Thus it had happened with Clytie during Thornton's absence. There came
a morning at the end of the Old Year when the snow and sleet dashing
against the window could be dimly heard in the heavily curtained room,
and Clytie feebly whispered: “Give me the child.” Gently they told her
that the life had merely fluttered on the threshold and passed back into
the silence whence it came. And she sank back on her pillows, struck to
the heart with a dumb, hopeless heartsickness.
Recovery was slow. Clytie lay for many days quite listless, the tears
rolling down her cheeks, physical weakness aiding to make her feel a
great self-pity. The long waiting, the fear, the pain, all had been
counted as nothing if at the close there could have lain in her arms a
little child--one whose touch would draw all pain from her heart, make
her forget every sorrow. And the passionate child hunger, begotten of
the pangs of maternity, woke within her and cried for satisfaction.
The whole weight of the world's misery crushed down upon her. She awoke
to a gray world. Its glory had departed. There was nothing left to live
for, and a great despair came over her. What was the use of dragging out
this broken, colourless existence until the time,--hopelessly remote
it seemed to her, now that the blood ran again strongly through her
veins,--should come for her to die? She passed through the phase common
to all strong natures in supreme moments of weariness, when death
seemed the only solution. One little draught out of a phial, an agonised
convulsion, perhaps, and then eternal nothingness. She did not fear the
annihilation which her materialism had taught her was the end of things.
She had no eschatological sentimentality. But the full-pulsed animal's
instinctive clutching after life held her back; the fit passed off, and
she decided to live through another act of the dreary tragedy.
All feelings of tenderness, trust, common confidence in her husband,
were swept away forever. The faintest breath of the old attraction
caused her to shiver with repulsion. Henceforward they were mere
acquaintances, who subsisted from a common fund, lived under the same
roof, and performed certain conventional actions in common, for the sake
of their own relations with a society that demands a certain outward
show of harmony between husband and wife. Thornton had come to town from
Hampshire in the vilest of tempers. For a day or two he positively
hated Clytie. Then the seriousness of her illness had awakened in him a
superficial sympathy. But as soon as she was out of danger he regarded
her with cold dislike. She had abruptly terminated his pleasant holiday.
She had gravely endangered his liaison with the only woman by whom he
had been otherwise than purely sensually attracted, wherein lay an odd
fascination, and in thus compelling him to her side she had sharply
reminded him that a married man, if he wishes to keep in with the
world, must not parade himself too conspicuously as his own master. And
Thornton had his own reasons for not wishing to openly outrage society.
As soon as she was able to travel Clytie went to Durdleham, for the
first time since her marriage. The quiet, easy life soothed her for a
while. She was in that condition of hopelessness when inaction seems
the highest good. Mrs. Blather attributed her dejection to the objective
cause, and sympathised with her as one woman can with another, and
strove to cheer her; but still she privately thought this long brooding
somewhat morbid. Clytie always went to extremes. But although she
naturally was unconscious of the subtleties of dreariness in the
causation of her sister's state, she was none the less helpful with
her sympathy--and sympathy very often is all the stronger from the
narrowness of the channel in which it flows.
February and March passed in the quiet, monotonous Durdleham way. But
as the spring grew into her blood Clytie felt the tingling of life
once again, and the period of inactivity was over. She was not of the
temperament to sit long with folded hands and lament over the futility
of things. The old restlessness of her girlhood, though strangely
modified, again urged her towards a fuller, more vivid existence.
Again she looked out upon the world and its mysteries with a knowledge
begotten of sorrow, and again vague longings took possession of her. She
faced the new condition of things bravely, resolved to struggle towards
a newer, better content. If the short dream had come true, she would
have found happiness in the guidance of another life; but the high gods
had ordained otherwise. As before her marriage, her only problem was the
working out of her own individuality; for henceforward Thornton would be
her husband only in name. In what direction should she carry herself so
as to prevent the fulfilling of her needs from developing into ignoble
egoism? As a girl she had studied life eagerly, had painted from
artistic impulses, from desire for fame, and from material necessity.
