A few days afterwards Ella was lying on a sofa in her aunt's
drawing-room in Pont Street. It was a hot afternoon, the windows were
open, and the sun blinds tempered the light. Between their edges and the
tops of the flowers in the window-boxes she could see a great band of
golden sunshine. Having been to a late dance the evening before and to
a stuffy but advanced picture exhibition in the morning, she was feeling
physically languid, and glad to be excused from attendance on Lady
Milmo, who was indefatigably attending a charitable committee. In her
hand she held a letter that had come by the early afternoon post. It was
from Matthew Lanyon, bright and gossipy on the surface, but her quick
perception divined an undercurrent of sadness. He was looking forward to
her promised visit in August. If only he could persuade Syl to come down
too, it would be quite like old times. But perhaps it would be better
for Syl to get right away among the Swiss mountains, as he proposed.
There was nothing like a complete change for a jaded Londoner. He had
come down for a week-end lately and was looking fagged and overworked.
The garden had never been lovelier. The rhododendrons were out and all
a mass of bumble-bees; he had never seen so many in his life. He was
writing late at night, on his knees in the library. Dorothy had made
a complicated web of Berlin wool all over his writing-chair, by way
of fitting it up as a carriage for her doll, which was throned in the
midst, and of course he had not dared to disturb it.
“I think I make an average grandfather,” he wrote, “but I do wish some
one had given me a few lessons as to how to become a mother.”
The fragrance of the country garden stole elusively upon the hot London
room, and awakened a longing to get away from the glare and chatter into
the cool quietude of Woodlands; to exchange the heavy dinnerparty where
she was due in a few hours' time, with its heavy hot-house flowers and
its artificial talk, for the peaceful summer evening in the summer-house
under the trees, in the company of the dear old man, so sane, so
sincere, and of Miss Lanyon, whose gentle mind seemed to have lain in
lavender. She was tired; her heart was tired. The beautiful world lay
hidden behind a mountain, up which she was climbing wearily, vainly. Her
feet were tangled in an inextricable maze and her steps were devious.
Where could she find a guide? She conjured up the picture of the old
man's kind, grave smile, and longed, as only a girl can who is enmeshing
her life, to throw herself down by his knees and open all her heart. Had
he appeared at that moment at the door, she would have arisen and with
a cry, half sob, half welcome, have thrown her arms about his neck and
burst into tears.
“If only he could come!” she said, and she sank vaguely into the
imagined solace. But what could she say to him? The formulated query
crystallised her thoughts into chill dismay. How could she make known,
even to him, the humiliation of that last interview with Sylvester,
expose to him the nakedness of her outraged pride? She shrank from the
thought. And the history of the year's follies? No. Never. She crumpled
the letter fiercely in her hand. Then, suddenly repenting of her
violence, she smoothed the sheet tenderly and kissed it and slipped it
into the bosom of her dress.
The year's follies. In this hour of lassitude and depression--rare to
Ella, but common to all her sex, coming to woman with rhythmic iteration
as inevitable as the tides--they rose up one by one before her, and her
cheeks burned with shame. First it was Lionel Kavanagh, the poet
and aesthetic critic. She had been reckless, craving excitement,
forgetfulness of her burning humiliation. All through the season a year
ago, she had flirted with him, openly, outrageously. He was one of Lady
Milmo's menagerie, and used to sprawl on the hearth-rug and alternate
rhapsody with mordant wit. And alone in her company he would sail
perilously near the wind with sensuous allusiveness, until one day
he grew bold and brought her a sonnet frankly sensual. She tore the
manuscript into tiny pieces during an ominous silence, and ordered him
out of the house. The next was Bertie Hetherington, who made violent
love to her at Aix-les-Bains, whither she had been led by Lady Milmo's
wandering fancy and rheumatic tendencies. He was a fresh, wholesome
young Briton in a Hussar regiment. The vehemence of his devotion was
sweet to Ella, and she kept him hoping longer than she knew was right.
Perhaps if he had possessed more brains she might have married him. But
when he wrote her an impassioned letter in which he affirmed that his
heart _beet_ only for her, the spelling caught the humorous side of
Ella's fancy and she laughed herself out of her entanglement. Yet she
had wronged him, just as Sylvester had wronged her, and she had wronged
herself. The fresh bloom of her maidenhood had gone. Her sensitive pride
magnified the taint.
