Honora paused in her toilet, and contemplated for a moment the white
skirt that her maid presented.
“I think I'll wear the blue pongee to-day, Mathilde,” she said.
The decision for the blue pongee was the culmination of a struggle begun
with the opening of her eyes that morning. It was Sunday, and the time
was at hand when she must face the world. Might it not be delayed a
little while--a week longer? For the remembrance of the staring eyes
which had greeted her on her arrival at the station at Grenoble troubled
her. It seemed to her a cruel thing that the house of God should hold
such terrors for her: to-day she had a longing for it that she had never
felt in her life before.
Chiltern was walking in the garden, waiting for her to breakfast with
him, and her pose must have had in it an element of the self-conscious
when she appeared, smilingly, at the door.
“Why, you're all dressed up,” he said.
“It's Sunday, Hugh.”
“So it is,” he agreed, with what may have been a studied lightness--she
could not tell.
“I'm going to church,” she said bravely.
“I can't say much for old Stopford,” declared her husband. “His sermons
used to arouse all the original sin in me, when I had to listen to
them.”
She poured out his coffee.
“I suppose one has to take one's clergyman as one does the weather,” she
said. “We go to church for something else besides the sermon--don't we?”
“I suppose so, if we go at all,” he replied. “Old Stopford imposes a
pretty heavy penalty.”
“Too heavy for you?” she asked, and smiled at him as she handed him the
cup.
“Too heavy for me,” he said, returning her smile. “To tell you the
truth, Honora, I had an overdose of church in my youth, here and at
school, and I've been trying to even up ever since.”
“You'd like me to go, wouldn't you, Hugh?” she ventured, after a
silence.
“Indeed I should,” he answered, and again she wondered to what extent
his cordiality was studied, or whether it were studied at all. “I'm very
fond of that church, in spite of the fact that--that I may be said to
dissemble my fondness.” She laughed with him, and he became serious. “I
still contribute--the family's share toward its support. My father was
very proud of it, but it is really my mother's church. It was due to her
that it was built.”
Thus was comedy played--and Honora by no the means sure that it was a
comedy. Even her alert instinct had not been able to detect the acting,
and the intervening hours were spent in speculating whether her fears
had not been overdone. Nevertheless, under the eyes of Starling, at
twenty minutes to eleven she stepped into the victoria with an outward
courage, and drove down the shady avenue towards the gates. Sweet-toned
bells were ringing as she reached the residence portion of the town,
and subdued pedestrians in groups and couples made their way along the
sidewalks. They stared at her; and she in turn, with heightened colour,
stared at her coachman's back. After all, this first Sunday would be the
most difficult.
The carriage turned into a street arched by old elms, and flanked by
the houses of the most prosperous townspeople. Some of these were of
the old-fashioned, classic type, and others new examples of a national
architecture seeking to find itself,--white and yellow colonial,
roughcast modifications of the Shakespearian period, and nondescript
mixtures of cobblestones and shingles. Each was surrounded by trim lawns
and shrubbery. The church itself was set back from the street. It was of
bluish stone, and half covered with Virginia creeper.
At this point, had the opportunity for a secret retreat presented
itself, Honora would have embraced it, for until now she had not
realized the full extent of the ordeal. Had her arrival been heralded by
sounding trumpets, the sensation it caused could not have been greater.
In her Eden, the world had been forgotten; the hum of gossip beyond the
gates had not reached her. But now, as the horses approached the curb,
their restive feet clattering on the hard pavement, in the darkened
interior of the church she saw faces turned, and entering worshippers
pausing in the doorway. Something of what the event meant for Grenoble
dawned upon her: something, not all; but all that she could bear.
If it be true that there is no courage equal to that which a great
love begets in a woman, Honora's at that moment was sublime. Her cheeks
tingled, and her knees weakened under her as she ran the gantlet to the
church door, where she was met by a gentleman on whose face she read
astonishment unalloyed: amazement, perhaps, is not too strong a word for
the sensation it conveyed to her, and it occurred to her afterwards that
there was an element in it of outrage. It was a countenance peculiarly
adapted to such an expression--yellow, smooth-shaven, heavy-jowled,
with one drooping eye; and she needed not to be told that she had
encountered, at the outset, the very pillar of pillars. The frock coat,
the heavy watch chain, the square-toed boots, all combined to make a
Presence.