Her enthusiasms, the intimacy of her odd social life with Kent and
Winifred, had kept her pure and fresh. Now all was changed. She was
alone. She had learned many things: the touch of the fire of passion,
the taste of the waters of bitterness. Definite enthusiasms seemed to
be wanting; only the artistic impulse urging creation remained to
her--together with mechanical skill. How was she to occupy her life to a
fair and noble purpose? She tried to solve the problem calmly, was wise
enough to smile when she discovered that she failed. One cannot range a
row of potential enthusiasms in front of one, like oranges, and select
in cold blood. So Clytie determined to have faith
“... large in time,
And that which shapes it to some end.”
As soon as she had arrived at this decision she threw off her moodiness
and became bright again, to the great joy of Mrs. Blather, who was
sighing for her to join in such Easter dissipations as Durdleham society
offered. In obedience to her sister, therefore, Clytie burst upon
Durdleham like a revelation. During her girlhood Durdleham had regarded
her as odd, refused to accept her as conducive to social amenities. Now
it worshipped her with dazzled eyes--the whirligig of time thus bringing
in its revenges. The irony of the position amused her, but at the same
time it brought out in her much that was good and whole-hearted. She
saw, perhaps for the first time, that much of the decorous dulness
that had once chafed her to frenzy proceeded from an almost childlike
ignorance of the possibilities of enjoyment. For a wild moment the idea
entered her head to convert Durdleham to epicureanism. Janet, to whom
she confided this visionary scheme, stared at her open-mouthed, and
Clytie burst out into genuine mirth. Durdleham was willing to be
amused, eager to be brightened by a brilliant woman; but it would not
be convinced. It held by its principles, would not yield an iota in a
single formula. Still it could be brought to treat a paradox as a joke
instead of brooding over it with the stolidity of a hen sitting on a
china nest-egg. And that much Clytie did accomplish during the short
season of her social triumph.
In the middle of April she was requested by Thornton to return to
London. He had thrown up the private-secretaryship, as his purpose in
accepting it had been already served. By dint of self-assertion he had
identified himself with the non-parliamentary chiefs of the Tory party,
and during the early spring had rendered efficient electioneering
services. His chance of a candidature was therefore only a question
of time. But as he wished to neglect no means of keeping himself
in evidence, he still felt bound to call upon his wife to aid him
socially--that is to say, to preside at his table and receive his
guests. This Clytie was not disinclined to do, especially as his summons
was couched in pleasant and courteous terms. So she bade farewell to
Durdleham and returned to London.
When her train arrived at Euston she was surprised at seeing Thornton
on the platform. He wore a gray frock-coat with a dark rose in the
buttonhole, and lavender kid gloves. He came forward and greeted her,
raising his hat before he shook hands.
“Have you had a tiring journey? You are looking very well. As I was
paying a call near Primrose Hill,--ghastly place to live in, isn't
it?--I thought I might as well pick you up here with the brougham.”
“That was very kind of you, Thornton,” she said.
They talked of indifferent subjects during the long drive to South
Kensington: the theatres, odds and ends of gossip. When they got home he
accompanied her into the drawing-room and drank a cup of tea.
“You're a deuced lovely woman, you know, Clytie,” he said, his great
bulk sprawling over a small drawing-room chair, his hands in his pockets.
“I have half a mind to fall in love with you again. If you had not
turned into absolute ice, perhaps I should. You've got that same
devilish witchery in your skin that made me go wild over you a year
ago.”
“Oh, please don't talk of that, Thornton. It is the past,” she said,
with a tremor.
“Well, upon my soul!” he said, gathering himself together. “I don't see
why it might not be the present. I was going to unfold to you a little
scheme by which we might live politely together, but, by Jove! now
I look at you and reflect that you are my wife after all--you're so
gloriously beautiful, Clytie!”
He rose, but she was on her feet before him, having sprung up with a
beating heart. She looked at him with a fearful surmise in her glance,
and as he made a stride towards her she recoiled in a terror she had not
known before.
“Oh, no, no, no! For God's sake!” she cried, catching at her breath,
instinctively putting out her hands to keep him off. “That is all over.
We loved one another once. A horrible mockery of it is more than I can
bear.”
“Confound it, Clytie!” he exclaimed, clenching his hands and showing his
teeth, “you're my wife, and, by the Lord! I'll kiss you if I choose!”
The flash of his brown eyes that had once overpowered her will now made
her shudder. She stiffened into a woman of iron, with bloodless cheeks.
