MULTUM IN PARVO
Elgar's marriage had been a great success. For a year and a half, for
even more than that, he had lived the fullest and most consistent life
of which he was capable; what proportion of the sons of men can look
back on an equal span of time in their own existence and say the same
of it?
Life with Cecily gave predominance to all the noblest energies in his
nature. He loved with absolute sincerity; his ideal of womanhood was
for the time realized and possessed; the vagrant habit of his senses
seemed permanently subdued; his mind was occupied with high admirations
and creative fancies; in thought and speech he was ardent, generous,
constant, hopeful. A happy marriage can do no more for man than make
unshadowed revelation of such aspiring faculty as he is endowed withal.
It cannot supply him with a force greater than he is born to; even as
the happiest concurrence of healthful circumstances cannot give more
strength to a physical constitution than its origin warrants. At this
period of his life, Reuben Elgar could not have been more than, with
Cecily's help, he showed himself. Be the future advance or
retrogression, he had lived the possible life.
Whose the fault that it did not continue? Cecily's, if it were
blameworthy to demand too much; Elgar's, if it be wrong to learn one's
own limitations.
His making definite choice of a subject whereon to employ his intellect
was at one and the same time a proof of how far his development had
progressed and a warning of what lay before him. However chaotic the
material in which he proposed to work, however inadequate his powers,
it was yet a truth that, could he execute anything at all, it would be
something of the kind thus vaguely contemplated. His intellect was
combative, and no subject excited it to such activity as this of
Hebraic constraint in the modern world. Elgar's book, supposing him to
have been capable of writing it, would have resembled no other; it
would have been, as he justly said, unique in its anti-dogmatic
passion. It was quite in the order of things that he should propose to
write it; equally so, that the attempt should mark the end of his
happiness.
For all that she seemed to welcome the proposal with enthusiasm,
Cecily's mind secretly misgave her. She had begun to understand Reuben,
and she foresaw, with a certainty which she in vain tried to combat,
how soon his energy would fail upon so great a task. Impossible to
admonish him; impossible to direct him on a humbler path, where he
might attain some result. With Reuben's temperament to deal with, that
would mean a fatal disturbance of their relations to each other. That
the disturbance must come in any case, now that he was about to prove
himself, she anticipated in many a troubled moment, but would not let
the forecast discourage her.
Elgar knew how his failure in perseverance affected her; he looked for
the signs of her disappointment, and was at no loss to find them. It
was natural to him to exaggerate the diminution of her esteem; he
attributed to her what, in her place, he would himself have felt; he
soon imagined that she had as good as ceased to love him. He could not
bear to be less in her eyes than formerly; a jealous shame stung him,
and at length made him almost bitter against her.
In this way came about his extraordinary outbreak that night when
Cecily had been alone to her aunt's. Pent-up irritation drove him into
the extravagances which to Cecily were at first incredible. He could
not utter what was really in his mind, and the charges he made against
her were modes of relieving himself. Yet, as soon as they had once
taken shape, these rebukes obtained a real significance of their own.
Coincident with Cecily's disappointment in him had been the sudden
exhibition of her pleasure in society. Under other circumstances, his
wife's brilliancy among strangers might have been pleasurable to Elgar.
His faith in her was perfect, and jealousy of the ignobler kind came
not near him. But he felt that she was taking refuge from the dulness
of her home; he imagined people speaking of him as "the husband of Mrs.
Elgar;" it exasperated him to think of her talking with clever men who
must necessarily suggest comparisons to her.
He himself was not the kind of man who shines in company. He had never
been trained to social usages, and he could not feel at ease in any
drawing-room but his own. The Bohemianism of his early life had even
given him a positive distaste for social obligations and formalities.
Among men of his own way of thinking, he could talk vigorously, and as
a rule keep the lead in conversation; but where restraint in phrase was
needful, he easily became flaccid, and the feeling that he did not show
to advantage filled him with disgust. So there was little chance of his
ever winning that sort of reputation which would have enabled him to
accompany his wife into society without the galling sense of playing an
inferior _role_.
In the matter of Mrs. Travis, he was conscious of his own
arbitrariness, but, having once committed himself to a point of view,
he could not withdraw from it. He had to find fault with his wife and
her society, and here was an obvious resource. Its very obviousness
should, of course, have warned him away, but his reason for attacking
Mrs. Travis had an intimate connection with the general causes of his
discontent. Disguise it how he might, he was simply in the position of
a husband who fears that his authority over his wife is weakening. Mrs.
