VI
YOUNG LOVE
A month had passed, a wonderful month; it was as though the whole of life had flowered in that month. All the days and years that had preceded it had been but so many roots and tendrils which had stored the strong essences of life, that at last they might display themselves in this miraculous bloom! It is the flower that blooms but once, this exquisite flower of young, adoring love. Maturer years may bring the strength of calm affection, the heat of turbulent passion, but, in the incredible romance of sex, once only comes the wonder-hour, when the whole world is dipped in splendour, winged with song, glittering with the fresh dew of young desire. We who are older recall that hour with a kind of mournful wonder. Just to wake and think she wakes too, she breathes the same morning air, was an intoxicating thought. And what beautiful and foolish things we did: how we kissed the scrap of paper that bore the adored name, watched the adored shadow on the blind, were at once so bold and shy, so determined and so fearful, so daring and so absurdly sensitive. No one else had ever loved as we loved; we alone possessed the immortal secret, and the knowledge of that secret separated us from common men and common life. Yes, we are older now, wiser and colder too, and the flesh no longer thrills with ecstasy at the touch of lip or hand; but who would not give all this late-found wisdom to recapture for a moment this divine folly of first love?
Arthur gave himself to the divine folly with complete abandonment. He did all the foolish things that lovers do: sat night after night in Vickars' room, pretending interest in the father while his eyes never left the daughter; trembled when she spoke, shivered when her dress touched his hand, shrank from her as if unworthy to touch the hem of her garment, and in the same moment longed to clasp her in his arms. He waited long hours just to gaze an instant into the depths of her timid eyes; gazed with ardour, and then flushed for shame, as one convicted of an outrage. When he left the house he walked only to the end of the street, came back again, and in the darkness watched the house, wondering what room was hers, and picturing her silent in the innocence of sleep. What if the house should burn? What if some outrageous wrong should violate her slumber? What if she should die in the night? When he went home at last, to the grim silence of Eagle House, it was to dream of her; and no sooner did he wake than he must seek Lonsdale Road, finding fresh joy and amazement in the impossible fact that she was still alive.
All this time his father said not a word to him, and made no question of his comings and goings. He passed him with averted face, his eyes not unkindly but absorbed, for it was a time of panic in the city, when richer men than he watched the trembling balance of events, which meant sudden triumph or sudden ruin. But with the unconscious cruelty of youth Arthur discerned none of these things. The material life had practically ceased for him; wealth and poverty were alike terms of no significance; they belonged to a world so far removed that he no longer apprehended it. It was enough for him that the punctual day awoke him with a new cup of happiness; with its first beam he mounted to the heaven of his romance, and there dwelt among rosy clouds, with the singing of the morning stars in his ears.
With Vickars it was different; him Arthur saw daily, and he could not dismiss him from his consideration. He had begun by admiring him with youthful ardour; he sincerely liked him; but now a new question disturbed their relationship—did Vickars approve of him? He was at pains to understand Vickars' view of life, for he knew that whatever his view was, it was Elizabeth's too. Had she not typewritten all his books for him? Did not her mind speak in them as well as his? And he knew instinctively that in both father and daughter there was a certain resolute fibre of conviction which could not be softened by mere sentiment. They each lived by some kind of definite creed; in a sense they were Crusaders pledged to loyalty to that belief; and if he were to become to either what he hoped to be, he knew that he must understand their attitude to life.
It piqued Arthur that Vickars said so little to him on these matters. But one night the opportunity arrived. Vickars had been busy over some literary task; when Arthur came into the room, Elizabeth was putting the cover on her typewriter and gathering up a mass of MSS.
"Come in," said Vickars. "You find me at a good moment. I have just finished a piece of work that has given me a vast deal of trouble."
"Another novel?"
"No, not exactly. I suppose it is fiction in form, and no doubt most people will regard it as fiction in essence too; but as a matter of fact it is a plain statement of what is wrong with the world, and a proposition for its remedy."
"That sounds rather formidable, doesn't it?"
"It would be formidable if the world would take it seriously. But they won't. I don't suppose it will even get read. I am by no means sure that it will even get printed. My publishers are considered bold men, but they are only bold along lines thoroughly familiar to them. Show them something new, really and truly new, and they will most likely be frightened out of their wits."
