Michael Perior was an unfortunate man; unfortunate in his temperament,
which was enthusiastic, sensitive, and idealistic; unfortunate in the
circumstances with which that temperament found itself called upon to do
battle. To a man who had expected less of life the circumstances might
have been more amenable and far more endurable, but Perior had the
ill-luck to be born with an unmanageable instinct for the best, with an
untamable scorn for the second-best. It is not necessary to go into the
details of a life which had not spared these qualities nor improved
while disillusionizing him. Two blinding buffets met him at its
threshold. His father was ruined in a lawsuit, which by every ethical
standard he should have won, and Perior was in consequence jilted by the
girl whom he had enshrined in his heart as the perfect star of his
existence. At twenty-three he found himself under a starless sky, with a
heart stupefied at its own emptiness, and in a world of thieves and
murderers--for his father died under the shock of disaster, and Perior
did not pick his phrases.
The abject common-sense of his ex-_fiancée_ could be borne with perhaps
more philosophy. He accepted the starlessness as in the nature of
things, and his own brief belief in stars as typifying the ignorance of
youth; but his father's death--the crushing out of life rather than its
departure--was tragedy, and it was with the sense of inevitable and
irretrievable tragedy that he began life. He had been thought clever at
Oxford, and had considered himself destined for Parliament. With a huge
load of debts upon his back, and an unresigned mother to support, all
thoughts of the career for which he had fitted himself were out of the
question. He turned to its only equivalent, and took up journalism. He
was much in earnest; he believed in a right and in a wrong, and was
intolerant of expediency. In a world of interested motives he bore
himself with unflinching disapproval. He would limit his freedom by no
party partiality, and in the laxity of public life his keen
individuality made itself felt like a knife cutting through cheese. At
the end of years of very bitter struggle he found himself in a position
of some eminence, editor of a courteous, caustic review, whose chief
characteristics were a stubborn isolation and a telling of truths that
made both friends and foes blink. No half-measures, no half-truths.
Conformity with the faintest taint upon it was intolerable to him. His
idealism had not evaporated in the storm and stress, it had condensed,
rather, into a steely resistance to ugly reality. Insincerity,
injustice, meanness, hurt him as badly in middle-age as they had at
twenty-five, but he now expected them, and by a stoical presage braced
himself against disappointment. The stoicism was only a rather brittle
crust, hastily improvised by Nature's kindly adaptation; he was soured,
but his heart was still soft; he expected nothing, and yet he was hurt
by everything. It was now some time since he had promised himself that
Camelia should never hurt him. Camelia had occupied his thoughts for a
good many years. The pretty child, with her face of subdued saint-like
curves, and her smile of frank unsaintliness, had seemed to claim him
from the very first home-coming. By a final irony of fate poor Mrs.
Perior died only a few months before the Grange was freed from its last
encumbrances. She had not made life easier for her son. She had always
refused to believe in the necessity for letting the Grange, had always
resented the lodgings in South Kensington, had always considered herself
injured, and had not been chary in demonstrations of injury. Perior had
looked forward with pride to the time when he should reinstate her in
her own home, and her death made a mockery of his own home-coming.
It was in Camelia's early girlhood that ill-health, overwork, and a
violent row with the powers of political darkness, made this home-coming
definite. The battered idealist sought rather sulkily a retreat from the
intolerable contemplation of a wider world's misdeeds. Young Camelia, so
different from her dully worthy ancestors, so different even from her
dashing but not intellectual papa, charmed him as the woods and flowers
of spring charm eyes weary with city winter. She was too young to be
taken seriously; that was a lifted weight, in the first place. The
joyous receptivity of her mind afforded to his scholarly instincts just
the foothold he required to excuse to himself an indulgent and
thoughtless affection. As friend and adviser of Lady Paton, he drifted
easily into a paternal attitude towards the fatherless Camelia; he was
over twenty years her senior, and her eagerness for knowledge appealed
to him. As she had said, he taught her nearly everything she knew; she
rebelled against other methods, and Perior himself would have felt
robbed had governess or tutor supplanted him. During those quiet and
pleasant years he felt that on a melancholy walk he had picked a handful
of primroses--their pale young gold irradiated his solitude. He did not
say to himself that Camelia would never disappoint him, nor own that the
handful of primroses meant much in his life, but hopefulness seemed to
emanate from her, and insensibly he lived in the sunny impression. Her
very defects were charming, the mere superfluity of exuberant vitality,
and with this conviction he observed her happy, youthful selfishness as
one observes a kitten's antics, and treated her claims for dominion with
gentle ridicule. Camelia laughed with him at herself, and this gave them
an irresistible sense of companionship; consoling too, since no defect
so humorously recognized could be deep; his primroses still kept their
dew. But as she grew older, Perior began to realize uncomfortably that
Camelia could laugh at the deepest defect, recognize it, analyze it, and
stick to it--a deft combination. This faculty for firm sticking despite
obstacles gave the paternal Perior food for reflection, and, as he
reflected, he felt with a sudden little turn of terror that he was in a
fair way to take Camelia seriously after all. His terror struck him as
very cowardly, a shrinking from responsibilities--his, of a truth, to a
certain extent. That lightly assumed guardianship meant much in her
life. Had he failed in some essential? Was she not the product of her
training? He owned with a sigh that the note of true authority it had
not been his right to emphasize; yet in defending himself from the
probable pain of a deep affection, had he not weakened his claim to a
moral influence? And had he defended himself? Perior turned from the
question. Camelia respected him, he knew that; and yet his very
frankness with her--he, too, had laughed at himself for her benefit--had
given her a power over him. He was not at all afraid of seeming
priggish, but he was shy before certain contingencies; he knew that he
should blunder if he preached, and that Camelia would force him to smile
at the blunder and to blur the sermon.
