"Dear me!" was all that Mrs. Martin could ejaculate.
"I remember," continued Isabel, "that she bought a sealskin cape, because they were so reduced; and she nearly died of heat in trying it on, for it was the hottest day of a very hot July. We were too warm in muslin blouses, and we sat laughing at poor Lady Eleanor as she tried on cape after cape, each one heavier than the last."
"Poor young lady!" remarked Mrs. Martin sympathetically, "I trust that thus overheating herself did not result in a chill. I remember a friend of mine, Mrs. Albert Simpkinson, died from the effects of a chill, brought on by overclothing herself on a warm day; and her premature decease was peculiarly unfortunate, for she died just as she was beginning to get into good society."
Isabel's eyes twinkled wickedly, but she kept her lips in order, and did not allow them to relax into a smile. "How sad!" she murmured.
"It was indeed!" sighed Mrs. Martin, "only a fortnight before Mrs. Simpkinson's death, the Honourable Mrs. Avalon, daughter-in-law to the Earl of Glastonbury, called upon her; and she barely had time to return the call—much less to follow up the intimacy—before she died."
But though Isabel did not get on with Mrs. Martin she looked at everybody else in Chayford through rose-coloured glasses. To Martha she was specially gracious, and was described by that excellent woman as "a sweet young creature".
"Master Paul is a lucky man, and no mistake!" said Martha one day, "luck being only another name for a good strong will of your own, coupled with the help of Providence, as my brother James said when he induced Mr. Hickory to leave the Grampton circuit."
"Who was Mr. Hickory?" inquired Isabel, who always appreciated Martha when the latter became retrospective.
"Mr. Hickory was a young minister with new-fangled notions, who travelled in Grampton for one year, and then my brother James induced him to leave."
"Didn't your brother like his preaching?" asked Joanna.
"Not at all, miss, not at all; but it wasn't only his preaching that James objected to, though that was far from satisfactory, being more full of modern science (falsely so called) than of saving truth. James never liked Mr. Hickory's views on the devil—he thought them broad and dangerous—but it was not the devil that they quarrelled over after all; it was the heating apparatus in Grampton Chapel. James said he'd have overlooked the devil if Mr. Hickory had given way about the heating apparatus, as we must all give and take in this world; but Mr. Hickory's attitude in that matter was more than he could or would stand."
Isabel looked deeply interested, and so did Joanna. "What was the end of it?" asked the former.
"Well, miss, you see, James said that the old heating apparatus had been good enough for the congregation for twenty years and more, and if it was good enough for them it was good enough for Mr. Hickory, and it shouldn't be altered as long as he was chapel-steward. But the minister was set on having some new-fangled arrangement of his own. And the minister got his own way, James was overruled, and the new apparatus was set up in Grampton Chapel."
"Was it a success?"
"A success, Miss Carnaby! Who ever heard of an improvement of any kind being a success? I never did. Give me the old-fashioned things, say I, and don't meddle with them; for I never yet met with an improvement that wasn't for the worse."
"You are a consistent Conservative, Martha, and I admire you," laughed Isabel.
"Thank you, miss; I don't go in for politics and all that rubbish, but I keep my eyes open and see things for myself, and judge accordingly."
"And a very wise plan!" agreed Isabel.
"That is as may be, miss."
"But how about the new heating apparatus and your brother James?" suggested Joanna.
"Well, miss, James never could say if it was a judgment from heaven or whether it was because the chapel-keeper put too much coal on; but anyhow the whole thing caught fire, and burnt part of the wall before it could be put out."
"Was much of the wall burnt?" asked Isabel.
"A nice piece, miss."
Joanna smiled. "Was that why the minister left?"
"Well, miss, after that, Mr. Hickory saw that he had made a mistake; and my brother James advised him to leave Grampton and begin again elsewhere. Before he went, James told him he would do well if he set about helping folks to get new hearts, and left their old heating apparatuses alone. Which was good advice, to my thinking, though it was my own brother as gave it."
The happy days at Chayford passed all too quickly. When Sunday came, Isabel went with Paul to hear his father preach; and she never forgot her first service in Chayford Chapel. She possessed the artistic temperament to an unusual extent, and therefore beauty in worship strongly appealed to her, whether it were shown in ornate ritual or in extreme simplicity. To such natures as hers a stately cathedral filled with the voice of a great multitude, and a bleak hillside where a handful of persecuted Covenanters are assembled, seem alike the house of God and the gate of heaven; for the artist-soul is slow to discern the theological differences of the two or three gathered together, but is quick to perceive and to prostrate itself before the perfect beauty of the One in the midst of them.
Isabel Carnaby was an extremely emotional woman, and consequently experienced the quick vision of the truth, and the rapid clouding over of the same, which are the portion of all emotional temperaments.
As she sat beside Paul in Chayford Chapel that Sunday morning she was at her best. Her love for him stimulated the religious, and stifled the worldly, side of her character. Herein lay the fundamental difference between herself and Joanna: Joanna was a good woman because she loved God; Isabel was a good woman because she loved a good man—a lower type, perhaps, from a spiritual point of view, but one none the less to be considered, since the vessels in a great house are not all of equal honour, and the stars in the firmament are not all of the same glory.
The minister preached a beautiful sermon on Love as the fulfilling of the Law; and as Isabel listened, her soul was uplifted and her understanding quickened. She made up her mind that, however she might fail in other things, the forgiveness accorded to them that love much should always be her right; and that she would never allow clouds of doubt and misunderstanding to arise between her and those whom it was her duty to love and to cherish. Them, she vowed, she would love to the end—and all others for their sakes. It seemed to Isabel an easy thing, sitting in the quaint little chapel and listening to the minister's silvery voice, to love both the brother whom she had seen and the God Whom she had not seen; but many things look easy from the Mount of Transfiguration, which grow difficult—if not impossible—amid the rabble of Jerusalem.
The hymn after the sermon was, "There is a land of pure delight," and it thrilled Isabel through and through. As she and Paul sang it together, she felt that for them the "everlasting spring" had already begun and the "never-withering flowers" were theirs, because they loved each other.
So Paul and Isabel rested for a while upon the Delectable Mountains, and imagined that they were even now in Paradise. But they forgot how it is written that "a little below these mountains on the left hand, lieth the country of Conceit, from which country there comes into the way in which the pilgrims walked a little crooked lane".
John Bunyan knew what he was talking about when he described the country of Conceit as lying close under the shadow of the Delectable Mountains.
They talked of things created long,And things but lately come to pass,Down from the Swan of Avon's songTo sounds evolved from glass.
