Meanwhile, Yvonne was going to sleep, quite unconscious of the facts that had aroused Miss Vicary’s indignation. The memory of the artistic triumph of the day and the Canon’s generous praise lingered pleasantly around her pillow. But if there was any one man to whom her thoughts were tenderly given, it was the unhappy friend of her girlhood, who was then speeding into exile over the bleak autumn seas.
CHAPTER IX—PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE
If genius is mad, sensitiveness degenerate, and emotionality neurotic, and if heredity is the determining principle in the causation of character, comparative psychology enables us to account for many things. On these lines it could fairly be argued that one family taint of neurosis, manifesting itself diversely, had driven Stephen Chisely to the gaol and brought his cousin, the Canon, to the feet of Yvonne. Though there may be fallacies in the premises, there is, however, a certain plausibility in the deduction. Through both men ran a vein of artistic feeling carrying with it a perception of the beautiful and an impulse toward its attainment This malady of sensitiveness—to speak by the book—had carried Stephen beyond the bounds of moral principle. It prevailed at times over Canon Chisely’s natural austerity and hardness. If in the one case it had been a curse, in the other it was a blessing.
In politics a Tory, in social attitude proud of caste, in creed a rigid Anglican, in morals conventional, in affairs a man of cold, crystalline judgment, he had few of the undegenerate qualities that make for lovableness of character. The aesthetic sense, deeply spreading, was the redeeming vice of a sternly virtuous man. It was his social salvation, his vehicle of happiness, his bond of sympathy with his fellow-creatures.
The beauty of Yvonne’s voice had attracted him toward her, years before—afterwards, the beauty of her face. But it was not until the conception of her nature’s beauty, idealised by he knew not what artistry within him from voice and face and simple thoughts and acts, arose within his mind, that he became conscious of deeper feelings. At first it seemed as if he had disintegrated the soul of his favourite Greuze—fathomed the unplumbed innocence of its eyes as its hand closes over the apple—and was regarding it with a poet’s wonder. But then his sterner nature asserted itself, restoring mental equilibrium. He realised that his feelings for her were what men call love, and soberly he thought of marriage.
He had often, previously, considered the advantages of matrimony. It was an honourable estate, becoming to his position, involving parental responsibilities which, for God’s greater glory, it behoved a man of his calibre to seek. The wife he had contemplated was to be a woman of culture, reserve, high principle, who could grace his table, aid him in spiritual affairs, and bear him worthy offspring. He was called upon now to reorganise his conceptions. It is true that his idea of the advantages of the married state was unaffected, save by the addition of one undreamed of—the sunshine of a sweet woman’s face in his cold home. But the disparity between the ideal woman and the real one was alarming. Socially, parentally, spiritually, was Yvonne the woman to hold the high office of his wife? He gave the matter months of anxious reflection. He was marrying at leisure, certainly, he thought grimly; would he repent in haste? At length his love for Yvonne wove itself into his schemes for the Festival. Yvonne should come to Fulminster, take her place at once in society under Mrs. Winstanley’s chaperonage and win her welcome with her voice. Thus he would have an opportunity of judging her within his own environment. A complex mingling of passion and calculation.
And Yvonne, demurely innocent, had passed through the ordeal. As the Canon drove away from the “Elijah,” he doubted no longer. Before she left Fulminster he would ask her to be his wife. It is characteristic of the man that he had no serious fears of her refusal.