"Certainly not; but, all the same, I am not going to have my promised wife flirting with a lot of other men, and I tell you so. As I have said before, there are some things which a man would sooner renounce than share."
Isabel shrugged her shoulders. "You really have got a most detestable temper."
"Isabel, don't, for pity's sake, go on like this. There is nothing in reason that I would not do or bear for you, but it is possible to try a man too far."
"It strikes me there is precious little that you would do or bear for me, in spite of all your talk."
Paul looked very stern. "Do you really mean that?"
By this time Isabel had lashed herself into a perfect fury. "Yes, I do mean it; you are so proud and self-centred that you only care for what enhances your own importance. You are pleased to be engaged to a smart woman, because it reflects credit on yourself; but for the feelings of the woman underneath her smartness, you don't care a rap."
"Isabel, be careful what you say."
"No, I shan't be careful. I am tired of being careful and of considering your feelings, when you never show the slightest consideration for mine. You are hard and cold and selfish—that is what you are—and it is time you knew it! You never really loved me; you admired me, because I was showy, and you thought that a showy wife would help you in your career; but you never loved me as a woman—only as one of the steps by which you could mount to success."
Paul's face was very white. "How dare you say such things to me?"
"Because I think them. You are precious careful, forsooth, for fear people should talk about me, because you think such talk is in some measure derogatory to you; but you are pretty careless as to what you say to me, as you know that whatever you say, it will be none the worse for yourself. You only care for me and my reputation as an adjunct to your own importance."
"If you were a man, I should say you lied."
"Oh! no, you wouldn't. You dare not say half the nasty things to a man that you say to me."
"If you had been a man I should have silenced you long ago."
By this time Isabel was very angry with herself, and consequently ten times angrier with Paul; so she continued recklessly: "As long as you only thought I liked the other men better than you, you didn't care; it was only when you began to think I was bringing discredit on you, that you thought it necessary to make such a fuss".
"Isabel, once for all listen to me." Paul's voice was so ominously quiet that a wiser woman—or even a foolish woman who was not in a temper—would have taken warning; but Isabel possessed the dangerous gift of a vivid imagination; and what was once humorously said of faith may be literally said of imagination, namely that "it makes people believe what they know to be false".
"I won't listen to you and I won't be dictated to by you," she retorted, goading herself to still further fury by her own words; "if you had your own way, you would make a perfect slave of me, and trample me under foot. But I won't stand it."
"Isabel, you are very cruel and very unjust; have you no consideration for my feelings?"
"Not I. Why should I, when you have none for mine? You seem to think that feelings are a sign of exquisite refinement peculiar to yourself, and you are so busy seeing that everybody fulfils their duty to you, that you have no time to think of your duty to other people."
"We have had enough of this," said Paul, rising from his seat.
"More than enough, I should say."
"Still I have one question to ask. Did you mean it when you said that I only cared for you as a stepping-stone to my own success?"
Isabel tossed her head. "Of course I meant it; you never care for anything or anybody that does not minister to your own pride."
Paul's face was white, and his voice shook. "Then I have only one thing to say before I go out of your life altogether. I will not profane my love for you by talking about it to a woman who would grow tired of any lover as soon as his novelty had worn off; but I wish you to understand that I will neither see you nor speak to you, nor hold any communication with you, till you ask my forgiveness for having so insulted me, and till you retract that cruel untruth which in your heart of hearts you know to be untrue as well as I do."
Isabel drew herself to her full height, and her eyes blazed. It showed how little Paul really loved her, she thought, that he could give her up so easily. "Then you will never see me nor speak to me again," she said; "for I am not the woman to come grovelling to a man for pardon, because I once dared to tell him the truth to his face."
Without another word Paul turned on his heel and left her, and never once looked back. As he strode out of Kensington Gardens he felt that to him in future the place would be a cemetery rather than a garden, for there he had buried the one love of his life.
So Paul and Isabel passed out of each other's ken, simply because the latter had been fool enough to think that a good man's love was a thing to be played with, rather than a gift for which to "thank heaven, fasting".
There is no doubt that the troubles sent by Providence are always beneficial if taken in a proper spirit; but the troubles brought on by our own or another's ill-doing are not necessarily salutary at all. Therefore both Paul and Isabel were the worse for their separation.
Paul threw himself heart and soul into his work, and turned his back upon all the amenities of life. He had lost his faith in love and in his old ideals, and the loss was not good for him; he became morose and hard and cynical, and inclined to sneer at higher things. His love for Isabel had been so bound up with all that was best in him, that when Isabel failed, much of his best went with her—at any rate for the time being, till the first bitterness of the disillusionment was past.
As for Isabel, she put on a brave face before the world, and spent her days in laughter and her nights in tears. While Paul hid his misery under a mask of stern moroseness, she concealed hers under an affectation of frivolity. She had never seemed so gay or so heartless or so worldly; and, after a while, her imagination almost persuaded her that she cared as little as she pretended to care. She never allowed herself time to think, and she nearly succeeded in believing that she was really forgetting Paul; nevertheless she grew thinner and paler, and there was a wan look underneath her restless brilliancy that Lady Farley did not care to see.
Isabel never had any news of Paul; he had completely passed out of her life. But Paul managed to glean tidings of Isabel; and the news that she was more amusing and more admired than ever did not in any way lessen his misery.
Paul wrote a curt letter to his own people saying that Isabel had broken off the engagement, but giving no reason; and he begged that her name might never again be mentioned in his hearing. The minister was sorry, but felt that it was according to the decree of Providence; Mrs. Seaton was grieved, but feared that it was owing to the pride of Paul; and Joanna was angry, and felt sure that it was because of the vanity of Isabel. All of which suppositions were not without a foundation of truth.
Lady Farley tried hard not to be glad that the engagement was broken off; but she only succeeded in hiding her gladness from her niece. And she comforted Isabel—according to her lights—by taking her into society more untiringly than ever.
One night, towards the end of the season, there was a party at the Marchioness of Wallingford's; and Isabel was, as usual, surrounded by a small court of men. She was looking particularly well in a yellow gown, which suited her dark hair to perfection. Mr. Madderley, on learning from her in the Row that morning that yellow was to be her "only wear" at this party, had sent her a spray of yellow roses. But Isabel hated yellow roses; she had worn one in her belt the day that Paul made her go for a walk with him, and therefore—like Ben Jonson's "rosy wreath"—such flowers thenceforward smelt not of themselves but Paul. So she threw away the artist's gift, and would not touch it again.
"I suppose you will shortly be going down to Elton Manor, Miss Carnaby, and thereby turning London into a desert," said Lord Wrexham.
"No," replied Isabel. "I am not going to Elton, but to Homburg instead. I am getting too old for the country, do you know?"
"I cannot allow that," remonstrated his lordship.