In London once more, the need of an occupation, an aim, a purpose,
tormented her. She had tried the ignoble and found it bitter. She craved
the higher plane of devotion to a cause, something elevated, impersonal.
The ordinary pursuits that call forth a woman's self-sacrifice did
not appeal to the unrest of her imagination. Besides, her young blood
rebelled against self-suppression. In the stress and storm she caught
at the first thing to her hand: Roderick Usher's Utopian scheme for the
regeneration of art and the consequent purification of society. She was
carried away like a straw on the crest of his vehement pro-pagandism.
From an occasional attendant at her aunt's receptions, he became a
regular visitor. Together they elaborated the scheme, discussed the
details. She worked with him in obtaining supporters and canvassing
for subscriptions. At first the correspondence, the interviewing, the
plotting and intriguing, kept her enthusiastically occupied. She made
converts among the young artists and poets who came to the house,
inveighing against the tame formalism on the one hand and the morbid
exaggeration on the other that were the curses of modern art. She
attended meetings in fashionable drawing-rooms and expounded her
theories. Notoriety followed her doings. A weekly paper published an
illustrated interview with the priestess of the new gospel.
She believed in the scheme. It was audacious, but practical. It was
impossible for convincing art to flourish in the midst of the social
insincerity and commercialism of the day. The teachers of men must lead
a higher life than the taught; to have authority, must dwell aloof from
the world; to have inspiration, must draw it from the pure wells of
nature and their own hearts. These postulates being allowed, the logical
consequence was the conception of a colony of earnest and devoted
artists in some sequestered spot where the world's Babel came but as an
echo. Such a spot was readily obtainable in California. A large ranch,
in one of the loveliest valleys of the Sierra Nevada, was for sale.
Extensions could be built indefinitely at a comparatively trifling
cost. Thither the band of youths and maidens, uncorrupted as yet by the
deadening influences around them, would proceed, and settling down would
allow to flow unchecked the genuine founts of their genius. They would
be in Arcadian ignorance of the arch destroyer of art, the public taste,
and thus be beyond the reach of the temptation to pander to it. They
would reveal the truth as it came crystallised in song or poem or
picture from their own souls. The lack of pence would not disturb
their serenity. Those who could afford it would pay a modest monthly
contribution to the general fund. The penniless children of genius would
obtain free food, shelter, and all the privileges of the Colony. The
subscriptions of the supporters of the movement in England would defray
their expenses. A commission would be levied on the profits of any work
produced in the Colony. This, in the course of years, when public
taste was revolutionised and the Waldenites' productions obtained great
prices, would place the Colony beyond the need of subscriptions or of
contributions by members. It would become, in Roderick's words, “The
world's great Palace of Art.” Roderick himself was ready to sacrifice
his future in London so as to take up the post of director of the Colony
at a handsome salary.
She believed in the scheme still; success, in fact, justified her faith.
But in this hour of self-abasement she distrusted the sincerity of her
enthusiasm. How much had she done genuinely for the cause? How much,
unconsciously, for the man? The question racked her. He had woven his
influence around her life. Her name was publicly associated with his.
She dreaded meeting him, yet felt the heart taken out of the day on
which she was not working under his direction. Whither was she tending?
She could not answer. Not where happiness would lie. To have brought
herself into this morass was the last and greatest of the year's
follies. In her helpless anger she hated the scheme and all that she had
done to further it. A sickening surmise as to its futility overspread
her retrospect.
She clasped her hands over her hot eyes and again longed for Woodlands.
Suddenly she sprang to her feet, and smoothed her dress and hair
hurriedly, as if ashamed of her nervelessness. She would write to
Matthew Lanyon then and there, yield herself wholly to her need of
expansion, and let what would flow from her pen. She sat down resolutely
at the ornamental escritoire and drew out writing materials. She had
never given him any definite account of the scheme. She had alluded
to it vaguely, somewhat flippantly, partly anxious to amuse and partly
fearful of criticism. The mention of Roderick Usher's name had been
rare. She had followed the secretive instinct of her sex. The old man's
references hitherto had been jocular; deceived by her manner, he had
merely regarded her interest as an idle young woman's harmless hobby.
