Sanctuary: Chapter 4

Chapter 4

She had promised to see him again; but the promise did not imply that she
had rejected his offer of freedom. In the first rush of misery she had not
fully repossessed herself, had felt herself entangled in his fate by a
hundred meshes of association and habit; but after a sleepless night spent
with the thought of him--that dreadful bridal of their souls--she woke to a
morrow in which he had no part. She had not sought her freedom, nor had he
given it; but a chasm had opened at their feet, and they found themselves
on different sides.

Now she was able to scan the disaster from the melancholy vantage of her
independence. She could even draw a solace from the fact that she had
ceased to love Denis. It was inconceivable that an emotion so interwoven
with every fibre of consciousness should cease as suddenly as the flow of
sap in an uprooted plant; but she had never allowed herself to be tricked
by the current phraseology of sentiment, and there were no stock axioms to
protect her from the truth.

It was probably because she had ceased to love him that she could look
forward with a kind of ghastly composure to seeing him again. She had
stipulated, of course, that the wedding should be put off, but she had
named no other condition beyond asking for two days to herself--two days
during which he was not even to write. She wished to shut herself in with
her misery, to accustom herself to it as she had accustomed herself to
happiness. But actual seclusion was impossible: the subtle reactions of
life almost at once began to break down her defences. She could no more
have her wretchedness to herself than any other emotion: all the lives
about her were so many unconscious factors in her sensations. She tried
to concentrate herself on the thought as to how she could best help poor
Denis; for love, in ebbing, had laid bare an unsuspected depth of pity.
But she found it more and more difficult to consider his situation in the
abstract light of right and wrong. Open expiation still seemed to her the
only possible way of healing; but she tried vainly to think of Mrs. Peyton
as taking such a view. Yet Mrs. Peyton ought at least to know what had
happened: was it not, in the last resort, she who should pronounce on
her son's course? For a moment Kate was fascinated by this evasion of
responsibility; she had nearly decided to tell Denis that he must begin by
confessing everything to his mother. But almost at once she began to shrink
from the consequences. There was nothing she so dreaded for him as that any
one should take a light view of his act: should turn its irremediableness
into an excuse. And this, she foresaw, was what Mrs. Peyton would do. The
first burst of misery over, she would envelop the whole situation in a mist
of expediency. Brought to the bar of Kate's judgment, she at once revealed
herself incapable of higher action.

Kate's conception of her was still under arraignment when the actual Mrs.
Peyton fluttered in. It was the afternoon of the second day, as the girl
phrased it in the dismal re-creation of her universe. She had been thinking
so hard of Mrs. Peyton that the lady's silvery insubstantial presence
seemed hardly more than a projection of the thought; but as Kate collected
herself, and regained contact with the outer world, her preoccupation
yielded to surprise. It was unusual for Mrs. Peyton to pay visits. For
years she had remained enthroned in a semi-invalidism which prohibited
effort while it did not preclude diversion; and the girl at once divined a
special purpose in her coming.

Mrs. Peyton's traditions would not have permitted any direct method of
attack; and Kate had to sit through the usual prelude of ejaculation and
anecdote. Presently, however, the elder lady's voice gathered significance,
and laying her hand on Kate's she murmured: "I have come to talk to you of
this sad affair."

Kate began to tremble. Was it possible that Denis had after all spoken? A
rising hope checked her utterance, and she saw in a flash that it still lay
with him to regain his hold on her. But Mrs. Peyton went on delicately:
"It has been a great shock to my poor boy. To be brought in contact with
Arthur's past was in itself inexpressibly painful; but this last dreadful
business--that woman's wicked act--"

"Wicked?" Kate exclaimed.

Mrs. Peyton's gentle stare reproved her. "Surely religion teaches us that
suicide is a sin? And to murder her child! I ought not to speak to you of
such things, my dear. No one has ever mentioned anything so dreadful in my
presence: my dear husband used to screen me so carefully from the painful
side of life. Where there is so much that is beautiful to dwell upon, we
should try to ignore the existence of such horrors. But nowadays everything
is in the papers; and Denis told me he thought it better that you should
hear the news first from him."

Kate nodded without speaking.

"He felt how _dreadful_ it was to have to tell you. But I tell him he
takes a morbid view of the case. Of course one is shocked at the woman's
crime--but, if one looks a little deeper, how can one help seeing that it
may have been designed as the means of rescuing that poor child from a life
of vice and misery? That is the view I want Denis to take: I want him to
see how all the difficulties of life disappear when one has learned to look
for a divine purpose in human sufferings."

Mrs. Peyton rested a moment on this period, as an experienced climber
pauses to be overtaken by a less agile companion; but presently she became
aware that Kate was still far below her, and perhaps needed a stronger
incentive to the ascent.

