"I see what you mean; had she chosen poverty you would have made it sweet to her, but you did not feel at liberty to force poverty upon her against her will."
"That was just it," continued Paul; "as long as I saw that my love satisfied her, I knew that I held her happiness in the hollow of my hand, and I was not afraid of poverty for herself or for me; but when I found that she was beginning to shrink from the hard life she had chosen, I felt it was but manly to let her go."
"Do you know I was afraid at one time that you had been hard on her, my dear?"
"So I was at first—hard and bitter and proud; but when love comes on to the scene, pride has to knuckle under and hardness soon melts away. Just at first, I own, my pride held me back from her, because of some things she had said; but I soon forgave her, as I knew she was angry at the time and did not mean them; and I should have forgiven her just the same, even if she had," he added, smiling at himself.
"Do you still care for her?" asked Mrs. Seaton, knitting furiously in her excitement.
"Yes; nothing can ever alter that. Isabel will always be the one woman in the world to me."
"Then why, oh! why didn't you go and tell her so, and beg her to come back to you and let bygones be bygones?"
"I have told you—simply because she was rich and I was poor. If it had been the other way, I would have made her come back to me, and would have held her against the whole world. I could easily have put my own pride into my pocket; but her comfort was a different thing, and could not be so easily disposed of."
"But if she were rich and you were poor, you must remember also that she was a woman and you were a man, and that the first advances should have come from you. The pride of womanhood is a stronger instinct than the pride of poverty," persisted Mrs. Seaton; "and then you must not forgetShams and Shadows"
"I am hardly likely to do so," replied Paul rather bitterly, "at present there seems no necessity for me to keep a book-marker in that excellent work to prevent it from slipping from my memory altogether."
"But, my dear boy, do you mean to tell me that even afterShams and Shadows, with its cruel satire against a woman of fashion, was published, you expected Isabel to come back to you of her own accord?"
"Yes, I did."
"Ah! Paul, you do not understand women."
"Evidently not, worse luck for me!"
Mrs. Seaton's eyes filled with tears. "I am afraid you have made a great mistake, my dear."
"I am always making them; and I find they come very expensive in the end. But I think I'll go out for a walk now; I have got such a thundering headache," said Paul, rising from his chair.
"I would, love; it will do you good."
But when he had reached the door Paul turned back, and knelt down beside Mrs. Seaton's chair and put his arms round her, as he used to do when he was a little child. "I don't know how it is," he said, "but everything I care for turns to disappointment just as it seems to be within my grasp; I was so sure of myself, and meant to be such a brilliant success, and yet I have failed all along the line. Oh! mother, comfort me."
And his mother comforted him as only his mother could.
There is many a cruel thorn,Many a roaring lion,Many a stone by footsteps worn,On the road that leads to Zion.
Early in October Isabel came back to town, and again took up her abode at her uncle's house in Prince's Gate. Lady Farley had been naturally much disappointed at the breaking off of her niece's engagement with Lord Wrexham, but she was too just not to see that, after all, Isabel was old enough to please herself, and that a woman on the threshold of the thirties was too old to be scolded. She was perfectly conscious that, from a social point of view, Isabel was fast writing herself down a failure; and therefore, for the first time in her life, Lady Farley did not disguise from her niece her high opinion of that niece's attractions.
Like Horace Walpole, Lady Farley knew her world; and she had learned that it is when we fail, that a little flattery is beneficial to us; also, that we do not thank the friend who admires our excellencies, but for the stranger who openly exalts the strength of our weak places we reserve our undying devotion. So her ladyship was very complimentary to Isabel just then.
The first Sunday afternoon after Isabel's return, Edgar Ford called at the Farleys'; and, after a few customary banalities, Miss Carnaby inquired how the Seatons were getting on.
"Not at all well, I am sorry to say," replied Edgar; "Joanna is very ill, and Mrs. Seaton seems to be breaking up."
"Oh! I am so sorry; do tell me all about them," begged Isabel.
"Poor Joanna has been ailing all the summer; and now the doctors say that the only thing that could save her life would be a winter at Davos, and that she will run the greatest risk if she attempts to remain in England."
Isabel's eyes filled with tears; somehow lately all the gilt and the sunshine on things had vanished, and she kept seeing the underlying sadness of life whichever way she turned.
"Of course the Seatons are not at all well off," continued Edgar, "and a winter abroad is always a costly business for any one; but Paul, I believe, is ready to defray all Joanna's expenses, so that no burden shall fall upon his father. The difficulty, however, is that there is no one to go with her, and she is far too delicate to go alone."
"That is a serious difficulty," said Lady Farley.
"They cannot find any one who happens to be going and who would take charge of her: besides, it would be hard for the poor girl to go out, perhaps to die, with strangers; and the journey would kill Mr. or Mrs. Seaton right out, even if they could afford it."
"Couldn't her brother take her?" Lady Farley suggested.
Edgar shook his head. "He could not possibly spare the time. He is such an unselfish fellow that he would gladly go with Joanna if it could be managed, and take every care of her; but he could not leave London for several months without resigning his appointment as editor ofThe Pendulum; and if he did that, he could not afford to pay even Joanna's expenses, much less his own."
Then Lady Farley—being tired of the Seatons as a subject of conversation—began to talk about other things, while Isabel dispensed the tea which had just been brought in.
"I am afraid I must be off," Edgar said at last, "for I am going to the service at St. James's Hall to-night, and it is impossible to get a seat unless one is there half an hour before the time."
"I have never been," said Isabel, "I should like to go and see what it is like." She felt great leanings towards anything connected with Methodism just then; not from any special sympathy with the teachings of John Wesley, but simply because Methodism—like yellow roses—reminded her of Paul.
"Then come with me now! I will take great care of her, Lady Farley, and bring her back safe and sound."
"Yes; go, my dear," said her ladyship kindly, "if you think it will interest you." Lady Farley regarded religious services as she regarded love affairs, namely, as seemly diversionspour passer le temps.
So Isabel ran upstairs to put on what women call "her things," and then she and Edgar repaired to St. James's Hall.
When they arrived there the hall was practically full, though it was a good half-hour before the beginning of the service; but the congregation kept streaming in, and by seven o'clock every corner was densely packed, and people were standing in the doorways and the passages.
"This crowded audience looks more like a political meeting than a religious service," whispered Isabel to Edgar, with that surprise which we all feel when God, for the time being, occupies public attention to the exclusion of Man, and heaven instead of earth becomes the topic of the hour.
"It is a wonderful sight!" Edgar whispered back; "there is nothing like it in London."
