by
gourd-like young art-critics and journalists; and his productions are
alluded to as those of a man not without genius, whose powers were
insufficiently recognized in his lifetime.