Late September had come, with its sad, too-mellow beauty. It had ripened all the fruit, burnishing the apples to look like little suns, and the sun to look like a ripe, burnished apple. It had woven its web of blue over all the still countryside, so that the elms standing so nobly in the Sussex meadows seemed draped in it, like tapestry trees; the far hills had wrapped themselves in its hazy folds and gone to sleep until some cold and later wind should strip them of it.
In Madame Claire's garden a few roses bloomed somewhat blowsily, and asters and Michaelmas daisies, dahlias and a brave company of late-staying perennials made welcome color notes among the greens and rust browns.
She sat in her library, writing. Every now and then she looked out of her French window at Stephen who was sitting on the lawn in one of the garden chairs, reading, his long legs resting on another. Robins visited him, perching on a chair or table, and he thought as his sunken blue eyes regarded them humorously, that the robin was more like a confiding little animal than a bird, with its friendly ways, and its power—shared with no other small bird—of meeting the human eye.
He had lived in some of the beauty spots of the world, but he said to himself that no beauty crept into the heart as this beauty of Sussex did. Mingled with it was some of the charm of what was lovable in human nature—the charm of gentleness and quiet and homeliness. Every wind was tempered, the sun shone through a protecting haze, the verdure harbored nothing more treacherous than a fluttering moth. To an eye accustomed to the white and blue glare of the South, every tint, every color seemed happily blended. And even the robins, he thought, returning to his book, seemed to know and like him.
Madame Claire was writing to Noel.
"I have often pointed out to you," she wrote, "the enormous advantages of old age over youth, but I have never felt them more keenly myself than now. The world is at present in a state of flux, and that state, while it may be beneficial, is rarely comfortable. There are movements afoot that I am sure cause young mothers to wonder fearfully what precarious and troubled lives are in store for their little ones. I am not one of those who believe blindly that all new movements are good ones. The world has seen many that seemed great, happily defeat their own ends, leaving the generations to come a legacy of knowledge that they seem, often enough, to ignore. I believe that the struggle will be fierce, but the world, in order to attend to the enormously important businesses of increasing, eating and sleeping, requires in the long run certain conventions and conformities, and to preserve these has a way of weakening the ground under the feet of the shouting and bloodthirsty reformer—even, alas! of the true spiritual leader. The world has dedicated itself, I think, to the great law of average—such an eternal warring of good and bad would seem to bring that about naturally—and compromise would be the inevitable end of every struggle.
"You, and all those I love, will either be participators in or spectators of that struggle. Not so Stephen and myself. We are privileged by old age to ignore it if we can. Age has a right to forget the evils that it can do nothing to lessen.
"I still read my paper, but I get no pleasure from it. Who does? One sees that the Empire for which one would cheerfully die, is accused of making mistakes in every quarter of the globe. One hears of millions of helpless people in another country brought to starvation through a fiendish conspiracy of greed unexampled in the world's cruel history. It is one long tale of dissatisfaction and dissent, and it were better not to have turned a single page.
"But let us leave all that and talk of people.
"When you came back for Judy's wedding in June, Eric and Louise were still living apart, though they came together of necessity on that occasion; and things looked hopeless. But Eric, as I suppose you must have heard by now, had a breakdown brought on from overwork. He had made, I think, a hundred and forty speeches in eight months, and traveled I forget how many thousand miles. His fight with the I.L.P. over the Moorgate Division was a great fight and he defeated them all along the line. But the strain was too much for him. Louise was at Mistley when he was taken ill, and Connie was still keeping house for him. She hurried him off to a nursing home, and wrote Louise a scathing letter which brought that lady hot-foot to London. The two met for the first time over the sickbed, and oddly enough, neither dislikes the other as much as they had expected to. Connie had given such a bad account of Eric that I believe Louise came to get a deathbed forgiveness. At any rate, she completely broke down and sobbed out her remorse on his pillow, while Connie and the nurse stood in the hall and tried not to hear. Eric accepted her repentance and forgave her on the sole condition that she maintain that same friendly attitude when he was well again. That, and that alone he insisted upon, that she treat him like a friend instead of an enemy. This she gave him to understand she would do, and they are now convalescing together—for in a sense Louise must be convalescing too—in Chip's cottage in Cornwall, looked after by an old Cornish woman. I had a letter from her yesterday, and she says she has never been so happy in her life. That is because she has him entirely to herself, and there is no one there who could possibly interest him more than she does. So far so good. What will happen when he is at work again, surrounded by people who make claims upon him, I do not know. But I do feel certain that things can never be as bad again.
"Connie of course is merely marking time till your return. She has lately made a number of perfectly desirable acquaintances, however, and is not in the least unhappy. I think her thankfulness at her narrow escape from a bigamous (?) marriage keeps her from cavilling at her fate, or from dwelling on her inexplicable infatuation for Petrovitch, who is in America. For she is not cured of that, nor will she ever be. He is, as you once said, her hero for life, spots and all. That is the rôle she has chosen for herself, and she will play it to the end. I am longing to know whether or not you have been able to find any traces of Freda. I sometimes feel that you and I played a not altogether worthy part in that affair, but it was worth it!