With the exception of the Seatons, there was no one at Chayford that Isabel Carnaby liked so well as the Fords; for she felt—as most people did who were brought under the spell of its influence—the fascination of Chayford House. It was a most attractive home, with its huge stone gateway in front, forming the full-stop to Chayford High Street; and its beautiful park at the back, studded with fine old elms and sloping down to the river. And not the least picturesque feature in one of the prettiest parks in Mershire was Chayford Cottage, nestling among the trees, and covered with purple clematis and scarlet virginia-creeper in their season. Chayford House was equally interesting within and without; it was one of the delightful houses where the drawing-room is merely anédition de luxeof the library; and, when all is said and done, there is no drawing-room paper as effective as vellum and half-calf.
Michael Ford had been, as the Irishman said, a rich man for several generations; and his home bore the hallmark of a century's refinement and luxury. He had all the geniality of a man who has never had a misunderstanding—much less a fight—with circumstances; and there was not a grain of bitterness in his composition. He was a Wesleyan, as his fathers had been before him; but he gave as generously to the Anglicans and the Independents in Chayford as he gave to his own Church—and his gifts to all were munificent. He was sensible rather than scholarly, and wise rather than learned. In politics he was a Whig of the old school; and the only disappointment of his otherwise successful life was that he had been compelled by business engagements to abandon his cherished desire for a parliamentary career. But he intended this for his son in his place; and the object of his ambition was to see Edgar member for Chayford on the Liberal side.
Edgar's character, inherited from some far-off Puritan ancestor, was incomprehensible to his father; but Mr. Ford shared the common and comfortable parental delusion that the perfect acquiescence of children in their parents' views is merely a question of time.
It was strange that while Mark Seaton's son made an idol of success, Michael Ford's son made a Moloch of conscience; yet Mark Seaton's affections were set entirely on things above, and Michael Ford possessed common-sense to a degree which almost raised it to the level of genius. But these things happen.
During Isabel's week at Chayford she saw a great deal of Edgar. He understood her better than Paul did, and therefore he did not fall in love with her. Mutual comprehension makes for friendship, and militates against love; for love—like modern society papers—must have a "puzzle column" for the mystification of those that take it in. Isabel's emotional temperament was nearer akin to Edgar's mysticism than to Paul's dogged determination; so she and Edgar became good friends, and there was no element of danger in their friendship.
It was characteristic of Edgar that in the days when he believed that Paul loved Alice, his conscience forbade him to speak to the girl, because he wanted to do so; but in the days when Paul loved Isabel, Edgar talked to her freely, simply because such conversation gave him no particular pleasure. To make himself miserable was an irresistible temptation to Edgar Ford.
On the eve of Isabel's return to town, there was a small dinner-party at Chayford House. In addition to the four Seatons and their guest, the company included the Reverend Henry Stoneley, Rector of Chayford, and his popular wife; Mr. Madderley (an artist who was painting Mrs. Ford's portrait), and Alice Martin.
After the migration into the dining-room, Mr. Ford began:
"Does any one know the result of the Sidbury election?"
"I have heard nothing authentic," replied the rector; "but I have good reasons for believing that the Conservative has been returned."
"That is what I expected," exclaimed his host; "the Liberals there are divided into two camps with two separate leaders, namely the regular Liberal and a Labour candidate; and if our people will persist in thus splitting up their forces, your people are always bound to get in."
"That is quite true," said Mrs. Ford, "Conservatives have learnt the lesson of obedience to their leaders."
"Have you ever noticed," remarked Isabel Carnaby, "that, when it comes to the point, a Conservative will vote for the worst Conservative rather than for the best Liberal; while a Liberal will rather not vote at all than support a candidate who does not share his every prejudice?"
Mr. Stoneley smiled. "Our people certainly know how to pull together."
"And our people don't," added Mr. Ford, "that is the weakness of the Liberal party; each individual is too fond of thinking out things for himself, and judging from his own limited observation, rather than from the experience of wiser men."
"I beg your pardon, father," said Edgar, "but I should call that the strength of the Liberal party. Surely conscientious and reasonable support is better than blind and unreasoning obedience."
"More gratifying to the individual perhaps," replied his father, "but disastrous to the party."
"Moreover," added the rector, "it does not do for every man to be a law unto himself. Liberty carried too far degenerates into anarchy."
"If every man does what is right in his own eyes, what becomes of law and order?" suggested Mr. Seaton. "Strength is shown by self-suppression rather than by self-glorification."
"Precisely," agreed the rector. "The whole crux of civilization seems to me to lie in the fact that the savage does what is best for himself, and the civilized man what is best for the community at large."
"And government is but a great mutual insurance society against human selfishness," added Mr. Seaton.
"I quite agree with that," said Mrs. Ford, "the suppression of self is the end and aim of civilization as well as of Christianity."
"Just so, my dear madam, just so. Nevertheless I should not say that Conservatives do not think out matters for themselves," objected the rector, "for they do."
"Oh! don't say that," cried Isabel, "do not, at one fell swoop, take away the one virtue of the Conservative party."
The rector smiled. "Loyal old Tory as I am, I should not wish to recommend my party to alien eyes by assuming virtues when it has them not, my dear young lady."
"But," persisted Edgar, "I never can understand why what is wrong for an individual can be right for a party or a State."
"That is beside the mark," interpolated Mr. Ford.
Edgar looked puzzled. Things were always so clear to his father, and they were hardly ever clear to him. He groped after the truth, but he often failed to grasp it.
"Obedience is right in all men," said Mr. Seaton, "whether they be taken as individuals or as communities. To submit to authority is one of man's highest and most important duties."
"Quite so, quite so," agreed the rector; "yet now-a-days people are in sad danger of forgetting this."
"Do you think so?" said Paul Seaton. "For my part I consider that the modern enthusiasm for games and athletics of all kinds is a powerful antidote to individualism and faddism and their attendant follies. Therefore, if I had my way, I would insist on every man's taking up a game of some kind, and becoming proficient in it."
"And a very good plan," cried the rector heartily; "a very good plan, indeed!"
"You see," continued Paul, "as long as England had to fight for her existence among the nations, there was no talk about each particular Englishman's special prejudices and crotchets; this is one of the evils following in the train of peace and plenty. But by teaching our boys to go in for games, we in a measure obviate this. A man who is good at rowing or cricket or football has had to some extent a soldier's training, and so will probably possess a soldier's virtues."
"My son," said Mr. Seaton, "never say a word in favour of war. It is an invention of the devil, and no good can ever come of it."
"Still, good has come of it," persisted Paul; "the full-grown sons of a warlike State are neither women nor children—they are essentially manly."