At the age of eighteen he caught her more than once managing,
manipulating the plastic elements about her with a skill approaching
deceit. The very absence of a necessity for deceit alarmed him; she had
so few temptations, there was no way of testing her, yet, that once or
twice, when circumstances by a little twist or turn opposed her, he had
caught her--too dexterous. Perior had not controlled himself, nor taken
the advantage he might have seized. He had immediately lost his balance,
exaggerated what Camelia regarded as a quite permissible and pretty
compromise into a fault worthy of biting denunciation, and in so doing
had given her a point of vantage from which she laughed--not even
angrily. Perior for many years had thought most goodness negative, and
preferred to see it tested before admiring, but he had forgotten to
apply his philosophy in this case. He lost his temper, and Camelia kept
hers, kept hers to the extent of soothing him by a smiling confession of
her misdoing, an affectionate declaration that she was wrong and he
quite right--"But don't be cross, dear Mr. Perior." What was he to do?
She did not care if she were wrong. Perior thought he would be wiser in
the future; he would give Camelia no further opportunity for facile
confession; but though the first sting of unexpected disappointment was
over, many unmerited aches were still reserved to him--all the more
painful from the fact that he had never intended to ache for Camelia.
Mary Fairleigh had come to the Patons when Camelia was sixteen, and
Camelia's treatment of her cousin was another and more constant cause
for growing discontent. Perior could not define the discomfort with
which he watched Camelia's indifferent kindness, or, worse still, an
unkindness as unintentional. He assumed by degrees an attitude of
compensatory gentleness towards poor Mary; it held, however, no sting
for Camelia; she seemed to watch his doing of the things she left undone
very complacently. It was by degrees that his dismay took refuge in a
manner of unshocked indifference which he hoped would prove salutary. It
did seem to irk and perplex her somewhat, and he had the consolation of
thinking that many of her perversities might be intentionally engineered
for his benefit. Perior, too, had learned to smile, and Camelia was
baffled. He would not scold her. After all, he counted for very little,
so Camelia assured herself as she entered upon her London life, and he
should see that she could be indifferent with far more effectiveness.
Perior saw little of her during those years. The little he saw on his
rare visits to London confirmed his grim conviction. She was a pretty,
clever, foolish, worthless creature; her frankness threw no dust into
his eyes. She might own herself a self-seeking worldling, and she did
not overshoot the mark. Many were the corns she danced over in her quest
of power and happiness. Her sincerity was insincere--it adapted itself
too cleverly. Perior had seen her flatter, when only he and she knew
that she was flattering; had seen her make her effect by pliancy or by
resistance; had watched her smile light for those who could serve her,
or stiffen to a sweet blankness for the incompetent. He recognized in
her his own scorn for the world without his ideal, which would not
permit him to stoop and use it; but, so Perior thought, Camelia knew no
ideals; reality did not hurt her--she met it with its own weapons. One
did not conquer an immoral world by moral methods; and if one lived in
it, not to conquer it would be intolerable. The scorn no doubt excused
her to herself, but it hedged her round with a sort of stupidity from
which Perior's quick recognition of moral beauty preserved him. Ethical
worth had come to be everything to him. Camelia simply did not see it.
He himself had armed her with that scientific impartiality before which
he felt himself rather helpless, before which good and bad resolved
themselves into very evasive elements. She told him that her science was
more logical than his, it had made her charitable to the whole world,
herself included, whereas he was hard on the world and hard on himself.
