The Country House
PART III
CHAPTER VI
GREGORY LOOKS AT THE SKY
Gregory Vigil called Mr. Paramor a pessimist it was because, like other
people, he did not know the meaning of, the term; for with a confusion
common to the minds of many persons who have been conceived in misty
moments, he thought that, to see things as they were, meant, to try and
make them worse. Gregory had his own way of seeing things that was very
dear to him—so dear that he would shut his eyes sooner than see them
any other way. And since things to him were not the same as things to Mr.
Paramor, it cannot, after all, be said that he did not see things as they
were. But dirt upon a face that he wished to be clean he could not see—a
fluid in his blue eyes dissolved that dirt while the image of the face was
passing on to their retinae. The process was unconscious, and has been
called idealism. This was why the longer he reflected the more agonisedly
certain he became that his ward was right to be faithful to the man she
loved, right to join her life to his. And he went about pressing the blade
of this thought into his soul.
About four o'clock on the day of Mrs. Pendyce's visit to the
studio a letter was brought him by a page-boy.
“GREEN'S HOTEL,
“Thursday.
“DEAR GRIG,
“I have seen Helen Bellew, and have just come from George. We have
all been living in a bad dream. She does not love him—perhaps has
never loved him. I do not know; I do not wish to judge. She has given him
up. I will not trust myself to say anything about that. From beginning to
end it all seems so unnecessary, such a needless, cross-grained muddle. I
write this line to tell you how things really are, and to beg you, if you
have a moment to spare, to look in at George's club this evening and
let me know if he is there and how he seems. There is no one else that I
could possibly ask to do this for me. Forgive me if this letter pains you.
“Your affectionate cousin,
“MARGERY PENDYCE.”
To those with the single eye, the narrow personal view of all things
human, by whom the irony underlying the affairs of men is unseen and
unenjoyed, whose simple hearts afford that irony its most precious smiles,
who; vanquished by that irony, remain invincible—to these no blow of
Fate, no reversal of their ideas, can long retain importance. The darts
stick, quaver, and fall off, like arrows from chain-armour, and the last
dart, slipping upwards under the harness, quivers into the heart to the
cry of “What—you! No, no; I don't believe you're
here!”
Such as these have done much of what has had to be done in this old world,
and perhaps still more of what has had to be undone.
When Gregory received this letter he was working on the case of a woman
with the morphia habit. He put it into his pocket and went on working. It
was all he was capable of doing.
“Here is the memorandum, Mrs. Shortman. Let them take her for six
weeks. She will come out a different woman.”
Mrs. Shortman, supporting her thin face in her thin hand, rested her
glowing eyes on Gregory.
“I'm afraid she has lost all moral sense,” she said.
“Do you know, Mr. Vigil, I'm almost afraid she never had any!”
“What do you mean?”
Mrs. Shortman turned her eyes away.
“I'm sometimes tempted to think,” she said, “that
there are such people. I wonder whether we allow enough for that. When I
was a girl in the country I remember the daughter of our vicar, a very
pretty creature. There were dreadful stories about her, even before she
was married, and then we heard she was divorced. She came up to London and
earned her own living by playing the piano until she married again. I won't
tell you her name, but she is very well known, and nobody has ever seen
her show the slightest signs of being ashamed. If there is one woman like
that there may be dozens, and I sometimes think we waste——”
Gregory said dryly:
“I have heard you say that before.”
Mrs. Shortman bit her lips.
“I don't think,” she said, “that I grudge my
efforts or my time.”
Gregory went quickly up, and took her hand.
“I know that—oh, I know that,” he said with feeling.
The sound of Miss Mallow furiously typing rose suddenly from the corner.
Gregory removed his hat from the peg on which it hung.
“I must go now,” he said. “Good-night.”
Without warning, as is the way with hearts, his heart had begun to bleed,
and he felt that he must be in the open air. He took no omnibus or cab,
but strode along with all his might, trying to think, trying to
understand. But he could only feel-confused and battered feelings, with
now and then odd throbs of pleasure of which he was ashamed. Whether he
knew it or not, he was making his way to Chelsea, for though a man's
eyes may be fixed on the stars, his feet cannot take him there, and
Chelsea seemed to them the best alternative. He was not alone upon this
journey, for many another man was going there, and many a man had been and
was coming now away, and the streets were the one long streaming crowd of
the summer afternoon. And the men he met looked at Gregory, and Gregory
looked at them, and neither saw the other, for so it is written of men,
lest they pay attention to cares that are not their own. The sun that
scorched his face fell on their backs, the breeze that cooled his back
blew on their cheeks. For the careless world, too, was on its way, along
the pavement of the universe, one of millions going to Chelsea, meeting
millions coming away....
“Mrs. Bellew at home?”
