A MAN OF THE TIME.
Several days passed away, and Minola heard no more from Mr. Sheppard.
She continued in a state of much agitation; her nerves, highly strung,
were sharply jarred by the news of the approaching death of Mrs.
Saulsbury. It was almost like watching outside a door, and counting the
slow, painful hours of some lingering life within, while yet one may not
enter and look upon the pale face, and mingle with the friends or the
mourners, but is shut out and left to ask and wait; it was like this,
the time of suspense which Minola passed, not knowing whether the wife
of her father was alive or dead. As is the way of all generous natures,
it was now Minola's impulse to accuse and blame herself because there
had been so little of mutual forbearance in her old home at Keeton. She
kept wondering whether things might not have gone better, if she had
said and done this or that; or, if she had not said and done something
else. Full of this feeling, she wrote a long emotional letter to Mr.
Saulsbury, which, she begged of him to read to his wife, if she were in
a condition to hear it. The letter was suffused with generous penitence
and self-humiliation. It was a letter which perhaps no impartial person
could have read without becoming convinced that its writer must have
been in the right in most of the controversies of the past.
The letter did not reach the eyes or ears for which it was particularly
intended. Minola received a coldly forgiving answer from Mr.
Saulsbury--forgiving her upon his own account, which was more than
Minola had sought--but adding, that he had not thought it desirable to
withdraw, for a moment, by the memory of earthly controversies, the mind
of his wife from the contemplation of that well-merited heaven which was
opening upon her. Great goodness has one other advantage in addition to
all the rest over unconverted error; it can, out of its own
beatification, find a means of rebuking those with whom it is not on
terms of friendship. The expected ascent of Mrs. Saulsbury into heaven
became another means of showing poor Minola her own unworthiness. Mr.
Saulsbury closed by saying that Mrs. Saulsbury might linger yet a
little, but that her apotheosis (this, however, was not his word) was
only a question of days.
There was nothing left for Minola but to wait, and now accuse and now
try to justify herself. Many a time there came back to her mind the
three faces on the mausoleum in Keeton, the symbols of life, death, and
eternity; and she could not help wondering whether the mere passing
through the portal of death could all at once transfigure a cold,
narrow-minded, peevish, egotistical human creature into the soul of
lofty calmness and ineffable sweetness, all peace and love, which the
sculptor had set out in his illustration of humanity's closing state.
Meantime, she kept generally at home, except for her familiar walks in
the park and her now less frequent visits to the British Museum and to
South Kensington. Lucy Money, surprised at her absence, hunted her up,
to use Lucy's own expression, and declared that she was looking pale
and wretched, and that she must come over to Victoria street, and pass
a day or two there, for companionship and change. Mary Blanchet, too,
pressed Minola to go; and at last she consented, not unwilling to be
taken forcibly out of her self-inquisition and her anxieties for the
moment. She had made no other acquaintances, and seemed resolute not to
make any, but there was always something peculiarly friendly and genial
to her in the atmosphere of the Moneys' home. The whole family had been
singularly kind to her, and their kindness was absolutely
disinterested. Minola could not but love Mrs. Money, and could not but
be a little amused by her; and there was something very pleasing to her
in Mr. Money's strong common sense and blunt originality. Minola liked,
too, the curious little peeps at odd groupings of human life which she
could obtain by sitting for a few hours in Mrs. Money's drawing-room.
All the _schwärmerei_ of letters, politics, art, and social life seemed
to illustrate itself "in little" there.
Minola, when she accompanied Lucy to her home, was taken by the girl up
and down to this room and that to see various new things that had been
bought, and the two young women entered Mrs. Money's drawing-room a
little after the hour when she usually began to receive visitors. A
large lady, who spoke with a very deep voice, was seated in earnest
conversation with Mrs. Money.
"This is my darling, sweet Lucy, I perceive," the lady said in tones of
soft rolling thunder as the young women came in.
"Oh--Lady Limpenny!"
"Come here, child, and embrace me! But this is not your sister? My sight
begins to fail me so terribly; we must expect it, Mrs. Money, at our
time of life."
Lucy tossed her head at this, and could hardly be civil. She was always
putting in little protests, more or less distinctly expressed, against
Lady Limpenny's classification of Mrs. Money and herself as on the same
platform in the matter of age, and talking so openly of "their time of
life." In truth, Mrs. Money was still quite a young-looking woman, while
Lady Limpenny herself was a remarkably well-preserved and even handsome
matron; a little perhaps too full-blown, and who might at the worst have
sat fairly enough for a portrait of Hamlet's mother, according to the
popular dramatic rendering of Queen Gertrude.