An instinctive sense of drama amongst the onlookers seemed to create a
hush, as though these had been the unwilling witnesses to an approaching
collision and were awaiting the crash. The gentleman stood planted in
the inner doorway, his drooping eye fixed on hers.
“I am Mrs. Chiltern,” she faltered.
He hesitated the fraction of an instant, but he somehow managed to make
it plain that the information was superfluous. He turned without a word
and marched majestically up the aisle before her to the fourth pew from
the front on the right. There he faced about and laid a protesting hand
on the carved walnut, as though absolving himself in the sight of his
God and his fellow-citizens. Honora fell on her knees.
She strove to calm herself by prayer: but the glances of a congregation
focussed between her shoulder-blades seemed to burn her back, and the
thought of the concentration of so many minds upon her distracted her
own. She could think of no definite prayer. Was this God's tabernacle?
or the market-place, and she at the tail of a cart? And was she not Hugh
Chiltern's wife, entitled to his seat in the place of worship of his
fathers? She rose from her knees, and her eyes fell on the softly
glowing colours of a stained-glass window: In memoriam--Alicia Reyburn
Chiltern. Hugh's mother, the lady in whose seat she sat.
The organist, a sprightly young man, came in and began turning over his
music, and the choir took their-places, in the old-fashioned' manner.
Then came the clergyman. His beard was white, his face long and narrow
and shrivelled, his forehead protruding, his eyes of the cold blue of
a winter's sky. The service began, and Honora repeated the familiar
prayers which she had learned by heart in childhood--until her attention
was arrested by the words she spoke: “We have offended against Thy holy
laws.” Had she? Would not God bless her marriage? It was not until then
that she began to pray with an intensity that blotted out the world that
He would not punish her if she had done wrong in His sight. Surely,
if she lived henceforth in fear of Him, He would let her keep this
priceless love which had come to her! And it was impossible that He
should regard it as an inordinate and sinful affection--since it had
filled her life with light. As the wife of Hugh Chiltern she sought a
blessing. Would God withhold it? He would not, she was sure, if they
lived a sober and a righteous life. He would take that into account, for
He was just.
Then she grew calmer, and it was not until after the doctrinal sermon
which Hugh had predicted that her heart began to beat painfully once
more, when the gentleman who had conducted her to her seat passed her
the plate. He inspired her with an instinctive fear; and she tried to
imagine, in contrast, the erect and soldierly figure of General Chiltern
performing the same office. Would he have looked on her more kindly?
When the benediction was pronounced, she made her way out of the church
with downcast eyes. The people parted at the door to let her pass,
and she quickened her step, gained the carriage at last, and drove
away--seemingly leaving at her back a buzz of comment. Would she ever
have the courage to do it again?
The old butler, as he flung open the doors at her approach, seemed to be
scrutinizing her.
“Where's Mr. Chiltern, Starling?” she asked.
“He's gone for a ride, madame.”
Hugh had gone for a ride!
She did not see him until lunch was announced, when he came to the table
in his riding clothes. It may have been that he began to talk a little
eagerly about the excursion he had made to an outlying farm and the
conversation he had had with the farmer who leased it.
“His lease is out in April,” said Chiltern, “and when I told him I
thought I'd turn the land into the rest of the estate he tried to bribe
me into a renewal.”
“Bribe you?”
Chiltern laughed.
“Only in joke, of course. The man's a character, and he's something of a
politician in these parts. He intimated that there would be a vacancy
in this congressional district next year, that Grierson was going to
resign, and that a man with a long purse who belonged to the soil might
have a chance. I suppose he thinks I would buy it.”
“And--would you like to go to Congress, Hugh?”
“Well,” he said, smiling, “a man never can tell when he may have to eat
his words. I don't say I shouldn't--in the distant future. It would have
pleased the General. But if I go,” he added with characteristic vigour,
“it will be in spite of the politicians, not because of them. If I go I
shan't go bound, and I'll fight for it. I should enjoy that.”
And she was able to accord him the smile of encouragement he expected.
“I am sure you would,” she replied. “I think you might have waited until
this afternoon and taken me,” she reproached him. “You know how I enjoy
going with you to those places.”
It was not until later in the meal that he anticipated, in an admirably
accidental manner, the casual remark she had intended to make about
church.
“Your predictions were fulfilled,” she answered; “the sermon wasn't
thrilling.”
He glanced at her. And instead of avoiding his eyes, she smiled into
them.
“Did you see the First Citizen of Grenoble?” he inquired.