"Our idea of manliness is not the true one," said Mr. Seaton; "physical courage has done so much for man that it has won undue admiration from both barbarism and civilization. Yet it is but a savage's virtue at the best."
"That is quite true!" exclaimed Edgar Ford.
Mr. Seaton continued: "My son has just pointed out that war makes men the very opposite of women and children. There I agree with him. But I cannot forget that it is written: 'Except ye become as little children ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven'."
"War is a terrible thing!" sighed Mrs. Ford, "I never can understand how Wordsworth could write a poem in favour of it."
"I expect he was sick of behaving prettily, and writing about primroses and pet lambs and weathercocks, and felt he should like to have a regular flare-up just for once and shock every one," suggested Isabel, "I have often felt like that myself."
Everybody laughed, and then the rector said to Paul: "You are quite right in what you say about athletics being a good antidote against fads."
"Fads being the ruin of any political party," added Mr. Ford.
"But a man's duty to his own conscience comes before his duty to the State," said Edgar; "and I cannot see that any one is justified in defending a course of action which he considers wrong, simply because his party is pledged to that course."
"In politics, as in scene-painting," murmured Mr. Madderley, "I suppose one has to consider general effects rather than minute details."
"And the pre-Raphaelite school would not be effective from a political standpoint," added Mr. Ford.
The artist shrugged his shoulders. "I am not sure that it is from an artistic one."
"Are you not? Then I am afraid I shall have to quarrel with you, Mr. Madderley," said his hostess.
"Then you will have to quarrel with the rector too, and I will help you," remarked Mrs. Stoneley, "although I have been a devoted wife to him for forty years, he quarrels regularly with me every Academy because I like looking at pictures that he says are without perspective."
"I know the sort," cried Isabel, "dear little scriptural things, like tame and domestic church-windows."
"It is just like men to bother about perspective," added Mrs. Stoneley, "they are so literal, poor dears! that it is not safe to leave anything to their imaginations. Besides you cannot leave anything to something which does not exist."
The rector smiled. "Pardon me, my love, this consideration never hinders me from leaving many things to your discretion."
"Well, Henry, you never heard me fussing about perspective, whatever else I may have done."
"Certainly not, my love; a desire for perspective presupposes a sense of proportion."
"Never mind him, Miss Carnaby," said his wife; "you and I will go to the Academy together, and leave him at home to study perspective from the rectory windows."
The rector turned to Edgar. "I think that the idea of duty to one's own conscience is growing to abnormal proportions, and is in great danger of degenerating into a morbid and unhealthy egotism. As far as my experience goes, if a man fulfils his duty towards God and his duty towards his neighbour, he will not have much time left for works of supererogation."
"But are not one's duty towards God and one's duty towards one's own conscience synonymous?" asked Edgar.
Mr. Stoneley thought for a moment. "Not necessarily, I should say. One's duty towards God is clearly defined in our good old Church catechism; but one's duty towards one's own conscience is an elastic term, which may include anything from religious persecution to anti-vaccination."
Mr. Ford chuckled approvingly. "Quite true!"
"As a distinguished politician once said: 'Politics is the science of the second best,'" remarked Paul, "therefore we must recognize the truth that in political strife we can only approximately approach an ideal."
"Precisely," agreed his host, "everything in this world is a matter of compromise."
"I cannot admit that," cried Edgar with eagerness; "to me, compromise is a detestable word. It is our business to aim at perfection, and to be satisfied with nothing less. The fact that we may fail in our endeavour to attain our ideal, in no way lessens our obligation to follow after it."
"But the danger is," said his mother, "that if we go in for perfection or nothing, we shall in all probability get nothing."
"I am afraid we must all be content with the second best in this world," remarked Mrs. Seaton.
"Yes," added Isabel, "like the man who said that as perfection in female beauty did not exist, he was looking out for a wife who could cook a potato properly."
"Certainly half a loaf is better than no bread," suggested Paul.
Edgar shook his head. "As long as people are content with half loaves they will never get whole ones."
"First let them be sure that they want whole ones," suggested Mr. Madderley.
"Exactly," cried Mrs. Stoneley. "People spend half their lives crying for things which would make them cry still more if they got them."
"Whole loaves would be very fattening, in the first place," continued the artist, "nothing would induce me to take one."
"Are you afraid of getting fat?" inquired Isabel, "I never think of it."
"This dread is the one cloud on my horizon, dear lady, the one discord in my life's harmony. You happy thin people do not know what troubles flesh is heir to, nor what fears."
"Do you think bread so dangerous?" asked Isabel.
"The most fattening thing in the world. I had a friend who said he once inadvertently asked for bread, and he gained a stone in a week."
Isabel laughed. "Then let us be content with only half a loaf; and, if we value our figures, we had better have that toasted."
"Contentment is often only a euphemism for cowardice," said Edgar.
"I am afraid S. Paul did not agree with you," remarked Mr. Seaton.
Edgar smiled; one of the reasons why he was so lovable was that he never lost his temper nor turned rusty in an argument. "S. Paul added godliness to the prescription, however, before he recommended it for general use," he said pleasantly.
Mr. Seaton laughed.
"It seems to me," continued Edgar, "that to bind oneself down to follow any particular party through thick and thin, is to do despite to one's own individuality."
"You know nothing at all about it," exclaimed his father.
The rector looked serious. "Individualism carried to excess soon becomes rebellion."
"Nevertheless," persisted Edgar, "it is one's duty to do what we think right, regardless of results. We know what was said of them who did evil that good might come; now we are afraid to do good lest evil may come, and I think that our condemnation is as just as theirs."
"I should be sorry to lead a party composed entirely of Edgars," Paul remarked, "there would be a regular Giants' Causeway of rocks ahead."
Mr. Ford nodded. Paul's straightforward common sense always appealed to him.
"There you go again!" cried Edgar. "Caution is your watchword, and it is a word I hate."
"So do I," agreed Isabel; "all the mistakes of my life have arisen out of caution."
"So have all the successes of mine," added Mr. Ford drily.
Mrs. Ford looked anxiously at Isabel. "I trust that your horror of caution does not extend to matters affecting your health, my dear; it is never safe for any one to run risks, and you do not look at all strong."
Isabel laughed, and Paul felt a sudden tightening of the muscles round his heart, and a moment's unreasoning hatred of Mrs. Ford. Who does not know the bitter loathing that we all feel when some one suggests to us that our nearest and dearest are not looking well? Such speakers are probably kind, or, at worst, only careless; but we hate them more than we hate the foes who wish to injure us.
"Mrs. Ford has been looking after my health too," said the artist.
His hostess smiled. "I only said I would not allow him to work too hard while he was here, and I advised him to take a glass of new milk at tea-time."