"Is it as bad as that?"
"It's not bad at all. It's absolutely plain commonsense. I wonder who the fool was who first talked of commonsense? My experience teaches me that sense is the most uncommon thing in the world. Most men are so at home with folly that nothing is so likely to alarm them as the irruption of real rational sense."
"I wish you would tell me all about it," said Arthur earnestly.
"Do you?" said Vickars, with an ironic smile. "Well, I don't know about that. You see, at heart I am a fanatic, and, like all fanatics, I should expect you to agree with me. If you didn't, I might not—like you. And then there's Elizabeth. I rather think she agrees with me. And she might not—like you."
"Oh no, father," Elizabeth began, and then flushed and dropped her eyes.
"Oh yes," he retorted. "Why, don't you know that the one great divisive force in society is opinion? I like the man who agrees with me, and I dislike the man who doesn't; and although I may accuse myself of intolerance, and persuade myself that he possesses all kinds of virtues, I shall still go on disliking him, because I think him stupid. And he will dislike me for the same reason—he will think me stupid."
He rose from his writing-table, lit a pipe, and stood with his hands behind him, with that whimsical smile upon his face which Arthur knew so well.
"No," he continued, with a sudden flash of passion, "I don't suppose I shall get heard. The nearer truth you come in your writing, the less likely are you to get heard, for above all things men hate truth. They crucified truth two thousand years ago on Calvary; and they have been doing it ever since. Yet truth is the most obvious thing in the world, to any one who is sincere enough to discern it. You want to know what I think, what I have been writing about. Well, I will tell you. I have simply put down in plain English a series of facts which are all indisputable. That war is folly, to begin with, and if the cost of armies and navies were removed, the prosperity of Europe would be instantly doubled. That the reckless growth of cities is folly, and if you could make the people stay upon the land by giving them land on equitable terms, three-fourths of the poverty would disappear. That unlimited commercial competition is folly, and that if you could make nations act as a great co-operative trust, only producing what each nation is best fitted to produce, and only as much of any commodity as was really needed, you would cure all the ills of labour. And I say all this is absolutely obvious. Every one knows it, though every one ignores it. It is so obvious that if God would make me sole dictator of the world for a single year, I would guarantee to make the world a Paradise. I wonder God doesn't do it Himself, instead of letting man go on age after age mismanaging everything, with the result that a few are rich and not happy, and the multitude are poor—and miserable. So now you know just the sort of man I am. Didn't I tell you I was a fanatic?" He broke off his harangue with a laugh. "Now how do you like me?" he asked.
"I like you better than I ever did," said Arthur.
"Ah! you think you do. But remember my definition: you only really like the man with whom you agree. Do you agree with me?"
"I think I do."
"Then what are you going to do with your own life?"
The abrupt question struck upon the mind with a sharp clang, like the sudden breaking of a string on a violin. It was the old question which Arthur had debated so often and so wearily. During this lyric month of love it had been forgotten, his mind had been bathed in delicious languor; but now the question returned upon him with singular and painful force, and his mind woke from its trance. What was he to do with his life? And as he asked the question, for the first time he caught a full vision of the gravity and splendour of existence. Man was born to do, not alone to feel, to act as well as love. And beautiful as love was, he saw with instant certainty that in creatures like Elizabeth it rested on a solid base of intellectual idealism. That was its final evolution: it was no longer the wild, passionate mating of forest lovers; it was a thing infinitely delicate and pure, infinitely complex and sensitive, in which the spirit, with all its agonies and exultations, was the dominating force.
For a breathless moment he was conscious of the grave eyes of Elizabeth resting on him with an anxious tenderness of inquisition. Then he answered in a low voice, "I wish to make my life worthy of the highest. That is as far as I can see." The speech was the implied offer of himself to Elizabeth, and she knew it. Her face was suffused with happy light, and her breast rose and fell in a long satisfied sigh.
"That is as far as any one need see," said Vickars. And then the tense moment broke, and the conversation flowed back into ordinary channels.
