During the next month or two my solitary town-life seemed, by contrast, unusually dull and tedious. I missed the pleasant friends I had left behind at Elveston—the genial interchange of thought—the sympathy which gave to one’s ideas a new and vivid reality: but, perhaps more than all, I missed the companionship of the two Fairies—or Dream-Children, for I had not yet solved the problem as to who or what they were—whose sweet playfulness had shed a magic radiance over my life.
In office-hours—which I suppose reduce most men to the mental condition of a coffee-millor a mangle—time sped along much as usual: it was in the pauses of life, the desolate hours when books and newspapers palled on the sated appetite, and when, thrown back upon one’s own dreary musings, one strove—all in vain—to people the vacant air with the dear faces of absent friends, that the real bitterness of solitude made itself felt.
One evening, feeling my life a little more wearisome than usual, I strolled down to my Club, not so much with the hope of meeting any friend there, for London was now ‘out of town,’ as with the feeling that here, at least, I should hear ‘sweet words of human speech,’ and come into contact with human thought.
However, almost the first face I saw therewasthat of a friend. Eric Lindon was lounging, with rather a ‘bored’ expression of face, over a newspaper; and we fell into conversation with a mutual satisfaction which neither of us tried to conceal.
After a while I ventured to introduce what was just then the main subject of my thoughts. “And so the Doctor” (a name we had adopted by a tacit agreement, as a convenient compromisebetween the formality of ‘Doctor Forester’ and the intimacy—to which Eric Lindon hardly seemed entitled—of ‘Arthur’) “has gone abroad by this time, I suppose? Can you give me his present address?”
“He is still at Elveston—I believe,” was the reply. “But I have not been there since I last met you.”
I did not know which part of this intelligence to wonder at most. “And might I ask—if it isn’t taking too much of a liberty—when your wedding-bells are to—or perhaps theyhaverung, already?”
“No,” said Eric, in a steady voice, which betrayed scarcely a trace of emotion: “thatengagement is at an end. I am still ‘Benedick theunmarried man.’”
After this, the thick-coming fancies—all radiant with new possibilities of happiness for Arthur—were far too bewildering to admit of any further conversation, and I was only too glad to avail myself of the first decent excuse, that offered itself, for retiring into silence.
The next day I wrote to Arthur, with as much of a reprimand for his long silence as Icould bring myself to put into words, begging him to tell me how the world went with him.
Needs must that three or four days—possibly more—should elapse before I could receive his reply; and never had I known days drag their slow length along with a more tedious indolence.
To while away the time, I strolled, one afternoon, into Kensington Gardens, and, wandering aimlessly along any path that presented itself, I soon became aware that I had somehow strayed into one that was wholly new to me. Still, my elfish experiences seemed to have so completely faded out of my life that nothing was further from my thoughts than the idea of again meeting my fairy-friends, when I chanced to notice a small creature, moving among the grass that fringed the path, that did not seem to be an insect, or a frog, or any other living thing that I could think of. Cautiously kneeling down, and making anex temporecage of my two hands, I imprisoned the little wanderer, and felt a sudden thrill of surprise and delight on discovering that my prisoner was no other thanBrunohimself!
Bruno took the matterverycoolly, and, when I had replaced him on the ground, where he would be within easy conversational distance, he began talking, just as if it were only a few minutes since last we had met.
“Doos oo know what theRuleis,” he enquired, “when oo catches a Fairy, withouten its having tolded oo where it was?” (Bruno’s notions of English Grammar had certainlynotimproved since our last meeting.)
“No,” I said. “I didn’t know there was any Rule about it.”
“Ithinkoo’ve got a right toeatme,” said the little fellow, looking up into my face with a winning smile. “But I’m not pruffickly sure. Oo’d better not do it wizout asking.”
It did indeed seem reasonable not to take so irrevocable a step asthat, without due enquiry. “I’ll certainlyaskabout it, first,” I said. “Besides, I don’t know yet whether you would bewortheating!”
“I guess I’mdeliciouslygood to eat,” Bruno remarked in a satisfied tone, as if it were something to be rather proud of.
“And what are you doing here, Bruno?”
“That’snot my name!” said my cunning little friend. “Don’t oo know my name’s ‘Oh Bruno!’? That’s what Sylvie always calls me, when I says mine lessons.”
“Well then, what are you doing here, oh Bruno?”
“Doing mine lessons, a-course!” With that roguish twinkle in his eye, that always came when he knew he was talking nonsense.
“Oh,that’sthe way you do your lessons, is it? And do you remember them well?”
