If genius is mad, sensitiveness degenerate, and emotionality neurotic,
and if heredity is the determining principle in the causation of
character, comparative psychology enables us to account for many things.
On these lines it could fairly be argued that one family taint of
neurosis, manifesting itself diversely, had driven Stephen Chisely
to the gaol and brought his cousin, the Canon, to the feet of Yvonne.
Though there may be fallacies in the premises, there is, however, a
certain plausibility in the deduction. Through both men ran a vein of
artistic feeling carrying with it a perception of the beautiful and an
impulse toward its attainment This malady of sensitiveness--to speak by
the book--had carried Stephen beyond the bounds of moral principle. It
prevailed at times over Canon Chisely’s natural austerity and hardness.
If in the one case it had been a curse, in the other it was a blessing.
In politics a Tory, in social attitude proud of caste, in creed a rigid
Anglican, in morals conventional, in affairs a man of cold, crystalline
judgment, he had few of the undegenerate qualities that make for
lovableness of character. The aesthetic sense, deeply spreading, was the
redeeming vice of a sternly virtuous man. It was his social
salvation, his vehicle of happiness, his bond of sympathy with his
fellow-creatures.
The beauty of Yvonne’s voice had attracted him toward her, years
before--afterwards, the beauty of her face. But it was not until
the conception of her nature’s beauty, idealised by he knew not what
artistry within him from voice and face and simple thoughts and acts,
arose within his mind, that he became conscious of deeper feelings. At
first it seemed as if he had disintegrated the soul of his favourite
Greuze--fathomed the unplumbed innocence of its eyes as its hand closes
over the apple--and was regarding it with a poet’s wonder. But then
his sterner nature asserted itself, restoring mental equilibrium. He
realised that his feelings for her were what men call love, and soberly
he thought of marriage.
He had often, previously, considered the advantages of matrimony. It
was an honourable estate, becoming to his position, involving parental
responsibilities which, for God’s greater glory, it behoved a man of
his calibre to seek. The wife he had contemplated was to be a woman of
culture, reserve, high principle, who could grace his table, aid him in
spiritual affairs, and bear him worthy offspring. He was called upon
now to reorganise his conceptions. It is true that his idea of the
advantages of the married state was unaffected, save by the addition of
one undreamed of--the sunshine of a sweet woman’s face in his cold home.
But the disparity between the ideal woman and the real one was alarming.
Socially, parentally, spiritually, was Yvonne the woman to hold the high
office of his wife? He gave the matter months of anxious reflection. He
was marrying at leisure, certainly, he thought grimly; would he repent
in haste? At length his love for Yvonne wove itself into his schemes for
the Festival. Yvonne should come to Fulminster, take her place at once
in society under Mrs. Winstanley’s chaperonage and win her welcome with
her voice. Thus he would have an opportunity of judging her within his
own environment. A complex mingling of passion and calculation.
And Yvonne, demurely innocent, had passed through the ordeal. As the
Canon drove away from the “Elijah,” he doubted no longer. Before she
left Fulminster he would ask her to be his wife. It is characteristic of
the man that he had no serious fears of her refusal.
*****
The Festival was over. It was the day after. Miss Vicary and Vandeleur
had returned to town by an early train and Yvonne was spending an
idle morning over the fire. She had wandered round the shelves of the
morning-room in search of a novel, and had selected “Corinne” because it
was French. But Yvonne was a child of the age, and children of the age
do not appreciate Madame de Staël. One can understand a dear old lady in
curls and cap sighing lovingly over “Corinne,” bringing back as it does
memories of inky fingers and eternal friendships; but not--well, not
Yvonne. She loved “Gyp.” An unread volume was in her trunk upstairs.
She felt too tired and lazy to get it. Besides, she was not quite sure
whether the sight of “Gyp” would not shock Mrs. Winstanley, who was
engaged over her voluminous correspondence at a table by the window.
“They have such queer prejudices,” thought Yvonne. “One never knows.”
So she dropped “Corinne” on to the floor and looked at the fire. In
spite of her awe of Mrs. Winstanley, she was sorry to leave Fulminster.
