It was the sense of waste, of finely beautiful possibilities getting entangled and marred for ever that oppressed me.I had missed, Ihad lost.I did not turn from these things after the fashion of the Baileys, as one turns from something low and embarrassing.I felt that these great organic forces were still to be wrought into a harmony with my constructive passion.I felt too that I was not doing it.I had not understood the forces in this struggle nor its nature, and as I learnt I failed.I had been started wrong, I had gone on wrong, in a world that was muddled and confused, full of false counsel and erratic shames and twisted temptations.I learnt to see it so by failures that were perhaps destroying any chance of profit in my lessons.Moods of clear keen industry alternated with moods of relapse and indulgence and moods of dubiety and remorse.Iwas not going on as the Baileys thought I was going on.There were times when the blindness of the Baileys irritated me intensely.
Beneath the ostensible success of those years, between twenty-three and twenty-eight, this rottenness, known to scarcely any one but myself, grew and spread.My sense of the probability of a collapse intensified.I knew indeed now, even as Willersley had prophesied five years before, that I was entangling myself in something that might smother all my uses in the world.Down there among those incommunicable difficulties, I was puzzled and blundering.I was losing my hold upon things; the chaotic and adventurous element in life was spreading upward and getting the better of me, over-mastering me and all my will to rule and make....And the strength, the drugging urgency of the passion!
Margaret shone at times in my imagination like a radiant angel in a world of mire and disorder, in a world of cravings, hot and dull red like scars inflamed....
I suppose it was because I had so great a need of such help as her whiteness proffered, that I could ascribe impossible perfections to her, a power of intellect, a moral power and patience to which she, poor fellow mortal, had indeed no claim.If only a few of us WEREangels and freed from the tangle of effort, how easy life might be!
I wanted her so badly, so very badly, to be what I needed.I wanted a woman to save me.I forced myself to see her as I wished to see her.Her tepidities became infinite delicacies, her mental vagueness an atmospheric realism.The harsh precisions of the Baileys and Altiora's blunt directness threw up her fineness into relief and made a grace of every weakness.
Mixed up with the memory of times when I talked with Margaret as one talks politely to those who are hopelessly inferior in mental quality, explaining with a false lucidity, welcoming and encouraging the feeblest response, when possible moulding and directing, are times when I did indeed, as the old phrase goes, worship the ground she trod on.I was equally honest and unconscious of inconsistency at each extreme.But in neither phase could I find it easy to make love to Margaret.For in the first I did not want to, though Italked abundantly to her of marriage and so forth, and was a little puzzled at myself for not going on to some personal application, and in the second she seemed inaccessible, I felt I must make confessions and put things before her that would be the grossest outrage upon the noble purity I attributed to her.
9
I went to Margaret at last to ask her to marry me, wrought up to the mood of one who stakes his life on a cast.Separated from her, and with the resonance of an evening of angry recriminations with Mrs.
Larrimer echoing in my mind, I discovered myself to be quite passionately in love with Margaret.Last shreds of doubt vanished.
It has always been a feature of our relationship that Margaret absent means more to me than Margaret present; her memory distils from its dross and purifies in me.All my criticisms and qualifications of her vanished into some dark corner of my mind.
She was the lady of my salvation; I must win my way to her or perish.