“Always can ’memberminelessons,” said Bruno. “It’sSylvie’slessons that’s sodreffullyhard to ’member!” He frowned, as if in agonies of thought, and tapped his forehead with his knuckles. “Ica’n’tthink enough to understand them!” he said despairingly. “It wantsdoublethinking, I believe!”
“But where’s Sylvie gone?”
“That’s just whatIwant to know!” said Bruno disconsolately. “What ever’s the good of setting me lessons, when she isn’t here to ’splain the hard bits?”
“I’llfind her for you!” I volunteered; and, getting up, I wandered round the tree underwhose shade I had been reclining, looking on all sides for Sylvie. In another minute Iagainnoticed some strange thing moving among the grass, and, kneeling down, was immediately confronted with Sylvie’s innocent face, lighted up with a joyful surprise at seeing me, and was accosted, in the sweet voice I knew so well, with what seemed to be theendof a sentence whose beginning I had failed to catch.
“—and I think he ought to havefinishedthem by this time. So I’m going back to him. Will you come too? It’s only just round at the other side of this tree.”
It was but a few steps forme; but it was a great many for Sylvie; and I had to be very careful to walk slowly, in order not to leave the little creature so far behind as to lose sight of her.
To find Bruno’slessonswas easy enough: they appeared to be neatly written out on large smooth ivy-leaves, which were scattered in some confusion over a little patch of ground where the grass had been worn away; but the pale student, who ought by rights to have been bending over them, was nowhere to be seen:we looked in all directions, for some time, in vain; but at last Sylvie’s sharp eyes detected him, swinging on a tendril of ivy, and Sylvie’s stern voice commanded his instant return toterra firmaand to the business of Life.
SYLVIE’S TRUANT-PUPILSYLVIE’S TRUANT-PUPIL
SYLVIE’S TRUANT-PUPIL
“Pleasure first and business afterwards” seemed to be the motto of these tiny folk, so many hugs and kisses had to be interchanged before anything else could be done.
“Now, Bruno,” Sylvie said reproachfully, “didn’t I tell you you were to go on with your lessons, unless you heard to the contrary?”
“But Ididheard to the contrary!” Bruno insisted, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“Whatdid you hear, you wicked boy?”
“It were a sort of noise in the air,” said Bruno: “a sort of a scrambling noise. Didn’toohear it, Mister Sir?”
“Well, anyhow, you needn’t go tosleepover them, you lazy-lazy!” For Bruno had curled himself up, on the largest ‘lesson,’ and was arranging another as a pillow.
“Iwasn’tasleep!” said Bruno, in a deeply-injured tone. “When I shuts mine eyes, it’s to show that I’mawake!”
“Well, how much have you learned, then?”
“I’ve learned a little tiny bit,” said Bruno, modestly, being evidently afraid of overstating his achievement. “Ca’n’tlearn no more!”
“Oh Bruno! You know youcan, if you like.”
“Course I can, if Ilike,” the pale student replied; “but I ca’n’t if Idon’tlike!”
Sylvie had a way—which I could not too highly admire—of evading Bruno’s logical perplexities by suddenly striking into a new line of thought; and this masterly stratagem she now adopted.
“Well, I must sayonething——”
“Did oo know, Mister Sir,” Bruno thoughtfully remarked, “that Sylvie ca’n’t count? Whenever she says ‘I must sayonething,’ Iknowquite well she’ll saytwothings! And she always doos.”
“Two heads are better than one, Bruno,” I said, but with no very distinct idea as to what I meant by it.
“I shouldn’t mind having twoheads,” Bruno said softly to himself: “one head to eat mine dinner, and one head to argue wiz Sylvie—doos oo think oo’d look prettier if oo’d gottwoheads, Mister Sir?”
The case did not, I assured him, admit of a doubt.
“The reason why Sylvie’s so cross——” Bruno went on very seriously, almost sadly.
Sylvie’s eyes grew large and round with surprise at this new line of enquiry—her rosy face being perfectly radiant with good humour. But she said nothing.
“Wouldn’t it be better to tell me after the lessons are over?” I suggested.
“Very well,” Bruno said with a resigned air: “only she wo’n’t be cross then.”
“There’s only three lessons to do,” said Sylvie. “Spelling, and Geography, and Singing.”
“NotArithmetic?” I said.
“No, he hasn’t a head for Arithmetic——”
“Course I haven’t!” said Bruno. “Mine head’s forhair. I haven’t got alotof heads!”