The whole scene stirred Isabel strangely. Not only was the crowd very large, but it consisted chiefly of men; a great number of them were soldiers in their scarlet uniforms, and almost all of them were counted among those poor to whom it has been promised that the Gospel shall be preached. These were none of the well-to-do people who go to church or to chapel, as they go to court, because it is the correct thing to pay homage to the heavenly as to the earthly Sovereign; but working men, whose hearts as well as whose hands had been scarred and hardened by the ceaseless grind of poverty and toil. On the platform behind the minister's desk sat a row of sweet-faced Sisters of the Poor, in their plain black gowns and long grey veils; while again behind them came the band, and a crowd of "workers," filling the enormous platform of St. James's Hall up to the roof.
A less emotional woman than Isabel Carnaby would have been thrilled at the sound of a hymn sung by so vast a concourse of people, and at the sight of so large a number gathered together with one accord in one place; and when the time for the sermon came, and the preacher showed forth some of the sorrows of the world, and echoed its great cry for help, she felt that there was no resisting that appeal. Until now she had been one of the careless daughters—one of the women that are at ease; and she had been deaf to the weeping and the wailing inside the prison walls of poverty. But at last her ears had been opened, and she had heard the sorrowful sighing of the prisoners appointed to die; and she felt she must be up and doing, and must take her part in stemming the torrent of the world's great flood of tears.
She and Edgar said little on their way home; and each understood that the heart of the other was too full for speech.
The next day Isabel wrote the following letter:—
"MY DEAR MRS. SEATON,
"I am so dreadfully sorry to hear from Mr. Ford that Joanna is ill; I cannot tell you how unhappy it has made me, but I think you will understand without being told.
"I am full of hope that a winter at Davos will set her right again, as I have known it work such wonderful cures. But I hear your difficulty is that she can find nobody to accompany her; and therefore I am writing to ask if I may offer my services. I would promise to take every care of her; and my maid—who is an experienced nurse as well as a most faithful old servant—would look after us both.
"I could be ready to start in a fortnight from now; and could arrange to stay as far into the spring as the doctors thought desirable on Joanna's account.
"Yours lovingly,"ISABEL CARNABY."
This letter brought great joy to the little home at Chayford. Mrs. Seaton's first impulse was to close with Isabel's offer at once, and so ensure a chance of recovery for Joanna; but she felt that anything connected with Isabel was Paul's business, and that therefore she could settle nothing without first consulting him. So she wrote a loving letter to Isabel, telling the latter how grateful both Joanna and her parents were for this great kindness, but that Paul was undertaking the entire management of his sister's journey, so the final arrangements must rest with him.
Then Mrs. Seaton forwarded Isabel's letter to Paul, bidding him deal with it as he thought best. "I am not doing this in order to bring Paul and Isabel together again," she said to herself, "but entirely on Joanna's account; I should have done just the same had Miss Dallicot made the offer instead of Isabel, for it is clearly Paul's duty to make all the arrangements he can for his sister's comfort. It is purely a matter of business." Then a smile stole round the corners of her mouth as she added: "It will all come right again as soon as they see each other, and my boy will be as happy as he deserves to be".
For Paul's mother had heard of the breaking off of the Wrexham engagement, and had drawn her own conclusions.
A day or two after this, Isabel received a letter from Paul:—
"MY DEAR MISS CARNABY,
"My mother has forwarded to me your most kind and generous offer of help to us in our present difficulty, as it is I who am taking all the responsibility of Joanna's illness. I feel that we cannot refuse the offer without due consideration, because the plan that you propose would prove such an inestimable benefit to my sister; nor can we, on the other hand, accept it without due consideration, because it would be a most serious undertaking for you. Therefore, if you will allow me, I will call upon you to-morrow afternoon to discuss the matter more fully than we can do by letter.
"Yours gratefully,"PAUL SEATON."
As Paul wrote the above, he laughed at his own folly. "What a fool I am!" he said to himself, "of course I could manage it perfectly by writing, if I wanted to do so; but I am as excited as a boy of twenty at the mere idea of seeing her face and hearing her voice again. I wonder if Lord Wrexham minded being thrown over by her as much as I did; if so, I pity him with all my heart."
So Paul Seaton and Isabel Carnaby saw each other face to face once more. Because they were well-bred people—and, moreover, a man and woman of the world—they met apparently with perfect ease and without any disquieting emotion; although Paul's heart beat like a regimental drum all the time, and Isabel felt as if a little bird were fluttering in the middle of her throat. A casual observer would have thought that they were ordinary acquaintances, who had seen each other the day before; and the only difference that the most experienced eye could have detected was that they were neither quite as clever as usual. They did not seem to look at one another with any special attention; and yet in the first ten seconds that they were together, Paul knew that Isabel was thinner than of old, and that there had come a tired look into the blue eyes; and Isabel perceived that there were many grey hairs round Paul's temples, and that she and Time together had managed to plough some deep furrows across his forehead.
"How do you do?" began Isabel, talking a shade faster than her wont, "it is very good of such a busy man to spare the time to come and see me."
"It is very good of you to let me come," replied Paul, "but it is so much easier to talk over plans than to write about them."
"Then let us get to business at once," suggested Isabel hurriedly, "as I daresay you have not much time to spare."
She really meant that she had not much courage to spare; but we so rarely say what we actually mean. And why should we? The understanding people know without our saying, and it doesn't matter whether the stupid ones know or not.
"Certainly," agreed Paul, who happened to be one of the understanding people, "I know it is very bad manners to be in a hurry, but unfortunately I nearly always am. I believe my health will be permanently impaired by the scalding state in which I always have to swallow cups of tea during afternoon calls. Long and bitter experience has taught me that unless you can fly before you hear the distant rattle of the tea-cups, you are lost; if once tea is within ear-shot, escape becomes impossible till the cup is drained to the dregs. If you leave in the interval between the sound of tea and its outpouring, you somehow cast a slur upon the quickness of your hostess's servant."
Paul knew perfectly well about that little bird fluttering in Isabel's throat, and he talked on at random in order to give her time to recover herself.
She laughed. "Well, I am glad that the tea is here now, so that you can have a cup at once and drink it at your leisure."
"Thank you. And now, about Joanna. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for your most kind suggestion; but before we go into that, I want you to consider what it will mean to you. At present I think you have no idea of the sacrifice which it will involve on your part."
"I don't mind that; the greater the sacrifice the better it will be for me. You see, I have done nothing but help myself for thirty years, and now I think it is time I began to help other people."
"But this is such a big beginning," persisted Paul; "it means shutting yourself up for six months in an atmosphere of sickness, and possibly of death; and this is a tremendous undertaking for any woman, especially for one who has hitherto had all the wheels of life oiled for her."