“I am sure of it,” she laughed, “if he's yellow, with a drooping eye and
a presence; he was kind enough to conduct me to the pew.”
“Yes,” he exclaimed, “that's Israel Simpson--you couldn't miss him. How
I used to hate him when I was a boy! I haven't quite got over it yet. I
used to outdo myself to make things uncomfortable for him when he came
up here--I think it was because he always seemed to be truckling. He
was ridiculously servile and polite in those days. He's changed since,”
added Hugh, dryly. “He must quite have forgotten by this time that the
General made him.”
“Is--is he so much?” said Honora.
Her husband laughed.
“Is it possible that you have seen him and still ask that?” said he.
“He is Grenoble. Once the Chilterns were. He is the head of the honoured
firm of Israel Simpson and Sons, the president of the Grenoble National
Bank, the senior warden of the church, a director in the railway. Twice
a year, in the columns of the New York newspapers dedicated to the
prominent arrivals at the hotels, you may read the name of Israel
Simpson of Grenoble. Three times has he been abroad, respectably
accompanied by Maria, who invariably returns to read a paper on the
cathedrals and art before the Woman's Club.”
“Maria is his wife, I suppose.”
“Yes. Didn't you run across Maria? She's quite as pronounced, in her
way, as Israel. A very tower of virtue.”
“I didn't meet anybody, Hugh,” said Honora. “I'll--I'll look for her
next Sunday. I hurried out. It was a little embarrassing the first
time,” she added, “your family being so prominent in Grenoble.”
Upon this framework, the prominence of his family, she built up during
the coning week a new structure of hope. It was strange she had never
thought before of this quite obvious explanation for the curiosity of
Grenoble. Perhaps--perhaps it was not prejudice, after all--or not
all of it. The wife of the Chiltern heir would naturally inspire
a considerable interest in any event, and Mrs. Hugh Chiltern in
particular. And these people would shortly understand, if they did not
now understand, that Hugh had come back voluntarily and from a sense
of duty to assume the burdens and responsibilities that so many of
his generation and class had shirked. This would tell in their favour,
surely. At this point in her meditations she consulted the mirror, to
behold a modest, slim-waisted young woman becomingly arrayed in white
linen, whose cheeks were aglow with health, whose eyes seemingly
reflected the fire of a distant high vision. Not a Poppaea, certainly,
nor a Delila. No, it was unbelievable that this, the very field itself
of their future labours, should be denied them. Her heart, at the mere
conjecture, turned to stone.
During the cruise of the Adhemar she had often watched, in the gathering
darkness, those revolving lights on headland or shoal that spread now
a bright band across the sea, and again left the waters desolate in the
night. Thus, ceaselessly revolving from white hope to darker doubt,
were her thoughts, until sometimes she feared to be alone with them, and
surprised him by her presence in his busiest moments. For he was going
ahead on the path they had marked out with a faith in which she could
perceive no flaw. If faint and shadowy forms had already come between
them, he gave no evidence of having as yet discerned these. There was
the absence of news from his family, for instance,--the Graingers, the
Stranger, the Shorters, and the Pendletons, whom she had never seen;
he had never spoken to her of this, and he seemed to hold it as of no
account. Her instinct whispered that it had left its mark, a hidden
mark. And while she knew that consideration for her prompted him to
hold his peace, she told herself that she would have been happier had he
spoken of it.
Always she was brought back to Grenoble when she saw him thus, manlike,
with his gaze steadily fixed on the task. If New York itself withheld
recognition, could Grenoble--provincial and conservative Grenoble,
preserving still the ideas of the last century for which his family had
so unflinchingly stood--be expected to accord it? New York! New York was
many, many things, she knew. The great house could have been filled from
weekend to week-end from New York; but not with Graingers and Pendletons
and Stranger; not with those around the walls of whose fortresses the
currents of modernity still swept impotently; not with those who, while
not contemning pleasure, still acknowledged duty; not with those whose
assured future was that for which she might have sold her soul itself.
Social free lances, undoubtedly, and unattached men; those who lived in
the world of fashion but were not squeamish--Mrs. Kame, for example;
and ladies like Mrs. Eustace Rindge, who had tried a second throw for
happiness,--such votaries of excitement would undoubtedly have been more
than glad to avail themselves of the secluded hospitality of Grenoble
for that which they would have been pleased to designate as “a lively
time.” Honora shuddered at the thought: And, as though the shudder had
been prophetic, one morning the mail contained a letter from Mrs. Kame
herself.