“—and he ca’n’t learn his Multiplication-table——”
“I likeHistoryever so much better,” Bruno remarked. “Oo has torepeatthat Muddlecome table——”
“Well, and you have to repeat——”
“No, oo hasn’t!” Bruno interrupted. “History repeats itself. The Professor said so!”
Sylvie was arranging some letters on a board——E—V—I—L. “Now, Bruno,” she said, “what doesthatspell?”
Bruno looked at it, in solemn silence, for a minute. “I knows what itdoosn’tspell!” he said at last.
“That’s no good,” said Sylvie. “Whatdoesit spell?”
Bruno took another look at the mysterious letters. “Why, it’s ‘LIVE,’ backwards!” he exclaimed. (I thought it was, indeed.)
“Howdidyou manage to see that?” said Sylvie.
“I just twiddled my eyes,” said Bruno, “and then I saw it directly. Now may I sing the King-fisher Song?”
“Geography next,” said Sylvie. “Don’t you know the Rules?”
“I thinks there oughtn’t to be such a lot of Rules, Sylvie! I thinks——”
“Yes, thereoughtto be such a lot of Rules, you wicked, wicked boy! And how dare youthinkat all about it? And shut up that mouth directly!”
So, as ‘that mouth’ didn’t seem inclined to shut up of itself, Sylvie shut it for him—with both hands—and sealed it with a kiss, just as you would fasten up a letter.
“Now that Bruno is fastened up from talking,” she went on, turning to me, “I’ll show you the Map he does his lessons on.”
And there it was, a large Map of the World, spread out on the ground. It was so large that Bruno had to crawl about on it, to point out the places named in the ‘King-fisher Lesson.’
“When a King-fisher sees a Lady-bird flying away, he says ‘Ceylon, if youCandia!’ And when he catches it, he says ‘Come toMedia! And if you’reHungaryor thirsty, I’ll give you someNubia!’ When he takes it in his claws, he says ‘Europe!’ When he puts it into his beak, he says ‘India!’ When he’s swallowed it, he says ‘Eton!’ That’s all.”
“That’squiteperfect,” said Sylvie. “Now you may sing the King-fisher Song.”
“Willoosing the chorus?” Bruno said to me.
I was just beginning to say “I’m afraid I don’t know thewords,” when Sylvie silently turned the map over, and I found the words were all written on the back. In one respect it was averypeculiar song: the chorus to each verse came in themiddle, instead of at theendof it. However, the tune was so easy that Isoon picked it up, and managed the chorus as well, perhaps, as it is possible foroneperson to manage such a thing. It was in vain that I signed to Sylvie to help me: she only smiled sweetly and shook her head.
“King Fisher courted Lady Bird—Sing Beans, sing Bones, sing Butterflies!‘Find me my match,’ he said,‘With such a noble head—With such a beard, as white as curd—With such expressive eyes!’
“King Fisher courted Lady Bird—
Sing Beans, sing Bones, sing Butterflies!
‘Find me my match,’ he said,
‘With such a noble head—
With such a beard, as white as curd—
With such expressive eyes!’
“‘Yet pins have heads,’ said Lady Bird—Sing Prunes, sing Prawns, sing Primrose-Hill!‘And, where you stick them in,They stay, and thus a pinIs very much to be preferredTo one that’s never still!’
“‘Yet pins have heads,’ said Lady Bird—
Sing Prunes, sing Prawns, sing Primrose-Hill!
‘And, where you stick them in,
They stay, and thus a pin
Is very much to be preferred
To one that’s never still!’
“‘Oysters have beards,’ said Lady Bird—Sing Flies, sing Frogs, sing Fiddle-strings!‘I love them, for I knowTheynever chatter so:They would not say one single word—Not if you crowned them Kings!’
“‘Oysters have beards,’ said Lady Bird—
Sing Flies, sing Frogs, sing Fiddle-strings!
‘I love them, for I know
Theynever chatter so:
They would not say one single word—
Not if you crowned them Kings!’
“‘Needles have eyes,’ said Lady Bird—Sing Cats, sing Corks, sing Cowslip-tea!‘And they are sharp—just whatYour Majesty isnot:So get you gone—’tis too absurdTo come a-courtingme!’”
“‘Needles have eyes,’ said Lady Bird—
Sing Cats, sing Corks, sing Cowslip-tea!
‘And they are sharp—just what
Your Majesty isnot:
So get you gone—’tis too absurd
To come a-courtingme!’”