"But think of Joanna."
"I am trying not to think of her, till I have done thinking of you. Of course my first impulse was to thank you on my knees for thus coming to our help; but you must be considered as well as Joanna; and I am not sure that I should be justified in letting you make so great a sacrifice for any one who has after all no claim upon you." And Paul got up from his seat and looked out of the window, so that Isabel might not see his face.
Isabel's eyes grew wistful. "Please don't stop me now that at last I am trying to be good."
"Heaven forbid! But the path of duty is not easy walking, and I would carry you over the rough places if I could; for the way is thorny and your feet are very tender," replied Paul gently.
"Nevertheless I am going."
"And I cannot help you, much as I should wish it. If Joanna became much worse I should come out to her once; but I could not afford the time to stay with her long, as the unavoidable expenses of her illness will make me specially busy all this winter."
"Nevertheless I am going," repeated Isabel.
"You have definitely made up your mind?"
"Yes."
"What does Lady Farley say about it?" asked Paul.
"She says I am old enough and wise enough to please myself, and to know my own business best."
"Then, if your decision is now made and my words are powerless to affect you one way or another, I may tell you what this act of yours means to me and to my people. It will probably be the saving of Joanna's life—at any rate it is giving her the one chance she has of recovery; and without you this one chance would have been denied her. After I have told you this, all expressions of gratitude would be superfluous, I think."
"Yes; please don't thank me; I don't want to be thanked," said Isabel breathlessly, "let us make all the necessary arrangements; for Joanna and I ought to be starting soon, if this foggy weather continues."
So Paul and Isabel set to work to plan poor Joanna's exodus out of England before the winter actually set in; and three weeks after this interview Isabel and Joanna went out to Davos Platz together, with the former's faithful old nurse to take care of and look after them.
The new life was very interesting to Isabel. She had hitherto lived in a world where sickness and death were put out of sight and forgotten as far as possible; but now she was suddenly plunged into the midst of a society of people who were all either ill or anxious. But these bore it bravely, and put on a cheerful courage; and if she had not known that all was not well with them, she would have found them pretty much the same as happier folks.
Joanna specially interested Isabel, and the two women were drawn very close together. Neither had ever had a sister; and a woman who has never had a sister has missed something which can never be made up to her in this world. Women who have no sisters share their confidences with their friends or their sisters-in-law, just as men who have no legs walk about on cork or wooden ones; but perfect satisfaction is not found in makeshifts. However anything is better than nothing; so Isabel and Joanna found much pleasure in each other's society.
Joanna did not talk much about herself; but when she did, it was with perfect ease and cheerfulness. She had been brought up in a circle where the things which are seen and temporal are not more familiar or real than the things which are unseen and eternal; and this familiarity and sense of nearness is of good comfort to such souls as feel forebodings of the chill and the darkness of the great Shadow.
"I minded dreadfully being ill at first," she said one day to Isabel, after they had been some weeks together, and their friendship was established, "I had meant to do so much work for God—in my own little world I really was doing it—and it seemed rather hard to be suddenly put by on the shelf as of no further use. I was actually getting so conceited that I thought none of the classes or meetings in Chayford would get on properly without me; and yet mother says in her last letter that my Bible-class has increased in numbers since Miss Dallicot became the leader in my place, while the Dorcas-meeting is doing more work than ever. As for my district, Alice Martin took it; and the people simply adore her, she is so sweet and pretty and can speak to them so beautifully. So the Lord can carry on His work without my help, though at one time I doubted it." And Joanna laughed.
"I did not know that Alice was good at work of that kind."
"She is; she is simply splendid. In the first place she is very pretty, and that has a tremendous influence. It would take me twenty visits to the poor to win as much love as she gains in one."
"But I did not know she was so religious."
"She was always good and amiable," replied Joanna, "even when she was quite a child. But lately she has been a great deal under Edgar Ford's influence, and has learnt from him the importance of our responsibility to the poor. She will do more good in my district than I have ever done."
"I suppose the world could do without any of us," said Isabel sadly, "none of us are indispensable to anything or anybody."
Joanna shook her head. "The world might, but God couldn't."
"But you said that He could."
"Oh! no, I didn't. I said that He could carry on His work without us, which is quite a different thing."
Isabel looked puzzled. "What is the difference?"
"Don't you see? it is like this. When I was a little girl, father always allowed me to open all his letters with a small paper-knife. I used to love doing it, I felt so important, and I imagined that if it hadn't been for me, father's letters would have permanently remained unopened. I used to say nearly every day, 'You couldn't do without me, could you, father?' and he always answered, 'No'. Of course father could have opened all his letters well enough without my help, but he couldn't have done without me all the same."
"How good you are, dear Joanna!"
"Indeed I am not—I only wish I were; but I am ill, and when one is ill one has plenty of time to think. And I have come to the conclusion that God knows His own business best, and that He must often smile at us tenderly when He sees us so ready to help Him with our advice. He knows everything, and He says that a certain thing will be best for us; we know next to nothing, and yet, like Beatrice, we are 'at Him upon our knees every morning and evening,' to prove to Him that He is mistaken and that we know better. It really is rather humorous."
"Then you have learnt to leave everything to Him, and not to worry?"
"I hope I have," replied Joanna. "I don't deny that it has been a difficult lesson. At one time, like everybody else, I thought that I knew better than God, and I tried my utmost to teach Him what was the right thing for me and for Methodism and for Christianity at large; and I confess that I was grieved, not to say reproachful, when He did not follow my advice. But now I just sit still, and let Him take all the responsibility."
"It must be very restful," sighed Isabel.
"It is. If you went on a long voyage, it would be very tiring to spend all your time in trying to steer the ship by beating against the bulwarks with your hands, and very ineffectual and foolish. Then why behave thus absurdly on the voyage of life? For our Pilot never makes mistakes."
It was not till the two friends became very intimate that they began to talk about Paul, though they both spent much time in thinking about him. But at last even that barrier of reserve gave way, as most barriers do, if only atête-à-têtebe long enough, and Paul's sister soon discovered that Isabel still loved Paul.
"My dear, why don't you ask him to come back to you?" asked Joanna abruptly.
"Oh! I couldn't—I should be ashamed, after the way I have treated him."
"Then do you mean to let your pride spoil both your life and his?"
Isabel did not answer, and Joanna continued: "When people come to where I am now, they look at life so differently from how they used to look when the end of the road was not in sight; and they see that the things which once seemed important are trivial, and the things which once seemed trivial are the only things that matter. When you stand where I am standing, you won't care a scrap whether your pride and your self-respect received their due; but you will care infinitely whether you and Paul are together, or whether you will have to go down into the dark valley all alone."