"No; this young lady is taller than Theresa. I can see that, although I
have forgotten my glass. I always forget or mislay my glass."
"This is Miss Grey--Miss Minola Grey," said Mrs. Money. "Lady Limpenny,
allow me to introduce my dear young friend, Miss Minola Grey."
"Dear child, what a sweet, pretty name! Now tell me, dearest, where did
your people find out that name? I should so like to know."
"I think it was found in Shakespeare," Minola answered. "It was my
mother's choice, I believe."
"A name in the family, no doubt. Some names run in families. I dare say
you have had a--what is it?--Minola in your family in every generation.
One cannot tell the origin of these things. I have often thought of
making a study of family names. Now my name--Laura. There never was a
generation of our family--we are the Atomleys--there never was a
generation of the Atomleys without a Laura. Now, how curious, in my
husband's family--Sir James Limpenny--in every generation one of the
girls was always called by the pet name of Chat. Up to the days of the
Conquest, I do believe--or is it the Confessor perhaps?--you would find
a Chat Limpenny."
"There is a Chat Moss somewhere near Manchester," said Lucy saucily,
still not forgiving the remark about the time of life. "We crossed it
once in a railway."
"Oh, but that has nothing to do with it, Lucy darling--nothing at all. I
am speaking of girls, you know--girls called by a pet name. I dare say
that name was in my husband's family--oh, long before the place you
speak of was ever discovered. But now, Miss Grey, do pray excuse me
again--such a very charming name--Minola! But pray do excuse me: may I
ask is that hair all your own? One is curious, you know, when one sees
such wonderful hair."
"Yes, Lady Limpenny," Minola said imperturbably. "My hair is all my
own."
"I should think Nola's hair was all her own indeed," Lucy struck in. "I
have seen her doing it a dozen times. Not likely that she would put on
false hair."
"But, my sweet child, I do assure you that's nothing now," the
indomitable Lady Limpenny went on. "Almost everybody wears it now--it's
hardly any pretence any more. That's why I asked Miss Grey--because I
thought she perhaps wouldn't mind, seeing that we are only women, we
here. And it is such wonderful hair--and it is all her own!"
"Yes," murmured Lucy, "all her own; and her teeth are her own too; and
even her eyes."
"She has beautiful eyes indeed. You have, my dear," the good-natured
Lady Limpenny went on, having only caught the last part of Lucy's
interjected sentence. "But that does not surprise one--at least, I mean,
when we see lovely eyes, we don't fancy that the wearer of them has
bought them in a shop. But hair is very different--and that is why I
took the liberty of asking this young lady. But now, my darling Theresa
Money, may I ask again about your husband? Do you know that it was to
see him particularly I came to-day--not you. Yes indeed! But you are not
angry with me--I know you don't mind. I do so want to have his advice on
this very, very important matter."
"Lucy, dear, will you ask your papa if he will come down for a few
moments--I know he will--to see Lady Limpenny?"
Mr. Money's ways were well known to Lady Limpenny. He grumbled if
disturbed by a servant, unless there was the most satisfactory and
sufficient reason, but he would put up with a great deal of intrusion
from Lucelet. The very worst that could happen to Lucelet was to have
one of her pretty ears gently pulled. So Lucy went to disturb him
unabashed, although she knew he was always disposed to chaff Lady
Limpenny.
"But you really don't mean to say that you are going to part with all
your china--with your uncle's wonderful china?" Mrs. Money asked with
eyes of almost tearful sympathy, resuming the talk which Minola's
entrance had disturbed.
"My darling, yes! I must do it! It is unavoidable."
Minola assumed that this was some story of sudden impoverishment, and
she could not help looking up at the lady with wondering and regretful
eyes, although not knowing whether she ought to have heard the remark,
or whether she was not a little in the way.
Lady Limpenny caught the look.
"This dear young lady is sympathetic, I know, and I am sure she loves
china, and can appreciate my sacrifice. But it ought not to be a
sacrifice. It is a duty--a sacred duty."
"But is it?" Mrs. Money pleaded.
"Dearest, yes! My soul was in danger. I was in danger every hour of
breaking the first Commandment! My china was becoming my idolatry! There
was a blue set which was coming between me and heaven. I was in danger
of going on my knees to it every day. I found that my whole heart was
becoming absorbed in it! One day it was borne in upon me; it came on me
like a flash. It was the day I had been to hear Christie and Manson----"
"To hear what?" Mrs. Money asked in utter amazement.