"Yes, I am. I consider the country is only suited to people who are young enough to go in for picnics and ideals and things of that kind. Up to five-and-twenty, sunsets excite your highest emotions, and make you yearn after the impossible; after five-and-twenty, they give you rheumatism and show up your wrinkles."
"I like the country," remarked Lord Robert Thistletown, "though I am at last in the proud position of being able to deny the soft impeachment of being under five-and-twenty; it always makes me feel good, and fills me with the desire to sing hymns and to write to my mother."
"I also like the country," murmured Mr. Madderley; "it gives me a peaceful, lotus-eating kind of feeling, which is most soothing."
Isabel shook her head. "I could stand a land where it was always afternoon, but what I cannot endure is a land where it is always Sunday evening."
"I thought you liked Sunday evenings and things of that kind," remarked Lord Robert.
"I used to, but I have outgrown them," replied Isabel.
"Dear lady, I understand," sighed Mr. Madderley. "I never cared for Sunday evenings myself, but I used to adore Holman Hunt. It is the same kind of sentiment, and indicates the state of mind which would revel in Wordsworth's 'Ode on the Intimations of Immortality'."
"Have you outgrown it too?"
"I have not outgrown my appreciation of the art and the poetry thus embodied; but I have ceased to have any feeling excited thereby save admiration."
"I suppose the real explanation is that as we grow older we lose in imagination what we gain in experience," said Lord Wrexham.
Isabel shrugged her shoulders. "I think it rather lies in the fact that in drinking the draught of life we soon get through the white froth on the top and come to the small beer underneath."
"Well, I like Sunday evenings and hymns and things in that line," persisted Lord Bobby. "I even go to the length of liking Christmas Day."
"A man who can like Christmas Day will drink sweet champagne and enjoy it," remarked Madderley.
Lord Bobby shook his head. "Oh! I won't go that far."
"Now I, on the contrary," said Isabel, "cannot bear Christmas Day; it is neither one thing nor another."
"Yes, it is," argued Lord Bobby. "It is both; it is a delicious compound of Sunday morning and Saturday afternoon."
"Just so," replied Isabel, "it wears a silk blouse with a serge skirt, and so is neither Sunday nor week-day. Now, sweet champagne I do like; and if people give their guests dry champagne, I think sugar and cream ought to be handed round with it, as they are with tea. But Christmas Day is another thing. To the young it brings unqualified bliss, I admit; but to the mature it brings passive depression followed by active indigestion."
"But you used to be awfully keen on goodness and all that sort of thing," objected Lord Robert. "I never met such a girl for ideals as you were at one time."
"My dear Bobby, I was once awfully keen on dolls and blind man's buff. As I told you, I am growing old."
Lord Robert looked puzzled and disappointed. "But you still believe in good people, don't you, Miss Carnaby?"
"Oh, yes; but they bore me. I believe in quinine as a drug, but I think it is very nasty as a flavour."
Lord Wrexham smiled indulgently. "The fact is that you have such a gay and sunny nature yourself that too much seriousness oppresses you and overpowers you. Ethereal beings cannot exist in a heavy atmosphere."
"I cannot endure the sort of good people who have their biographies written," exclaimed Isabel.
"Nevertheless, biography is the style of fiction I most affect," said Mr. Madderley, "especially the biographies of people I have met. It is so interesting to learn that what one had despised as dulness was in reality genius; and that what one had regretted as rudeness was in reality the scorn of a great soul for conventions."
"While what one condemned as bad temper was actually a noble struggle against evil," added Isabel.
"A saint in crape is twice a saint in print," murmured the artist.
"You shall write our biographies, Mr. Madderley, and show how I was wise, Lord Bobby was profound, and Lord Wrexham was—I don't know what Lord Wrexham had better be."
"Amusing, perhaps," suggested his lordship quietly.
"I should like to see you with a really serious-minded man, and hear how you got on with him," said Mr. Madderley. "I mean one of the sort of men who go in for duties and responsibilities and queer fads of that sort, and always keep a tame conscience in full work on the premises."
"Isn't it funny," remarked Isabel thoughtfully, "that if a woman talks to a man about his soul, other women call her a saint; while if she talks to him about his heart, they call her a flirt? They have not the sense to know that the flirtiness consists in talking to the man about himself at all."
All the men laughed.
"There is really nothing to talk about but ourselves," continued Isabel, "just as there is really nothing for breakfast but bacon. People try all sorts of fancy subjects and dishes, but they come back to where they started from, like boomerangs."
"You are a very clever young lady," said Lord Wrexham appreciatively. "You combine such keen powers of perception with such a great facility of expression."
"Thank you. I have devoted a considerable time to 'the proper study of mankind,' and I consider myself a proficient in the subject."
"It is a subject which repays careful study, my dear lady," remarked Madderley. "I know only one that excels it in interest, and that one—being composed entirely of brilliant exceptions ungoverned by any guiding rules—I should describe as a dangerous recreation rather than as a proper study."
"I don't believe you understand men as well as you think you do," exclaimed Lord Bobby bluntly.
Isabel raised her pretty eyebrows. "Don't I, though?"
"Pardon me, Thistletown," said Mr. Madderley; "you are surely mistaken. Miss Carnaby's knowledge of this subject is experimental as well as profound, and her treatment of it is beyond—sometimes considerably beyond—all praise."
An angry spot burned on Isabel's cheek. "You are pleased to be very witty this evening, Mr. Madderley."
"Once upon a time," added the artist, "there was a rose who imagined she knew how to make beeswax, because there were always some bees buzzing round her. It amused the bees."
"And what was the end of the story?" asked Isabel.
"The end, dear lady? There is but one end to all stories. The rose faded."
He proved that Hope was all a lie,And Faith a form of bigotry,And Love a snare that caught him;Then thought to comfort human tearsBy sundry ill-considered sneersAt things his mother taught him.
Early in the year following Isabel's cruel treatment of Paul, a novel was published which made some little stir. It was calledShams and Shadows, and was by an unknown author, Angus Grey.
It was not what is generally known as a bad book; yet, nevertheless, it was very far from being good. Its cleverness was undeniable; but, on the other hand, its style was flippant, its teaching mischievous, and its philosophy cynical in the extreme. The aim of the book was to prove that the fashionable world is rotten at the core, and that the religious world is no better; and that in all Churches and sects there are little side-chapels dedicated to Mammon, where the majority of the worshippers are to be found.
Angus Grey was apparently a man who had eaten of apples of Sodom, and had found them turn to ashes in his mouth; and he was anxious to share his meal with the rest of mankind, and to exclude no one from partaking of his bitter hospitality. Evidently he was a disappointed man, and his disappointment had not improved him. With a crude and cheap cynicism, he set forth that the ideals of youth are a dream, and the professions of later life a delusion; and he sneered alike at the follies of the young and the pretences of the middle-aged.
