Barney did not know how to answer the last assault, and, boyishly, looked across at his beloved for succour. She gave it instantly.
“Sadness, sorrow, tragedy, even, isn’t despair,” she said. “Barney, I believe, if sorrow overtook him, would mould the rough clay of his occupation to some higher beauty than the beauty he’d lost. To lie down and die; to resign oneself to palliatives. Oh, no. That’s not the destiny of the human soul.”
“Roger’s pulling your leg, Barney, as usual,” Palgrave put in scornfully. He had been listening with his elbows on the table, his eyes on the table-cloth. “He knows as well as I do that there’s only one love. The sort you’re all talking about—the Theseus and Ariane affair—is merely an ebullition of youth and as soon as nature has perpetuated the species by means of it, it settles down, if there’s any reality under the ebullition, to grow into the other—the divine love; the love of the soul for the Good, the True and the Beautiful,” Palgrave declared, growing very red as he said it.
“Really—my dear child!” Mrs. Chadwick murmured. She had never heard such themes broached at her table and glanced nervously up at old Johnson to see if he had followed. “That is a very, very materialistic view!”
Oldmeadow at this began to laugh, audibly as well as visibly, and Palgrave, as their eyes met in a glance of communicated comedy, could not withhold an answering smile. But Barney’s face showed that he preferred to see Palgrave’s interpretation as materialistic and even Miss Toner looked thoughtfully at her champion.
“But we need the symbol of youth and nature,” she suggested. “The divine love, yes, Palgrave, is the only real one; but then all love is divine and human love sometimes brings the deepest revelation of all. Browning saw that so wonderfully.”
“Browning, my dear!” Palgrave returned with a curious mingling of devotion, intimacy and aloofness, “Browning never got nearer God than a woman’s breast!”
At this, almost desperately, Mrs. Chadwick broke in: “Did you ever see our Ellen Terry act, Adrienne? I liked her much better than Madame Bernhardt who had such a very artificial face, I think. I can’t imagine her as Rosalind, can you? While Miss Terry was a perfect Rosalind. I met her once with Henry Irving at a garden-party in London and she was as charming off as on the stage and I’m sure I can’t see why anybody should wish to act Phèdre—poor, uncontrolled creature. Rhubarb-tart, dear, and custard? or wine-jelly and cream? How beautifully you speak French. How many languages do you speak?” Mrs. Chadwick earnestly inquired, still turning the helm firmly away from the unbecoming topic.
Miss Toner kept her head very creditably and, very tactfully, at once accepted her hostess’s hint. “Rhubarb-tart, please, dear Mrs. Chadwick. Not so very many, really. My German has never been good; though French and Italian I do know well, and enough Spanish for Don Quixote. But,” she went on, while Mrs. Chadwick looked gratefully at her, “Mother and I were always working. We never wasted any of our precious hours together. She couldn’t bear the thought of missing anything in life; and she missed very little, I think. Music, poetry, painting—all the treasure-houses of the human spirit—were open to her. And what she won and made her own, she gave out again with greater radiance. How I wish you could all have known her!” said Miss Toner, looking round at them with an unaccustomed touch of wistfulness. “She was radiance personified. She never let unhappiness rest on her. I remember once, when she had had a cruel blow from a person she loved and trusted—in the middle of her sadness she looked at me and saw how sad she was making me; and she sprang up and seized my hands and cried: ‘Let’s dance! Let’s dance and dance and dance!’ And we did, up and down the terrace—it was at San Remo—she in her white dress, with the blue sky and sea and the orange-trees all in bloom. I can see her now. And then she rushed to get music, her harp, and flowers and fruit, to take to an invalid friend, and we spent the afternoon with her, mother surpassing herself in charm and witchery. She was always like that. She would have found something, oh, very beautiful, to make from her sorrow if Theseus had abandoned her! But no one,” said Miss Toner, looking round at Oldmeadow, now with a mild playfulness, “could ever have abandoned Mother.”
There was something to Oldmeadow appealing in her playfulness; her confidence, when it took on this final grace, was really touching. For Mrs. Toner the light-giver he knew that he had conceived a rooted aversion. And he wondered if she would go on, over the rhubarb-tart, to tell, after the dancing on the terrace, of the death at sea. But he was spared that.