Tom, as he had mentioned on the previous evening, had come to a
difficult place in his statue, and he could not get on. He was puzzled
to know what the fault was, or where the difficulty was. He saw in his
own mind what he wanted to do, but he could not visualize the vision.
And when May arrived on the following day she found him inclined to rail
at clay, models, drapery and himself. He had seen Manvers off in the
morning at Victoria, and that evening he dined alone with May.
“I’m so sorry he’s gone,” he said to her. “He is so extraordinarily
inspiring in a sort of back-handed way. He puts his own point of view so
brilliantly, that I realize how diabolical it is, and that spurs me to
work for mine. He has the same effect on me as the sight of a drunken
man was supposed to have on Spartan boys. Their fathers used to make a
slave drunk and then bring him in, and say, ‘Look at that. Isn’t it
horrible! Take warning!’”
Tom moved over to where May was sitting, and possessed himself of her
hand.
“You’ve grown thin, darling,” he said; “look how your rings slip about.
May, I’m so glad you’ve come. I have been very bad company to myself
lately. When I stick in my work, and you are not here, I don’t know
what to do. But when I’ve got you, sticking doesn’t seem to depress me.”
“I’m afraid I can’t prevent your sticking though, Tom.”
“I believe there is nothing you can’t do for me.”
“No, dear,” said May, “I’m very sorry, but we must face it. I don’t
understand about your work at all. I’m not the least artistic. If you
are pleased, I am pleased; but when you are not pleased, I can’t help
you. Mr. Manvers could; for that I am sorry he has gone.”
“Don’t you like him?” asked Tom.
May was silent a moment.
“Tom, you won’t be angry with me, will you,” she said at length,
“because I am going to say something which I have had on my mind for a
long time, and which I think I had better say. It is this. Do you think
it is right for you to see much of him, to know him, to be at all
intimate with him? Oh, Tom, he is not a good man! I don’t know about his
life, and you probably do; but I am sure of that. He has no better aim
in life than the success of his own wits. He has a bad effect on you. He
makes you think lightly of things which are more important than anything
else. Oh, I’ve got such a lot to say to you!”
Tom smiled.
“Say it, darling.”
May sat up and played rather nervously with her rings.
“And when you stick in your work, Tom,” she went on, “do you think it is
well to stimulate yourself in the sort of way you mention? You know you
aim at the best, and all that is good comes from one quarter. Do you
ever go there for help?”
“You mean, do I pray?”
“Yes, Tom.”
Tom got up and walked up and down the room.
“It is like this,” he said: “I believe in God, and I believe in good,
but I also believe in things like laws of nature, and if God created all
things, He created them. He has given me a brain which works in
obedience to certain laws, and nothing in the world can alter them. We
know a little about the brain, at least by experience we find that
certain things stimulate it; it works best when it is keen and eager,
and I use those things to make it keen and eager which I have found by
experience do so. No, when I stick in my work, I don’t pray.”
“But that is the essence of good work,” said May; “it is that which
makes it good--the fact that it is done in a spirit of dedication.”
“But, do you then think that a good man, in so far as he is good and
dedicates his work to God, necessarily produces good work?” asked Tom.
“I mean that a man who has a gift in any line, uses his gift best and
produces more beautiful things if he dedicates it. Why, Tom, look at the
difference between your things and Mr. Manvers’. I think he is not a
good man, and I think his things are not good for that reason.”
Tom sat down again.
“It all depends on what you mean by good and bad work,” he said. “I
think the object of a beautiful thing is only to be beautiful, and I
think his things are bad because they are ugly--at least, they seem to
me ugly.”
“But the object of all beauty is to bring us nearer God,” said May.
“Yet a work of art which arouses religious emotions is not a better work
of art than one which does not. Otherwise, a chromo-lithograph of the
Sistine Madonna would be a better work of art than that terrible
splendid Salome in the Louvre.”
“I think Mr. Manvers’ things are immoral,” said May.
“You don’t understand, dear,” he said. “His things, so I think, are bad
because he has a debased taste. It is his artistic sense that is warped,
and it is that which shows in his work, and not his character. Besides,
I think you are not fair to him, May.”
“Oh, but, Tom,” she said, with indignation in her voice, “think of his
life, that life among those Paris artists, that horrible vice, and
carelessness of living.”
Tom smiled.
“Where did you learn about the life of Paris artists?” he asked.
“Manvers says they are most inoffensive little people as a rule.”
“I read all about it in ‘David Grieve,’” said May seriously. “It is
horrible.”
This time he laughed right out.