To Angus Grey there was nothing sacred, nothing holy; and he pointed his morals and adorned his tale with caricatures of personages well known in society.
To the initiated, some of the characters inShams and Shadowswere portraits but thinly disguised. It was easy to recognize Lord Wrexham, Bobby Thistletown, and Mr. Madderley; but the best drawn character in the book was the heroine, who was the counterfeit presentment of Isabel Carnaby; yet not Isabel as she really was, and as Nature had meant her to be; but Isabel as she appeared to outward seeming, when the worldly and frivolous side of her character was upper-most. She had all Isabel's fun and sparkle and good-humour; but underneath them lay a cold and shallow selfishness, which disgusted the readers she had at first charmed.
At first everybody was asking who Angus Grey could be, as it was evident that he was some one well versed in the ways of this particular set; but gradually it was whispered about that the author ofShams and Shadowswas "that young Seaton whom Isabel Carnaby threw over last season". Lady Farley was not surprised to hear this; she had long suspected it; but she took it upon herself to break the news to Isabel, as she did not know how her niece would take it.
"By the way," she said to Isabel one day, "it has come out at last who Angus Grey really is; it is thenom de plumeof Paul Seaton."
Isabel started up, her face very white. "Who told you so? It isn't true. I won't believe it!"
"But you must believe it, my dear. It is an open secret. Everybody knows."
"How can people be so unjust? Paul would never have written a horrid book like that; I know him too well to believe such a thing."
"I grant you that it is not a nice book," said Lady Farley, "nor one that a gentleman would have written. But that he did write it, there is no doubt; for Bobby Thistletown met him and asked him straight out if he had adopted the name of Angus Grey, and Mr. Seaton confessed that he had. You know how Bobby goes straight to the point, and how there is no hoodwinking him when he wants to find out anything."
Isabel looked dumfounded. "Do you mean that Paul actually told Bobby that he was Angus Grey?"
"I have told you exactly what Bobby told me, so, you see, I come straight from head-quarters."
"What else did Bobby say to Paul?" asked Isabel.
"Oh, he congratulated him on the success of his book, and Mr. Seaton thanked him and said it had already had a great sale. But the fact is that Bobby was so disgusted with the personal tone of the book that he did not care to be on friendly terms with the author, so he cut the conversation somewhat short."
"Do you think it is such a horrid book, Aunt Caroline?"
"It isn't an improving book—no one pretends that it is; but it is very smart. And I cannot see that you, of all people, have any right to blame Paul Seaton for writing it. If it amuses you to break men's hearts, my dear, by all means do it; but do not cry out if the smash makes more dust and noise than you expected. Breakages are often noisy, from tea-things upwards."
"But Paul never was flippant or cynical," persisted Isabel.
"Of course he was not till you made him so. As you know, I never liked Paul Seaton; but I am a just woman, and in this matter I cannot help saying that I consider you are more culpable than he. I am not blaming you, my dear child, for I should probably have done the same thing at your age; but if you have your fling you must be content to pay the bill."
Isabel sighed, and her aunt continued: "You deliberately broke the young man's heart and destroyed all his ideals; yet you are surprised when, in return, he tries to prove to the world that love is a fable and idealism a folly. It is simply the natural outcome of your action."
"Oh! Aunt Caroline, what shall I do?"
"Nothing. There is nothing to be done; it would have been more dignified, perhaps, had the man not cried out when he was hurt; still it is very human to cry out when our pain seems more than we can endure, and I feel I cannot blame him much. If any one had treated me as you have treated Paul Seaton, I think it is in me to write quite as bitter a book asShams and Shadows, and probably I should have done so."
"But Paul was different."
Lady Farley smiled. "Different from me, you mean! My dear, you must remember that he was your lover and I am only your aunt, and you look at us through differently tinted spectacles. But human nature is pretty much the same in everybody, and when human nature is hit too hard, human nature hits back, either at its fellows, or at Providence, or at both. I admit that it was somewhat ill-bred of Mr. Seaton to abuse our hospitality by making 'copy' of our faults. Still if you objected to seeing the real nature of the Tartar, you should not have scratched the Russian so hard. Disappointment shows what stuff men are made of."
"I suppose it does," Isabel acquiesced.
"There is no doubt, my dear Isabel, that you behaved very badly to Paul Seaton; and it was a natural enough revenge, I think, to show to the world—in the person of his heroine—how heartless a fashionable woman can be. I really cannot see that you have any just ground for complaint, though perhaps some others of his characters have."
Then Isabel went to her own room, and cried as if her heart would break. She understood, as no one else could, the subtlety of Paul's revenge; and just at first she felt that her punishment was almost greater than she could bear.
After the secret of Angus Grey's identity leaked out, Paul Seaton sent the following letter to the minister:—
"MY DEAR FATHER,
"I should be grieved for you to learn from any third person that I have adopted the pseudonym of Angus Grey. I know thatShams and Shadowsis not a book that you will like—perhaps I do not like it myself—but I would remind you, before you pass judgment upon it, that people who are sorely disappointed do not preach gospels of peace and goodwill. I also wish to tell you that—however bitterly I may have been disappointed in other people—the reverence I have always felt for your religion and my mother's will abide with me to my dying day. Do not let anything that you may read in the pages ofShams and Shadowsever lead you to doubt this.
"Your affectionate son,"PAUL SEATON."
Mrs. Seaton cried overShams and Shadowsin secret, and longed to comfort the sore heart that could have written such a story; Joanna disapproved of the teaching of the book, but could not help thinking it clever; and the minister dealt justly with the matter, and felt that sorrow was a reason for bitterness but not an excuse.
As he and Joanna were going for a long country walk one Monday afternoon, the latter said: "I am sadly disappointed that the book Paul has been going to write all his life has turned out to be such a book asShams and Shadows; he ought to have done something so different; but all the same I do not blame Paul as much as I blame Isabel. Though Paul has actually written the book, it was Isabel's cruelty to him that made him capable of writing it; for I am certain that she was cruel, though Paul has never said so."
"My child," said Mr. Seaton, "I cannot see that any unkindness on the part of Isabel can justify Paul's action in this matter. No one does wrong without some sort of temptation or excuse; yet we are none of us tempted above what we are able to bear, and it is our duty to avail ourselves of the way of escape provided for us."
"But, father, think how our Paul must have changed before he could write a bitter, cynical book like that! And I cannot yet forgive the woman who has altered him so."
The minister shook his head. "A man is not justified in letting any woman, however dear, come between his own soul and God. His happiness may depend upon the woman he loves, I admit; but his religion should be independent of her, and of everybody except himself."
"But supposing he cannot help it."
"He must help it, Joanna; it is a man's first duty to be religious; a man who is not religious is not a whole man. He may have a fine literary style and be an accomplished scholar—but he is not made in the image of God."
"But would you call Paul's book irreligious?" asked Joanna.
