One afternoon Renouard stepping out on the terrace found nobody there.
It was for him, at the same time, a melancholy disappointment and a
poignant relief.
The heat was great, the air was still, all the long windows of the house
stood wide open. At the further end, grouped round a lady’s work-table,
several chairs disposed sociably suggested invisible occupants, a company
of conversing shades. Renouard looked towards them with a sort of dread.
A most elusive, faint sound of ghostly talk issuing from one of the rooms
added to the illusion and stopped his already hesitating footsteps. He
leaned over the balustrade of stone near a squat vase holding a tropical
plant of a bizarre shape. Professor Moorsom coming up from the garden
with a book under his arm and a white parasol held over his bare head,
found him there and, closing the parasol, leaned over by his side with a
remark on the increasing heat of the season. Renouard assented and
changed his position a little; the other, after a short silence,
administered unexpectedly a question which, like the blow of a club on
the head, deprived Renouard of the power of speech and even thought, but,
more cruel, left him quivering with apprehension, not of death but of
everlasting torment. Yet the words were extremely simple.
“Something will have to be done soon. We can’t remain in a state of
suspended expectation for ever. Tell me what do you think of our
chances?”
Renouard, speechless, produced a faint smile. The professor confessed in
a jocular tone his impatience to complete the circuit of the globe and be
done with it. It was impossible to remain quartered on the dear
excellent Dunsters for an indefinite time. And then there were the
lectures he had arranged to deliver in Paris. A serious matter.
That lectures by Professor Moorsom were a European event and that
brilliant audiences would gather to hear them Renouard did not know. All
he was aware of was the shock of this hint of departure. The menace of
separation fell on his head like a thunderbolt. And he saw the absurdity
of his emotion, for hadn’t he lived all these days under the very cloud?
The professor, his elbows spread out, looked down into the garden and
went on unburdening his mind. Yes. The department of sentiment was
directed by his daughter, and she had plenty of volunteered moral
support; but he had to look after the practical side of life without
assistance.
“I have the less hesitation in speaking to you about my anxiety, because
I feel you are friendly to us and at the same time you are detached from
all these sublimities—confound them.”
“What do you mean?” murmured Renouard.
“I mean that you are capable of calm judgment. Here the atmosphere is
simply detestable. Everybody has knuckled under to sentiment. Perhaps
your deliberate opinion could influence . . .”
“You want Miss Moorsom to give it up?” The professor turned to the young
man dismally.
“Heaven only knows what I want.”
Renouard leaning his back against the balustrade folded his arms on his
breast, appeared to meditate profoundly. His face, shaded softly by the
broad brim of a planter’s Panama hat, with the straight line of the nose
level with the forehead, the eyes lost in the depth of the setting, and
the chin well forward, had such a profile as may be seen amongst the
bronzes of classical museums, pure under a crested helmet—recalled
vaguely a Minerva’s head.
“This is the most troublesome time I ever had in my life,” exclaimed the
professor testily.
“Surely the man must be worth it,” muttered Renouard with a pang of
jealousy traversing his breast like a self-inflicted stab.
Whether enervated by the heat or giving way to pent up irritation the
professor surrendered himself to the mood of sincerity.
“He began by being a pleasantly dull boy. He developed into a
pointlessly clever young man, without, I suspect, ever trying to
understand anything. My daughter knew him from childhood. I am a busy
man, and I confess that their engagement was a complete surprise to me.
I wish their reasons for that step had been more naïve. But simplicity
was out of fashion in their set. From a worldly point of view he seems
to have been a mere baby. Of course, now, I am assured that he is the
victim of his noble confidence in the rectitude of his kind. But that’s
mere idealising of a sad reality. For my part I will tell you that from
the very beginning I had the gravest doubts of his dishonesty.
Unfortunately my clever daughter hadn’t. And now we behold the reaction.
No. To be earnestly dishonest one must be really poor. This was only a
manifestation of his extremely refined cleverness. The complicated
simpleton. He had an awful awakening though.”
In such words did Professor Moorsom give his “young friend” to understand
the state of his feelings toward the lost man. It was evident that the
father of Miss Moorsom wished him to remain lost. Perhaps the
unprecedented heat of the season made him long for the cool spaces of the
Pacific, the sweep of the ocean’s free wind along the promenade decks,
cumbered with long chairs, of a ship steaming towards the Californian
coast. To Renouard the philosopher appeared simply the most treacherous
of fathers. He was amazed. But he was not at the end of his
discoveries.
“He may be dead,” the professor murmured.
“Why? People don’t die here sooner than in Europe. If he had gone to
hide in Italy, for instance, you wouldn’t think of saying that.”