"My dear child," she said adroitly, "I said just now that I was sorry you
had been obliged to hear of this sad affair; but after all it is only you
who can avert its consequences."

Kate drew an eager breath. "Its consequences?" she faltered.

Mrs. Peyton's voice dropped solemnly. "Denis has told me everything," she
said.

"Everything?"

"That you insist on putting off the marriage. Oh, my dear, I do implore you
to reconsider that!"

Kate sank back with the sense of having passed again into a region of
leaden shadow. "Is that all he told you?"

Mrs. Peyton gazed at her with arch raillery. "All? Isn't it everything--to
him?"

"Did he give you my reason, I mean?"

"He said you felt that, after this shocking tragedy, there ought, in
decency, to be a delay; and I quite understand the feeling. It does seem
too unfortunate that the woman should have chosen this particular time! But
you will find as you grow older that life is full of such sad contrasts."

Kate felt herself slowly petrifying under the warm drip of Mrs. Peyton's
platitudes.

"It seems to me," the elder lady continued, "that there is only one point
from which we ought to consider the question--and that is, its effect on
Denis. But for that we ought to refuse to know anything about it. But it
has made my boy so unhappy. The law-suit was a cruel ordeal to him--the
dreadful notoriety, the revelation of poor Arthur's infirmities. Denis is
as sensitive as a woman; it is his unusual refinement of feeling that makes
him so worthy of being loved by you. But such sensitiveness may be carried
to excess. He ought not to let this unhappy incident prey on him: it shows
a lack of trust in the divine ordering of things. That is what troubles
me: his faith in life has been shaken. And--you must forgive me, dear
child--you _will_ forgive me, I know--but I can't help blaming you a
little--"

Mrs. Peyton's accent converted the accusation into a caress, which
prolonged itself in a tremulous pressure of Kate's hand.

The girl gazed at her blankly. "You blame _me_--?"

"Don't be offended, my child. I only fear that your excessive sympathy with
Denis, your own delicacy of feeling, may have led you to encourage his
morbid ideas. He tells me you were very much shocked--as you naturally
would be--as any girl must be--I would not have you otherwise, dear Kate!
It is _beautiful_ that you should both feel so; most beautiful; but
you know religion teaches us not to yield too much to our grief. Let the
dead bury their dead; the living owe themselves to each other. And what had
this wretched woman to do with either of you? It is a misfortune for Denis
to have been connected in any way with a man of Arthur Peyton's character;
but after all, poor Arthur did all he could to atone for the disgrace he
brought on us, by making Denis his heir--and I am sure I have no wish to
question the decrees of Providence." Mrs. Peyton paused again, and then
softly absorbed both of Kate's hands. "For my part," she continued, "I see
in it another instance of the beautiful ordering of events. Just after dear
Denis's inheritance has removed the last obstacle to your marriage, this
sad incident comes to show how desperately he needs you, how cruel it would
be to ask him to defer his happiness."

She broke off, shaken out of her habitual placidity by the abrupt
withdrawal of the girl's hands. Kate sat inertly staring, but no answer
rose to her lips.

At length Mrs. Peyton resumed, gathering her draperies about her with a
tentative hint of leave-taking: "I may go home and tell him that you will
not put off the wedding?"

Kate was still silent, and her visitor looked at her with the mild surprise
of an advocate unaccustomed to plead in vain.

"If your silence means refusal, my dear, I think you ought to realize the
responsibility you assume." Mrs. Peyton's voice had acquired an edge of
righteous asperity. "If Denis has a fault it is that he is too gentle, too
yielding, too readily influenced by those he cares for. Your influence is
paramount with him now--but if you turn from him just when he needs your
help, who can say what the result will be?"

The argument, though impressively delivered, was hardly of a nature to
carry conviction to its hearer; but it was perhaps for that very reason
that she suddenly and unexpectedly replied to it by sinking back into her
seat with a burst of tears. To Mrs. Peyton, however, tears were the signal
of surrender, and, at Kate's side in an instant she hastened to temper her
triumph with magnanimity.

"Don't think I don't feel with you; but we must both forget ourselves for
our boy's sake. I told him I should come back with your promise."

The arm she had slipped about Kate's shoulder fell back with the girl's
start. Kate had seen in a flash what capital would be made of her emotion.

"No, no, you misunderstand me. I can make no promise," she declared.

The older lady sat a moment irresolute; then she restored her arm to the
shoulder from which it had been so abruptly displaced.

