Chapter X

" I tell you I shall do exactly what I please with my own work/' hissed Mrs. Main, as white as paper. " You're only a curate; you'll never be anything else: and... and it's not fit that I should live as I do. At any rate, I don't choose to."

He shook his head. His face was pinched and miserable, and yet resolute.

" It's impossible/' he said again.

" You can't stop me," she cried.

The two were in the b'ttle dining-room of their lodgings at tea. Between them, on the round table, stood the black japanned tray with imitation Derby tea-things. About them were the mean, low walls, papered in green with a stamped dado; and upon these were the large photogravures with which Mrs. Main had covered their nakedness. There was a veneered side-board, with an electro-plated biscuit-tin — (a wedding-present ten years ago) — reflected in the small bevelled mirror: blue plushlike curtains stamped with tighter blue flowers hung over the windows: a hanging gas chandelier, not yet lighted, hung from the ceiling. Upon the mantelpiece of black imitation marble was a bronze-imitation clock: two Japanese fans flanked this on either side, and two photograph frames, in silver as thin as paper, held these in position: an imitation Turkey carpet covered the floor, and imitation-mahogany chairs, with imitation-leather seats and backs, supported the bodies of the husband and wife. A

Digitized by Google gas-fire, with imitation logs, burned blue and yellow on the hearth. It was an imitation-room altogether, rather like a rather nice room, and yet not really like it at all. It had been furnished by their landlady, under stress of Mrs. Main.

Mr. Main was aware that another crisis was come on him; but it had come with such suddenness that he was dazed by its virulence. For the last six months he had enjoyed comparative peace. His wife had been engaged in her room, during this time, for most of her leisure, with what she called her " writing "; and the clergyman had been so relieved by the absence of the unpleasantness with which he had to deal when his wife had been less occupied — the eternal malicious gossip that he had to assimilate in spite of himself, the lacerated feelings he had had to soothe, and even the apologies he had had to make once or twice — that he had even encouraged his wife to " write," saying nothing of the occasional discomfort of his meals or the spasmodic attacks of nerves that she experienced, rising, apparently, from the intentness of her occupation. She had told him nothing of her subject: he had had not the faintest idea of what she was engaged upon; even — poor man — he had laboriously played up to her mysteriousness and joked feebly and domestically upon her Secret, when she was in a good temper.

And now the secret was out.

She had come late to tea that afternoon, and had burst into the room in a state of extraordinary and infectious excitement, bearing with her a large brown-paper parcel. For the time she looked almost like the girl he had married ten years ago; her pale cheeks were flushed, her eyes shone: she had seized her husband round the neck and kissed him twice.

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" Guess! " she had cried. " No, promise first you'll tell nobody till I give you leave."

Mr. Main had endeavoured to play up: he had hastily wiped his chin on which a crumb had lodged itself, and been astonished and delighted. Of course, too, he had given the promise.

Then she had told him; and his delight had merged itself in his astonishment. For he was informed that she had been to see the publisher with whom she had left her mysterious manuscript a week ago; and that great man had actually told her that his reader had advised him to accept it. He could not give her very high terms; but he was willing to advance her twenty-five pounds as an instalment of the smallish royalties he proposed. He had promised to have the agreement drawn up and sent to her immediately; and, meantime, Mrs. Main might take away her manuscript for the two or three small alterations she wished to make before it was sent to the printers. He must have it back in a week at latest.

To say that Mr. Main was astonished is a very poor description of his state. He had regarded the publication of printed books — other than parish magazines — with the same kind of feelings as he regarded the performance of an opera or the erection of a church. Persons of distinction and genius did do these things no doubt: for here in the world were operas and churches and books. But that it should be his wife — that it should be the fiery, moody creature who sat over her desk all the morning, and fractiously locked up her manuscript at dinner-time — that it should be Marion Main who was about to publish a real book, appeared to him incredible.

For a few minutes, of course, he asked questions about irrelevant details — the name of the publisher, the proposed binding of the book, and its name. She had answered

Digitized by Google tempestuously, meanwhile cutting the string of her parcel with a butter-knife, and tearing it from its bandages.

" It's to be called ' A New Arcadia/ " she said. " Here it is... /'

He had turned the written pages feebly and irresolutely, smiling as he did so. Of course he was delighted — as an old man is delighted by a dream that he is a child again.... Twenty-five pounds in advance too!...