Travis, as he knew, was a rebel against her own husband--no matter the
cause. She would fill Cecily's mind with sympathetic indignation; the
effect would be to make Cecily more resolute in independence. Added to
this, there was, in truth, something of that conflict between
theoretical and practical morality of which his wife spoke. It
developed in the course of argument; he recognized that, whilst having
all confidence in Cecily, he could not reconcile himself to her
associating with a woman whose conduct was under discussion. The more
he felt his inconsistency, the more arbitrary he was compelled to be.
Motives confused themselves and harassed him. In his present mood, the
danger of such a state of things was greater than he knew, and of quite
another kind than Cecily was prepared for.
"What is all this about Mrs. Travis?" inquired Mrs. Lessingham, with a
smile, when she came to visit Cecily. Reuben was out, and the ladies
sat alone in the drawing-room.
Cecily explained what had happened, but in simple terms, and without
meaning to show that any difference of opinion had arisen between her
and Reuben.
"You have heard of it from Mrs. Travis herself?" she asked, in
conclusion.
"Yes. She expressed no resentment, however; spoke as if she thought it
a little odd, that was all. But what has Reuben got into his head?"
"It seems he has heard unpleasant rumours about her."
"Then why didn't he come and speak to me? She is absolutely blameless:
I can answer for it. Her husband is the kind of man-- Did you ever read
Fielding's 'Amelia'? To be sure; well, you understand. I much doubt
whether she is wise in leaving him; ten to one, she'll go back again,
and that is more demoralizing than putting up with the other indignity.
She has a very small income of her own, and what is her life to be?
Surely you are the last people who should abandon her. That is the kind
of thing that makes such a woman desperate. She seems to have made a
sort of appeal to you. I am but moderately in her confidence, and I
believe she hasn't one bosom friend. It's most fortunate that Reuben
took such a whim. Send him to me, will you?"
Cecily made known this request to her husband, and there followed
another long dialogue between them, the only result of which was to
increase their mutual coldness. Cecily proposed that they should at
once leave town, instead of waiting for the end of the season; in this
way all their difficulties would be obviated. Elgar declined the
proposal; he had no desire to spoil her social pleasures.
"That is already done, past help," Cecily rejoined, with the first note
of bitterness. "I no longer care to visit, nor to receive guests."
"I noticed the other day your ingenuity in revenging yourself."
"I say nothing but the simple truth. Had you rather I went out and
enjoyed myself without any reference to your wishes?"
"From the first you made up your mind to misunderstand me," said
Reuben, with the common evasion of one who cannot defend his course.
Cecily brought the dispute to an end by her silence. The next morning
Reuben went to see Mrs. Lessingham, and heard what she had to say about
Mrs. Travis.
"What is your evidence against her?" she inquired, after a little
banter.
"Some one who knows Travis very well assured me that the fault was not
all on his side."
"Of course. It is more to the point to hear what those have to say who
know his wife, Surely you acted with extraordinary haste."
With characteristic weakness, Elgar defended himself by detailing the
course of events. It was not he who had been precipitate, but Cecily;
he was never more annoyed than when he heard of that foolish letter.
"Go home and persuade her to write another," said Mrs. Lessingham. "Let
her confess that there was a misunderstanding. I am sure Mrs. Travis
will accept it. She has a curious character; very sensitive, and very
impulsive, but essentially trustful and warm-hearted. You should have
heard the pathetic surprise with which she told me of Cecily's letter."
"I should rather have imagined her speaking contemptuously."
"It would have been excusable," replied the other, with a laugh. "And
very likely that would have been her tone had it concerned any one
else. But she has a liking for Cecily. Go home, and get this foolish
mistake remedied, there's a good boy."
Elgar left the house and walked eastward, into Praed Street. As he
walked, he grew less and less inclined to go home at once. He could not
resolve how to act. It would be a satisfaction to have done with
discord, but he had no mind to submit to Cecily and entreat her to a
peace.
He walked on, across Edgware Road, into Marylebone Road, absorbed in
his thoughts. Their complexion became darker. He found a perverse
satisfaction in picturing Cecily's unhappiness. Let her suffer a
little; she was causing _him_ uneasiness enough. The probability was
that she derided his recent behaviour; it had doubtless sunk him still
more in her estimation. The only way to recover his lost ground was to
be as open with her as formerly, to confess all his weaknesses and
foolish motives; but his will resisted. He felt coldly towards her; she
was no longer the woman he loved and worshipped, but one who had
asserted a superiority of mind and character, and belittled him to
himself. He was tired of her society--the simple formula which
sufficiently explains so many domestic troubles.
He would have lunch somewhere in town; then see whether he felt
disposed to go home or not.