Even in this letter that she carried crumpled in her bosom, he had asked
her how her artistic Robinson Crusoes were getting on. He should know
the history of the whole movement, her own hopes and fears,--perhaps
more of her difficulties. She would write whatever words came into her
mind.
She dipped her pen in the ink, dashed off the date and “My darling Uncle
Matthew,” and was starting the text of the letter, when the door opened.
“Mr. Usher, miss,” announced the parlour maid.
Ella closed her blotter with a petulant snap, but rose and greeted her
visitor with a smile. Roderick looked cool and point-device in a grey
frock-coat suit. A slight baldness in front gave his high forehead an
air of intellectuality. He had called, he informed her, just to report
progress. And as he talked she sat, her chin resting on her knuckles,
watching him with that wistful gaze that comes from a woman's weary
uncertainties.
“There, that is all,” he said in conclusion; “and I am glad there's no
more.”
“Why?” asked Ella.
“Because you want a holiday,--a respite from the worry of affairs.
Enthusiasms entail an expenditure of vital force; so there are times
when the temperament is at a low ebb, and ought to be treated with
gentle indulgence.”
“Do you think I am at low ebb, Mr. Usher?”
“You are tired,--a little _mal de vivre_. Isn't it so?”
He said it so kindly that her first impulse of resentment died away.
“How do you know I'm not simply physically out of sorts? I was dancing
till four this morning and till three the morning before.”
He smiled with a touch of indulgent superiority.
“As a sailor who knows the sea reads all its moods on its surface, so I
read yours in your eyes. Confess. You have been feeling the burthen of
life and have not known whence came its heaviness; and you have been
longing for relief in the fresh, cool arms of Mother Nature.”
“Perhaps,” she said, looking away from him.
“You are not offended?” he said, after a pause. He had a very musical
voice, trained to modulation of feelings. “My heart is always near my
lips and at times speaks indiscreetly.”
Ella turned round with a short laugh.
“No, I am not offended. Of course not. But it was scarcely fair to turn
me inside out like that without warning.”
Immediately she regretted her confession. His acute perception had half
flattered, half frightened her. She felt now that she had yielded some
of her ground. She strove to regain it.
“But it's all nonsense,” she added. “And very contemptible, just because
it's a close day, with a stuffy dinner-party looming ahead.”
“Phases of morale are never nonsense,” he replied. “No one knows what
unrest is better than I. We must find the remedy.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Happiness.”
“What is happiness?”
“The pursuit of the ideal on the wings of--”
“Of what?”
“Dare I say it--in all delicacy? Of love.” Ella again turned her face
aside, uncertain whether to resent the implication or to make a light
answer. Her hesitation was his opportunity.
“I, too, have been feeling depressed of late,” he said. “All pleasure
has in time to be paid for with pain. In a few months our scheme will
be launched,--the scheme that you and I have built up with pieces of our
hearts,--and I shall go away to end my life in carrying out its working.
I shall be alone. My helper and sweet comrade will no longer be by my
side. Thus I, too, sigh for happiness.”
He smiled sadly, but she saw that his eyes were regarding her keenly
from behind his gold pince-nez.
“We won't think of that,” she said hastily. “So many things may happen
between then and now.”
Roderick rose, rested his hand on the back of her chair, and bent over
her.
“One thing might happen that would fill the months with glory, and
inaugurate our project in the radiance of the rising sun. Yet not
for the scheme's sake, but for our lives' sake--for the sake of the
expansion and development of all that is yearning within us to find
utterance--Ella--Will you come with me?”
She sat, looking straight before her, her lips apart, her body slightly
swaying. Words would not come. She vaguely wished that something could
happen to rid her of his presence, that he could disappear, there and
then, once for all, out of her life. Yet she felt it impossible to
dismiss him. Some mysterious feminine chord had been struck whose echoes
proclaimed his right to stand over her and speak to her thus.
“What are you saying?” she murmured, with an almost piteous emphasis on
the last word.
“I am telling you that I love you, Ella, that my life is bound up in
you, that I need you for the accomplishment of my manhood. And I am
asking you to come with me to this sweet new land, to be my helper and
my star. Say that you will come with me.”