Life had been made very pleasant for her the last few days. Her throat
was somewhat relaxed after the strain. She wished she could give it a
long rest. But on Monday she was engaged to sing at a club concert at
the Crystal Palace and in the morning she was to resume her singing
lessons; and the weather in London was wet and muggy. It would be bliss
to be idle, not to think of earning money and just to sing when you
wanted. She turned her head and caught a chance glimpse of her hostess’s
face. The morning light streaming full upon it showed up pitilessly the
network of lines beneath her eyes and the fallen contours of her lips
and the roughness of her skin. Yvonne was startled at seeing her look so
old and faded--a letter to a sister-in-law detailing Everard’s folly did
not conduce to sweetness of expression--and she wondered whether she,
Yvonne, would be happy when she came to look like that. She shivered
a little at the thought. Yes, the years would pass, leaving their
footprints, and she would grow old and her voice would pass away. It was
dreadful. When Yvonne did enter the gloom, she made it very dark indeed,
and summoned every available bogey. What should she do in her old age,
when she could no longer earn her living? Geraldine was always preaching
thrift, but she had put nothing by as yet. If she became incapacitated
to-morrow, she did not know how she would live. She looked at the fire
wistfully, her brow knitted in faint lines, and found her position very
pathetic. But just then Bruce, Mrs. Winstanley’s collie, rose from the
rug and came and laid his chin on her knees, looking at her with great,
mournful eyes. Yvonne broke into a sudden laugh, which astonished both
Bruce and his mistress, and taking the dog’s silky ears in her hands,
she kissed his nose and rallied him gaily on his melancholy. So Yvonne
stepped out of the darkness into the sunshine again.
Presently a servant entered.
“Canon Chisely would be glad if he could see Madame Latour for a
moment.”
“Where is the Canon?” asked Mrs. Winstanley.
“In the drawing-room, ma’am.”
Yvonne rose quickly and went to her hostess, who slipped a sheet of
blotting-paper over her half-finished page.
“Shall I go down?”
“Naturally.”
Yvonne spoke a word to the servant, who retired, and then gave her hair
a few tidying touches before the mirror in the over-mantel.
“I wonder if he has brought me those old Provençal songs.”
“I hope he has, my dear,” said Mrs. Winstanley, drily.
“Well, he is sure to have something nice to tell me, at any rate,”
replied Yvonne, in her sunny way.
The Canon was standing on the hearthrug, his hands behind his back. On
the table lay his hat and gloves. Yvonne advanced quickly across the
room to meet him, her face lit with genuine pleasure. He greeted her
gravely and held her hand in both of his.
“I have come to have a serious talk with you.”
“Have I been doing anything wrong?” asked Yvonne, looking up into his
face.
“We shall see,” he said, smiling. “Let us sit down.”
Still holding her hand, he drew her to the couch by the fireside, and
they sat down together.
“It is about yourself, Yvonne--I may call you Yvonne?--and about myself
too. You have always felt that you have had a friend in me?”
“Ah! a dear friend, Canon. No one is to me the same as you. I shan’t
mind at all if you scold me.”
She looked at him so guilelessly, so trustingly, that his heart melted
over her. Verily she was the wife sent to him by heaven.
“I was but jesting, Yvonne. Besides, how could I dare scold you? It is
I who come as a suppliant to you, my dear. I love you, and it is the
dearest wish of my heart to make you my wife.”
The sun died out of Yvonne’s eyes, her heart stopped beating, she looked
at him in piteous amazement.
“You--want me--?”
“Yes. Is it so strange?”
“You are jesting still--I don’t understand--” She had withdrawn her hand
from his clasp, and was sitting upright, twisting her handkerchief and
trembling all over. It was so unexpected. She could scarcely trust her
senses. She had regarded him more as an influence than as a man. To
Geraldine’s wit she had given not a moment’s thought. To marry Canon
Chisely--the idea seemed unreal, preposterous. And yet she heard
his voice pleading. She was overwhelmed by the sudden magnitude of
responsibility. He had swooped down and caught her up through the vast
moral spaces that lay between them, and she was dizzy and breathless.
“I do not press you for your answer,” she heard him saying.
“To-morrow--a week, a month hence--what you will. Take your time. I can
give you a good name, comfort in worldly things--the ease and freedom
from care which, thank God, my means allow--an honourable position, and
a deep, true affection. Would you like me to wait a month before I speak
to you again?”
“A month could make no difference,” murmured Yvonne. “It would seem
as strange then as now.” There was a sudden pause in the whirl of her
thoughts. Was it a bewildering device of his to show her kindness,
provide for her future?
“I could n’t accept it from you,” she added incoherently.
“But it is I who want you, Yvonne,” said the Canon, earnestly. “It is I
who must have you to brighten my home and comfort my life. If your life
is lying idle, as it were, Yvonne, give it me to use for my happiness.
For months I have given this my deepest, most anxious thought. I am not
a man to talk lightly of love and marriage. When I say that I want you,
it means that you are necessary to me. And you trust me?”
“Above all men--of course--”
“Then your answer--‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ or ‘wait.’”
