'La Passion, c'est l'ascétisme profâne, aussi rude que ascétisme
religieux.'--ANATOLE FRANCE.
I
Within two hours of his curious conversation with his cousin, Wantley
saw Mrs. Robinson and Cecily Wake start off, alone, for Shagisham.
With his hands in his pockets, his head slightly thrown back, standing
in a characteristic attitude, the young man watched them drive away in
the curious low dogcart which had been designed by Penelope for her own
use. As he turned back into the hall an unaccountable depression seized
on him. The memory of his cousin's words concerning Cecily was far from
giving him pleasure. He felt as if in listening he had been treacherous,
not so much to the girl as to their own ideal relation to one another.
It is surely a mistake to say, as is so often said, that uncertainty and
doubt are the invariable accompaniments of the beginning of a great
passion. Wantley had felt, almost from the first, as sure of her as he
had felt of himself, and yet his reverence for Cecily was great, and his
opinion of his own merits most modest.
Death might come, and now he had become strangely afraid of death, but
Cecily, living, he knew would and must belong to him. He was so sure of
this, and he loved her so well as she was, that he had no desire, as
yet, to do that which would let all the world share his dear mysterious
secret, become witness of his deep content. And so, though Penelope had
been very gentle--indeed, save at one moment, very delicate in what she
had implied rather than said--Wantley would have been better pleased
had the words remained unuttered.
Then his mind went on to wonder why his cousin had seemed so distressed
and so unlike her restrained and, with him, always wholly possessed
self. What had signified her odd words, her pleading look, so full of
unwonted humility? Things were not going well with Wantley to-day, and
his vague discontent was suddenly increased by the recollection that
George Downing was leaving Monk's Eype.
Since Downing's arrival Wantley had not once been down to the Beach
Room. Mrs. Robinson knew how to insure that her wishes, whatever they
might be, should be known and respected, and so, partly in obedience to
a word said by her regarding her famous guest's dislike of interruption,
partly because he had felt Downing's manner become more and more frigid
during the brief moments when the two men were obliged to place
themselves in the courteous juxtaposition of host and guest, the younger
had studiously avoided forcing his company on the elder.
Now, remembering Penelope's words concerning the part he was to play in
the matter of introducing Downing to David Winfrith, he felt that he
might without indiscretion seek the other out.
Wantley was surprised by the warmth of his welcome. Downing seemed
really glad to have his solitude invaded, and a moment later his
visitor, sitting with his back to the broad window, at right angles to
the older man's powerful figure, was realizing with some amusement and
astonishment how carefully Penelope's old play-room had been arranged
with a view to its present occupant's convenience and even comfort.
His cool, observant eyes first took note of the camp-bed, only partly
hidden by the splendid Chinese screen, never before moved from its place
in the great Picture Room of the villa; then of the strips of felt laid
down over the oak floor; of the comfortable chair in which Downing was
now leaning back--lastly, his glance rested on the wide writing-table,
covered with papers, note-books, and a map held flatly to the wind-swept
surface of the table by a small revolver.
Wantley also perceived a pile of rugs, generally kept in the hall of the
villa, for which he had searched in vain a day or two before, when he
wanted something to wrap about the knees of old Miss Wake. This, then,
was where they had been spirited away!
He charitably reminded himself that Persian Downing, in spite of his
straight, long figure, his keen eyes, his powerful chin and jaw, was no
longer a young man, and with much living alone had doubtless found time
to acquire the art of securing for himself the utmost physical comfort.
Wantley's admiration for him somewhat unreasonably declined in
consequence, and no suspicion that these little arrangements, these
little luxuries, might be the sole fruit of another person's intelligent
thoughtfulness even crossed his mind.
They were both smoking--Downing an old-fashioned pipe, and his visitor
one of the small French cigarettes of which he always carried a store
about with him, and which had been the most tangible sign of his release
from thraldom, the great Lord Wantley's horror and contempt of smoking
and of smokers having been only equalled by his abhorrence of drinking
and of drunkards.