From that hour began a real intimacy with Vickars which had a great influence over his own character. Hitherto he had admired the man without understanding his real aims. Now he began to comprehend these aims. Vickars had spoken truly when he described himself as a fanatic, but his fanaticism was so wise and so gentle that it provoked love rather than antagonism. And it had also a certain restful and melancholy quality which was infinitely touching. He did not expect to be heard, and he knew that he would not prevail; yet he would at any time have suffered martyrdom with cheerful courage. Many men have found it not difficult to die for a faith which they believed would move on to triumph by the way of their Golgotha; but Vickars was prepared to die for a faith which he knew must fail. He had no illusions; he saw all things in a clear bleak light of actual fact, knew the world ill-governed and man incurably foolish, but not the less he was willing to sacrifice himself for convictions which the world called absurd. His speech about what he would do were he dictator of the world was not mere rhetoric; it was his genuine belief that life was at bottom a very simple business, and that mankind missed available happiness merely by perverse repudiation of the simplest principles of happiness. So he gave himself in hopeless consecration to the exposition of these principles; and if the martyr is great who can die because he sees the crown and palm waiting for him in the skies, how much greater is he who can die expecting no reward?
It was only by degrees that Arthur came to recognise these qualities in Vickars. What he did not recognise at all was that the influence of Vickars was slowly loosening all the moorings that held him to his own former life. Although he had not said it openly, he knew now that he could not join his father in the business. He was careful to frame no accusation of his father even in his own most secret thoughts, but he knew that their ways lay apart. This life his father loved of scheming and of toiling, with its empty wealth and emptier social rewards, had no attraction for him. It was too crude, too barbarous; and beside it the life of Vickars, in its noble poverty, shone like a gem. He did not judge his father, but he judged unmercifully the society in which he moved, especially the church society, with its pettiness of interest, its lack of idealism, and its honour for smooth hypocrites like Scales; and this set him wondering why Vickars went to church at all. He asked him the question one day.
"I go for Clark's sake principally," he replied. "He is the one pulpit-man in the neighbourhood who has a real glimpse of truth, and I feel it my duty to support him."
"But what about the Church itself?"
"You mean, what do I think of it?"
"Yes."
"I think that it will disappear, that, in fact, it is in process of disappearance. Dry rot has set in, and so, though it looks stately and stable, it is like the towering mast of a ship, only held upright by a thin varnished skin, but rotten at the core. It will last as long as the weather is fine; when a storm comes, it will fall."
"Well, but what has happened? I don't think I understand."
"Something has happened that very few persons have observed. Wealth has bought the Church; it is in the proprietorship of the rich. They finance it, they dictate its policies, and naturally those policies are not going to be hostile to themselves. Then it has ceased to be democratic in any true sense. It will be charitable to the poor, but it will not be just. Thus its very charity is a bribe to make men forget justice. And besides this, the note of conviction has left the pulpit. Half the preachers spend their time in apologies for Christianity, and the apologetic person soon finds himself despised. The centre of gravity has shifted, and the people who do believe most heartily in Christianity are people outside the churches—men like Tolstoi, for example. Why is it that the Church is always complaining of its want of success? It ought to succeed as nothing else can. It has privileges and attractions which no other institution has. The reason is that its vitality has run out. It has the dry rot, as I said, and the only skin that holds the thing together is the custom of worship. That also is becoming spotted with decay, and when the decay eats through the outer skin, the end will come."
"But we must have religion."
"Yes, we must have religion; but the Church and religion are not synonymous terms. The Founder of the Christian religion stood outside the Church." He paused a moment, with that curious hesitation which marked the movement of emotion in him. Then he laid his hand upon Arthur's shoulder, and said in a gentle voice, "Do you remember what you said you would do with your life? You said you wished to make it worthy of the highest. 'The utmost for the highest'—that's it, isn't it? Well, you needn't bother your head about the Church. That saying of yours is a tolerably complete definition of religion. You'll find it more than sufficient, if you'll be true to it."