"The new milk is making a new man of me," said Mr. Madderley, looking gratefully at Mrs. Ford for all his quizzing.
"Now milk really is a fattening thing," Isabel said, shaking her head, "so is water."
"Is it, dear lady? I never take it."
"Then you ought to; I always do."
"The fairest flowers demand their dew," murmured the artist, bowing to Isabel.
"And artists—like poets and muses and people of that sort—live upon nectar, I presume," she retorted.
"Certainly," replied Mr. Madderley, "it is always a case of nectar or nothing with us."
"I know it is ignorant of me," said Joanna, "but I always confuse nectar with manna."
"So do I," echoed Alice.
"I don't believe that people would be satisfied with manna now-a-days," said Isabel, "they would want something more spicy than angels' food."
"Other times, other mannas," murmured the artist.
Isabel laughed again; and Paul wondered how any man could be such an idiot as to make puns. He did not quite realize that he would have laughed himself if Isabel had not done so, and would have thought Madderley an amusing fellow; but he did not like Isabel's evident amusement at all.
The conversation flowed on pleasantly all through dinner, and everybody was happy except Alice; but the sight of Paul's obvious devotion to Isabel proved a large fly in her ointment. It did not make her wild with jealousy as it would have made some women, nor hard and bitter as it would have made others; it merely reduced her to a humble and pitiful condition of mind, in which she wanted her mother to comfort her—or else another man to make love to her as Paul was making love to Isabel.
It is so easy for a woman to create a new heaven and a new earth for herself—especially the former—out of whatever she may have at hand. She must have a heaven of some kind, however scanty may be the materials wherewith she has to build; just as a little girl must have a doll, if it be only a bundle of rags tied round with a string. But men do not understand this. To them the manufacture of the new heaven and the new earth is not so simple; they cannot so easily sweep away the historical ruins of their past, and erect a fresh fabric upon the old foundations; for men are strong to do—and (still harder task!) to do without. They can live—after a fashion—without a heaven at all; and would rather do so than have a jerry-built edifice made up out of scraps they have not themselves chosen. But to women, poor souls! a heaven of some kind is a necessity of their being; and though the new one may not be formed after their ideal pattern like the old, it is better than nothing, and will probably in the end make them quite as happy.
Therefore Alice, feeling herself left out in the cold when she saw Paul and Isabel together, was in the state of mind that she would have accepted—and actually fallen in love with—Edgar, had he availed himself of these circumstances to propose to her. But poor Edgar had never learnt the art of making slaves out of circumstances. He was a good man and chivalrous, and he always did the right thing—but he invariably chose the wrong time for doing it. Just then he felt particularly tender towards Alice. He saw that she saw how Paul's face softened at the sight of Isabel; and he realized that every sign of affection shown towards Isabel by Paul was a fresh thorn in Alice's path. Edgar argued that if he lost Alice, no other woman could comfort him; and that therefore, Alice having lost Paul, no other man could comfort her. He forgot that love to a man is like health—he can exist after a fashion without it, though he cannot attain to a high standard of happiness; but that love to a woman is like life—she must have it, in some form or another, or else she will die.
It is interesting to notice that the men who happen to be in love, always join the ladies in advance of the others; consequently Paul and Edgar did not sit long over their wine. Paul went straight up to Isabel; and Edgar—with his ready instinct to help anybody who was hurt—asked Alice to come and see a new and rare orchid that was in the conservatory. After they had duly admired the orchid, they sat down beside the cool marble fountain. Edgar longed to take Alice in his arms and kiss her, she looked so pretty and so sorrowful; but instead of that he began to talk about the Sidbury election.
"I shall be sorry if the Tory has got in," he said, "it will vex my father, and I cannot bear to see him disappointed. He spoke at Sidbury last week, and made such a capital speech."
"Did he?" said Alice. She was wondering whether Paul would have loved her if she had been as clever as Isabel.
"But though it grieves me to see him disappointed," continued Edgar, "I am afraid it will some day be my duty to disappoint him more than any one. It will nearly break my heart, and yet I fear I shall be obliged to do it."
"How dreadfully sad!" murmured Alice. She was thinking that after all Isabel was not nearly as good-looking as she was, and that most men consider beauty far more important than brains in a woman.
"It is cruel work, Alice, when one's duty and one's affections clash! I sometimes wonder if my duty to my father is not more binding than my duty to my own conscience; yet if I acted as I thought wrongly, in order not to vex my father, I fancy such a course would be the doing of evil that good might come."
Alice sighed. "I expect it would." She was wishing she had been clever instead of pretty; it seemed to pay better in the long run after all.
Edgar went on: "I cannot help feeling that political life in a measure blunts one's finer perceptions and lowers one's ideals. Of course I see, with my father, that from the party point of view a certain amount of unanimity is imperative; but from the personal point of view I cannot see that a man is justified in sacrificing his own principles—and the expression of them—to any consideration whatever."
"Of course not," said Alice. She was wondering if Paul talked to Isabel about political and personal points of view, and if Isabel had any idea what it all meant.
"You see, Alice, the Sermon on the Mount is as binding now as it was eighteen centuries ago; yet who now gives his cloak to them that take his coat; or who strives to be meek and merciful and poor in spirit?"
Alice looked at Edgar. He was a handsomer man than Paul and much more religious; she wondered she did not like him as well.
"It is very difficult for me to talk about the things I really care for," he continued, his eyes bright with excitement. "I never do it to anybody except you, but you are different from everybody else. I cannot reconcile to my conscience the present attitude of the rich towards the poor—that is what troubles me so much."
"Does it? I am so sorry," said Alice gently. She was grieved for Edgar to be unhappy, but she wondered that he let a trifle such as this make him so.
"Yes; I cannot get it out of my mind. When the charge is brought against us, 'I was a stranger and ye took Me not in,' do you think it will be enough to answer: 'Lord, there were the workhouses and the poor rates; and indiscriminate charity was supposed to pauperize the lower classes'?"
Alice shook her head. "Of course not."
"Then what ought we to do?—or rather, what ought I to do? For it is my own beam that I must be looking after, and not my brother's mote. Oh! Alice, I think of this night and day, and yet I come to no satisfactory conclusion."
"Poor Edgar!" Alice was really sympathetic now. Conversation about politics did not interest her; it was completely over her head. But here was a man in trouble, crying out for help and comfort; this she understood well enough, and her woman's heart longed to comfort him.
"I cannot bear to grieve my father," sighed Edgar; "he has always been such a good father to me."
"And you have always been such a good son to him."