“Well! And suppose he has become morally disintegrated. You know he was
not a strong personality,” the professor suggested moodily. “My
daughter’s future is in question here.”
Renouard thought that the love of such a woman was enough to pull any
broken man together—to drag a man out of his grave. And he thought this
with inward despair, which kept him silent as much almost as his
astonishment. At last he managed to stammer out a generous—
“Oh! Don’t let us even suppose. . .”
The professor struck in with a sadder accent than before—
“It’s good to be young. And then you have been a man of action, and
necessarily a believer in success. But I have been looking too long at
life not to distrust its surprises. Age! Age! Here I stand before you
a man full of doubts and hesitation—_spe lentus_, _timidus futuri_.”
He made a sign to Renouard not to interrupt, and in a lowered voice, as
if afraid of being overheard, even there, in the solitude of the terrace—
“And the worst is that I am not even sure how far this sentimental
pilgrimage is genuine. Yes. I doubt my own child. It’s true that she’s
a woman. . . . ”
Renouard detected with horror a tone of resentment, as if the professor
had never forgiven his daughter for not dying instead of his son. The
latter noticed the young man’s stony stare.
“Ah! you don’t understand. Yes, she’s clever, open-minded, popular,
and—well, charming. But you don’t know what it is to have moved,
breathed, existed, and even triumphed in the mere smother and froth of
life—the brilliant froth. There thoughts, sentiments, opinions,
feelings, actions too, are nothing but agitation in empty space—to amuse
life—a sort of superior debauchery, exciting and fatiguing, meaning
nothing, leading nowhere. She is the creature of that circle. And I ask
myself if she is obeying the uneasiness of an instinct seeking its
satisfaction, or is it a revulsion of feeling, or is she merely deceiving
her own heart by this dangerous trifling with romantic images. And
everything is possible—except sincerity, such as only stark, struggling
humanity can know. No woman can stand that mode of life in which women
rule, and remain a perfectly genuine, simple human being. Ah! There’s
some people coming out.”
He moved off a pace, then turning his head: “Upon my word! I would be
infinitely obliged to you if you could throw a little cold water. . . ”
and at a vaguely dismayed gesture of Renouard, he added: “Don’t be
afraid. You wouldn’t be putting out a sacred fire.”
Renouard could hardly find words for a protest: “I assure you that I
never talk with Miss Moorsom—on—on—that. And if you, her father . . . ”
“I envy you your innocence,” sighed the professor. “A father is only an
everyday person. Flat. Stale. Moreover, my child would naturally
mistrust me. We belong to the same set. Whereas you carry with you the
prestige of the unknown. You have proved yourself to be a force.”
Thereupon the professor followed by Renouard joined the circle of all the
inmates of the house assembled at the other end of the terrace about a
tea-table; three white heads and that resplendent vision of woman’s
glory, the sight of which had the power to flutter his heart like a
reminder of the mortality of his frame.
He avoided the seat by the side of Miss Moorsom. The others were talking
together languidly. Unnoticed he looked at that woman so marvellous that
centuries seemed to lie between them. He was oppressed and overcome at
the thought of what she could give to some man who really would be a
force! What a glorious struggle with this amazon. What noble burden for
the victorious strength.
Dear old Mrs. Dunster was dispensing tea, looking from time to time with
interest towards Miss Moorsom. The aged statesman having eaten a raw
tomato and drunk a glass of milk (a habit of his early farming days, long
before politics, when, pioneer of wheat-growing, he demonstrated the
possibility of raising crops on ground looking barren enough to
discourage a magician), smoothed his white beard, and struck lightly
Renouard’s knee with his big wrinkled hand.
“You had better come back to-night and dine with us quietly.”
He liked this young man, a pioneer, too, in more than one direction.
Mrs. Dunster added: “Do. It will be very quiet. I don’t even know if
Willie will be home for dinner.” Renouard murmured his thanks, and left
the terrace to go on board the schooner. While lingering in the
drawing-room doorway he heard the resonant voice of old Dunster uttering
oracularly—
“. . . the leading man here some day. . . . Like me.”
Renouard let the thin summer portière of the doorway fall behind him.
The voice of Professor Moorsom said—
“I am told that he has made an enemy of almost every man who had to work
with him.”
“That’s nothing. He did his work. . . . Like me.”
“He never counted the cost they say. Not even of lives.”
Renouard understood that they were talking of him. Before he could move
away, Mrs. Dunster struck in placidly—
“Don’t let yourself be shocked by the tales you may hear of him, my dear.
Most of it is envy.”
Then he heard Miss Moorsom’s voice replying to the old lady—
“Oh! I am not easily deceived. I think I may say I have an instinct for
truth.”
He hastened away from that house with his heart full of dread.