She was silent. He put his arm round her shoulders and drew her to him.
“You must be my wife, Yvonne. Why not say ‘yes’ now?”
She felt powerless beneath the strong will and authority of the man. Why
he should wish to marry her, she could not understand; but his words had
all the weight of an imperative.
“If you must have me, then--” said she in a quavering little voice, “I
must do as you say.”
“You will be happy, my child,” he said, reassuringly. “I will make it
all sunshine for you--you need have no fears.”
He drew her yet closer to him and kissed her forehead; then he released
her gently.
“So it’s a promise?”
“Yes,” said Yvonne.
“Then look into my eyes and say, ‘Everard, I will take you for my
husband.’”
He said it loverwise, and, dignitary though he was, with a touch of a
lover’s fatuity. The tone revived Yvonne’s animation.
“Oh, I could n’t,” she cried, with a queer little laugh, midway between
despair and gaiety. “I shouldn’t dare--it wouldn’t sound respectful.”
“Try,” said he. “Say ‘Everard.’”
But Yvonne shook her head. “I must practise it by myself.”
The Canon laughed. He was well contented with the world. Her modesty
and innocence charmed him. Married though she had been, the fragrance of
maidenhood seemed still to hover round her. She was an exquisite thing
to have taken possession of.
“Are you happy?” he asked, taking her small brown hand that lay clasped
with the other on her lap.
“I am too frightened to be happy--yet,” she replied softly, with a shy
lift of her eyes.
“I don’t quite understand what has happened. Half an hour ago I was a
poor little singer--and now--”
“You are my affianced wife,” said the Canon, with grave promptness.
“That’s what I can’t realise. Everything seems topsy-turvy. Oh, it
_is_ your wish, Canon Chisely, isn’t it? You are so good and wise, you
wouldn’t let me do anything that was not right?”
“Always trust to me for your happiness, Yvonne, and all will be well,”
answered the Canon.
Presently she rose, gave him her hand with simple dignity.
“I must go and think it over by myself. You will let me? Another time I
will stay with you as long as you want me.”
The Canon led her to the door, kissed her hand, bending low over it in
an old-fashioned way, and bowed her out of the room. Then he rang for
the servant and sent a message to Mrs. Winstanley. He was a man of
prompt execution.
In the interview that followed, the Canon came off triumphant. He
parried his cousin’s thrusts of satire with a solicitude for her own
welfare that was not free from irony. If she had not so openly showed
him her distaste for the marriage, he might have displayed some sympathy
for her in the loss of _prestige_ that she was sustaining as lady ruler
of the Rectory. As matters stood, he considered she had forfeited it by
her caprice. Besides, he had shrewdly determined that there should not
be a triple dominion in his house.
“I hope she will extend your sphere of usefulness, Everard, as a wife
should,” said Mrs. Winstanley. “But she is inexperienced in these
matters. You will not be hard upon her.”
“I am only hard on those who disregard my authority. Then it is duty and
not severity. Have you ever found me a harsh taskmaster, Emmeline?”
“You would n’t compare us surely?”
“Certainly not. I could compare my wife with no other woman. It would be
in all respects wrong.”
“Well,” she replied, bidding him adieu, “I hope that you will be happy.”
“My dear Emmeline,” said the Canon, “I have been humbly conscious
for years that my happiness has always been one of your chief
considerations.”
From Mrs. Winstanley’s he proceeded at once to Lady Santyre’s, where
he received congratulations and luncheon. He left with the comfortable
certainty that all Fulminster would ring with the news of his engagement
during the course of the afternoon. His announcement was as public as if
he had proclaimed it from the pulpit. And Fulminster did ring as he
had expected--not that it was unprepared, for the Canon’s attentions to
Madame Latour had been a subject of universal speculation. Murmurings
arose in certain quarters. The neighbourhood abounded in the
aristocratic fair unwedded, and the Canon was highly eligible. One
of the aggrieved declared that all the Chiselys were eccentric, and
instanced the unfortunate Stephen.
“My dear,” replied in remonstrance her interlocutor, who had just
married her last daughter to the leading manufacturer in Fulminster,
“You must not talk as if the Canon had run off with a ballet-girl.”
But generally his indiscretion was condoned. It had been a stroke of
genius to let Yvonne charm her critics from a public platform at the
very outset.
For Yvonne herself, the remainder of her visit passed in a whirl.