The early afternoon light, reflected from the sea and sand outside,
flooded the curious cavernous room with radiance, throwing the upper
half of Downing's broad, lean figure in high relief. Wantley, himself in
shadow, looked at him with renewed interest and curiosity, and as he did
so he realized that there must have been a time when the man before him
would have been judged singularly handsome. Now the large features were
thin to attenuation--the brown skin roughened by much exposure to heat
and dust; the grey eyes, gleaming under the bushy eyebrows, sunken and
tired; while the thick moustache, streaked with white, hid the firm,
delicately modelled mouth, and gave an appearance of age to the face.
'If you do not find the farm comfortable,' said Wantley, breaking what
had begun to be an oppressive silence, 'I hope you will return here for
awhile. There won't be a soul in London yet.'
'Excepting my old friend, Mr. Julius Gumberg,' objected Downing. 'I
believe he has not been out of town for years, and I sometimes think
that in this, at any rate, he has proved himself wiser than some of his
fellows.'
'Mr. Julius Gumberg,' said the other, smiling, 'has always seemed to me,
since I first had the honour of his acquaintance, to be the ideal
Epicurean--the man who has mastered the art of selecting his pleasures.'
'True!' cried Downing abruptly. 'But you must admit that not the least
of his pleasures has always been that of benefiting his friends.'
'But that, after all, is only a refined form of self-indulgence,'
objected Wantley, who had never been in a position so to indulge
himself.
An amused smile broke over the other's stern mouth and jaw. 'That theory
embodies the ethical nihilism of the old Utilitarians. Of course you are
not serious; if you were, your position would be akin to that of the
Persian mystics who teach the utter renunciation of self, the sinking of
the ego in the divine whole. But then,' added Downing, fixing his eyes
on his companion, and speaking as if to himself--'but then comes the
question, What is renunciation? The Persian philosopher would give an
answer very different from that offered by the Christian.'
'Renunciation is surely the carrying out of the ascetic ideal--something
more actively painful than the mere doing without.' Wantley spoke
diffidently.
'Undoubtedly that is what the Christian means by the word, but is there
not the higher degree of perfection involved in the French saint's
dictum?' Downing stopped short; then, with very fair, albeit
old-fashioned, accent, he uttered the phrase, '_Rien demander et rien
refuser._ Of course, the greatest difference between the point of view
held by the Persian sages and, say, the old monkish theologians is that
concerning human love.'
Wantley leaned forward; he threw his cigarette out of the window. 'Ah,'
he said, 'that interests me! My own father became a Roman Catholic, an
act on his part, by the way, of supreme renunciation. I myself can see
no possible hope of finality anywhere else; but I think that, as regards
human love, I should be Persian rather than monkish.' He added, smiling
a little: 'I suppose the Persian theory of love is summed up by
FitzGerald;' and diffidently he quoted the most famous of the quatrains,
lingering over the beautiful words, for, as he uttered them, he applied
them, quite consciously, to himself and Cecily Wake. What wilderness
with her but would be Paradise?
Her face rose up before him as he had seen it for a moment the day
before, when, coming suddenly upon her in the little wood, her honest
childish eyes had shone out welcome.
Downing looked at him thoughtfully. 'Ah, no; the Persian mystic of
to-day would by no means assent to such simplicity of outlook. Jami
rather than Omar summed up the national philosophy. The translation is
not comparable, but, still, 'twill serve to explain to you the Persian
belief that renunciation of self may be acquired through the medium of a
merely human love;' and he repeated the lines:
'Though in this world a hundred tasks thou tryest,
'Tis love alone which from thyself will save thee;
Even from earthly love thy face avert not,
Since to the real it may serve to raise thee.'
'That,' cried Wantley eagerly, 'absolutely satisfies me, and strikes me
as being the highest truth!'
Downing again smiled--a quick, humorous smile. 'No doubt,' he said
rather dryly, 'so thought the student who, seeking a great sage in order
to be shown the way of spiritual perfection, received for answer: "If
your steps have not yet trod the pathway of love, go hence, seek love,
and, having met it, then return to me." The theory that true love, even
if ill-bestowed, partakes of the Divine, is an essential part of the
Sufi philosophy.'