"What's it all about?" he said. "My dear! 99

She had kissed him again, and torn the parcel away.

" Now I'll give you bits to read," she said.

He sat there obediently, reading, while she poured out tea and drank it, explaining between her gulps. Her high spirits filled the room like electricity. She nibbled a fragment of dry cake, and left the rest.

... Then, little by little, point by point, the facts began to dawn on his mind; and he understood what his wife had done. She had taken Hanstead as her scene; and she had drawn in, ruthlessly and unmistakably and — (the worst of all was) — with a real skill, the principal people of the place. The Vicar was there; his wife was there; the Mayor, the undertaker, the rival butchers, the station-master; and every soul of them was grotesque and absurd: they were elongated shadows of themselves; their virtues were like noses distorted hugely; their little faults were as monstrous humps. But even this was not all; for the woman had spared no one and nothing; she had taken the very kindnesses shown to her, and caricatured them; she had presented the Vicar's wife, for example, in tears of mortification and wounded pride, drawing, out of drawing, a scene at which Mr. Main himself had been present, out of which his own wife had not come very well, and in which

Digitized by Google the Vicar's wife had behaved with a pathetic and emotional kindness; she had described with horrible minuteness the furniture of the houses to which she had. been admitted as an intimate; and a slightly ridiculous photograph or two that hung in the Mayor's parlour. She had, in a word, as it seemed to Mr. Main, betrayed every confidence shown to her, and returned evil for good. She had described the Vicar's Oxford intonation... she had sketched, quite admirably, the suffragan bishop in the bowery pulpit. (This was an addition recently made.)

At first he had hesitated to allow even to himself that he was right. He had ventured on a question or two.

" My dear, is not this a little like the Vicar's house? " he had said at one point: and she had nodded back at him with tight lips and dancing eyes.

" But this is exactly what Mrs. Barr said to you at her Christmas party!" he said later. '

Again she had nodded, apparently in the highest spirits.

Presently he had laid the papers down; and his face was full of perplexity and pain.

" They'll all recognize it," he had said.

" That's exactly what I hope! " she had cried; and he had seen the cruel glee in her face.

" It's impossible, my dear, simply impossible. You can never publish this. It would be intolerable."

And then the horrible crisis had precipitated itself. She had snapped back; he had repeated his views; she had gone white and red: she had snatched the papers from him; and stood up. Then she had sat down again, glaring at him and away again.

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" Yon can't stop me," she cried again. " Its settled."

He too was pale now; his lips trembled; his patient eyes were scared and determined.

" My dear, as a clergyman's wife "

She uttered an indescribable sound of disgust. Her temper dominated her like a storm. The whole of her bitterness, growing now for years and years, during which she had seen the social ignominy of her husband even increasing with his age, during which she had seen younger men preferred before him, during which she had quarrelled first with one and then with another of those who pitied her yet could not conceal it — this bitterness seemed to culminate now in one white-hot blast.

She leaned forward, clasping her bundle tight. Her hat was pushed back, and her face looked white and venomous in the dying light that fell on it from the window.

"A clergyman's wife!" she said, seeming to spit it at him — " Yes, that's what you're always telling me; and that's what I'm always trying to forget. Do you think if I'd known what it was, I'd ever have married you?... Do you think I've got no soul of my own?. •. that I haven't got a life to live as well as you?"

"My dear "

But her energy swept him silent.

" You've got yours — such as it is — and I suppose you like it, or you wouldn't live it — with your confirmation-classes and your visiting and the rest of the... the bloodless nonsense. And I'm going to have mine! You're... you're just as much a woman's husband as I'm your wife.... I tell you I'm going to live... and I've found my life. My first book accepted.... I

Digitized by Google knew it would be: I knew I had it in me. And if you think I'm going to suppress this just because a few old cats and suburban bounders won't like to see themselves as they are — why you're mistaken. What else is all novel-writing but a picture of life "

So she swept on, justifying, denouncing, defying: her energy was tremendous. And he sat miserably beneath it, holding on with a terrible kind of patience, his poor face contracted, his eyes winking rapidly and continuously, his lips shaping little sentences, in rehearsal for when he should be allowed to speak.