"My dear child," she said, in a tone of tender confidence, "if I have
misunderstood you, ought you not to enlighten me? You asked me just now
if Denis had given me your reason for this strange postponement. He gave
me one reason, but it seems hardly sufficient to explain your conduct.
If there is any other,--and I know you well enough to feel sure there
is,--will you not trust me with it? If my boy has been unhappy enough to
displease you, will you not give his mother the chance to plead his cause?
Remember, no one should be condemned unheard. As Denis's mother, I have the
right to ask for your reason."

"My reason? My reason?" Kate stammered, panting with the exhaustion of the
struggle. Oh, if only Mrs. Peyton would release her! "If you have the right
to know it, why doesn't he tell you?" she cried.

Mrs. Peyton stood up, quivering. "I will go home and ask him," she said. "I
will tell him he had your permission to speak."

She moved toward the door, with the nervous haste of a person unaccustomed
to decisive action. But Kate sprang before her.

"No, no; don't ask him! I implore you not to ask him," she cried.

Mrs. Peyton turned on her with sudden authority of voice and gesture. "Do
I understand you?" she said. "You admit that you have a reason for putting
off your marriage, and yet you forbid me--me, Denis's mother--to ask him
what it is? My poor child, I needn't ask, for I know already. If he has
offended you, and you refuse him the chance to defend himself, I needn't
look farther for your reason: it is simply that you have ceased to love
him."

Kate fell back from the door which she had instinctively barricaded.

"Perhaps that is it," she murmured, letting Mrs. Peyton pass.

* * * * *

Mr. Orme's returning carriage-wheels crossed Mrs. Peyton's indignant
flight; and an hour later Kate, in the bland candle-light of the
dinner-hour, sat listening with practised fortitude to her father's
comments on the venison.

She had wondered, as she awaited him in the drawing-room, if he would
notice any change in her appearance. It seemed to her that the flagellation
of her thoughts must have left visible traces. But Mr. Orme was not a man
of subtle perceptions, save where his personal comfort was affected: though
his egoism was clothed in the finest feelers, he did not suspect a similar
surface in others. His daughter, as part of himself, came within the normal
range of his solicitude; but she was an outlying region, a subject
province; and Mr. Orme's was a highly centralized polity.

News of the painful incident--he often used Mrs. Peyton's vocabulary--had
reached him at his club, and to some extent disturbed the assimilation of a
carefully ordered breakfast; but since then two days had passed, and it did
not take Mr. Orme forty-eight hours to resign himself to the misfortunes of
others. It was all very nasty, of course, and he wished to heaven it hadn't
happened to any one about to be connected with him; but he viewed it with
the transient annoyance of a gentleman who has been splashed by the mud of
a fatal runaway.

Mr. Orme affected, under such circumstances, a bluff and hearty stoicism
as remote as possible from Mrs. Peyton's deprecating evasion of facts. It
was a bad business; he was sorry Kate should have been mixed up with it;
but she would be married soon now, and then she would see that life wasn't
exactly a Sunday-school story. Everybody was exposed to such disagreeable
accidents: he remembered a case in their own family--oh, a distant cousin
whom Kate wouldn't have heard of--a poor fellow who had got entangled with
just such a woman, and having (most properly) been sent packing by his
father, had justified the latter's course by promptly forging his name--a
very nasty affair altogether; but luckily the scandal had been hushed up,
the woman bought off, and the prodigal, after a season of probation, safely
married to a nice girl with a good income, who was told by the family that
the doctors recommended his settling in California.

_Luckily the scandal was hushed up_: the phrase blazed out against
the dark background of Kate's misery. That was doubtless what most people
felt--the words represented the consensus of respectable opinion. The best
way of repairing a fault was to hide it: to tear up the floor and bury the
victim at night. Above all, no coroner and no autopsy!

She began to feel a strange interest in her distant cousin. "And his
wife--did she know what he had done?"

Mr. Orme stared. His moral pointed, he had returned to the contemplation of
his own affairs.

"His wife? Oh, of course not. The secret has been most admirably kept; but
her property was put in trust, so she's quite safe with him."

Her property! Kate wondered if her faith in her husband had also been
put in trust, if her sensibilities had been protected from his possible
inroads.

"Do you think it quite fair to have deceived her in that way?"

Mr. Orme gave her a puzzled glance: he had no taste for the by-paths of
ethical conjecture.

"His people wanted to give the poor fellow another chance; they did the
best they could for him."

"And--he has done nothing dishonourable since?"

"Not that I know of: the last I heard was that they had a little boy,
and that he was quite happy. At that distance he's not likely to bother
_us_, at all events."