'And yet,' objected Wantley, 'there are times when love, even if well
bestowed, may have to be withdrawn, lest it should injure the creature
beloved.'
'So I should once have said,' answered Downing, leaning forward and
straightening himself in his chair; 'but now I am inclined to think that
that theory has been responsible for much wrong and pain. I myself, as a
young man, was greatly injured by holding for a time this very view. I
was attracted to a married woman, who soon obtained over me an
extraordinary and wholly pure influence. But you know what the world is
like; I cannot suppose that in these matters it has altered since my
day. It came to my knowledge that our friendship was arousing a certain
amount of comment, and so, after much painful thought and discussion
with myself, I made up my mind--wrongly, as I now believe--to withdraw
myself from the connection.' He added with a certain effort: 'To this
determination--come to, I can assure you and myself, from the highest
motives--I trace, in looking back, some unhappiness to her, and to me
the utter shipwreck of what were then my worldly chances. My withdrawal
from this lady's influence brought me into contact with another and a
very evil personality. Now, had I been then, as I now am, a student of
Persian philosophy, I might be----'
Downing stopped speaking abruptly. As he threw himself back, his great
powerful figure seemed to collapse. Wantley looked at him, surprised and
greatly touched by the confidence.
'I will tell you,' resumed Downing, after a long pause, 'of another
Persian belief, to which I now fully adhere. The sages say that as God
is, of course, wholly lacking in _bukhl_--that is, stinginess or
meanness--it is impossible for him to withhold from any man the thing
for which he strives with sufficient earnestness; and this,' he added,
looking at his companion, 'I have myself found to be true. If a man
devotes all his energies to the pursuit of spiritual knowledge, he
becomes in time----'
'Automatically holy,' suggested Wantley, smiling.
'And capable,' concluded Downing, 'of accomplishing what we call
miracles.'
'But to such a one surely human love would be denied, even in Persia?'
'Undoubtedly, yes. But the man who has striven successfully on a lower
plane, whose object has been to compass worldly power and the defeat of
his enemies--to him human love is not only not denied, but may, as we
have seen, bring him nearer to the Divine.'
'But meanwhile,' objected Wantley, 'love, and especially the pursuit of
the beloved, must surely stay his ambition, and even interfere with his
success?'
'Only inasmuch as it may render him more sensitive to physical danger
and less defiant of death.'
The young man had expected a very different answer. 'Yes,' he said
tentatively; 'you mean that a soldier, if a lover, is less inclined to
display reckless bravery than those among his comrades who have not the
same motive for self-preservation?'
'No, no!' exclaimed Downing impatiently; 'I do not mean that at all! All
history is there to prove the contrary. I was not thinking of
straightforward death in any shape, but of treachery, of assassination.
The man who loves'--he hesitated, his voice softened, altered in
quality--'above all, the man who knows himself to be beloved, is more
alive, more sensitive to the fear of annihilation, than he who only
lives to accomplish certain objects. The knowledge that this is so might
well make a man pause--during the brief moments when pausing is
possible--and it has undoubtedly led many a one to put deliberately from
himself all thought of love.'
Wantley looked at him with some curiosity, wondering whether his words
had a personal application.
'Now, take my own case,' continued Downing gravely. 'I am in quite
perpetual danger of assassination, and in this one matter, at any rate,
I am a fatalist. But should I have the right to ask a woman to share,
not only the actual risk, but also the mental strain? I once should have
said no; I now say yes.'
Wantley was too surprised to speak.
There was a pause, then Downing spoke again, but in a different tone:
'Oddly enough, the first time was the most nearly successful. In fact,
the person who had me drugged--perhaps I should say poisoned--succeeded
in his object, which was to obtain a paper which I had on my person.