Standing up perfectly rigid, she closed her eyes, and hung her hands
against her sides.
“Kiss me, then, since you claim the right,” she said in a choked voice.
For a moment or two he stood looking at her. Then with a loud laugh he
flung himself back in his chair.
Clytie with shame and horror in her heart rushed from the room.
It was not an encouraging home-coming. The incident, though not
repeated, upset many of her plans for the reconstitution of her
existence. It added a new dread. For she had counted upon the
continuance of the entire indifference with which Thornton had grown
to regard her. A sudden outburst like this had not occurred for many
months. What guarantee had she that this was not the beginning of a
series of spasmodic rekindlings of a fire she had thought dead? For some
days anxiety lay heavy on her mind. But human nature is very elastic;
if it were not so, God help us all! After a while she recovered and
was able to talk calmly to Thornton, who began by treating her with
an ironical politeness, and then relapsed into his usual cheerful
indifference. Once while discussing their mutual relations she broached
the subject of separation.
“I won't consent,” he replied. “As we can't be lovers, we may as well be
friends. You would gain very little by it. Besides, people would talk,
and for me that is an important consideration.”
“It hardly concerns me,” she said, with a touch of cynicism that was new
to her. “Still, if you wish it very much, I will remain.”
“I do wish it, Clytie,” he said in a softened voice. “You can go your
way, I will go mine. But we must live together as far as the world sees
us.”
Clytie yielded with some misgivings, and set herself to work to discover
interests in life.
The society life of London, in which she was free to play an important
part, did not satisfy her. She saw too deep below the surface of things
to be guilty of the silly cynicism that finds society hollow, its
aims futile, and its morals corrupt. There is earnestness even among
cultivated men and women. But society is formal, conventional, and in
the external rules of life differs only in degree from Durdleham. True,
it has a far wider intellectual scope. Contrary to Durdleham, it permits
the possession of ideas, but it is just as punctilious as to their
correct expression. The elaborate ceremonial of society weighed upon
Clytie. She preferred a simpler, directer life. There were so many
wrappings of convention to be pierced through before she could get to
the heart of a thing or a person, and they wearied, irritated her. And
now, as Thornton seemed to care very little whether she placed herself
in evidence or not, beyond playing the part of hostess in his house, she
consulted merely her own desires in her acceptance of invitations. But
as the circle from which these mainly proceeded was that into which her
husband's reputation, tastes, and political aspirations had led her, she
did not find in it the interests which particularly affected her. It was
beyond her power either to feel or to simulate an interest in Thornton's
ambitions. Nor did she feel called upon now to profess the tenets of
Thornton's political creed. She was a solitary, unconventional Radical
in the midst of the most uncompromising Torydom, which is an unenviable
position even for the least rabid politician. The political section,
therefore, of her social circle she studiously avoided. The purely
fashionable, frivolous element, that goes to Hurlingham and Ascot, and
makes itself merry over material things, had attracted her the previous
year with its graceful epicureanism. She had still been proud of her
husband and his boyish zest in amusement, and she had caught from him
the spirit of laughing Babylon. But now it was pain to be with him
when he chatted and jested with pretty girls and idle young men. His
light-hearted gaiety jarred upon her. She saw that men and women were
affected by his charm, and she had half longings to tell them it was a
lie. So she withdrew herself from their midst as much as possible. By
this process of elimination Clytie's circle became conveniently limited.
She was sick at heart, and she turned more and more to the friends of
her girlhood.
Mrs. Farquharson's Sunday evenings became pleasant spots in her barren
week. She went there alone, as in the old days. Nothing was changed
there: the same faces, the same bright, eager talk, the same welcome.
Clytie became her old self, was astonished to find how many enthusiasms
she still retained. She almost forgot that she was married, and had said
farewell to theories of life and such like vanities. Only at times, when
her own art came within the range of a friendly arrow, did she wince and
remember with a pang that Clytie Davenant was dead. Redgrave, whom she
occasionally met, forbore, with a portrait painter's intuitive delicacy,
to question her upon the progress of her art under its new conditions.
He divined that his prophecies had been correct, and he was sad; because
he had had great hopes of Clytie. In a tentative way he spoke of it to
Mrs. Farquharson, who confided to him her own surmises as to the dubious
success of the marriage. Then Redgrave brightened, and declared that
there was hope yet.