"I have tried to be; but that is not enough. The young man in the gospels had evidently been a good son, as he had kept all the commandments. Nevertheless he was called upon to sell all that he had and give to the poor."
"But there are lots of good men who don't sell all they have to give to the poor," suggested Alice, "and yet there is no doubt that they are quite as religious as you are, and quite as conscientious."
"I see that," agreed Edgar, "but every one is not called upon to make the same sacrifice. A man who is called to preach the gospel, has no right to disregard that call because some other man has not received it. We are each appointed to our separate work; and each man has got to do his own work, and not somebody else's because he thinks that would suit him better."
"Alice," called Mrs. Ford from the drawing-room; "come and give us some of your charming music, my dear."
So Alice went to the piano and sang "Robin Adair," in a voice to which Nature had given sweetness, and Sorrow had added expression. While she sang, Edgar felt a lump in his throat, and again longed to take her in his arms and console her; and Isabel's eyes filled with tears as she realized that what made London balls so fine and crowded assemblies so brilliant, was the presence of Paul Seaton; while Paul himself hoped that Alice's song would soon be over, so that he might go on talking to Isabel.
Safe screened by hills on either handFrom winter storms and summer heat,There lies a silly little land—The Country of Conceit.
One afternoon, not long after Isabel's visit to Chayford, Paul was having tea at the Farleys' house in Prince's Gate; and Lady Esdaile was there also, looking prettier than ever. Paul was feeling particularly happy, as he had done ever since Isabel had made herself at home among his own people; she had fulfilled even his ideal of her, and consequently he was content. He had yet to learn that the fact of a woman's being an angel in May, is no ground for supposing that she will be equally angelic in June—or even angelic at all. Isabel—with her fatal aptitude for taking her tone from her surroundings—was as earthly in London as she had been heavenly at Chayford; that is to say, the outward and visible Isabel was; and poor Paul, with all his love for her, as yet lacked the wisdom to understand her thoroughly. It always seems a pity, with regard to lovemaking, that when people are old enough to have learnt the game properly, they are generally too old to want to play at it. In this respect it is inferior to whist.
"Isn't London adorable just now?" exclaimed Isabel. "Everything is in such a rush that one has not time to think about anything."
"Rather a doubtful advantage, I should say," suggested Paul.
"Not at all. I hate thinking, it makes my head ache," replied Isabel flippantly.
Paul looked surprised and puzzled; was this the same woman who had sat beside him in Chayford Chapel and sung "There is a land of pure delight"? He did not know that Isabel's character was as yet so unformed that she was frightened at the depth of her own feelings, and that this was a feeble protest on her part against an emotion that was threatening to overwhelm her.
Lady Esdaile shook her head. "Mr. Seaton is right; it is shocking not to have time to think. The other day I was actually putting on a gown for the Wallingfords' dinner that I had worn there once before, simply because I was in such a hurry that I had not time to give proper attention to my wardrobe. Fortunately my maid happened to remember in time. But think how awful it would have been if I had worn the same dress at the same house twice in one season!"
"Dreadful!" agreed Isabel. "It is wonderful what an effect clothes have on one's character. Personally I have not the courage to show myself if I do not feel I am suitably attired; a characteristic which I inherit from my first parents."
Lady Farley laughed. "I think our conversation is greatly affected by our clothes," she remarked. "I can never administer a social snub properly unless I am wearing either fur or diamonds; and I couldn't possibly pray in a hat, or without a veil."
"I quite agree with you, Caroline," said Lady Esdaile; "I cannot bear to see a married woman of my age in church in a hat. And yet the unmarried ones look all right. Isn't it funny that a little thing like getting married should make all the difference between wearing a hat or a bonnet on Sunday?"
"Very funny," replied Lady Farley, "but great effects do result from small causes, Constance."
"They certainly do; I came upon an instance of that only the other day. The Featherstonehaughs' cook died suddenly, and so Mabel Featherstonehaugh was sent off straight to the Ellisons', as anything of that kind in a house is so unpleasant, you know."
"Of course it is," remarked Lady Farley, with her satirical smile.
Lady Esdaile continued: "Willie Philipson happened to be staying at the Ellisons' at the same time, and was so taken with Mabel that I shouldn't be surprised if he made her an offer. It would be an awfully good match for her; and yet if the Featherstonehaughs' cook had not happened to die just then, she and Willie might never have met each other."
Paul laughed; this speech was so exactly like Lady Esdaile and its flippancy did not irritate him at all. But he was conscious that if Isabel had said such a thing he would have felt more angry than he could express. Isabel also was conscious of this, and resented it. She argued that if Paul really cared for her, he would approve of everything she said and did; Paul, on the contrary, argued that because he really cared for her, it was agony to him when she said and did the things that he did not approve of; consequently (in speaking of a woman the word consequently is applicable here—had it been a man that was referred to, such an expression as strange to say would have been better)—consequently Isabel ran full tilt against all Paul's prejudices and theories.
"Aunt Caroline is right in saying that our conversation depends upon our clothes," she said, "mine is entirely guided by them."
"Oh! no, it isn't," ejaculated Paul, "you are talking nonsense."
"Pardon me, my dear sir, I am not; I must know better than you do what are the sources of my own wit. Have you never noticed that I am subdued in black, poetical in blue, innocent in green, and brilliant in yellow?"
"And what in white?" asked Lady Esdaile with interest.
"White I never wear, Aunt Constance, for the dual reason that my hairs are dark and my years are many."
"But it is so economical," persisted Lady Esdaile; "if you wear white, people never remember it."
"And they never remember me either," added Isabel, "I look so very plain in it."
"I am afraid we are shocking Mr. Seaton," said Lady Esdaile sweetly, "he looks so serious. But that is the worst of men; they despise us if we try to look nice, and they ignore us if we don't."
"Come, Lady Esdaile, we are not quite as bad as that."
Lady Esdaile sighed. "Yes, you are. And then, again, you hate us for getting old, and you laugh at us for trying to keep young. You really are tiresome creatures!"
Paul was amused. "I own we are hard upon you when you tell fibs about your ages, because such fibbing seems so foolish to us. When will women learn to be as proud of being old as they are now of being young?"
"When men admire old women as much as young ones, and not a moment before," replied Isabel smartly.
Every one laughed.
"I believe men really care as much about their clothes as we do about ours," continued Lady Esdaile, "only they don't talk about them as much. But that is because they are so reserved and queer. I've noticed men never talk about what they are thinking about. Isn't it funny of them? I expect it is because they are so clever, they can hide what they feel."
"The fools care about their clothes; but the clever ones are too clever to see that they are not clever enough to be independent of trifles," said Isabel, throwing the gauntlet down before Paul.