Long after Mr. Orme had left the topic, Kate remained lost in its
contemplation. She had begun to perceive that the fair surface of life was
honeycombed by a vast system of moral sewage. Every respectable household
had its special arrangements for the private disposal of family scandals;
it was only among the reckless and improvident that such hygienic
precautions were neglected. Who was she to pass judgment on the merits
of such a system? The social health must be preserved: the means devised
were the result of long experience and the collective instinct of
self-preservation. She had meant to tell her father that evening that her
marriage had been put off; but she now abstained from doing so, not from
any doubt of Mr. Orme's acquiescence--he could always be made to feel the
force of conventional scruples--but because the whole question sank into
insignificance beside the larger issue which his words had raised.

In her own room, that night, she passed through that travail of the soul
of which the deeper life is born. Her first sense was of a great moral
loneliness--an isolation more complete, more impenetrable, than that in
which the discovery of Denis's act had plunged her. For she had vaguely
leaned, then, on a collective sense of justice that should respond to
her own ideas of right and wrong: she still believed in the logical
correspondence of theory and practice. Now she saw that, among those
nearest her, there was no one who recognized the moral need of expiation.
She saw that to take her father or Mrs. Peyton into her confidence would
be but to widen the circle of sterile misery in which she and Denis moved.
At first the aspect of life thus revealed to her seemed simply mean
and base--a world where honour was a pact of silence between adroit
accomplices. The network of circumstance had tightened round her, and every
effort to escape drew its meshes closer. But as her struggles subsided she
felt the spiritual release which comes with acceptance: not connivance in
dishonour, but recognition of evil. Out of that dark vision light was to
come, the shaft of cloud turning to the pillar of fire. For here, at last,
life lay before her as it was: not brave, garlanded and victorious, but
naked, grovelling and diseased, dragging its maimed limbs through the mud,
yet lifting piteous hands to the stars. Love itself, once throned aloft
on an altar of dreams, how it stole to her now, storm-beaten and scarred,
pleading for the shelter of her breast! Love, indeed, not in the old sense
in which she had conceived it, but a graver, austerer presence--the charity
of the mystic three. She thought she had ceased to love Denis--but what had
she loved in him but her happiness and his? Their affection had been the
_garden enclosed_ of the Canticles, where they were to walk forever in
a delicate isolation of bliss. But now love appeared to her as something
more than this--something wider, deeper, more enduring than the selfish
passion of a man and a woman. She saw it in all its far-reaching issues,
till the first meeting of two pairs of young eyes kindled a light which
might be a high-lifted beacon across dark waters of humanity.

All this did not come to her clearly, consecutively, but in a series of
blurred and shifting images. Marriage had meant to her, as it means to
girls brought up in ignorance of life, simply the exquisite prolongation of
wooing. If she had looked beyond, to the vision of wider ties, it was as
a traveller gazes over a land veiled in golden haze, and so far distant
that the imagination delays to explore it. But now through the blur of
sensations one image strangely persisted--the image of Denis's child. Had
she ever before thought of their having a child? She could not remember.
She was like one who wakens from a long fever: she recalled nothing of
her former self or of her former feelings. She knew only that the vision
persisted--the vision of the child whose mother she was not to be. It was
impossible that she should marry Denis--her inmost soul rejected him ...
but it was just because she was not to be the child's mother that its
image followed her so pleadingly. For she saw with perfect clearness the
inevitable course of events. Denis would marry some one else--he was one of
the men who are fated to marry, and she needed not his mother's reminder
that her abandonment of him at an emotional crisis would fling him upon the
first sympathy within reach. He would marry a girl who knew nothing of his
secret--for Kate was intensely aware that he would never again willingly
confess himself--he would marry a girl who trusted him and leaned on him,
as she, Kate Orme--the earlier Kate Orme--had done but two days since! And
with this deception between them their child would be born: born to an
inheritance of secret weakness, a vice of the moral fibre, as it might be
born with some hidden physical taint which would destroy it before the
cause should be detected.... Well, and what of it? Was she to hold herself
responsible? Were not thousands of children born with some such unsuspected
taint?... Ah, but if here was one that she could save? What if she, who had
had so exquisite a vision of wifehood, should reconstruct from its ruins
this vision of protecting maternity--if her love for her lover should be,
not lost, but transformed, enlarged, into this passion of charity for his
race? If she might expiate and redeem his fault by becoming a refuge from
its consequences? Before this strange extension of her love all the old
limitations seemed to fall. Something had cleft the surface of self, and
there welled up the mysterious primal influences, the sacrificial instinct
of her sex, a passion of spiritual motherhood that made her long to fling
herself between the unborn child and its fate....

She never knew, then or after, how she reached this mystic climax of
effacement; she was only conscious, through her anguish, of that lift of
the heart which made one of the saints declare that joy was the inmost core
of sorrow. For it was indeed a kind of joy she felt, if old names must
serve for such new meanings; a surge of liberating faith in life, the old
_credo quia absurdum_ which is the secret cry of all supreme
endeavour.

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