Isabel began to cry quietly.
"Don't cry, Isabel; I am so sorry that I have upset you, and I hate to talk in this horrid, depressing way. But I felt I must tell you just once that, when the end comes, you will find that nothing really matters except the love of God and our love for each other; and I want you to realize this before it is too late."
Isabel came and knelt down by Joanna's sofa. "Do you think that Paul could forgive me?" she asked.
"I should think so; there is nothing that real love cannot forgive, and I am sure that Paul really loved you."
"How do you know so much about love, Joanna?"
"I can't tell; I suppose every woman knows all about it, whether she has tasted it or not. That is one of the things that I used to think I could teach the Lord; I imagined that it was best for me—and for every other woman—to live the ordinary woman's happy life. But God knew better, and so love passed me by."
"Poor Joanna!"
Joanna rested her cheek against Isabel's. "You need not pity me now, dear; I have long ceased to mind, though I did dreadfully at one time. But when God withholds a thing from us, He always gives us something better in its place. It is hard, I admit, to stand alone on Pisgah, and to see the others going on without us into the Promised Land; but Pisgah and its disappointment are forgotten, after we have stood for a moment upon the Mount of Transfiguration, and have caught glimpses of the glory which shall be revealed."
After a moment's silence Isabel said softly: "I don't believe there ever was anybody so good as you and Paul."
"Paul is a good man; no one but father and mother and I quite knows how good, I think."
"I do," whispered Isabel.
"Of course he gets angry sometimes," continued Joanna, "and is stern and self-willed and masterful; but he is very gentle and tender underneath, and very unselfish. There is only one thing he has ever done which has really grieved me, and which seemed to me to be inconsistent with the rest of his character; but I suppose when men are very unhappy and bitter they do things for which they are hardly accountable. Still I wish Paul had not writtenShams and Shadows."
"He never did write it," cried Isabel, looking up through her tears; "he was far too good and true and noble to write such a nasty, sneering book as that. He could not have done it if he had tried!"
"Then if Paul didn't write it, who did?"
"Idid," replied Isabel with a sob, "I was angry with myself and therefore with everything else, and I wrote that horrid book in a fit of temper. And when I saw how people hated it, I was ashamed, and felt I could not bear the disgrace of being known as its author. And then Paul saved me from the consequences of my own folly, and bore the punishment instead of me."
Sometimes mortals find the portalsOf the fairy-land;And they straightway through the gatewayEnter, hand in hand.
There was a long silence; then Joanna said gently, "And you doubted if he loved you after this?"
Isabel only sobbed.
"My dear, I am very glad you have told me," Joanna continued, as she softly stroked Isabel's hair; "it is an unspeakable joy to me to find that Paul never really fell below himself after all. But you mustn't tell any one else; it is now Paul's secret and not yours."
"Oh! I must; I must tell the whole world how good Paul has been, and how vilely and cruelly it has misjudged him."
"You must do nothing of the kind. If Paul has jeopardized his literary reputation to keep a secret, no one has a right to tell that secret without his permission. Don't you see how it is? He has thought nothing in the whole world of so much importance as the screening of you; therefore it would be cruel indeed of you to undo his life-work in a fit of hysterical conscientiousness."
"But it would serve me right for people to know how horrid and selfish and cowardly I have been," cried Isabel.
"Probably it would; but now I am considering what is due to Paul, and not what is due to you, my dear."
"Oh, Joanna, can you ever forgive me?"
"I am afraid I couldn't have done so when I was strong and well; but, as I told you, things are different with me now. Yes, I forgive you, Isabel; though I confess it isn't in me to forgive as Paul forgives, nor to love as Paul loves; but I cannot in the least understand how either of you did what you have done—you are both incomprehensible to me. Tell me how it happened."
"After I had quarrelled with Paul, I was in an awfully bitter mood, because I thought he was hard and cold and did not love me as I loved him. I was ashamed of caring for a man more than he cared for me, don't you see?"
"I am afraid I don't see, but never mind."
"Don't you see that if a man gives his love unrequited, he establishes at once a claim upon one woman's gratitude and all women's sympathy; while if a woman does the same thing, she is despised by one man and derided by the rest?"
"It wouldn't strike me in that light, but go on."
"Then it occurred to me that I would write a book which should convince Paul that I was a shallow, heartless woman of the world, and that I was incapable of really loving him or any other man. It was agony to my pride to feel that perhaps Paul had only cared for me because I was considered a good match; and I meant to turn the tables on him, and wound his pride, by making him believe that I had only been playing with him all the time just to amuse myself."
"A severe punishment on Paul for the freaks of your own imagination, my child!"
"All the time I was writing the book, I thought only of him and of how I could manage to hurt him. I did not care a straw whether the novel were a success or not, or whether anybody read it except Paul. But when it came out it made a hit, as you know, and everybody was talking about it."
"Yes; I remember."
"Though people thought it clever they did not really like it, and they said nasty things about the author."
Joanna nodded. Nobody knew better than she did the nasty things that had been said; yet she did not remove her caressing hand from the bent head.
"And then," continued Isabel, "I was in a perfect frenzy of fear lest they should find out that I had written it, and should begin to look shy at me. I cared so much for approval and admiration, that I thought it would kill me to be disapproved of as society disapproved of the author ofShams and Shadows. I used to lie awake at night wondering whatever I could do to put people off the scent."
"Well, and what happened then?"
"One day, when my terror was at its height, I heard that Paul had told Lord Robert Thistletown that he had taken the name of Angus Grey. I saw in a flash what that meant; it meant that the man, whom I had wounded and insulted, understood better even than I did what a disadvantage the authorship ofShams and Shadowswould be to me; and had therefore shielded me at the expense of his own literary reputation, and had taken my punishment upon himself."
Joanna's eyes were shining. "It was a fine thing to do; for Paul's literary reputation was no light matter to him."
"I know it wasn't; it was the best thing he had, and he gave it up to save me."
That night Joanna lay awake, thinking over the strange story she had heard. "It must be wonderful to be loved like that!" she said to herself. And because nothing this side heaven can quite stifle the cry of the human heart for human love (if the human heart happen to be a woman's) there were tears on Joanna's lashes when at last she fell asleep.
Isabel also lay awake that night, torn by the conflicting emotions of love and pride. And because, when these two come into conflict, the result is a foregone conclusion, she wrote the next day to Paul:—
"MY DEAR PAUL,
"Will you forgive me? Not because I deserve it, but because I love you.