But he was too wise to pick it up just then, though he knew perfectly well that it was there.
So she rattled on: "I wonder if it would be possible for a woman to love a man well enough to condone his excellencies and to pardon his virtues. Love has accomplished some wonderful parlour-tricks, I admit; but I don't think it has ever gone so far as to throw a halo round a man with a conscience."
"Don't you?" said Paul drily, "I fancy you somewhat underrate the powers of the little blind god, and overrate the folly of your own sex."
"Don't have too much faith in my own sex," advised Isabel.
"Do not quarrel, my children," murmured Lady Farley; "the weather is too warm for anything but peace."
Lady Esdaile rose; she always left the room when any signs of a storm were brewing, and therefore had the character of being a peacemaker. "I must be going," she said, "I have so many calls to pay this afternoon. Good-bye, dear people."
Lady Farley went downstairs with her sister-in-law, and left the lovers to themselves.
There was a moment's silence, and then Paul asked: "Whatever possessed you to talk such nonsense as you have been doing this afternoon? You didn't mean a word of it."
Isabel pouted. She did not like to be scolded; she was not accustomed to it. "I did mean it. I'd as soon talk to a man with a hobby as a man with a conscience. They are both boring."
"You wouldn't; and you do yourself an injustice when you say things like that."
Isabel felt really cross; now and then Paul's superiority irritated her, and she kicked against it. This was one of the occasions.
"I wish a touch of human nature was added to the thousand and one excellencies which beset you," she said; "it would make you more amusing in this world, without in the least interfering with your chances for the next."
"I am human enough, goodness knows!"
"No, no, my dear sir; believe me, you flatter yourself. You are arechaufféof King Arthur and Jack the Giant-killer, flavoured to taste with extracts from theFairchild Family."
Paul smiled somewhat grimly. "Nevertheless you were kind enough to select me as your future husband."
"Not 'unless I might have another for working-days; your grace is too costly to wear every day,' but you will be just the thing for Sundays."
"You are very cross this afternoon," said Paul, trying to be pleasant, "but now you are coming for a walk with me, and that will do you good."
"No, I'm not."
Paul looked surprised. "Why not? You said that you were."
"I daresay I did; but I have changed my mind."
"But why? It is such a lovely afternoon, and it is now cool enough for walking."
Isabel looked at Paul from under her long eyelashes. He had been disagreeable, and she felt it her duty to punish him; she was a strict disciplinarian where her lover was concerned, and never let her own feelings hinder her from giving him such chastisement as she thought needful. To do them justice, however, it is but fair to add that her feelings were very accommodating in this respect, and rarely attempted to stand between Paul and the consequences of his misdeeds; on the contrary, they rather enjoyed the fulfilment of the decrees of inexorable justice.
"I don't want to go out this afternoon, because Lord Wrexham said he might call," she replied.
Inexorable justice was satisfied. The sentence—if out of proportion to the crime—was exactly suited to the criminal. Isabel was a connoisseur in punishments.
The victim was silent for a moment, then he said: "You ought not to have made any engagement for this afternoon, after you had promised to go out with me; your time was not your own".
"I don't care whose it was; anyhow I mean to take it and use it as I like."
"But you have no right to."
Isabel laughed. "Bah! who talks about rights now-a-days? Nobody has really any right to anything, except sufficient earth to bury them. I shall do what I want."
"Then do you mean to say you want to stay in and see Lord Wrexham?"
Isabel nodded.
"Confound him!" said Paul savagely.
"There! you are human after all," cried Isabel triumphantly.
"I always said I was. It was you that stated the opposite, if you remember. There is no doubt that the point is now proved beyond dispute, but it is my statement that you have supported, not your own."
"I think jealousy is a disgusting fault," said Isabel.
"I think so too, but that doesn't cure it. At any rate you will admit that it is extremely human."
Isabel shook her head sorrowfully, though she was really enjoying herself immensely. "It is very wrong and horrid and so like a man. I believe the reason why Paradise was Paradise to Adam was because he was the only man on the ground."
"Very probably; and the old Adam is so strong in me—in spite of your remarks to the contrary—that I mean to be the only man on the ground, too."
"You've got a horrid temper, Paul; you are like the man who always quarrelled with people till they liked him. You will never make anybody do what you want, if you go on in that way."
"Oh! yes, I shall. There is only one person in the world that I wish to do what I want, and she will do it in twenty minutes from now."
Isabel tossed her head. "Oh! dear no, she won't."
"Oh! dear yes, she will."
"How shall you make her?"
"I shall notmakeher; she will do what I wish her to do, partly because it is right, but chiefly because I wish it and she wishes to please me."
Isabel's face grew very red. "You are simply vile and detestable and altogether horrid!"
"I am quite aware of that, and therefore it is all the more wonderful that a woman who is simply delightful and brilliant and altogether charming should be ready to do as I wish."
Isabel shrugged her shoulders. "Nothing will induce me to go out this afternoon—nothing!"
Paul smiled and was silent.
Isabel stamped her foot. "I am not going to walk about London with a nasty disagreeable man, and I tell you so, once for all."
Paul looked at his watch. "Sixteen minutes before we start; I do not want to hurry you, but I know you like plenty of time to tie your veil and to see that your hair is all right."
Isabel looked very cross. "You are the most detestable man I ever met!"
"That may be; but, as I remarked before, your feeling is what the old hymn terms 'well-dissembled'."
"Well, I do hate you."
"All right. If this is hatred I am well content with it, and I would not change places with the people whom you love for worlds."
Isabel looked at herself in the glass. "If there is one thing I despise more than another," she remarked to her reflection, "it is a woman who does what a man tells her."
Again Paul found refuge in silence and smiles.
Isabel hummed a tune out ofPatience.
"Twelve minutes before we start," said Paul,à proposof nothing.
Isabel stole a look at him. "What should you do if I didn't go?" she asked.
Paul pulled his moustache to hide a smile. "You would soon see what I should do," he said cautiously. He had learned that the terrors of the Unknown evaporate with fuller knowledge, so he did not enlighten Isabel; moreover he would have found a difficulty in so doing, as he did not know himself.
"What should you do?" she persisted.
"Like 'the story of Auld Grouse in the gun-room,' my programme is all the more effective for not being told."
"I don't believe you know what you would do."
"Don't I though?" And there was laughter in Paul's eyes. "Besides," he added; "what is the use of providing for impossible contingencies?"
"It is the impossible that always happens," said Isabel.
"Except when it is the unexpected," corrected Paul.
Isabel pulled a yellow rose out of her belt, and began picking it to pieces. "Why are you so keen on making me go out with you this afternoon?" she asked.