" That's my last word," she cried at last. " Now what have you got to say? 99

She threw herself back in her chair, silent, fierce and resolute.

He lifted his eyes.

" I must ask you to listen to me," he said. " I have listened to all you have said.... You do not understand what you are doing. No novelist that I have ever heard of — no writer of any repute at all — would dare even to do as you have done. I know they take characters from life, sometimes; but they disguise them; they take them out of their surroundings. You have not done so. I tell you 99

Her lips opened sharply as if to speak. He glanced up; but she said nothing.

"Well; that is the first thing. It is not honourable nor... nor Christian. You may not like these people here: about that I say nothing. But at least they have tried to be kind and pleasant to us both. And you have drawn them unmistakably — their little ways, their homes.... It is unmistakable. Why that scene in the Vicarage "

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He looked up again, hoping from her silence that he had touched her. But she nodded sharply as if in recognition and glee.

"And I say it is unchristian; because you have drawn them unkindly: you have made them ridiculous.... Oh! I know it is very clever: I know you are very clever, Marion, my dear." (His voice shook a little in his desperate attempt to conciliate.) " But that is not the way to use the gifts which God "

She jerked her head; and again made a Utile sound of contempt.

" And have you considered me... ourselves? " he said. " You would make my position impossible here. I should have to resign. I tell you that if that book goes back to the publisher, I shall be obliged to go straight to the Vicar and tell him "

"You promised you wouldn't," she snapped suddenly.

" I didn't know then " began Mr. Main helplessly.

" But you promised: you promised," she cried, leaning forward again. " That was exactly why I made you."

"Ah! you thought then that I should object?"

" I thought perhaps you might," she said coolly.

" Then I shall consider it my duty "

She was on her feet in an instant; and her eyes blazed.

"What! You'd tell him! And you know perfectly well that I could have done the whole thing without telling you at all! You know that! Well; do it, and break your promise. I shall know better next time; and — and it won't stop me, and'll only make it worse. Why "

Neither of them had noticed a ring at the door-bell, and voices talking; and the tap on the door came unexpectedly. They were silent.

" Come in," said Mr. Main in something of a quaver.

The door opened a crack.

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" Young Mr. Smith's in the other room, sir. He wants to see you."

Mrs. Main gathered up her papers in silence. The door was still open.

" Marion," said the clergyman in a very low voice, " we must have another talk. Shall we have time "

Her face silenced him as she went to the door. At the door she turned.

" You had better see young Mr. Smith here," she said in a voice of ice. " I shall want the drawing-room."

Ill

Mr. Main was still shaking interiorly as he brought Percy in and directed him to a chair. The scene he had just passed through, with the thoughts of its possible consequences, still obsessed and dominated him. He asked the young man whether he had had tea, whether he would smoke, by sheer effort of will, and he knew neither then nor afterwards what Percy answered. He made a little vague talk too about the evenings drawing in, and even regained self-control enough to go across and draw the imitation brocade curtains over the darkening windows nearest the fire and light the gas. But his mind still whirled with Marion, with her white eager face, her bitter sentences, her mischievous intentions: half a dozen sentences and arguments sprang to his mind, which he remembered he ought to have used: he was tormented by the doubt as to whether or no he ought to break his promise and tell the Vicar of what impended. Perhaps it would only make it worse — as she had said.

Once more, too, a certain other doubt occurred to his mind which, six months ago, had been the torment of his life....

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It seemed to him, then, struggling with these violent distractions, that the interview halted strangely; and he put it down to himself. Percy sat, obviously ill-at-ease, on the edge of his chair, twirling his cap; he held a cigarette, but it was already gone out. He had said " Yes " and " No " and " Just so "; and had added that he wished to come and ask some advice. And Mr. Main had said " Yes " and " Just so," pumping up his assent through a storm of wholly alien thoughts. Then there fell a silence; and then Percy approached a little nearer to his object.

" I'm troubled about religion," he said. " Perhaps you heard "

The curate jerked himself a little more upright and ordered his thoughts to heel.

"Any service that I can be " he said. (He told himself it was disgraceful that he could not put his own affairs out of his mind.)

" It's... it's a very serious matter," said Percy.