"Yours as you would,"ISABEL CARNABY."
Then followed a season of great anguish of mind on Isabel's part. She now felt absolutely certain that Paul no longer loved her, and would therefore humiliate her by refusing his forgiveness; and she decided that she should at once hide herself from the world in a sisterhood, and spend the remainder of her disappointed days in conventual seclusion. She even went so far as to decide that she should call herself "Sister Marah," because life had proved so bitter to her. Isabel was nothing if not dramatic.
The answer to her letter came by telegraph:—
"Expect me Thursday.—PAUL."
Isabel was alone when this telegram was brought to her, and as she read it she flushed with joy.
"He hasn't wasted a minute," she said to herself. "He must have started as soon as he had my letter, and be travelling night and day without stopping."
Then she looked at her reflection in a mirror and laughed softly, because she was still young and a man loved her. She was very human, even at her best.
But when Thursday came she was dreadfully frightened. It was one thing to feel conscious of her power over Paul while half a continent divided them, and quite another to feel conscious of his power over her when she was expecting to see him face to face every minute.
When at last he did arrive, Joanna went into the hall to meet him; but Isabel was stricken with that paralyzing form of shyness which so often seizes us when our heart's desire is within our grasp, and makes us wish, for one mad moment, to throw it away because we have longed for it so passionately. So she remained alone in the salon and looked out of the window, and her knees felt as if they were made of muslin, like the knees of dolls. Then some one opened the door and shut it behind him; and at that her heart beat so violently that the very snow-clad mountains outside began to tremble and shake as she looked at them. With a supreme effort she turned round, and tried to repeat the appeal for forgiveness which she had prepared; but she could not utter a word, because Paul's arms were holding her fast; and there was no need to utter a word, because she had seen Paul's face.
Life's attar-of-roses is as rare as it is precious, and it takes the sunshine of many summers and the braving of many thorns to produce a single drop. But that drop, when produced, is worth all that it cost, and the perfume of it will last for ever. So Paul and Isabel thought during the next half-hour.
After the lovers had returned to earth, Isabel said: "I shall now tell the whole world that I wrote that horrid book, and that it has misjudged you all along; and then every one will know how splendidly you have behaved."
"You shall do nothing of the kind, sweetheart." And Paul kissed her again.
"But I must. I could not bear for you to bear the blame any longer."
"Still, you will have to bear it, my darling. I could not bear any one to have it in his power to blame you, and I must have my own way this time."
"But it isn't fair."
"I can't help that I can stand it very well when people say things against me, but I could not stand it at all if people said things against you; so I am acting from purely selfish motives when I say that the secret must always be kept for my sake."
"But, Paul, how can I show my gratitude to you, and my penitence?"
"Simply by doing what I ask, and by giving no one any excuse for finding fault with my wife."
"It was a horrid book," said Isabel sadly.
"I know it was, dear heart, but you did not mean a word of it, you know."
"I wrote it in a temper—a vile, hateful, disgusting temper."
"I know you did; but the world might not understand this as well as I do, and therefore might misjudge you; and the world shall not have the chance."
"I really was frightfully angry with you," said Isabel, now revelling in the contemplation of dangers past, "I used to rack my brains for things that I could write to vex you."
"When did you begin to love me again?" queried Paul.
Isabel pondered for a moment. "I think I really must have loved you all the time, or else I could not have hated you so."
Paul laughed. Life had been so serious to him of late that it was delightful to hear a woman talk nonsense again.
"And will you go on loving me always?" he asked.
"I shan't be able to help it; when I once care for any one I am like a five-pound note on Sundays—there is no possibility of changing me."
"My dear one, how sweet you are!"
"How did you find out that I was the author?" asked Isabel, trying to tie a knot in Paul's watch-chain.
"I knew it at once; I also knew that you had written it to hurt me; and, what is more, that you had succeeded beyond your wildest expectations."
"Poor old Paul! Did it make you very angry?"
"Not angry; but I confess it hurt me more than I had believed I was capable of being hurt. But I soon forgot this in my fear of the secret's coming out as to who was the author, and my knowledge of how much the disclosure of this secret would hurt you."
"And then you decided to pretend that you had written it?"
"It seemed to me the only thing to do to ensure your permanent safety; as, when people once know a thing, they naturally cease to speculate about it; and they had already come to the conclusion that the book must have been written by some one in your set. Of course I knew that your publishers any day might show up my false pretences and disgrace me in the eyes of the world, which would never believe in the purity of my motives, but would condemn me as an arrant impostor to the end of the chapter. But I also knew that your publishers would not do this without permission from you; and, angry as you were with me, I did not think you would deal me this final and irrevocable blow, because I felt sure you would understand my reasons, and would know that I had done this somewhat doubtful action solely out of consideration for you."
"I understood this at once."
"I knew you would," Paul continued, "but, you see, dear, other people might not have done so; and they might have fancied I was no better than a literary thief, trading upon a reputation which really was not mine."
Isabel was silent for a moment; then she said: "I told Joanna; I could not help it."
Paul's face fell; he could not bear to feel that even his sister should have the right to sit in judgment upon Isabel.
"And you must also tell your father and mother," persisted Isabel, "I could not be happy if I felt that they still misunderstood you."
"I don't know about that."
"But I do. If you will give way to me just in this, I will do what you want about everything else; and no one but your own people shall ever know that I wroteShams and Shadows."
And Paul reluctantly consented.
"Shams and Shadowsmade a lot of money," said Isabel, "but I could not touch a penny of it. I hated it so much that I gave it all to charity."
Paul could not help laughing. "A somewhat strange reason, dear heart, but by no means an uncommon one," he said.
Then followed a very happy week. Paul and Isabel were naturally in a state of bliss; and Joanna rejoiced too—and on her own account—for the doctors told her that the air of Davos had done for her all that they had hoped and far more than they had expected; and assured her that she would get quite strong and well again. And this fact doubled the happiness of the other two: for Paul loved his sister very dearly; and Isabel's heart was filled with thanksgiving to feel that she had been allowed to be, in a measure, the means of Joanna's recovery, and so had done something for Paul in return for all that he had done for her.
But Paul could not stay with them for more than a week, so he went back to his work, promising to return for Joanna and Isabel when spring returned to England.
When he had been back in London for about three weeks his father wrote to tell him that Miss Dallicot was very ill, and had expressed a great wish to see the minister's son once more. So Paul ran down home for a day or two.
Things were brighter at the Cottage than they had been for some time, for Mrs. Seaton began to gain strength as soon as she heard that all was well with her children, and that health had returned to Joanna and happiness to Paul; and her husband felt better and younger because she did.
