Other feelings, too, contributed to his sense of loneliness. Birth and wealth had given him caste; but custom had not yet trained him to it. From the middle-class, staid traditions of Darnley-on-Downe he had inherited several hereditary tendencies that not the most determined efforts could eradicate. He was conscious of them; they annoyed him, they disconcerted him by making him feel more than ever that he did not match his surroundings, and this mortifying consciousness was unsupported by any such heroic glamour as that which attended the independence of his sceptical spirit. He knew that he was not careless enough in the spending of money. Spend it he did, freely and eagerly; but he always knew what it had bought, and his mind kept accounts long after he had fiercely broken himself away from the spell of pass-books and schedules. This was not as it should be. Money, to be spent correctly, should be scattered loosely, and the spender should have as little idea as possible of the way in which it has gone. Only thus can a well-bred indifference to finance be attained. The ideal of his contemporaries was to be perpetually in debt, and never to have anything whatever to show for all that had been spent. On four hundred or four hundred and fifty a year right-minded people might attain to complete destitution, bare rooms, shabby clothes, and a perpetual assumption of bankruptcy. One very popular man even achieved the result on six hundred. This was a rare triumph of extravagance, however, and a reasonable ambition would confine itself to a complete ignorance as to all outgoings. And this Kingston Darnley could never acquire. The ghost of his father stirred in him, demanding a solid recollection of every purchase. He bought the best, bought it and lavished it freely. But he never could rid himself of the knowledge that it was the best, and thus a faint suspicion of ostentatiousness hovered over all his entertainments, and the happy, slovenly wastefulness with which his contemporaries ran into debt for atrocious port or uneatable dinners could never be reached by a man with his finical instinct for perfection. This lack of carelessness, either as to quantity of pounds spent or quality of things purchased, stigmatized its owner for ever as an outsider—not to mention the fact that he invariably paid money down for all he bought. His wealth might as fairly have been blamed for this vice, perhaps; nevertheless, a hatred for debt was one of Kingston’s most inalienable legacies from Darnley-on-Downe, and, had he not been able to pay cash for the best, he would certainly have remained content to buy the worst. And this, again, was a suspicious trait in the eyes of his contemporaries, who, though quite happy to buy the worst, always made it their pride to run up bills for it that would have been exorbitant had they been ordering the best.
These small hereditary feelings set James Darnley’s son apart from his contemporaries, and it only required the remains of middle-class prudishness to achieve his isolation. Kingston found it impossible, in spite of habit and effort, to acquire the easy personal sans-gêne, the tripping, untrammelled tongue of his contemporaries. He did his best; listened genially, accumulated anecdotes and retailed them among his friends; but always heavily, never as to the manner born. His friends held the free, frank language only possible to the perfectly cleanly mind, naked and unashamed; he, for his part, was always uneasy in his nudity, and took his share in the talk with that consciousness of impropriety that doubles impropriety. The Dadd respectability still hampered its rebellious descendant, and prevented him from ever entering into perfect harmony with that world where decency is a matter of conduct, not by any means of language. On this point his aunt Minne-Adélaïde had certainly the advantage. But the woman is proverbially more adaptable than the man.
Still isolated, then, at home and abroad, Kingston came down at last from Oxford at twenty-four, a character untried, unformed, unground by any real contact with the mills of life. An inordinate sensitiveness to impressions, an excessive personal daintiness, were the marks of his nature at that time, so far as a friend could discern it. For the rest, very pleasant of look and temper, friendly, honest, and no more selfish than a good-looking young fellow of four-and-twenty has every right to be. Lady Adela was delighted to receive him under her wing once more, and noticed with joy the subsidence of some of his more tumultuous ideas into tranquillity. She had a fearful notion that everyone left Oxford ‘a roaring atheist,’ and it was a great joy to her that Kingston completely disproved this fallacy, not only by accompanying her to church, but also by carrying her hymn-book. She devoted herself to exploiting her son, and he, not finding rebellion necessary for his pleasure, allowed himself to be guided wherever his mother wished.
Rich and handsome in high degree, he began to find London a very pleasant and companionable place, without the ostentatious thoughtlessness of Oxford, or the frank intellectual apathy of his home. In point of fact, London began to do for him what neither home nor Oxford had succeeded in doing. Gradually he grew down to his own level, his edges were rubbed off, his generous, exaggerated ideas dwindled to their proper place in the perspective of life. He realized that to live well and beautifully it is not necessary to be for ever examining the foundations of action; that life is simple and enjoyable for those who prefer living it to discussing it; that justice, while august and unattainable in the abstract, and astonishingly contradictory in its precepts, is yet, in the concrete, very easily discerned and followed in this workaday sphere by plain-minded people whose eyes are fixed, not on the stars in high heaven, but on their reflection in the muddy ways of the world. He ceased to nourish fantastic theories against the hanging of murderesses, conceived the possibility of good in vivisection, and began at last to contemplate a Piccadilly midnight with the not unkindly stoicism of a man of the world. Inwardly, as he often told himself, his ideas remained the same, but their outward manifestation grew calmer and more ordinary. When he met his Oxford friends he found that he was much more in sympathy with their way of taking life as a matter of course.