Her father thought for a moment. "I am afraid I should. It is not, of course, atheistic or immoral; I do not mean that; but it is cynical and flippant; and 'he that is not with Me is against Me'."
Joanna sighed. "It is sometimes difficult to be religious."
"It ought not to be. Religion is not a bill of pains and penalties, but a charter of happiness. But, understand me, I do not condemn Paul's book because it does not preach any special tenet or uphold any peculiar creed; for the older I grow the more catholic do I become."
"I am not like that," said Joanna, "as I grow older, the more fondly do I cling to my own 'ism'—not because it is an 'ism,' but because it is my own."
"You are still a great deal younger than I am. Our division lines are far too strong. The Church began in catholicity and must end in catholicity, and I would avoid all peculiar garbs or shibboleths. Anything which connects godliness with a grey gown or a close bonnet is not religion at all, but sectarianism. Therefore I do not blame my son for not preaching Methodism; I only blame him for not preaching Christ."
"Yet you love Methodism as much as I do, don't you, father?"
The minister's face glowed. "Yes, I love it—of course I love it; but I do not condemn those who do not love it as I do. As long as there are different types of character, there must be different forms of worship; yet nothing appeals to me like the good old Methodist fashion of bringing religion into the common experiences of everyday life, and treating it as a familiar thing. To a Ritualist this might seem irreverent; to a Broad Churchman, oppressive; but I always feel it may be said of the Methodists, as of the Israelites of old, 'They did eat and drink, and saw God'."
"The thing that grieves me in Paul's book is its want of idealism and its disbelief in the underlying goodness of human nature," remarked Joanna, as they turned into Chayford Wood.
"I do not agree with you there. Human nature, apart from God, is not a fine thing, and I have no sympathy whatever in the modern worship of Humanity with a capital H. Human nature is our disease—Christ is our cure; and a physician who diagnoses any complaint without suggesting the remedy, may be an able scientist, but he is a sorry doctor. I cannot quarrel with Paul for showing us that human nature is bad; but I do quarrel with him for trying to show us that religion is not much better."
"Still we must do Paul justice," said Joanna loyally; "and one cannot deny thatShams and Shadowsis a brilliantly clever book."
"So be it; yet it is character—not intellect—that governs this world and inherits the next."
"Yet, father, if Paul were really in such dreadful trouble and bitterness of spirit, he could not write a book and keep himself, and therefore his sorrow, out of it."
"Perhaps not," replied Mr. Seaton, "then why write a book at all? Our fathers doubtless sorrowed as we sorrow now, yet they locked their grief up in their own breasts, while we proclaim it on the housetops. I cannot approve the modern custom of telling out all we know and feel."
"Don't you think people ought to write books?" asked Joanna.
"Not unless they have a message to deliver; and, moreover, a message which will make for good and not for evil. Now every boy who learns a lesson or loves a woman must needs write a book about it, till we feel inclined to ask, like the Egyptian of old: 'Who made thee a ruler and a judge over us?'"
"That is quite true!"
"People are too anxious to make a stir in the world," continued her father, "the doctrine of to-day is that it is disgraceful to be unknown. The souls of modern men need all their wings to enable them to fly as quickly as their fellows, and they have none left wherewith to cover their faces and their feet."
"But, father, it is natural for men to long for fame."
"Natural, doubtless, my child, but not spiritual. Why will not men be content to love Christ and live contentedly as failures, remembering that—humanly speaking—His religion is a failure in the world to-day?"
"Still people have to make a living," argued Joanna the practical, "and if they can do it better by writing books than in any other way, I do not see why they shouldn't."
"If making a living be all we think of, we had better have been cows or horses," said Mr. Seaton, "in the present day, money and amusement are the only things people really care about, and poor things they are wherewith to satisfy immortal souls. But a writer is in a measure a preacher, and takes responsibilities upon himself towards others which he is bound to fulfil."
"Yes, father dear, I see what you mean."
"Every writer is an evangelist of some sort. Homer preached the gospel of war, and Virgil taught the ancients the blessedness of a peasant's lot; Horace pointed out the inherent meanness of human nature, and in Milton's hands we may say of the epic, as of the sonnet, that 'the thing became a trumpet' to proclaim the religious tenets of the Puritans. And I would rather that my son had followed in the steps of Virgil or of Milton than of Homer or Horace."
And then Mr. Seaton went on to expound to his daughter the messages and the methods of the ancient schools of poetry, and let Paul and his doings alone.
Not long after this, Paul Seaton came home for a short visit; but his holiday did not prove a success. His family carefully refrained from saying anything derogatory ofShams and Shadows; but Paul was so much afraid of their doing so that he was on the defensive all the time, and consequently decidedly disagreeable. Moreover, he was still very unhappy, and unhappiness does not tend to social charm. He appreciated his parents' forbearance aboutShams and Shadowsmore than they had any idea of; but, as yet, he was too sore and too deeply wounded to be able to say pleasant things to anybody; therefore he unjustly got the credit of not feeling them. Altogether life was passing but roughly for Paul at that particular time.
Just before he went back to town, Edgar said to him: "You won't be vexed with me, will you, old fellow, if I speak to you as a friend about matters which do not concern me?"
"Well, what is it?" asked Paul ungraciously.
"I want you to write another book to counteract the influence ofShams and Shadows. No one understands better than I do the feelings which influenced you when you wrote it; but feelings pass away, and a man is not always the same man. The talent displayed in the pages of your book might have a decided influence for good if used in a right direction; and I want you so to use it, and to rise to higher things on the stepping-stone of the dead self that wroteShams and Shadows."
Paul smoked in silence, and Edgar went on: "And there is another argument I would use, if I were sure you would forgive me for using it, and not think me interfering or impertinent."
"Go on," said Paul, "it is all right.".
"You see," said Edgar, "if we do anything as the result of a state of mind which has been brought on by the action of another person, that person is, in a measure, responsible for our action."
Paul nodded, and Edgar continued: "If we had ever loved that person, I do not think we should like to feel that they—through us—had wrought lasting evil; this conviction would be a source of endless remorse to us, for the old love's sake, even long after that love was a thing of the past. We might be content to bear the consequences of our own share of ill-doing; but we could not endure the idea that we ourselves had increased the responsibility of any one who had once been dear to us, however thoroughly they might have forfeited our affection. I won't say any more, old man; it is very good of you to have listened to me so far; and I think you will understand what I mean."
"Look here," replied Paul, "you have spoken very kindly to me, and I appreciate what you have said and, perhaps still more, what you have left unsaid; and I will confess to you what I have confessed to no other living soul, namely, that I regret with all my heart thatShams and Shadowswas ever written. I would gladly give twenty years of my life to unwrite it if I could; but that, unfortunately, is impossible."
