CONTRA MUNDUM.
It was impossible not to admire the wealth of experience which Mrs.
Baxter had gathered from a singularly quiet life; many men have gone half
a dozen times round the world for less. Whatever the situation, whatever
the action, she could supply a parallel and thereby forecast an issue.
Superficial differences did not hinder her; she pierced to the underlying
likeness. When all the world was piteously crying out that never in its
life had it heard of such an affair as this of May Gaston's, Mrs. Baxter
dived into her treasure-chest and serenely produced the case of the
Nonconformist Minister's daughter and the Circus Proprietor. Set this
affair side by side with the Quisanté business, and a complete sum in
double proportion at once made its appearance. The audacity of the man,
the headlong folly of the girl, the hopeless mixing of incompatibles were
common to the two cases; the issue of the earlier clearly indicated the
fate that must attend the later. Lady Richard could do nothing but gasp
out, "And what happened, Mrs. Baxter?"
Mrs. Baxter told her, punctuating the story with stitches on a June
petticoat.
"She ran away from him twice; but he brought her back, and, they said,
beat her well. At any rate she ended by settling down to her new life.
They had seven children, all brought up to the circus; only the other day
one was sent to prison for ill-treating the dancing bear. He's dead, but
she still keeps the circus under his name. Of course all her old friends
have dropped her; indeed I hear she drinks. Her father still preaches
once on Sundays."
It was easy to disentangle the relevant from the merely reminiscent; the
running away, the beating, the settling down, the complete absorption in
the new life (vividly indicated by the seven children and their habits),
stood out saliently. Add the attitude of old friends, and Lady Richard
could not deny the value of the parallel. She acknowledged it with a
long-drawn sigh.
"May Gaston must be mad," she observed. "You can imagine how Dick feels
about it!"
"And all the while her cousin in the Bank was quite ready to marry her
and give her a nice little home. He was Church and sang in the choir at
St. Dunstan's."
Without consciously appreciating the nicety of the parallel here, Lady
Richard began to think of Weston Marchmont.
"I suppose Mr. Marchmont'll take Fanny now," she said. "I don't know,
though; he won't like any sort of connection with Alexander Quisanté. How
selfish people are! They never think of what their marriages mean to
their relations."
This observation expressed a large part of what was felt by society; add
friends to relations, and it summed up one side of the indictment against
May Gaston. Lady Attlebridge's helpless and bewildered woe was one
instance of its truth, Fanny's rage another; to look farther afield,
May's friends and acquaintances discovered great cause for vexation in
that they saw themselves somehow "let in for" Quisanté. At least the
alternative was to drop May Gaston as entirely as the unfortunate circus
proprietor's wife had been dropped; and this alternative was a difficult
one. Had Quisanté's raid resulted in the seizure of some insignificant
colourless girl who had been merely tolerated for the sake of who she was
without possessing any claims in respect of what she was, the dropping
would have been easy; but May was not of that kind. She was not only one
of them, but very conspicuous among them, one of their ornaments, one in
whom they took pride; they would have acknowledged in her a natural
leader so soon as a suitable marriage gave her the necessary status and
experience. Her treachery was the more flagrant, Quisanté's presumption
the more enormous, their own course of action the more puzzling to
decide.
Yet in their hearts they knew that they must swallow the man; events were
too strong for them. Dick Benyon had forced him on them in one side of
life, May Gaston now did the like in another; henceforward he must be and
would be among them. This consciousness mingled an ingredient of asperity
with their genuine pity for May. She would not merely have herself to
thank for the troubles which would certainly come upon her; her
misfortunes must be regarded as in part a proper punishment for the
annoyance she was inflicting on her friends. As for Dick Benyon, it was
impossible to speak to him without perceiving that if remorse be in truth
the sharpest penalty of sin, he was already punished enough.