Mercifully Hugh had not noticed it. Honora did not recognize the
handwriting, but she slipped the envelope into her lap, fearful of what
it might contain, and, when she gained the privacy of her rooms, read it
with quickening breath. Mrs. Kame's touch was light and her imagination
sympathetic; she was the most adaptable of the feminine portion of her
nation, and since the demise of her husband she had lived, abroad and at
home, among men and women of a world that does not dot its i's or cross
its t's. Nevertheless, the letter filled Honora with a deep apprehension
and a deeper resentment. Plainly and clearly stamped between its
delicately worded lines was the claim of a comradeship born of Honora's
recent act. She tore the paper into strips and threw it into the flames
and opened the window to the cool air of the autumn morning. She had a
feeling of contamination that was intolerable.
Mrs. Kame had proposed herself--again the word “delicately” must be
used--for one of Honora's first house-parties. Only an acute perception
could have read in the lady's praise of Hugh a masterly avoidance of
that part of his career already registered on the social slate. Mrs.
Kame had thought about them and their wonderful happiness in these
autumn days at Grenoble; to intrude on that happiness yet awhile would
be a sacrilege. Later, perhaps, they would relent and see something of
their friends, and throw open again the gates of a beautiful place long
closed to the world. And--without the air of having picked the single
instance, but of having chosen from many--Mrs. Kame added that she had
only lately seen Elsie Shorter, whose admiration for Honora was greater
than ever. A sentiment, Honora reflected a little bitterly, that Mrs.
Shorter herself had not taken the pains to convey. Consistency was not
Elsie's jewel.
It must perhaps be added for the sake of enlightenment that since going
to Newport Honora's view of the writer of this letter had changed. In
other words, enlarging ideals had dwarfed her somewhat; it was strictly
true that the lady was a boon companion of everybody. Her Catholicism
had two limitations only: that she must be amused, and that she must
not--in what she deemed the vulgar sense--be shocked.
Honora made several attempts at an answer before she succeeded in
saying, simply, that Hugh was too absorbed in his work of reconstruction
of the estate for them to have house-parties this autumn. And even this
was a concession hard for her pride to swallow. She would have preferred
not to reply at all, and this slightest of references to his work--and
hers--seemed to degrade it. Before she folded the sheet she looked again
at that word “reconstruction” and thought of eliminating it. It was too
obviously allied to “redemption”; and she felt that Mrs. Kame could not
understand redemption, and would ridicule it. Honora went downstairs and
dropped her reply guiltily into the mail-bag. It was for Hugh's sake she
was sending it, and from his eyes she was hiding it.
And, while we are dealing with letters, one, or part of one, from
Honora's aunt, may perhaps be inserted here. It was an answer to one
that Honora had written a few days after her installation at Grenoble,
the contents of which need not be gone into: we, who know her, would
neither laugh nor weep at reading it, and its purport may be more or
less accurately surmised from her aunt's reply.
“As I wrote you at the time, my dear,”--so it ran “the shock which
your sudden marriage with Mr. Chiltern caused us was great--so great
that I cannot express it in words. I realize that I am growing old,
and perhaps the world is changing faster than I imagine. And I
wrote you, too, that I would not be true to myself if I told you
that what you have done was right in my eyes. I have asked myself
whether my horror of divorce and remarriage may not in some degree
be due to the happiness of my life with your uncle. I am,
undoubtedly, an exceptionally fortunate woman; and as I look
backwards I see that the struggles and trials which we have shared
together were really blessings.
“Nevertheless, dear Honora, you are, as your uncle wrote you, our
child, and nothing can alter that fact in our hearts. We can only
pray with all our strength that you may find happiness and peace in
your new life. I try to imagine, as I think of you and what has
happened to you in the few years since you have left us--how long
they seem!--I try to imagine some of the temptations that have
assailed you in that world of which I know nothing. If I cannot, it
is because God made us different. I know what you have suffered,
and my heart aches for you.
“You say that experience has taught you much that you could not
have--learned in any other way. I do not doubt it. You tell me
that your new life, just begun, will be a dutiful one. Let me
repeat that it is my anxious prayer that you have not builded upon
sand, that regrets may not come. I cannot say more. I cannot
dissemble. Perhaps I have already said too much.
“Your loving
“AUNT MARY.”
An autumn wind was blowing, and Honora gazed out of the window at the
steel-blue, ruffled waters of the lake. Unconsciously she repeated the
words to herself:
“Builded upon sand!”