Paul had written to tell his mother that all was right again between himself and Isabel. He gave no explanations, nor did Mrs. Seaton require any: for she was wise enough to know that if people love each other, explanations are never needed; and if they don't love each other, no explanations will mend matters.
When Paul went to see Miss Dallicot he found her extremely weak, and shrivelled up into a little raisin of a woman. But her diction was as choice as ever.
"It is unspeakably gratifying to me to see your countenance once again, my dear young friend," she began, "and excessively kind of you to snatch a brief moment from the busy round of your incessant and onerous duties, to give such pleasure to an infirm and aged woman, who perhaps overstepped the rights of friendship in putting you to such trouble."
"Not at all, Miss Drusilla. I am awfully glad to see you again, and I only wish that I could see you looking better."
"That, my dear Paul, is a wish which can never be fulfilled in this world. But the young should not be made gloomy by the contemplation of sombre and serious subjects; therefore let us divert our thoughts into a more invigorating and cheering channel."
So Paul told the old lady about Isabel and Joanna and their life at Davos, and about his work in London, and his hope that he and Isabel would be married some time during the year then beginning; while Miss Drusilla listened with the greatest interest, and made her usual long-winded comments.
At last she said, "I feel that I owe it to you, my dear young friend, to offer some explanation of the fact of my so specially desiring to see your face once more, and of my venturing to put you to the trouble and fatigue of a journey from London, by the oracular expression of this desire on my part."
"It is a pleasure rather than a trouble," said Paul kindly, "it was very good of you to want to see me and I was very pleased to come." But all the same he really was surprised, as naturally Miss Dallicot had never been a special friend of his.
"The fact of the matter is," continued the little spinster, "you bear a strong facial resemblance to some one for whom I entertained a warm regard a considerable number of years ago. I daresay to your sound and vigorous judgment an accidental physical likeness appears a somewhat unsound basis for interest or attachment; but the fact remains that it does form such a basis in my case, though I should agree with you that from an intellectual standpoint the position is untenable."
"Oh! I can understand as much as that; for actually I once held a poor woman's baby for her while she scrambled up to the top of a London omnibus—and an extremely unattractive and unfanciable little brat it was—simply because the woman looked tired, and her eyes reminded me of Isabel's."
"Dear me, how very interesting! I trust that you informed Miss Carnaby of this somewhat romantic incident, as it would surely have proved most gratifying to her."
"Oh! no, it wouldn't; she would have been dreadfully hurt at being considered to resemble the middle-aged wife of an impecunious artisan. Women are never pleased at being thought like anybody who isn't well dressed, I have discovered. I remember Isabel was quite angry once when I showed her a peasant girl by Greuze, and said it reminded me of her; and she told me that if I'd said she was like a fashion-plate she should have been far better pleased—and she really would," added Paul, laughing at the remembrance.
"The feminine mind has certainly some strange inconsistencies," murmured Miss Drusilla, unconsciously straightening her cap.
"Of course it has; that is why it is so fascinating. I would not give a fig for a woman who had no bewitching little vanities. And the funny thing is that they are not vain of the things which really are a credit to them, but of the things which are a credit to their dressmakers. Now, take Isabel; she is awfully pleased with herself when she has got a new frock on, but she never knows that it is her figure which makes the frock look so well; and she thinks far more about the colour of her gowns than about the colour of her eyes."
(But here Paul was mistaken.)
"I should have imagined that men, with their robuster minds and sounder common sense, would have despised such small vanities as these," remarked Miss Dallicot.
"Not we; we like them."
"I always used to think that a profound and scholarly mind would not find happiness apart from profound and scholarly companionship, and would experience an extreme distaste for what I might call foolish and frivolous society. But I learnt afterwards that these views of mine were incorrect."
"I am afraid they were."
A far-away look came into Miss Drusilla's faded eyes; her thoughts had gone back to the long-ago.
"When I was comparatively young," she said dreamily, "I was honoured by the friendship of a most cultured and accomplished man. He was a great scholar; and under his tuition I made myself proficient in both Greek and Latin. It is true that I loved learning for its own sake, but I loved it still better for his; and I worked long and late in order to render myself more fit for his companionship and more congenial to his taste. As you will perceive, I felt it only natural that so profound a mind should shrink from the society of the flippant and the unlearned."
"I see," said Paul, and his voice was very tender.
"My friend's profession was tutorial," continued Miss Dallicot, "and in later life he became the headmaster of one of our great public schools. He and I were so intimately acquainted that I speculated much as to his future; and I felt sure that—if he ever did enter the holy estate of matrimony—he would naturally require a helpmeet who could assist him in the fulfilment of his scholastic duties, and accompany him in his ceaseless pursuit after knowledge."
Paul felt very pitiful; the world is so full of sad little mistakes like this, which are too pathetic to be comedies and too commonplace to be tragedies.
"Did you study very hard?" he asked.
"Indeed I did. I overcame the difficulties of the Greek and Latin tongues with amazing rapidity—at least so my dear master said; and he counted me his most successful pupil."
"And then?" said Paul.
"Then it happened that a young lady came to pay a lengthy visit to friends in our neighbourhood. She was well born, and possessed considerable personal charm; but her ignorance was something appalling. I recall that she once asked, before a room full of people, whether Homer wrote Greek or Latin, and if Cæsar were a poet." And Miss Dallicot fairly shuddered.
Paul could not forbear smiling, Miss Drusilla was so intensely shocked at the mere memory of these atrocities.
"Yet in spite of all this," continued Miss Dallicot, "my friend married her. Why he did so was always incomprehensible to me, as they two could not have had a single idea or interest in common. Yet he did it. I shall never forget a visit I once paid to them not long after their marriage. She endeavoured to make use of a Latin quotation, and actually—yes, actually, my dear Paul—she made a false quantity; and she the wife of a headmaster!"
"Good gracious!" said Paul; "what ever did the bridegroom do?"
"It was then that he showed the marvellous nobility and patience which always struck me so much in my contemplation of his character. I realized what he must have suffered, as a false quantity was always torture to his cultivated and sensitive ear; if one of his boys were guilty of such a thing, he straightway chastised the offender; when I made a false quantity, he blamed me severely, and said that his nerves could not stand it."
"Then what did he do to his bride?"
"My dear, his amiability was something marvellous. I was so grieved for him—so ashamed—that I could scarcely look up; but he rose to the occasion. He said not one single word of reproof—though I knew that many were burning upon his tongue—but he just laughed, and went up to his wife and kissed her. Did you ever hear of an instance of more heroic self-restraint?"