“Oh, May, you are a darling!” he said. “Oh dear, how funny! I’m so sorry
for laughing; but really it is funny. Have you ever heard Manvers talk
about that? He becomes quite virtuous and indignant over it. I don’t
know much about Paris life myself, I was only there a month or two, but
Manvers--he does not strike you as being very like David Grieve in
Paris, does he?”
May joined in Tom’s laugh, but grew serious again.
“You know I feel about it very deeply,” she said; “there is nothing in
the world I feel about so much. I think it is our first duty not to
condone by word or deed what one knows is bad. To let people see that
one will not tolerate it, to fight against it, to--to show that one
loathes it.”
“Do you mean you want me never to see Manvers again?” asked Tom.
“No, not that,” said May, “because you know him well, and he is very
fond of you, and I think you do him good. But couldn’t you do him more
good? Couldn’t you talk to him about it, and bear your testimony?”
“No, dear,” said Tom, quietly, “I couldn’t possibly. It is not my
business. I know Manvers as a friend, as an excellent companion, as a
most amusing fellow. Why, May, he would think I was mad. Men do not talk
to each other about such things.”
“But surely it is our business,” said May. “Tom, you don’t think me
tiresome, do you?”
Tom smiled, and took up her hand again.
“My darling, I happen to love you,” he said, “and it does not occur to
one to think a person one loves tiresome.”
May went on with gathering earnestness.
“Surely it is our business,” she said. “You believe in God, you believe
in Christ, in His infinite love, His infinite care for all. Surely it is
your first business to help in His work. I remember what you told me
about that early celebration you went to. It completed my happiness: it
was that I was waiting for, and I thank God for it day and night. I
longed to see you more and talk about it, but you went up to London so
soon after, and I have scarcely seen you since.”
Tom’s eyebrows contracted. It was impossible for him to let May be
deceived, but what he had to do was a bitter thing. May’s eyes were
fixed on his, full of love and trust, but with a question in them, a
desire to be confirmed in what she had said.
“May, I am going to hurt you,” he said, looking away, “but I cannot help
it; I cannot let you think something about me which is not true. I think
I over-rated that--I mean that I thought more of it than it really meant
to me. The day before I was in agonies of anxiety and fear for you, and
that afternoon Ted and I met the funeral of a mother who had just died
in child-bed, and on my way home, as I told you, I went into the church
and prayed to an unknown God that you might be safe. I could not bear it
alone. And then next morning I could not bear my joy alone. I had--I was
obliged to thank some one for it, the some one who had heard my prayer
the evening before. And now the whole thing has faded a little. I am
less sure. I do not deny that God heard my prayer, and stretched out His
hand to save you, but it is less real to me. Supposing you had died,
should I have denied absolutely the existence of God? I hope not. Then
why should I affirm it because you lived?”
Tom’s voice had sunk lower and lower, and he ended in a whisper. But
May’s hand still lay in his, and she pressed it tenderly.
“Tom, why were you afraid to tell me?” she said. “Ah, my dear, I should
be a very weak, poor creature if this separated me at all from you, or
made me doubt you. What did you think of me? Of course I am sorry, and
yet I am hardly sorry. Am I to dictate to God by what way He shall lead
you? He has not led you that way, it was not good. Tom, Tom!”
She bent forward and kissed him, her arm was pressed round his neck, and
her head lay on his breast. As once before, on the evening when they
reached Applethorpe before the baby’s birth, human love and longing had
full possession of her; and as she lay there, she felt only that she
loved him. And Tom too was content.
But good moments pass as well as bad ones, and the sense that May lived
in a different world to him could not but come back again and again to
Tom. He could not but feel that there was a passion in her life in which
he had no share, and that passion was the strongest she knew. He had
tried to grasp it; once he thought he had grasped it, but he was wrong.
He was as honest to himself as he was to others, and he admitted that he
did not believe in God in the way he believed in May or in Art. The life
of Christ was beautiful beyond all other lives, but was it different in
kind from the lives of noble unselfish men? Was Christ anything more
than the most wonderful, the most unselfish man that the world has ever
seen? And from the fact that he could ask himself these questions, Tom
knew that he was not convinced. It was just this that was the most
essential part of May’s life; her love and tenderness for him and others
sprang from that, whereas Tom felt that all that was good in him did not
descend from above, but grew up from below.
May was certainly less conscious of this than he. She, so to speak, was
waiting for him to come, believing fully he would, while he was
struggling towards her, afraid that his efforts were futile. The least
he could do, he felt, and the most, was to avoid letting her know that
he was so conscious of the gulf between them. He loved her, he thought,
more and more as the days went by, and it should be easy to stifle that
little ounce of bitter where all else was so sweet. So long as she loved
him, he felt that it would be well with him.