“Give me time,” she breathed. “I can't say--I have been living in a
whirl so long. I don't know what I am or think or feel. I will give you
an answer some day--soon--not now.”
“I will wait devotedly for your answer,” said Roderick, in his
courtliest manner, and moved a pace or two from her chair.
Ella looked up at him, almost grateful for his assurance.
“We will fix no period,” she said. “To have to give such a reply by a
definite date--”
“I do not ask it,” said Roderick, quietly, though his heart was beating
fast at the certainty of victory.
“You have given me the food of hope, whereon I can live meanwhile.”
“Could you not bear suspense?” she asked. “I might not answer as you
would like.”
“I could bear anything for your sake,” said he. Then, after a pause,
“And now goodbye. I must have solitude to dream over my happiness.”
She gave him her hand; he bent over it and kissed it, and she felt his
lips hot against her skin. It gave her a little shudder of repugnance,
and the feeling remained after he had gone. And yet his fascination was
strong upon her. He dominated her will as no man had done before. She
was conscious that he had the rare power to penetrate to the core of her
woman's weaknesses, to understand her as a botanist understands a plant,
and the rarer power to touch the fibres delicately, so that it became a
pleasure to be weak. Again, her somewhat exaggerated conception of his
wide spiritual and intellectual horizon moved her emotional temperament
to wondering respect, and she thought gratefully of the expansion of her
own under his influence. With the incomplete vision wherewith the
wisest of women must of necessity regard a man, she saw him strong and
masterful, clearing his way resolutely to a definite end. She felt that
he brought this air of mastery into his love; and he had created a need
of him within her.
He held her bound by many chains. And as she stood in the drawing-room,
half-consciously rubbing the spot on her hand where his lips had rested,
she felt the chains grow tighter, one by one.
Her maid came into the room. “When will you dress, miss?”
She remembered the dinner-party and gave her directions. She wished that
she had not to attend it. And then unbidden came the longing for “the
sweet new land” with its freedom and freshness, and her cheeks flamed at
the sudden realisation of what it all implied.
Her glance fell upon the blotter in which lay the just commenced letter
to Matthew Lanyon. She sat down again at the escritoire and took up her
pen. But the mood had passed. She found herself writing artificially,
in the jargon of her set. Angrily she tore up the paper and threw the
fragments into the waste-paper basket. No; better nothing than the
insincerity he despised; she loved him too dearly for that. So the
letter, that was to reveal her inmost struggling self, remained
unwritten.
She was very silent as Lady Milmo and herself drove to the dinner-party.
Her head ached and her limbs were tired.
“The man who takes me down will over-eat himself dreadfully,” she
remarked, as the carriage pulled up.
“I don't think there is any danger,” replied her aunt, who was a woman
of experience.
And she was justified; for the girl's youth asserted itself, and as
the meal progressed the headache was forgotten and Ella enjoyed herself
thoroughly.
“I rather think your partner will want some supper, poor man,” said Lady
Milmo, on the homeward journey.
“It's his own fault; he would talk,” said Ella, laughing.
Lady Milmo patted her niece's knee affectionately.
“I love to see you getting all that enjoyment out of life, my dear.
You seem to take it out in great chunks, like my neighbour this evening
helping himself to iced pudding.”
Ella thought of her enjoyment with a whimsical feeling of shame, a touch
of disappointment at not being as jaded as she had expected. But with
the quiet darkness of the night her conflict of doubts returned. After
all, what trivial topics she had discussed, what inanities she had
laughed at, what spiteful little shafts of malice she had flung. If she
had enjoyed it, so much the worse spiritually and morally for herself.
Oh, the past year! It had corrupted her. She looked back wistfully upon
the girl whom Sylvester had kissed at Woodlands. That fresh, shy, sweet
something she had given him then was hers no longer to give to any man.
What she could give to Roderick Usher, if she yielded to him, she did
not know; certainly, not that.
She was very young, very much unversed in the dark and crooked ways of
life, in spite of her experience of men and things; intensely eager to
keep herself pure and proud, to love the highest when she saw it. It is
not to be set down to weakness, therefore, if she grew very sorry for
the girl whom Sylvester had kissed, and cried herself miserably to
sleep.