"Oh, what have I been saying? Christie and Manson! My dear, that only
shows you the turn one's wandering sinful thoughts will take! I mean, of
course, Moody and Sankey. What a shame to confuse such names!"
"Oh, Moody and Sankey," Mrs. Money said again, becoming clear in her
mind.
"Well, it flashed upon me there that I was in danger; and I saw where
the danger lay. Darling, I made up my mind that moment! When I came home
I rushed--positively rushed--into Sir James's study. 'James,' I said,
'don't remonstrate--pray don't. My mind is made up; I'll part with all
my china.'"
"Dear me!" Mrs. Money gently observed. "And Sir James--what did he say?"
"Well," Lady Limpenny went on, with an air of disappointment, "he only
said, 'All right,' or something of that kind. He was writing, and he
hardly looked up. He doesn't care." And she sighed.
"But how good he is not to make any objection!"
"Yes--oh, yes; he is the best of men. But he thinks I won't do it after
all."
Mrs. Money smiled.
"Now, Theresa Money, I wonder at you! I do really. Of course I know what
you are smiling at. You too believe I won't do it. Do you think I would
sacrifice my soul--deliberately sacrifice my soul--even for china? You,
dearest, might have known me better."
"But would one sacrifice one's soul?"
"Darling, with my temperament, yes! Alas, yes! I know it; and therefore
I am resolved. Oh, here is Mr. Money. But not alone!"
Mr. Money entered the room, but not alone indeed, for there came with
him a very tall man, whom Minola did not know; and then, a little behind
them, Lucy Money and Victor Heron. Mr. Money spoke to Lady Limpenny, and
then, with his usual friendly warmth, to Minola; and then he presented
the new-comer, Mr. St. Paul, to his wife.
Mr. St. Paul attracted Minola's attention from the first. He was very
tall, as has been said, but somewhat stooped in the shoulders. He had a
perfectly bloodless face, with keen, bold blue eyes; his square, rather
receding forehead showed deep horizontal lines when he talked as if he
were an old man; and he was nearly bald. His square chin and his full,
firm lips were bare of beard or moustache. He might at times have seemed
an elderly man, and yet one soon came to the conclusion that he was a
young man looking prematurely old. There was a curious hardihood about
him, which was not swagger, and which had little of carelessness, or at
all events of joyousness, about it. He was evidently what would be
called a gentleman, but the gentleman seemed somehow to have got mixed
up with the rowdy. Minola promptly decided that she did not like him.
She could hear Mr. St. Paul talking in a loud, rapid, and strident voice
to Mrs. Money, apparently telling her, offhand, of travel and adventure.
Lady Limpenny had seized possession of Mr. Money, and was endeavoring to
get his advice about the sale of her china, and impress him with a sense
of the importance of saving her soul. Minola was near Mrs. Money, and
had just bowed to Victor Heron, when Mr. St. Paul turned his blue eyes
upon her.
"This is your elder daughter, I presume," he said. "May I be introduced,
Mrs. Money? Your husband told me she was not so handsome as her sister,
but I really can't admit that."
Mrs. Money was not certain for a moment whether her daughter Theresa
might not have come into the room; but when she saw that he was looking
at Miss Grey, she said, in her deep tone of melancholy kindness--
"No, this is not my daughter, Mr. St. Paul; and even with all a mother's
partiality, I have to own that Theresa is not nearly so handsome as this
young lady. Miss Grey, may I introduce Mr. St. Paul? Miss Grey comes
from Duke's-Keeton. Mr. St. Paul and you ought to be acquaintances."
"Oh, you come from Duke's-Keeton, Miss Grey"; and he dropped Mrs. Money,
and drew himself a chair next to Minola. "So do I--I believe I was born
there. Do you like the old place?"
"No; I don't think I like it."
"Nor I; in fact I hate it. Do you live there now?"
She explained that she had now left Keeton for good, and was living in
London. He laughed.
"I left it for good long ago, or for bad. I have been about the world
for ever so many years; I've only just got back to town. I've been
hunting in Texas, and rearing cattle in Kansas--that sort of thing. I
left Keeton because I didn't get on with my people."
Minola could not help smiling at what seemed the odd similarity in their
history.
"You smile because you think it was no wonder they didn't get on with
me, I suppose? I left long ago--cut and run long before you were born.