The poor man's state was indeed such as to move compassion. Besides his
old friend Lady Attlebridge's dumbly accusing eyes, besides Fanny's and
Lady Richard's by no means dumb reproaches, a very heavy blow had fallen
on him. In the words of his own complaint, his brother Jimmy had gone
back on him--and back on his allegiance to Alexander Quisanté. The
engagement was too much for Jimmy, and in the revulsion of feeling he
became downright hostile to Quisanté's claims and pretensions. How could
he not when Fanny Gaston imperiously and almost tearfully commanded him
to attach himself to her banner, and to behold with her eyes the
indignity suffered by the noble family of Gaston? Logic was not Jimmy's
strong point, and he confounded poor Dick by the twofold assertion that
the thing was utterly incredible, and that Dick and he had been most
inconceivably idiotic not to have foreseen it from the first hour that
they took up Quisanté. In this stress of feeling the brothers spoke to
one another with candour.
"You know how I feel about Fanny," said Jimmy, "so you can imagine how
much I like it."
"Oh, yes, I know; and I quite understand that you wanted Marchmont to
marry May," Dick retorted in an alien savageness born of his wounded
spirit.
Jimmy was taken aback by this direct onslaught, but his native honesty
forbade him to deny the charge point-blank.
"Supposing she came to like me," he grumbled, "it wouldn't be over and
above pleasant to have Quisanté for a brother-in-law."
Dick was roused; he summoned up his old faith and his old admiration.
"I tell you what," he said, "the only chance you have of your name being
known to posterity is if you succeed in becoming his brother-in-law."
"Damn posterity," said Jimmy, tugging at his moustache. He had never
entertained the absurd idea of interesting future ages. He began to
perceive more and more clearly how ridiculous his brother had made
himself over the fellow; he had shared in the folly, but now at least he
could repent and dissociate himself from it.
"What does the Dean say?" he asked maliciously.
"I dare say you won't understand," Dick answered in measured tones, "but
the Dean's got sense enough to say nothing. Talking's no use, is it?"
Few indeed shared the Dean's wisdom, or the somewhat limited view that
talking is only to be practised when it chances to be useful. Are we
never to discuss the obvious or to deplore the inevitable? From so stern
a code human nature revolts, and the storm of volubility went on in spite
of the silence of the Dean of St. Neot's. Even this silence was imperfect
in so far as the Dean said a word or two in private to Morewood when he
visited him in his studio, and the pair were looking at Quisanté's
picture. Dick Benyon was less anxious now to have it finished and sent
home in the shortest possible time.
"You've seen some good in him," said the Dean, pointing to the picture.
"Well--something anyhow," said Morewood.
"I think, you know," the Dean pursued meditatively, "that a great woman
might succeed in what she's undertaken (Morewood did not need the mention
of May Gaston's name), at the cost of sacrificing all her other interests
and most of her feelings."
Morewood was lighting his pipe and made no answer.
"Is our dear young friend a great woman, though?" asked the Dean.
"She aspires to be," said Morewood; he was sneering as usual, but rather
at aspirations in general than at any unusual absurdity in May Gaston's;
thus at least the Dean understood him.
"You mean that that's at the bottom of the trouble?" he inquired, smiling
a little.
"Oh, yes," answered Morewood, weary of indicating what was so apparent.
"You've dived down to something in that picture; perhaps she has."
"Yes, she has." Morewood looked straight at the Dean as he added, "But I
can leave out the other things, you see. That's the difference."
"And she can't? No. That is the difference. She'll have to live with the
other things." He looked courageously at Morewood and ended, "We must
trust in God." Either the sincerity or the unexpectedness of the remark
kept Morewood silent.