"You cannot unwrite it, I know," said Edgar, "but you can write a new book that will prove its antidote; and, by your new book's superior depth and power, you can make men forget thatShams and Shadowswas ever written." And he laid a brotherly hand on his friend's shoulder.
Paul rose from his chair and stood with one elbow on the chimney-piece. "That is what I have been intending to do for some time. I mean to devote all my powers to writing a book in my right mind and in my right name, and I will endeavour to teach men that what is good is good, and what is bad is bad, which is, after all, the end of human wisdom. And people shall see that the cynicism ofShams and Shadowswas the crying of an unhappy and wayward child rather than the knowledge and experience of a full-grown man."
"What will be the name of the new book?" asked Edgar.
Paul thought for a moment. "I think I shall call itSome Better Thing," he said.
Upon the mountain top I stoodAnd all the land beneath me lay;I saw that earth was very good,But heaven seemed just as far away.
It was in the following winter that Paul Seaton's great book,Some Better Thing, took the literary world by storm, and carried its author at one bound from mere notoriety to abiding fame. Everybody read the book, and everybody who read it was the better for reading it. It was a novel with a purpose, and its purpose was to show that it is only by righteousness that men and nations prevail; also, that there is much that is humorous in life as well as much that is holy, and that healing virtue lies in laughter as well as in prayers and tears. It was a strong book, and yet infinitely pathetic; and it was perfectly free from the taint of shallow cynicism on the one hand and of mawkish sentimentality on the other. Preachers recommended its teaching, and speakers quoted its epigrams; and, in short, Paul Seaton became the man of the hour, and Angus Grey was forgotten. This latter end was the more easily accomplished because the first edition ofShams and Shadowswas sold out, and another was not forthcoming.
Some Better Thingbrought great joy to the heart of Mark Seaton. That his son was among the successful writers of the day, was nothing to him; but that his son was among the great teachers of the day, was everything. Mrs. Seaton and Joanna likewise rejoiced, and felt thatShams and Shadowswas expiated and done away with. So happiness reigned once more in Chayford Cottage.
As for Paul himself, the success of his book pleased him to a certain extent; and it was a source of keen delight to him to feel that men no longer condemned him as the writer ofShams and Shadows, but rather respected him as the author ofSome Better Thing. But Isabel had spoiled his life for him, he felt; and no mere public applause could fill up the aching blank that she had left. She had gone near to marring his character as well; but he had come safely through the dark valley of humiliation and disappointment, and stood whole and in his right mind on the farther side. Yet his happiness had not survived the chills of the dark valley; and fame without happiness is but a sorry jest at best. What matters it to a thirsty man if his empty cup be of gold or silver or of finest glass? Such outside splendours will not slake his thirst.
Nevertheless in Paul's mind the thought was ever present that Isabel Carnaby would seeSome Better Thing, and would read as much, perhaps, between the lines as the public could read in them. And—if the truth must be told—this thought gave him more pleasure than all his literary triumph; for, in spite of what had happened, his love for Isabel was as strong as ever, and his hope was not yet dead that some day they two might be brought together again and might bid bygones be bygones. Paul knew that the ideal Isabel whom he had loved was no creature of his own imagination, but the real Isabel as God had intended her to be; he had merely recognized—not imagined—the soul of the woman hidden under her somewhat frivolous exterior. He believed that this soul was not extinct, but merely dormant for a time, and he knew that he was the only man who had power to awaken it fully to life again. There was no doubt that Isabel had been cruel as well as wilful; but perhaps he had been too hard and stern for so highly strung a nature as hers; and to those that love much, surely much can be forgiven. Anyhow Isabel had not committed the one crowning offence in his eyes—she had not put another man in his place—and as long as she was still Miss Carnaby, Paul felt there was yet a possible morning of joy to his present night of weeping.
Early in the year Paul went down to Chayford, and was welcomed as a conquering hero. The family at the Cottage were never tired of talking aboutSome Better Thing; butShams and Shadowswas only once alluded to, and then by Paul himself.
"Father, do you think thatShams and Shadowsis now atoned for?" he asked one day.
"My son, we will never speak ofShams and Shadowsmore. Do you think that when the angel led Peter out of prison they talked of the denial; or when Moses stood on the Mount of Transfiguration he was reminded of his disobedience at Meribah? The teaching of modern philosophy is that what is done is done, and what we have written we have written; and that there is no atonement for the deed once accomplished, and no washing out of the handwriting against us. But I have not so learned Christ."
"Then do you believe that what is done can ever be undone?" asked Paul. "Surely that is impossible."
"I do not wish to prophesy smooth things," replied his father, "nor to sprinkle the way of life with rose-water. I know that if a man breaks the laws of Nature he will be punished to the uttermost, for there is no forgiveness in Nature. I know that if a man breaks the laws of Society he will find neither remission nor mercy, for there is no forgiveness in Society; but I believe that if a man breaks the law of God his transgression can be taken away as though it had never been, for 'there is forgiveness with Thee that Thou mayest be feared'."
"It is a grand gospel that you preach, father, and seems almost too good to be true."
"Nothing is too good to be true; the truth is the best of everything."
"I believe that," said Paul, "but I did not always."
"Before you were afflicted you went astray," answered the minister, "but the word is very nigh you now."
"I hope so."
"The modern gospel of the grandeur of human nature is a hard one," said Mr. Seaton, "and tends rather to exalt the creature than to glorify the Creator. If the great object of life is the formation of our own character, then, I grant you, each action must leave its indelible mark; but if the great object of life is the glory of God, then, surely, the mistakes of foolish men will not be allowed to cast lasting shadows across the eternal Light."
"You think our ideas are too small."
"Yes, and too personal. The business of our lives is to give glory to God; and it is of no moment whether we do it by sounding His praises abroad or by keeping His commandments at home. It seems to me that now-a-days men think and talk too much about improving their own characters, and meditate too little upon the perfection of the Divine Character."
"They ought to do the one without leaving the other undone," said Paul. "I cannot admit that holiness is a substitute for usefulness."
"You and I travel by different roads and our methods are not alike; yet both our ways lead up to Jerusalem, as all roads lead to Rome."
"Yes," replied Paul, "the railways are not laid along the old coachroads, but they bring us to the same places as the coaches did."
"And more quickly, too," added Mr. Seaton. "I must not forget that."
During his stay at Chayford, Paul saw a great deal of Mr. Ford. These two shared many opinions, both political and otherwise, and much enjoyed mutual intercourse.
"I wish you could knock some of your common-sense into Edgar," said Edgar's father one day, "it would be invaluable to him in his political career."
"The inculcation of common-sense is a complicated operation," replied Paul.
"I know it," sighed Michael Ford.
"Does Edgar intend to go into Parliament soon?" Paul asked, as he and Mr. Ford walked down the High Street together.
"I mean him to stand for Chayford at the next election. The sitting member, Halkin, has decided to retire after the present Parliament, and the Liberal executive of Chayford have resolved to accept Edgar in his place as their candidate."