KING FISHER’S WOOINGKING FISHER’S WOOING
KING FISHER’S WOOING
“So he went away,” Bruno added as a kind of postscript, when the last note of the song had died away. “Just like he always did.”
“Oh, mydearBruno!” Sylvie exclaimed, with her hands over her ears. “You shouldn’t say ‘like’: you should say ‘what.’”
To which Bruno replied, doggedly, “I only says ‘what!’ when oo doosn’t speak loud, so as I can hear oo.”
“Where did he go to?” I asked, hoping to prevent an argument.
“He went more far than he’d never been before,” said Bruno.
“You should never say ‘more far,’” Sylvie corrected him: “you should say ‘farther.’”
“Thenooshouldn’t say ‘more broth,’ when we’re at dinner,” Bruno retorted: “oo should say ‘brother’!”
This time Sylvie evaded an argument by turning away, and beginning to roll up the Map. “Lessons are over!” she proclaimed in her sweetest tones.
“And has there been nocryingover them?” I enquired. “Little boysalwayscry over their lessons, don’t they?”
“I never cries after twelve o’clock,” said Bruno: “’cause then it’s getting so near to dinner-time.”
“Sometimes, in the morning,” Sylvie said in a low voice; “when it’s Geography-day, and when he’s been disobe——”
“Whata fellow you are to talk, Sylvie!” Bruno hastily interposed. “Doos oo think the world wasmadefor oo to talk in?”
“Why, where would youhaveme talk, then?” Sylvie said, evidently quite ready for an argument.
But Bruno answered resolutely. “I’m not going to argue about it, ’cause it’s getting late, and there wo’n’t be time—but oo’s as ’ong as ever oo can be!” And he rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, in which tears were beginning to glitter.
Sylvie’seyes filled with tears in a moment. “I didn’t mean it, Bruno,darling!” she whispered; and the rest of the argument was lost ‘amid the tangles of Neæra’s hair,’ while the two disputants hugged and kissed each other.
But this new form of argument was brought to a sudden end by a flash of lightning, whichwas closely followed by a peal of thunder, and by a torrent of rain-drops, which came hissing and spitting, almost like live creatures, through the leaves of the tree that sheltered us.
“Why, it’s raining cats and dogs!” I said.
“And all thedogshas come downfirst,” said Bruno: “there’s nothing butcatscoming down now!”
In another minute the pattering ceased, as suddenly as it had begun. I stepped out from under the tree, and found that the storm was over; but I looked in vain, on my return, for my tiny companions. They had vanished with the storm, and there was nothing for it but to make the best of my way home.
On the table lay, awaiting my return, an envelope of that peculiar yellow tint which always announces a telegram, and which must be, in the memories of so many of us, inseparably linked with some great and sudden sorrow—something that has cast a shadow, never in this world to be wholly lifted off, on the brightness of Life. No doubt it hasalsoheralded—for many of us—some sudden news of joy; but this, I think, is less common:human life seems, on the whole, to contain more of sorrow than of joy. And yet the world goes on. Who knows why?
This time, however, there was no shock of sorrow to be faced: in fact, the few words it contained (“Could not bring myself to write. Come soon. Always welcome. A letter follows this. Arthur.”) seemed so like Arthur himself speaking, that it gave me quite a thrill of pleasure, and I at once began the preparations needed for the journey.
“Fayfield Junction! Change for Elveston!”
What subtle memory could there be, linked to these commonplace words, that caused such a flood of happy thoughts to fill my brain? I dismounted from the carriage in a state of joyful excitement for which I could not at first account. True, I had taken this very journey, and at the same hour of the day, six months ago; but many things had happened since then, and an old man’s memory has but a slender hold on recent events: I sought ‘the missing link’ in vain. Suddenly I caught sight of a bench—the only one provided onthe cheerless platform—with a lady seated on it, and the whole forgotten scene flashed upon me as vividly as if it were happening over again.
“Yes,” I thought. “This bare platform is, for me, rich with the memory of a dear friend! She was sitting on that very bench, and invited me to share it, with some quotation from Shakespeare—I forget what. I’ll try the Earl’s plan for the Dramatisation of Life, and fancy that figure to be Lady Muriel; and I won’t undeceive myself too soon!”
So I strolled along the platform, resolutely ‘making-believe’ (as children say) that the casual passenger, seated on that bench, was the Lady Muriel I remembered so well. She was facing away from me, which aided the elaborate cheatery I was practising on myself: but, though I was careful, in passing the spot, to look the other way, in order to prolong the pleasant illusion, it was inevitable that, when I turned to walk back again, I should see who it was. It was Lady Muriel herself!