“What do you mean?” cried Caroline with a touch of indignation; whereat
Redgrave smiled in his serene way.
“I mean that hitherto she has tried to look at life through her art. Now
she will be able to look at art through her life.”
“Then her art will be very feeble and miserable!”
“Clytie's life has never been feeble and miserable,” he replied. “I
feared it was going to be so--in a special sense, you know; I feared
that she would be overpowered by the physical element her husband
would bring into her atmosphere, and that she would develop into
the fashionable married woman, and thus, at the same time, suffer in
spirituality and lose her grip upon the subjects that form her artistic
range.”
“I can't see how an unhappy married life can help her,” said Caroline.
“If such a deterioration is possible, it has taken place already.”
“Doubtless it has,” Redgrave replied earnestly. “But it is not final.
If she lives within herself again, she will recover spirituality and
grip--both strengthened by experience and suffering. That is the most
precious knowledge, Mrs. Farquharson, which we have bought with sorrow.”
“Then mine must be very worthless,” cried Caroline. “And I'm very glad
of it. I would rather be ignorant and happy than wise and sad. And
I could wish the same for poor Clytie. I can understand the good and
beautiful things of this world as well as most people, but I don't
believe in art to all that extent. I may be a Philistine,--God forbid
it, but perhaps I am,--and I like to see people happy.”
“That depends upon what you call happiness,” said Redgrave.
But Caroline was not to be led into an argument. She had her views and
expounded them.
“I mean common, all-round human happiness,” she said, “that makes you
laugh to yourself when there's no particular reason for it. And I'd
sooner Clytie have that and never touch a brush than paint the most
world-convulsing pictures and be wretched.”
“But if she painted world-convulsing pictures, as you call them, she
would be happy--much happier than under the other conditions.”
“Oh, no, she wouldn't!” she replied, with a conclusive nod. “You are
quite wrong, my dear good friend. It is a secondary consideration to a
woman whether she convulses the world or not. It might amuse and gratify
her to do it _en passant_, but it is only _en passant_. Believe me. I
don't give my sex away as a general rule, but I make you a present of
that! So if you're glad,” she added with triumphant feminine logic,
“that Clytie has made an unhappy marriage, I think it is simply
detestable of you!”
So Redgrave, routed, retired in confusion; but he took his own ideas
with him.
One Sunday evening, early in July, Mrs. Farquharson ran into the room
where Clytie, just arrived, was taking off her wraps.
“I have been waiting by the window ever so long, watching for your
carriage. You are quite late. I wanted to see you before you came into
the drawing-room. Who do you think is here? Guess!”
Clytie saw at once by Caroline's face. A little thrill of gladness sent
the colour to her cheeks and caused her eyes to sparkle as she paused
with one glove half off and looked quickly at her friend.
“Kent?”
Caroline nodded, glad at seeing that Clytie was pleased.
“I wanted to drop you a line, but how could I on Sunday in this postless
town? George only condescended to tell me last night that he was coming.
If we had as little sense as men, I wonder how on earth we should get
on! He met him out a week ago and persuaded him.”
“It will be quite like an old evening, dear,” said Clytie. “I shall be
so glad to see him.”
“It is strange you should not have met,” said Caroline; and then she
added reflectively: “Well, perhaps it isn't.”
She had her own theories on the subject. And to say a woman has her own
theories is to say a good deal.
“But I don't see why he should have let us almost lose sight of him,”
she continued.
“What reason does he give?”
“Oh, the reason that makes one so helpless, you know. A man you like
comes to you and says: 'I have sinned against you without any cause
whatever. It was just my own badness, and nothing else, and now I am
humble and repentant'--and what are you to do but forgive him? He's very
penitent now and vows amendment.”
Clytie completed her little toilet arrangements and went downstairs with
Caroline. On their way Caroline asked her where Thornton was.
“He's at Goodwood, staying with some people there. He went down
yesterday for the races.”
“Wouldn't it have brightened you up to have gone too?” asked Caroline
with deliberate tactlessness, darting a quick feminine side glance. But
Clytie broke into a laugh.
