XIV

Wyndham's career as an engaged man began amid a radiance of enthusiasm.

When his prospective mother-in-law arrived for the tea-party, she was

enchanted at the news, declaring, after the first joyous surprise, that

it was the wish that lay nearest to the hearts of herself and her

husband. And, presently, when Mary appeared, and was introduced not only

to "the original of the portrait she had so admired," but also to "a

very sweet Alice" who was to be her sister, "I guessed it," she broke

out, kissing Miss Robinson impulsively. "I am so delighted."

Heigh, presto! In a trice the three women were chatting away like a

group of old neighbours! Wyndham became discreetly busy with tea-things.

Of course the Robinsons insisted on Mary's dining with them, and so

there was a happy little reunion in the evening. Mr. Robinson thrilled

visibly with the honour of having Mary at his board, and he

congratulated Wyndham with pathetic cordiality, his voice husky with

emotion, his eyes streaming with tears.

Such was the auspicious beginning. But the universe seemed to vibrate to

white heat as a wider population entered into the jubilation. Mary was

the first to spread the news, her letters reaching the Hertfordshire

circle express. In the twinkling of an eye, as it appeared to Wyndham, a

flood of letters poured through the slit in his door. He had done that

which makes every man a hero for the moment, and dim figures with whom

he had been out of touch for endless years started up again on the

horizon, palpitatingly actual, athrob with goodwill. In the Bohemian

world, too, confirmation of the former rumour was not slow to be noised

abroad, and Sadler hastened to Hampstead and burst in upon him, the

massive head enthusiastically aglow; declaring that he had never for a

moment taken Wyndham's denial seriously, and roaring out his

congratulations and envy with an exuberance of virile expletive.

At Aunt Eleanor's the Christmas festivities were struck in a gayer key

in his honour. Odes of welcome and triumph were in the air. And he was

glad enough to be among his own world again; living in the way that

meant civilisation to him, and breathing homage and consideration--

lionised by his equals! It was as though the fatted calf had been killed

for him, after his prodigal riot of penury. He expanded in this

atmosphere of adulation, amid all these manifestations in honour of the

brilliant artist and the Prince Charming who loved and was loved

idyllically. His engagement seemed to him now most admirable--the

world's sanction had invested it with warm and pleasant lights.

Certainly nobody deprecated or criticised the projected alliance; though

it was known to be with middle-class people who were not in Society, but

merely quiet folk of wealth and respectability. Mary's enthusiasm had

gone a long way in anticipating any possible caste objections, and the

word of approval went round from one to another in the usual parrot-like

way in which public opinion has formed itself since creation. There

seemed in fact to be a very conspiracy of approbation. Wyndham had done

wisely; and voices dropped impressively to dwell on the Robinson

millions--with the obvious implication that that is what wealthy

middle-class people are for--to have the most promising of their kind

promoted into the upper classes.

But the Robinson fortune, though not inconsiderable, was not the

romantic one of rumour. Mr. Robinson had already performed his duty of

writing to Wyndham on the financial aspect of the alliance, and in so

charming a way that Wyndham had at once paid him the tribute of "jolly

decent." Since they had not had the opportunity of disposing of the

subject _viva voce_, had said the old man, he conceived it perhaps to be

an obligation on his part to do so without delaying further; after

which these matters would of course pass entirely into the realm of

Wyndham's private affairs, where he was well content to leave them.

Alice's fortune, such as it was, had been placed under her own control

absolutely when she had attained the age of twenty-five, and probably

now, with certain accumulations, amounted to some thirty thousand

pounds. She was a wise and prudent child, well capable of controlling

those money matters that were naturally distasteful to so gifted an

artist, and in that way he would no doubt find her a most useful

companion. However, he now left it to him and Alice to plan out their

future together, and wished them all good luck. At the same time, if

Wyndham had no objection, he would like to give them as a

wedding-present any house they might fancy, and his wife desired to

furnish it or give them a cheque for that purpose.

Wyndham was in reality deeply moved by so much considerate kindness and

rare delicacy. He wrote Mr. Robinson a charming note of acknowledgment;

though he touched just briefly on the main theme, diverging into a

chatty account of his visit, and letting his pen run on and on till he

had covered several sheets.

Each morning during his visit a letter from Alice awaited him on the

breakfast-table. For a week or two the chant was timorous, uncertain; of

a pitch to soothe his self-complacency, to stir no ruffle in his

holiday mood. But towards the end of his time she found herself--she

tuned up, and adventured. And then followed Wyndham's awakening; taking

him with the force of cataclysm, and dashing him out of his drowsy mood

of contentment. Evidently the poor child was not living in this world.