He went into a room fifteen feet square and perhaps ten high, with a sulky
canary in a small gilt cage, an upright piano with an open operatic score,
a sofa with piled-up cushions, and on it a woman with a flushed and sullen
face, whose elbows were resting on her knees, whose chin was resting on
her hand, whose gaze was fixed on nothing. It was a room of that size,
with all these things, but Gregory took into it with him some thing that
made it all seem different to Gregory. He sat down by the window with his
eyes carefully averted, and spoke in soft tones broken by something that
sounded like emotion. He began by telling her of his woman with the
morphia habit, and then he told her that he knew everything. When he had
said this he looked out of the window, where builders had left by
inadvertence a narrow strip of sky. And thus he avoided seeing the look on
her face, contemptuous, impatient, as though she were thinking: 'You
are a good fellow, Gregory, but for Heaven's sake do see things for
once as they are! I have had enough of it.' And he avoided seeing
her stretch her arms out and spread the fingers, as an angry cat will
stretch and spread its toes. He told her that he did not want to worry
her, but that when she wanted him for anything she must send for him—he
was always there; and he looked at her feet, so that he did not see her
lip curl. He told her that she would always be the same to him, and he
asked her to believe that. He did not see the smile which never left her
lips again while he was there—the smile he could not read, because
it was the smile of life, and of a woman that he did not understand. But
he did see on that sofa a beautiful creature for whom he had longed for
years, and so he went away, and left her standing at the door with her
teeth fastened on her lip: And since with him Gregory took his eyes, he
did not see her reseated on the sofa, just as she had been before he came
in, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hand, her moody eyes like
those of a gambler staring into the distance....
In the streets of tall houses leading away from Chelsea were many men,
some, like Gregory, hungry for love, and some hungry for bread—men
in twos and threes, in crowds, or by themselves, some with their eyes on
the ground, some with their eyes level, some with their eyes on the sky,
but all with courage and loyalty of one poor kind or another in their
hearts. For by courage and loyalty alone it is written that man shall
live, whether he goes to Chelsea or whether he comes away. Of all these
men, not one but would have smiled to hear Gregory saying to himself:
“She will always be the same to me! She will always be the same to
me!” And not one that would have grinned....
It was getting on for the Stoics' dinner hour when Gregory found
himself in Piccadilly, and, Stoic after Stoic, they were getting out of
cabs and passing the club doors. The poor fellows had been working hard
all day on the racecourse, the cricket-ground, at Hurlingham, or in the
Park; some had been to the Royal Academy, and on their faces was a
pleasant look: “Ah, God is good—we can rest at last!”
And many of them had had no lunch, hoping to keep their weights down, and
many who had lunched had not done themselves as well as might be hoped,
and some had done themselves too well; but in all their hearts the trust
burned bright that they might do themselves better at dinner, for their
God was good, and dwelt between the kitchen and the cellar of the Stoics'
Club. And all—for all had poetry in their souls—looked forward
to those hours in paradise when, with cigars between their lips, good wine
below, they might dream the daily dream that comes to all true Stoics for
about fifteen shillings or even less, all told.
From a little back slum, within two stones' throw of the god of the
Stoics' Club, there had come out two seamstresses to take the air;
one was in consumption, having neglected to earn enough to feed herself
properly for some years past, and the other looked as if she would be in
consumption shortly, for the same reason. They stood on the pavement,
watching the cabs drive up. Some of the Stoics saw them and thought:
'Poor girls! they look awfully bad.' Three or four said to
themselves: “It oughtn't to be allowed. I mean, it's so
painful to see; and it's not as if one could do anything. They're
not beggars, don't you know, and so what can one do?”
But most of the Stoics did not look at them at all, feeling that their
soft hearts could not stand these painful sights, and anxious not to spoil
their dinners. Gregory did not see them either, for it so happened that he
was looking at the sky, and just then the two girls crossed the road and
were lost among the passers-by, for they were not dogs, who could smell
out the kind of man he was.
“Mr. Pendyce is in the club; I will send your name up, sir.”
And rolling a little, as though Gregory's name were heavy, the
porter gave it to the boy, who went away with it.
Gregory stood by the empty hearth and waited, and while he waited, nothing
struck him at all, for the Stoics seemed very natural, just mere men like
himself, except that their clothes were better, which made him think:
'I shouldn't care to belong here and have to dress for dinner
every night.'
“Mr. Pendyce is very sorry, sir, but he's engaged.”
Gregory bit his lip, said “Thank you,” and went away.
'That's all Margery wants,' he thought; 'the rest
is nothing to me,' and, getting on a bus, he fixed his eyes once
more on the sky.
But George was not engaged. Like a wounded animal taking its hurt for
refuge to its lair, he sat in his favourite window overlooking Piccadilly.
He sat there as though youth had left him, unmoving, never lifting his
eyes. In his stubborn mind a wheel seemed turning, grinding out his
memories to the last grain. And Stoics, who could not bear to see a man
sit thus throughout that sacred hour, came up from time to time.
“Aren't you going to dine, Pendyce?”
Dumb brutes tell no one of their pains; the law is silence. So with
George. And as each Stoic came up, he only set his teeth and said:
“Presently, old chap.”