"You ask me for minute particulars concerning Judy. Is she happy, you ask? What am I to say to that? If she is not happy, she will always be too loyal to say so. I think she is clever enough to make her own happiness, or at least to attain to an average of contentment—an average that leans at moments toward the peaks of happiness on one side and toward the abyss of unhappiness on the other. And I think it is good for us to look both ways. Her love for Chip—and a very real love it is—has much in it of the maternal, a quality I think every woman's love is the better for. As for him—dear, simple Chip!—he worships her, and is unutterably happy. He may disappoint her in some ways. He lacks and will always lack—in spite of the miracle of her love—self-confidence. He is never quite comfortable with strangers, and never expects to be liked, though when he finds that he is, he glows like a nice child that is justly praised. If fame ever comes to Chip it will come in spite of him.
"Judy has made their small flat a really delightful place, but entertaining, except in the most informal way, is of course impossible. No one thinks less of human pomps than I do, but given different opportunities, Judy might have been something of a Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. Her charm is extraordinary. She has 'come out' wonderfully since her marriage, and it is easy to see that she will develop into an uncommon woman. If Chip will only develop with her—but I pray that he will.
"That little cottage in Cornwall that played such an important part in their lives was the right setting for their honeymoon, for they had much to learn about each other. You say that however it turns out, you are bound to feel partly responsible. Possibly; but that lovable and gentle face of Chip's with the lights shining through the fog upon it, was far more responsible. Judy was bound to love him. And whether she be happy or not, she will be all the better for loving him. We make too much of happiness, Noel. It doesn't much matter what our lives are; but it does matter whether or not we live them finely. And that is possible to any of us. A certain style is necessary for this; a certain gallant attitude. One finds this style, this gallantry, in the most unlooked-for places sometimes——
"And just now, I think, is the right moment for me to speak of Mr. Colebridge. In spite of his undeniable limitations he loved Judy sincerely, and he has proved it in a most agreeable way. You remember I wrote you some time ago that I had been reading Chip's plays. There were three, and two of them are charming—really charming. I imagine Chip's knowledge of women to have been extremely slight, but the ladies who existed in his imagination are really the most delightful creatures! Delightful! These two plays that I like so much are fanciful, but at the same time they are wonderfully sympathetic and human, and I feel absolutely certain that given half a chance they are bound to succeed. I at once gave them to Mr. Colebridge to read—he owns theaters, you know—and although he says he knows nothing about plays, I mistrust him, for he knew enough to appreciate these. He is taking them to New York with him soon, and launched and extensively advertised by him, I feel sure they will flourish. He seems to know the very actors and actresses for the leading parts. Isn't it lucky? Mr. Colebridge seems almost as pleased about it as I am myself. Judy says he is doing it for me, but of course that's nonsense. He says he has no doubt that the plays will put Judy and Chip 'on Easy Street.'
"Now that I call gallant. To make your rival's fortune is not the end and aim of most disappointed lovers. There is style about that. I like Mr. Colebridge. He comes here quite often to see Stephen and me, and while I admit that I like him and—yes—even admire him, I do not, I confess, like him best when he is sitting in my garden, oblivious to its beauties and to the cajoleries of a most divine autumn, talking about sugar stocks. I like him better when he has gone, and I think how good-natured it was of him to have come, and how nice he really is.
"Chip's book on religions is in the hands of the publishers at last. I haven't read it. Neither has Judy. He is extraordinarily shy and sensitive about it, and Judy says she has twice saved it from destruction at his hands. I feel it must be good. It may even be great! Well, we shall know some day.
"There's very little about Gordon that I can find to say. I know that he had set his heart on a house in Mayfair, and that Helen had decided on one in Bloomsbury, near certain friends of hers; Bloomsbury, as you know, having become the fashion with a set of people whom Helen considers very desirable. I guessed what that high nose and long, unbeautiful chin indicated. Millie and John tactfully sided with both, for they feel that while Gordon is of course perfect, Helen can do no wrong. The little comedy has amused me considerably, and——"
Stephen was calling to her. She put down her pen and stepped out of the French window. She crossed the lawn with a pleasant rustle of long gray skirts, and he got out of his chair as she came toward him.
"What have you been doing all this long time?"
"Writing to Noel," she answered. "Have I neglected you?"
"I was beginning to think so. Come and take a walk round the garden with me."
"Where is Miss McPherson?"
"She's perpetrating one of her atrocious and painstaking water colors in the lane."
"And you tell her they are beautiful!"
"It's the only way I can make her blush."
They walked between herbaceous borders where dying colors burned with the deep, concentrated brilliance of embers.
"I have never loved an autumn as I have loved this one," Stephen said.
"Nor I. Do you know why that is, Stephen? It's because we are untroubled by thoughts of other autumns."
"Perhaps. I don't mind your saying those things as I once did."
"All the fever," she went on, "has gone out of life. Each day is a little book of hours. The opening and closing of each flower is an event of prime and beautiful importance. The shape and movement of clouds, the flight of birds, the shadows of the leaves on the grass—all those things and a thousand other lovely things are beginning to assume a right proportion in our lives. We are beginning to be happy."
"It's the wonderful peace of it all," said Stephen.
"Yes. The peace of old age is something I have looked forward to all my life. That, and the dignity of it." She looked up at him, smiling. "For old age, Stephen, my dear, is almost as dignified as death."