Papers, letters, documents of every kind, are associated in my mind with
mischief, and I always get rid of them as soon as possible. Mr. Gumberg
has boxes full of papers I have sent him at intervals from Persia. I
have arranged with him that if anything happens to me they are to be
sent off to the Foreign Office. Once there'--he threw his head back and
laughed grimly--'they would probably never be looked at again. In no
case have I ever about me any papers or letters; everything of the kind
is locked away.'
'Yes; but you have to carry a key,' objected Wantley.
'There you have me! I do carry a key. One is driven to trust either a
human being or a lock. I prefer the lock.'
Wantley, as he left the Beach Room, felt decidedly more cheerful. The
conversation had interested and amused him. Above all, he had been moved
by the recital of Downing's early romance, and he wondered idly who the
lady in question could have been, whether she was still living, and
whether Downing ever had news of her.
During the whole of their talk there had been no word, no hint, of the
existence of the other's wife, who, as Wantley, by a mere chance word
uttered in his presence in the house where he had recently been staying,
happened to know, was even now in England, the honoured guest of one of
his uncle's old fellow-workers.
He said to himself that there was a fascination about Downing, a
something which might even now make him beloved by the type of
woman--Wantley imagined the meek, affectionate, and intensely feminine
type of woman--who is attracted by that air of physical strength which
is so often allied, in Englishmen, to mental power. He felt that the man
he had just left, sitting solitary, had in his nature the capacity of
enjoying ideal love and companionship, and the young man, regarding
himself as so blessed, regretted that this good thing had been denied to
the man who had spoken of it with so much comprehension.
Slowly making his way upwards from the shore, Wantley turned aside, and
lingered a few moments on the second of the three terraces. Here, in
this still, remote place, on this natural ledge of the cliff, guarded
by a stone balustrade which terminated at intervals with fantastic urns,
now gay with geranium blossoms, gaining intensity of colour by the
background of blue sky and bluer waters, he had only the day before, for
a delicious hour, read aloud to Cecily Wake.
From his father Wantley had inherited, and as a boy acquired, an
exceptional love and knowledge of old English poetry, and, giving but
grudging and unwilling praise to modern verse, he had been whimsically
pleased to discover that to the girl Chaucer and La Fontaine were more
familiar names than Browning and Tennyson, of whose works, indeed, she
had been ignorant till she went to the Settlement, where, however,
Philip Hammond had soon made her feel terribly ashamed of her ignorance.
Standing there, his thoughts of Cecily, of Downing, of Persian
mysticism, chasing one another through his mind, Wantley suddenly
remembered Miss Theresa Wake, doubtless still sitting solitary in her
hooded chair.
II
Cecily's aunt, whom he himself already secretly regarded with the not
altogether uncritical eye of a relation, was to Wantley a new and
amusing variety of old lady. Miss Theresa Wake had the appearance,
common to so many women of her generation, of having been petrified in
early middle age. A brown hair front lent spurious youth to the thin,
delicate face, and her slight, elegant figure was only now becoming
bent. It was impossible to imagine her young, but equally difficult to
believe that she would ever grow really old.
The young man who aspired to the honour of becoming in due course her
kinsman, found a constant source of amusement in the fact that her
sincere, unaffected piety was joined to a keen, almost morbid, interest
in any worldly matter affecting her acquaintances. When with Miss Wake
it was positively difficult for a sympathetic person to keep from
mentioning people, and so, 'I think we shall have David Winfrith here in
a few minutes,' he said, when, having sought her out, he was anxious to
make amends for his neglect. 'Penelope and your niece will probably
bring him back. My cousin is very anxious that he should meet Sir George
Downing, who is leaving soon.'
'Leaving soon? He will be greatly missed.'
The remark was uttered primly, and yet, as Wantley felt, with some
significance. The phrase diverted him, it seemed so absurdly
inappropriate; for Downing had stood, and that to a singular degree,
apart from the ordinary life of the villa.
But the old spinster lady was pursuing her own line of thought. 'I
suppose,' she said hesitatingly, 'that the Settlement would not be
affected should Penelope marry again? Of course, I am interested in the
matter on account of my niece.'