No such ambition as these two imputed to her consciously animated May
Gaston. Just now she was content if she could persuade her mother that
people after all said nothing very dreadful (for what was said was always
more to Lady Attlebridge than what was true), could keep on something
like friendly relations with her sister, and could maintain a cheerful
view of her own position and of her experiment. Inevitably the hostility
of his future mother-in-law and of Fanny brought out the worst side of
Quisanté's manners; in the effort to conciliate he almost fawned. May had
to find consolation in a growth of openness and simplicity towards
herself. And she had one notable triumph which more than anything else
brought her through the trial with her purpose unshaken and her faith
even a little strengthened. It was not a complete triumph, and in trying
to push it too far she suffered a slight rebuff; but there was hope to be
had from it, it seemed to open a prospect of successes more ample. She
made Quisanté send back Aunt Maria's five hundred pounds before Mr.
Mandeville's operations had resulted either in safety or in gain.
"You see, she never gave it you to use in speculation," she had said. "It
isn't right, you must see it isn't. Have you got the money?"
"Yes; but I meant to buy you----"
"No, no, I wouldn't have it. Now do send it back. I know you see what I
mean." Her voice grew doubtful and imploring.
"Oh, yes, in a way. But I shan't lose it, you know."
"That doesn't make the least difference."
"If it pleases you, I'll send it back."
"Well, do," she said with a little sigh. The motive was not that which
she wished to rouse, but very likely it was that with which she must
begin her work. Then she tried the further step. "And any profit you
make, if you make any, you ought to send too," she said.
Genuine surprise was exhibited on Quisanté's face. "What, after sending
back the five hundred?" he asked.
"Yes, you ought." She made a little concession by adding, "Strictly, you
know." Quisanté looked at her, kissed her hand, and laughed. Her sense of
humour, which she began to perceive would rather hamper her, made her
join in the laugh. "Do you think me very absurd? No, no, not compliments!
Truth, truth always!"
"I call the suggestion rather--well, rather fanciful," said he.
"Yes, I suppose you do," she sighed. "Do you know what I hope?" she went
on. "I hope that some day that sort of suggestion will seem a matter of
course to you."
He stopped laughing and looked put out. She saw that his vanity was hurt.
"But I hope all sorts of unusual things about you," she went on, her
conscience rebuking her for using the wile of flattery. But it served
well; the cloud passed from his face, as he begged her not to expect to
see him a saint too soon.
A few days later he came in radiant; the operation had gone splendidly,
there was a cent. per cent. profit; she was to come with him and buy the
necklace at once. May loved necklaces and liked him for being so eager to
give her one. And she did not wish to appear in the light of a prig (that
had probably been his impression of her) again so soon. But had he not
the evening before, as they talked over their prospects, told her that he
owed Dick Benyon a thousand pounds or more, and was in arrears with the
instalments by which the debt was to be liquidated? By a not unnatural
turn of her mind she found herself less able to allow him to forget his
obligation, less able to indulge him in the temporary extravagance of a
lover, than if he had been a man on whose punctilious honour in all
matters of money she relied absolutely. She was more affectionate and
more effusive to him than usual, and it was with a kiss that she
whispered,
"Give me the money, not the necklace."
"The money?" he said in surprise.
"Yes, to do what I like with. At least give me your promise to do what I
ask with it."
He was suspicious and his face showed it. She laughed. "Yes, I'm worrying
again," she said. "I can now, you see. When we're married I shan't have
the power."
"You'll always have absolute power over me."
"Oh, I wish that was true!" she said. "No, I don't," came an instant
later. "If I thought that, I'd never speak to you again." Moving away a
little, she turned her head back towards him and went on, "Use it to pay
Dick Benyon. I'd rather you did that than gave me a thousand necklaces."
"Oh, Dick's in no hurry; he's got lots of money." Quisanté was visibly
vexed this time. "Aren't you going to allow me to give you anything?" he
asked.
She had a struggle to win this time, and again had to call in the ally
she distrusted, an appeal to his vanity. She told him that it hurt her
idea, her great idea, of him, that he should be in any way under
obligations to or dependent on anybody. This way of putting the matter
caught his fancy, which had remained blind to the more prosaic aspect of
the case. "You must stand by your own strength," she said. She had to go
a step farther still. "It'll make Amy Benyon quite angry too; it'll take
away one of her grievances. Don't pay only the arrears, pay all you can."