‘SPEND IT ALL FOR MINNIE’‘SPEND IT ALL FOR MINNIE’
‘SPEND IT ALL FOR MINNIE’
The whole scene now returned vividly to my memory; and, to make this repetition of it stranger still, there was the same old man, whom I remembered seeing so roughly ordered off, by the Station-Master, to make room for his titled passenger. The same, but ‘with a difference’: no longer tottering feebly along the platform, but actually seated at Lady Muriel’s side, and in conversation with her! “Yes, put it in your purse,” she was saying, “and remember you’re to spend it all forMinnie. And mind you bring her something nice, that’ll do her real good! And give hermy love!” So intent was she on saying these words, that, although the sound of my footstep had made her lift her head and look at me, she did not at first recognise me.
I raised my hat as I approached, and then there flashed across her face a genuine look of joy, which so exactly recalled the sweet face of Sylvie, when last we met in Kensington Gardens, that I felt quite bewildered.
Rather than disturb the poor old man at her side, she rose from her seat, and joined me in my walk up and down the platform, and for a minute or two our conversation was as utterly trivial and commonplace as if we were merely two casual guests in a London drawing-room. Each of us seemed to shrink, just at first, from touching on the deeper interests which linked our lives together.
The Elveston train had drawn up at the platform, while we talked; and, in obedience to the Station-Master’s obsequious hint of “This way, my Lady! Time’s up!”, we were making the best of our way towards the end which contained the sole first-class carriage, and were just passing the now-empty bench,when Lady Muriel noticed, lying on it, the purse in which her gift had just been so carefully bestowed, the owner of which, all unconscious of his loss, was being helped into a carriage at the other end of the train. She pounced on it instantly. “Poor old man!” she cried. “He mustn’t go off, and think he’s lost it!”
“Letmerun with it! I can go quicker than you!” I said. But she was already half-way down the platform, flying (‘running’ is much too mundane a word for such fairy-like motion) at a pace that left all possible efforts ofminehopelessly in the rear.
She was back again before I had well completed my audacious boast of speed in running, and was saying, quite demurely, as we entered our carriage, “and you really thinkyoucould have done it quicker?”
“No indeed!” I replied. “I plead ‘Guilty’ of gross exaggeration, and throw myself on the mercy of the Court!”
“The Court will overlook it—for this once!” Then her manner suddenly changed from playfulness to an anxious gravity.
“You are not looking your best!” she said with an anxious glance. “In fact, I think you lookmoreof an invalid than when you left us. I very much doubt if London agrees with you?”
“Itmaybe the London air,” I said, “or it may be the hard work—or my rather lonely life: anyhow, I’venotbeen feeling very well, lately. But Elveston will soon set me up again. Arthur’s prescription—he’s my doctor, you know, and I heard from him this morning—is ‘plenty of ozone, and new milk, andpleasant society’!”
“Pleasant society?” said Lady Muriel, with a pretty make-believe of considering the question. “Well, really I don’t know where we can findthatfor you! We have so few neighbours. But new milk wecanmanage. Do get it of my old friend Mrs. Hunter, up there, on the hill-side. You may rely upon thequality. And her little Bessie comes to school every day, and passes your lodgings. So it would be very easy to send it.”
“I’ll follow your advice, with pleasure,” I said; “and I’ll go and arrange about it tomorrow. I know Arthur will want a walk.”
“You’ll find it quite an easy walk—under three miles, I think.”
“Well, now that we’ve settled that point, let me retort your own remark upon yourself. I don’t thinkyou’relooking quite your best!”
“I daresay not,” she replied in a low voice; and a sudden shadow seemed to overspread her face. “I’ve had some troubles lately. It’s a matter about which I’ve been long wishing to consult you, but I couldn’t easily write about it. I’msoglad to have this opportunity!”
“Do you think,” she began again, after a minute’s silence, and with a visible embarrassment of manner most unusual in her, “that a promise, deliberately and solemnly given, isalwaysbinding—except, of course, where its fulfilment would involve some actualsin?”
“I ca’n’t think of any other exception at this moment,” I said. “That branch of casuistry is usually, I believe, treated as a question of truth and untruth——”
“Surely thatisthe principle?” she eagerly interrupted. “I always thought the Bible-teaching about it consisted of such texts as ‘lie not one to another’?”
