The Bond/Part 2/Chapter 4
IV
HE was a man rather difficult to tie; and he had just escaped from a determined effort to entangle him, on the part of Isabel Perry. Isabel's choice seemed to lie between him and a convent. For some time past she had been studying the Catholic doctrine. A strong impulse of her passionate nature forced her toward that faith; but as yet she had only a desire to be convinced, not a conviction. In his last interview with her, at her country-house, Basil had found her much moved by a long visit that morning from a Catholic priest, in whom she thought she had found a sort of Pascal. The master of the house was away, for Isabel's advances to the faith were much more surreptitious than her love affairs. Basil was to lunch with her. He found her in tears, torn between the effect of the priest's talk and a violent revulsion.
"Let us go out," she had said at once on seeing him, and she had led the way out of the library that opened on a broad stretch of turf, into the wood. Walking there, she told him, in a depressed, nervous tone, of her difficulties.
If I could only be sure," she said, clasping her hands over the breast of her white dress. "It seems to me that my religious feelings are only a result of my disappointment with life. I want to leave the world, not because I believe, really believe, that the religious life is the right one, but because I can't bear the life I lead. I would rather have absolute negation than the desire for something that doesn't exist. It's the life that attracts me. I couldn't become a Catholic and stay in the world. I wish to be shut out from it, to live in some narrow place, in a strict rule, to feel as mortal sin what I now want without really believing in it—and, then, I believe, I really should believe—I should see good and evil where now I see neither. I should feel that I have sinned, as I did when I talked to Father Damon just now—but now I don't feel it"
She turned suddenly and took Basil's arm.
"With you," she said, "I always feel the other thing, the other appeal. Just the thought that I was to see you to-day—and it kept coming up all the time Father Damon was talking—made me feel my inability to accept what he represents. To me just now, Basil, you are the world—not the world I want to get away from, my world—but the other, that I want without believing in it. I mean your point of view, your acceptance of life, the ease with which you take it—it seems to jar nothing in you, to leave nothing unsatisfied—you seem to me, in short, so happy—'
She stopped in her rapid talk, her rapid pace along the grassy walk under the trees, and looked up at him, pale and agitated. "You don't understand my unhappiness, do you? You can't help me?" she asked.
Her hand, clinging to his arm, her whole attitude of appeal, moved Basil, but he felt, more than emotion, a sense of constraint. Her eyes were appealing, but her mouth was imperious, eager.
"No one can help you," he said slowly. "We can't help one another—except by giving enjoyment now and then—that's my creed. I can't give you my enjoyment of life. I enjoy it because I am made to enjoy it. It floats me. It depresses you. You ask of life more than it can give. Perhaps that's the nobler attitude—I don't know. I'm sure it's the more romantic one. I'm not romantic, Isabel. Your alternatives of ecstatic happiness or the cloister both seem to me impossible. I can't understand wanting to be ecstatic, in or out of religion—but I see that you do want to be."
"But, surely, you believe, at least in moments of happiness, in a feeling of joy that might lift one out of the maddening groove of life—you believe in love, Basil?"
"Not as you do, Isabel," he said gravely. "Not as anything supernatural, mystic. I believe in it as a sweet, every-day food of life—good and wholesome and necessary, like bread and butter. But you think it must be nectar and ambrosia, sent down expressly from heaven …!"
He smiled at her their eyes were on a level.
"Ah, you see, I've never had it," she sighed.
She looked away, down a bright vista of sunny grass crossed by tree-shadows.
"You mention bread and butter, and lunch must be ready," she said. "Forgive me for boring you with my stupid troubles. I wish I could be happy in a commonplace way, like you."
Basil laughed gaily.
"I wish you could! Commonplace isn't half so bad as you think," he said. "Do resign yourself to it, Isabel, and don't talk any more to Father Damon! Fancy you in a nun's dress—your beautiful hair cut short—no, you mustn't do it!"
"How frivolous you are," she murmured, but she smiled and blushed suddenly. She was leaning against a great oak-trunk, and she looked up at him. … Basil did not kiss her. He was conscious that it was expected, and in his mind there was a clear perception: It would be fatal. Isabel's emotional demand frightened him. This situation between them had been growing more and more definite and difficult. It was with a marked feeling of relief that Basil, after lunch, said good-bye to her for a month.
••••••
That month Teresa finished modelling Basil's bust. It was the first ambitious thing she had done since her marriage. She was in love with his beauty as she did it—the clear essentially sculptural character of his finely-modelled head, the free, dominant poise of it.
"That's you, Basil—all of you," she said, the day it was finished, after gazing long at it.
"It's a good-looking piece of work," Basil admitted.
And Erhart, who came up for a week to give his opinion on it, pronounced that it had bone.
"Of course one sees that it's a woman's work," he added patronisingly.
"Of course," said Teresa mockingly, "but one is astonished that the dog should dance so well, considering that it was meant to go on all-fours—isn't that it?"
"Something of that sort. Do I hear your Aunt Sophy talking?"
"You will, sooner or later. I am coming round to her point of view."
"You a feministe! There are no young and pretty ones, remember that. Wait till you're thirty, at least."
"Oh, two years of being married to Basil are a liberal education in feminism. I'm at least forty in experience."
"Oh, nonsense. You adore Basil."
"Of course I adore him. His altars smoke with sacrifice. But all the same I think I shall raise one to the Unknown God."