“Oh! good gracious, no! I didn't even know he was going till yesterday,
when Roberts asked me about something he was to do during the master's
absence. We are quite old married people now, Caroline, and we each go
more or less our own way. It saves a lot of trouble. You see, he knew
I wouldn't care for Goodwood and the set he's in with there--the
Claverings and such like.”
“Yes, I think you are better off here,” said Caroline.
“I know I am,” replied Clytie, taking her arm. And then they went into
the drawing-room.
Clytie's first impulse on entering was to look round for Kent. She met
his eyes fixed upon her from the other side of the rather crowded room,
and she gave him a little nod of greeting. He rose and joined the knot
of people who were surrounding her. Both were self-conscious to the
extent of knowing that, as they had once been a familiar couple in that
company, it would be inexpedient to allow it to be noticed that
their meeting was an event to them. They shook hands, with a friendly
commonplace, and joined in the general conversation. Redgrave, French,
the journalist, Mr. Singleton, Mrs. Tredegar, were there--most of the
old faces, a few new ones. To see Kent's among them was a joy to Clytie.
She had never understood why he had broken from her. Now and then the
true solution passed through her mind, but she rejected it. It was
incongruous with his action. Love begets wants, and it is the nature
of man to clamour for them. This was her hasty conclusion. But she had
avoided thinking very deeply upon the subject, instinctively deeming it
wiser to refrain.
He had not changed, she thought; and wondered whether he would notice
any change in her. She found herself listening again to him as he
talked, in his downright, earnest way, quickly noting familiar turns of
thought and expression, admiring the thoroughness of his unconventional
enthusiasm. The old contented humility of spirit came back to her. How
much more real than hers was his life! How much she had learned and
could learn from him! And for a short, swift moment the laughter and
talk sounded dull in her ears, and all the objects around, all the faces
save one, melted away into the blue cigarette smoke, and that one face
remained--sitting at a table opposite to her, the lamp between them--and
the brows were intent on the sheet over which a quill pen was scratching
assiduously; and the surroundings shaped themselves into her old rooms
in the King's Road. Then, just as swiftly as it had come, the dream
vanished, and Clytie sighed. The talk languished a little. Kent looked
somewhat wistfully at her. She leaned forward and beckoned him with a
smile and a little upward movement of her chin.
“Come down and give me some supper,” she said. “I did not eat anything
before coming out.”
“That was foolish of you,” he said involuntarily.
Then they both laughed.
“You are just the same as ever,” she said. And they went downstairs.
It was a tradition in Harley Street that on Sunday evenings a cold
supper should be laid in the dining-room from half-past eight onward, so
that guests could go down whenever it so pleased them. To break up the
continuity of the evening by a formal gathering around a supper table
was opposed to Caroline's notions. Besides, irregularities in meals were
one of the features of the house. You need never be in time, and there
was always food when you wanted it. To the erratic and unregulated
visitor it was paradise. Caroline paid her servants extra wages to
insure satisfaction in this respect. So Clytie's little manouvre was
quite in accordance with the recognised order of things.
They found the dining-room unoccupied. She sat down near the end of the
table, while Kent, a little way off, gravely carved some chicken, which
he brought to her together with some salad and a jug of claret-cup. Then
he sat down by her, at the corner.
“But aren't you going to eat anything yourself?” she asked, laughing.
“I am not hungry.”
“Oh, that doesn't matter. Do go and get something, to keep me in
countenance. How can I eat when you are sitting watching me like that,
with your elbow on the table?”
“I have done it so often before. It seemed natural to sit by you
while you had your meal. I was forgetting. You see my manners have not
improved. However----”
He rose for the purpose of helping himself to some food, but Clytie
stopped him, made him sit down again.
“There! It was silly of me,” she said. “I did not think of it. Don't be
any different from what you used to be. Let us imagine that this evening
is one of the old Sunday evenings here. Ah! If you only knew how glad I
am to see you. What an eternity it has been since we met.”
“Eighteen months,” said Kent laconically. “The longest eighteen months I
have ever lived.”
“Why?”
“Don't you think I have missed you?”
“So much as that?”
“Yes; so much as that.”
“My poor Kent!” said Clytie, troubled. “I wish I could do something for
you.”
“Ah, _es ist vorbei_,” he said, puckering his brows, as he watched the
rings he was making in the damask with an inverted wineglass. Then his
forehead suddenly cleared, and he looked up with his frank laugh.