"I suppose it will be a walk-over for Edgar."
"Practically so. Chayford has always returned a Liberal, and a Liberal of the good old school—none of your new-fangled faddists. Besides, Edgar would be sure of the Wesleyan vote solid; no Wesleyan, however Conservative, would vote against one of the Fords of Chayford."
"That is quite true; the Wesleyans are a wonderful people for pulling together."
"What I am afraid of," continued Mr. Ford, "is that Edgar will go in for somewhat extreme measures, instead of jogging along on the good old beaten track. I suppose he would be sure of the seat even if his views were decidedly advanced; but I had rather he had adopted the political creed which satisfied his fathers before him."
"Still our fathers' creeds and our fathers' faiths do not always fit us, Mr. Ford; and I do not believe in equipping ourselves for the battle of life with second-hand weapons and armour, even though they be inherited from our parents. What should you think of a soldier who went to War to-day in the coat of mail worn by his ancestors during the Crusades; or was content to arm himself for the fray with a musket that did good service at Waterloo?"
"I should call him a picturesque fool."
"So should I; I think that it is every man's duty to keep abreast of the time," continued Paul, "whether he be a doctor or a politician. You would not consider a doctor was breaking the fifth commandment because he refused to cure fever by cupping, or smallpox by inoculation; then why should you bring this charge against the politician who has outgrown the Liberalism of the Whigs?"
Mr. Ford shook his head. "You young men always think you know better than the old ones."
"We don't really know better; we only know what is better for us and for our generation. Politicians are 'the faculty' of the State, and it is their business—as it is the doctors' business—to prescribe for the diseases of to-day and not for the diseases of the past century. The medicines which cured the latter will probably have no effect upon the former."
"You mean that each generation has its own difficulties to contend with, and must therefore use its own special methods. There is a good deal in what you say, I must admit."
"Where I disapprove of modern philosophy," continued Paul, "is when it begins to sneer at the teaching of former schools. My argument cuts both ways; if we know our own business better than our fathers, they knew their business better than we do. Each generation understands what is best for itself; and it is just as foolish for us to deride our fathers' methods, as for them to despise ours. Their ways were the ways for yesterday, as ours are the ways for to-day; and the transference of either would be an anachronism."
Mr. Ford nodded. "I see; and I am almost tempted to agree with you."
"But besides the unwisdom of laughing at our fathers' methods, it seems to me such atrociously bad form. If a young man adopts verbatim either the religious or the political creed of his father, I probably shall not agree with him, but I shall respect him as an honourable man, who is just as likely to be right as I am; but if a man sneers at and is ashamed of the things which his father cherished and believed in, I regard that man as a cad and should decline to ask him to dinner."
"There you are quite right; I cannot bear to hear young folks jeering at the old faiths."
"But the worst is when they do it for social reasons, and not from any honest conviction," Paul went on; "it makes me perfectly ill to see men treat their parents as family secrets, because the good old folks do not happen to vote on the side of the aristocracy, or worship according to established form."
"They have an idea that in burying the ancestral Radicalism and Nonconformity out of sight, they thereby identify themselves with the high-born and orthodox."
"I know they do; just as some men think that to walk up to their business in a pair of riding-breeches, places them socially on a level with a master of hounds."
Mr. Ford enjoyed this joke: he rode to hounds himself, and was a good horseman. "And they forget that cutting oneself off from one's own class does not attach one to a higher class; it merely leaves one without a class at all," he concluded.
"Exactly," agreed Paul, "between heaven and earth, like Mahomet's coffin. I don't of course deny that it is a good thing to be well-born and wealthy. I only say that it is a bad thing to pretend to be so when you are not. I don't deny that it is a good thing to be handsome; but a man had better have a snub nose of his own than an artificial aquiline."
"That is perfectly true."
"I cannot blame people for seeing the humorous side of much that their parents considered wholly serious," added Paul, "nor for laughing—tenderly and among themselves—at old-fashioned forms which they have outgrown; but laughing tenderly and sneering are two very different things. For instance, a man who now-a-days could read such books asThe Fairchild FamilyandStories from the Church Catechismwithout a smile, would be lacking in a sense of humour; but a man who sneered at the underlying godliness thus quaintly embodied, would be deficient in true reverence and spiritual insight."
"Quite so."
"Besides, I cannot understand the indifference to the charm of old association which would permit a man to regard with anything but tenderness the faith in which he was brought up, however far he might leave it behind in his maturer years. For instance, nothing would induce me to wear boots with elastic-sides; I think they are extremely uncomfortable and unhealthy and unbecoming; nevertheless, I never catch sight of those worn by my mother without being conscious of a wave of tender amusement; and for her sake all women who walk through life in elastic-sided boots are in a measure sacred to me."
Mr. Ford smiled, as he looked at the well-dressed man walking by his side. "Yet you yourself would not buy a pair of boots unless they had patent fasteners and cork soles, and every other invention of modern times."
"Of course I should not: which things are an allegory."
"Eh, dear!" sighed Mr. Ford, "I wish I had a son like you. What a political future I would have mapped out for him!"
"I am afraid I am a person who does not lend himself to mapping-out. I should like to go into political life, I confess; but I fear my politics would not always be your politics, Mr. Ford."
"I think they would, in great issues, and we would leave the trifles to take care of themselves. We are both opportunists, Paul; the only difference between us is the difference between the opportunities of thirty years ago and the opportunities of to-day."
"I think you have hit the nail on the head."
"Why don't you go in for political life yourself?" asked Michael Ford abruptly, quickening his pace.
"Because I can't afford it. I am a poor man, and all my people are poor. I make a fair income by editingThe Pendulumand writing anonymous articles for a good many of the dailies, but not an income that would allow of anything like a parliamentary career."
"ButShams and ShadowsandSome Better Thingmust have brought you in a good deal."
"I have not yet received my royalties onSome Better Thing, and I could not touch a penny of the profits ofShams and Shadows."
"Now, there, my dear boy, you are wrong, and you must forgive an old friend for telling you so. ThatShams and Shadowswas a false step, I admit; and I am very glad that you have so soon retrieved it by contradicting all its nonsense inSome Better Thing; but I consider it a piece of idiotic quixotism to refuse the money thatShams and Shadowsmade."
"I think you must please let me be the judge of that," said Paul quietly.
"But, my good fellow, you are making a mistake, and are acting more like Edgar than like yourself. Throwing away the money which you fairly earned by your very clever if somewhat foolish book, is a piece of gratuitous self-denial which will do no good to anybody."
Paul smiled the smile of the obstinate, and Mr. Ford continued:
"Well, it is extremely silly of you. Now you were right not to publish a second edition of your book—although such an edition might have been of pecuniary advantage to you—because you saw that the book was unsound, and you had ceased to believe in your former teaching. For this I admire and respect you. But I cannot see why you should hesitate to appropriate the proceeds of the copies already sold."