Thus she won and was comforted, in spite of her suspicion of the weapons
that she found herself obliged to use.
Comfort she needed sadly, and it could come only from Quisanté himself.
For the rest the sense of loneliness was strong upon her, and with it a
bitterness that this time in her life should be so different from what it
was in the lives of most girls. The superficials were there; friends sent
presents and Lady Attlebridge was as particular about the gowns and so
forth as though the match had been absolutely to her liking. But there
was no sincere congratulation, no sympathy, no envy. Her engagement was a
mistake, her marriage a tragedy; that was the verdict; she saw it in
every glance and discerned it under every civil speech. The common
judgment, the opinion of the group we have lived with, has a force
irrespective of its merit; there were times when May sank under the
burden of it and almost retreated. Then she was outwardly most contented,
took Quisanté everywhere with her, tried (as people said) to thrust him
down everybody's throat, even pretended a love which she had expressly
denied to the man himself. All this done, she would fly to solitude and
there be a victim to her fears, shudder at the risk she had elected to
run, and pray for any strange convulsion of events to rescue her.
None came; time went on, people settled down to the notion; only to a
small circle the matter retained a predominant interest. The rest of the
world could not go on talking about it for ever; they had a number of
other people's affairs to attend to, and the vagaries of one fanciful
young woman could not occupy their important minds for ever. None the
less, they turned away with a pleasant sense that they might find good
reason for turning back presently; let a year or two of the marriage run,
and there might be something to look at again.
But to one man the thing never became less strange, less engrossing, or
less horrible. Weston Marchmont abandoned as pure folly the attempt to
accustom his mind to it or to acquiesce in it; he had not the power to
cease to think of it. It was unnatural; to that he returned always; and
it ousted what surely was natural, what his whole being cried out was
meant, if there were such a thing as a purpose in human lives at all.
Disguised by his habit of self-repression before others, his passion was
as strong as Quisanté's own; it was backed by a harmony of tastes and a
similarity of training which gave it increased intensity; it had been
encouraged by an apparent promise of success, now turned to utter
failure. Amy Benyon might think that he would now marry Fanny, if only he
could endure such an indirect connection with Quisanté. To himself it
seemed so impossible to think of anyone but May that in face of facts he
could not believe that he was not foremost in her heart. The facts meant
marriage, it seemed; he denied that they meant love. He discerned what
May had said to Quisanté--although not of course that she had said
it--and it filled him with a more unendurable revolt. He might have
tolerated a defeat in love; not to be defeated and yet to suffer all the
pains of the vanquished was not to be borne. But he was helpless, and
when he had tried to plead his cause he had done himself no good. He had
rather so conducted himself as to give May Gaston the right to shut the
door on any further friendship with him; towards her future husband he
had never varied from an attitude of cool disdain. It was more than a
month since he had seen her, it was longer since he had done more than
nod carelessly to Quisanté as they passed one another in the lobby or the
smoking-room.
Then one day, a fortnight before the marriage, he met Quisanté as they
were both leaving the House about four o'clock. On a sudden impulse he
joined his rival. He knew his man; Quisanté received him with
friendliness and even effusion, and invited him to join him in a call at
Lady Attlebridge's. They went on together, Quisanté elated at this new
evidence of his power to reconcile opposition and conciliate support,
Marchmont filled with a vague painful curiosity and a desire to see the
two together at the cost of any suffering the sight might bring him.
The drawing-room at Lady Attlebridge's was a double room; in one half May
sat reading, in the other her mother dozed. May rose with a start as the
men entered together; her face flushed as she greeted Marchmont and bade
Quisanté go and pay his respects to her mother.
"I hardly expected ever to see you again," she said. "And I didn't expect
Mr. Quisanté to bring you." Her tone was oddly expressive at once of
pleasure and regret, of anticipation and fear. "Have you made friends?"
she asked.
