OF THE WORLD BEYOND THE GATES
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!"