His very kindness lacked grace, while her unkindness wore a flower-like
color. He was sorry for people, not fond of them--but Camelia was
neither fond nor sorry. They were shadows woven into the web of her
experience, her business was to make that experience pleasant, to see it
beautifully. It was this love of beauty--beauty in the pagan sense--that
baffled him in her. She had put appreciation and an exquisite good taste
in the place of morality. Life to her was a game, to him a tragic,
insistent conundrum. These, at least, were Perior's reluctant
conclusions.
When he walked away from Enthorpe Lodge his mind was to a certain extent
already reverting to the daily preoccupations of cottages, perverse
protoplasm, and his weekly article for the _Friday Review;_ but also
dwelling with the dual peculiarity observable in our meditations, upon
the people he had just left, Lady Paton, Mary, Camelia's guests, and
Camelia herself. It seemed really unnecessary to remind himself of that
promise he had made himself some time ago; Camelia could not disappoint
him; he knew just what to expect from her; she could not hurt him. Yet
the promise had been made at a time when she was hurting him very badly,
and even now, while he recalled it with some vehemence, he was feeling a
most illogical smart.
The country road wound among dusty hedges and through the little
village. About half a mile beyond it lay a remnant of the Perior estate,
once large, second only in importance to the Haversham's, now sadly
shrunken and dislocated. By degrees, and during years of only meagre
competence, he had built upon this pretty bit of land a cluster of
cottages, his playthings; to make them unnecessarily delightful was his
perverse pleasure.
Perior was by no means a paternal landlord; the lucky occupants of the
cottages were never reminded of the propriety of gratitude. Indeed
Perior had enraged neighboring landowners by remarking that the cottages
were none too good for the rent--a saying big with implications, and
perhaps intentionally spiteful. Indeed intentional spite was attributed
to many of his actions. It was a great fox-hunting country; and one of
the finest coverts, rich in foxes lovingly preserved by Perior's
forefathers, lay on his estate. Now it was currently reported that
Perior had had all the foxes shot! A murder would have made him less
unpopular. Malicious insanity seemed the only explanation.
He did not scruple to proclaim his blasphemous heresies on the sacred
sport. He grew angry, said he abominated it, would do all in his power
to stamp it out, and at least would see that no animal should be
"tortured" on his property. The foxes had certainly disappeared from
Mandelly Woods, and good, honest sportsmen could hardly trust themselves
to mention the criminal fanatic's name. It must be owned that Perior's
love of animals approached the grotesque. He entertained at the Manor a
retinue of battered cats and outcast dogs, many garnered from London
streets. He could hardly bear to have surplus kittens drowned, and only
by the firmness of the housekeeper was the necessary severity
accomplished. He was exaggerated, peculiar, unpractical; the kindest
said it of him. He had sent two clever village boys to the University,
one the son of the village poacher and ne'er-do-weel, a handsome lad
with a Burns-like streak of genius, who had distinguished himself at
Oxford, and disappointed many pessimistic prophecies by turning out more
than creditably. At the present moment the son of one of Perior's
field-laborers came every day to the Grange for a coaching in the
humanities. Perior was a fine master, and Camelia was none too well
pleased when she heard of her successor. These experiments in sociology
aroused only less hostile comment than the black affair of the foxes.
Our misanthropic gentleman paused at an angle of the road to survey his
cottages, each set in its own happy acres, stretching flower-beds and
young orchards into the sunny country. His tenants all had a pleasant
look of successful adaptation. One was a cobbler, and made most of
Perior's boots; a fact rather apparent.
It was evening by the time he reached the tall gates through which the
roadway led up to the Grange, a high-standing, unpretentious, gray stone
house, rather bleakly situated on its height, but backed by a further
rise of wood, and, despite its vineless severity of outline, gravely
cheerful in aspect. An immaculately-kept lawn stretched in a gradual
slope before it, shaded by two yew trees, and the light grace of
beeches. Under the windows of the ground floor were beds of white and
purple pansies, and at one side, near the shrubberies, were long rows of
irises, also purple and white. From the other side of the house the
ground descended very abruptly, giving one the realization of height,
and a long view over woods, hills, and valleys to the distant sunset.
The house within carried out consistently the first impression of
pleasant bareness. The wainscotted walls were reflected in the gleaming
floors. No tenderness of draperies, no futile ornament. In the
drawing-room three old portraits of three dead Mrs. Periors looked
quietly from the walls; some good porcelain was on shelves where there
was no danger of its breaking; the faded brocade of the furniture was
covered with white chintz sprigged with green. The library, where the
light came serenely through high windows, was lined with books; here and
there on the peaceful spaces a good engraving or etching; philosophical
bronzes above the shelves. The writing-table was spacious; opposite it
was Perior's piano--he played well. This was the room he lived in. Now,
when he entered, an old setter, glossily well-groomed, looked up with an
emotional thudding of the tail, and of two cats curled exquisitely in
the easy-chair, one only opened placid eyes, while the other, after
arching itself in a yawn, advanced towards him with a soundless mew.