If her feet touched earth, her head at any rate was in a heaven of its

own. She poured herself out with a lyric fervour that was like the song

of a lark for rapture. All the years of her life she had saved herself

for this, not frittered her emotions away in flirtations or frivolous

love-affairs--as the soberer Wyndham now reflected. Her ideals were as

unsullied as in her childhood. Her spirit soared up with a tremulous

eager joy--without doubts, without cynicism, with a simple sure faith in

love's paradise. Reserved, shrinking away from men, her heart yet held

rich store of treasure, and she poured all out at his feet. Timorousness

had vanished; the soul that had woven its own music in solitude had been

translated to a higher universe. There were no barriers now, nothing but

this joyous, confident life into which her womanhood had passed at that

moment when, swept onward by the flood, she had thrown her arms around

him.

"Dearest," she wrote, "my whole past life seems like a half-slumber from

which I have awakened into a world almost too dazzling with light and

joy. Yet who am I that this joy should have come to me? When I think of

the years when I lived alone with my own thoughts, it seems wonderful

that your love should have been granted to me. The world is full of pale

ghosts that come and go, not knowing what life is, and it amuses me to

wonder if any of them will ever turn into real people.

"Oh, my dear love, you are so far, far off. I want you here, here again

with me, happy that you love me, happy that I love you, wanting no other

life than this with your arms round me and your heart beating close to

me. And yet I like to think that you are happy amid your own family, in

the place where your childhood was spent. I love, dear, to dwell on the

thought of your childhood, and fancy I see you now, a beautiful child in

velvet, with a feather in your hat and a toy sword. And I see myself a

child again, playing with this fairy little prince in the meadows. How

beautiful if we were children like that! Impossible does it seem? Yet is

anything impossible in this enchanted world?

"Think of me, dearest, with the deepest and truest love of your heart,

as I am thinking of you every moment of this wonderful life."

And another time: "It is strange to feel how everything is transformed

since you came into my life and made me understand what this great

happiness is. I laugh gaily at nothing; yet tears come into my eyes

quickly at unhappiness or suffering. It seems as if I were born to love

you with a yearning and a passion that sometimes frighten me, yet which

I would rather die than live without. When I first loved you, I did not

know that this would come, that I should not be able to imagine it to be

otherwise. The thought is frightful; indeed, if anything were to happen

to change the present, I think my heart would give one great, great

throb, and all would be over. I draw my breath hard at the thought;

there is a deep pain at my breast; my teeth are set. But how morbid I am

to-day! how ungrateful for this splendid gift of your love that has been

bestowed upon me! But somehow I feel frightened; I don't believe that

anybody will be allowed to keep such happiness on this earth. So come to

me quickly, dearest; you seem so far, far away from me. I kiss your dear

letters, I wear them near my heart, at night they are under my pillow. I

love you, I love you."

And this heart-cry broke down all the strong fibre of the man. Poor

Alice! He must take care of such a child; he must cherish her life and

make it perfect! Not in the least detail must he fail in his duty. Never

for a moment must she think that this was--he flinched now before the

words--an engagement of convenience!

An engagement of convenience! He slipped away to his room--away from the

rest of the world!--and sat staring into the dusk. He knew now that he

was face to face with the actuality that lay before him in all its

horror. An engagement of convenience! He would have given the world to

recall it. His eyes saw clear again--the enthusiasm that swirled and

whirled around him had thus far sustained him: vibrations of romance had

arisen within him, had resounded with a certain music. But these letters

of Alice, this crescendo series, each soaring beyond the other, had

illumined the horrible poverty of his own emotion. The freshness of her

note was a revelation and yet an agony to him. If only he could have

piped with half the thrill!

He could see at last that in his specious reasonings he had somehow

assumed a largely passive attitude on her part. Indeed, egotistically

preoccupied with his own side of the case, he had scarcely bestowed a

thought on hers. This reality--immense--overpowering--of the romance in

her heart terrified him. He had given her empty words, and she had given

him--love! And what else, indeed, but empty words had he to offer her

now?--had he to offer her in the whole long vista of their future? At

the best a studied kindness, an acceptance of duty. He had entered on a

role of mockery, and he knew now he was utterly unfitted to play it. His

whole nature rose and cried aloud in revolt.