“I have thought about that point,” I replied; “and it seems to me that the essence oflyingis the intention ofdeceiving. If you give a promise, fullyintendingto fulfil it, you are certainly acting truthfullythen; and, if you afterwards break it, that does not involve anydeception. I cannot call ituntruthful.”
Another pause of silence ensued. Lady Muriel’s face was hard to read: she looked pleased, I thought, but also puzzled; and I felt curious to know whether her question had, as I began to suspect, some bearing on the breaking off of her engagement with Captain (now Major) Lindon.
“You have relieved me from a great fear,” she said; “but the thing is of coursewrong, somehow. What texts wouldyouquote, to prove it wrong?”
“Any that enforce the payment ofdebts. IfApromises something toB,Bhas a claim uponA. AndA’s sin, if he breaks his promise, seems to me more analogous tostealingthan tolying.”
“It’s a new way of looking at it—to me,” she said; “but it seems atrueway, also.However, I won’t deal in generalities, with an old friend like you! For weareold friends, somehow. Do you know, I think webeganas old friends?” she said with a playfulness of tone that ill accorded with the tears that glistened in her eyes.
“Thank you very much for saying so,” I replied. “I like to think of you as anoldfriend,” (“—though you don’t look it!” would have been the almost necessary sequence, with any other lady; but she and I seemed to have long passed out of the time when compliments, or any such trivialities, were possible.)
Here the train paused at a station, where two or three passengers entered the carriage; so no more was said till we had reached our journey’s end.
On our arrival at Elveston, she readily adopted my suggestion that we should walk up together; so, as soon as our luggage had been duly taken charge of—hers by the servant who met her at the station, and mine by one of the porters—we set out together along the familiar lanes, now linked in my memory with so many delightful associations. LadyMuriel at once recommenced the conversation at the point where it had been interrupted.
“You knew of my engagement to my cousin Eric. Did you also hear——”
“Yes,” I interrupted, anxious to spare her the pain of giving any details. “I heard it had all come to an end.”
“I would like to tell you how it happened,” she said; “as that is the very point I want your advice about. I had long realised that we were not in sympathy in religious belief. His ideas of Christianity are very shadowy; and even as to the existence of a God he lives in a sort of dreamland. But it has not affected his life! I feel sure, now, that the most absolute Atheistmaybe leading, though walking blindfold, a pure and noble life. And if you knew half the good deeds——” she broke off suddenly, and turned away her head.
“I entirely agree with you,” I said. “And have we not our Saviour’s own promise that such a life shall surely lead to the light?”
“Yes, I know it,” she said in a broken voice, still keeping her head turned away. “And so I told him. He said he would believe, formysake, if he could. And he wished, formysake, he could see things as I did. But that is all wrong!” she went on passionately. “Godcannotapprove such low motives as that! Still it was notIthat broke it off. I knew he loved me; and I hadpromised; and——”
“Then it washethat broke it off?”
“He released me unconditionally.” She faced me again now, having quite recovered her usual calmness of manner.
“Then what difficulty remains?”
“It isthis, that I don’t believe he did it of his own free will. Now, supposing he did itagainsthis will, merely to satisfy my scruples, would not his claim on me remain just as strong as ever? And would not my promise be as binding as ever? My father says ‘no’; but I ca’n’t help fearing he is biased by his love for me. And I’ve asked no one else. I have many friends—friends for the bright sunny weather; not friends for the clouds and storms of life; notoldfriends like you!”
“Let me think a little,” I said: and for some minutes we walked on in silence, while,pained to the heart at seeing the bitter trial that had come upon this pure and gentle soul, I strove in vain to see my way through the tangled skein of conflicting motives.
“If she loves him truly,” (I seemed at last to grasp the clue to the problem) “is notthat, for her, the voice of God? May she not hope that she is sent to him, even as Ananias was sent to Saul in his blindness, that he may receive his sight?” Once more I seemed to hear Arthur whispering “What knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband?” and I broke the silence with the words “If you still love him truly——”
“I donot!” she hastily interrupted. “At least—not inthatway. IbelieveI loved him when I promised; but I was very young: it is hard to know. But, whatever the feeling was, it is deadnow. The motive onhisside is Love: onmineit is—Duty!”
Again there was a long silence. The whole skein of thought was tangled worse than ever. This timeshebroke the silence. “Don’t misunderstand me!” she said. “When I said my heart was nothis, I did not mean it was anyone else’s! At present I feel bound tohim; and, till I know I am absolutely free, in the sight of God, to love any other than him, I’ll never eventhinkof any one else—inthatway, I mean. I would die sooner!” I had never imagined my gentle friend capable of such passionate utterances.