Perior was devoted to his cats, and adored his dogs. After stooping to
pat these animals, he took up a letter from the table. Arthur Henge's
writing was familiar, though of late years Perior had rarely seen it.
The old friendship had borne pretty sharp twinges--had survived even
Perior's ruthless handling of Henge's pet measure some years ago: Henge
had believed ardently in the bill, and thought Perior responsible to a
certain extent for its failure. That Henge had not been embittered by
this political antagonism had deeply touched Perior. He always
remembered the fact with a delightful, glowing comfort. His respect and
fondness for Henge were a staff to him. The two men were intrinsically
sympathetic, though they had hardly an opinion in common. Arthur Henge
was an optimist, and deeply religious, his wide humanism going hand in
hand with a fervent churchmanship. He was aided towards a happy view of
things by happy circumstances. He was one of the richest men in England,
and one of the most powerful; he held a high place in the present
Government. No sword of Damocles in the shape of a peerage hung over his
career in the Lower House, and at the same time the baronetcy, hoary
with an honorable antiquity, had the consequence and standing of many
greater but less significant titles. He was young, handsome, and
serious. Above all small cynicisms and hardness, his experience of life
seemed only to have taught him a wise, fine trust, and, perhaps in
consequence of this attitude of mind, it was impossible not to trust
him.
This was the man who had fallen in love with Camelia Paton. The fact was
town talk, though it was surmised that despite his evident absorption he
had not yet given her occasion to accept him. That he was courting her
was not yet apparent, but his devotion remained gravely steady. Lady
Henge was supposed to be the cause of this adjournment of decisive
measures. Lady Henge was even more serious than her son, and her
influence over him was paramount.
Now with all her ready qualities Camelia seldom pretended to
seriousness. To Perior there was something highly distasteful in the
whole matter. That Camelia should be the object of such comment, that
her achievement of the "good match" should be canvassed, infuriated him.
No blame could attach itself to Arthur's reticence; if reticence there
were it was on the highest grounds. It was the world's base,
materialistic chatter that jarred, its weighing of her charm and
loveliness against his wealth and prominence merely. Perior weighed
Camelia's merits against Arthur's. In his heart of hearts he did not
consider Camelia fitted to make a high-minded man happy--and some dim
foreboding of this fact no doubt chilled her lover's resolution. Perior,
however, was not logical. He might not approve of Camelia, but that Lady
Henge should disapprove nettled him. Arthur no doubt was a fool in
loving Camelia, but Perior wished to be alone in that knowledge. As for
the world's gross view of Henge as one of the greatest "catches" in
England, of Camelia as lucky if she got him, Perior's blood boiled when
he thought of it,--and that Camelia, with all her reliance on her own
attractions, was quite aware of the world's opinion and was not angered
by it.
She, too, thought Henge a great "catch," no doubt; a great catch even
for Camelia Paton.
Perior read the letter now, standing near the window and frowning very
gloomily. It was natural that Henge should write to him in this strain
of only thinly-veiled confidence.
Henge knew of the long paternal intimacy with Camelia, and relied
perhaps too much on a paternal sympathy. Henge and his mother were
coming down to Clievesbury to spend some weeks at Enthorpe. He avowed
no intention, but the whole note, its very restraint, was big with
intention. He seemed, too, to emphasize his mother's pleasure in coming,
and Perior felt in the emphasis a touch of triumph. He hoped to see a
great deal of Perior, there was in the concluding passages of the note
quite a prophecy of future relationship, nearer than any they had known.
But through it all Perior fancied just the hint of an appeal--a quite
unconscious appeal, none the less significant for that.
Camelia was to be put on trial before Lady Henge, and to Arthur the
process would be painful. The Henges had stately requirements; and
although Perior imagined that, were these requirements not satisfied,
Arthur had almost determined to overlook them, he felt the keenness of
the hope that all would be satisfactory, the support that the hope found
in Perior's intimacy with Camelia.
Lady Henge shared her son's respect for Perior, and to her Perior's
friendship could interpret many phases in Camelia's charming character
perplexing to the anxious mother's unaided vision.
"I am glad my mother is to know her better; she has seen only the
surface as yet," wrote Arthur. Arthur's love was a surety not quite
trustworthy, but the lifelong friendship of a man like Perior must
convince grave Lady Henge of many depths. Perior felt that his rigidity
was to be made use of. His well-known earnestness was to vouch for
Camelia's. His brow was very black as he finished the letter. He was
nearly angry with Arthur.