In the afternoon he loitered about the Strand, looking at portraits in
shop-windows and at the theatre-doors. Home was more, instead of less,
repugnant to him. He wanted to postpone decision; but if he returned to
Cecily, it would be necessary to say something, and in his present mood
he would be sure to make matters worse, for he felt quarrelsome. How
absurd it was for two people, just because they were married, to live
perpetually within sight of each other! Wasn't it Godwin who, on
marrying, made an arrangement that he and his wife should inhabit
separate abodes, and be together only when they wished? The only
rational plan, that. Should he take train and go out of town for a few
days? If only he had some one for company; but it was wearisome to
spend the time in solitude.
To aggravate his dulness, the sky had clouded over, and presently it
began to rain. He had no umbrella. Quite unable to determine whither he
should go if he took a cab, he turned aside to the shelter of an
archway. Some one was already standing there, but in his abstraction he
did not know whether it was man or woman, until a little cough, twice
or thrice repeated, made him turn his eyes. Then he saw that his
companion was a girl of about five-and-twenty, with a pretty,
good-natured face, which wore an embarrassed smile. He gazed at her
with a look of surprised recognition.
"Well, it really _is_ you!" she exclaimed, laughing and looking down.
"And it is really _you_!"
They shook hands, again examining each other.
"I thought you didn't mean to know me."
"I hadn't once looked at you. But you have changed a good deal."
"Not more than you have, I'm sure."
"And what are you doing? You look much more cheerful than you used to."
"I can't say the same of you."
"Have you been in London all the time?"
"Oh no. Two years ago I went back to Liverpool, and had a place there
for nearly six months. But I got tired of it. In a few days I'm going
to Brighton; I've got a place in a restaurant. Quite time, too; I've
had nothing for seven weeks."
"I've often thought about you," said Elgar, after a pause.
"But you never came to see how I was getting on."
"Oh, I supposed you were married long since."
She laughed, and shook her head.
"You are, though, I suppose?" she asked.
"Not I!"
They talked with increasing friendliness until the rain stopped, then
walked away together in the direction of the City.
About dinner-time, Cecily received a telegram. It was from her husband,
and informed her that he had left town with a friend for a day or two.
This was the first instance of such a proceeding on Reuben's part. For
a moment, it astonished her. Which of his friends could it be? But when
the surprise had passed, she reflected more on his reasons for
absenting himself, and believed that she understood them. He wished to
punish her; he thought she would be anxious about him, and so come to
adopt a different demeanour when he returned. Ever so slight a
suspicion of another kind occurred to her once or twice, but she had no
difficulty in dismissing it. No; this was merely one of his tactics in
the conflict that had begun between them.
And his absence was a relief. She too wanted to think for a while,
undisturbed. When she had seen the child bed and asleep, she moved
about the house with a strange sense of freedom, seeming to breathe
more naturally than for several days. She went to the piano, and played
some favourite pieces, among them one which she had learnt long ago in
Paris. It gave her a curiously keen pleasure, like a revival of her
girlhood; she lingered over it, and nursed the impression. Then she
read a little--not continuously, but dipping into familiar books. It
was holiday with her. And when she lay down to rest, the sense of being
alone was still grateful. Sleep came very soon, and she did not stir
till morning.
On the third day Elgar returned, at noon. She heard the cab that
brought him. He lingered in the hall, opened the library door; then
came to the drawing-room, humming an air. His look was as different as
could be from that she had last seen on his face; he came towards her
with his pleasantest smile, and first kissed her hand, then embraced
her in the old way.
"You haven't been anxious about me, Ciss?"
"Not at all," she replied quietly, rather permitting his caresses than
encouraging them.
"Some one I hadn't met for several years. He was going down to
Brighton, and persuaded me to accompany him. I didn't write
because--well, I thought it would be better if we kept quite apart for
a day or two. Things were getting wrong, weren't they?"
"I'm afraid so. But how are they improved?"
"Why, I had a talk with your aunt about Mrs. Travis. I quite believe I
was misled by that fellow that talked scandal. She seems very much to
be pitied, and I'm really sorry that I caused you to break with her."
Cecily watched him as he spoke, and he avoided her eyes. He was holding
her hands and fondling them; now he bent and put them to his lips. She
said nothing.
"Suppose you write to her, Ciss, and say that I made a fool of myself.
You're quite at liberty to do so. Tell her exactly how it was, and ask
her to forgive us."
She did not answer immediately.
"Will you do that?"
"I feel ashamed to. I know very well how _I_ should receive such a
letter."
"Oh, you! But every one hasn't your superb arrogance!" He laughed. "And
it's hard to imagine you in such a situation."
"I hope so."
"Aunt tells me that the poor woman has very few friends."