I ventured on no further remark until we had nearly arrived at the Hall-gate; but, the longer I reflected, the clearer it became to me that no call of Duty demanded the sacrifice—possibly of the happiness of a life—which she seemed ready to make. I tried to make this clear toheralso, adding some warnings on the dangers that surely awaited a union in which mutual love was wanting. “The only argument for it, worth considering,” I said in conclusion, “seems to be his supposedreluctancein releasing you from your promise. I have tried to give to that argument itsfullweight, and my conclusion is that it doesnotaffect the rights of the case, or invalidate the release he has given you. My belief is that you areentirelyfree to act asnowseems right.”
“I amverygrateful to you,” she said earnestly. “Believe it, please! I ca’n’t put it into proper words!” and the subject was dropped by mutual consent: and I only learned, long afterwards, that our discussion had really served to dispel the doubts that had harassed her so long.
We parted at the Hall-gate, and I found Arthur eagerly awaiting my arrival; and, before we parted for the night, I had heard the whole story—how he had put off his journey from day to day, feeling that hecouldnot go away from the place till his fate had been irrevocably settled by the wedding taking place: how the preparations for the wedding, and the excitement in the neighbourhood, had suddenly come to an end, and he had learned (from Major Lindon, who called to wish him good-bye) that the engagement had been broken off by mutual consent: how he had instantly abandoned all his plans for going abroad, and had decided to stay on at Elveston, for a year or two at any rate, till his newly-awakened hopes should prove true or false; and how, since that memorable day, he had avoided all meetingswith Lady Muriel, fearing to betray his feelings before he had had any sufficient evidence as to how she regarded him. “But it is nearly six weeks since all that happened,” he said in conclusion, “and we can meet in the ordinary way, now, with no need for any painful allusions. I would have written to tell you all this: only I kept hoping from day to day, that—that there would bemoreto tell!”
“And how should there bemore, you foolish fellow,” I fondly urged, “if you never even go near her? Do you expect the offer to come fromher?”
Arthur was betrayed into a smile. “No,” he said, “I hardly expectthat. But I’m a desperate coward. There’s no doubt about it!”
“And whatreasonshave you heard of for breaking off the engagement?”
“A good many,” Arthur replied, and proceeded to count them on his fingers. “First, it was found that she was dying of—something; sohebroke it off. Then it was found thathewas dying of—some other thing; soshebroke it off. Then the Major turned out to be a confirmed gamester; so theEarlbroke it off.Then the Earl insulted him; so theMajorbroke it off. It got a good deal broken off, all things considered!”
“You have all this on the very best authority, of course?”
“Oh, certainly! And communicated in the strictest confidence! Whatever defects Elveston society suffers from,want of informationisn’t one of them!”
“Norreticence, either, it seems. But, seriously, do you know the real reason?”
“No, I’m quite in the dark.”
I did not feel that I had any right to enlighten him; so I changed the subject, to the less engrossing one of “new milk,” and we agreed that I should walk over, next day, to Hunter’s farm, Arthur undertaking to set me part of the way, after which he had to return to keep a business-engagement.
Next day proved warm and sunny, and we started early, to enjoy the luxury of a good long chat before he would be obliged to leave me.
“This neighbourhood has more than its due proportion of theverypoor,” I remarked, as we passed a group of hovels, too dilapidated to deserve the name of “cottages.”
“But the few rich,” Arthur replied, “give more than their due proportion of help in charity. So the balance is kept.”
“I suppose theEarldoes a good deal?”
“Hegivesliberally; but he has not the health or strength to do more. Lady Murieldoes more in the way of school-teaching and cottage-visiting than she would like me to reveal.”
“Thenshe, at least, is not one of the ‘idle mouths’ one so often meets with among the upper classes. I have sometimes thought they would have a hard time of it, if suddenly called on to give theirraison d’être, and to show cause why they should be allowed to live any longer!”
“The whole subject,” said Arthur, “of what we may call ‘idle mouths’ (I mean persons who absorb some of the materialwealthof a community—in the form of food, clothes, and so on—without contributing its equivalent in the form of productivelabour) is a complicated one, no doubt. I’ve tried to think it out. And it seemed to me that the simplest form of the problem, to start with, is a community withoutmoney, who buy and sell bybarteronly; and it makes it yet simpler to suppose the food and other things to be capable ofkeepingfor many years without spoiling.”
“Yours is an excellent plan,” I said. “What is your solution of the problem?”