Paul thought that he had, but he did not say so. He sympathized with Miss Drusilla; but he also sympathized with the headmaster.
"Did she seem very much ashamed?" he asked.
"Not at all. That was the most painful part of that most painful scene. The careless young thing was as callous as she was illiterate. She merely laughed, as if it were nothing more than a joke, and called my dear friend 'a silly boy'. It struck me, and it strikes me still, as a most unseemly epithet for any right-minded woman to apply to her husband, especially when he was a man of between thirty and forty years of age, and one of the greatest Greek scholars of his day."
"Where is your friend now?"
Miss Dallicot sighed. "I grieve to say that his earthly career was closed some years ago. His wife was taken first, and he survived her only for the space of a few months. Some persons, not intimately acquainted with the parties concerned, said that his death was due to sorrow for hers; but I think this statement must have been incorrect, as so uneducated and frivolous a woman could never have been a thoroughly congenial companion to so erudite and wise a man. Therefore I conjecture that the approximation in the respective dates of his and her demise was merely a coincidence."
Paul did not feel so sure of this; he could imagine that a world depopulated of Isabel would be quite too desolate for human habitation. But all he said was: "It is an interesting little story."
So it was; but the interesting part of it was the part that poor little Miss Dallicot was incapable of seeing. People who tell us a story often tell far more than they intend, and, in fact, far more than they themselves know. They open the door that we may have a peep into their back-garden, and they have no idea that to us that peep includes a distant and extensive view, which their shortsighted eyes have never beheld.
"My friend was a most fascinating individual," continued Miss Drusilla dreamily, "endowed with unusual natural gifts, which were perfected by most assiduous study. He was withal the most modest man I have ever met. In person, my dear Paul, you strongly resemble him; it seems, perchance, strange for so trifling a detail to remain in one's mind for a period of over forty years, yet I can still vividly recall the colour of his hair, which was precisely of the same shade as yours."
Then Paul said good-bye to the little spinster, as she was growing too tired to talk any more. And he never saw her again.
A fortnight after his visit to Chayford Miss Drusilla died, and when her will came to be read it was found that she had left her entire fortune—amounting to some thirty thousand pounds—to Paul Seaton.
I hear a call through the silver nightAnd across the golden day,"Go forth and work, for the fields are white!"And I dare not disobey.
It was during the winter which Joanna spent at Davos, that Edgar Ford screwed his courage to the sticking point sufficiently to ask Alice Martin to become his wife.
By this time Alice's views of life had completely changed. She had not only forgotten that she had ever loved Paul—a comparatively trifling feat; she had not only fallen in love with some one else—an accomplishment likewise not difficult of feminine attainment; but she had succeeded in putting Edgar so completely in Paul's place that the change was retrospective, and Edgar was actually the richer for Alice's former devotion to Paul.
She had not blotted out the sum of her old love—she had merely transferred it from Paul's account to Edgar's; which was a decidedly wiser plan, as thus no good material was wasted. All the dreams of her springtime and the romance of her early summer, now went to the making of a rich harvest of affection for Edgar Ford to reap. Alice was one of the women who cannot live without loving; the man that such a woman happens to love is a mere matter of detail.
To an artist his art is everything, and it is born in him; the masters, under whom he studies, can only teach him style and manner and the tricks of his craft. In after life the pupil may learn in other schools, but he will always be a better artist because of the education which he received from the teachers who first trained him. Thus it is with women of the type of Alice Martin. The power of loving is part of themselves, and nothing can crush that out of them. They may learn technique from the master under whom they first study; but if in later days they turn to other teachers, that particular instructor will be forgotten, though they will always be able to love better because of the education which they received from him.
It may be true that "over the past not heaven itself has power"; but in this respect, if it be so, certain women have the advantage of heaven—at least as far as their own feelings are concerned. They can recolour the past so as to make it a becoming background for the present, just as we can repaper our drawing-rooms when we buy new furniture; and they can change the cast of their little dramas, long after the play has been played and the lights turned out.
The conies are a feeble folk; but their strength lies in their power to make use of the rock so as to meet their own requirements.
It was a better thing for Alice to love Edgar than it had ever been to love Paul, because Edgar was suited to her and Paul was not. A woman can always adapt herself to the man she loves, and be—for as long as she chooses—the sort of woman that he approves; but, though it is not difficult for a woman to be somebody else instead of herself for a time, it becomes fatiguing if kept up for too long. After a while it feels like walking in boots which are a shade too short, or biting crusts when one has the toothache.
It was a source of keen delight to Edgar that Alice shared his socialistic views with respect to the sanctity of the individual and the wrongfulness of riches; he did not know that she would have agreed with him just the same had he preached the subjugation of the masses and the divine right of kings.
"Alice, do you think you could ever love me?" Edgar asked suddenly one day, when they two were practising duets together.
"I think I have always loved you," she answered softly.
This was no untruth. Alice had always loved the hero of the piece; that Paul had been for a time Edgar's understudy in the part, had no practical bearing on the case.
"Then will you be my wife?"
"Yes."
Edgar wanted to kiss Alice, but he refrained for fear of frightening her. Alice wanted Edgar to kiss her, and could not imagine why he did not do so. It was in things like this that Edgar made mistakes. He had never learnt that nine times out of ten other people want the same things as we do; and if they don't, it doesn't so very much matter, as long as we get our own way.
"I do not wish to deceive you," he said, "or to win your love under false pretences, though that love is the desire of my heart. But my wife will have no luxury, though the world counts me a rich man."
"I don't want luxury," replied Alice, "I only want you."
"Do you mean to say you dare face a life of toil and poverty for my sake?"
"Of course I do. Don't you understand that I care for nothing but being with you, and feeling that you are pleased with me?"
Then Edgar took her in his arms and kissed her, and Alice's cup of bliss was full.
"You know my views about money," Edgar said, "and that I hold it a sin for any man to live a life of ease and pleasure while his fellow-men are starving. Well, I simply cannot go on any longer living my present life, when I know of the sea of sin and suffering and sorrow all around me. I feel I must go down into the midst of it, and do something for those weaker brethren for whom Christ died."
Alice's beautiful face was aglow with excitement: "I will come down with you, and stand by your side. I think it is splendid of you to give up everything for the sake of the poor; and I am proud to be the woman you have chosen to help you to bear this burden and to take up this cross!"
"My darling! do you think you can be quite happy without horses and carriages and all the external trappings of wealth?"
"I should rather think I could! I don't care a bit about things like that. Mamma thinks they are important, but they have always bothered me ever since I was a little girl and used to think it a treat to walk out to tea instead of having the carriage."