“You see I am just as much of a bear as ever. Instead of telling you
what a delight it is to be with you again, I come to you complaining,
and I ought to have every reason not to rail at fortune.”
“You are doing great things, I hear,” said Clytie. “Tell me about them.”
“Oh, they are neither great nor much worth telling. The _opus_ is being
translated into German, and part of it will be soon published by the
University of Vienna.”
“That is a feather in your cap.”
“A big one. I don't think I am given to running after notoriety and
that sort of thing, but it is gratifying to be recognised a little. It
encourages one.”
“Ah, it does!” said Clytie with more meaning than she intended.
“So I have been working away at it harder than ever.”
“I wish I had your enthusiasm,” she said. “And your power of work. Do
you remember your lectures?” They talked a little about the old days,
half sadly, half tenderly. Those memories were very pleasant. Then they
came back to the present.
“Winnie tells me you are a great man now at the Museum. I am so glad.”
Kent waved his hand deprecatingly and laughed. “Winifred is quite an
Iris,” he replied. “For she comes down to earth sometimes and tells me
things about you. Yes, I am quite a man of affluence these days. I am
the head of the department. I have got so much money I don't know what
to do with it.”
“I hope you employ some of it in giving yourself proper meals,” said
Clytie. “Or do you still have your extraordinary suppers?”
“Oh, I live just the same,” said Kent. “If I began to be respectable in
one thing, I should gradually become so in all.”
“And the rooms are just the same as ever?”
“A few more pictures and odds and ends. And I have got a carpet. That's
Wither's doing. He came to see me in the winter and caught a cold, due
to the bare boards, so he said. When he had recovered he made me go
and buy a thick Turkey square. After that I had serious designs of
forbidding him the rooms lest he should turn them into a boudoir
altogether.”
They laughed over this idea. Clytie asked him whether he still kept the
tripods before the fireplace, and whether the paraffin oil can in the
corner harmonised well with the carpet. It was like a breath of fresh
air to meet Kent again.
Suddenly he pointed to her plate.
“You are not eating anything.”
“I am not hungry,” said Clytie with some demureness.
“But if you have not had your evening meal, you'll get faint. What did
you come down for, if you merely wanted to pick at the wing of a chicken
and to put hardly any of it into your mouth?”
Then Clytie burst out into merry laughter. He was so downright and
honest. Just the same as ever.
“Oh, you foolish Kent! I should have thought even you could have
invented that.”
“Did you really want to see me?” he asked, brightening.
“Why, of course! Do you suppose I am devoid of human attributes?”
This brought them nearer than they had been since the time that Kent
realised he loved her. To Kent this meeting was enchantment. To see her
sitting by him, bright, laughing, her old self, was enough to make him
lose sense of the past eighteen months of hopeless longing. He thought
to himself that it was better she had not learned, since her ignorance
gave him this sweet half hour.
“I suppose we must be going upstairs soon,” she said, with a little
wistful wrinkling of her forehead. “When shall I see you again?”
Kent started at the question. It troubled him. He did not know what
answer to make.
“Within less than another year, I hope,” he said.
“Oh, yes, Kent. We mustn't be strangers any more. It's not good for us.
Would you care about seeing me very often?”
“I am not coming to call upon you,” he replied bluntly.
The actual words were ungracious. But there was a flash of eager longing
in his eyes that lent the words a subtle meaning. And Clytie rose from
the table with a little gasp of pain as the truth burst upon her.
“Oh, Kent, Kent!” she cried, greatly moved.
Their eyes met, and this time there was no mistake. He knew that she had
guessed. But with a great effort he evaded the appeal.
“No; I can't come to your house to see you,” he said huskily. “There
you are Mrs. Hammerdyke, and I shouldn't know you. Your home is full of
interests and associations in which I could only be a stranger and an
intruder. To me you are Clytie, the Clytie whose daily life I used to
share--and only as Clytie can I bear to see you.”
“Would it help you to see me as Clytie?” she asked.
“Yes, dearly,” he said.
“Then you can always come in to the studio when I am with Winifred, and
I shall always be here on Sunday evenings. Don't you think I want to see
you too--as Clytie!”
“Thank you. Thank you,” he said in a low voice, taking her hand. “Now it
is time for us to go upstairs.”