“The commonest type of ‘idle mouths,’” said Arthur, “is no doubt due to money being left by parents to their own children. So I imagined a man—either exceptionally clever, or exceptionally strong and industrious—who had contributed so much valuable labour to the needs of the community that its equivalent, in clothes, &c., was (say) five times as much as he needed for himself. We cannot deny hisabsoluteright to give the superfluous wealth as he chooses. So, if he leavesfourchildren behind him (say two sons and two daughters), with enough of all the necessaries of life to last them a life-time, I cannot see that thecommunityis in any way wronged if they choose to do nothing in life but to ‘eat, drink, and be merry.’ Most certainly, the community could not fairly say, in reference tothem, ‘if a man will not work, neither let him eat.’ Their reply would be crushing. ‘The labour has already beendone, which is a fair equivalent for the food we are eating; and you have had the benefit of it. On what principle of justice can you demandtwoquotas of work foronequota of food?’”
“Yet surely,” I said, “there is something wrongsomewhere, if these four people are well able to do useful work, and if that work is actuallyneededby the community, and they elect to sit idle?”
“I think thereis,” said Arthur: “but it seems to me to arise from a Law of God—that every one shall do as much as he can to help others—and not from anyrights, on the part of the community, to exact labour as an equivalent for food that has already been fairly earned.”
“I suppose thesecondform of the problem is where the ‘idle mouths’ possessmoneyinstead ofmaterialwealth?”
“Yes,” replied Arthur: “and I think the simplest case is that ofpaper-money.Goldis itself a form of material wealth; but a bank-note is merely apromiseto hand over so muchmaterialwealth when called upon to do so. The father of these four ‘idle mouths,’ had done (let us say) five thousand pounds’ worth of useful work for the community. In return for this, the community had given him what amounted to a written promise to handover, whenever called upon to do so, five thousand pounds’ worth of food, &c. Then, if he only usesonethousand pounds’ worth himself, and leaves the rest of the notes to his children, surely they have a full right topresentthese written promises, and to say ‘hand over the food, for which the equivalent labour has been already done.’ Now I thinkthiscase well worth stating, publicly and clearly. I should like to drive it into the heads of those Socialists who are priming our ignorant paupers with such sentiments as ‘Look at them bloated haristocrats! Doing not a stroke o’ work for theirselves, and living on the sweat ofourbrows!’ I should like toforcethem to see that themoney, which those ‘haristocrats’ are spending, represents so much labouralready donefor the community, and whose equivalent, inmaterialwealth, isdue from the community.”
“Might not the Socialists reply ‘Much of this money does not representhonestlabourat all. If you could trace it back, from owner to owner, though you might begin with several legitimate steps, such as gift, or bequeathingby will, or ‘value received,’ you would soon reach an owner who had no moral right to it, but had got it by fraud or other crimes; and of course his successors in the line would have no better right to it thanhehad.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” Arthur replied. “But surely that involves the logical fallacy ofproving too much? It isquiteas applicable tomaterialwealth, as it is tomoney. If we once begin to go back beyond the fact that thepresentowner of certain property came by it honestly, and to ask whether any previous owner, in past ages, got it by fraud, wouldanyproperty be secure?”
After a minute’s thought, I felt obliged to admit the truth of this.
“My general conclusion,” Arthur continued, “from the mere standpoint of humanrights, man against man, was this—that if some wealthy ‘idle mouth,’ who has come by his money in a lawful way, even though not one atom of the labour it represents has been his own doing, chooses to spend it on his own needs, without contributing any labour to the community from whom he buys his food andclothes, that community has norightto interfere with him. But it’s quite another thing, when we come to consider thedivinelaw. Measured bythatstandard, such a man is undoubtedly doing wrong, if he fails to use, for the good of those in need, the strength or the skill, that God has given him. That strength and skill donotbelong to the community, to be paid tothemas adebt: they donotbelong to the manhimself, to be used for hisownenjoyment: theydobelong to God, to be used according toHiswill; and we are not left in doubt as to what that will is. ‘Do good, and lend, hoping for nothing again.’”
“Anyhow,” I said, “an ‘idle mouth’ very often gives away a great deal in charity.”
“Inso-called‘charity,’” he corrected me. “Excuse me if I seem to speakuncharitably. I would not dream ofapplyingthe term to anyindividual. But I would say,generally, that a man who gratifies every fancy that occurs to him—denying himself innothing—and merely gives to the poor some part, or evenall, of hissuperfluouswealth, is only deceiving himself if he calls itcharity.”