Meantime the London season danced and laughed round them; the clay model
of Demeter was finished and was to be put in the pointer’s hands at
once. May produced a slight stir in a small circle, because she was
beautiful, and there is quite an appreciable number of men who prefer
that a woman should not talk much, because, as is very justly remarked,
if everybody talked much, nobody would have any audience to address. She
was always courteous, she always looked admirable, and the general
opinion was that Tom had “done himself” uncommonly well.
Moreover--and this was particularly interesting, because it was never
spoken above a whisper--Miss Wrexham was not looking at all well, and
there really must have been something in what every one was saying last
year. Very sad for her, was it not? but a girl has no business to go
about looking pale; of course that set every one talking, and a little
rouge, you know, would both conceal the pallor and mitigate the blush.
Oh yes, it happened many times; only last night, in fact, when we were
dining there, Tom Carlingford’s name came up and she blushed--several
people saw her. And she wasn’t at Ascot, nor was he, and that is quite
conclusive. And besides, her going to Athens was so very extraordinary.
Oh, she had a brother there, had she? We hadn’t heard that, and we shall
probably forget it again.
Maud, it must be confessed, did not enjoy herself very much that season.
In the natural course of things she met Tom often, and the task of
unbuilding that most uncompromising blank wall seemed too disheartening.
Every time she saw him she felt that things were getting more and more
difficult. What made it worse was that May had unthawed to her, and
often asked her to come out with her. May out of the fulness of her
heart constantly spoke of Tom, and talking about Tom was rather
emotional work for poor Maud. That terrible evening before Manvers went
away had taken her and thrust her back into all her old hopelessness and
blankness. “After all, what good to strive with a life awry?” she asked
herself, and then because she was pure and good and sweet, she strove
and strove till her strength began to give way. If only Tom would leave
London, she thought, or if only she could, things would be more
possible.
A little scene which had occurred long before, often came back to her
during these weeks. One day at their house in Cornwall, she was walking
early before breakfast along a narrow country lane. She could almost
smell again that sweet intangible scent of morning, the smell of clean
things. Now and then a whiff of dogrose crossed her, and now and then a
breeze which had blown through a gorse bush came over her face. At the
lodge gate she had spoken to the old keeper’s wife, whose son had got
into trouble. The poor old lady was rather tearful about it, and said:
“Lor, miss, if we were good how happy we should be!” She had repeated
the remark once to Manvers, who said he thought the old woman had got
hold of the wrong end of the stick, and that she would have spoken more
truthfully if she had said, “If we were happy, how good we should be!”
How extraordinarily happy she had been that morning! The whole world had
seemed so clean and fresh and wholesome, so delightfully straightforward
and uncomplicated. If only she could get back that feeling, just for a
moment, she thought she would be rested and ready to begin again. In the
old days nothing had seemed hard, nothing out of reach, nothing
perplexing. And now her life was spoiled.
One evening early in June she was having tea with May, longing for Tom
to come in, dreading that he would come. May had sent for the baby, and
he was sitting on his mother’s knee regarding his toes, which apparently
seemed to him very wonderful inventions and quite original, and his
mother was taking a sympathetic interest in his discoveries. Maud, who
had been quite fascinating to the infant mind till he found out about
his toes, had been thrown over, and as May’s attention was riveted on
her son, she felt just a little out of it. Suddenly May looked up.
“Just fancy,” she said, “this little mite is our own, Tom’s and mine: I
never get quite used to that fact. Yes, darling”--she turned her
attention to the baby--“how pretty, and that’s all yours. Oh, you
angel!”
Maud felt her breath catch in her throat, and on the moment the door
opened and Tom came in.
“Baby-cult as usual,” he said. “How are you, Maud?”
Maud could not quite command her voice, but she murmured something.
“That surprising infant usurps far too much of May’s time,” continued
he. “May will never quite recognize that one baby is rather like another
baby.”
May bent over the little sparsely be-haired head.
“What an unnatural papa he’s got!” she said; “he says you’re like other
babies. You know quite well, and so does he, that there never was a baby
like you, and never will be!”
Tom’s pleasant soul sat laughing in his eyes as he answered her.
“Mothers are said to be biassed in favour of their own young; never you
believe that, my boy.”
Then he turned to Maud.
“May’s manners are cast to the winds when His Smallness is present,” he
said; “she won’t attend to either of us, so we’ll attend to each other.