He answered under the impulse of his mood.
"We must make friends," he said, "or I shall never see any more of you."
"I thought you didn't want to." She liked him too well not to show a
little coquetry, a little challenge.
"I thought so too, or tried to think so."
"I was sure you had deserted me. You said such--well, such severe
things."
"I say them all still."
"But here you are!" she cried, laughing.
"Yes, here I am," said he, but he was grave and looked intently at her.
She grew red again as she met his gaze, and frowned a little.
"I'm not sure I'm glad you've come after all," she said after a pause.
"Why have you come? I don't quite understand."
"I've come to see you, to look on at your happiness," he answered.
"You've no right to talk like that."
They became silent. From the inner room they heard Lady Attlebridge's
nervous efforts at conversation and Quisanté's fluent, too fluent,
responses. He was telling the good lady about her great social influence,
and, little as she liked him, she seemed to listen eagerly. Marchmont
looked at May and smiled. He was disappointed when she returned his
smile.
"He's a little too much of a politician, isn't he?" she asked.
Her refusal to perceive the insinuation of his smile made him ashamed of
it.
"We all are, when we've something to get, I suppose," he said with a
shrug.
"Oh, I don't think you need reproach yourself," she exclaimed, laughing.
There was a short pause. Then he said suddenly,
"You're the one person in the world to talk to."
Now she neither laughed nor yet rebuked him, and, as his eyes met hers,
he seemed to have no fear that she would do either the one or the other.
Yet he could not quite understand her look; did she pity him or did she
entreat for herself? For his life he could not answer. The only thing he
knew was that she would follow her path and take for husband the man who
flattered Lady Attlebridge in the inner room. Then she spoke in a low
voice.
"Yes, do come, come and see us afterwards, come as often as you like." He
raised his eyes to hers again. "Because the oftener you come, the more
you'll understand him, and the better you understand him, the better
you'll know why I'm doing what I am."
The soft look of pity or of entreaty vanished from her eyes now. She
seemed to speak in a strong and even defiant confidence. But he met her
with a resolute dissent.
"If you want me, I'll come. But I shan't understand why you did what
you're doing and I shall never see in him what you want me to see." He
looked round and saw Quisanté preparing to join them. "Am I to come,
then?" he asked.
Quisanté was walking towards them; she answered with a nervous laugh, "I
think you must come sometimes anyhow." Then she raised her voice and said
to Quisanté, "I'm telling Mr. Marchmont that I shall expect to see him
often at our house."
Quisanté seconded her invitation with more than adequate enthusiasm; if
Marchmont were converted to him, who could still be obstinate? The two
men began to talk, May falling more and more into silence. She did not
accuse Marchmont of deliberate malice, but by chance or the freak of some
mischievous demon everything he said led Quisanté on to display his
weaknesses. She knew that Marchmont marked them every one; he was too
well bred to show his consciousness by so much as the most fleeting
glance at her; yet she could have met such a glance with understanding,
yes, with sympathy, and would have had to summon up by artificial effort
the resentment that convention demanded of her. The sight of the two men
brought home to her with a new and an almost terrible sharpness the
divorce between her emotional liking and her intellectual interest. And
in a matter which all experience declared to concern the emotions
primarily, she had elected to give foremost place to the intellect, to
suffer under an ever recurring jar of the feelings for the sake of an
occasional treat to the brain. That was her prospect unless she could
transform the nature of Alexander Quisanté. "Marry a nice man of your own
sort, and then be as much interested as you like in Sandro." Aunt Maria's
advice echoed in her ears as she watched the two men round whom the
struggle of her soul centred, the struggle that she had thought was
finished on the day when she promised to become Alexander Quisanté's
wife.
"I shall keep you both to your word," said Marchmont when he left them.
May nodded, smiling slightly. Quisanté said all and more than all the
proper things.