"On which no one will be allowed to sacrifice but yourself, eh?" said Erhart. "You want a monopoly."
"Oh, there's no god sufficiently unknown for that!" Teresa laughed. "There's such a superfluity of adoration in this world. No wonder our deities are overfed. I think I shall put Basil on a meagre diet."
"Don't do anything to Basil, he's good enough. He's the most married man I know."
"He? He's the aboriginal wild man, roaming the happy hunting-grounds—in Mrs. Perry's automobile. And I keep the wigwam neat and clean, and look after the papoose."
"You couldn't do a better job," said Erhart aggressively.
Erhart came up to stay a week, but he stayed a month, in fact till the Ransomes returned to town, and occupied himself in making a bas- relief of Teresa's head. At first his attitude toward them both was what it had always been—friendly and frank. But soon he began to show some irritation against Basil. He devoted himself obviously to Teresa, tried to get her off on long walks alone, and was moody and bored when Basil was of the party. When he was alone with Teresa, he spent most of his time in criticising Basil. He declared that Basil was volatile, lazy; that he only amused himself with work and life; that he did not take even his wife seriously enough.
"He suits me," Teresa said calmly, a good deal amused. "He's a charming companion, and always interesting. And I can assure you that he takes me and the baby with the utmost seriousness."
"But he leaves you alone here all summer."
"He had to make some money, poor dear. You've no idea how expensive Ronald is. If you think he wasn't glad to get here!"
"Oh, I suppose he was. He's fond of you, I think, in his way."
Teresa smiled.
"He's an awfully good fellow," Erhart proceeded. "It's too bad his habits are so irregular—bad for his work and everything, I should think. He's got some talent, and if he'd only pitch in and work"
"Once for all, Basil isn't a grub. He knows he'll never be a great painter, and he's too much humour to take himself with awful seriousness. He knows perfectly well the measure of his ability, he can do good work and he knows it, but what he cares most about is living."
"Living?" grumbled Erhart. "I really don't think Basil's way of living is admirable. I wish he didn't drink at all. It's no wonder he's nervous and irritable, and his temper bad."
"I thought you liked Basil," said Teresa demurely.
"I do like him—very much, in some ways. And that's why I hate to see him wasting himself so. It would be a lot better for you if he worked more regularly and successfully. I don't think he does as much as he might for you. You're the sort of woman that luxury suits, you need it. I should think it would be a pleasure to give it to you."
Teresa put a shade of melancholy into her far-away gaze. "My tastes are very simple," she said.
"Oh, that's because you're really very sweet and kind, and you never worry people; I've noticed that. But all beautiful women need a setting, and they all want it, too, if they haven't got it. When a man's lucky enough to be married to a woman like you, he ought to live up to it. Basil's a good fellow, an interesting fellow, but I don't think he deserves you, really."
Teresa's amusement in this conversation was so great that she repeated it word for word to Basil. Basil was not at all amused.
"I'd like to know what the devil he means by that sort of talk," he said. "I don't call it very friendly, abusing me like that to you. He's making love to you, that's what it is. I've noticed lately that he doesn't want me around. I like his nerve!"
"Don't quarrel with him," said Teresa, laughing.
"Quarrel! Of course not. Only I must say I don't like it. It's all right for him to admire you—I like men to admire you—but I don't see why he should turn against me. It's confoundedly unpleasant—but I never did like the fellow much anyway."
"He isn't the most subtle or the best-mannered person I know," murmured Teresa. "But he means no harm."
"Doesn't he? He doesn't mean any good, either, so far as I can see."
"Oh, yes—he wants to reform your habits, and make you ambitious, and me rich."
"The devil he does. He wants to make you discontented with me."
"Well, he can't. So you needn't worry. Don't take him seriously, or I'll never tell you another thing."
"Yes, you will! You'll tell me everything, or I'll choke the life out of you!" And Basil playfully clasped his hands about her throat.
Teresa laughed.
"It's pure self-indulgence for me to tell you everything, though at times I think it's unwise. In this case, for instance. You don't like Erhart as much as you did before. I've done a wrong to him in telling you. But I like so much to feel that you know everything, and that everything is clear between us, at least on my side, that I don't care. I am immoral in my honesty. Only you mustn't show that I've told you, you know. That would be immoral of you"
"Oh, I won't, of course. Only don't let Erhart make love to you."
"Erhart! I should say not. You're—unpleasant, Basil."
"No, I'm not jealous," he said, laughing. "Only, if any man makes love to you, I'd like it to be some fellow I like, you know—some really good man. And that doesn't mean you're to encourage him—at least not much. Otherwise I don't mind at all."
"How generous of you!" said Teresa, with sarcasm.
There was now often a tinge of sharpness in her tone toward Basil. She knew that he had his reserves. He had been as diplomatic as possible on the subject of Mrs. Perry; but his practical wisdom had not quite deceived Teresa's instinct. She knew there was something he had not told her—but she felt also that, whatever it might be, it was not very important. She could not be deceived in Basil's feeling for herself; and she was learning to fight against her disposition to take seriously everything relating to him. In spite of his essential simplicity, in spite of his love for her, there was, she felt dimly, too much in him, in life with him, that might give her pain. She tried, therefore, to attain something of his own ease, of that quality which would have been lightness if his essential force, his reality, his will, had been less; but which now seemed to her more an enviable buoyancy and power of resistance to the ills of life.