Wantley looked at her, surprised. 'I don't see why it should make the
slightest difference, the more so that David Winfrith has of late years
taken a great part in the management of the Melancthon Settlement--in
fact, the place has been the great tie between them. I should not care
myself to spend the money of a man to whom my wife had once been
married, but I am sure Winfrith will feel no such scruple, and the
possession of the Robinson fortune might make years of difference to him
in attaining what is, I suppose, his supreme ambition. After all, and of
course you must not think that I am for a moment comparing the two men,
where would Dizzy have been without Mrs. Lewis?'
'But what would Mr. Winfrith have to do with it?' inquired Miss Wake.
'Was he a friend of Penelope's husband? How could he influence the
disposal of the Robinson fortune?'
It was Wantley's turn to look, and to be, astonished. 'I understood we
were speaking of Penelope's marrying again,' he said quickly, 'and I
thought that you, like myself, had come to the conclusion that she would
in time make up her mind to marry Winfrith. He's been devoted to her
ever since she can remember. Why, they were once actually engaged, and I
should never be surprised any time, any moment--to-day, for
instance--were she to tell us that they were to be married.'
The old lady remained silent, but he realized that her silence was not
one of consent. 'Surely you were thinking of David Winfrith?' he
repeated. 'There has never been, in a serious sense, anyone else.'
A little colour came to Miss Wake's thin, wrinkled cheeks, and she began
to look very uncomfortable. 'I was thinking of someone very different,'
she said at last, 'but you have made me feel that I was quite wrong.'
An odious suspicion darted into the young man's mind. He suddenly felt
both angry and disgusted. After all this constant dwelling on other
people and their affairs must often lead to ridiculous and painful
mistakes, to unwarrantable suspicions. 'You surely cannot mean----' he
began rather sternly, and waited for her to speak.
'I was thinking of Sir George Downing,' she answered, meeting his
perturbed look with one of calm confidence. 'Surely, Lord Wantley, now
that I have suggested the idea, you must admit that they are greatly
interested in one another? At no time of my life have I seen much of
lovers; but, though I have not wished in any way to watch Penelope and
this gentleman, and though I have, of course, said nothing to my niece
Cecily, it has seemed to me quite dear that there is an attachment. In
fact'--she spoke with growing courage, emboldened by his silence--'I
have no doubt about my cousin's feelings. Would not the marriage be a
suitable one? Of course there must be a certain difference of age
between them, but she seems, indeed I am sure she is, so very devoted to
him.'
'I confess the thought of such a thing never occurred to me.'
Wantley spoke slowly, unwillingly; and even while he uttered the words
there came to him, as in an unbroken, confirmatory chain, the memory of
little incidents, words spoken by Penelope, others left unsaid, her
altered manner to himself--much unwelcomed evidence that Miss Wake had
been perhaps clear-sighted when they had all been blind. He felt a
sudden pang of pity for his cousin, a feeling as if he had suddenly
seen, through an open door, a sight not meant for his eyes. For a moment
he deliberated as to whether he should tell Miss Wake of the one fact
which made impossible any happy ending to what she believed was true of
the relations between Mrs. Robinson and Sir George Downing.
'I think I ought to tell you,' he said at length, 'that a marriage
between them is out of the question. Sir George Downing has a wife
living. They are separated, but not divorced.' There was a painful
moment of silence; then he added hastily: 'I know that my cousin is
fully aware of the fact.'
Then, to his relief, Miss Wake spoke as he would have had her speak. 'If
that is so,' she cried,' I have been utterly mistaken, and I beg your
and Penelope's pardon. It is easy to make mistakes of the kind. You see,
I have lived so long out of the world.'
There was a note of appeal in the thin, high voice.
'But indeed,' said Wantley quickly, 'my cousin is very unconventional,
and your mistake was a natural one. I myself, had I not known the
circumstances, would probably have come to the same conclusion.'
Their eyes met, and for a brief moment unguarded glances gave the lie to
their spoken words.