There were many conversations such as this between Arthur and Vickars in this wonderful summer month. Life and love, like twin flowers on one stem, were opening, their petals simultaneously for Arthur. His mind flowered in contact with Vickars, his heart in contact with Elizabeth; for though the girl said little, her silence was eloquent of the bond of complete sympathy which existed between her father and herself. He tacitly included her in all his views of life. And it was clear that she gave him adoring discipleship—the discipleship of a young girl, long motherless, who had drawn from him all the elements of thought and will in her own character. It was a beautiful relationship, rare always, but especially rare in that conventional society which surrounded them, in which women were merely the butterfly appendages of men whose chief work in life was to provide them with the means of easy gaiety.
Vickars did not press his opinions upon Arthur; he was much too wise and gentle to play the pedant. If Arthur learned much from him, it was by indirection; knowledge came to him unconsciously, as an atmosphere to be breathed, rather than as a lesson to be mastered. Vickars had a curious knack of evading controversy. He would flash a winged sentence on the air, satisfied that it would find its mark; and then dismiss the subject with a laugh, or with the usual comment, "But we are growing too serious; let us have some music." Then Elizabeth would open the piano, and find her way to some solemn theme of Beethoven or Tchaikowsky, and the soft, perfumed wind would blow across the room from the open window, and the divine melodies would lift the spirit into worlds of unimaginable agony or rapture. But all the time the word that had been spoken would vibrate through the music, till the music seemed its real interpretation; and thus it was endowed with new vitality and emphasis by Elizabeth's playing. "How well she understands him!" Arthur would reflect, wondering at the perfect bond of sympathy between them; and then, with a pang of yearning, "Will she ever understand me like that?"
In such moments he trod the lover's hell, which is as real as the lover's heaven. He could never attain to her. He saw the miraculous freshness and richness of her nature, and knew the crudeness of his own. What was there in him that she should desire him? This very bond of sympathy between her and her father, so rare and sensitive, became his menace. She could not want him; but, O God! with what an agony of yearning did he want her! And then, as he sat disconsolate, with head resting on his hand, she would turn to him, as if she divined his thoughts, with a gaze infinitely pitiful and kind; and his eyes clung to hers for an instant in mute appeal and adoration, and something told him that there was yet a void in that virgin heart that he alone could fill. O exquisite terrors, authentic agonies, brief sky-daring hopes, surely it were worth all the millions of years of slow evolution from the brute to touch but for an instant so painful and delicate a bliss!
One night—it was a Sunday night—the three sat together in the little room.
Vickars was unusually silent.
"You look depressed, father. What is it?" said Elizabeth.
"Oh, nothing personal, my child. I think it's merely the spectacle of the congregation at church to-night that has disturbed me."
"What was wrong with the congregation?"
"Nothing was right, I think. Didn't you notice how stolid they looked—and in the presence of truths and hopes so vast, that had they believed them, they must have leapt to their feet and shouted in ecstasy?"
"That would be a novelty indeed," she smiled.
"It would have been natural," he replied. "But alas! who is natural? Most people never live at first-hand. They are plagiarists. Arthur, don't be a plagiarist. It cuts the fibre of sincerity. It's like drinking stale water from a dirty cup. But there," and then came the usual comment, "let us have some music."
And Elizabeth began to play. Perhaps it was the suggestion of the Sabbath evening that made her play sweet and solemn airs from Handel. Presently she wandered into old hymn-tunes, and finally began to play "Nearer, my God, to Thee."
Suddenly she stopped, for Vickars had left the room.
"Oh, I forgot!" she cried. "I ought not to have played that."
While she spoke, her father returned. His face was pale: he held in his hand a miniature of a woman.
"Do you remember what to-day is?" he said in a soft, shaken voice. "Twenty years ago to-day. And that was the last thing she played ... and then she went ... in the night ... upon her long journey. And it all seems but an hour ago. O my child! you are so like your mother."
He kissed her forehead.
Twenty years ago, and love still fresh! Arthur bowed his head before the sacred vision. He rose to go. He felt he had no right to look on that unveiled immortal sorrow.
Elizabeth stood for a moment with him at the garden gate.
"Could you?" ... He stopped, for emotion choked him. "Could you ... love me like that?"
He could see her tremble, and in the dim light he could divine her startled gaze. His hand clasped hers.
She pressed his for a single moment, turned, and fled.