Families called upon her; mothers congratulated her; the “Fulminster
Gazette” interviewed her; the Santyres changed the small dinner-party,
to which she had been already asked, into a solemn banquet in her
honour; and the Canon was ever at her side, attentive, courteous,
dignified, authoritative, playing his part to perfection. The flattery
pleased her. The universal deference paid to the Canon, of which she had
grown more keenly conscious, awakened a shy pride. But it all seemed an
incongruous dream, out of which she would awake when she found herself
in her tiny flat in the Marylebone Road. She was afraid to go back. If
it was a dream, she would regret this sudden lifting from her shoulders
of all sordid cares, the dread of losing her voice, of poverty, and the
grasshopper’s wintry old age. If it continued true, she feared lest the
familiar surroundings might pain her with regret for the life she was
abandoning--the sweet artist’s life, with all its inconsequences and its
purposes, its hopes and fears, its freedom and its claims. Even now, she
cried a little at the prospect of giving it up. And then she wouldn’t
know herself. Hitherto, her conception of herself had been Yvonne
Latour, the singer. That was her Alpha and Omega. It would be like
looking in the glass and seeing a total stranger. It was pathetic.
On Sunday she received a series of sensations. She believed such
elemental doctrines as she had received at her mother’s knee: in a
beautiful heaven and a fearful hell, in Christ and the angels--she was
not quite certain about the Virgin Mary--in the Lord’s Prayer, which she
said every night at her bedside, and in the goodness of going to church.
Her religion might have been that of a bird of the air for all the
shackles it laid upon her soul. But the outer forms of worship impressed
her strongly--church music, solemn silences, vestments, stained windows,
even words. She felt very solemn when she called her innocent self a
“miserable sinner” in the Litany, and the word “Sabbaoth,” in the “Te
Deum,” always seemed fraught with mystic meaning. The symbolic hushed
her into awe. Even the surplices of the choir-boys set them apart
for the moment, in her mind, from the baser sort of urchins. And, _a
fortiori_, the clergyman, in surplice and stole, had always appealed to
her childish imagination as a being that moved in an especial odour of
sanctity. It is fair to add that Yvonne’s church-going had never been
as regular as might have been desired, so these reverential feelings
had not been staled by custom. However, when the Canon appeared at the
reading-desk, and his fine voice rang through the Abbey, Yvonne felt a
sudden pang of alarm. The night before he had been so tender and playful
that he had almost seemed to be upon her level. And now, he was far, far
away. The distance between her, poor, insignificant little Yvonne, and
him performing his sacred office, appeared immeasurably vast. And when
he mounted the pulpit, her awe grew greater. She could not realise that
he was her affianced husband.
He preached on the text from the story of Nicodemus, “Except a man be
born again.” The words caught her fancy as being apposite to her
own case, and, disregarding the thread of the Canon’s discourse, she
preached a little sermon to herself. She was going to be born again.
Yvonne the singer would die, and a new, regenerate Yvonne, the lady of
the Rectory, Mrs. Everard Chisely, would appear in her stead. She caught
a phrase in which the Canon touched upon the spiritual pain attending on
the death of the old Adam. She wondered whether she would be called upon
to suffer the fire of purification. It was like the Phoenix. At this
point she pulled herself up short. To mix up the Phoenix and Nicodemus
might be profane. So she bestowed her best attention on the remainder of
the sermon.
That afternoon he took her through the Rectory--a great rambling
Elizabethan house, with nineteenth-century additions. She followed him
meekly from room to room, filled with wonder at the beauty of her future
home. The Canon had spent much money over his collections--overmuch,
some critics said--and the house was a museum of art treasures.
Pictures, statuary, wood-carvings, rare furniture met her in every
apartment, at every turn of the stairs. At first, the awe with which his
sacerdotal character had inspired her kept her subdued, but gradually
the new impressions effaced it. He spoke as if all these things were
already hers--established, as it were, a joint ownership.
“This is your own boudoir,” he said, as he led her into a pleasant room,
overlooking the lawn and commanding a view of the Abbey. “Do you think
you will be happy in it?”
“I must be,” she said, gratefully. “Not only because you have given me
the most beautiful room in the whole house, but because you are so good
to me in all things.”
“Who could help being good to you, my child?” said the Canon.
He was sincere. Yvonne felt humbled and yet lifted. Her eyes dwelt for a
shy moment on his. He seemed so kind, so loyal, so indulgent, and yet
a man so greatly to be venerated and honoured, that all her sweet
womanhood was moved. Standing, too, in this room that was to be her
own, she felt the future melt into the present. Her hand slipped timidly
through his arm.
“I shall never know why you want me,” she said, in a low voice, “but I
pray God I may be a good and loving and obedient wife to you.”
“Amen, dear,” said the Canon, kissing her.