Meanwhile Lady Adela was bent on seeing him safely married. This, she considered, was the easiest and most desirable way of protecting him against all the wicked possibilities that lie in wait for a young man. To save him from the contamination of many women by tying him tight to one, before he had had time to look about and make his choice, seemed to her a very prudent, not to say holy, course. So she paraded desirable damsels before him, and held amicable counsel with mothers not at all averse from an alliance with Kingston Darnley’s wealth. The mothers and Lady Adela worked and manœuvred with Machiavellian cunning; needless to say, their designs would have been plain to a sucking child; and, equally needless to say, Kingston, pleased and flattered, lent himself more or less amiably to their strategy, with a guilelessness that quite reassured them as to his ignorance of their purposes.
But that very blamelessness of her son’s which Lady Adela wished to safeguard was the ruin of her plan. For, as a matter of fact, Lady Adela, by an accident of fate, rather than by any perspicacity of intellect, was right in holding the mother’s usual superstition of her son’s purity. Kingston Darnley, emotional and fastidious of temperament, impressionable rather than passionate, curious and idealistic, had hitherto not gone the way of all flesh. He had avoided ‘experiences’; and experiences had never sought him out. The sense of personal decency remained strong upon him, and its strength was reinforced by his old theories of morality, and by his strong tendency towards mental, rather than physical passion. So he remained a spectator in the great sexual battle of life.
And this onlooker attitude is not endearing even to the most holy and maidenly of women. Women require to feel that a man is a man—that is, they require to feel the thrill of his virility in the deep fibres of their consciousness—to have their interest caught and held by the proximity of the dominating male. It is only to the depraved woman that the saint is of personal interest; and, even then, her interest is depraved as her nature. The normal girl—though she has not the faintest understanding what her wishes mean—needs to feel the possible conqueror in the man she is talking to—at least, if he is to rouse her curiosity and grow in her acquaintance. And this mysterious thrill, of the man triumphant, Kingston was utterly unable to communicate. Therefore his friendships with women were almost wholly impersonal. He had none of that love-making power which experiences confer; had no idea of how the blood is stirred and defiance stimulated; no gift for that bold expression of physical approval which is so dear to even the best of women. Women had to ask him if their frocks were pretty, and if he liked their hats; even then his answers never went the fervent lengths that their questions had been meant to open up.
His flirtations were abstract, platonic, unearthly—all that a mother considers most unprofitable, though perilous. The artist, indeed, can be a sensualist; but the artistic spirit and the sensual have no real relationship. What attracts the one repels the other, and it is only within the fierce energetic soul of genius that the two can be reconciled. Kingston Darnley, without genius, had the artist spirit. And the artist spirit was for ever showing him fresh superficial blemishes in the offered maidens—blemishes whose deterrent force his animalism was not powerful enough to overcome. This one had hands that didn’t match; that one perpetually wore lace mittens; a third had a nose that perspired at dances; or an irritating cackle that revealed a golden tooth. One and all, he liked them—even loved them—in so far as their minds were clear, pleasant, friendly, lovable. But to be loved for her mind is the last thing that a well-looking young woman requires. And when he thought of marrying them, when he considered the prospect of living for ever with a perspiring nose or a mittened hand, Kingston revolted at the idea, no matter how precious the soul that owned the nose or the mitten.
It may be imagined, then, that, whatever his relations with older, plainer women, settled in life, he was neither popular nor at ease with the marriageable maidens provided by his mother. In vague dissatisfaction with his home, he was even anxious to marry and settle down with some sympathetic, adorable woman—but always that accursed prosaic aspect of the case came uppermost, and repelled him in horror from the plan.
Only once had he ever felt what he hoped might be the premonitory thrill of a really great passion—a passion such as might tide him over the more difficult questions involved. In this hope he had nurtured young love; and as love in so many lucky people is a matter of habit and determination, he had seemed soon to be in a fair way to success. The girl, too, showed signs of approval, and everything appeared so prosperous that Lady Adela gave hearty thanks and put half a crown into the plate, feeling that Heaven had earned more than its customary shilling. And then one day he had sat with the girl and her aunt in Kensington Gardens. And the cruel glare of daylight had shown him a fine colony of down on her nose, and the places whence and where her maid had transferred a rosette to hide a stain on her gown. All was over. The girl was everything delightful; but the idea of being bound eternally to a potentially bearded nose was impossible. Kingston could no longer bear the thought of marrying, and told his mother that his hope had proved fallacious. Heaven only got sixpence the next Sunday; and, even so, it was in coppers.