"Because I want to enjoy the pleasure of being with you, and because every man has a right to his own."
"Then you don't care about my pleasure?"
"Pardon me; I care so much about it that if I thought it really was a greater pleasure to you to stay in and see Lord Wrexham than to go out with me, I would never ask you to go out with me again. But I don't think so, and that makes all the difference."
"You are jealous of Lord Wrexham; that is the long and short of it," said Isabel.
"Possibly," replied Paul drily.
"I never heard such rubbish!" And Isabel plucked at the rose with impatient fingers.
Paul looked at his watch again. "Just five minutes," he murmured, as if to himself.
"I hate you!" cried Isabel stamping her foot.
"I know; you said so a short time ago, and I told you that your hatred was the best thing in life, if you remember. Repetition is not argument, my dear Isabel."
Isabel did not answer; but, in spite of her hatred, she ran upstairs and put her hat and gloves on, and was down again before the twenty minutes had elapsed. And she did not know that while she was out of the room Paul picked up the remnants of the rose she had played with, and kissed them before he slipped them into his pocket-book.
People generally called Paul Seaton a hard man. They would have changed their opinion if they had seen his face when he kissed Isabel's shattered rose. But Paul was not the sort of man to kiss roses when there was any chance of being seen.
When Isabel came downstairs she looked so nice that Paul pursued the same course of treatment with her that he had pursued with the yellow rose; and with even greater satisfaction, to judge by the expression of his face.
"Why do you like me so awfully?" she asked.
"Because you are you, and because you are mine."
"Haven't we been horrid to each other this afternoon?"
Paul smiled. "I have been horrid, but you are never anything but charming, sweetheart."
"Oh! I know I'm none the less charming for being horrid sometimes; and—to tell the truth—neither are you. I believe that we are both nicest when we are nasty, and that when we hate each other we love each other the most."
Then they both laughed and went out and walked along the unfrequented and grassy ways of the park.
"Are you going to the Fulfords' to-night?" asked Isabel.
"No; they haven't asked me. Are you?"
"Not if you are not; I hate the parties that you don't go to. To adapt an old bull, you spoil half the parties by not being asked to them."
Paul shrugged his shoulders. "It is my misfortune and not my fault; for I am green with jealousy of every living soul who is invited to a party where there is a chance of meeting you."
"Isn't it funny," said Isabel meditatively, "how one person can make such a lot of difference? Paul Seaton goes away for a day or two, and London becomes as sparsely populated as the steppes of Russia and as desolate as the Great Sahara; Paul Seaton comes back again, and the place is as crowded as if it were the scene of a Jubilee procession or a royal wedding."
"Thank you," said Paul simply.
"I am going to bring out a new arithmetic book," continued Isabel, "with problems such as these: Take one from five millions and only one remains—and that one is yourself and very lonely."
Paul laughed, and Isabel rattled on: "Add one to two, and the result is still two; for the one is sadlyde trop, and so is shaken off as soon as possible".
"What a clever mathematician it is!" said Paul fondly.
"You are rather a swell at mathematics yourself, aren't you?" asked Isabel.
"I wasn't bad at them when I was at Oxford."
"Yet, my dear Paul, you are very slow at putting two and two together. I have often noticed it."
"Because that is a higher branch than those in which I was proficient. But wherein have I failed lately to satisfy the examiners on this score?"
"You don't always understand women—me, I mean."
"Do not blame Oxford for that; there was nothing in the least like you in the mathematics that I studied at the 'Varsity. They were dull, stupid things, with reason in them."
"How horrid!"
"And when you put two and two together they invariably came to four," continued Paul, "can you imagine anything more tame and uninteresting?"
"Nothing. Now what is the result of putting two and two together when you are dealing with me?"
Paul thought for a moment; then he said: "Sometimes five and sometimes a million; one can never tell; all one can tell for certain is that the result never will be four. The only conclusion it is never safe to arrive at in dealing with a woman is the only logical one."
"Which do you like best—me or mathematics?"
"My dear child, what an absurd question!"
"Which do you?" persisted Isabel.
Paul grew serious. "When I was at Oxford I liked classics better than mathematics, and rowing better than both of them; after I left the 'Varsity, I began to care about power and success and fame more than about rowing; now I love you more than power and success and fame put together, with all the kingdoms of the world thrown in."
"My dear old boy!"
"I only want to succeed now, in order that I may have the more to offer to you," continued Paul, "I feel that money is worth getting because it will give you ease; power, because it will give you rank; and fame, because it will give you pleasure. I used to care for these things for their own sake, now I only care for them for yours; and consequently I care ten times more for them than I used to do, and am ten times more keen on winning them. By Jove! if only I had Edgar Ford's chances, wouldn't I make my wife one of the most envied women in London!"
"Yet Edgar will never do much," said Isabel.
"I know he won't; that is the pity of it. If I were in Edgar's place, with all his advantages, I would be in the Government before I was forty. As for him, he will either not go into Parliament at all, or else throw up all chance of office by figuring as an independent member. As if a great empire could be governed by a bundle of fads!"
"Edgar is really an ascetic," said Isabel.
"Edgar is really an ass," said Paul.
Isabel shook her head. "He is a perfect angel in some things."
"And a perfect ass in others," repeated her lover.
"It is not always easy to tell the difference between an ass and an angel," remarked Isabel; "it confused Balaam a good deal, don't you remember? When he thought that it was only an ass that was hindering him on his journey, it turned out to be really the angel of the Lord. And Balaam's is not an uncommon mistake."
"Sweetheart, you are ingenious."
"I was only trying to keep you from repeating Balaam's blunder."
Paul sighed. "It is the sort of blunder to which I am prone; I should have been irritated with the creature, if I had been Balaam."
"I know you would; you are always so sure of yourself, and you cannot bear to be thwarted."
"But you shall be my angel, dear, and always stand in the way when you think I am wrong. You could turn me back from anything, Isabel."
"But you like Edgar, don't you?" Isabel asked.
"Like him? I should think I do. I consider he is one of the best fellows under the sun, and I have the greatest respect as well as affection for him. But I cannot help thinking that he uses the microscope too much and the telescope too little, figuratively speaking."
"I know what you mean."
Paul went on: "He so strains his moral eyesight with splitting hairs, that he is incapable of taking in a large general effect; and he is apt to confuse prejudices with principles, and crotchets with creeds. He is not content with conforming to the spirit of the law; he will obey it in the letter as well."
"I do not think you are just to Edgar," said Isabel.
"Possibly not. I am so much impressed by the necessity of attaining what is good, and the impossibility of rising to what is perfect, that it irritates me to see men neglecting an obvious duty for the sake of an impracticable dream."