"But you will be a rich woman on your own account, Alice, and you must do what you will with your own."
"I shall give it all to you to do whatever you like with, and it will help us to help others all the more."
"Then will you come and live with me down at the Stepney Settlement, in connection with Hampden House, and take your part in the work there?" asked Edgar. "It is a grand field for labour, and the labourers are as yet few."
"Of course I will. I will go anywhere with you and do anything for you as long as I live."
"My brave little girl!"
Alice slipped her hand into his. "And I will always act as you bid me and obey you in everything, if only you'll promise never, never to be cross with me. I think it would kill me if ever you were vexed with me; so you won't be, will you?"
"I?—vexed with you? My dearest, the thing is unthinkable."
"Then I don't care what happens," said Alice contentedly. "But you were once awfully cross with me, you know."
"My child, what on earth do you mean?"
"Oh! it was one time—ages and ages ago—when you never would speak to me if you could help it, and it used to make me so miserable. You really were cross then." And Alice's disengaged hand wandered idly over the keys.
"Not cross, dear; only very, very unhappy, because I loved you and I did not think you would ever love me."
Alice raised her pretty eyebrows. "Well, that was hardly the way to make me love you, was it? It wasn't likely that I should fall in love with a man in a temper—at least I mean to say with a man who looked as if he were in a temper."
"Do you think you would have loved me then, Alice, if you had known that all my outside sternness was merely the mask I put on to hide my love for you? Tell me, dear, I want to know."
Alice thought for a moment. "I expect I should, for I have always adored the shape of your nose."
Edgar laughed, and Alice went on: "I used to be afraid that I bored you because I wasn't clever; but now you don't mind my not being clever a bit, do you?"
"My darling, I hate clever women; a woman is meant to be beautiful and good, and cleverness simply spoils her."
"Then don't you admire Isabel Carnaby?"
(Alice was still a woman, though she was ready to go down and live in the Stepney Settlement.)
"I couldn't exactly say that I don't admire her; she is so modern and up-to-date, that I regard her as a sort of national institution that one ought to feel proud of—a specimen of what the nineteenth century can produce. But she never attracts me in the least; she is cold and brilliant and hard, like a diamond, and has nothing lovable about her, as far as I can see."
Alice drew a little contented sigh. "And she isn't really pretty, is she?"
"Not at all. I never can bear blue eyes; they are always cold and unsympathetic, I think."
"What coloured eyes do you like best?"
"Brown—like velvet; and hair to match and a complexion like a rose-leaf."
Alice laughed a low happy laugh. "I am so glad you don't mind my being stupid."
"You are not stupid, dear; you are full of tact—which is infinitely better than cleverness. See how well you can talk to the poor, and how you can make them love you. You have a happy knack of always saying the the right thing."
"I am so glad. You don't know how hard I try to be the sort of woman that you approve of; I am always thinking of you, and of what I can do or say to please you."
"Dear Alice!" said Edgar tenderly, "you overpower me with the feeling that I can never do enough to deserve all this love."
"No, Edgar; it is I who ought to be grateful, because whatever niceness there is in me is all your doing. It is you who have moulded my character and formed my opinions; so that whatever good I may do in this world must be put down to your credit and not mine."
Which was quite true; and Edgar had every reason to be proud of his handiwork.
There was joy at The Cedars because of Alice's engagement to Edgar Ford. Mrs. Martin fairly beamed. She felt that Providence had had a hand in the matter—which was perfectly true; nevertheless when Providence had seemed to be bringing about a union between her daughter and Paul Seaton, Mrs. Martin, like a troublesome politician, was not willing to "serve under" the Leader in power. In this respect she was by no means singular; we are all naturally more submissive to the decrees of heaven when those decrees are in accordance with our own desires.
"My dear," she said to her daughter, "I am sure you will be very happy, because a woman naturally requires one stronger than herself to lean upon; and, besides, Edgar is an only son, so that whatever his parents have to leave will come to him."
"I could never have been happy as an old maid, mamma; the feeling that nobody needed me or cared for me would have killed me."
Mrs. Martin stitched at her bazaar-work with a complacent smile: "I know it would, love; you have such a very affectionate nature. And it is difficult for a single woman to take any social position, unless she is a lady of title."
Alice listened dutifully, and her mother rambled on: "It will be so nice for you, dear, when Edgar goes into Parliament; for I hear that members of Parliament and their wives are received in the highest circles. It is a pity dear Edgar isn't a Conservative—there is always such refinement about Conservatives—but that cannot be helped, I suppose."
"Oh! mamma, Edgar would never become a Conservative."
"I am not suggesting that he should, my love; but perhaps in time you might persuade him to become an old-fashioned Whig; and that, I believe, is almost as aristocratic. Still I cannot help wishing that he had been a Conservative in the first instance; you see, a Radical may be a gentleman, but a Conservative must be one."
"I don't see that."
"Don't you, love? Well, I can hardly explain it to you, but I have a feeling that it is more correct to be a Conservative."
"But I could not try to make Edgar go against his own convictions, mamma."
Mrs. Martin paused for a moment while she selected a fresh thread of silk; then she said: "Ah! my love, if you want to get on in society, you must think more about conventions than convictions. And since Edgar persists in remaining a Radical, I would ignore it if I were you."
"But there is nothing to be ashamed of in one's politics," persisted Alice; "men have a right to think what they like."
"Still, my dear, if one espoused the cause of the people, it might lead to the impression that one had risen from the people; and that would be extremely painful to any one, especially to a person with my sensitive feelings."
Alice however was obstinate; it was her one fault and she freely indulged in it. "We are risen from the people," she said; "that is merely the truth."
Her mother sighed, as she threaded her needle. "When you have lived as long as I have, my dear, you will find that the truth is generally vulgar and invariably inexpedient."
"Edgar and I don't mean to behave like rich people, or to go in for society, but to live among the poor and try to help them."
Mrs. Martin smiled indulgently. "Young men often get strange, socialistic notions like that into their heads, but a few drops of nitre on a lump of sugar soon put them all right again."
"But I don't want to put Edgar all right as you call it, mamma; the reason why I love him so dearly is that he is so good and unworldly and has such high ideals."
"My dear child, he will be all right when he is married. My experience is that there is nothing like getting married for curing young men of ideals and nonsense of that kind. Your dear papa never bothered his head about ideals after he had married me."
"Edgar says the truth is stronger than everything, and that the height of good breeding is never to be ashamed of anything," persisted Alice, whose "strength was as the strength of ten" when she had "Edgar says" to back up her opinions.