" Mr. — er — Smith, you must forgive my apparent inattention. I've just had some bad news, and "

" Shall I come another time? I'm so very sorry to hear "

" No, no, I... I assure you there's no need. It was only for a moment or two. Please go on, Mr. Smith."

Mr. Main felt his own man again now that he had made that little admission. Percy sat back in his chair.

Percy didn't quite know why he had come to the curate first. The Vicar was obviously the right person to consult, and certainly would have to be consulted sooner or later. Yet, on his way home this evening the boy had suddenly determined to break the ice in this way. He had always had a kind of compassion for the curate: he was perfectly aware of Mr. Main's position in the place — a

Digitized by Google position of vague but quite real indignity as an oldish man, still under authority, without any social prestige whatever. He had had, even, certain qualms of pathos with regard to Mr. Main; he had wondered whether he himself had not been off-hand with him once or twice.... So it had appeared to him suddenly this afternoon that he would pay him the compliment of a spiritual consultation; it had even occurred to him as quite conceivable that the suppressed and rather furtive-looking curate, who wore short trousers and swung his umbrella to show that he was at ease, might understand the situation better than his prosperous superior who was always so certain and so effective in all that he undertook. Percy was in a very tender mood himself: he felt he would prefer vague sympathy to bright and well-cut advice. (Besides, he knew precisely what the Vicar would say, beforehand.)

" Well," he said at last. " It's... it's about the Roman Catholic Church."

He had no sooner said these words than he perceived that something had happened to Mr. Main. A moment before the clergyman had been leaning a little forward with his long knuckly fingers together in a pathetically professional attitude, his long melancholy face twitching a little, and his feet twisted together beneath his chair; but at the utterance of this sentence he appeared first to jerk to a new attitude, and then to freeze.

" You. •. you mean," he began. u I didn't know it was that — I had thought "

"I... I mean," said Percy, "that I think I shall have to become a Roman Catholic. I've... I've been to see a priest; I've read a book or two he gave me.... I don't see any answer to it. I want to know what it is."

Mr. Main rested as if petrified.

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"I can't help it," went on poor Percy; "my father knows all about it. He doesn't like it, of course; but he's been awfully nice about it. Of course I shall have to go and see the Vicar. But... but I thought I'd like to come to you first, Mr. Main. I hope you aren't awfully shocked."

" No; no. Go on. From what the Vicar said, I gathered Go on, please."

Then Percy poured it out.

He was a little astonished at the extraordinary iciness of the other; he had expected an anxious kind of flustering at the worst: but his own warmth carried him along. He told him all about the sermon, all about his visit to the friar, and as much as he could remember of the books. He said he wanted to know what the Protestant answer was to this or that argument. Once or twice he hesitated, as if to receive the answer: but the curate nodded and murmured to him to go on.

And, at last, he got out his deepest secret of all — his conviction that he too must be a friar; that it was the most perfect life on earth, that there was no other life conceivable for himself.

"Of course I know," he said, with solemn prudence, "that I'm quite young yet and so on. And I shan't tell my people that, yet. But I thought I'd better be quite open and straightforward."

He was flushed with his own enthusiasm, and looked across, waiting for an answer.

Then it came.

Mr. Main stood up abruptly, went across to the hearth and leaned his head on his hands, with his face away from the boy. Percy observed his shapeless-looking trousers, the polished gleam on his shoulders... • He contrasted the figure with that of Father Hilary. Then

Digitized by Google he wondered why the other did not speak; and as he wondered the curate turned round.

His face no longer twitched, but there was a curious strained look in it.

" My boy," he said, with wonderful tenderness, " you must go to someone else. You must go to the Vicar. I... I could not advise you rightly."

"But "

Then Mr. Main did an astonishing thing. It was what the Vicar would have done in the first five minutes; but from this man it was as uncharacteristic as eloquence. He came a step nearer and put his long hand on the boy's shoulder.

" No," he said; and his voice was strangely decided, yet perfectly kindly. " Please do as I say. I could not advise you well. I Please go to the Vicar."

When Percy had gone the clergyman went back to the dining-room and stood a long time on the hearthrug, fingering a little china mandarin on the mantelpiece, making the head nod and then checking it again. Then he sat down, in his armchair, and remained motionless, staring into the gas-fire.

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