Paul walked on in silence for a few seconds; then he said: "I simply could not do it, and that is the end of it".
"I could have believed Edgar capable of such a piece of folly, but not you," grumbled Mr. Ford.
"I am sorry to make myself disagreeable, but I fear I am one of the self-opinionated people who think they know their own business best."
"And I suppose you won't tell me what you mean to do with the sacrificial proceeds of your first book. You cannot leave them with the publishers. I don't know what your royalty onShams and Shadowswas; but, however small, you must do something with it." Mr. Ford spoke with irritation, for he was a man of business.
"You think I am bound to accept the minor profits, you mean. My father has a great sermon on that subject—but he spells it 'with a difference'."
"A poor joke is no substitute for a plain answer, Paul."
"Do you remember the lady who was afraid she had asked an indiscreet question of Talleyrand, and was told that a question is never indiscreet but an answer may be?"
"You have not yet outgrown your quixotism, I see, my dear boy."
"Not I; and I happen to be suffering from a pretty sharp attack of it just now, brought on, I suppose, by fine weather and flattery judiciously blended. So you must bear with my youthful follies."
"I could bear with a great deal from such a clever man as that," said Mr. Ford to himself, after he had parted from Paul. "He'll make a name in the world which men will remember; and that Carnaby girl was a fool to throw up her chance of bearing it!"
So gradually peace—and something akin to happiness—"slid into the soul" of Paul Seaton. In spite of all that had happened, he believed that Isabel—in her heart of hearts—really cared for him, and that he was the only man who could completely satisfy her; and he knew beyond a doubt that she was the only woman who could ever satisfy him. Surely it would all come right in the end, he thought; it was against every principle of political economy that so much mutual devotion should be wasted.
To all other women he was utterly indifferent; and this indifference was so patent to the eyes of Alice Martin that she soon ceased to wear her best hat when there was a chance of meeting him. Best hats, like horses, require regular air and exercise; and when they are no longer needed for the driving of one particular man to distraction, they are not infrequently used to convey another in the same direction. Thus it came to pass that Alice began to put on her best hat when there was a possibility of seeing (or rather of being seen by) Edgar Ford. Of course Edgar did not know what had happened; he only thought that Alice seemed to grow prettier every day. But this is a not uncommon delusion of Edgar's sex. They think that a particular girl is growing decidedly better looking; but it does not always strike them that the increase of beauty is due to the fact that this particular girl has begun to put on her best clothes whenever there is an off-chance of meeting with them.
"Here is something that ought to delight you," said Mr. Seaton, handing the newspaper to Paul one day. "The Minister of Education has been delivering an inaugural address for some literary society, and he has quoted your new book as the wisest book that has been published during the last ten years. He considers that the political part of it ought to be used as a text-book for budding politicians; and he foretells a brilliant political as well as literary career for the author."
"Well played, old Willoughby!" exclaimed Paul. "I once met him at the Esdailes', and found him a very decent fellow then; but this proves him to be possessed of almost supernatural powers of insight and foresight. Give me the paper and let me read my praise and glory for myself."
"It will make you vain," said Joanna.
"You'd be vain if Cabinet Ministers grovelled before you," retorted her brother.
"I know I should. Nobody ever grovelled before me; but it would make me vain if an infant did, let alone a pillar of the State."
Paul's face fairly beamed. "I'm awfully glad that Willoughby approved of my views on education."
"Your next book had better touch on all matters connected with the State," suggested Joanna; "you might have a chapter on sanitation, for the President of the Local Government Board to lecture upon; and a chapter on commerce, for the President of the Board of Trade to lecture upon; so that, like freedom, you might 'slowly broaden down from president to president'."
"How rude you are!" exclaimed Paul, "you don't deserve to have a great author for a brother—you really don't. I take a broad view of the fifth commandment, and I think that it includes respect to brothers as well as to parents."
Joanna shook her head. "You are always too broad in your views; that is your great fault. The Bible thoroughly understands human nature, and never commands the impossible. Therefore, it tells us to love our brother, but it never suggests or hints at such a thing as respect for him."
Then she and her father started for a walk, and Paul sat down to enjoy Mr. Willoughby's lecture, and to dream over the glorious possibilities that it opened up. It was a great compliment, and Paul was the last man to pretend that he was not delighted when he was.
After he had read the report of the lecture, his eye wandered idly over the rest of the paper till it was suddenly arrested by the following paragraph:—
A marriage is arranged, and will shortly take place, between Lord Wrexham, and Isabel, only daughter of the late Major Carnaby, and niece of Sir Benjamin Farley, G.C.B.
Trim the shrubs and mow the grass,Roll the alleys shady,Make the ways where she will passFitter for my lady.
There was a large house-party at Vernacre Park at Easter, to meet Miss Carnaby, who had just become engaged to the host, Lord Wrexham. Old Lady Wrexham played the part of hostess—a most stately and chilly dame, whom Isabel could not endure; and, in addition to the party from Elton, the company included the Esdailes, Lord Robert Thistletown and Mr. Madderley, besides sundry, uneventful persons, whom nobody took the trouble to differentiate.
Isabel had been in a most reckless mood ever since she accepted Lord Wrexham; she had definitely decided to stifle the romantic, and to develop the worldly, side of her character; and—having made up her mind to permanently adopt therôleof a shallow smart woman—she almost overdid her part in her anxiety to do herself injustice. It certainly was a triumphal procession for her, this visit to Vernacre as its future mistress; for Vernacre was one of the finest residences in the Midlands.
As they were sitting at lunch on Good Friday, Lady Esdaile remarked: "Isn't it funny how hungry going to church always makes one?"
"I never have recourse to those artificial aids to appetite," murmured Madderley.
"I'm always ravenous on Sundays," continued Lady Esdaile, "and my appetite has evidently mistaken to-day for a Sunday."
"A pardonable error," replied the artist, "for my intellectual powers have fallen into it, too."
"I am glad that you are hungry, Lady Esdaile," said the hostess, "but not surprised, for Vernacre is always considered a peculiarly invigorating place; the situation is salubrious, and the subsoil old red sandstone. I never feel so well anywhere as I do at Vernacre."
"I am always hungry in the country and thirsty in London," continued Lady Esdaile, "and that is why I am so much sorrier for poor people in the country than in town; it must be so horrid to feel hungry and have nothing to eat, don't you know?"
"It must indeed," agreed Lord Wrexham; "and I have often wondered that the health of the lower classes is not even more seriously impaired than it is, considering that they must frequently be compelled to leave their hunger only partially satisfied, if at all."