My brother and I don't get on; never shall, I dare say. I am generally
considered to have disgraced the family. He's going back to Keeton,
where he hasn't been for years; and so am I, for a while. He's been
travelling in the East and living in Italy, and all that sort of thing,
while I've been hunting buffaloes and growing cattle out West."
"Are you going to settle in Keeton now?" Miss Grey asked, for lack of
anything else to say.
"Not I; oh, no! I don't suppose I could settle anywhere now. You can't,
I think, when you've got into the way of knocking about the world. I
don't know a soul down there now, I suppose. I'm going to Keeton now
chiefly to annoy my brother." And he laughed a laugh of half-cynical
good humor, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets.
"A Christian purpose," Miss Grey said.
"Yes, isn't it? We were always like that, I assure you; the elders and
the youngers never could hit off--always quarrelling. I'm one of the
youngers, though you wouldn't think so to look at me, Miss Grey? Do look
at me."
Miss Grey looked at him very composedly. He gazed into her bright eyes
with undisguised admiration.
"Well, I'm going to thwart my good brother in Keeton. He's coming home,
and going to do all his duties awfully regular and well, don't you know;
and first of all, he's going to have a regular, good, obedient
Conservative member--a warming-pan. Do you understand that sort of
thing? I believe the son of some honest poor-rate collector, or
something of that sort--a fellow named Sheppard. Did you ever hear of
any fellow in Keeton named Sheppard?--Jack Sheppard, I shouldn't
wonder."
"I know Mr. Augustus Sheppard, and he is a very respectable man."
"Deuce he is; but not a lively sort of man, I should think."
"No; not exactly lively."
"No; he wouldn't suit my brother if he was. Hope he isn't a friend of
yours? Well, we're going to oppose him for the fun of the thing. How
very glad my brother will be to see me. I am afraid I pass for a regular
scamp in the memories of you Keeton people. You must have heard of me,
Miss Grey. No? Before your time, I suppose. Besides, I didn't call
myself St. Paul then; I took on that name in America; it's my mother's
family name; that's how you wouldn't remember about me, even if you had
heard. You know the mausoleum in the park, I dare say?"
"Very well indeed. It used to be a favorite place with me."
"Ah, yes. My last offence was shooting off pistols there--aiming at the
heads over the entrance, you know. One of them will carry my mark to his
last day, I believe."
"Yes; I remember noticing that the face of Death has a mark on it--a
small hole."
He laughed again.
"Just so. That's my mark. Poor father! It was the great whim of his life
to build that confounded thing, and he didn't enjoy it after all. My
brother, I am told, proposes to occupy part of it in good time. They
won't put me there, you may be sure."
"Your brother is the Duke?" Minola said, a faint memory returning to her
about a wild youth of the family who had had to leave the army in some
disgrace, and went away somewhere beyond seas.
"Yes; I thought I told you, or that Money had mentioned it. Yes; I was
the good-for-nothing of the family. You can't imagine, though, what a
number of good-for-nothings are doing well out Denver City way, out in
Colorado. When I was there, there were three fellows from the Guards,
and some fellows I knew at Eton, all growing cattle, and making money,
and hunting buffalo, and potting Indians, and making themselves
generally as happy as sandboys. I've made money myself, and might have
made a lot more, I dare say."
Mr. St. Paul evidently delighted to hear himself talk.
"It must be a very dangerous place to live in," Minola said, wishing he
would talk to somebody else.
"Well, there's the chance of getting your hair raised by the Indians. Do
you know what that means--having your hair raised?"
"I suppose being scalped."
"Exactly. Well, that's a danger. But it isn't so much a danger if you
don't go about in gangs. That's the mistake fellows make; they think
it's the safe thing to do, but it isn't. Go about in parties of two, and
the Indians never will see you--never will notice you."
Minola's eyes happened at this moment to meet those of Heron.
"You know Heron?"
"Oh, yes; very well."
"A good fellow--very good fellow, though he has such odd philanthropic
fads about niggers and man and a brother, and all that sort of thing.
Got into a nice mess out there in St. Xavier's, didn't he?"
"I heard that his conduct did him great honor," Minola said warmly.
"Yes, yes--of course, yes; if you look at it in that sort of way. But
these black fellows, you know--it really isn't worth a man's while
bothering about them. They're just as well off in slavery as not--deuced
deal better, I think; I dare say some of their kings and chiefs think
they have a right to sell them if they like. I told Heron at the time I
wouldn't bother if I was he. Where's the use, you know?"