"It's very unlikely that she will ever make one of me. I don't see how
it is possible, after this."
"But write the letter, just to make things simpler if you meet
anywhere. As a piece of justice, too."
Not that day, but the following, Cecily decided herself to write. She
could only frame her excuse in the way Reuben had suggested;
necessarily the blame lay on him. The composition cost her a long time,
though it was only two pages of note-paper; and when it was despatched,
she could not think without hot cheeks of its recipient reading it She
did not greatly care for Mrs. Travis's intimacy, but she did desire to
remove from herself the imputation of censoriousness.
There came an answer in a day or two.
"I was surprised that you (or Mr. Elgar) should so readily believe ill
of me, but I am accustomed to such judgments, and no longer resent
them. A wife is always in the wrong; when a woman marries, she should
prepare herself for this. Or rather, her friends should prepare her, as
she has always been kept in celestial ignorance by their care. Pray let
us forget what has happened. I won't renew my request to be allowed to
visit you; if that is to be, it will somehow come to pass naturally, in
the course of time. If we meet at Mrs. Lessingham's, please let us
speak not a word of this affair. I hate scenes."
In a week's time, the Elgars' life had resumed the course it held
before that interruption--with the exception that Reuben, as often as
it was possible, avoided accompanying his wife when she went from home.
His own engagements multiplied, and twice before the end of July he
spent Saturday and Sunday out of town. Cecily made no close inquiries
concerning his employment of his time; on their meeting again, he
always gave her an account of what he had been doing, and she readily
accepted it. For she had now abandoned all hope of his doing serious
work; she never spoke a word which hinted regret at his mode of life.
They were on placid terms, and she had no such faith in anything better
as would justify her in endangering the recovered calm.
It became necessary at length to discuss what they should do with
themselves during the autumn. Mrs. Lessingham was going with friends to
the Pyrenees. The Delphs would take a short holiday in Sussex; Irene
could not spare much time from her work.
"I don't care to be away long myself," Reuben said, when Cecily
mentioned this. "I feel as if I should be able to get on with my
Puritanic pursuits again when we return."
Cecily looked at him, to see if he spoke in earnest. In spite of his
jesting tone, he seemed to be serious, for he was pacing the floor, his
head bent as if in meditation.
"Make your own plans," was her reply. "But we won't go into Cornwall, I
think."
"No, not this year."
They spent a month at Eastbourne. Some agreeable people whom they were
accustomed to meet at Mrs. Lessingham's had a house there, and supplied
them with society. Towards the end of the month, Reuben grew restless
and uncertain of temper; he wandered on the downs by himself, and when
at home kept silence. The child, too, was constantly ailing, and its
cry irritated him.
"The fact of the matter is," he exclaimed one evening, "I don't feel
altogether well! I ought to have had more change than this. If I go
back and settle to work, I shall break down."
"What kind of change do you wish for?" Cecily asked.
"I should have liked to take a ramble in Germany, or, Norway--some new
part. But nothing of that is possible. Clarence makes slaves of us."
Cecily reflected.
"There's no reason why he should hinder you from going."
"Oh, I can't leave you alone," he returned impatiently.
"I think you might, for a few weeks--if you feel it necessary. I don't
think Clarence ought to leave the seaside till the middle of September.
The Robinsons will be here still, you know."
He muttered and grumbled, but in the end proposed that he should go
over by one of the Harwich boats, and take what course happened to
attract him. Cecily assented, and in a few hours he was ready to bid
her good-bye. She had said that it wasn't worth while going with him to
the station, and when he gave her the kiss at starting she kept
perfectly tranquil.
"You're not sorry to get rid of me," he said, with a forced laugh.
"I don't wish you to stay at the expense of your health."
"I hope Clarence mayn't damage yours. These sleepless nights are
telling on you."
"Go. You'll miss the train."
He looked back from the door, but Cecily had turned away.
He was absent for more than six weeks, during which he wrote frequently
from various out-of-the-way places on the Rhine. On returning, he found
Cecily in London, very anxious about the child, and herself looking
very ill. He, on the other hand, was robust and in excellent spirits;
in a day or two he began to go regularly to the British Museum--to say,
at all events, that he went there. And so time passed to the year's end.
One night in January Reuben went to the theatre. He left Cecily sitting
in the bedroom, by the fireside, with Clarence on her lap. For several
weeks the child had been so ill that Cecily seldom quitted it.
Three hours later she was sitting in the same position, still bent
forward, the child still on her lap. But no movement, no cry ever
claimed her attention. Tears had stained her face, but they no longer
fell. Holding a waxen little hand that would never again caress her,
she gazed at the dying fire as though striving to read her destiny.