Are you going to the Levesons’ to-morrow? I hear they are going to be
very smart, and that it’s a case of red carpet. May, I must smoke a
cigarette. I don’t care whether it’s the drawing-room or not.”
“And fill the room with horrid, horrid smoke,” said May to her son.
“I hardly know,” said Maud; “I’ve been overdoing it lately, and I think
I shall go into my shell again for a bit. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a
real shell, and curl yourself up in the middle of a dinner-party if you
were bored.”
“I shall order one,” said Tom, thoughtfully. “You do look rather tired.
Where are you going to put your shell? If I were you I should leave
London for a week. It would be so original. You would of course let it
be known that you were going to read ‘Sordello.’ ‘Sordello’ is the
fashion now, I think. Of course nobody has read it and that’s why they
talk about it. No one talks about a thing they really have read.”
“That has a slight flavour of Mr. Manvers,” remarked May.
“Manvers has such a pungent flavour, that one really can’t help catching
a little of it, if one sees him at all,” said Tom. “But I wasn’t
consciously Manveresque--I suppose he’s in Paris, associating with all
the good dead Americans.”
May smiled.
“And now mammy’s going to take him upstairs,” she said, and left the
room.
Tom poured himself out a cup of tea.
“Please talk nonsense to me,” he said; “I’ve been seeing Wallingthorpe,
and--and of course he’s a delightful man, but he is so serious. He takes
everybody and everything seriously, including himself. That is so clever
of him--and the worst of it is he keeps it up. He is always clever. How
tiring he must find it!”
Maud laughed, but the laugh ended abruptly.
“Talk nonsense!” she said; “I have forgotten how. Oh, Tom, the world is
a very serious place!”
Tom raised his eyebrows.
“When did you find that out?” he asked.
“I? Oh, ever so long ago!” she said rather wildly “If you take it
lightly and pleasantly, it turns round on you somehow, and deals you
sudden back-handed blows. I don’t know why I am saying all this.”
“Hit it back,” suggested Tom. “It deals blows back-handed possibly, but
it caresses you back-handed too.”
Maud put on her gloves, and fitted her fingers carefully.
“I am out of sorts,” she said; “the world is grievously awry.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I am the matter. It’s nobody else. But what is one to do?”
Maud knew she was being unwise. She knew perfectly well that she would
be sorry for this, but the hope that Tom might understand seemed to her
the only thing worth caring for, and at the same time the one thing in
all the world which she dreaded. She was afraid, desperately afraid, of
saying too much, but she could not help herself. “Why will not he
understand?” she thought, “and God forbid that he should.” But Tom was
in a thoroughly superficial mood. He said to himself that Maud was out
of sorts, that she was overtired and worried.
“Man disquieteth himself in vain,” he said. “It is best to take living
very lightly. We all of us have something we want to do or be, and
cannot do or be it. We are wise if we let it alone. There is much I want
to do and be, and cannot manage it, and every one is in the same plight.
After all, if we aim at being contented, that is enough.”
Maud got up.
“Aim at being contented? Aim at being in Heaven! We have to remember
that we are on earth.”
Tom rose too.
“What is the matter?” he said; “do tell me.”
Again Maud felt stifled and choking.
“One is a creature of moods,” she said, “and the heavy moods come, as
well as the light. Just now I have a heavy mood. By the way, I shall
follow your advice. I am rather overdone, and I shall leave London for a
time. I shall not say I am reading ‘Sordello.’ I think I shall say I am
reading the Bible--it is the better book. I shall go before the end of
the week: at present I am going now. Give my adieux to your wife. She is
more charming than ever!”
But at this moment May came in, and Maud gave her adieux in person. Tom
was vaguely puzzled.
“It’s very sudden,” he said. “Are you going really?”
“Certainly,” said Maud; “I really am going--I am going away for a whole
fortnight. I want tone, and there is no such thing in London.”
Tom laughed.
“I am inclined to agree with you,” he said.
“Well, good-bye,” said Maud; “good-bye, May--that fascinating child is
quite too fascinating.”
May sat still a moment after she had gone. “What is the matter with
her?” she asked; “what have you been saying, Tom? I never saw her like
that.”
“Nor have I,” said he. “I have said nothing. I have no idea what is the
matter with her.”
Maud stood on the doorstep, and looked to see if the carriage was in
sight, and finding it not there, remembered that her mother had “worked
it in,” and began to walk home. But she felt hopelessly ill and weak,
and told the man to fetch her a hansom. “O God! how tired I am of it
all!” she said to herself.