"Were you there at the time?" Minola asked, with some curiosity.
"Yes, I was there. I'd been in the Oregon country, and I met with an
accident, and got a fever, and all that; and I wanted a little rest and
a mild climate, you know; and I made for San Francisco, and some fellows
there told me to go to these Settlements of ours in the Pacific, and I
went. I saw a good deal of Heron--he was very hospitable and that, and
then this row came on. He behaved like a deuced young fool, and that's a
fact."
"He was not understood," said Minola, "and he has been treated very
badly by the Government."
"Of course he has. I told him they would treat him badly. They wouldn't
understand all his concern about black fellows--how could they
understand it? Why didn't he let it alone? The fellow who's out there
now--you won't find him bothering about such things, you bet--as we say
out West, if you will excuse such a rough expression, Miss Grey. But of
course Heron has been treated very badly, and we are going to run him
for Duke's-Keeton."
Several visitors had now come in, and Mr. Heron contrived to change his
position and cross over to the part of the room where Minola was.
"Look here, Heron," Mr. St. Paul said; "you have got a staunch ally here
already. Miss Grey means to wear your colors, I dare say--do they wear
colors at elections now in England?--I don't know--and you had better
canvass for her influence in Keeton. If I were an elector of Keeton, I'd
vote for the Pope or the Sultan if Miss Grey asked me."
Meanwhile Lady Limpenny was pleading her cause with Mr. Money. It may be
said that Lady Limpenny was the wife of a physician who had been
knighted, and who had no children. Her husband was wholly absorbed in
his professional occupations, and never even thought of going anywhere
with his wife, or concerning himself about what she did. He knew the
Money women professionally, and except professionally, he could not be
said to know anybody. Lady Limpenny, therefore, indulged all her whims
freely. Her most abiding or most often recurring whim was an anxiety for
the salvation of her soul; but she had passionate flirtations meanwhile
with china, poetry, flowers, private theatricals, lady-helps, and other
pastimes and questions of the hour.
"You'll never part with that china," Mr. Money said--"you know you
can't."
"Oh, but my dear Money, you don't understand my feelings. You are not,
you know--an old friend may say so--you are not a religious man. You
have not been penetrated by what I call religion--not yet, I mean."
"Not yet, certainly. Well, why don't you send to Christie and Manson's
at once?"
"But, my dear Money, to part with my china in _that_ way--to have it
sent all about the world perhaps. Oh, no! I want to part with it to
some friend who will let me come and see it now and again."
"Have you thought of this, Lady Limpenny? Suppose, when you have sold
it, you go to see it now and then, and covet it--covet your neighbor's
goods--perhaps long even to steal it. Where is the spiritual improvement
then?"
"Money! You shock me! You horrify me! Could that be possible? Is there
such weakness in human nature?"
"Quite possible, I assure you. You have been yourself describing the
influence of these unregulated likings. How do you know that they may
not get the better of you in another way? Take my advice, and keep your
china. It will do you less harm in your own possession than in that of
anybody else."
"If I could think so, my dear Money."
"Think it over, my dear Lady Limpenny; look at it from this point of
view, and let me know your decision--then we can talk about it again."
Lady Limpenny relapsed for a while into reflection, with a doubtful and
melancholy expression upon her face. Money, however, had gained his
point, or, as he would himself have expressed it, "choked her off" for
the moment.
"I don't like your new friend," said Minola to Victor.
"My new friend? Who's he?"
"Your friend Mr. St. Paul."
"Oh, he isn't a new friend, or a friend at all. He is rather an old
acquaintance, if anything."
"Well, I don't like him."
"Nor I. Don't let yourself be drawn into much talk with him."
"No? Then there _is_ somebody you don't like, Mr. Heron. That's a
healthy sign. I really thought you liked all men and all women, without
exception."
"Well, I am not good at disliking people, but I don't like _him_, and I
didn't like to see him talking to you."
"Indeed? Yet he is a political ally of yours and of Mr. Money now."
"That's a different thing; and I don't know anything very bad of him,
only I had rather you didn't have too much to say to him. He's a
rowdy--that's all. If I had a sister, I shouldn't care to have him for
an acquaintance of hers."
"Is it a vice to know him?"
"Almost, for women," Heron said abruptly; and presently, having left
Minola, interposed, as if without thinking of it, between Lucy Money and
St. Paul, who was engaging her in conversation.