"Do you think there is any danger of this in theoretical people?"
"I do," replied Paul. "Of course I know that it is better to build a cathedral than to make a boot; but I think it is better to actually make a boot, than only to dream about building a cathedral. It is far nobler to do great things than small things, I admit; but it is nobler to do small things than to waste all one's time in wanting to do great ones, and to end by doing nothing at all."
"Edgar certainly is a theorist."
"Edgar was born several centuries too late," continued Paul, "in the early days of Christianity he would have been an heroic martyr; in the middle ages, a cloistered saint; just after the Reformation, a consistent Puritan; at the time of the evangelical revival, an ideal early Methodist; but in the nineteenth century—as the intellectual son of a wealthy merchant—there seems no place for him."
"You and I, on the contrary, are very modern, aren't we, Paul? Old-fashioned things—such as wigs and cowls and martyrdoms—would not have been at all becoming to us."
And then the lovers fell to talking about themselves, and forgot Edgar and everybody else in their absorption in the subject under discussion.
You took my heart and made it beat,Then trampled it beneath your feetAnd watched its cracks and creases.Unless I make a great mistake,A heart thus hurt was bound to break;So say no more, for pity's sake,But sweep up all the pieces.
When the season was at its height it unfortunately happened that Isabel's evil genius made the suggestion that Paul was growing too headstrong and masterful, and prescribed a good dose of jealousy as a cure for this complaint. Of course Isabel should have known better than to listen to such dangerous promptings, and should forthwith have silenced the lying spirit by her faith in her lover and in his love for her. But no mortal is wise at all times—not even when the mortal happens to be a woman; and this was a time of unwisdom on Isabel's part.
"Paul is too sure of your love," whispered Isabel's evil genius, "now that you are always nice to him he takes your niceness as a matter of course."
"Paul is right to be sure of my love," replied Isabel's better self, "it is a poor trick to try to enhance the value of anything by pretending that its existence is precarious."
"There is no good in having power if you never use it," argued the evil genius.
"There is no good in having love if you ever abuse it," answered the better self.
"Paul is not nearly as fond of you as he was at first.
"Paul loves me as much as ever, and it is a shame to doubt him."
"If he is as fond of you as he was, why has he ceased to look black when you speak to another man?"
"Because he knows that I love him and he trusts me."
Then the evil genius whispered: "Do you think it would be possible to make him as jealous as he used to be?"
"I am sure it would, but nothing would induce me to try."
"Still it would be an interesting experiment—just to see for certain if he does love you as much as ever," suggested the evil genius.
This argument in Isabel's inner consciousness continued for several days; and the result of it was that—at a dance at the Gordons'—Isabel flirted outrageously with Mr. Madderley. Paul took it very well at first; he had perfect confidence in Isabel, and he knew that it does not do to pull the reins too tight. Isabel noticed that he took it very well, and put his endurance down to indifference; consequently she flirted harder than ever.
By an almost superhuman effort, Paul refrained from saying a word to Isabel on the subject, and succeeded in being quite kind and courteous when he bade her good-night, though he was in a fury of jealous misery underneath his calm exterior.
Isabel felt certain that such calmness showed that he did not care, and cried herself to sleep that night.
Paul argued that he owed it to Isabel to conceal his anguish.
Isabel argued that he owed it to her to reveal it.
Paul knew that you do not talk about a thing if it really hurts you.
Isabel knew that if a thing really hurts you, you cannot talk about anything else.
All through the following day this wretched state of things continued.
Paul was pale and quiet, and longed to throw himself into the Serpentine.
Isabel was flushed and brilliant, and talked to Lord Wrexham and Mr. Madderley in the Row.
Paul hoped that he might be kept from kicking Lord Wrexham and Mr. Madderley.
Isabel prayed that she might be kept from crying until she reached home.
Isabel thought that there was nothing in the world that mattered except love, but felt she would die sooner than let Paul see how much she cared for him.
Paul thought that there was nothing in the world that mattered except Isabel, but couldn't for the life of him imagine what had come to her.
Isabel decided that the only dignified course was to let Paul think she had ceased to love him.
Paul decided that the only honourable course was to give Isabel her freedom.
That night Isabel again cried herself to sleep, and Paul never went to sleep at all.
The next morning they both felt better, and repaired to Kensington Gardens on the chance of a meeting. Each was in a more reasonable and amiable frame of mind, and quite prepared to forgive the other if that other made an adequate show of penitence.
It was unfortunate, however, that neither had studied the part of the one to be forgiven.
Paul made up his mind that he would be patient with Isabel, and would not lose his temper however provoking she might be; so he began quite gently—after the customary greetings: "Look here, Isabel, I don't want to say anything nasty, because nasty words always leave a scar behind; but I wish you would not go on in the way you have done just lately. It isn't fair to me, but that is of small consequence; what really matters is that it isn't fair to yourself, for it makes people say horrid things about you; and that is the one thing that I cannot and will not bear."
Isabel looked surprised. This was a funny beginning for a penitential confession. "I don't know what you mean."
"Oh! yes, you do, dear," said Paul patiently.
Isabel was annoyed; she did not like being called over the coals as if she were a tiresome schoolgirl. "Oh! no, I don't. And anyhow I don't flirt worse than half the women in London."
"That is nothing to do with me, Isabel; I don't care a hang how much other women are talked about—I only care for what people say of you. Believe me, I am not blaming you, dear."
"Blaming me?—I should think not!" exclaimed Isabel angrily. How could any self-respecting woman forgive a man who talked about not blaming her?
"I only want to save you from doing things in a moment of temper that I know you will regret afterwards," added Paul.
Isabel's face flushed. "I can take care of myself, thank you; I knew how to behave, even before I had the inestimable privilege of learning manners from Mr. Paul Seaton."
Still Paul kept his temper. "You know, darling, you have been awfully rough on me the last few days; but I'll forgive you like a shot, and never say another word about it, if you will promise not to go on like that again."
"Thank you," said Isabel pertly. "I notice that as long as a clever woman is content to sit at a man's feet and say, 'This is the only man in the whole world,' that man thinks he enjoys the society of clever women; but if the clever woman happens to indulge in an opinion not implanted by him, he calls her unwomanly, and he pines for amiable stupidity."
"That is not fair, Isabel; I detest amiable stupidity."
"No, you don't; you really like it."
"Isabel, this is absurd, and you know it is."
Isabel felt absolutely sure now that Paul did not really care; an ideal lover would have been in a frenzy of agony at her anger, she thought, instead of taking it in this calm, superior way.
"I suppose you'd like me to be shut up like a Turkish woman, and never speak to any man but you!"