"I daresay they enjoy it," exclaimed Isabel, "I remember that Aunt Caroline and I were once kept stuck on a journey for hours, far away from any station, and we had nothing to eat or drink save a small bottle of cough-syrup she happened to have in her dressing-bag. We had to take occasional nips at that; and because it was scarce we thought it delicious. I never was addicted to cough-syrup before, but since then I have preferred it to champagne."
"Perhaps it was made palatable on purpose," suggested Lord Wrexham, "some of those patent medicines are often far from repulsive to the taste."
"Oh! no; it was nasty enough really," replied Isabel; "but poverty made it sweet. And I believe poor people get lots of treats like that."
Lord Wrexham shook his head. "I fear you are right, and that the poor are too fond of taking quack doses not recommended by the faculty. It is a bad habit, but I presume that economy is their motive."
"I didn't mean that; I only meant that when you are poor, life must be like one everlasting picnic. I once wanted to be poor myself, I thought it would be such fun."
"I once was poor," said Madderley, "and I am bound to admit that the joke fell short of your expectations, Miss Carnaby."
Isabel helped herself to plovers' eggs. "I felt I was foolish at the time, and I prayed for more wisdom."
"It is always safe to pray for the inevitable," said the artist, "it strengthens faith without incommoding Providence."
"Having got wisdom, I now pray for the rest of life's good things, like Solomon—riches and honours and fine clothes, and horses and carriagesen suite."
"I never pray for what I see in the shop-windows," said Madderley; "I choose what I think will suit me, and know that it will be put down in my bill."
Isabel's lip curled. "You are verybourgeoisin your ideas."
"I don't think so; I am merely honest with myself, and do not call transactions providential which are merely commercial. The temple and the money-changers should be kept far apart."
"I think, Madderley, that you misunderstand Miss Carnaby," said Lord Wrexham, in his slow, kind way as he smiled indulgently upon Isabel, "she does not really mean that she would ask Providence for things with which her tradesman could supply her."
"Of course I shouldn't pray for what I could pay for," added Isabel.
The artist bowed. "If I have misunderstood Miss Carnaby I humbly beg her pardon. By the way," he continued, "I once heard a story of a very devout Cornish wrecker, who never retired to rest, without praying for a storm. That always appeals to my sense of humour."
"Were his prayers answered?" asked Isabel.
"There were always plenty of wrecks, if that is what you mean."
"The wreckers were a terrible people," said Lord Wrexham, "and it was a terrible state of society which made such things possible."
"It is a comfort to think that these customs were confined to Cornwall and the last century," said Isabel.
"Were they?" asked Madderley.
"I think so," replied Lord Wrexham, "of course one has heard of wrecks and salvage on other shores; but I believe that the custom of deliberately causing wrecks by means of false lights was peculiar to Cornwall."
"I hope you are right," said the artist, "I cannot, of course, give names or dates, but I have an idea that I have heard of cases of cruel and avoidable wrecks in other counties than Cornwall, and considerably later than the last century."
"Indeed! I had believed that such savagery was extinct in England. I suppose, however, that the love of gain was the motive now as then?" And his lordship looked quite distressed.
"And the love of excitement."
"Dear me, how shocking!"
"Such things are shocking," agreed Madderley; "and doubly shocking to those who have witnessed their effects."
Isabel laughed a hard little laugh. "Perhaps Mr. Madderley will make use of his artistic power to describe some of these harrowing spectacles."
"I shall do nothing of the kind, dear lady; such descriptions would not be fit for pretty ears. I believe even the wreckers themselves would rather not see the consequences of their cruelty; therefore such things should be kept from the knowledge of refined and tender-hearted women, whose nature it is to be kind and pitiful."
"You are quite right, Madderley," said Lord Wrexham approvingly, "descriptions of horrors and cruelties are most unfit for women's ears, in my opinion."
But Isabel still looked defiant. "Perhaps, then, Mr. Madderley will tell us where these modern and fiendish wreckers are to be found."
The artist strolled to the sideboard to cut himself some ham. "On the sea-coast of Bohemia, and thereabouts."
"Don't take any notice of him, Wrexham," said Isabel petulantly; "he is only making up, just to irritate me."
Lord Wrexham was surprised. "Why, Isabel, what is the matter with you? You and Madderley used to be such friends."
"I know we used; but friendships don't wear for ever, any more than clothes."
"I have always noticed," remarked Madderley, "that the untried friendships are those which last the longest."
"What is that you are saying about friendships?" cried Lord Bobby from the other end of the table. The place of honour, to which his rank entitled him, was a grievous burden to this irrepressible youth. "I can give you no end of information on the subject, as Platonic friendship is the line in which I excel."
"I do not believe in Platonic friendships," said Lady Farley, "the woman is all right; but the man always cares too much or too little for the arrangement to be a success."
"You are wrong," cried Lord Bobby, "I have scores in good working order just now, so I speak with authority on the subject. They are all most successful, and I start a new one every other week."
"Which I suppose you call a neo-Platonic friendship," suggested the artist.
"Don't be so horribly clever," replied Lord Bobby, "it gives me the headache, and will undermine your constitution in time."
"My experience of Platonic friendships is that they generally end in the woman's losing her head," remarked Madderley.
"Mine is that they invariably end in the man's losing his temper," added Isabel.
"I notice that, as a rule, the man is either bored to death by the whole thing," said Lady Farley, "or else overdraws his account on the bank of friendship, and is surprised when, in consequence, the bank will not cash his cheques."
"That latter case is more often true of the woman than of the man, I think," replied Madderley.
Lady Farley shook her head. "No; men are much more exacting than women in their friendships—that is to say, if they really care. It seems to me that men either care a great deal about things, or not at all; while women have a regular thermometer of degrees of affection and interest."
"I think you are right there," agreed Lord Wrexham, "men are so much simpler and less complex than women."
"Oh! we are grander altogether," agreed Lord Bobby; "simpler and yet more sublime, don't you know? One cannot help admiring us.
Though on our corns the little spitfires tread,Tobacco-smoke unruffled crowns our head."
Everybody laughed, and Lady Farley continued: "I have studied men carefully for many years, and I feel that I am now qualified to carry on a satisfactory Platonic friendship. But of course, being married, I have not time or inclination for the thing; soldiers don't run out of a battle to try their skill at a shooting-range—they have heavier work on hand."
Sir Benjamin chuckled with delight. "Still, my dear, you can give these young and single persons some of the benefit of your superior wisdom, can't you?"
"Tell us how you would carry on a Platonic friendship, Aunt Caroline," said Violet Esdaile.
"Well, in the first place, I should never argue with a man; men hate it so, and it does no earthly good. In my young days I naturally used to endeavour to prove I was right when I knew I was; but now, when a man puts me straight as to facts of which he is absolutely ignorant, I merely accept his correction, and say I must have been misinformed. Of course I know all the time that I am right and he is wrong, but what does that matter? It is a woman's duty to be socially attractive—not statistically correct."